Diary of a Gnomestalker - by Alison Hale

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. 

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.

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.

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. 

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...

SUNDAY MARCH 18, 1990.

9.50pm.

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).

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.

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…

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.

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.

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!

11pm.

Have moved upstairs where it’s darker and the seats are spongier. The TV was blaring but I found the cunningly concealed volume knob.

MONDAY MARCH 19, 1990

7.20am

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.

8.45am

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.

PS: He’s brought his own stage.

9.30am. 

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.

Nothing on the computer… went out the back… I was nearly sick…

He came back… YES! But only for cash or cheque. So we got ‘em for both nights!!!

Some recognisable people were behind us (we were first). We got talking and now we’re looking more like a Bowie mob.

12.05pm

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.

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!!

7.10pm

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.

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.

The three French people turned up, plus Michelle and Paul etc etc. 

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”.

Tickets were still on sale and the touts did absolutely no business. They’d only offer £10 to buy.

The shirts are OK. Embroidered logo for £30. Nice badge for £5. One t-shirt is wearable.

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.

9.20pm.

First half wonderful!!

1.15am

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)!

We’re kipping at exactly the same place but Andy and Mick are with us.

TUESDAY MARCH 20, 1990

9.10am

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.

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.

10.40am

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.

5.05pm

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.

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.

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.

As it turned out, the airport was serving fish and chips. At £4.10 it was a rip off, but better than toast.

I phoned Darren. He was really pleased. I love him and nearly said so. Spent a quid and a half on a phone card.

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?

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.

Unfortunately, C said Karen can’t stay. That’s going to be awkward telling her.

We’ve just watched (Andy, Karen and me) The Lone Ranger while discussing chocolate bars and cartoons. Now 

someone’s put it over to Neighbours. Will write a postcard to Ma, then phone Neil.

WEDNESDAY MARCH 21, 1990

11.35am

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.

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!

We all gaped at each other, totally gobsmacked. Then Andy got his money out.

It’s kind of hard to describe how I felt. Pleased for him and gutted for myself at the same time.

Anyway. At the box office the rest of us got the back of Block C. Paid £25 each. Not too bad.

Me and Karen found our seats.  The first three rows or so and others were already gathered at the stage. After 

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.

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!!

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).

It was a bloody marvellous shit-kicking stupendous gig. “We were well bastard close” – quote Andy.

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.

‘Young Americans’ was totally bloody brilliant, the ‘legs’ [screen projection] on ‘Space Oddity’ totally killed me again. ‘Fame’ was awesome.

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!

THURSDAY MARCH 22, 1990

10.45am

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.

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.

Around 7am Andy woke up, so I offered him half the duvet. He still had to sleep on the floor though.

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.

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.

FRIDAY MARCH 23, 1990.

2.15pm

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.

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.

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.

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.

We then left Stu and Jo to it and found the Highland Exhibition Centre. Nobody there.

Now we’re back in the car park by the service station, freezing to death and playing I-Spy.

FRIDAY MARCH 23, 1990

12.15pm

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.

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.

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.

Andy decided to give a girl in the street one of the roses. She was not impressed!

SUNDAY MARCH 25, 1990

6.20pm. ON TRAIN.

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!

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.

It was great to get together with Steve and Sharon. They’re really nice.

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!).

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.

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!”

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!!

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!!!

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!

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.

The greatest gig of all. Shaz couldn’t believe it!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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].

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.

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.

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!!

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.

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!!

Of course, a rose was thrown on. But it wasn’t us – and he totally ignored it!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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…

MONDAY MARCH 26, 1990

12.25pm.

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.

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.

‘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.

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.

Tobacco Road

Vinyl is magic, vinyl is powerful. It has voodoo and mojo. And it always has done.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

Play the record. Listen to the drums. Hopefully it has guitars on it? Listen to them, too. Notice anything?

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.

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.

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? 

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"?

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.

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.

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.

My Rites Of Spring

Before I could be corrupted by booze, fags, girls and Southern Death Cult, this young man's mind was focused on stargazing.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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'.

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.

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.

Writing 11 years ago, Prof Wickramasinghe described the atmosphere quite succinctly: "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".

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.

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.

Remembering Jon Fat Beast

Smalltown England: 1982. 

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.

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.

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”. 

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.

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.

‘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.

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. 

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:

“I am a flabby bugger, I weigh too bloody much.

When I bend over, my feet I cannot touch.

“I overfill the train and overload the bus.

“And when I sit in armchairs, they usually bust.”

Or something like that…

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.

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.

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.

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.

We lost contact again. But then I saw him at Phoenix Festival for another smiley reunion.

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.”

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.

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.

“You’re my inspiration, you know.”

“Fuck off, Jon.”

“You are. I blame you for everything.”

Rest in peace you fat, glorious bastard.

Is it time for a riot, girls?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

ALL BOLLOCKS. Of course.

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!

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.

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.

“Oi! Arcade Fire! What the FUCK are you doing?”

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.

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.

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.

How To Drink Booze In Cardiff

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

Meanwhile an actual press bar, called ‘Press Bar’ and sited directly opposite the front doors of our place of work, remained entirely unpatronised.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

There’s food, gentle Spanish music and, most importantly of all, a fully-stocked bar.

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.

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?

They will of course, by this time, be very, very pissed indeed.

Bard

Not sleeping yet.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Here are some anecdotes that will mean nothing to you:

1) My father sent his old car to his funeral.
2) Liz sent a butterfly to her funeral.
3) Ali sent a rainbow to her funeral.

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.

We all have to sleep sometime, but before the lights go out. You know. Maybe leave your mark somehow.

I like the idea of a last hurrah. So does E out of Eels. Here's a verse from one of his songs.

 "You're dead but the world keeps spinning

Take a spin through the world you left

It's getting dark a little too early

Are you missing the dearly bereft?"

Eels 'Last Stop: This Town'.