tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14917483473722244982024-03-08T09:31:22.137-08:00Letters from ClaptoniaOh, I don't know. I'll let you know what it's all about after it's done.Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-18988350270462557832020-11-16T09:11:00.004-08:002020-11-16T09:11:50.567-08:00Mary.<p> FLOWERS! Whenever I wake up it’s usually cause there’s a
nosegay for me. It’s nice to wake up for that. Is it from William?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This time, it’s a posy of purple flowers. They looks
foreign. Who’d bring foreign flowers? Not William. He wouldn’t, not ever. He’d
get some bluebells or some daffodils or something like that, probably from
Wheeler’s farm or from outside Poppa’s barn, where the marigolds grow, and the
primroses and all the hocks and stuff. Yeah, he’d just pick some from there,
would William, not go to the trouble of getting foreign ones! Apart from
anything else, how would he know when a boat was in and how would he get to the
boat without a horse of his own? He might ask my Poppa but my Poppa would most
likely get angry. And his Poppa hasn’t got a horse.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Waking up is easy cos I don’t get tired, so I don’t ache
when I wake up any more. It’s funny, I don’t know what you’d say about it, but
I just sort of wake up and that is that. It’s easy! And if I want to look
around, I just look around like anyone looks around only now I can look around
anywhere I want and I can look around two places at once.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like now, I’m looking down on the purple foreign flowers,
all laid down in a neat little row, and I’m looking down on Poppa’s barn at the
same time. Except Poppa’s barn isn’t there any more, cos it hasn’t been there
for a while now, and it’s all just a field and part of a hard grey lane, smooth
as a window, with lines drawn on it. And Poppa isn’t around any more and I don’t
think William is around any more and that’s also part of the reason why I don’t
think William brought me the foreign flowers, cos I don’t think he would, and I
don’t think he could get to the boat and I don’t think he’s around any more
like I just said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So yeah, there’s flowers in a row, and they woke me up. The
stalks are long and green and I love getting flowers even though they wake me
up and I probably should just be asleep all the time, even though I don’t have
my cough any more. And sometimes I just wish I could pick them up and hold
them, those flowers, like I was a May Queen or on my way to a wedding or to
church or something. I can’t do that though. But I tell you what. It’s good
that I haven’t got that cough any more, cause that cough was horrible, it was.
It rattled the whole of me ribs. Poppa used to say no good would come of a
cough like that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So I can’t pick the flowers up, but I can get right up close
to them and even smell them a bit, I fancy, but I just can’t hold them or pick
them up or anything. Only just get down close to them. But when I get close to
the flowers, it makes me tired again, most of the time it does anyway, and I
sort of fall down between them without being able to pick them up. It’s nice to
get flowers, even foreign purple ones, but once I’ve seen them there’s not much
I can do apart from go back to sleep again. And that’s when I like fall down
between them, and I go inbetween all the little bits of sand and mud and stones
and the grass, and I slide under that big stone with all the writing on it
except I can’t read the writing any more, not that I learned to read but
William could and he would read it out for me probably.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I wish the flowers were from William, but I don’t think they
are. I said that already. William used to bring more normal flowers like
primroses and he’d lay them down all neat on the ground so I could see them and
then go back to sleep again when I go down between the sand and the bits of
stone and mud between the flowers. He used to bring me flowers all the time.
First he came with his Momma when he was still 15 and I was 14, which was when
I fell asleep. And he put the flowers down with his Momma and he cried and his
Momma put her arm around his shoulders, and then he came when he was older and
older and older and older and older and older and older and older and always at
the same time, and he got bigger and older and he grew a beard and then he got
so old he was like an old man. And he’d cry or say something about how I would always
be his sweetheart and how he’d give anything to be able to give me the flowers
in person and how he’d hold my hand and look after me and how one day he
thought we’d get married and how he wished we could have gotten married but
then I got that cough and I had to go sleep first time around so that was that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And William just got older and then he turned into a proper
man like my Poppa and then he got married, but not to me, but he still came to
see me for a while with a posy. But then he stopped for a while, like he stopped
coming with flowers, and then nobody came with any flowers and so I just stayed
asleep, like you’re sposed to. But today I’ve got some flowers, nice foreign
ones, so I woke up for them. But like I say, they ain’t from William and I don’t
rightly know who they’re from. So I think I’ll just go sleep again.<o:p></o:p></p>Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-81370023762077064312020-11-09T11:54:00.001-08:002020-11-09T11:54:38.625-08:00Scott.<p>YEAH, THIS is a box, thought Scott, but it’s a box with a
door. And the door isn’t locked, which is good. It’s a way out. I can leave any
time I want. This...this I can handle.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And beyond the door is a box room with another door in the
opposite corner. And that door leads to a larger space. And beyond that bigger
space is another door which leads to a whole floor, and some stairs which go
down to more doors within one big (well, big enough) house-shaped box. And
outside of this house box is a garden and a fence, beyond which is a small town
on a small island. There’s a lot of countryside and sea, like, everywhere, and because
this is an island there is a land beyond. And there are loads of people out
there, on the land over the sea. Absolutely millions upon millions of them, and
they’re not ALL dicks.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All this and more had gone through Scott’s mind before the
warm water cooled his head some. Now the spray was lightly tapping the
sensitive skin on top of his head, 144 needle-thin streams of hot, pressurised chalky
water, massaged his delicate scalp, neck and shoulders while he rocked forwards
and back to modify the force of the stream. The raining phone box, the power
shower, was where he did all his thinking.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was a time he’d sketch out songs in here, sometimes
entire albums. In his mind, he’d perform well-received gigs. He’d engage in world-class
banter with his audience. He’d conceive great novels and ingenious business
models; and speeches that would change the world. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then, all fired up, he’d leave the shower, wrap up in a
giant towel, and pick up his guitar from next to the bed – fingers still wet
and warm from the water. But the notes emanating from his hands, still dripping
onto the bed covers, would rarely compare to those which had been buzzing
around his head while in the shower cubicle. And more often than not, that’s
how the moment of inspiration would end. All his well-intended dreams would
curl up and die behind the frosted glass.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This particular Friday, though, there was too much weighing
on Scott’s mind. In the great rock/scissors/stone game of modern life, the
bigger, pressing struggles tend to wrap, cut and blunt any creative diversions.
So he rocked forwards and backwards a little and let his attention drift gently
away from himself to a microcosmic threesome of water droplets that were
snaking their way down the inside of the steamed-up glass panel of the shower
door.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“This one means I make it, that one means I don’t, the other
means I come out the other side but I’m a vegetable,” he almost said out loud.
And, having placed his macabre fate in the custody of these innocent trickles,
he added a palm full of shower gel to his hand, swept the froth across his
shoulders and waited in a fragrant mist for the morbid race to begin.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To be sure, he could have chosen more sympathetic droplets.
The “victory” drop started well, surging valiantly downwards towards the finish
line – the rubber seal at the bottom edge of the glass panel - before coming to
a dry halt three inches away from its final destination. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The middle trickle, the “death” one, was on a
zigzag mission to wreck everything in Scott’s life. It didn’t care. “Ain’t that
just like... something?” Scott mumbled weakly, blowing spray from his mouth
into the waterfall that tumbled from his fringe. The fragility of his voice
frightened him. He felt a twinge in his chest again behind his ribs, and all of
a sudden his thoughts were back to the brutal reality of the upcoming operation.
Strange hands would be pawing at his anaesthetised body, cracking open his ribs,
slicing and stitching offal that he never, ever wanted exposed – ugh, he couldn’t
bear these thought. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Think” he thought to himself. “Think, man, think about the
miracle of medical science! Think about the endgame. Think about your own brave
dad! He laughed about it, didn’t he? He joked about the huge scar which ran
like a meat-zip down the centre of his chest.” He died in the end.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Back to the water race. Heart beating uncomfortably. A taste
of warm blood behind his teeth. Well, this is stressful, thought Scott. The “vegetable”
droplet had stopped hard in its tracks, then shot at a 90 degree angle to the
right. It hung to the glass like a limpet. The “survivor” halted in its tracks,
where it grew incrementally in size and looked set to tumble down under the
sheer weight of its glassy orb. Scott prayed for new momentum. But just as he
leaned in closer, to squint hopefully at his microscopic reflection in the tiny
“life” orb, the “death” droplet zigged its last zag and plummeted like a bagged
grouse to the dreadful finish line. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Thanks pal,” said Scott, spitting a little diluted blood to
the ceramic floor.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That had been Friday, today is Tuesday. What of Saturday,
Sunday and Monday? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">These are lost days – and the least said of those, the
better. Scott had lived for 56 years and would like to last out some more. He
could and should have used the intervening hours between shower and hospital
admission carefully and fruitfully, speaking to his girlfriend, Caroline,
family, friends, that kind of thing. Instead, he’d spent it in a thick fog of
despair, resentment and, yes, mortal terror. Heavy, heavy tranquilisers made it
bearable.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He knew the risks, but the odds were stacked in his favour.
Depending on who he asked, he had a 70 to 80 per cent chance of making it out
the other side with a new heart, a new chance, a new life. All he had to do was
fall asleep and let the medical team work their magic. Barring bad luck, he
would wake up some hours later with a hangover from hell and a load of stitches
down the centre of his chest. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’ll be waiting for you love,” Caroline had said.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The drugs work, and right now, 10.14am, he’s full of them.
Prone, on a government contraption that is less of a bed, more of a metal
delivery tray, he lies sedated with toe tagged and chest tattooed with spots and
Sharpie-penned dotted lines and the like. “Cut here,” the nurse had joked.
Scott had laughed weakly. Caroline had gone to work. She’d be back that night,
ready for when he came around.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A sphere of lights shone brightly into his face, he felt his
numbed hand being lifted, and intricate plastic and metal workings attached.
With faces looking down at him, with people constantly talking small talk
behind pale blue surgical masks, he felt a glacier of grey metal course up the
inside of his left arm. Somebody asked him to count from ten, but he was too
tired to even contemplate the numbers. He fixed his eyes on the white plastic
coverall of the nurse, then slipped away. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A sudden shock half-woke him. He tasted electricity, it was
part of him. But his eyes wouldn’t open. He felt an enormous solitary heartbeat
that shook his entire body, felt the blood pump fiercely into his brain and
then out again. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He thought he felt hands
all over him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And then he slipped away again. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Another shock of electricity, indistinct voices now. He felt
sudden motion, like he was being rocked from side to side. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then he slipped away.</p>Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-28280561435491032382017-11-12T09:28:00.003-08:002017-11-12T09:46:17.668-08:00Requiem for Mary Barns<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">Being the Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of Mary Barns, Charles Dickens, David Copperfield, Jaz Coleman and Myself.</span></span><br />
<br />
Life leads us down peculiar paths. When universal forces are in playful mood, the mystery and magic imparted can be utterly fascinating. The universe tells its own jokes, and they can be pretty funny ones. It favours synchronicities, puns and the processing of order in its adventures. It loves a parable, a metaphor, and a neat resolution to a complicated puzzle. If we're willing to let go, to allow it to navigate, life has a habit of steering us away from the mundane. All we need to do is take the punches with the prizes and live for the moment, no matter how momentous our doubts about such activities might seem.<br />
<br />
Today, Remembrance Sunday, started with a classic subconscious pun when I visited my local secondhand emporium and came away with an LP by 'War' and an anarcho-punk compilation CD called 'Anti-War'. I bought a Killing Joke CD too.<br />
<br />
I dropped the War LP on the passenger seat, popped Anti-War into the CD player of my car and drove into town, where I picked up a charity shop book called 'Dickens on an Island' for £1.99. I love Charles Dickens. I love the Isle of Wight. This book, a summary of the time those two great forces of English culture and history met, seemed to me to be sent from the heavens.<br />
<br />
I went for lunch in the George Inn, an early 19th century pub in Newport. It's entirely possible that Dickens, too, could have dined here. I ordered roast pork, added lashings of apple sauce, opened the book, and started reading...<br />
<br />
I quickly learned that a passage Dickens included in chapter two of David Copperfield was more than likely inspired by an island epitaph. Specifically, the words on the gravestone of Mary Barns in All Saints Church, Calbourne. I punched the church into Google Maps while I ate my roast spuds. 4.8 miles.<br />
<br />
I finished my grub, walked back to my car, peeled a parking ticket from the windscreen and set off for Calbourne. I put the Killing Joke CD on and considered the requiem for Mary Barns while the song 'Requiem' played:<br />
<br />
"Afflictions sore, long time I bore. Physicians were in vain.<br />
"Till God did please to give me cure, and ease me of my pain."<br />
<br />
I was on a mission - a mission made public by a Facebook live video. This is not something I would usually do. The inspiration came in the moment and for a spurious reason - Mary had died in 1779. It seemed right and proper, somehow, to speak about her using the technology of today. It's an acknowledgement of the centuries. A tribute.<br />
<br />
I walked up to the church and first saw some graves from the 1970s. I turned left, found some dating back to the 1760s. Then, after just a minute of looking, she loomed in front of me. Her tombstone was worn but still legible. A winged cherub adorned the top edge of it. As an aside, the same cherub that I had used for the cover of a record I put out in 1994. At that moment, I was occupying the same space as Charles Dickens most likely had - physical space and mindspace. I was thrilled, and a little sad.<br />
<br />
Mary died at age 14, it transpires. In two days it will be the 238th anniversary of her death. She will not know, of course, that Dickens almost certainly read her epitaph - a full 70 years after it was carved into stone - and immortalised it into one of the greatest novels ever written. Nor will she know that some idiot with a charity shop book and a smartphone would visit her grave two centuries after her death to tell the people of the internet about it.<br />
<br />
There's a line in Alice In Wonderland where Lewis Carroll writes: "Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way." That's kind of how I feel about days like today.<br />
<br />
That £1.99 charity shop purchase, that LP, that CD, today's date, the Georgian pub where I ate my dinner, the windy grasslands where I tried to make my Facebook video, the church, the grave: all these things conspire to form the impression that a true connection to the deep past or, sometimes, the unfathomable future is not only possible but is commonplace. It's a supernatural feeling that is wholly outside of our control yet available to all. Good times.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Timeline:</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">1765 - Mary Barns is born</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">1779 - Mary Barns dies</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">1800-ish - George Inn, Newport, is built</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">1812 - Charles Dickens is born</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">1848 - Charles Dickens visits Isle of Wight</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">1849 - David Copperfield is published</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">1870 - Charles Dickens dies</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">1964 - I am born</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">1980 - Requiem by Killing Joke is released</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">1994 - I Was A Teenage Gwent Boy LP is released</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">2002 - My motor car is manufactured</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">2016 - A pig is born</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">2017 - A pig is butchered and roast pork is served</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-59748521788477537222016-10-14T22:25:00.001-07:002016-10-14T22:39:20.900-07:00Remembering John 'Bunny' Haire<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sometimes, to get a good grip on an unbearably huge topic it pays to focus on the small stuff. Living on an island is handy for that. A limited environment lends itself to an appreciation of the tinier details. It enables a microcosmic perspective to develop and flourish.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Last weekend I spent pennies on a little boot-sale whim of a book which has taken my breath away. "Battle in the Skies over the Isle of Wight" by H.J.T. Leal is an extraordinary WW2 dossier - a day-to-day account of life and death beneath just one tiny patch of aerial battleground.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In chronological order the known lives, deaths, injuries and heroic escapades of German, English and (notably) a large number of Polish airmen are diligently recorded. There are tales of great derring-do and cute old-fashioned attitudes in this modest volume: a captured Luftwaffe pilot is taken to the pub for a pint before being led away as a prisoner of war, for example. And a crash-landed Messerschmitt fighter plane is paraded through Newport town centre, where a 3d donation to the 'Spitfire Fund' will buy your turn in the cockpit.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But there's horror, too. Young pilots burning to death in their cockpits or crashing headfirst into one of our cliffs. And there's the ever present almost-daily daylight terror of 500-plus German killing machines crossing the island at rooftop height, droning their way over the Solent, intending to flatten Coventry or Exeter or Southampton.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The RAF would try to stop them. And t</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4f56; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">he recounted tales of dogfights - those yarns that have made it to the pages of history, anyway - make for thrilling and chilling reading. Take the story of Hurricane pilot Sergeant John 'Bunny' Haire.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">He crashed on the island twice. The first occasion, on the afternoon of Sunday October 27, 1940, saw his aircraft crippled by a German ME109 near Bembridge, during a fierce aerial dogfight. He managed to bank his stricken plane 20ft over a cliff to the sea, where it dropped in just six feet of water. Miraculously, he was unhurt. He clambered out onto the wing, then waded to shore. The local coastguard took him in, he was given dry shoes to replace his soaked boots, and after a bath and some food he was sent back to base.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">After a few days' leave, he was back on airborne patrol. Then, a little over a week later, the 20-year-old Sergeant was shot out of the Isle of Wight skies for a second time.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Local ARP warden George Calloway said in a letter: "The Hurricane was on fire, having been attacked by Messerschmitts, and looked like it was going to crash on the houses of Arreton. Instead of baling out, the pilot stayed in the aircraft and steered it away into open fields. Only then did he attempt to bale out, standing on the wing before jumping. However, he had left it too late for his parachute to open fully and he fell to the ground.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I rushed into the field with others including the Rev Edward Burbidge to try to help. Sadly, he died as the vicar was saying prayers over him. We used the farm gate to carry his body out of the field."</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Local farmer George Moody wrote a letter to John Haire's parents:</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #4b4f56;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">"S</span></span>everal planes were fighting overhead and one came circling down out of a clear blue sky over the farm. Smoke seemed to be coming from one side of the machine and the pilot, after going round twice, turned into the wind as if to land. Almost at once, however, flames poured out from the front of the plane and it made a dive to earth, the pilot baling out at once. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"I dashed in my car to the field, but unfortunately could do nothing. The plane was blazing and the ammunition going off, while a short distance away lay the pilot. I took his helmet off but could do nothing for him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"I was very struck by the peaceful and calm expression on the face of the gallant boy. He was untouched by fire and to my inexperienced eye seemed to be asleep. His parachute was ineffective because he was so low when he baled out. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"I am a farmer and unused to letter writing but I would like to express my deepest sympathy to the parents of this very gallant gentleman, may God rest his brave soul. Happily this is not the end - it cannot be; such dauntless courage and bravery could never be finished. His spirit somewhere lives on and will never die."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">John Haire's body was returned to his native Belfast. Meanwhile, the German pilot who shot him down this second and final time was himself shot down and killed - also over the Isle of Wight - three weeks later. And the RAF pilot who shot the German pilot who shot John Haire was also shot down and killed. And so it continued...</span>Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-79194916943595791162016-08-17T03:06:00.002-07:002016-08-17T03:18:53.827-07:00Hama Blags Da!<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">MAYBE
IT’S the whiskey talking, but I really miss Chris Toma. I know that sounds
stupid. I never even met the guy. But I feel like we connected, him and me, in
some small way, over his data-packs. I spent 18 months going through them all for
my book and when you do that, when you dig in and really root around inside ‘Toma-world’,
well, you can’t help but appreciate what an immense character he truly was. A
real astronaut’s astronaut, if that makes any sense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Luckily
for me, he’s also got a great way with words. So my role as his official biographer
is an easy one. His data-packs (all 3,000+) make terrific reading.
Understandably, it’s the so-called ‘Lazarus Log’ (LO 415 S) that most people
want to hear about. That’s where he laid out his audacious plot to, as he put it
so eloquently, “beat this damned death thing if it kills me”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">We
all know he made it. Kind of. And it’s all in the book (which I’ve almost
completed, by the way). You’ll have to buy it to get the full story, but my
Eurasian publishers - Schoost and Hogg – have asked me to scribe a brief advance
summary to send out to newspacks, e-mags, casts... stuff like that. So that’s
what this is: a bit of a sketchy overview of Major Chris Toma’s pioneering
GravWav outer-stellar and exo-planetary explorations, touching on his
discoveries in the Cygna Delti system (and on the surface of XP.5 Orthen in
particular). And, of course, his incredible antics as a space cuckoo. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Like
I say, I’ve had a few whiskies. Last weekend, I attended his memorial service
over on NASA Hill, overlooking the ruins of Canaveral. That was an emotional
send off. Twelve years have passed since we last heard from him. He has been
declared dead, finally.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;">Toma always hated 20</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 150%;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"> Century
music, so he would have loudly disapproved of the choice of song for his
committal: ‘You Only Live Twice’ by Nancy Sinatra. But I thought it was an inspired
selection. So inspired that I had a couple drinks to celebrate. Something I
wouldn’t normally do. So, like I say, again, this might read a bit wonky. But
bear with me. I’ll try.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">OK,
then. Ready? OK.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;">Major
Toma was just 68 days (Earth time) into the surface exploration of Orthen when
the data-pack containing his fateful LO 384 Y Log dropped onto the GW pad in
Houston. As is still the case now, gravitational wave communications were a
purely one-way entity. Just like GW partition travel, it’s a one-way ticket. We
got our messages from the action man, but we just couldn’t send any back. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;">So NASA was unable to give Toma the bollocking
he should have expected for veering so off-map with his language.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">He
revelled in this. He had fun with it. Even when he had bad news to share:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“Hello
humans! Can you hear me thinking? I assume you’re seeing everything I’m
thinking? Good. Well, Houston, it looks like we have an actual problem this
time. How d’you like that?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“Look
up here, man...” at which a bio-report flashed onto the reader in the form of a
pale red overlay. “I’m in danger. I’m not quite right at all. Am I?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Too
true. These bio-readings were way, way off kilter. Radioactivity readings
rested within the margins of safety, thanks to his Russian-made suit, but
Toma’s cellular make-up had taken a massive, irreparable hammering. And it was
getting worse. Skin cancer, of the most aggressive kin, was the bottom line. It
was all over his bio-report, plain as day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“So
what happened is this. I gaffer-taped up the joints on my suit, because the
helmet monitor wasn’t happy with what it was sensing. And it seems I might have been a teeny bit too late with all that, I’m sorry to say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“To
cut to the chase, my lovers,” he said, “I think I might have got some Orthen dust
stuck in the ribbing under my left boot - well, both boots. And it’s worked its
way through the perma-layers, like Orthen dust is wont to do, and it’s hit my
skin. And we always knew that wouldn’t end well. The dust here, man, it’s not
good. Not good at all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Toma
went on to concede how, back in the Ranger with his suit removed and boiling in
the de-rad tank, he found himself absentmindedly brushing dust from the bottom
of his bare feet with an ungloved hand: “Like I was a kid at the fucking beach.
Except this wasn’t sand. It was the horrible, grey dust of doom that kills
anything that dares land on Orthen. Oh shit. I’m a goner...”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">He
was right. The Columbus VII Orbiter (which continues to return data signals from
220 miles above Orthen) had already sampled and scanned the surface material
for us. And it’s totally toxic to any and all non-Orthens. Chris knew that risk
and the decision to go ahead and land was entirely his call. Like I say, he was
an astronaut’s astronaut. In his own mind, he had to go down there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">On
landing, he reported to Orthen’s dominant species, as is accepted etiquette for
galactic explorers these days, and received a timid but not-unfriendly
reception from the host species. The locals were incredibly curious about his
‘smiley face’ suit patch. They spent hours and hours examining and measuring it,
cross referencing the decal’s round, black eyes with his own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">But
after a day of that, they let him go. He set up base in the Ranger, sortie-ing
out for scientific forays once a day. The planet just carried on its business,
as if he wasn’t there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">These
Orthen natives, we have learned through Toma’s logs and the Orbiter’s
observations, are Class V Humanids with moderate to mobile evolutionary
markers. Broadly speaking, they’re at the stage we humans were at around the 15<sup>th</sup>
or 16<sup>th</sup> centuries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">They
present something of an anatomical anomaly. Biological analysis reveals
artificial genetic modification (most likely Raphide), pointing towards extra-planetary
occupation somewhere down the line. But in spite of that, their organic
arrangement is unique among the 407 Humanid species recorded galaxy-wide to
date. The brain tissue is split across three nodes within an enlarged chest
cavity, while circulatory organs (heart, liver etc) occupy glandular cavities
within four upper limbs. There is no heartbeat, just an irregular rotation of
body tissue. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Toma
described the mysterious nature of his alien hosts better than I ever could: “I
can’t tell you why,” he wrote. “But I can show you how. They were born upside
down. Born the wrong way round.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">They
have nominal skulls which contain no vital organs – just an oversized optic
nerve array which links stereo rhomboid oculars with the central brain node buried
in the torso. Typically, the Orthen humanids enjoy a generous lifespan of 180-200
years (Earth equivalent). But as Toma revealed to huge excitement back here in
2084, it doesn’t necessarily end there...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“Holy
crap, these guys get two bites of the apple!” he wrote in his LO 384 H log. “At
least, some of them do. Some of them get to rise again, like Jesus or
something, and have a for-real, real-deal afterlife. They each know from birth
who will get it. Needless to say, the ones who don’t get to be born again are
mightily pissed off about that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">More
facts were saved for the data-pack. Here’s Toma’s summary:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“The
Orthen humanids fall into two very distinct camps. The Caprins live standard
200-year lives and then die. The Hamas are physically identical to the Caprins
until the point of physical death, when they transfer to a meta-spiritual
existence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“At
that time, all physical presence is lost, but memory and some character traits
are transferred to a new out-of-body plane of conscious existence. Nobody seems
to know if it’s any fun or not, but it’s as close to the human concept of an
afterlife as you’re ever going to get. And these upside-downer people are
totally nailing it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">All
attempts by Caprins to emulate the Hama rebirth have yielded nothing. Bitter
wars have been fought as a result. Neither society is permitted to mix with the
other. They’re pretty easy going, on the whole, but the afterlife situation has
tethered undeniable tension to the surface of Orthen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Toma:
“Local mythology insists this spiritual second innings never lasts longer than
12 years (Earth equivalent), but the Caprins still want what they see as their
fair share. They’re very jealous about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Toma
continued in his log: “Both Hamas and Caprins share a kind of cathedral, more
like a Romanesque villa, I suppose, in the centre of Ormen, close to the
coastline of the planet’s primary land mass. Interestingly, neither society
knows who built the thing. It’s just accepted that it was always part of the
planet. Like the death dust. The structure is divided into two wings, and neither
party is permitted access to the other’s territory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“Here,
and only here, can the Hamas communicate with their departed family members.
For several centuries, these messages from beyond the grave, so to speak, have
also been broadcast live via primitive loudspeakers across the holy ground
surrounding the villa. I think this might be so the Caprins aren’t encouraged
to harbour any more resentment of their Hama neighbours than they have to. But
it’s just as likely that the Hamas are showing off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“You’ll
often hear the Hama song of the reborn outside the great villa doors,
broadcasting to the great outdoors. The ‘Hama Blag Sda’, as it’s called. I
think that means something like ‘Hama, returning for duty.’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">With
anxiety descending, Toma must have felt like those Caprins. Nursing his own
decaying body, thanks to the deadly dust of Orthen, Major Toma would have been contemplating
his own mortality. Caprins died – Hamas lived again. It seemed so unfair. And
now he knew he was dying, he wanted ‘in’, too. But if the Caprins, who at least
shared the Hama biology, couldn’t grab a slice of immortality for themselves,
then, really, what chance did he – a human, from Earth - stand?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">This
weighed heavily on his mind in log LO 415 T:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“Well,
I’m dying too, Houston. I can’t get around that. And just like those Caprins,
I’m going to have to lump it I guess. What’s frustrating is I think I’m pretty
close to understanding how it might work. You’ve seen how Columbus VII reports
elevated GravWav signals from the Orthen surface at the point of a Hama physical
death? I don’t know how that works into the situation. But it must mean
something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“If
I had a little more time, then I might turn that understanding into a plan. And
maybe, just maybe, I could then work out a way of jumping into a Hama corpse,
or something, and buying another 12 years for myself. If I could only get a dying
Hama spirit to raise a metre then stand aside for me...”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“But.
Damn it. My bio-data reckons I’ve got no more than a few days left. And I don’t
know how much of that time I’ll be fully conscious. So I’m going to go and do
some deep thinking. And if I get any bright ideas, I’ll make sure you hear
about it. And if I don’t, well, I guess this is goodbye. So, goodbye. And
thanks for all the fish.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">That
was the last coherent log we got from Major Toma. There were other short
missives, spanning a couple days, but none of them made too much sense. There
was more rambling about GravWav manipulation, some religious thinking-out-loud
and much complaining about the moondust which was about to cover him. But most
of the time, the web of pain wrapped tightly around his skin kept him silent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">As
NASA waited for Major Toma’s sad and inevitable death, Orthen’s radio silence,
so to speak, was deafening. Until that fateful moment when his bio-data finally
flatlined.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">At
that instant, Columbus VII picked up some unusual chaos 220 miles below. There
was a commotion breaking out on the planet’s surface. Caprins were going crazy,
dancing some kind of alien jig, a strange non-circular, non-linear fiesta involving
all four upper limbs. They were hammering violently on the gates of the Villa
of Ormen. The Hamas panicked and tried to slam the gates shut. Barricades were
erected and fires were sparked. Pandemonium.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
Orbiter’s intuitive instruments honed in on the melee. The villa loudspeakers
were blaring out across the holy ground, as always. But, this time, the voice
sounded distinctly non-Hama:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“HAMA
BLAG SDA! HAMA BLAG SDA!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Then
this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“I’M
NOT A GANGSTER! HAMA BLAG SDA! I’M NOT A FILM STAR! HAMA BLAG SDA!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">"</span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;">I’M NOT A
PORN STAR! HAMA BLAG SDA! I’M NOT A POP STAR! HAMA BLAG SDA!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“I’M
NOT A WANDERIN’ STAR! HAMA BLAG SDA! HAMA BLAG SDA!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“HAMA
BLAG SDA!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Originally published in "47-16: Short Fiction and Poetry Inspired by David Bowie" (Penny Dreadful Publications, 2016).</span></div>
Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-41322908713615718302016-01-17T08:35:00.002-08:002016-01-17T09:05:11.067-08:00V.9221. Or CPDR.33318. Just for the record.I like David Bowie. And I like records. Once upon a time, in a happy land far, far away, I combined both these interests to become that most peculiar of creatures: The David Bowie Collector.<br />
<br />
I don't collect any more, though I still have a LOT of records. Economic necessity, coupled with a phenomenon you could call the "Diminishing Return of the South American 7" single" (the Mexican pressing of Blue Jean in its joyless EMI paper sleeve is barely discernible from the Brazilian one - but the collector needs to own both and they're going to cost twenty quid a pop), knocked the expensive collecting game on its head for me.<br />
<br />
But while deep in the throes of my obsession, hoovering up rarities from friends, record fairs, mail order companies and Record Collector private ads, I was like a cat in a Whiskas warehouse. I had hundreds of Bowie LPs and hundreds of 7" singles. And hundreds of eight-tracks, too. Catalogue numbers on labels, matrix run-out information on the dead wax, tiny print on the corners of picture sleeves... these were my manna. I was sitting on a pretty decent collection, right up there with the more serious of my collector peers. Clearly, we were obsessed.<br />
<br />
I've held onto one copy of each UK album release, from the 1967 Deram debut onwards, and have shifted the rest. That's right: my Yugoslavian Never Let Me Down is no longer in the house.<br />
<br />
So it goes. But I have my memories. And here are ten of my favourites to be going on with:<br />
<br />
1) Station To Station (France RCA 7", 1976). Who'd be mad enough to try to make a single edit out of the epic, wandering Station to Station title track? Those gaga cuckoos at RCA France, that's who. This carved-up edit was withdrawn (probably at the behest of David himself, I should think) and only a handful of jukebox promo copies escaped the pressing plant. I found a copy for £2.50 at Brighton Record Fair, where the dealer had it labeled as 'France TVC 15 (the song on the b-side), picture sleeve missing'. Bargain.<br />
<br />
2) Ziggy Stardust LP (UK first pressing, 1972). The very first pressing, with matrixes ending in -1E on each side. This is the one with the slightly different mix of Starman. The 'Wichita Lineman' bit is quieter than later pressings. This one sticks in my mind because of where I found it: at Woolworth's in Exeter, around 1979. It had clearly been sitting in the racks, unlooked at, for all those seven years, so immaculate was its condition when I bought it.<br />
<br />
3) Knock On Wood (France RCA 7", 1974). Snapped up from a record shop in Brussels, this one stands out for its unique and very attractive picture sleeve: a live shot from the Diamond Dogs tour, David looking moody and mean in a Shakespearean cape.<br />
<br />
4) The Prettiest Star (Germany Mercury 7", 1970). The original version, with Marc Bolan on lead guitar. The Germans released this in an aesthetically wonderful picture sleeve - a live action shot of our David, curly-haired and shiny-suited, clutching a 12-string guitar. Lovely stuff.<br />
<br />
5) David Bowie Special (Japan double LP, 1976). A compilation album with a unique full-face cover snatched from a scene in The Man Who Fell To Earth. Japanese lyric inserts are always great entertainment, especially when the words are transcribed from guesswork, and Japanese pressings are always king. For such a determinedly throwaway society, our Japanese friends sure know how to build a record to last.<br />
<br />
6) The Konrads - I Didn't Know How Much (Canada Decca 7", 1965). OK, so this is not a David Bowie record. He's not on it. But the record is interesting because it was uncatalogued until I managed to unearth a copy. This I did by searching for Konrads on eBay every bloody week. When this title, and the also-unheard of 'I Thought Of You Last Night' on the flip, turned up on a Canadian single and then an American promo, I really thought I had struck gold. Twice. Not quite, it turned out, but this post-Bowie Konrads single, seemingly rushed out without the band's knowledge all those years ago, was an interesting find nonetheless.<br />
<br />
7) Drive-In Saturday (UK RCA 7", 1973). Nothing madly rare about this one... but the b-side, Bowie and the Spiders rocking through Chuck Berry's Round and Round? Spectacular! Mick Ronson's guitar solo is peerless on this.<br />
<br />
8) Memory of a Free Festival (UK Mercury 7", 1970). Fantastic, hippy-free reworking of the fantastic and epic song on David's second album. This organ and guitar-heavy release was helpfully split into two parts. That's a very sixties thing to do (just about hanging on into the seventies).<br />
<br />
9) Low (UK RCA LP, 1977). Just look at that sleeve. It's like... how more orange could it be? This delicious-looking record, with the song titles and credits confined to a tiny sticker on the back, is so bright and so seventies it can be seen from space. Almost. And, my God, it's a fantastic album.<br />
<br />
10) Davie Jones and the King Bees - Liza Jane (Vocalion UK 7", 1964). In actual fact, I never owned one of these. It's always slipped through my fingers. It's David's official debut on record, and it resonates with me because it's my official debut too: I was born and the record was released on the same day, Friday June 5, 1964. Thanks mum. You done good!<br />
<br />
Naturally, Liza Jane on Vocalion has always been a top dollar record. And I've always been too skint to buy one. But one day I might just bring my collector self back into play, and snap one up. One day. One day.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-79044996705990923222016-01-13T12:55:00.002-08:002016-01-13T13:02:35.491-08:00Life is a Circus KroneYesterday, I boasted of the ingenuity and bravery of the long-distance David Bowie fan. Getting into the smaller, more convincingly sold-out shows could take a great deal of imaginative effort. So I claimed. But it was all talk, no trousers. I should have offered an example, but I didn't.<br />
<br />
Here's one...<br />
<br />
It's October 12, 1991. Tin Machine are a week into their tour through the rain and snow of Europe. I'm part of a small travelling army of fans gearing up to enjoy gig #6 in Munich. Except we're running very, very late. A day off in Venice ended with our car being towed while we sight-saw, putting us way behind schedule and a considerable chunk of Lire lighter. By the time me and my two travelling compadres, Ali and Pete, pulled up outside the rotund Circus Krone it was pretty much curtain-up time.<br />
<br />
We had no advance tickets. A glance up and down the strasse confirmed our fears: there were no touts. A hand-drawn sign on the door screamed that the show was "SOLD OUT. GUESTLIST ONLY".<br />
<br />
We were in trouble. We stared at the sign. GUESTLIST ONLY. Hmm. GUESTLIST ONLY...Hmm...<br />
<br />
"Hi, I'm on David's guestlist!" I heard myself blurting out to the man on the door, my English accent more pronounced than it had ever been. I was hoping for a little extra British-flavoured gravitas.<br />
<br />
"OK, name?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, it's Andy, er Alan, um Thomas, I mean Hughes..."<br />
<br />
Teutonic head tilted, eyed the list, then me. Then shook. Nope.<br />
<br />
Pete took over: "We're probably under a different name, can I see the list?"<br />
<br />
CHRIST NO.<br />
<br />
"OK, he might know me as Richard. William, Willie, Bill..." oh God.<br />
<br />
By this time, Pete had curled around my side to flank the bouncer. I could see his furtive eyes darting surreptitiously down the list, much of which had already been struck through.<br />
<br />
"I think he said he'd leave it in the name Pop Rocky," said Pete.<br />
<br />
EXCUSE ME?<br />
<br />
"Oh yes, Pop Rocky. I'm Pop Rocky. And so are they." I nodded at Ali and Pete. This could get serious. We'd surely been caught out. This was ridiculous. We'd pushed this envelope a little too far.<br />
<br />
The bouncer's steely gaze fixed mine, a little angrily. Then shifted to his clipboard, where fingers were detaching an envelope and pushing it into my quivering hand. The words 'Pop Rocky' were handwritten on the front.<br />
<br />
"Enjoy the show," he said. We rushed forward to the ticket booth, tore the envelope open and - bless my fuckin' stars - THREE tickets. AND an all-areas photo pass. Which meant, ladies and gentlemen, that we all got in for free, and Pete was able to take his video camera with him. He got a good film out of it. I'll put a clip on Facebook.<br />
<br />
Just don't tell Pop Rocky about this. Right?Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-20448968116694100552016-01-12T03:33:00.000-08:002016-01-12T05:16:41.247-08:00David LiveLucky me - I was born at the right time. I got to see David Bowie perform live. I got to see David Bowie perform live an awful lot, actually.<br />
<br />
Pretty much all my young man's money went towards it. Europe and beyond was my playground from my late teens onwards. Newcastle, New York, Newport or Berlin Neueweld... if David Bowie was booked to play, I'd get myself there and get myself in. Somehow.<br />
<br />
I made a lot of friends along the way, many of whom remain close to this day. We got to know each other somewhat intimately through sleeping on floors, in airport lounges, railway stations, shop doorways and the like. Once I slept with three other people in the frozen back of a mini-van. My friend John slept in a Victoria Station luggage locker, his feet sticking out the open end so he wouldn't get locked in by mistake...<br />
<br />
We hitched, we drove, we stowed away on ferries - we did whatever it took to get to the gig. Ticket buying, trading and upgrading became akin to a full-time job on the bigger tours. And as for those rare private shows, secret gigs and closed-shop TV performances? We got into most of those too, by fair means and foul, and by employing bravado and ingenuity that would, I think, astound.<br />
<br />
How many Bowie gigs did I chalk up over the years? I stopped counting a tour or two ago for the sake of my sanity. It's well into three figures though. And, to misquote Gigi: "Ah yes. I remember them well."<br />
<br />
I'm genuinely sad that nobody will ever get to enjoy the sights and sounds of a Bowie gig again. I used to feel jealous of those slightly older, slightly more switched-on types who saw the Ziggy, Aladdin, Diamond Dogs, Soul and Thin White Duke shows. Alright, so I still am. But I am also truly happy and blessed with the lot that I got - and I only wish there could be more.<br />
<br />
David Bowie was a performer like no other. He really was. To bone up on the history of the man, as laboriously documented in a mountain of books as well as in cuttings and titbits garnered through my own reasonably fastidious research, is to discover just what an intensely focused young man he was.<br />
<br />
He worked hard, ridiculously hard, to hone his gallery of talents. It's fair, I think, to say that unlike some lucky bastards David Robert Jones was not born talented as such. He had to earn his stripes. He taught himself to read music from a self-help book. I have no idea how he learned to play guitar... probably the same way. Then he found a piano, learned the hard and long way how to play it, and had the balls to bash out a classic piano-driven album ('Hunky Dory') almost straight away.<br />
<br />
Balls were in abundance, too, at the creation of Ziggy Stardust. It takes some front to step onto the streets of Finsbury Park, Epsom or Newcastle dressed in a rainbow suit, wrestling boots and more lippy than is befitting of a lady. In conservative old 1972.<br />
<br />
It was such an immensely creative time for David. He was inventing and reinventing himself, diligently chiseling away at the character he wanted to present to the world in the basement rehearsal space of what is now a corner chemist's shop in Greenwich. But I digress...<br />
<br />
To see David Bowie live is, or was, to see all these incredible disciplines set out in order. What a performer! I remember the gig following my 19th birthday (I was given the bumps outside the concert hall the previous night), seeing the man perform 'Fame' from my envious position right up front against the Birmingham NEC stage. David was miming, pretending to sign autographs and hand them out. As he shuffled along the stage, eventually meeting me square-on, eye-to-eye, his make believe pen scribbled on make believe paper and the make believe autograph was proffered to me in mime fashion. I did the decent thing: I reached out and took it, folded it in half and stuck it in my pocket. Where it magically disappeared.<br />
<br />
It was a daft but captivating moment. One of many, for me. Mighty is the craic of seeing David perform a secret rehearsal gig with Tin Machine, as nominal support act to a local band in a Dublin pub, in front of no more than 100 people. I was upfront, my chest clashing with his micstand. It was punk as fuck.<br />
<br />
Transfixing it was, too, to watch David belt out 'Something In The Air' in New York, his giant voice expelling so much air it turned to a visible cone of steam in front of him.<br />
<br />
I could, and undoubtedly will, go on (and on). But not today. Today, I'm just happy to reflect on some of the fun I had earning those caps for Bowie fandom. The last time I saw him play was his last UK gig at the Isle of Wight festival. Funny, the Isle of Wight is where he made his very first public performance, too. At Scout camp, aged 11. And it's where I live now.<br />
<br />
David last toured in 2004, which means in practical terms that nobody in their mid-twenties or younger would have stood much chance to see him, even once. So I mean it when I say I am truly grateful for the times I did get to share with this brilliant man and his often brilliant bands.<br />
<br />
You might be wondering what David made of us lot? He was asked about this in interview once. I can't find it right now, but the quote went a lot like this:<br />
<br />
"I recognise a lot of the people who come to my shows. I consider them friends. We're like old friends."<br />
<br />
Rest in peace, old friend.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-83963143746589072182015-11-20T20:45:00.002-08:002015-11-20T21:05:26.436-08:00"And red mutant eyes gaze down on Hunger City..."... is a line from Future Legend, the opening track of David Bowie's 1974 album 'Diamond Dogs'. It's all very dystopian, Burroughsian and Orwellian. In 1979, we all thought: "Wow! David Bowie predicted 'The Warriors'!" But it's 2015 now, and I'm thinking this: "Oh dear. David Bowie went and predicted London."<br />
<br />
The capital nightscape used to strike me with awe and excitement. The view up and down the river from Tower Bridge, with riverside lights twinkling and cars and people rushing up and down its banks, was always a beautiful and inspiring one. The balance of old architecture and new buildings, even as recently as ten years ago, was pretty much acceptable. Heritage and culture seemed assured and ingrained in London's fabric, as did the notion of growth and wide-open possibilities. There was a sort of mutual respect between the old town and the new.<br />
<br />
Just look at it now. Nowhere on or near Tower Bridge can you look downriver without being assaulted by the monstrous vision of the Walkie Talkie building. A ghastly carbuncle which burns pavements, blots horizons and serves no great purpose. (Have you been to its rooftop garden? Of course you haven't.) That's all you see behind the drawbridge, now. It's horrible.<br />
<br />
Then there's the cheese grater. The gherkin. The Shard. OK, I guess I can live with The Shard. But taken as a gang, these gargantuan buildings are clearly not a good thing. Either London wants to look like a Martian colony under a giant dome, as visualised in '60s sci-fi, or it wants to look like London, complete with the Monument and St Paul's and Big bastard Ben. The mix of the two - just like those arty photographs of the moon poking out between skyscrapers - doesn't work. Again, it's horrible.<br />
<br />
And, of course, there's more of this wanton destruction to come. An unwanted underground railway called Crossrail appears to be giving developers carte blanche to take a wrecking ball to any old landmark that gets in the way of something sterile, new and under-occupied. There's money, it seems, in stark and empty new property. Not in Victorian factories and tanning yards.<br />
<br />
Soho? Denmark Street? Who needs them? Why keep the late Ken Colyer's smokey jazz clubs alive when you can just as quickly level them and build a block of posh flats in their place? You could name it The Colyer Mews (or something). You could stick a plaque up. That would be nice. No need to keep history - get rid of it, stick a plaque on the new thing. Shall we talk about Battersea Power Station? Let's not. It makes me too angry and sad.<br />
<br />
So, you see. London's heritage, history and culture is being erased for the short-sighted financial gain of the greedy few. Private rents and house prices today are actually, certifiably, obscene. Those people who are happy to live on rice if it means they get to paint a picture or write a book or make a record can't afford to do even that any more. So off they go, the artists, out to the sticks. It's all part of London's rapid sterilisation.<br />
<br />
I love London, so all of this hurts. And however hard I try to get on with my life and let other people get on with theirs, and just hope for the best for the future, I just can't. And do you know why?<br />
<br />
It's those red mutant eyes that gaze down on Hunger City. It's the red lights of the cranes at night, dotted up and down the river, zig-zagging the once bustling and exciting West End, scattering through the South London suburbs and beyond. Blood red lights which are supposed to stop helicopters from smashing into them (something they're not entirely successful at) and which denote major construction going on underneath. London is plastered with the things. They're demonic, like a glowing red pox pointing towards a disease that is spreading fast and becoming terminal.<br />
<br />
London is not in safe hands. And for that reason. I'm out.<br />
<br />Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-85690263020993558012015-11-17T16:56:00.000-08:002015-11-17T16:56:28.756-08:00Go DaygloLondon is being comprehensively dismantled to make way for Dubai 2.0. This is a city in tatters.<br />
<br />
Pubs, music venues, Victorian streets and social housing are being kicked to pieces to make space for this season's must-have investment: a box-shaped posh flat with a box-shaped posh balcony offering a panoramic view of all the other box-shaped balconies in the vicinity. Who'd live in a flat like this? Nobody, of course. The people who invest in them are perfectly comfortable in their much nicer homes in Russia and Egypt. While they sleep the empty chrome, glass and brick boxes swell in value for them. Good old England. Good old London town.<br />
<br />
This is how things stand in this, surely, worst ever time for London under the worst kind of bumbling fool Mayor imaginable - and all overseen by the snivelling, dribbling, vile little shits that pass for Government these days. Fuck off, Cameron. Just FUCK OFF.<br />
<br />
So London's landmarks are being sucked up the tube into the Hooverbag of 'progress'. But thankfully there's still character galore in the shape of London's fantastically mental street people. I love Gilbert and George, but they're not always easy to find. But there are one or two excellent second division eccentrics.<br />
<br />
One of my favourites is the guy who directs traffic on Tower Bridge. Actually, these days, he's more likely to be found on Commercial Road near Spitalfields.<br />
<br />
Here is a fantastic fellow. A giant of a man, upright rectangular-shaped with a shock of shocking ginger hair and wild eyes. He's in his late forties, maybe, or fifties. And he likes to spend his days waving through cars and vans and trucks that are merrily going about their business without his help, thankyouverymuch. He directs them anyway.<br />
<br />
Yes, there are sandwiches missing from his particular picnic hamper. Marbles are lost. But he's got something to do with his time, and he's not hurting anyone. He's actually pretty big fun. The way he affects a point and a headshake at a phantom flat tyre or some other fictitious hazard which he has imagined up for himself is rather endearing. I like to acknowledge his waving through with my own salute of thanks - and he loves that. His face never drops its serious and professional veneer, of course - he's got an important job to do, right? - but something in his eyes confirms that he really enjoys motorists joining in with his little roleplay.<br />
<br />
Mr Traffic Director has worn the same grubby and torn hi-vis jacket for years. Until now. Just the other day I noticed he was wearing a brand new yellow dayglo jacket. This can mean one of two things:<br />
<br />
Either he is taking his fantasy vocation ever more seriously and he has invested in new equipment for himself.<br />
<br />
Or some kindly soul has gone way beyond duty and handed our friend a brand new jacket.<br />
<br />
I would love to believe that this is what has happened. How nice. How heart-warming that, when all around is being smashed to rubble to feed an insatiable, hideously short-sighted development greed, someone would do such a thing for a harmless nut job who, when you get right down to the nuts and bolts of it, is now one of London's last remaining landmarks.Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-58253134938334294732015-10-06T12:44:00.000-07:002015-10-06T12:44:11.781-07:00Remembering Evelyn Parr<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
If you want to do
something nice for your seven or eight year old kid, take him or her
on a fantastic voyage. It's just about the most exciting family
activity going.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As a little squirt I
lived for the hours I journeyed with mum and dad in our white Austin
1100, orange Morris 1300 or maroon Morris Marina (dad got through a
lot of cars back then). The back was my exclusive domain and sweaty
legs would stick to sun-scorched seats while my chin would press up against
the back of the vinyl passenger seat, my position of choice, behind my mum's head.
From there I would soak up all the stories my dad could offer about his tenure in the RAF. Or I would make my mum squeal with pretend delight at my parrot-like recreation of Monty Python sketches learned from BBC comedy LPs.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A favourite destination
would be my Auntie Evelyn and Uncle Trevor's house in Pontllanfraith,
a tiny town very much locked into the South Wales Valleys. Collieries
were still a thing then (this was pre-Thatcher) and the landscape was
scarred but very much alive with black sinews and huge shaft wheels.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
From Exeter, this was always an epic slog. There was no M5 yet: we let the A38 lead us slowly through
Tiverton, Taunton and around Bristol to the amazing Severn Bridge. There, we would break. Egg and chips and
some kind of chemical fizzy pop would be all mine at the
devastatingly modern Aust Motorport (my mum continued to call
motorway service stations 'motorports' all her life). And then
the tunnels at Newport would appear, and the short last leg through tiny Valleys
villages, coal mines and fields full of sheep would finish us off.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Uncle Trevor was a kind
but slightly intimidating man - to this young mind, at least. He was
a fantastic and fun, big-hearted soul, but his deep voice and strong
frame were less attractive to the mollycoddled junior school version
of me than my incredible Auntie Evelyn.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Of all my Welsh
relations, I loved her the most (my darling cousin Linnet comes a very close second). This was down to purely mercenary reasons. Every
time we visited she would magic up a present for her nephew...
whether it was close to a birthday or Christmas or not. Amazing!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Best of all, she had a
knack for picking presents that were way outside the box. She was imaginative and considerate with her gift buying. A brush and comb set was an early nod to
manhood for me. There was a small telescope one time – which doubtless launched my enduring fascination with the stars and planets. Books –
really good books – were gifted to me too. And so on.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The only gift I didn't
accept from her, offered when I was a little older, was a genuine Nazi
tie-pin that she had acquired from God knows where. To show off and act mature, I pretended it gave me
the creeps. Stupid me: I was actually quite fascinated. I should have just shut up and gratefully accepted it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Fast forward to the
adult version of me. In the 1990s, I found myself working and living in Newport, not far at
all from my Aunt, Uncle and cousins. I would see a little of Evelyn,
from time to time, in her new granny flat down the hill from her old
house, and when she grew ill I visited her at the Royal Gwent
Hospital.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At a pensioner's club
she was encouraged to undertake a gentle writing project. This was
intended as a bit of fun for the old folk, but Auntie Evelyn took this task to a completely unexpected level. Scribbling like a demon, she sealed all of her early memories onto paper – from following her dad (a
cattle drover) through the streets of Exeter (on the back of a dog with a saddle attached!), to a sad life in a children's
home, to entering servitude as a young teenager, through the (alleged)
murder of her half-brother Joe, to the time she was wooed by one of
the Welsh blokes in the travelling fair which rolled into town one
summer. Guess what? She ended up marrying and spending her life with him. It's all in there, and it's a fantastic read.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My dad always had a
very special place in his heart for Evelyn, his youngest sister. When
she died, I think in a way my dad started to die as well. Spiritually, if not
physically.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Today marks the date Auntie Evelyn left us. I still have some of the presents she gave me. And some
photographs of her as a young girl. And, of course, her incredible
essay – which, whenever I happen
upon it and re-read it, comes as an efficient reminder that I have been lucky in life. I grew up with both parents in
a family home and I have always had food to eat, clothes to wear, a
sense of security and the freedom to grow ambition.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Auntie
Evelyn, though she would never let it show, was unable to take any of those things for granted. The generation of Bardings that came before me had a very hard time of it. Evelyn had to fight, really hard, for everything in her life. But she made it. She was a star.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
God bless you, Ev.</div>
Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-52595926889184944902015-09-25T17:42:00.002-07:002015-09-27T23:09:25.902-07:00Good GriefDepending on which self-help book or website you choose, there are five or seven stages of grief that we all must go through. That puts me on the sixth or eighth with regard to my mum.<br />
<br />
My mother's death in January of this year was a harrowing and horrifying thing. I don't like to think about it - but I do. It was an inevitable thing to happen, and something that I and my siblings had been expecting for some time. She had been ill for more than a year.<br />
<br />
In a way, a good part of our mourning had already taken place by the time she finally slipped away. It was an inoperable brain tumour that took her from us in the form of a cruel instalment plan, piece by piece. In the months before she was bedridden, she spoke and heard nonsense. Her brain played tricks on her. But she seemed happy enough.<br />
<br />
The last days and weeks, though, were miserable and scary. There were lots of tears and a lot of confusion and anguish. One of the cruellest twists was thrown at us just a few days before she finally died. A change in her medication brought her a sudden burst of lucidity. After days of motionless and inactivity, we found her sat up in her bed, chatting, even taking sips of tea. One of my happiest memories of my mum, strangely, is of her as the dying woman - nodding and smiling, looking around and chatting to us all from her bed. Her brain had given up on allowing her to form words. But we let her have her say anyway.<br />
<br />
It gave us false hope, which was ultimately and inevitably dashed. Her decline was swift from there. It was so sad. In the end, as is often the way, her death came as a release for all of us... and a mercy to her.<br />
<br />
Now, with my mum's passing an entire generation has gone. I have no uncles or aunts: all dead. My father died 11 years ago. Suddenly, at 51, I'm the grown up.<br />
<br />
Since January, I have had a few tearful episodes. But nowhere near enough. This is something I'm mindful of. I've kept myself occupied since then, in positive and not so positive ways, and have kind of bricked away the crushing magnitude of it all. The losing of my mum has become, to my mind, the most recent in a series of disasters beginning with the death of my dad and continuing through the death of two very, very important friends, leading up to Jean Mary Barding (nee Newton). The grief from those three predecessors was well-defined, reasonably well-handled and, I'm sad to say, cumulative. The grief I feel from losing my mum is aggravated no end by the compounding factor of the other three deaths. If I'm going to feel sad about my mum, I will feel sad about my dad, about Ali and about Jon too. So oppressing is this feeling that I have not yet been able to properly handle it.<br />
<br />
My parents' house has just (today) sold and contracts have been exchanged. This is an important thing for me, since I needed that finality to allow me to draw a line under that part of my life. No house, no mum - so I can get on with my life.<br />
<br />
That life, now, is me and Rhoda against the world. It's been on pause since January. I couldn't help that, it's just something I had to stash away. I am a little worried that it has festered for too long, that I won't now be able to go back and work through grief processes 1-5 or 1-7 depending on your chosen book or website. But it's what I'm left with.<br />
<br />
I'm looking forward to being able to remember my mum properly, and to celebrating her in whatever way I am able to. That's all to come. Right now, though, with the closing of the sale of her house - the house I grew up in - and the closing of a very important chapter in my life, I feel I am able at last, and at least, to have a really good, productive cry.Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-38668435288001209722015-08-09T13:11:00.000-07:002015-08-09T15:15:00.974-07:00E = FWFFat White Family gigs are always good. I've not seen a duffer yet. Certainly the one I witnessed last night - in a hipster-occupied former factory space in East London - scored highly on all the usual requisites... acrobatics, drama, bad psychedelia, noise, disturbance, damage. All in abundance.<br />
<br />
Of course, I loved it. And my friends hated it.<br />
<br />
I was hanging with a different crowd. A gang of visiting Californians. They'd seen 'it all' before. They'd already seen 'it all' done so much better. That's what they thought. That's what they told me. Of course, they're completely wrong.<br />
<br />
Decades ago, they might have had a point. The MC5 were probably the most malevolent miscreants to ever stand on (and fall off) a Grande stage. They had haters, just like Fat White Family have today - although the MC5's opponents operated on an institutional and international level.<br />
<br />
<br />
Rooted at the side of the concrete, hessian and brickdust stage of The Laundry in Hackney, my senses clobbered by 'Raining In Your Mouth' and 'Touch The Leather', I couldn't help but fall into flashback after flashback to some old MC5 live footage from 1968 or '69 that I have cause to have seen. In that clip, shot at a political rally in Boston (I think), the 'stage' area is defined by handheld rope. It's as anarchic and undefined as Fat White Family's makeshift platform in E8.<br />
<br />
In both (footage and real life), tattooed and hairy boys and girls run a rampage, scattering over the boards, getting in the way, diving on and off, wrestling with mics and leads. In the old film, Rob Tyner is up and down on his knees, screaming wild oblivion. In 2015, Lias and his hair are blurred and flying, in and out of outstretched hands. In both, pretty much the whole band are smoking and playing simultaneously - the latterday lot, of course, in clear contravention of the great smoking laws of our fine country.<br />
<br />
An intern photographer stood next to me stops shooting for a second to lift a one-finger salute to each and every person before him, unwittingly apeing Brother JC's actions as seen in that old, old clip.<br />
<br />
A cowboy hat (a very wrong cowboy hat, I'm informed by my American friends) is worn in 2015. As it is in 1968 or '69. So is a redneck baseball cap. The band look so shockingly untogether and sound so shockingly close to falling apart. It's real as can be, in other words, and about as rough-around-the-edges and therefore captivating as The MC5 must have been at the height of their powers. You'd be a wise person not to give any of Fat White Family (or The MC5) your home address. That's what I think, sometimes.<br />
<br />
The set over, one of my American friends shouted: "Boo, you suck!" just quietly enough so that the band wouldn't actually hear. Later he talked about having had tomatoes in his pocket and having thought about throwing them. He didn't do that, though. Because, he announced several times, "they would probably like that!"<br />
<br />
Funny. I don't think they would have given a flying fuck. Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-56366364230365757332015-08-02T18:24:00.003-07:002015-08-02T18:33:57.759-07:00* "I am a stranger on the earth..."All of Vincent Van Gogh's paintings are important but 'Landscape in the Rain at Auvers' means the most to me.<br />
<br />
It's a striking double canvas, slightly larger than an opened-out gatefold LP sleeve, depicting a broad country panorama being pummelled and pelted under a particularly brutal summer downpour.<br />
<br />
Diagonal streaks of rain stripe the painting from top to bottom and much of the French wheat fields' colour has been sapped by the storm. Vincent's other late-period works glow with characteristic yellow-golds and rich greens, but this scene has surrendered to cold silvers and greys, dark blues and depressed ochres.<br />
<br />
To stand face to face with the painting, now in peaceful retirement at the National Museum of Wales in Cardiff, is to square up to the artist's own tantrums. A knife has been used to slash the canvas. Thick paint has been pasted on, as if spitefully. Where some of Vincent's earlier, happier work comes bundled with concession and compromise and a nod to contemporary taste, this one does not. It's a last hurrah. It's immense. No filter.<br />
<br />
It was hanging on the wall of Vincent's room at Café Ravoux in Auvers-sur-Oise, just north of Paris, as he lay dying from his self-inflicted gunshot wound. It was most likely completed on or slightly before 27 July 1890. Vincent died two days later aged 37, the poor, poor man.<br />
<br />
'Landscape in the Rain at Auvers' continued to stand guard over its creator's corpse until the funeral but for unknown reasons it never went on to enter the possession of the Van Gogh family. Maybe it was squirreled away? Canvas impressions on the thick paint splashes suggest, to my untrained eye at least, that it was rolled up while still drying.<br />
<br />
One day in the late 19th Century it came up for sale in Paris. The Davies sisters bought it, and later bequeathed it to their local gallery. The Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, probably scared by the broken provenance, has always distanced itself from this one. But they're fools.<br />
<br />
This is Vincent laid bare. Forget crows. FUCK crows. What the fuck have crows got to do with anything? This is Vincent's full stop. And it's the saddest thing ever.<br />
<br />
* The first words from Vincent's first Sunday sermon. Turnham Green, London. 29 October 1876.Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-64133610551168669512015-08-01T10:31:00.002-07:002015-08-01T10:36:17.649-07:00Music Is LethalSometimes I think to myself, yeah, this could be the day. The day that I finally plot out my on-off, up-down, love-hate relationship with music and see how it looks laid out as a graph or in a Venn diagram.<br />
<br />
I'd have rows marking out the years from 1964 to now, and I would have columns representing the intensity of the music heard each year. The higher the column, the more intense the listening experience. With a different colour, perhaps, to denote good or bad. With a great deal of luck, the statistics I input would reveal a curve of some kind - a wave or fluctuating frequency that demonstrates a pattern. That would be a real breakthrough. That would be brilliant science.<br />
<br />
But I haven't tried the graph thing yet and I'm not at all sure that it would work out, anyway. Besides. My memory is terrible. Too sketchy to even attempt it. So here are some highlights instead - presented as an overview of periods in my life when music and I did or did not see eye to eye. These lasted weeks, months, years. They're not presented in any particular order.<br />
<br />
1) The One-ness with Raw Power. This is when I was happiest. Luckily, this coincided with Rocket From The Crypt being active and touring. Throughout this time of my life I felt the gutteral, primal power of the rhythm and force of music. I was able to absorb, devour and surf its relentless movement. Music was like a life-force to me - I felt like it controlled my muscles and senses completely. My eyesight seemed brighter. Life was a breeze. More than this, it seemed to vitalise me, physically. I was hungry and thirsty for it. The opening bars to 'Pigeon Eater' were more important to me than anything.<br />
<br />
2) Music as Passive Therapist. The 'teen in his bedroom' syndrome. I used music to reinforce or rebutt my voice in the world. This was a helpful phase. Music was unobtrusive and helpful.<br />
<br />
3) Music as Aggressive Therapist. This was a powerful and unpredictable one. Instead of helping me through turmoil, the music would underline what was wrong with everything in my world. Innocuous songs, pop songs, would mock, jeer and condemn me. But I listened to them anyway. I would cling desperately to their messages, convinced that it would do me good in the long run. I went to a lot of gigs in this state - and hated them. Moreover, I hated the people around me at those gigs. I couldn't understand how they could look like they were enjoying themselves when the message coming from the stage was so utterly, utterly bleak. I was very unhappy at this time.<br />
<br />
4) The Shredded Nerves. For a while, I found myself connecting super-strongly with what I perceived to be an emotional depth to the music I was listening to. This is the polar opposite of the 'One-ness with Raw Power', in that I would be drawn to music which affected me strongly, only to have such a terrible time coming to terms with it. British Sea Power and Arcade Fire songs made me weep, easily and freely. It was a type of mourning, I think.<br />
<br />
5) Distrust In Music. This was a kind of purge on my part. Unable to pick out anything emotionally, spiritually or educationally worthy in the music I was listening to, I would consign the whole lot to the bin. I wouldn't listen to any records or attend any gigs. I would never put the radio on in the car. It was all bullshit, all of little or no use. In this state, I would have no recollection of any of the four scenarios listed above.<br />
<br />
6) Music as a Welcome Distraction. Enjoyable tunes, enjoyed. Merry bopping about. Able to enjoy it for what it is.<br />
<br />
7) Music as an Unwelcome Distraction. My mind would be twisted up in knots, confused as to how people could be letting this music stuff go on when it was mischievously clouding and shrouding something far more important - some perilous coming event, or something that urgently needed attention.<br />
<br />
Written in a van with the door shut, backstage at a summer festival.Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-66812561450163180812015-07-27T17:06:00.001-07:002018-02-22T04:02:48.974-08:00The Rodney Hallworth Preservation Society<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Never say never and all
that, but I can't picture myself ever going back to news journalism.
I'm fairly certain those days are over for me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Still, I look back on
the 20 or so years that I gave to the Fourth Estate very fondly. I
had great colleagues and quite a lot of fun. There would always be
some drama lurking somewhere, poised and primed to punctuate the
mundanity of council meetings, court proceedings and no end of
sad-faced suburbanite families with potholes to point at. So I was
happy in my work, by and large, if not the most voracious careerist.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My only dream as a
young hack was to someday scribe a front page splash for The Daily
Mirror. This I eventually did: only to conclude mournfully that I had
been kidding myself. This had not been a burning personal goal after
all, I decided, just a random professional benchmark to work towards.
The much younger version of me always imagined having that first
front page framed and hanging forever in a hallway or study. Next to the Pullitzer which followed it, maybe. When it
came to the crunch, I didn't even keep a copy of the paper.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What I did hold onto,
though, is an arsenal of handy life skills which I acquired and
sharpened over years on the reporter beat. I still draw from these
today (even the shorthand). And, to toot my own trumpet, I got pretty
damn good at journalism. If a story was there to be found, I would
find it. And I would report it clearly and accurately. I became a
very good newshound.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I owe most of this to
an irascible old bastard called Rodney Hallworth. I was in my late
teens or early twenties when I first encountered this formidable
fellow with thick-rimmed glasses and an even thicker Stockport
accent. I was finding my journalistic feet on the Teignmouth News, a
sleepy weekly paper for a sleepy South Devon seaside town. Rodney was
my boss... kind of. His was a nominal kind of role as overseeing eye,
by which I mean I already had a news editor and editor to report to in the paper's sister office up the road in Dawlish.
Rodney just needed to be kept in the loop. Which I did through daily
phone calls, visits to his quaint little cottage in the neighbouring
harbour town of Shaldon, and lengthy sessions at his local pub.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rodney was in his
fifties and veering ever closer to retirement by then, having already
lived out the most incredible journalistic life. He had earned his
stripes decades earlier as crime reporter for the Daily Mail and
Daily Express. Over multiple afternoon pints, he would roll out
anecdote after anecdote for me – I heard about his reporting of the
Great Train Robbery, about his relationship with Ruth Ellis, the last
woman to be hanged for murder in Britain (he accompanied her to the
gallows), about the Scotland Yard pepper-pot collection which he had
a hand in curating, and most notoriously about his key involvement in
the Donald Crowhurst round-the-world sailing scandal. But let's come
back to that...</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rodney and I warmed to
each other very quickly. I was full of youth and enthusiasm for my
fresh new career, and Rodney was, I think, delighted to have a keen
cub reporter to tell his stories to. He called me his protege quite
often, and occasionally he would introduce me to his friends and
acquaintances as that. He was full of advice, guidance and tricks of
the trade for me. It was Rodney who taught me, time and time again,
to write as if 'for the bloke in the pub'. To write news stories as if they
were for my mates to hear. Or, even better, for some dumb drunk
asshole who needs every stupid detail to be laid out in simple language.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rodney's speech was
always colourful and kindly. He'd talk in terms of 'Christmas-ing up', of
being careful to measure out the right level of personality for each story – and
of sticking the boot in when it needed to be done. And each and every
week, when I would ride my moped (he called it my 'put-put') over the
bridge to the pub to deliver that week's freshly-printed paper, he
would go through its pages with me, pointing out what was good and,
invariably, what was bad too.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He had a temper, and no
end of times I would be on the receiving end of it. I remember Rodney
screwing our paper into a ball and throwing it to the floor,
bellowing his disapproval over the use of some headline or other. Tourists in the lounge bar fled. And
once, when I turned up to one of our boozy editorial meetings without
a penny to my name, he chose to really let rip.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You do not – and
let me make this absolutely clear, boy – you do not EVER come into
a pub without any fucking money! Is that understood?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rodney suffered from
angina and complained about it regularly. When he died in 1985, aged
56 (I think) it came as no real surprise but it hit me very hard. Rodney
had become a huge part of my life.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
His funeral,
choreographed in advance by the man himself, was memorable. The
service concluded with a solo trumpeter, in bowler hat and jazz
colours, playing 'Bye Bye Blackbird' at the church door. Back at the
pub, we discovered he had secretly put a significant amount of money
behind the bar for the purpose of his wake. I got smashed on whiskey and was soon in
floods of tears in the corner. The Mayor of Teignmouth, Cllr Peter
Winterbottom, put a comforting arm around me, saying: “We'll just
say you've got the flu.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Of course, the many
little lessons I learned back then went on to serve me very well at work.
And they still do. Many years after he died, I tried to pay tribute
to him in my not-very-good speech on leaving the South Wales Echo.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But there's more.
There's a reprise. Rodney re-entered my life.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One night in 2006 I was
asleep in front of my TV in Kentish Town, London. The words coming
out of the box drifted in and out of my dream state, as they often
do. But then something incredible happened. I heard Rodney's voice. Clear as day. It was unmistakably him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was enough to shock
me awake. Good God! And there, indeed, he was – in full colour – talking on my television. It was the documentary 'Deep Water'. Rodney, filmed in 1968, was speaking about his role as Crowhurst's press guru. This was
staggering. It was surreal. Rodney in moving image form. Talking. The closest to being alive again that you can get.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A handful of
further little coincidences followed. A friend of mine turned out to be a friend of
the fellow who made 'Deep Water'. Some months before that, I happened across a copy of Rodney's book about serial killer Dr John Bodkin
Adams in a stall on the South Bank. A couple days later, I found
a second copy. More recently, I came across the Jonathan Coe novel 'The
Terrible Privacy of Maxwell Sim'. Rodney is mentioned in that, rather a lot.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And now a film, a
feature film, is being made about the whole Crowhurst affair. Colin
Farrell stars in it. Rodney's role has been taken by David Thewlis. I
decided I should do something to try to preserve something of
Rodney's legacy. So I wrote to Mr Thewlis's agent. I wrote to the
producers of the film too. This is part of what I wrote:</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Rodney was an
incredible character. Working under him as a junior reporter on a
Teignmouth newspaper, right up to his death in 1985, was a
life-shaping experience for me. He used to call me his 'protege' (as
well as some more colourful names when things weren't going well).</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“His role in the
Crowhurst saga was incredibly dark, no doubt about that. And he spoke
about it a fair bit, even decades after the event. But there was a
warmth and simplicity to him as well. If Mr Thewlis has five minutes
to spare and thinks it might help to hear a few Rodney anecdotes, I
would be delighted to share them. Please let me know if this is
do-able. I feel I sort of owe it to Rodney to try to fly his flag in
some small way.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I haven't had a reply. I'm sure whoever read the email consigned me to the 'nutter' bin.
I look forward to the film, of course. And I hope something of the
Rodney I knew will shine through it. But, as I heard somebody say the
other day, the movie is going to need a villain and Rodney – who
went on to sell Crowhurst's log books for a small fortune -
doubtlessly fills that requirement perfectly.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Like I said in my email
to the film people. I feel I owe it to Rodney to fly his flag somehow. Maybe
this 'Letter from Claptonia' will just have to do. Whatever happens, I'll
never forget good old Rodney.</div>
Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-5472270558700375302015-07-13T15:28:00.001-07:002015-07-13T15:43:24.652-07:00Remembering Live AidI see a lot of people are commenting on Live Aid
today. A lot of people who weren't there. I've read a lot of words
from a lot of people who don't like Geldof, who don't like Bono and
who don't like the idea of Queen having played Sun City.<br />
<br />
<div class="western">
I don't like those things either. But I was at
Live Aid. Not sat in front of the telly... I was there, in the heat
and sweat and thick of it all on the pitch at Wembley Stadium. My
opinion of the events of July 13, 1985 is no more valid than any
other. But it's at least pretty well-informed.</div>
<br />
<div class="western">
I was 21 years old. I had bought the Band Aid
single the previous Christmas, though not through any particular
sense of humanitarian duty. I bought it because I was young and into
pop and rock and, back then, I bought a lot of records.</div>
<br />
<div class="western">
I was a nascent hack, a cub reporter on the
Teignmouth News under the irascible genius that was Rodney Hallworth
(more about him in some future blog). Wedding reports, bowls results
and council minutes filled my working life, but every now and then my
devotion to music would worm its way into the seaside weekly paper's
pages too. Lo, it came to pass that in December 1984 I found myself
interviewing Bob Geldof backstage at a Boomtown Rats gig in Exeter
University's Great Hall.</div>
<br />
<div class="western">
My funny little paper had been encouraging its
readers to knit tiny jumpers for starving African children, and I
brought a couple of the little sweaters to show the scruffy little
bastard. He obliged with encouraging words, we took a photograph of him
holding two of the garments like ridiculous hand puppets, and I noted the
understated revelation that he had started working towards a live
concert in the summer, to reprise the whole Band Aid shenanigans. This
was duly reported and ignored by the good people of Teignmouth. I
offered the concert tip-off to the NME's newsdesk. They ignored it,
too.</div>
<br />
<div class="western">
A couple months later press ads started appearing
for Live Aid. I was curious and interested. David Bowie was
confirmed, so that was it. I wanted in. Question: How does one get a
ticket?</div>
<br />
<div class="western">
Answer: One books a coach from Teigmouth to
Bristol (the closest available ticket outlet), one queues overnight
outside the Virgin store (with hundreds of other people) and then one
catches a coach back the next day. That's right folks. On the
pavement, in the cold, overnight, just to buy tickets. That's how
things used to work.</div>
<br />
<div class="western">
Then came the day – a blisteringly hot, scorchio
one. TV crews buzzed around outside Wembley Stadium, reporting live from the queues
at the gates as we (me and my mate, Ray) waited to be allowed in.
Expectancy was high – and we were confused. The notion of strict
20-minute sets, even for big boys like Bowie and The Who, was
revolutionary. The rotating stage design sounded, well, weird. Would
it work?</div>
<br />
<div class="western">
On our way in, rushing to find a good spec, I
flashed by a banner or two: “You are saving lives,” I think one
might have said. There were t-shirts: “This t-shirt saves lives.”
Programmes: “This programme saves lives”. Posters: “You don't
have to be mad to work here...” You get the picture.</div>
<br />
<div class="western">
Sanctimonious? Here's my point: sorry, you weren't there.
The atmosphere on that day was, even for the mid 1980s, simple and
gracious and really quite pure. While you lot in TV land were
watching Geldof swear next to Ian Astbury in a commentary box, our
inadequate stage-side screens were screening ads for Budweiser.
Unbearable given the July sunshine. From my right came a tap on my
shoulder. “Swig mate?” Amber nectar. From a stranger.</div>
<br />
<div class="western">
Cups of water were passed around. I saw a chain of
bottled beers snake its way into the crowd. Somebody handed me some
suncream, too. My nose was blistered and almost bleeding come the
end. But it's the thought that counts.</div>
<br />
<div class="western">
And it's the thought that still counts. I'm not
claiming that this was some kind of Woodstock-ish utopia where
everybody just got along for the first time. But the vibes, man, were
good. Every act – even Nik Kershaw, folks - was entertaining and
memorable. And well-received. Bowie's set was emotional and exciting
– even my dad, who watched it on telly at home, conceded that he
was 'pretty good'.</div>
<div class="western">
</div>
<div class="western">
And then there's that video. The Cars. Harrowing TV viewing, right? I watched it with 70,000+ people, all blubbing. I can't begin to describe how I felt then. It was collective, though. And there was no kitchen to run to, no kettle to put on. We were a very big 'one'. And, oh heck, Status Quo were fab.</div>
<div class="western">
</div>
<div class="western">
Yes, bands did well out of their Live Aid
appearances. Reputations were forged and heightened. But is that really important? When I bought my ticket I knew what I was buying
into: I wasn't there to save Africans: I was there to see a load of
bands.</div>
<br />
<div class="western">
But still, when I saw those ships heading to
Africa with “With Love From Live Aid” painted on their hulls,
their steel bellies filled with food and medicine and what have you,
I couldn't help but feel like I had played a small role in making
that happen. We don't live in a perfect world. But sometimes something comes along to offer a little help.</div>
Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-25192771353857935842015-03-28T15:49:00.002-07:002015-03-28T17:28:11.204-07:00Diary of a Gnomestalker - by Alison Hale<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.6666669845581px;">TWENTY FIVE years ago tonight I had just finished watching David Bowie perform at the now-demolished London Docklands Arena. It was the third of three spring 1990 dates in the capital and it followed two shows apiece in Birmingham and Edinburgh. I was part of a small travelling gang who slept in airport lounges, on lawns outside venues and on Bowie fan floors. These were good times to be 25. </span></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.6666669845581px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.6666669845581px;">One of my travelling companions, Alison Hale, would become my girlfriend for a couple of years, and then - more importantly - my best friend, confidante, fellow adventurer and life explorer. We were two drifters off to see the world. There was such a lot of world to see, and she went on to see a lot more of it than I have. She had a massive thirst for experience, that girl.</span></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.6666669845581px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.6666669845581px;">She kept a journal of her maraudings and the paragraphs which follow are some of the best bits from that first week on the Sound and Vision tour.</span></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.6666669845581px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.6666669845581px;">The names and some details won't make much sense to readers who were not actually there. But it's a cracking read, nonetheless, if a little Bowiecentric. No excuses offered. That's how we were back then. </span></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.6666669845581px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.6666669845581px;">Ali always wanted to write a book and call it 'Diary of a Gnomestalker'. God bless you, Ali. Here is an extract from that book...</span></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.6666669845581px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">SUNDAY MARCH 18, 1990.</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">9.50pm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Met Karen at Victoria and we got the tube to Euston then the
InterCity to Birmingham International. The journey went really quickly (4.10pm
to 5.45pm).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We eventually found the NEC after walking to the airport and
getting the monorail back again. Found the actual Arena where the concerts are
held.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">As hoped/expected/dreaded there was nobody queuing. Just a sign
that said the box office opened at 9.30am on Monday. Could this indicate that
tickets have been held back? It IS a makeshift sign…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We then came back to the airport for some food. It was 7pm-ish
by then. Had a roll, banana, yoghurt and milk as I’m determined not to
stuff up on junk crap food. Also later discovered some long, soft seats –
proper airport type ones – to sleep on. Explored the very posh hotel and
decided the sofas in their hall would do if nothing else came up. Anyway… we’re
settling on these long seats now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Went to check the Arena once more. No-one there, so decided to
leave it till morning to queue. Are taking turns reading ‘Woman’ which has a DB
article. Karen phoned Littlehampton and got only a few seconds for 30p. Will
quickly call Clare on Tuesday – her birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Birmingham’s quite nice. They have trees and daffodils – like we
do!! Hope sleep is possible here. Have seen only one suspected Bowie person so
far, and she’s fat. PS: have airport loos and basins nearby. Dead glad I
brought my toothbrush and paste!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">11pm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Have moved upstairs where it’s darker and the seats are
spongier. The TV was blaring but I found the cunningly concealed volume knob.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">MONDAY MARCH 19, 1990<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">7.20am<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Slept very on and off from about 2am. The airport was never
really quiet, but at least they left us well alone up here. Another couple of
people joined us throughout the night. I woke at 6.45am and Karen was already
awake and washed. We switched TVAM on to wait for the first part of the
Gambaccini DB interview. I got washed then we bought breakfast and brought it back
up here: tea, toast, bacon and sausage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">8.45am<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">On bench waiting for box office to open. Talked with security
guard (no queue-ers yet). Saw lorry labelled “POWER FOR DAVID BOWIE” go in.
Chap said the gear was already in and Bowie would go in door A5 at around 4pm.
We snuck in the back and saw the ingredients, all invoiced etc, that’ll
probably become Bowie’s lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">PS: He’s brought his own stage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">9.30am. </span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Sent postcards to Neil and M+J then got to the box
office at 9.30am. After a chap had bought three Jason Donovan tickets and two
Van Morrison, it was my turn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Nothing on the computer… went out the back… I was nearly sick…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">He came back… YES! But only for cash or cheque. So we got ‘em
for both nights!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Some recognisable people were behind us (we were first). We got
talking and now we’re looking more like a Bowie mob.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">12.05pm<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Went to entrance A4/A5 and heard some kind of soundcheck –
probably not Bowie, but backing singers and band. Golden Years, Fashion, Let’s
Dance. Apparently “Heidi” is being let in. She got on stage with Bowie at
Turin in ’87.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Went in briefly to see where our seats are. It’s not bad – we’ll
get a good view, though it’s not too close. We’re all together anyway. Right
now, the four blokes [Ste, Lee, Mike and Andy] are at our table drinking very
expensive beer. Me, Karen and Sharon are sitting at another table, all in the
bar at the Metropol (hotel). David and Coco are booked in here and have been
since last night!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">7.10pm</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Spent the afternoon, until 3.30pm, in the bar at the Metropol
chatting with Steve, Sharon, Andy (who’s bought my spare London ticket) and
Mick and another bloke. Andy is trying hard to get me to go to Edinburgh which
he has a spare ticket for. Believe me, I am tempted. There’s even a lift up.
Quite frankly, maybe I’m getting old, but I’d rather have the £30 than the
hassle of going – I THINK! I wish I could go. It’d only mean two more days off
work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Then we went to see Bowie go in at 4pm. It began to piss down
and didn’t stop. Heidi eventually got what she wanted – a backstage thingy or
something. God knows what she does for it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">The three French people turned up, plus Michelle and Paul etc
etc. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Went back to the hotel bar after some food. Phil Calvert was
there. He’s beautiful! I read about him in Smash Hits and other mags years ago
for being a “superfan”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Tickets were still on sale and the touts did absolutely no
business. They’d only offer £10 to buy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">The shirts are OK. Embroidered logo for £30. Nice badge for £5.
One t-shirt is wearable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Our seats are way back in the depths of the heavens but half an
hour ago people were buying Block C from the box office, which really isn’t on.
It’s filling up really slowly, and DB’s meant to be on at 8pm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">9.20pm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">First half wonderful!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">1.15am<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Brilliant concert. But being at the back was sad. Enjoyed it –
but can’t describe it. Went back to the bar! It was brilliant, wonderful (the
gig)!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We’re kipping at exactly the same place but Andy and Mick are
with us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">TUESDAY MARCH 20, 1990<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">9.10am<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Sitting by the lake in the sun waiting for the box office to
open so Andy can flog spare tickets. We were woken from deep sleep at
5.30am. The three French kids were kicked out too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Watched TV and had coffee. Bought the Birmingham Post which has
Michelle and Paul pictured in the front of the gig. Wrote a quick note to
Darren and sent my newspaper cuttings home. Mike went home to Exeter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">10.40am<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We’re in the NEC hallway, playing pontoon (me, Karen and Andy).
We were going to play for tickets and £20 notes only – but then decided small
change would be a better idea! Two people from Switzerland came over and
expressed an interest in Andy’s spare tickets (they asked if any were
available). But it was doubtful because the guy’s plane flies back at 5pm. He’s
gone off to try again to change it or buy a later one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">5.05pm<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">They came back and bought them and were SO chuffed! He’d decided
to get the train home and sacrifice his ticket. They went off happy. And we did
pretty good at pontoon. I ended up with more than I started with. Andy nearly
had £5 at one point. It killed a few hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Then we went down to the lake. We thought about sleeping there,
but the ground was cold and there was goose shit everywhere anyway. Generally
dossed around for quite a while. Went to the bar at the Metropol to meet Lee.
Had a drink. No sign of DB, of course. Then wandered down to the box office.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">The three French kids were also trying to swop for better
tickets. Touts were asking for a £20-25 price to swop our Block 16 for Block D.
They said they were getting £100 each, which is crap – they can’t get rid of
them. So we kept our ones. Then came back for tea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">As it turned out, the airport was serving fish and chips. At £4.10
it was a rip off, but better than toast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">I phoned Darren. He was really pleased. I love him and nearly
said so. Spent a quid and a half on a phone card.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Will try and call him from Edinburgh too. I spent all day and
yesterday deliberating whether to go. In the end I kind of called Daz for a
second opinion. He said go for it! Apparently, when Neil went over there on
Sunday, Darren had the impression he was going to “say something”. I wonder if
he was?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Then I phoned Sam to get the other days off. I was kind of
nervous but she was dead nice about it – no problem. Phoned Clare, said Happy
Birthday, and she loved her pressies from me. Kings and Jason have left
messages for me – nice messages. Crazy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Unfortunately, C said Karen can’t stay. That’s going to be
awkward telling her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We’ve just watched (Andy, Karen and me) The Lone Ranger while
discussing chocolate bars and cartoons. Now </span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">someone’s put it over to
Neighbours. Will write a postcard to Ma, then phone Neil.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">WEDNESDAY MARCH 21, 1990<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">11.35am<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We’re now in Rotherham at Russell Street, the home of Stu
(who’s coming to Edinburgh) and Jo (his girlfriend – who might be). Just washed
my hair, a Cure video is on and Andy is washing his shirt so I can wear it to
the gigs instead of my smelly white one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Last night’s gig was about 50 times better than the first. We
went to the box office at around 7 to see if they had any Block A, B or C. They
said they’d have returns at 7.30 and we were first in the queue. When they
came, she made certain we got first pick, which was good. By the way, we’d had
an experience on the way to the Arena with a junkie. He stopped us (doing cold
turkey) to offer us ONE Block B, Row C – third row, slap bang in the middle –
first at £50 then easily down to £30!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We all gaped at each other, totally gobsmacked. Then Andy got
his money out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">It’s kind of hard to describe how I felt. Pleased for him and
gutted for myself at the same time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Anyway. At the box office the rest of us got the back of Block
C. Paid £25 each. Not too bad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Me and Karen found our seats. The first three rows or so
and others were already gathered at the stage. After </span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">pretending to mingle, I
got in a gap quickly and hid! Being down the front was totally different. It’s
what gigs are all about. I got squashed up against the first seat of Row A and
kind of started half climbing into it. Kneeling on it, I was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">A silly cow told me to move all the way along so she and her
buddies could get on. After coming to blows (ie she shoved me and I landed on
the little French girl’s bag) I made her go in front. She then had fisticuffs
with the French girls/boy. I spent the next few songs then with a wonderful
view, kneeling on Seat 3, Row A, Block B!!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">In the interval, loads of people cleared out so I was standing
(with two really nice girls I met right at the start – one with a really long
plait) with only two people in front. Heidi was on the barrier close by and
Steve and Nicky had about Row 6 (I went and said ‘hi’ after the gig).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">It was a bloody marvellous shit-kicking stupendous gig. “We were
well bastard close” – quote Andy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">During ‘Alabama Song’, Bowie RAN from the back of the stage,
dived onto his knees, slid ALL the way down the catwalk, grabbed someone
(Michelle) and kissed them!! Of course his arms were grabbed, he’d probably not
thought about it beforehand, and he looked pretty stunned after for a sec.
Didn’t actually see the kiss, but Andy did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">‘Young Americans’ was totally bloody brilliant, the ‘legs’
[screen projection] on ‘Space Oddity’ totally killed me again. ‘Fame’ was
awesome.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">It was really getting down by the time I got off the chair.
There was a group of three or so of us where it was REALLY cooking. We had room
to dance around which makes a change. That’s 'cause the majority of the audience
were in seats. Bloody good, it was. Sheer joy!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">THURSDAY MARCH 22, 1990<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">10.45am<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Weds morning I had a good wash, including my hair, and then we
all (Andy, Me, Lee and Jo) spent from around 1pm to 6pm in the pub. I had
around six Southern Comforts and just felt a bit knackered. Later, we went back
to No 73 and Stuart was back. Once again, when Stu and Jo had had their tea, we
(except Jo) all went to a different pub. It was quite good there. I put all
five of the DB tracks on the jukebox.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Liked Stu. He’s an artist/designer (left handed) and altogether
an OK bloke. When we got back he sketched me. Bloody good. Really flattering,
they were, but he wasn’t too pleased with them, being a bit pissed and all. Lee
and Andy crashed and started snoring, so I got the two huge cushions and the
duvet! After a coffee, I went to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Around 7am Andy woke up, so I offered him half the duvet. He
still had to sleep on the floor though.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Eventually, we all came to life around 10am when Stu went off to
work. I’ve changed into my borrowed shirt and washed my hair again. Andy is
doing his review of the gigs for the paper he works for in Wales, Jo is filling
in Housing Benefit forms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We’re heading for Edinburgh around lunchtime when Stu gets in.
That means we’ll be there around 24 hours before the gig in case a bit of
serious queuing is necessary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">FRIDAY MARCH 23, 1990.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">2.15pm<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Mucked about watching TV and stuff, then decided to go into town
for some various articles. Shampoo etc. Andy phoned work with the finished
review. It looks as though my name’ll be in it as he’s bunged a “quote” of mine
in there. Fame at last.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">I called Darren fairly briefly.Burgess Hill and Haywards Heath
are being predictably and depressingly boring. Nice to talk to Darren. Suddenly
remembered Daryl’s birthday and Sarah and Daryl’s anniversary. Oops. Will send
cards on Friday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We had a nifty little lunch at ‘Robert’s’ café. Very nice. Then
hit C&A and me and Andy got a load of new togs for the gigs. Loud shirts.
And I got some socks and a dead pretty frock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We got back to the house (worth £12,000 incidentally) at about
5.30pm, and set off at 6pm. Jo and Stu went separately cause it was a bit
squashed. Had a couple of coffees on the way. Around 11.40pm we were in
Edinburgh. Couldn’t believe it had been a six hour journey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We then left Stu and Jo to it and found the Highland Exhibition
Centre. Nobody there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Now we’re back in the car park by the service station, freezing
to death and playing I-Spy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">FRIDAY MARCH 23, 1990<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">12.15pm<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Service station. Sort of slept from 2.30am to 5am. Woke up
totally freezing and had to go in the shop place for coffee rather than
continue trying to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Went back to the venue. Possibly spotted Michelle but not
a lot else. We stayed in the car a couple of hours, waiting for Stu and Jo and
sort of trying to sleep. Feeling a bit roughed up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Now we’re all in service station writing postcards and Daryl’s
birthday card and anniversary card. Then went to Asda and bought a bunch of ten
pretty pink roses and a bottle of something called Thunderbird and three Crème
Eggs. Then we went to the Post Office to post postcards etc.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Andy decided to give a girl in the street one of the roses. She
was not impressed!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">SUNDAY MARCH 25, 1990<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">6.20pm. ON TRAIN.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Eventually got to the gig very lazily late. We’d been drinking
this stuff and were fairly merry. Edinburgh was still freezing cold. Andy
wandered down to find Sharon and Steve. They were there. We got chatting… and
were in there. It’s fair enough, because we’d arrived last night before anyone!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">It must’ve been gone 3pm and we asked around to find that the
front was there around 1pm or 12pm. Decided to get a B&B for all five of us
for the night to make up for no sleep last night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">It was great to get together with Steve and Sharon. They’re
really nice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We took in a couple roses each, me and Andy, and were up against
the barrier without much problem – next to Steve and Sharon. The gig was the
best ever. NO screen, the sound was perfect and HE was immaculate (me and Shaz
decided he looks 28!).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">But the thing that made it a gig to beat all gigs was ‘Pretty
Pink Rose’. I managed to save just one by keeping it out of harm’s way over the
barrier. When it became imminent that ‘Pretty Pink Rose’ was going to be
announced I gave the rose to Andy (who was nearer and undoubtedly a better
shot) and said “chuck it quick”, or words to that effect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">He did a bloody marvellous shot! Unreal! It landed at Bowie’s
feet and shot across the stage towards him. He grinned and laughed and smiled
and picked it up, then showed it to Adrian as if to say “I’m dead chuffed,
aren’t you? They like our song!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Then he looked to Michelle and gestured/mimed “was this you?” So
me and Andy freaked out even more and he yelled “No! It was us, you bugger!”
Ahem!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Bowie, still grinning, waved and smiled and, you know,
recognised us, then announced the song and swiftly put the half-wilted pretty
pink rose into his buttonhole!! No shit!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">He was grinning and happy throughout the song and we kept
getting looks and recognition for the rest of the gig!! We were/are well
chuffed!! Gobsmacked!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Unreal. I’ll never forget that. Steve took several pics, so
here’s hoping some come out. The audience’s singing on ‘Ashes To Ashes’ (the
end of it) was perfect. Pitch, timing, everything. ‘Life On Mars?’ again… and
‘Rock’n’Roll Suicide’ – one of the best live songs I’ve ever heard. Some great
audience participation. The Scots crowds are definitely more enthusiastic.
London, seated, will be hell after this. But we’ll get down there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">The greatest gig of all. Shaz couldn’t believe it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">After waiting ages to get out of the car park (we were boxed in
and freezing) whilst discussing what an awesome experience it had all been, we
booked into our expensive but worth every penny (£12.50 each) guesthouse. Then
the ‘lads’ decided (or, rather, Andy and Lee did) to go for a piss up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Me and Sharon were pissed off at this as it was unbelievably
cold. So after dropping them off we took the taxi back to the guesthouse. We
kept one set of keys – they had the other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">The key we had let us into Steve and Shaz’s room with a double
and a single. There was coffee and a bathroom and beds! It was so warm!! We
made a drink, then Shaz got into the big bed and me in the little. We talked
about Bowie and the gig for a few minutes then were out cold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">An hour later, at 2,10am, we heard a knock. The others were
back. Steve came in to go to bed. I offered to go and get in my own but he said
don’t be silly. I figured I would, anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Lee and Andy were in two of the singles so I got in the other.
It was even cosier than the other one I’d had. Slept until the AM, when Andy’s
snoring deafened me into a state of consciousness at 7.30am.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">All had a good wash and yummy brekky. Chatted to the landlady
and Shaz did me a French plait. Then we headed for the gig [second night in the
same venue].<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">There was hardly anyone there! Three French, Michelle and Paul,
a couple of skinheads. We were dead cert front row and having a good laugh
together, too. God, it was so COLD though. We played Word Association – me,
Andy and Ste – which was pretty successful. Not so many adjectives creeping in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">With a bottle of wine and a couple of cigs (this is something
that started yesterday whilst in a similar state of inebriation) which Shaz and
I had a bit of trouble lighting, we had a heck of a good time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">The guys went to the airport for food, so we got the sleeping
bag and the binliners (and the bottle of vino) and didn’t do too badly. When a
blizzard started up we pissed ourselves laughing – if you’ll excuse the
expression!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">The gig was good but didn’t blow Friday’s away at all. Being
where I was meant that wigging out was the done thing. The audience singing was
good again, still had the sticker on his shoe, the bass sound was wonderful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Someone threw a blow-up spider and he laughed his socks off and
kicked it back a couple of times. Same with a balloon. He was really taken with
this blinking great spider, though!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Of course, a rose was thrown on. But it wasn’t us – and he
totally ignored it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">The five of us set off after that. After checking the station at
Edinburgh, it was decided Lee could drop Ste and Shaz at their house in
Warrington.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Had fish and chips in Edinburgh, along with at least one pint of
milk each. Then we drove until we reached their house at 6.30 in the AM. Sleep
wasn’t really on. Although we were warm in the back with the sleeping bag it
was too squashed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">We stayed at Ste and Shaz’s until lunchtime watching their
amazing video collection and listening to their amazing CD collection and
looking at the amazing photos. We drank tea and talked. Then around 1pm we set
off for Birmingham. Said goodbye and thanks to Lee (owe £12), And me and Andy
caught a 125 to London Victoria around 3.30pm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">PS: At the end of the Saturday Edinburgh gig, ‘Rock’n’Roll
Suicide’ was left off. The crowd kind of started to sing it but it faded out
unfortunately. It would’ve been brilliant!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Caught my train to Haywards Heath at 6.17pm. Got a taxi to pick
up Ma’s present and card from the flat, then to Ma’s. Sarah, Daryl and
Sebastian were there. And I got to look after the baby (the cutest little
thing) while they had dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Sarah’s hair has grown. She’s heard ‘Under The God’ on the radio
and thinks it’s wonderful – wants to borrow the album! Bloody hell. I offered
her videos and concert tapes too, but she said the album’s alright for now…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">MONDAY MARCH 26, 1990<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">12.25pm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Lunchtime. Gatwick airport. Met Andy (no Mike) at 2.45pm. Mike
was with Bev and Steve from Chatham. It was cold so we polished off a bottle of
Thunderbird and went to a café for lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Eventually, made our way to the Arena. We decided to sit at our
places. Karen was quite near the front but up the side. We were way back but
had a great view of the whole stage. A few ‘Let’s Dance Casualties’ were around
us but we played it totally cool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">‘Pretty Pink Rose’ was a highlight. None of the others knew it
at all. We at least had the chorus! Tried to learn the rest a bit at a time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Enjoyed sitting back and casually watching for a change. A
different way of doing things. Met Michelle and Paul after. She explained how
she got to the front. We need front block tickets first.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-77329953731347952182015-01-12T22:33:00.002-08:002015-01-12T22:58:21.453-08:00Tobacco RoadVinyl is magic, vinyl is powerful. It has voodoo and mojo. And it always has done.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Would you like to know an interesting fact about records? Their weight doesn't matter. The number of grams is unimportant. The information on the sticker on the cover of your expensive virgin vinyl repress is hokum. Old singles from the 1960s and 1970s are frequently wafer-thin, yet the voodoo and mojo always find a way to wriggle in there somehow. There they rest at ease, like a man tucked up in bed. It doesn't matter if that bed is a single or double, queen or king size, feather, spring or water - the man in the bed is always a man.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
OK. So that's a made-up fact. But here is a truth: whenever records are referred to as 'vinyls' a kitten cries. Those aren't 'vinyls' hiding away up in your loft. They're records. And those aren't CDs in your house. They're just shit.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I like records. A little too much, perhaps, but such is life. One time, while auditioning a succession of Hollies b-sides, I came to the conclusion that there are no bad records from the 1960s. They are ALL good.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This ridiculous sweeping generalisation still holds water for me. Moreover, like many an unquashed fruitloop theory, it has suckled oxygen from my brain and been granted the space it needs to expand a little. All the way up to perhaps 1972 or 1973. So today I can confidently report that all records manufactured before 1973 are good. Put it to the test if you want. This very weekend.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Go to a car boot sale. Look for records. Of course, you will find 'Dirty Dancing' soundtrack LPs. And a few Roland Rat singles. One or two things by Snap. But keep on digging. Dig on. Eventually you will find some single or LP that you won't have already heard (if you're REALLY lucky, you won't even have heard OF it). Look at the date on the label or back cover and apply our acid test: is it from 1973 or earlier? Yes? Pay the woman her 20p and take it home (Another, similar, golden rule: is the record from 1977 or later? Does the band have the letter 'X' in its name? Yes? Pay the woman her 20p and take it home).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Play the record. Listen to the drums. Hopefully it has guitars on it? Listen to them, too. Notice anything?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Drums and guitars sounded better, so emphatically richer, in the 1960s and 1970s. Listen to tubs being thumped in 1970 or 1971 and you will quickly pick up that explosive, organic quality. It's a 'thing'. It's difficult to define but it's simplicity itself to identify. And it's got nothing to do with the analogue vs digital argument. That particular discourse is hifi-store commission-based.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No. There is a tangible warmth to the records of the 1960s and 1970s, even when the music concerned is at its iciest. The Poets' 'Now We're Thru' is a great example of this. It's cold fire that rests shoulder to shoulder with the voodoo and mojo in those grooves.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I say 'warmth' but do I really mean 'colour'? Should it not surprise anybody that purple wallpaper went particularly well alongside orange gloss skirting boards in 1971, yet iWhite is the depressingly unadventurous consumer choice of today? And did this peacock aesthetic make it to the magick of the records which soundtracked those times? Think back to the mid 1960s. Can you 'hear' Brian Jones' lime green ruffled shirt in 'Off The Hook'? Or is that just glaring synesthesian propoganda? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Did I hear somebody at the back say something? Something along the lines of "But Bard, the brightness of colour and sound are a symbiotic response to the greyness and gloom of post-war austerity - a cultural manifestation borne of the still-adolescent developmental progress of the nascent consumerist western teenager"?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't think I did. Which is great news, because I personally favour a more scientific explanation for the way 'Tobacco Road', as covered by Eric Burdon and War for the German 'Beat Club' programme in 1970, looks and sounds so brilliant. I think the key to all this is molecular: we breathe subtly different air and resist microscopically different gravitational pressures today. Our senses and nerve endings are bruised and battered by the atmospheric intensity of the 21st century. Which is why a shitty white phone and shitty white bands playing shitty music is about as much as anybody can stand.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Whereas the rarefied chemical consistency of 1970 was screaming out for all the colour, texture and musical stimulation that Eric Burdon and War could possibly throw at our brand new colour TVs.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Modern life is rubbish. But I am encouraged at how mighty this clip looks and sounds right now, at 6.31am on a Tuesday in a January. Maybe the future will be bright, after all. Maybe it's time to dream again. Perhaps the appetite for orange is coming back.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-37376479480246259972014-11-18T16:54:00.000-08:002014-11-18T16:54:18.339-08:00My Rites Of SpringBefore I could be corrupted by booze, fags, girls and Southern Death Cult, this young man's mind was focused on stargazing.<br />
<br />
By 14, I had a telescope, could find my way around the constellations courtesy of the 'Observer Book of the Sky at Night', and had signed up for membership of the British Astronomical Association. The pink card covers of their periodicals hid pages of head-numbing digits relating to lunar phases and the circulation of Jupiter's satellites. No pictures. Just data.<br />
<br />
Night after night, west country weather permitting, I would peer through my little refractor at Jupiter from the patio outside my parents' house and attempt to replicate the delicate belts and spots of that planet through pencil shadings on paper templates handed out by Jim Muirden of the Exeter Astronomical Society.<br />
<br />
This was a fun group of astronerds, of which I was pretty much the youngest member. I lapped up anything and everything they had going - pub meets, observing outings, coach journeys to places of vague tourist relevance to the heavens.<br />
<br />
One weekend in maybe 1979 or 1980, we all schlepped down to Torquay for a meeting of our regional parent group, the Devon Astronomical Association. Eminent faces from the local astronomical scene were all there. And I have since forgotten all of their names.<br />
<br />
One of the most eminent was sat right in front of me during the keynote speech of the seminar. Like I say, his name has slipped my mind - possibly forever. But I will never forget the visiting guest speakers or what they had to say.<br />
<br />
Sir Fred Hoyle and Professor Chandra Wickramasinghe were co-architects of an extraordinarily volatile theory of the evolution of life - that viruses and biological compounds originated from space and were transported about the great vastness by comets. The intimation was that this is how life might have kicked off here on earth.<br />
<br />
The eminent local astronomer seated in front of me was apoplectic over these new theories. And he wasn't alone. Outrageous claims were being made. Borderline science fiction was being peddled. And nobody wanted that. Science FACTS, if you please, mister speakers.<br />
<br />
The eminent local astronomer let out a snort, then another. He had decided that his contempt for the subject matter would be heard. There followed a 'pah!' of disbelief. Some light laughter rippled about the hall. As the two scientists continued to expand on their extraordinary suggestions, murmurs spread around neighbouring seats as amateur astronuts took the debate off the stage and into the ears of their colleagues. It got noisy. A Q&A session which followed got a little heated. The overall mood, you could say, was 'incredulous'.<br />
<br />
For some fortuitous reason, I had my brother's portable cassette recorder with me, as well as an external mic. I recorded the whole speech, but the tape was peppered with rough sonic explosions from the angry stargazer in front of me, such was the violence with which he threw his unbeliever arms above or behind his head at every uniquely preposterous suggestion emerging from the stage.<br />
<br />
I hope I still have that tape in a box somewhere. Looking back, this was my "Rites of Spring" moment. Just as Stravinsky had a hard time putting his ballet out there, so Professor Wickramasinghe and Sir Fred Hoyle had a nightmare propagating their theories of panspermia (Wiki it, people) to the amateur scientific community.<br />
<br />
Writing 11 years ago, Prof Wickramasinghe described the atmosphere quite succinctly: <span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">"In the highly polarised polemic between Darwinism and creationism, our position is unique. Although we do not align ourselves with either side, both sides treat us as opponents. Thus we are outsiders with an unusual perspective - and our suggestion for a way out of the crisis has not yet been considered".</span><br />
<br />
This week, of course, the Philae probe has landed on a comet. Amazing. Oh, and did you see the news today? There are organic molecules there.<br />
<br />
I see this as a win for science. But, even more exciting, it's a win for the mavericks who dared to think outside the box. Sir Fred Hoyle died in 2001, aged 86.Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-77241547887207710212014-07-31T01:33:00.003-07:002014-07-31T04:10:54.853-07:00Remembering Jon Fat Beast<div class="MsoNormal">
Smalltown England: 1982. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a crime to want something
else. It’s a crime to believe in something different. It’s a crime to want to
make things happen. Somebody should write a song about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was 18 or thereabouts when I got to know Jon Driscoll. He
was more or less the same age, a few months older, and like all teenagers we
were each racing to find our voice in the world. I was the new lamb at the
local weekly newspaper, having freshly failed all the A-Levels that Exeter
College could throw at me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My life had quickly locked into a circuit of unedifying wordsmithery:
a low-rent production line of wedding photo captions, pensioners-pointing-at-potholes
and ticker-tape homecomings for local Falkland War “heroes”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jon, on the other
hand, was getting stuck into something much more righteous – his fanzine, ‘Beast’,
was badly printed, badly drawn and barely legible, but an intensely satisfying read.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Its pages (the ones which hadn't worked loose from cheap
staples and become lost forever) were messily crammed with local gossip, worthy
political rhetoric and stupid cartoon strips like ‘Mr Rubbish’. Death Cult
and King Kurt gig reports were common, as were features on local heroes Cult
Maniax, DV8 and Toxic Waste. There was information about and for local
squatters. The ‘Diary of a Doley’ column was ascerbic fun for early eighties
readers. Come 2014, it’s matured into valuable social history.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Beast’ was very sweet. Looking back on the few copies I
have somehow managed to hoard over the decades, it’s the little things which make
me smile my toothiest grins. Things like Jon’s advice on which local grocery shops sell the
cheapest carrots.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was drawn to the zine and to its creator. Jon and I would see a lot of each other at Timepiece, the local alternative (we didn’t have
words like ‘indie’ or ‘goth’ back then) nightspot. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We would be at the same
gigs, too. A great deal of these were promoted by Jon. And a fair few would include topless compere
duties or a poetry set from him. Some of his verse was serious stuff. And a lot of it was about
being fat. Take his “I Am Fat” song, for example:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I am a flabby bugger, I weigh too bloody much.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I bend over, my feet I cannot touch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I overfill the train and overload the bus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And when I sit in armchairs, they usually bust.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or something like that…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We liked each other, I think. It’s hard to tell when you’re
18. I sense that I could be pretty childish and irritating back then, a trait which
Jon delicately tried to address with his poem “Andy Barding Why Don’t You Fuck Off And
Die?” It was debuted at a packed Exeter University Pit in 1984 (I was there, fixed of smile and red of face in the shadows). And then it came out in print. Thanks, Jon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thick-skinned (and arrogant) as I was, I clung ever closer to
the guy. I wrote a few bits for the fanzine, I became a regularish visitor to
his slightly smelly first floor flat in Pennsylvania (it’s a part of Exeter). And I
helped (or maybe hindered) production of ‘Beast’ by taking a turn at cranking
the stiff handle of the strange wet-ink duplicator which sat on a plinth in Jon’s
hallway. I have vague memories of my dad providing this machine, a cast-off from Devon County FA newsletter production. Or maybe dad just donated some ink or something. Maybe it was neither. My memory is vague.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jon had a huge colour TV, no light in his lounge, and always enough
cider to go around. My favourite memory of him (and one of my favourite memories from my youth
as a whole) is of the two of us prowling the night streets of Exeter for hours in our seriously altered
state, exploring craggy moss-covered walls, railway sidings and streets full
of parked cars and drunkards. We were young, inquisitive and so very hungry for the adventures of life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As years rolled on we gradually lost contact. Then one new day of a new career in a new town, I bought ’30 Something’
by Carter USM on a lunch break. I saw Jon's chubby chops dominate the inside gatefold picture and rang up the record
company. They put me in touch with someone or other and I soon found myself on
a train to Cheltenham, destined for a Carter USM gig and a smiley reunion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We lost contact again. But then I saw him at Phoenix Festival for another smiley reunion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We lost contact again. Then a mysterious message came
through my Facebook page from an octogenarian woman from Worksop called Haley. “Pssst… it’s me,
Jon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We chatted a lot through that medium. And through Facebook posts we slipped back into the cheeky way of communicating with each other that had been a staple of our 18-year-old selves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We tried to fix a meet-up a
couple of times, but Jon's ill-health thwarted those plans. Occasionally our chat
windows would blaze with sincerity overload as we reminisced about this, that or the other. One late night, with Jack Daniels and coke in
particularly bountiful supply at my end, I found myself on the receiving end of a compliment that lifted me so high I will never be able to forget it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re my inspiration, you know.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fuck off, Jon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You are. I blame you for everything.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rest in peace you fat, glorious bastard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-11294958338023492212014-07-14T09:42:00.003-07:002014-07-14T09:52:23.236-07:00Is it time for a riot, girls?<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in the olden days scraps at gigs were commonplace.
Casuals would kick off, cause trouble, goad the ‘sweaties’ into fights. I never
got hurt, especially, which explains how I am able to reminisce over such violent
scenes from my youth with a contented sigh and a rosy tint to my cracked
spectacles. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I recall Kirk Brandon halting an early Spear of Destiny set
mid-song to call somebody a ‘wanker’. I remember
Ian Astbury imploring a terrified audience to get stuck in with the mightily violent-looking
half-stripped chicken dancers occupying (and vehemently defending) the Southern Death Cult mosh pit
– THEIR mosh pit. And relatively recently I was part of a scattering crowd
who had a guitar targeted and lobbed our way, like some kind of six-string spear, by Noble from British Sea Power.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Violence is not a good thing, of course. It’s ugly and sad and
I’m not here to endorse it in any way. But the atmosphere at gigs has since
turned so far the other way that it almost seems as if a teeny weeny ruck might
not be a bad thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ticket prices, secondary ticket prices, ill-conceived
sponsorship deals and an unrealistic sense of artistic value have all led to
live music’s downfall. It’s exactly why Arcade Fire are shit these days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Music should not be about £60-plus tickets. Gigs should not
feel like a swift after-work half with mates from CitiBank. Live music should
be edgy, weird and open to anything – there should be potential to turn good or
bad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But look at those recent Hyde Park gigs! Shit sound, shit
organisation, terrible line-ups in the main, and all stupidly overpriced. There
were premium tickets available to allow rich wankers and their wanky mates to
SIT DOWN for Neil Young. There’s a grandstand built for them. Like it’s
Goodwood or Aintree. Volunteers were wandering around in t-shirts saying “Ask
me about getting a better view.” That’s a mountain of wrong, right there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Barclaycard are one of these companies that should not be
allowed to interfere in music. But, ironically, their inability to sell enough tickets
could very easily have sparked some kind of glorious revolution. I think it
came close.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Faced with a LOT of unsold tickets for their week of Hyde
Park gigs, they did the decent thing and faked a clerical error – one which put
a shitload of tickets on sale for £2.50 a pop. Their face was saved by internet
rumours (good work, Barclaycard interns!) that these were ‘family and friend
guest tickets’ that leaked onto the marketplace by accident. But, rest assured,
they would all be honoured.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
ALL BOLLOCKS. Of course.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, word spread quickly (hey, well done again interns!)
and the gigs were soon more or less sold out – and all without upsetting those
idiots who had already spunked £60 to see McBusted or the Liber-fucking-tines.
Win!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was a good thing. But what a pity that these Poundland
tickets didn’t fall into the hands of some proper scumbags, eh? Things would have
been very different with a few thousand pissed up bad boys and girls, lobbing
Strongbow cans at Pimms-sipping picknickers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A less polite crowd, indeed, might have seen Arcade Fire
come onstage with their weak papier mache heads intro scene and call them directly
to task for it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oi! Arcade Fire! What the FUCK are you doing?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These parks and fields were once warzones. I’ve seen piss
bottles lobbed at Daphne and Celeste, at Fifty Cent and at Bonnie Tyler. Those
were the days, my friends. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK, so, let’s not go that far. Piss is bad for the hair. But
Barclaycard in their ineptitude at least managed to underline the notion that
£2.50 is quite enough to pay for a big concert ticket. And it really is, you
know. Production costs are only high when they are permitted to get that way.
It doesn’t cost THAT much to keep a band on the road, it really doesn’t. There
is NO reason, no reason AT ALL, why the Stones cannot play for a tenner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope this turns out to be the start of something. I hope
all those people who paid £60 for their Hyde Park tickets get to hear about the
£2.50 offer and revolt. I hope more people reject the ludicrous prices being
asked of them. High ticket pricing and secondary ticket pricing are strangling
music. Sponsorship is strangling music. Cosseted bands are killing music. Something
better change.<o:p></o:p></div>
Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-550476046435189202014-01-25T19:26:00.002-08:002014-01-25T19:39:32.970-08:00How To Drink Booze In Cardiff<div class="MsoNormal">
Once upon a time I was a newspaper journalist, living and
working in Cardiff. Sometimes, after finishing work for the day, I would call
in at one of the city centre pubs for a quick drink. Rather a lot of my
colleagues were of the same disposition, so we went out together fairly
frequently. And every now and then, generally just before a weekend, we would get
a gang together, hit the town, and drink a LOT.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had an established late-night routine which suited such long,
boozy sessions well. It would always begin
with an animated trawl around the city centre pubs. More than just a few ports
of call, naturally. Pints would be sunk, shop would be talked, jokes would be
cracked and, like bitches, we would sometimes tear apart the characters of absent
colleagues.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Come the dreaded bell (always at 11pm sharp in those days) a
call would come from within the party to adjourn to a bar we knew called Kiwi’s.
This would be roundly hailed as a BRILLIANT IDEA, if not an especially progressive
one. Kiwi’s was our de facto post-pub destination. A no-brainer. And so our small
pack of pisshead hacks would rise as one and stagger across St Mary’s Street to
extend the night’s revelry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kiwi’s harboured many attractive features. Crucially it
remained open until very, very late. It was also very handy for hooking us journos
up with more of our kith and kin. As various late editions of our daily newspaper
were painstakingly put to bed back at our offices, Thompson House, so the tired
and thirsty subs and print-room boys would knock off, grab their coats and make
for Kiwi’s. A chilled first pint of the night would reward their short, sober
walk. And we hacks, already on our tenth or eleventh jars, would be waiting for
them with beery grins and a cluster of tables and barstools which we had commandeered
for the benefit of all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our relationship with Kiwi’s was strong. They wanted our
money: we wanted their booze. So we flashed our press cards a bit, jumped the odd
queue, swerved the weekend door tax and generally lorded it about a bit in
there. This narrow bar, wedged inauspiciously between rinky dinky jewellery
stores and fashion boutiques in what was by day a well-to-do shopping arcade,
was our press bar of choice - and we made full use of it. We Western Mail-ers
were on permanent nodding terms with the doormen, bar staff and guv’nor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile
an actual press bar, called ‘Press Bar’ and sited directly opposite the front doors of our
place of work, remained entirely unpatronised.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nobody ever left Kiwi’s early. Or so it seemed. Perhaps we
collectively considered it ungracious, in some way, to consider jogging on
before the staff decided among themselves that it was high time we were booted
out. So we stayed on course, drinking and chattering through most of the wee hours.
Every now and then, one or two of us might have ventured up the narrow wooden staircase
to the small dancefloor upstairs. But this was rare. The music was generally awful.
And there was no bar up there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Closing time was always late – but it still came, every
night, nonetheless. When it did, we would allow ourselves to be ushered out quietly
and quickly. We knew and accepted Kiwi’s rules. Then, still sheltered under the
arcade’s glass and iron canopy, honourable drunken goodbyes would be said to
those parties heeding distant calls from warm beds. Off they would trot, gradually,
to their suburban Cardiff digs… more than likely picking up a bag of greasy
chips or a kebab on their way to the cab rank.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, let’s back up. Consider our friends from the nightshift.
They started late: they have drunk less booze. They are more than likely gagging
for yet more pints. But can this desire of theirs be accommodated? Thankfully,
yes. It can.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Only a few minutes’ walk from Kiwi’s, in Charles Street, the
super-late drinker’s salvation lurks underground. Very few passers-by suspect
any late-night/early morning activity beyond the dozen or so wrought iron gates
which punctuate this road. But the
experienced eye of the Western Mail nightshifter
knows which one to swing quietly open, which concrete basement steps to quickly
trot down, and which of Charles Street’s anonymous front doors to gently rap
on. Behind that door is a secret
all-night bistro. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s food, gentle Spanish music and, most importantly of
all, a fully-stocked bar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just like Kiwi’s, this joint knows its newspaper clientele
very well. A barmaid serves drinks, with no sign of ever planning to stop, while
the sun outside slowly gains height. And it’s here that the nightshifter will stay,
until he himself decides it’s about time to re-emerge, blinking through the
cruel daylight and barging past confused city centre shoppers, to head for his home
and a few hours sleep behind thick curtains.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it surely doesn’t need saying? Any dayshift journos who
find themselves still up and at it, happy to keep their nocturnal colleagues
company through this final stage… well? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They will of course, by this time, be very, very pissed
indeed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bard<o:p></o:p></div>
Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-74902599885697780452014-01-16T17:20:00.003-08:002014-01-16T17:23:29.437-08:00Not sleeping yet.<br />
THE DEAD do pretty nicely out of us, the living. We forgive them all mortal transgressions (no matter how irritating they might have been while alive). We would rather focus on treasured memories of earthly goodness. We do what we can to keep their spirits and names alive through misty-eyed remembrance. And we frequently concede that our fondly-related anecdotes, fine and remarkable stories that they are, benefit from the subtle little tweaks in dialogue and circumstance that we bestow upon them. We are proud to be fine ambassadors for our absent friends. Our dearly departed.<br />
<br />
We do this because we love them and we miss them. And because we respect and pity them. But there's a little something else in there, too. We're a little worried. We don't understand death, you see. And we cannot be 100 per cent sure that the dead aren't still, you know, here.<br />
<br />
That fanciful feeling, probably propagated a little too successfully by religion, that death is followed by something approaching omnipotent immortality, is both appealing and slightly worrying to us mortals. Do we want to be watched over by our dead friends and relatives for the rest of our lives? Is that a beautiful and angelic thing to happen? Possibly not.<br />
<br />
A better notion is that of the temporary guest pass. Something that allows the dead to swoop back into the mortal world to maybe say some goodbyes or exert some kind of supernatural influence to universal benefit. That would be a cool thing. And I think it might happen.<br />
<br />
My flight of fancy is this: when people die, they re-integrate with the universe. For a short while they are able to exert some kind of influence on the world they have left behind. The dead have superpowers. For a little while, at least.<br />
<br />
Here are some anecdotes that will mean nothing to you:<br />
<br />
1) My father sent his old car to his funeral.<br />
2) Liz sent a butterfly to her funeral.<br />
3) Ali sent a rainbow to her funeral.<br />
<br />
Maybe the transition from life to death is a lot more like going to sleep than we realise. Maybe, when we die, we get a little bonus time to swoop around and do something a little crazy with the world before we are led away from it forever.<br />
<br />
We all have to sleep sometime, but before the lights go out. You know. Maybe leave your mark somehow.<br />
<br />
I like the idea of a last hurrah. So does E out of Eels. Here's a verse from one of his songs.<br />
<br />
"You're dead but the world keeps spinning<br />
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
Take a spin through the world you left</div>
<div>
It's getting dark a little too early</div>
<div>
Are you missing the dearly bereft?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Eels 'Last Stop: This Town'.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491748347372224498.post-30083107338806443152012-05-31T12:55:00.004-07:002012-05-31T12:55:58.186-07:00The Jubilee Flotilla<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s like. Wait. Um.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All I know is I feel like I need to write all this down. And
I know I’m not actually writing it down. But when I think about writing it
down, it feels like I’m writing it down. Even though I’m not. Not writing it
down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think I am tilted towards the ground, at an angle, like a syringe
or a skydiver. It’s all grey, or all white. Hardly a second has passed. Or
maybe a year has passed? A year seems more likely. It’s hard to tell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My hands are stretched in front but I don’t see them. I don’t
see any of me. I remember them, so I see their memory – through the
grey/white... what is this? Air?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel the memory of my hands and feet and my eyes looking
around me. I remember the hot air smashing them, smashing my eyeballs, and the
reddish-grey juice splashing all about, pouring and pouring towards me, like a
Mexican wave of silent wetness carried on a current of... is that flame? Yeah,
flames all over the river.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was hot. It’s not hot any more, but I feel the memory of
it getting hot. In 1989 I was within ducking distance of an IRA bomb. I have
always remembered how the air was bent out of shape, the noise was interwoven
with the silence, the blast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel the memory of something like that again. I feel like my
legs and stomach were punched clear of the South Bank, high into the London sky.
I smell my hair burning, I feel the memory of a pair of teenagers bursting against
the river wall like cheap market fruit. I lost my shoes and... what else?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I flew, a little, then I was quiet and in this grey/white.
For a second? A year? I don’t know. I just know that I feel like I should write
this down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I feel like this, I see more of the scene. Or I see the
memory of the scene, as it must have played out. Although it feels like perhaps
I wasn’t there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel like I remember a lot of noise, a lot of fear. There
was a large boat, some flags, the water boiled and four, no, five men smothered
the woman dressed in blue. I was flying through the air, smelling my hair,
seeing those teenagers and remembering my hands while one of the men roughly
slapped a face mask onto the woman, like a gas mask. The others pulled her to
the deck. One of them took flight, like me, but quickly stalled at about 30
feet and span in two pieces to the water. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the woman’s old face I could see her thoughts, or the
memory of her thoughts. I can see them now. Something was getting to her,
something from this scene. She was being rushed away from it all – and she knew
that was the right thing to do - but she also didn’t know if that was the right
thing at all. There was guilt and shame and pity in there, and I could see it
all. And I could see that she knew she would be pulled clear of all this and
most people would not. And I could feel the memory of it all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I felt like I should write it down. Because it might just
be useful, and the more I feel like I should write it down the more I think I
can remember things to write down. And I will remember it all, I will. But
first, I think, I should have a little sleep... just a little sleep.</div>Bardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11897711537506216716noreply@blogger.com0