You don't have to fly especially high to become detached from humanity. Try climbing a tall building and looking down. A couple floors up, the once easily discernable facial features of your fellow humans will begin to blur. Their faces might turn into indiscriminate blobs. Climb the equivalent of another storey or two and you will no longer be able to hear their voices. From a very tall building, you might not pick out individual cars. The hum of the city might start to drift away.
When taking off in an airliner, the process is speeded up. Within seconds, the world will have fallen away to such a degree that you might have a job to identify even major landmarks and cityscapes. It will seem like you have entered another world - even though you know it is the same place.
From his capsule, Michael Collins would have been able to watch the lunar module descend to the surface of the moon. But Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin might just as easily have been a whole galaxy away. Similarly, the shimmering blue planet Earth must have borne scant relevance to the voices on the radio from Houston.
And the same must go for time. A distance of a few years might not make a whole load of difference to your worldview, but look back over a decade and see what happens. Consider a lifetime before your own and you're suddenly staring into an abyss - a great unknown, full of mystery and educated guesswork.
It would be wonderful to see through time. And, just as telescopes and microscopes allow us a peek into different spatial dimensions, maybe one day we will be able to do just that. In the meantime, all we can do is follow the vague treasure map that history has left us.
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Knee jerk
I have a terrible affliction. Sometimes my legs simply cease to function. When in the throes of an attack, the muscles may still be tensed but the limbs themselves are immovable dead weight. With superhuman effort, I can occasionally latch the palms of my hands onto the top of a knee, give it a good tug, and somehow swivel my body forward a foot or so. But apart from that, I am completely paralysed. I find myself welded to the spot, knees bent like an athlete at the starting blocks, unable to beat the gravity that ties me to my place. Try as I might, I cannot push forward.
It becomes particularly tough when I try to run. All the energy I expend in trying to make that first step seems to anchor me to the ground with even more force. My body is tensed and going nowhere. It's a nasty, debilitating condition that has afflicted me for years. And there is no cure.
It would be hugely depressing, except none of the above is true. Or to be more precise, none of this affects my waking life. But it happens a lot in my dreams - and has done over many years. It became so realistic that for a long time I was actually convinced that I had such a condition in my waking life. Rather than just being the stuff of dreams, I would go about my daily business convinced that at any random moment I could be stricken once more.
Last night I had another dream in which my legs refused to work. This time, however, I came prepared with the subconscious wisdom that this kind of thing only happens to me when I dream. A man came to my assistance as I lay immobile on soft, black tarmac near a junction, unable to walk to the pavement next to me. I was almost there - but needed his help to make that last physical step.
I said to my dream rescuer: "I used to think this kind of thing happened in real life, you know. Then I came to realise that it only happened in my dreams."
He looked at me quizzically and I thought about it a little more. "But now I can see that it DOES happen in real life too, right?"
He nodded his agreement and helped me limp to the path. Some time after that, I woke up. Confused.
It becomes particularly tough when I try to run. All the energy I expend in trying to make that first step seems to anchor me to the ground with even more force. My body is tensed and going nowhere. It's a nasty, debilitating condition that has afflicted me for years. And there is no cure.
It would be hugely depressing, except none of the above is true. Or to be more precise, none of this affects my waking life. But it happens a lot in my dreams - and has done over many years. It became so realistic that for a long time I was actually convinced that I had such a condition in my waking life. Rather than just being the stuff of dreams, I would go about my daily business convinced that at any random moment I could be stricken once more.
Last night I had another dream in which my legs refused to work. This time, however, I came prepared with the subconscious wisdom that this kind of thing only happens to me when I dream. A man came to my assistance as I lay immobile on soft, black tarmac near a junction, unable to walk to the pavement next to me. I was almost there - but needed his help to make that last physical step.
I said to my dream rescuer: "I used to think this kind of thing happened in real life, you know. Then I came to realise that it only happened in my dreams."
He looked at me quizzically and I thought about it a little more. "But now I can see that it DOES happen in real life too, right?"
He nodded his agreement and helped me limp to the path. Some time after that, I woke up. Confused.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Iggy's Bogies
I've always loved Iggy Pop. I don't think I could ever really trust anybody who doesn't. So when an opportunity rose to meet the man himself some 18 or 19 years ago, I took it.
Iggy was charming and warm. A little fella with a big heart. And though my meeting with him was brief, it was sweet and memorable. I had my photograph taken with him and I got him to sign my copy of his then-current LP, "Brick By Brick".
The picture from that meeting remains a great personal favourite. My friends Pete and Alison are in the snap, and Iggy has his arms draped over our shoulders. He is half scowling, half beaming in a fashion that is entirely his. He looks so cool - and we don't look too bad either. My LP cover was signed 'To Andy, Iggy Pop x' and featured a little drawing of a face and curly bogies drooping from each of Iggy's nostrils on the back cover photograph. An Osterberg embellishment in dazzling blue ink.
It looked cool enough to hang, so shortly after I got it home I put it in a frame and stuck it on a wall close to the large bay window in my lounge. Pride of place.
The summer of 1991 came and went, and all the while my treasured Iggy autograph shone proudly from my wall. A friend came to visit one day and sauntered over for a look. "Hey, why have you got this Iggy Pop LP in a frame on your wall?" he asked.
"Oh, that's been signed by Iggy. Check out the bogies! He added them himself."
"What bogies? What autograph?"
I raced to Iggy's wall. My friend was right. This was an Iggy Pop LP sleeve with nothing special on it. At all. All trace of signature and hand-daubed bogie squiggle had vanished. The sunlight had bleached the watery ink into a big pile of nothingness. Not a trace of Iggy's customisation remained.
Sadly, I took the frame from the wall and removed the Iggy sleeve. I put it back in the record rack where it now belonged - it was just another LP cover once more. I found something else to hang on the wall in its place. Something less special.
Fast forward a few years to the 'American Caesar' album. Not a bad record at all. 'Wild America', a mid-90s blues/punk rant against the red, white an' blue is an Iggy classic for sure. I got it on release day and devoured the copious sleeve notes as I played it. On the first page was the facsimile of a hand-written note from Iggy himself. It said something like: "I am not a rock star, I am a human being like you. If you want to write to me, feel free. Here is my address. If you write to me, I will reply."
So I put my little story down on paper. I kept it respectfully brief, but told Iggy how I once had his autograph, how it was blasted into a vacuum by sunlight, how I hoped to meet him again one day. I wished him well for the future and thanked him for the music, I put the envelope in the post to the States and forgot all about it.
A good few years later, an A4 card-backed envelope dropped onto my doormat. It had a New York City postmark. So much time had passed, but when I opened the flap and pulled out the 8x10" black and white promo photo of Iggy Pop I knew instantly what it was about. Iggy had signed it "To Andy, Iggy Pop x" and had drawn a little face. And from each nostril drooped a curly hand-drawn bogie... in permanent black ink.
Iggy was charming and warm. A little fella with a big heart. And though my meeting with him was brief, it was sweet and memorable. I had my photograph taken with him and I got him to sign my copy of his then-current LP, "Brick By Brick".
The picture from that meeting remains a great personal favourite. My friends Pete and Alison are in the snap, and Iggy has his arms draped over our shoulders. He is half scowling, half beaming in a fashion that is entirely his. He looks so cool - and we don't look too bad either. My LP cover was signed 'To Andy, Iggy Pop x' and featured a little drawing of a face and curly bogies drooping from each of Iggy's nostrils on the back cover photograph. An Osterberg embellishment in dazzling blue ink.
It looked cool enough to hang, so shortly after I got it home I put it in a frame and stuck it on a wall close to the large bay window in my lounge. Pride of place.
The summer of 1991 came and went, and all the while my treasured Iggy autograph shone proudly from my wall. A friend came to visit one day and sauntered over for a look. "Hey, why have you got this Iggy Pop LP in a frame on your wall?" he asked.
"Oh, that's been signed by Iggy. Check out the bogies! He added them himself."
"What bogies? What autograph?"
I raced to Iggy's wall. My friend was right. This was an Iggy Pop LP sleeve with nothing special on it. At all. All trace of signature and hand-daubed bogie squiggle had vanished. The sunlight had bleached the watery ink into a big pile of nothingness. Not a trace of Iggy's customisation remained.
Sadly, I took the frame from the wall and removed the Iggy sleeve. I put it back in the record rack where it now belonged - it was just another LP cover once more. I found something else to hang on the wall in its place. Something less special.
Fast forward a few years to the 'American Caesar' album. Not a bad record at all. 'Wild America', a mid-90s blues/punk rant against the red, white an' blue is an Iggy classic for sure. I got it on release day and devoured the copious sleeve notes as I played it. On the first page was the facsimile of a hand-written note from Iggy himself. It said something like: "I am not a rock star, I am a human being like you. If you want to write to me, feel free. Here is my address. If you write to me, I will reply."
So I put my little story down on paper. I kept it respectfully brief, but told Iggy how I once had his autograph, how it was blasted into a vacuum by sunlight, how I hoped to meet him again one day. I wished him well for the future and thanked him for the music, I put the envelope in the post to the States and forgot all about it.
A good few years later, an A4 card-backed envelope dropped onto my doormat. It had a New York City postmark. So much time had passed, but when I opened the flap and pulled out the 8x10" black and white promo photo of Iggy Pop I knew instantly what it was about. Iggy had signed it "To Andy, Iggy Pop x" and had drawn a little face. And from each nostril drooped a curly hand-drawn bogie... in permanent black ink.
Friday, 20 November 2009
The 15.08 train to Claptonia
I thought about buying a pasty but three things stopped me:
1) The West Cornwall Pasty Co. Ltd could never match the sky-high pie standard of the Ivor Dewdney Pasty Co. Ltd of Exeter. People, please do not be hoodwinked by lazy claims of Kernow propagandists. The best pasties in the world are assembled in Devon... not the land of tin.
2) The small West Cornwall Pasty Co. Ltd stall appeared to have run out of all but the largest, £3.30, pasties. And that's too much cash to blow on a thermo-hot snack with weak potato content, too many onions and all the meat shoved down one end, right?
3) I had the luxury of time on my hands - and therefore the freedom to shop around.
Liverpool Street Station in the middle of a Friday afternoon is a pleasant place to be. I noted that the employed seemed happy with the imminent promise of another weekend. And way above our heads, beyond the undusted Adshel lightboxes and CCTV cameras (with their anti-pigeon spikes attached like ridiculous and lethal punk haircuts) London shone invitingly through a broad, angular glass ceiling.
The sky was not yet dusky, so the daylight that beat through frosted panes cast a cool glow over the elevated chrome walkways that encircle the timetable boards like the mezanine floor of a museum. But if I was a walking exhibit, this was a very poor show I was putting on. I ambled in one straight line through the centre of the station, taking in the sights of a cash machine, Paperchase, Delice de France and WH Smith. That's all. Until, wedged between a Boots and a Claire's Accessories, I discovered the cheese stall.
I thought briefly about asking the lady behind the counter if she in fact had any cheese. At all. Or, to be more accurate, I wondered what would happen if I adopted my very best Footlights accent to proclaim: "It's not much of a cheese shop, is it?" But I held back. It's entirely possible that this woman has forced a laboured smile to field many a less-than-hilarious Cleese-ism in the past. Or perhaps I do my fellow man a disservice? Perhaps nobody is actually crass enough to pull off such a stunt as that? To drop that particular sketch into conversation...
The tiny wraps of cheese looked tempting, particularly the pick'n'mix basket where six samples could be selected for a couple of quid. And there were fully made-up rolls, baguettes and sandwiches with a variety of comestible dairy middles on offer. I played it pretty conservatively with a strong cheddar and caramelised onion bap, costing me £2.10. Then I bought a small takeaway cappucino from Costa Coffee for £2.00 and I marched in £5.00 shoes towards Platform 2 for my £1.60 train ride.
The bench seat was all mine on the second carriage of this un-packed 15.08 service to Chingford calling at Bethnal Green, Hackney Downs and Claptonia. I pulled my paperback novel from my jacket pocket and started to read - but gave that up to stare through the still-gaping sliding doorway instead. I have always been fascinated by these precipices, shrouded in shaped and formed metal in 1972 or 1976 by Gammel or similar. I don't understand why I feel comforted by these openings. Whether on tube, train, bus or helicopter, I have always found the transience of the footway as it lingers at the edge of the world outside to be both tantalising and fascinating. It's like looking out through the flappy entrance of a tent, or standing in your porch. Sometimes, presented with such a view, the David Bowie instrumental 'A New Career In A New Town' enters my head.
I like to contrast these views, from one platform to the next: station to station. Searching my soul, I think this might have something to do with my childhood memory of taking a magical sleigh ride through a Christmas grotto in the corner of Exeter's 'Dingles' department store. I could feel the sleigh bumping around in the darkness - but I knew, of course, that it was not actually going anywhere. Yet when I dismounted with mum and stepped through the black curtain at the side, we had arrived in a different scene altogether: one with Santa in it. I had been tricked - in a lovely way.
Perhaps it's that special mystery that I enjoy. The anticipation of new surprises, new views, just as soon as the door re-opens. It gave me a good feeling about the journey ahead, as the door snapped shut and the unseen platform signalman blew his whistle in the traditional "POO-WEE-OOP!" manner that remains as timeless as 'A Brief Encounter'.
Trundling now out of the Liverpool Street tunnel and through the other side, I gaped in silent wonder at the East End industry spread out beneath me. The train ran on tracks some 20 feet in the air, just like the 'El' railway in Chicago. Massive factory buildings, thriving enterprises from decades and decades ago, were now split into smaller enterprises or turned into leisure centres and gyms. But the painted signs on their walls still held a candle to their history, as the proud base of Ernest Wall & Son or The London Pipe and Weld Co. Ltd.
From my giraffe's eye view, I could look down on the world of autumnal London, complete with men repairing motorbikes, parks with equal counts of dogs and children, and roads full of motorists, cyclists and pedestrians having scant awareness of the mighty train snaking along the brickwork arch ahead of them.
The journey, including two stops where the door slid open to proffer a new view from my favourite transient doorstep, was brief - but long enough to give me a delicious taste of the narrow pizza slice of London that I call home. As I made my way up the steps of Claptonia station, I tried to shut out the sound of the beeping Oyster machine ahead, and of the iPod blaring dodgy rap bollocks into the ears of the man climbing the steps besides me.
Were it not for those 21st century sounds, I could have lost myself in a wonderful time-travelling adventure. But I was home, and my daydreamy journey had come to an end. As all journeys must do.
1) The West Cornwall Pasty Co. Ltd could never match the sky-high pie standard of the Ivor Dewdney Pasty Co. Ltd of Exeter. People, please do not be hoodwinked by lazy claims of Kernow propagandists. The best pasties in the world are assembled in Devon... not the land of tin.
2) The small West Cornwall Pasty Co. Ltd stall appeared to have run out of all but the largest, £3.30, pasties. And that's too much cash to blow on a thermo-hot snack with weak potato content, too many onions and all the meat shoved down one end, right?
3) I had the luxury of time on my hands - and therefore the freedom to shop around.
Liverpool Street Station in the middle of a Friday afternoon is a pleasant place to be. I noted that the employed seemed happy with the imminent promise of another weekend. And way above our heads, beyond the undusted Adshel lightboxes and CCTV cameras (with their anti-pigeon spikes attached like ridiculous and lethal punk haircuts) London shone invitingly through a broad, angular glass ceiling.
The sky was not yet dusky, so the daylight that beat through frosted panes cast a cool glow over the elevated chrome walkways that encircle the timetable boards like the mezanine floor of a museum. But if I was a walking exhibit, this was a very poor show I was putting on. I ambled in one straight line through the centre of the station, taking in the sights of a cash machine, Paperchase, Delice de France and WH Smith. That's all. Until, wedged between a Boots and a Claire's Accessories, I discovered the cheese stall.
I thought briefly about asking the lady behind the counter if she in fact had any cheese. At all. Or, to be more accurate, I wondered what would happen if I adopted my very best Footlights accent to proclaim: "It's not much of a cheese shop, is it?" But I held back. It's entirely possible that this woman has forced a laboured smile to field many a less-than-hilarious Cleese-ism in the past. Or perhaps I do my fellow man a disservice? Perhaps nobody is actually crass enough to pull off such a stunt as that? To drop that particular sketch into conversation...
The tiny wraps of cheese looked tempting, particularly the pick'n'mix basket where six samples could be selected for a couple of quid. And there were fully made-up rolls, baguettes and sandwiches with a variety of comestible dairy middles on offer. I played it pretty conservatively with a strong cheddar and caramelised onion bap, costing me £2.10. Then I bought a small takeaway cappucino from Costa Coffee for £2.00 and I marched in £5.00 shoes towards Platform 2 for my £1.60 train ride.
The bench seat was all mine on the second carriage of this un-packed 15.08 service to Chingford calling at Bethnal Green, Hackney Downs and Claptonia. I pulled my paperback novel from my jacket pocket and started to read - but gave that up to stare through the still-gaping sliding doorway instead. I have always been fascinated by these precipices, shrouded in shaped and formed metal in 1972 or 1976 by Gammel or similar. I don't understand why I feel comforted by these openings. Whether on tube, train, bus or helicopter, I have always found the transience of the footway as it lingers at the edge of the world outside to be both tantalising and fascinating. It's like looking out through the flappy entrance of a tent, or standing in your porch. Sometimes, presented with such a view, the David Bowie instrumental 'A New Career In A New Town' enters my head.
I like to contrast these views, from one platform to the next: station to station. Searching my soul, I think this might have something to do with my childhood memory of taking a magical sleigh ride through a Christmas grotto in the corner of Exeter's 'Dingles' department store. I could feel the sleigh bumping around in the darkness - but I knew, of course, that it was not actually going anywhere. Yet when I dismounted with mum and stepped through the black curtain at the side, we had arrived in a different scene altogether: one with Santa in it. I had been tricked - in a lovely way.
Perhaps it's that special mystery that I enjoy. The anticipation of new surprises, new views, just as soon as the door re-opens. It gave me a good feeling about the journey ahead, as the door snapped shut and the unseen platform signalman blew his whistle in the traditional "POO-WEE-OOP!" manner that remains as timeless as 'A Brief Encounter'.
Trundling now out of the Liverpool Street tunnel and through the other side, I gaped in silent wonder at the East End industry spread out beneath me. The train ran on tracks some 20 feet in the air, just like the 'El' railway in Chicago. Massive factory buildings, thriving enterprises from decades and decades ago, were now split into smaller enterprises or turned into leisure centres and gyms. But the painted signs on their walls still held a candle to their history, as the proud base of Ernest Wall & Son or The London Pipe and Weld Co. Ltd.
From my giraffe's eye view, I could look down on the world of autumnal London, complete with men repairing motorbikes, parks with equal counts of dogs and children, and roads full of motorists, cyclists and pedestrians having scant awareness of the mighty train snaking along the brickwork arch ahead of them.
The journey, including two stops where the door slid open to proffer a new view from my favourite transient doorstep, was brief - but long enough to give me a delicious taste of the narrow pizza slice of London that I call home. As I made my way up the steps of Claptonia station, I tried to shut out the sound of the beeping Oyster machine ahead, and of the iPod blaring dodgy rap bollocks into the ears of the man climbing the steps besides me.
Were it not for those 21st century sounds, I could have lost myself in a wonderful time-travelling adventure. But I was home, and my daydreamy journey had come to an end. As all journeys must do.
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Memorex E-180
I don't think life is like a book, open or otherwise. It's more like a video cassette.
If you keep the damn thing recording, it will fill up in no time. And once your tape is full, you're left with only a few alternatives - either rewind and record over some bits, erase everything and start again, or keep it as-is and file it away on your little shelf.
I know people who have picked all three options. The ones who have filled up their tapes, good and early, seem quite happy to replay their lives as often as they like. The tab has been removed. But ultimately it's the same story with them - again and again and again.
I've seen people who have lived very full lives, yet rewound to cover some bits with something new. A minor reinvention, if you like, a bit of an upgrade here and there - but with the basic story still intact from the beginning.
And I'm familar with the crowd who are happiest when they blank the whole damn thing and start again.
I think I fall into the second category, with leanings towards the third. Something inside me would really like to throw it all on the fire and start again. Something else inside me is already doing this, bit by bit. I'm quite happy with the decisions I've made in my life to date. Some of them I could have made a little quicker, but we can't have everything.
The important thing for me - and I know this doesn't suit everybody - is that I will not resort to the first option, no matter how comfortable and reassuring that might be. It's probably too late for me to do that now, anyway.
I like the adventure and danger of life. I haven't immersed myself as deeply as I should, but I will. I will.
If you keep the damn thing recording, it will fill up in no time. And once your tape is full, you're left with only a few alternatives - either rewind and record over some bits, erase everything and start again, or keep it as-is and file it away on your little shelf.
I know people who have picked all three options. The ones who have filled up their tapes, good and early, seem quite happy to replay their lives as often as they like. The tab has been removed. But ultimately it's the same story with them - again and again and again.
I've seen people who have lived very full lives, yet rewound to cover some bits with something new. A minor reinvention, if you like, a bit of an upgrade here and there - but with the basic story still intact from the beginning.
And I'm familar with the crowd who are happiest when they blank the whole damn thing and start again.
I think I fall into the second category, with leanings towards the third. Something inside me would really like to throw it all on the fire and start again. Something else inside me is already doing this, bit by bit. I'm quite happy with the decisions I've made in my life to date. Some of them I could have made a little quicker, but we can't have everything.
The important thing for me - and I know this doesn't suit everybody - is that I will not resort to the first option, no matter how comfortable and reassuring that might be. It's probably too late for me to do that now, anyway.
I like the adventure and danger of life. I haven't immersed myself as deeply as I should, but I will. I will.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
The Tamworth Ghost
I have difficulty believing in ghosts these days. The idea of the human soul living on after death as an autonomous spiritual presence doesn't compute with me. I am open to the possibility, and I believe we do have some influence on the phsyical world beyond our own lifetimes. But the idea of a fully-formed entity visiting us from beyond the grave is, I suggest, a combination of Victorian fiction and well-intended wishful thinking. These days, I subscribe to the idea of a non-mortal collective consciousness that impacts on what we see as the physical world.
With that caveat, though, here is a true ghost story starring me and the wonderful yet now-defunct rock band, Tokyo Dragons.
We were in a vacuous venue in Tamworth, in the Midlands: The Palace. It's a grand name for a bland, cheaply-carpeted club for young rockers to spill beer and jump around in. It had been converted from a derelict cinema and the Dragons were playing this particular night. I was the driver.
As we lugged amps, guitars and drums through the door at the side into the backstage area, the affable local crew and promoter shared a little history of the place with us: the dodgy metal bands that had played there before, the festival they were trying to get together for that summer, and Charlotte... the house ghoul.
They were serious. Charlotte, they told us, was the ghost of a young girl who haunted her favourite picture house. The club owner said he had seen her shadowy image drift past his office as he cashed up. The front of house soundman said he regularly contacted her through seances he would conduct in the little dressing room off to the side of the stage.
The Dragons and I had been through some ups, downs and bizarre events already on this particular tour. So we enjoyed this latest distraction and during the soundcheck thoughts of Charlotte were running high in our minds. It became a bit of an in-band joke. Drummer Phil Martini, in particular, took up the baton big-style and made spooky sounds into his vocal mic while his levels were being checked. "Woooh, I'm a scary ghosty called Charlotte..." he mocked. "Look at me, I'm so scaaaaaary," etc. I remember either Mal or Steve, the twin guitarists, warning: "I wouldn't take the piss, Phil. She'll 'ave ya!"
Fast forward to the dressing room, where we're sat around drinking, waiting for doors to open. Phil the ghost-mocker is crouched on the floor, leaning against one of the walls. We're all chatting quite merrily when, without reason or warning, a mirror toppled off a tabletop and hit him - thwack - on the top of the head. It looked like it hurt a lot. "Told you you shouldn't have taken the piss out of the ghost," someone says. More laughs.
A short time after that, it's my turn. I'm sat on a sofa, mobile 'phone in one hand, bottle of lager in the other. I'm texting a friend - telling her about the haunted venue we find ourselves in. As I type through the letters of C-H-A-R-L-O.... my right hand and arm make an involuntary spasmodic jerk. I have soaked myself in beer, having shaken the entire bottle into my face. As the sticky liquid drips off my ears, nose and chin, I find myself surrounded by incredulous faces: "What are you doing, man!?" I don't know - it felt like my arm was not my own.
Third and final event. This time, after the (really very good) show. I'm stood in the doorway of the dressing room, talking to the band. This time, it's guitarist Mal who gives me a soaking. He took a swig of beer, turned towards me and sprayed his entire gobful of Becks into my face. It was another case of "What are you doing, man?!"
Mal didn't know - and was hugely apologetic. I was hugely wet. We were all hugely baffled. But it had to be the ghost, right?
We spoke about it to the soundman who, surprisingly, was hugely sceptical of our stories. Must have been an accident... you must have shivered... must fix that mirror etc. A little later, we allowed him to go through his seance act so he could show us the 'real' Charlotte, but for all his dramatic deep-breathing, he was clearly leading us on.
As for our experiences, I just couldn't tell you what happened. I didn't enjoy getting two beer soakings, and I know I would never willingly throw beer over my own head. I'd like to think that Mal wouldn't willingly drench me, either - but he's on Facebook so maybe he'll let me know for sure... And Phil (even though he's a drummer - ha!) surely doesn't like banging things against his head. Pretty confident about that.
The troubled Palace shut down shortly after the Dragons gig and has since reopened as a faceless sports bar. I have to wonder if Charlotte is still a visitor there, giving the chavs a good soaking...
With that caveat, though, here is a true ghost story starring me and the wonderful yet now-defunct rock band, Tokyo Dragons.
We were in a vacuous venue in Tamworth, in the Midlands: The Palace. It's a grand name for a bland, cheaply-carpeted club for young rockers to spill beer and jump around in. It had been converted from a derelict cinema and the Dragons were playing this particular night. I was the driver.
As we lugged amps, guitars and drums through the door at the side into the backstage area, the affable local crew and promoter shared a little history of the place with us: the dodgy metal bands that had played there before, the festival they were trying to get together for that summer, and Charlotte... the house ghoul.
They were serious. Charlotte, they told us, was the ghost of a young girl who haunted her favourite picture house. The club owner said he had seen her shadowy image drift past his office as he cashed up. The front of house soundman said he regularly contacted her through seances he would conduct in the little dressing room off to the side of the stage.
The Dragons and I had been through some ups, downs and bizarre events already on this particular tour. So we enjoyed this latest distraction and during the soundcheck thoughts of Charlotte were running high in our minds. It became a bit of an in-band joke. Drummer Phil Martini, in particular, took up the baton big-style and made spooky sounds into his vocal mic while his levels were being checked. "Woooh, I'm a scary ghosty called Charlotte..." he mocked. "Look at me, I'm so scaaaaaary," etc. I remember either Mal or Steve, the twin guitarists, warning: "I wouldn't take the piss, Phil. She'll 'ave ya!"
Fast forward to the dressing room, where we're sat around drinking, waiting for doors to open. Phil the ghost-mocker is crouched on the floor, leaning against one of the walls. We're all chatting quite merrily when, without reason or warning, a mirror toppled off a tabletop and hit him - thwack - on the top of the head. It looked like it hurt a lot. "Told you you shouldn't have taken the piss out of the ghost," someone says. More laughs.
A short time after that, it's my turn. I'm sat on a sofa, mobile 'phone in one hand, bottle of lager in the other. I'm texting a friend - telling her about the haunted venue we find ourselves in. As I type through the letters of C-H-A-R-L-O.... my right hand and arm make an involuntary spasmodic jerk. I have soaked myself in beer, having shaken the entire bottle into my face. As the sticky liquid drips off my ears, nose and chin, I find myself surrounded by incredulous faces: "What are you doing, man!?" I don't know - it felt like my arm was not my own.
Third and final event. This time, after the (really very good) show. I'm stood in the doorway of the dressing room, talking to the band. This time, it's guitarist Mal who gives me a soaking. He took a swig of beer, turned towards me and sprayed his entire gobful of Becks into my face. It was another case of "What are you doing, man?!"
Mal didn't know - and was hugely apologetic. I was hugely wet. We were all hugely baffled. But it had to be the ghost, right?
We spoke about it to the soundman who, surprisingly, was hugely sceptical of our stories. Must have been an accident... you must have shivered... must fix that mirror etc. A little later, we allowed him to go through his seance act so he could show us the 'real' Charlotte, but for all his dramatic deep-breathing, he was clearly leading us on.
As for our experiences, I just couldn't tell you what happened. I didn't enjoy getting two beer soakings, and I know I would never willingly throw beer over my own head. I'd like to think that Mal wouldn't willingly drench me, either - but he's on Facebook so maybe he'll let me know for sure... And Phil (even though he's a drummer - ha!) surely doesn't like banging things against his head. Pretty confident about that.
The troubled Palace shut down shortly after the Dragons gig and has since reopened as a faceless sports bar. I have to wonder if Charlotte is still a visitor there, giving the chavs a good soaking...
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
The day the Germans came to town.
In the early 1940s my mum was a young girl living a young girl's life in a pleasant westcountry city. Like all the girls at her school, she was well aware of the war going on outside her window - even if her home was hundreds of miles away from the theatre of conflict.
For her, the war existed on the wireless and through family updates of her brave Uncle Harold, a Lieutenant fighting with the Devonshire Regiment in Tunisia. Close to her home, too, the Americans had set up base in the County Ground, a sports stadium which was originally built to host speedway races, rugby and a dog track. She liked the Yanks - they were generous to their hosts, and would shower the local kids with sweets and bubblegum. The local mums would be given nylons. My mum has had nothing but good things to say about our cousins from across the pond ever since.
As the blitz of London took hold, a young girl was evacuated to Exeter and moved into my mum's family home. The two girls got on well, but the visitor ended up half-inching a tiny replica Bible with the Lord's Prayer written inside in very small letters - my mum's most prized possession. That caused a lot of upset, as did regular radio broadcasts by William Joyce aka Lord Haw Haw, the Nazi propagandist who issued thinly-veiled threats to British listeners. "Jairmany calling, Jairmany calling," he would drawl in his peculiar mid-posh British accent, before identifying future Luftwaffe targets with alarming precision: "Coventry, with your broken town clock..." etc.
My mum hated Lord Haw Haw and was terrified by him. She had good cause.
In the summer of 1942, Hitler ordered bombing raids on some of England's most beautiful cities. None of these were military targets in the slightest: they were reprisal raids. Exeter was attacked on May 4 of that year, as a response to the Allied bombing of Lubeck. Ernst Von Kugel, a German bomber pilot, remembers: "I saw whole streets of houses on fire. People were running everywhere - it was a fantastic sight. We thought of the thousands of men, women and children, the victims of our deadly visit. But we thought of our Fuhrer and the command he gave: revenge."
My mum lived, protected by the air-raid shelter in her house. One of her friend's houses was flattened. Exeter was devastated and would never look the same again.
Sometime later, and details are sketchy but it might have been on a similar raid over nearby Plymouth, my mum had an even closer encounter with the Nazis. By 1943 or so, the Germans had become brazen about their raids on the sticks. The RAF was busy defending the South East and, coastal anti-aircraft guns aside, the westcountry was rather open to attack. It seems like on the way home from a raid on the docks at Plymouth, some German aircraft decided to use up whatever ammo they had on a little extra-curricular visit to Exeter.
It could have been a Stuka, it could have been a Heinkel bomber - all my mother remembers is the screaming engine of a warplane hammering along Exeter High Street, guns blazing in the daylight, hoping to pick out any civilians who got in the way. She recalls the postman diving under his mail cart, and she remembers her mum, my grandmother, pulling her to safety into the doorway of Lyon's coffee shop. As the plane streaked past at rooftop level, she saw the pilot's head in the cockpit: she had seen a German!
It struck terror into her heart. She's related the story to me a few times over the years, and each time she ends it with a shudder. "I was a very frightened little girl," she'll say. "I had never seen a German before."
Needless to say, 1945 couldn't have come quickly enough. Not only could my mum enjoy oranges and - what's this? - bananas again, but she could put herself to good use as a young member of the British Red Cross and the Salvation Army. Soon, her world would get brighter and no longer a fearful place. She would enjoy dances at Buller Hall, trips to the cinema and, through her brother Ray, she would eventually meet my dad. The rest, as they say, is happy family history.
But on this Remembrance Day I will be thinking about her Uncle Harold. He was killed by mortar fire on April 9, 1943 just a few days before his 27th birthday. The internet has brought us closer to him, in the sense that there are many reports of his 5th Battalion's movements in Tunisia. He now rests at the Enfidaville War Cemetery and although I obviously never met him, I'll be thinking of him on the 11th hour on the 11th day of this 11th month.
God bless, Harold.
For her, the war existed on the wireless and through family updates of her brave Uncle Harold, a Lieutenant fighting with the Devonshire Regiment in Tunisia. Close to her home, too, the Americans had set up base in the County Ground, a sports stadium which was originally built to host speedway races, rugby and a dog track. She liked the Yanks - they were generous to their hosts, and would shower the local kids with sweets and bubblegum. The local mums would be given nylons. My mum has had nothing but good things to say about our cousins from across the pond ever since.
As the blitz of London took hold, a young girl was evacuated to Exeter and moved into my mum's family home. The two girls got on well, but the visitor ended up half-inching a tiny replica Bible with the Lord's Prayer written inside in very small letters - my mum's most prized possession. That caused a lot of upset, as did regular radio broadcasts by William Joyce aka Lord Haw Haw, the Nazi propagandist who issued thinly-veiled threats to British listeners. "Jairmany calling, Jairmany calling," he would drawl in his peculiar mid-posh British accent, before identifying future Luftwaffe targets with alarming precision: "Coventry, with your broken town clock..." etc.
My mum hated Lord Haw Haw and was terrified by him. She had good cause.
In the summer of 1942, Hitler ordered bombing raids on some of England's most beautiful cities. None of these were military targets in the slightest: they were reprisal raids. Exeter was attacked on May 4 of that year, as a response to the Allied bombing of Lubeck. Ernst Von Kugel, a German bomber pilot, remembers: "I saw whole streets of houses on fire. People were running everywhere - it was a fantastic sight. We thought of the thousands of men, women and children, the victims of our deadly visit. But we thought of our Fuhrer and the command he gave: revenge."
My mum lived, protected by the air-raid shelter in her house. One of her friend's houses was flattened. Exeter was devastated and would never look the same again.
Sometime later, and details are sketchy but it might have been on a similar raid over nearby Plymouth, my mum had an even closer encounter with the Nazis. By 1943 or so, the Germans had become brazen about their raids on the sticks. The RAF was busy defending the South East and, coastal anti-aircraft guns aside, the westcountry was rather open to attack. It seems like on the way home from a raid on the docks at Plymouth, some German aircraft decided to use up whatever ammo they had on a little extra-curricular visit to Exeter.
It could have been a Stuka, it could have been a Heinkel bomber - all my mother remembers is the screaming engine of a warplane hammering along Exeter High Street, guns blazing in the daylight, hoping to pick out any civilians who got in the way. She recalls the postman diving under his mail cart, and she remembers her mum, my grandmother, pulling her to safety into the doorway of Lyon's coffee shop. As the plane streaked past at rooftop level, she saw the pilot's head in the cockpit: she had seen a German!
It struck terror into her heart. She's related the story to me a few times over the years, and each time she ends it with a shudder. "I was a very frightened little girl," she'll say. "I had never seen a German before."
Needless to say, 1945 couldn't have come quickly enough. Not only could my mum enjoy oranges and - what's this? - bananas again, but she could put herself to good use as a young member of the British Red Cross and the Salvation Army. Soon, her world would get brighter and no longer a fearful place. She would enjoy dances at Buller Hall, trips to the cinema and, through her brother Ray, she would eventually meet my dad. The rest, as they say, is happy family history.
But on this Remembrance Day I will be thinking about her Uncle Harold. He was killed by mortar fire on April 9, 1943 just a few days before his 27th birthday. The internet has brought us closer to him, in the sense that there are many reports of his 5th Battalion's movements in Tunisia. He now rests at the Enfidaville War Cemetery and although I obviously never met him, I'll be thinking of him on the 11th hour on the 11th day of this 11th month.
God bless, Harold.
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