Provincial Letters

The Further Adventures of Keats & Chapman IV

2007-09-23T02:27:00.000+01:00

Before we start, I wish to note that the Keats & Chapman thing is obsessive and there are several examples out there on the net of people carrying on Flann O'Brien's tradition. Having said that, it must be recorded that O'Brien himself stressed that the cleverness (or otherwise) of the pun is not the point: the monotonous inevitability of the surrounding extraneous detail is the one and only pleasure.

So, before we move on to the main course, peruse and compare the following (I know which I prefer):

Essays should be submitted on one side of the paper only with all references cited and only blue ink used. Marks will be deducted for uses of inappropriate language.

Leading a Horse To Slaughter

Finding themselves back in London once more, Keats and Chapman took up lodgings at the Marylebone Station end of Baker Street at number 223 ("A home away from Holmes," commented Keats to the utter indifference of Chapman). Chapman, a scholar to the core, took himself off to the British Museum in search of enlightenment and entertainment; Keats, being more of a man about town, began to frequent, once again, the more exclusive of the capital's gentlemen's clubs.

Keats, rather to Chapman's chagrin and embarrassment, managed to make small fortune investing in the trade of prostitution which attracted so many of the the members of these clubs. However — being always somewhat of a romantic — Keats squandered this ill-found wealth attempting to reform a dissolute nephew. The nephew was persuaded to spend his time raising seafood for the restaurant market rather than in the self-indulgent enjoyment of the fleshpots of the city and made quite a go of it until a fungus wiped out all the crustaceans on his Devon sea-farm (a case of throwing lewd money after crab, it has been said by those who know no better).

Chapman, in that inter-temporal inexactitude, the meanwhile, became enamoured of the then nascent Marxist movement having bumped into Marx and read early drafts of Das Kapital and The Communist Manifesto in the reading room of the British Museum. Chapman was rather in awe of Marx and his friends, Friedrich Engels and Mikhail Bakunin (who was often visiting). Although Chapman's grasp of German remained naive and childlike he managed to form a small group of Marxist supporters and friends who met regularly to discuss this new development in political thought.

One evening, late in the summer of 1864, Keats announced that he was off to the races. There was, he said, an evening meeting at Epsom and one of his friends (Sir Thomas Barclay, a distant and not altogether well-regarded member of the banking family) had a filly running in the seven o'clock race. Chapman, despite enjoying the spectacle of racing, had already arranged to meet his Marxist friends for an early dinner at the Ritz. Keats, keen to recover his money and sure that his friend's horse would win, took himself off south of the Thames to watch the horses perform.

Around ten o'clock that evening, Chapman returned to their Baker Street apartments to discover Keats sitting in front of a roaring fire, wrapped in towels and drying his hair, despite the warmth of the August evening. A little surprised by this but ever conscious of proper decorum, Chapman smiled and said, simply, "Good evening?".

"Not so good, really, how was yours?" said Keats, rubbing the towels across his young, fit body (in order to give some of my readers a little pleasure).

"Not bad, rather good really. We met at the Ritz and guess who came in: Karl and Jenny, Friedrich and Mikhail," said Chapman, attempting informality.

"Did you speak?" asked Keats.

"No, I was, if I may say so, a little over-awed to see them," answered Chapman, "And your evening? Did you win a lot of money?"

"Alas," said Keats, "the weather rather took care of that."

"The weather?" said Chapman, perplexed, "It was a fine night here in town."

"Well, on Epsom Downs it was far from fine. Sir Thomas' filly likes the going firm and all looked good when they were placed under starter's orders just on seven. As they went off, the heavens opened and there was a startlingly violent thunderstorm accompanied by hailstones and sheets of driving rain. The course was waterlogged and our horse got bogged down in the mire and came in last of eight. An absolute disaster. I lost £200."

"Oh dear," said Chapman, "You mean while I watched Engels dining at the Ritz, lighting and hale slung down on Barclay's mare."

It was time for supper.

The Further Adventures of Keats & Chapman III

2007-09-15T04:34:00.000+01:00

I've written of Keats & Chapman before on these pages, but not for two years. See "Some Observations" [April 2005] and "The Further Adventures of Keats & Chapman II" [May 2005] if you want to put the following into context.

The Roof Of The World

During the era of the British Raj, Keats and Chapman took themselves off to the Indian subcontinent in search of that other elusive partnership, Fame and Fortune. The tried various schemes which brought them little in the way of fame, nothing in the way of fortune and some slight embarrassment with local law enforcement authorities in the case of the scheme that was more of a scam (over which we shall draw that diaphanous but modest item of apparel, a discrete veil). Being either possessed of an indomitable spirit or totally blind to their lack of success, they refused to give up. Eventually they journeyed north to the Himalayas and found themselves (an extraordinary feat considering that they never lost themselves in anything other than books) in Nepal where they set themselves up as architects despite the lack of any experience or training in that discipline.

Keats, as was his wont, manned the office and did all the necessary back-room chores whilst Chapman, ever eager, cast himself as the enterprise's sales force and attempted to drum up business. Chapman, however, was exceedingly profligate with their remaining, somewhat meagre, funds and they were soon rendered penniless by his insistence on attempting to find business in the most expensive clubs and hotels. Chapman was — he claimed — selfless in this area and only partook of the large meals and endless rounds of drinks in order to ingratiate himself with potential clients. If Keats made any comment on this thin justification, it is not recorded, but it is known that he offered to be as selfless as Chapman and partake of these banquets as well. It took all Chapman's powers of persuasion to convince Keats that his presence and his somewhat cynical, acerbic tongue were not conducive to a successful business lunch.

Keats demurred and took himself off into the mountains where he composed several unremarkable sonnets on the subject of gluttony. The two friends became estranged and ceased speaking to one another except when absolutely necessary.

Finally rendered almost bankrupt with no further finance available from the banks to which they were already heavily in debt, Keats took to wandering the streets shouting "Get your buildings designed here! Roll-up, roll-up, British architects for hire!" and wearing a sandwich board. Chapman sulked in the office and doodled.

Imagine Chapman's surprise when, one winter morning, a senior member of the armed forces entered their little premises and enquired if they would be available to design and build a new Officer's Mess for his regiment. Chapman, sucking on a pebble to ward off hunger, readily agreed and ran out into the streets to find his friend and tell him the good news.

He found Keats scratching an ode into a recent dusting of snow.

"How much does it pay?" asked Keats, suspecting that Chapman had neglected, in his enthusiasm, to ascertain this small but important detail of the contract.

"Oodles," replied Chapman unconvincingly, confirming Keats' suspicion.

"Did you manage to get any money up front?" said Keats, "we'll need it to get started with materials and the like since no bank or trader will advance us a single rupee of credit."

"Well…" began Chapman, a little embarrassed.

"Come on, man," said Keats, "spit it out. Tell me the bad news."

"Well," said Chapman, "I didn't get any money but there is no problem with getting the materials we need: our Army friend has promised to provide me with signed authorisations to requisition anything we need from the Quartermaster at the barracks."

"Have you got them?" enquired Keats.

"Not as such," replied the ever-optimistic Chapman, "but I was assured that the requisitions exist and that we will be in possession of them very, very soon. But we have to hurry, he told me he'd be back with them in 45 minutes."

"Ahh," said Keats, drawing in a deep breath and exhaling it as a deep fog in the chill November air, "those would be the elusive coupons of mess construction."

Chapman coughed and counted the mountains.

Haberdashery

When Keats returned to London following his abortive attempt to cross the Sahara dessert on a raft made of sea-shells in order to prove some minor point of comparative anthropology over which he had loudly fallen out with Charles Darwin, his first port-of-call was his old friend Chapman.

During Keats' absence, Chapman had become enamoured of the Arts & Crafts movement (or, possibly, had conceived a passion for Christiana Rossetti which necessitated his adoption of the movement's principles). This conceit had led him to attempt to produce fabrics in the style or, at least, the manner of William Morris. To this end, he had converted a good proportion of the lower floors of his house into a small factory and design studio. It was here, amongst drawings and wooden blocks that Keats found him, comparing test swatches of his latest creations.

Keats, whilst admiring the simple aesthetic professed and the noble aims aspired to, couldn't help but comment that the whole enterprise was a little too much like manufacturing and a not enough like true art.

"Arts and Crafts," stressed Chapman, "It is the way forward. Combine the best possible design with the best possible materials and everyone will be able to enjoy the best if soft furnishings."

"Everyone who can afford it," commented the sarcastic Keats in a quiet voice.

Chapman either did not hear or chose to ignore the remark and continued to enthuse about his new calling.

"So," asked Keats, "how is it going? Have you achieved the magnificence of design you hoped for?"

"My dear Keats," said Chapman, "this will not happen overnight. I need to experiment and study. Most of all I need to study the techniques of the best of the contemporaries and antecedents. Until I can understand how to duplicate their achievements, I shall not be ready to emulate or exceed them."

It was at that moment that a telegram arrived for Keats — he used Chapman's house as his London base when in town — from Queen Victoria begging him to pop up to Balmoral for a few days of haggis, bagpipes and whisky. Unable to refuse the polite request of his monarch, Keats thus had the perfect opportunity and excuse to leave his friend to his studies and researches.

Returning later in the week, Keats found Chapman in a state of despair, in a room full of garish, ugly examples of the draper's art.

"What is wrong?" Keats enquired of his friend.

"It would be easier to answer the opposite question," said Chapman, "What is right? Absolutely nothing is right. It's all gone horribly, horribly wrong. And I can't understand why. I've read every single book in the British Museum on the design and manufacture of cloth from ancient times to the present day. I've scoured bookshops for pamphlets and manuals in dozens of languages and enlisted all the experts in the land to translate them for me. I've read everything I can on the science of cloth-making. But it's all coming out wrong. Look at this mess."

Chapman swept his arms around the room and the monstrosities his researches had produced and then fell, sobbing to his desk, his head buried in is hands.

"There, there," consoled the ever-considerate Keats, "it's just a simple case of too many books spoiling the cloth."

Chapman immediately remembered an appointment with his tailor to be fitted for his habit before entering a monastery.

Live Music and related issues

2007-08-27T03:00:00.000+01:00

Some time ago (February 2006, to be precise) I wrote about music in pubs and, in particular, the attitude of the ACPO (Association of Chief Police Officers — www.acpo.police.uk) towards live music. At the time I e-mailed the ACPO asking them for clarification and evidence of their attitude, the reply I received was notable only by its complete non-existence. This post is a follow-up…

Myths, Lies & Confusion

Either from wanton ignorance, wilful neglect or wicked indifference, there has been over the past few years some execrable reporting on the subject of the provisions of the 2003 Licensing Act (which was implemented in 2005). Unlike a lot of people, I suspect, I've actually bothered to read the text of the Act, which is available on-line and have discovered that quite a lot of the screaming by musicians, publicans and newspaper reporters is just plain wrong. Sometimes it has the appearance of mere misunderstanding and, if I were being generous and non-cynical about the political bias of our press, I would put it down to accident. There does, however, seem to be a proclivity these days for wildly exaggerating issues with either small-minded (mis-)interpretation or simple lying. The people who do this get away with it because they neither expect or encourage their readers to look at original documents.

Typical of this is the following from the MySpace site of US radio station K94 Rocks:

"UK passed laws to suppress live music and dance. Very important for UK music fans and musicians! The Government have recently passed laws in the UK (applicable to England and Wales) to try and suppress live music and dance. Pubs which could previously offer work to solo singers or duos now have to pay for a special licence and can only have 12 of these per year. Even school Xmas concerts need to be licensed."

The sensationalism of this is truly astounding, but not as astounding as the total lack of foundation for the claims. As I say, I've actually bothered to read the Act, and can state with some conviction that the above claims are as wrong as they are colourful. The above quote continues with an appeal to sign a petition (which was sent to the Prime Minter's office in June; which I signed) which they claim has to do with these issues. That petition was important: there is scope in the act for the bureaucracy and local provisions attached to the regulations to become a burden and hindrance to live music. For more information, read the petition and the response. I'm not happy with the waffle in the response, but this does not support the stupid and ignorant claims in the statement above.

Prior to the 2003 Act, the music licensing provisions of pubs meant that they could only offer work to solo artists and duos: a full music license was difficult and expensive to obtain and rarely granted to pubs. The new act gets rid of all the different categories of license which used to exist and allows the licensee to apply for the PEL (Public Entertainment License) along with the drinks license (it is not compulsory and does cost extra). The PEL places no restriction on the size of the groups that can perform (this is restricted by the size of the venue). The cost of the PEL depends on the size and nature of the venue.

If a pub, club or other venue chooses not to apply for a PEL they can now (and they couldn't have done this before the 2003 Act) apply for a TEN (Temporary Event Notice). This allows any premises to be used for the live performance of music (subject to fire and safety considerations, of course). Any single venue is restricted to 12 TENs in a year — the logic being that if you have more than one event per month, you perhaps need to consider a PEL. The cost of a TEN? £21. And, by the way, Christmas Concerts, being of a religious nature ("associated with a religious event") are specifically excluded from the provisions of the act.

Now can you see how it is so easy to be led astray by wild, speculative, unsupported claims?

The ACPO

In researching this post, I read some of the report and recommendations by the government's Live Music Forum. In addition to debunking some of the myths that have become attached to the Act, and some of the myths promulgated by puritan opponents of live music in general, they also tackled the statement made by the ACPO which was quoted in by earlier post. The results are most interesting.

I cannot do justice to the report by quoting from it other than at length and I don't want to do that here as it would make an already extensive post inordinately long. Please read the relevant section of the relevant document starting on page 36. Actually, read the whole damn document.

I will summarise the report by saying that the ACPO basically retracted its claim that all live music was associated with crime and disorder but continued to state that it could be a magnet for them. The report found that, in general, live music events engendered less trouble and crime than other public events.

In Conclusion…

The use of myths, lies and deniable mis-reading by opponents of anything in our society has been so prevalent that one wonders what to do about it. I know the answer: just read more and don't trust anything or anybody not to be giving a biased explanation when they don't refer you to the original sources. The opponents of the Euro have used these techniques with so great effect that, sometimes, you'd think that it was all the work of some devil. Please, remember you know how to read and question.

There are not two 23rds August this year

2007-08-22T14:39:00.000+01:00

This a copy of a post to my MySpace blog; for which fact I make no apology whatsoever.

It has long been a tradition in my family that certain years possess two 23^rds August. And I was certain that 2007 was one of them. It was written in the cards, the stars, my palms and the entrails of an earwig I found on the back doorstep (my family has never used anything larger than a spiders for haruspicy). It was foretold by daphnomancy¹, halomancy² and myomancy³. It was even written in the arrangement of objects that cannot be named for legal reasons⁴. The tradition of two 23^rds August stretches back to time immemorial: i.e., I can't remember when I first got the idea into to my head.

The sheer convenience of having two 23^rds August in a year — especially this one — cannot be over-estimated. For a start there's the 24-hour delay in encountering that next birthday which makes you realise just how old you're getting (with the consequent onset of the loss of mental facility which causes confusion concerning calendrical calculation and consequent atypical alliteration). There's also the advantage of having two Thursdays, this year, in a week. I sometimes think there are not enough Thursdays in a week — usually after having too much to drink on a Wednesday night. The final, and over-riding, advantage is, of course, that you can both go and see the inestimable Merlin's Keep plus the wonderful Driftnet Poets at Millfields and attend the new Open Mic at the Imperial where you've promised to help the web-and-sound wizard with the PA because Trev's on holiday.

It was, therefore, something of a shock to bump into Jim White yesterday and discover that there are not, it seems, two 23^rds August this year⁵. To say that I was gutted is to underestimate the force with which a fish-filleter carries our their profession. I was so much beside myself that I let my other self pay for the groceries (quite a smart move that, I thought, until I got home and discovered that he'd used my money). I was so overwhelmed with regret that I failed to find a third spurious metaphor⁶.

I blame the government. It's a conspiracy of some sort to deprive my family and I of the right to enjoy two 23^rds August⁷ in the years of our choosing. So, here I am, not looking forward to missing MK & Driftnet but otherwise anticipating with pleasure the night at the Imperial. My apologies to the wonderful people in MK & Driftnet for my non-attendance. It was not for want of trying. You can blame the government, too.

UPDATE @ 16:26

I have just been informed by the web-and-sound wizard that the Imperial Open Mic Night has been abducted by aliens and written into the sub-plot of Coronation Street involving the return of Elsie Tanner (or something like that, I may have mis-read the reason). That means that there are two 23^rds August this year, it's just that one of them is on 13^th September. See you at Millfields, people.

1 Divination by burning laurel leaves.

2 Divination by salt.

3 Divination by watching the movements of mice.

4 A method of divination unaccountably omitted from the otherwise excellent list at moonslipper.com but for which I coin the term cryptoresomancy (lit. "hidden thing divination").

5 The shock was not that of bumping into Jim but that of discovering the singular lack of a second (and necessary) 23^rd August this year. Bumping into Jim is never a shock unless he's carrying a long spear or one of those electric immobiliser thingies.

6 And, believe me, I tried. For minutes.

7 It must be understood that the extra 23^rds August can only be enjoyed by myself and my immediate family. The rest of you must develop your own unfathomable delusions.

Well...

2007-07-27T00:27:00.000+01:00

It's been months since I posted anything here. This hasn't been for want of anything to say nor a want of incident; more an excess of irritations from the world around me that would have turned into rants rather than reasoned writing and incident that is either too personal or too boring to put in context. If I've been missed, here I am again (and damn the sensibilities, I'll probably have a rant anyway).

Terrorists

The whole debate about "terrorist suspects" and their detention has got me rather confused, particularly the term "terrorist suspect" itself. Now, to my simple mind, a "murder suspect" is someone who is suspected of having committed murder, a "robbery suspect" is someone who is suspected of having committed robbery and a "fraud suspect" is someone who is suspected of having committed fraud. It seems, however, that "terrorist suspects" are mostly people who might commit acts of terrorism. Successful suicide bombers are hardly suspects; failed bombers caught with explosives and other means of committing terrorist acts hardly require months of evidence gathering to establish that they are doing something illegal. So we're left with the hangers on (and the supporters and the planners) and the potential terrorists. It's this last group which appear to be the subject of the demands for long periods of detention whilst evidence is gathered.

Why should terrorism be unique in this respect: why shouldn't the same logic be applied to murder, robbery, fraud, speeding and littering? Why shouldn't the police be able to detain someone for as long as it takes to prove that they intended to commit these crimes or were capable of committing these crimes. Since it is extraordinarily difficult to prove intent, we are left with capability or action. Anyone who owns a car is capable of committing a speeding offence; anyone eating an ice-lolly in the street is capable of littering; anyone who has access to a knife is capable of committing murder.

There is an argument that terrorism is somehow different since it involves a belief that the acts will bring about political change, somewhere, somehow. And there are those who will find my argument trivial and pointless (and who will, no doubt, accuse me of supporting terrorism). But, anyway, that's not my main problem with all these anti-terrorism initiatives…

Now, class, what's the point of terrorism? Well done, Jane, exactly: to inspire terror in a population by the threat of indiscriminate violence. And the point of inspiring terror? Yes, John, too true: to cause that population to accept and support changes to their society which make it more controlled, conditioned and conservative; make it more intolerant of difference and diversity. And, of course, that its designed to produce eventual dissatisfaction with the society so that the terrorists' political world-view becomes justified and the society eventually becomes the monster that the terrorists have always said it was. This, of course, neglects the fact that there are terrorists without political ambition who merely enjoy the destabilising effects of their actions.

Well done, class.

Now, ask yourself, how much of the recent response to terrorism falls into the category of more draconian law-making which could, in itself, destabilise society? That's your homework.

Floods

During the 1980s, I accompanied a group of teenagers on an outward bound course on the Yorkshire Moors. One of the exercises involved using their map-reading skills to find their way from one location to another using only a compass and some simple directions. Since I and another tutor were to go with them, we were given a much more detailed description of the route in the interests of safety. We also carried a first-aid kit and some other essentials since the students were told to select what they wanted to take with them and they were bound to forget something important.

The trek proceeded without serious incident except for one lad getting stuck in some mud from which I had to pull him.

It was following this that another student said: "Anyway, we don't have to worry, do we. If anything goes wrong you can sort it out. You've got a radio or something haven't you and can call in a rescue team." This was the mid-1980s, remember: mobile phones were not ubiquitous. The student did not believe that I really did not have a radio and that any extreme emergency would have meant one of the tutors making a rapid hike to the destination and a car-trip to a phone box in order to summon help.

By now you're wondering what all this has to do with floods.

If you are not aware, the UK has suffered some extremely heavy rainfall over the past couple of months and it has dominated the news (and we might come back to that another day).

What has struck me about people's response to the floods is that their attitude is exactly like that student's: they expect magic from the emergency services; they expect planning for every eventuality and that there will always be sufficient resources to cope with any emergency, no matter how large. In particular, I remember one Oxfordshire resident complaining that the emergency services hadn't been able to get through to her. Her locality was cut-off both by the floods and by abandoned vehicles on the roads. Of course, the emergency services have an infinite number of helicopters…

And…

… there's lots of other stuff. But we'll leave it for another time, shall we?

One of those moments

2007-05-11T13:00:00.000+01:00

They happen now and again: if they were not so rare they wouldn't be so special. But, just once in a while, there are moments, induced by some book, film, play or music, which move you to tears or some equally deep emotional response. It's happened to me; I've seen it happen to others.

You know the sort of thing: you see a film for the first time and it captures, beyond expectation, the circumstances of your life; you hear a song which excites and amazes; you read a passage in a book which sums up everything that's important at the time or simply moves you. It is sometimes a particular moment or phrase; at other times it is the tone and manner of the entire experience (often intimately entwined with the company in which you share the experience).

For me, such moments forever engrained in my memory and are shining gems in the otherwise dark caverns of my life. There are songs: Sam Cooke's Darling You Send Me, Shanghai's Solaris (from the Fallen Heroes album; particularly that "I don't know yet…"), Bruce Springtsteen's Jungleland (from the Born To Run album; particularly Clem Clemen's saxophone solo) and The Incredible String Band's Big Huge album. There's Molly Bloom breathing "Yes" and Rick & Elsa parting on the airport tarmac. There's Ophelia bidding "Goodnight, sweet ladies, goodnight" before she vanishes forever. There's Eliot's "Oh you who turn the wheel and look to windward; Consider Phlebus, who was once as tall and as beautiful as you". There's The Big Lebowski and Brother, Where Art Thou?. And Apocalypse Now and Fat City. There's an enamelled purse lid discovered at Sutton Hoo and now resident in the British Museum. There's the Dali's Gospel According To St. John. And Gieger's house in Gruyère. There's waking and seeing Les Dents De Midi at Evian from my bedroom window. There's watching the smiles and sheer talent of all those once hesitant, but now confident, performers who have appeared at the Tap & Spile. I could go on, but won't — I had prepared a long list but omitted the rest because they were too excessive or too personal.

You've all got your own examples: rare, beautiful, precious and unique. But, usually, these little epiphanies of ours happen at a great distance in time and space from the creators of the object or experience.

I, however, have been granted the rare privilege — not often experienced by the creators of such artefacts — of seeing someone so moved by something I did; and I was moved as well. To know that you've moved someone so directly and significantly is directly and significantly moving. My friend had "one of those moments" (soppy beggar was moved to tears) and it has also become one of my moments. I am humble and honoured to have had such an effect. I'm also amazed and shocked that I am capable of such things: cynical old bastard that I am, I presumed myself possessed of an immunity to causing such responses (I found ET manipulative, messianic and moronic; I can't watch the damn thing, I think it so poor and so blundering in its desire to evoke an emotional response). But, this little incident has made up for the hundreds of times I've played songs and felt that no-one was listening, or cared.

The identity of the "soppy beggar" and the song in question are a closely guarded secret, so don't ask.

RSRLS

2007-05-04T11:57:00.000+01:00

Deftly — and quietly — avoiding any explanation for the month-long gap in the mind-expanding content presented here…

I have mentioned the existence of RSRLS before (and elsewhere), but I feel it necessary to amplify [pun? — I think not] my thoughts and experience of this distressing — and common — condition.

What is RSRLS?

The condition known as RSRLS (Recording Studio Red Light Syndrome) afflicts normally competent musical performers when they are placed in a enclosed space near any form of recording equipment and the "record" button is pressed. Usually this entails the illumination of a special light (usually red) indicating that recording is taking place. In such circumstances the musical performer manifests symptoms of extreme incompetence and loses all abilities to operate their chosen musical instrument and string a coherent sentence together. It matters little that the performer is usually comfortable (or, at least, not too uncomfortable) exercising their skill in public, in front of several (or, even, tens of several) people — sometimes, even in front of strangers. It also matters little that the recording environment is opperated solely by themselves or only by friends and supporters. Immediately that light goes on (and, experiments have shown, the light doesn't even have to be visible — or even exist — to the performer for the syndrome to manifest) the performer turns into a lump of gibbering jelly.

What are the symptoms?

The primary symptom of RSRLS is an immediate loss of all the learnt motor skills associated with operating one's chosen musical instrument: a guitar becomes a plank of wood with jangly bits of metal attached; a piano becomes a box filled with strangely shaped wooden effigies; accordions become leather bags attached to screaming insects; and banjos become, well, banjos.

Normally simple actions involving the instrument (such as knowing what it's actually for and knowing how to hold it) become almost impossible, whilst all memory of the tune or song to be recorded flees, seemingly forever, from the performer's mind. If required to sing, the performer will instantly be transformed into a native speaker of gibberish with an incomprehensible regional accent. The performer will, however, be able to play the piece perfectly, once the recording light goes off.

Is there a cure?

The simple answer is "No". The more complicated answer is also nearly "No": "No, but…"; as in "No, but drinking beer whislt recording makes you feel better, even though the end result is still the same". The most complicated answer to this question involves differential equations, quantum mechanics and the vaguely illegal consumption of mind-altering substances, but essentially boils down to "No".

What can you do?

If you want to help RSRLS sufferers, the best thing you can do is buy them a drink in the pub and ask them to talk about something else, because listening to stories about RSRLS can be very, very, very boring.

Friday Night

2007-03-25T17:30:00.000+01:00

…and Friday night took me out to Holton-le-moor for the Acoustic Troubadours night…

How it all began…

The other week at the Tap & Spile's Open Mic, Trev C says to me: "Is Rob coming down tonight?". I replied in the negative, having spent the previous couple of hours with the aforementioned Scottish person. But I proceeded to ask why. Trev explained that Rob was due to perform at a fund-raising gig in Holton-le-moor on Friday 23rd March and Trev wanted to check the details. Now I happened to know that Rob had a gig with his band (The Honey Badgers — not the ones you'll find by a Google search, but that's another story) on that particular evening. Trev muttered words of frustration and said, "I don't suppose you could do it instead?". Pleased to be asked, I affirmed my availability (my other option for that evening being going to The Honey Badgers at The Spider's Web) and a deal was struck.

During the following week, Trev confirmed the arrangement and he was to pick me up on Friday afternoon and take me out to Caistor (where he lives) and thence to the gig and thence to stay the night so we "could have a little drink".

And so…

And so, Friday rolled around and Trev arrived to pick me up at 15:50, dead on time. Pausing in Grimsby to drop off some CDs of Rob performing live at The Spider's Web (part of the "get a new guitar for Rob campaign" — yes, it's that Rob), we headed for Caistor.

The first job was to take Pebbles for a walk; Pebbles being Trev & Angie's collie. The woods around Nettleton were lovely in the late afternoon; it was dry, a little cold, but the skies were clear and blue and not a breath of wind. Pebbles ran and sniffed and generally had a good time; Trev and I walked and nattered, just enjoying the day.

Then back to Trev's and the packing of the car and the getting ready (and the cheese sandwiches).

Angie was now home and there was some small time for catching up, but not a lot. The PA and headline act — Chris Treebeard and Paul Pearson — were coming across from Sheffield and we had to meet up with them at 18:30 to guide them the last half-a-mile or so. All was fine, and we met in the car park of the Salutation Inn at Netteleton as arranged. Then on to the Moot Hall at Holton-le-moor.

The Moot Hall was built around 1910 and is a lovely example of late-Edwardian English rural architecture: predominantly symmetrical without but delightfully idiosyncratic within; mock-Tudor both inside and out, built of brick and wood and possessing a truly wonderful, large open fire. This latter proved to be a focal point on such a cold evening.

The PA was erected and connected with minimum fuss and efficiency (Chris T making the whole process look so easy and uncomplicated that there was no necessity for assistance; indeed if anyone had insisted on lending a hand, it would have slowed the process). The other performers arrived: Jonathan & Phil Norman (young but dangerously talented); Steve Jackson (veteran local performer and music buff); and local hero Donna (great voice). Chris & Paul did their soundcheck and by 20:00 we were all set up and ready to go… …just waiting for the punters to arrive.

I won't review the performances (let alone my own); suffice it to say that it all went off very well and everyone was well received and there were no technical hitches. The mass jam at the end was very enjoyable, for the performers at least. Trev C was there with nearly all the acts, hitting congas, scraping washboards and doing his very best as compère and host; adding sparkle and humour to the evening.

And so to bed…

And then it was all over and we were all tired and emotional (OK, a little inebriated) and full of food. But it was a grand night and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Thanks Trev (and Argie).

PS
If you get the chance to see Chris Treebeard (either solo, in a duo with Paul or in one of his many bands), grab it with open arms: he is a musician of extreme talent, great humour and makes for a wonderful evening.

Announcement - Update

2007-03-25T17:00:00.000+01:00

The fireball xl flynn stuff has all been deleted. Thanks for all the kind messages of support and the attempts to change my mind. This thing needed doing — for my own sanity — and that's it.

If anyone is still desperate for a copy of the songs that were on those sites, please e-mail me (the address is at the top of this page) and I'll send you them.

Thanks.

Announcement

2007-03-21T20:20:00.000Z

ANNOUNCEMENT

My fireball xl flynn MySpace page will be deleted on Sunday 25^th March 2007. At the same time the fireball xl flynn music sites at Beta Records and Showcase Your Music will also be deleted. The music on those sites will be available for download and listening until then — after Sunday, they will no longer be available.

I am taking some time to rethink all the music I make and perform and I no longer think it appropriate to have these sites in existence. Thanks to everyone who has listened to and enjoyed my music and been kind enough to support and encourage me.

woja

An Audience With Audiences

2007-03-17T02:00:00.000Z

The following interviews have been conducted over a number of years by listening to other people's conversations, observing their behaviour and hearing second-hand reports. The actual words are made up.

___________

What do you think of live music in pubs?
Don't mind it, so long as they don't expect me to change my normal habits and be quiet and listen or anything. After all it's my local and I can shout at my mates if I want.

But don't the performers find that distracting?
They should learn to ignore it. Or turn the PA up. But not so loud I can't hear my mates.

___________

Do you listen to the performers?
Not really. They don't play any songs that I know. And if they do they don't play them like the records. Except my mate, he's good. I always listen to him and tell everyone else to shut up and listen. Couldn't give a shit about anyone else.

Why not?
I don't know them. And they're boring. If they were any good they wouldn't be playing in this pub, they'd have a record deal and be playing big stadiums. Or on telly.

But doesn't everyone have to start somewhere?
Yeah, I suppose so. But they're boring. Not like my mate, he does Keane and Cold Play and Oasis and stuff. He sounds great with backing tapes. He should be on X-Factor, he should.

___________

Do you think the audience should be courteous to performers?
What do you mean?

Well, allow them to perform without deliberately trying to distract them, for example
Oh, you mean, like not walking in front of them while they're playing and stuff. That's just a bit of fun. If they can't take it, they shouldn't be doing it.

Do you like live music in pubs?
Yeah, so long as it's just in the background and I can talk about football while it's on. And they let us watch football. And stop the music when the football's on.

___________

What would you say to someone who got upset with the behaviour of an audience?
I tell the to shut the fuck up, it's a public place and I can do what I like.

Do you always behave like that in the pub?
Yeah, when there's people playing music I do.

An why do you do that?
'Cos it winds up the prats who are performing.

___________

Why do you have such loud conversations when other people are performing?
I'm only interested in doing my bit and drinking.

Do you like any of the other performers?
Yeah, some of them. I listen to them, sometimes. And shout jokes at them. It's all part of the fun. The others are just idiots or pretentious prats who don't do stuff I like.

The above are based on real events. I've only added words to make my point. I make no other comment.

Rotten Apples

2007-03-09T02:59:00.000Z

I've never really taken much notice of the damn silly "Operating System Wars" that plague computer journalism (and various other areas of the media): it's always seemed very pointless and a waste of time, effort and trees. There are Apple zealots, Linux zealots and Windows zealots who all behave like religious terrorists on acid. But one curious fact has always struck me…

It's been a truth since the mid-80s that Apple were never going to become the desktop of choice in most major businesses since their developed software base has always been oriented toward the media sector; remember that Adobe began its life as a provider of solely Mac software. And, having seen and used — particularly in the late 1980s and early 1990s — the image-editing and publishing software available on the Mac, I can personally vouch for its superiority to the Windows offerings (things have changed somewhat, but it's still reasonably true).

What has always struck me, however, is that Apple have always been on the receiving end of generally very good press coverage, with little criticism and overwhelmingly favourable comment (violently contrasted with the general treatment of Microsoft). I'd always assumed this was a result of the predominance of Apple products in the industry and the consequent familiarity of journalists with these pieces of software rather than those used in other business sectors.

For example, I have seen only one article critical of the extraordinarily short warranty on the iPod and the various problems which people have had with the battery life and general reliability of the product. Even that report was, overall, supportive of Apple's apparent efforts to correct the problem and slightly dismissive of any criticism of what is portrayed in the media as an innovative and forward looking company which has its customers' desires, wishes and satisfaction at its heart. I've had my suspicions that perhaps they are just another large company who can sway the press somehow, but I've never had anything to pin it on; the reports are that Steve Jobs is a nice guy who just wants to make good products and, in the process, make a dollar or two (yes, they're often flimsy, announced too early and don't work quite as expected initially; but, what the hell, they're nice products).

Now I've discovered a little reported fact…

The fact is that members of the National Union of Journalists get 20% discount on Apple products, and have done for years. If our press was as unbiased as it claims to be and wished us to believe this, I would have thought… …but, of course, I'm expecting too much as usual.

Insider dealing is everywhere and the intricate, soul-destroying, mind-upsetting political games of Elsinore seem positively aromatic in comparison to the behaviour of the fourth estate…

By the way, I get no discount from any software or hardware supplier; I'm not sponsored by anyone. However… I'm always open to large (or, failing that, very large) offers of cash — so long as you don't mind me mentioning the fact in the resulting blog posts.

Letter II

2007-03-02T23:17:00.000Z

Grimsby
2^nd March, 2007

Dear J,

Another month has come and the world doesn't get any saner. Not that I really expected it — not that anyone should seriously expect it. It's probably not less sane, but that's debatable; we'll just have to all struggle on and hope we all get through the experience without too many bruises and as few broken parts as possible. With so many events in the last couple of weeks it's difficult to stay away from commenting on particular events rather than sticking — as I intend — to more general considerations. Please excuse any of my lapses in this regard, sometimes the events of the day do get under my skin.

So, what is it, outside the contents of the news reports, that has got under this bee's bonnet just recently? It would be nice to tie my subject to some, singular object or happening. But this can't always be, so we'll dive right in.

But, perhaps, let's start from the news that the couple who were charged with poisoning their foster-child with salt have had their convictions overturned. One phrase in particular has stuck in my mind from the reports, the wife's comment that "the case will be decided by 12 people who don't really know us". Her point seemed to be that, if the jury really knew them, then all this evidence stuff would be unnecessary; that facts were far less important than the personality of the people involved. Such attitudes appear to be more and more common these days: that guilt or innocence could be more swiftly determined by simply knowing the people concerned better; that people who are "nice" don't commit crimes, only "nasty" people do.

I've found this attitude in many guises. One of the favourite protestations against the being prosecuted for exceeding the speed limit is that the police should be "catching real criminals". A further manifestation is the idea that the police always know who committed a given crime but are prevented by manipulative, greedy and immoral defence lawyers. And, there's the idea that I've heard expressed that the police should "have let me off, because it's not as if I do it all the time".

I'm very, very worried about the growth of this idea. Justice is seen as simply a matter of catching — and punishing — all the bad guys, no matter what, It doesn't matter how you get them, so long as you get them. But, on the other side of the coin, people seem to expect the police to accept a smile and a "nice" demeanour as sufficient evidence against their involvement. It seems to me that there is a widespread belief that spotting the guilty is blindingly obvious and we shouldn't have to prove it particularly rigorously — but that doesn't apply to me, of course, because I'm a generally nice person.

We may be moving into an age where the process of justice is no longer a matter of proof but one of vague supposition; where the very fact that you are the sort of person who might have committed the crime is enough to get you imprisoned for it. And lawyers: all they're good for is corporate, business law.

I suppose it's a matter of debate whether the world wants to be like this. It's probably also not for me to stop it if that's the way it wants to go. But such resignation to the inevitability of the rise of the selfish state, doesn't — and can't — make me like it.

Take care, love,

woja

Rob L's Guitar - Follow Up

2007-02-20T21:33:00.000Z

There's a project afoot to raise money to help Rob L get a new guitar. Rather than repeat all the details here, go to RoadCrew PA Hire or Provincial Music for more information.

Just another day...

2007-02-16T01:25:00.000Z

To Tina's last evening, invited to join Rob L in having a threesome sing-a-long. Just an evening of song and chat — et le chat est Lily (sort of translinguistic pun there, folks). Tina's had a cold — bad one — for a while and hasn't done any singing. I haven't been round for a while, haven't seen Rob, either.

It's a cold night when I venture out, some wind but dry. The sky looks like the threat of a storm without any vicious intent: a sort of fluffy-pillow Hannibal Lecture who works for Shelter. It's nice to be going out, visiting someone, being part of something.

I arrive first — a-ah — and catch up on news with Tina until the Scottish one appears. We haggle about who is going out for the beer and Rob looses and volunteers. There also happens to be a bottle of Pimm's N^o1 premixed with lemonade — left over from Burn's Night when Tina's sister brought it round — which Tina and I tuck into whilst Rob is engaged in beer procurement. Yes, it's a summer drink and this is a cold February evening, but it's refreshing and available.

We drink the Pimm's with ice, naturally. It tastes like a slightly bitter lemonade, belying the 5.4% alcohol content. Anyway, at a stretch, it's a fruit based drink and can be regarded as healthy — one of our "five-a-day", perhaps. Rob returns and we all light up a cigarette (terrible habit, but someone's got to do it). On the stereo we have Buffy Saint Marie, Helian Keys and Lily Allen over the evening. On guitars, me and Rob; on voice, all three of us.

The songs range over our own stuff, Tom Paxton, The Kinks, etc., etc. and we have a good time. I know I've moaned (on and on) on my MySpace Blog about how badly I've been performing recently, but I surprise myself by being quite reasonable this evening. Perhaps it's something to do with the beer; perhaps it's because tonight was impromptu, arranged at the last minute. Who knows?

We drink beer, we sing songs, we tell bad jokes and laugh at them. We have a convivial and social evening. We relax. All those silly cares about the pressures of life are far away. Rob plays some lovely lead guitar on Parrish Counsel (the one about my dad, for those who've heard it) — feel a bit more part of the world for that.

Eventually, the evening wraps itself away in our mutual tiredness and Rob and I take our leave to walk to our respective beds through a chill, slicing, icy rain. I don't envy Rob his much longer journey. Sometimes, the world can be a lovely place.

Letter I

2007-02-14T20:48:00.000Z

Grimsby
14^th February, 2007

Dear J,

Well, the year is already a month-and-a-half old and I haven't written for quite a while. I thought it was time I gave you some more of my usual advice — as usual, it's just me trying to pass on some of the things that I think I've learnt in the half-a-century I've been on this planet; take it or leave it, it's up to you. I'm not here to tell you what to think, just to warn you about the strange ways of some of the other inhabitants of the Earth; most of them aren't bad people but they can get caught up in some weird and wacky behaviour.

You might have seen the recent advertisements on TV encouraging you to "talk to Frank" about drugs; in particular the one about the brain shop and the effects of stronger strains of marijuana on that part of the body. What I want to talk to you about is something else which is coming in stronger strains and can affect you brain in a subtly destructive manner. It is everywhere and it is quite legally delivered to children from the earliest age. It is even widely distributed in schools with the explicit financial support of the government. The pushers of this product are welcomed by all levels of society and are encouraged to carry out their indoctrination of minors into the use of this product not only without criticism but with active consent. The pushers prey upon the most defenceless in our society: children; the emotionally scarred; the poor and the weak.

There are some people who would claim that this product is neither harmful nor pernicious; that it is beneficial — and necessary — to a healthy and fulfilling human life. However, this product is behind much of the violence and intolerance inherent in modern society. It supports the exclusion of non-participants and attempts to impose its will on all levels through legislation, political influence and emotional blackmail and bribery. If teachers were found to be promoting specific political ideologies with the same force and support with which they deliver this product, there would be uproar and they would be sacked on the spot. If casinos were to be opened in schools, the country would revolt. If marijuana was forced upon children in the same manner as this product, the promoters would be arrested and pilloried. And yet, if one portrays this product in anything other than a reverent manner one risks censorship, at best, and prosecution, at worst. Making jokes about it is, of course, thoroughly reprehensible; especially if you do not subscribe to the product itself. One is forced to tolerate it, even though it, in itself, is intolerant.

What, I can hear you asking, is this appalling product which is so available and approved within our so-called caring society? What is this thing that is so dangerous and yet so approved of? What could be so harmful and yet so adored that it is considered not only safe but also desirable to be inflicted upon children.

Quite simply, my dear, it is religion. It is illegal to teach a particular set of political beliefs to school children and yet we have schools that are allowed — nay, encouraged — to teach a single religious belief. And this belief is allowed to encourage intolerance and discrimination, divisive manipulation of adherents and promises of reward without quoting the odds. The promoters of religion are allowed to use techniques of persuasion which would be pounced upon by the media if they were used by business; they are legally immune from sane, rational or logical appraisal and can claim special status in the hearts and minds of legislators and administrators; they can question the evidence of science without the necessity of argument but are free to campaign against science using supposed evidence which they refuse to allow to be questioned.

I wouldn't want you to mistake religion for faith. Faith is, quite simply — to quote a source I have been unable to locate — a belief in something you haven't seen yet. My faith in the existence of the Great Pyramid at Giza is like that: one day I'll see it, probably; and there is plenty of non-circumstantial evidence which has no recourse to singular, unverifiable sources that my faith is justified. I can't see any problem, either, in a personal faith in some sort of supreme being. But the sheer audacity, pomposity and arrogance of insisting that this faith is required by anyone else — and inflicted on those without the capacity to assess the evidence — I find as reprehensible and disgusting as the selling of hallucinogenic drugs to minors.

The scariest thing is, of course, that most of the people attempting to deliver religion to the masses think they are doing the right and proper thing and that they are, aside from this flaw, quite nice and decent people. They're not driven by any evil intent but simply seem to have had their brains fried by this strong and dangerous drug. Beware their plausibility and directness, their apparent honesty and certain sincerity — they are out to get you hooked as well.

The world is complex and beautiful enough to excite the mind and the passions without introducing an unprovable mythology to explain it. Your journey through it will be a thrilling roller-coaster without the necessity of the artificial stimulation of religion. Avoid this addiction at all costs.

When you friends and mentors speak glowingly of religion, question it. It is not a path you want to follow; you will become a vegetable spouting the words and messages of others, driven by and ever greater need to fulfil the craving for the righteous way. Don't shout; don't proclaim; don't hate; but do reject.

So, that's my advice for now. Whenever you see those anti-drug advertisements on TV, remember that the same warnings apply to religion, too. And when you've learnt a little more about life and the human body, you'll find that drugs have not inflicted as much pain, suffering and death as religion and they are relatively harmless in comparison.

Take care, love,

woja

Hi China

2007-02-11T22:49:00.000Z

One of the many widgets I have attached to this blog not only counts the number of visitors it has but also where they come from. Last week Provincial Letters had a sudden influx of visitors from China — on 6^th/7^th February there were 19 visitors from Chinese servers. It not only happened to me, Beth's Blog has noticed the same phenomenon.

Now, the Chinese government are notoriously vigilant in their monitoring and censorship of internet access (with the complicity of the large international content and service providers) and I wonder what happened. Given the brief period over which the visits happened I wonder if either (a) the political firewalls all went down at once or (b) the operators of the political firewalls suddenly conceived a desire to monitor the content of mine and Beth's blogs. It could be the start of a new conspiracy theory. I'm sure my regular readers will be able to fill in the details.

Post Scriptum

Thanks for all the nice comments about the photographs in my previous post. I'm pleased you enjoyed them as much as I enjoyed taking them.
Oh, and I came across the photograph to right on Bits & Pieces and it made me giggle.

Alexandra Dock Sunset

2007-02-06T21:00:00.000Z

It was cold, frosty cold; chilled air with no trace of wind. The sun was orange on the skyline, bright in the steel-blue winter air. Just a short walk over Corporation Bridge, watching the water — a still high tide — and taking photographs as the mood took me. Feeling moderately pleased with myself as at least two of the tunes I've been working with seemed to have crystallised into workable songs. Not exactly the most cheery of songs, but the achievement is in the completion; only time — and an audience — will pass judgement on their quality. Damn it, I know that, in the end, it'll be me who judges them the most harshly.

The bridge — a memorial to the dock's busier days — rises in mechanical splendour; more solid than the memories, real and imagined, that it invokes. Once, this dock echoed to Slavic voices, bringing timber from northern Russia. Once, this dock was a place of industry rather than retail, a place closer to making; a place for content rather than form and fashion. All too easy to dream when there's no conversation and when people, tight and safe and warm in their little cars, are detached from the crisp atmosphere of this fading February day. All too easy to wax lyrical — with consequent verbal effluvium — when all the world is boxed and hidden.

A rare encounter with a stranger: he stops and asks if I'm looking for the diver. I mumble. He says there was a diver in the dock earlier. I wonder if he means a human or a bird, but don't press the question and let him walk on, leaving me unenlightened. Bundled against the cold, the other pedestrians glance at me — mobile phone in hand — snapping the sights of the late afternoon. Too polite to question; too curious not to sneak a glance. A group of young lads comes towards me, boistrous and chirpy. I'm ashamed to say my first reaction is fear: remembering that encounter last year when I had my phone stolen and got a clout in the face for standing up to another group of teenage boys. But my shame is enough to calm me and I smile as they pass. Note to self: the world — and the behaviour of people in it — is better than you imagine.

Walking on, I think of going for a beer; just think, my pockets lack the wherewithal for such an adventure today. Content myself with a small purchase of crumpets for tea. Rehearse the lyrics to my new songs in my head, as many lines as I can remember. I'm determined to dispense with sheets of words in front of me when I take them out in public for the first time. It's far too easy to leave this chore lying in the "to-do" list and then becoming dependent on those printed and hand-written sheets. Surely I can't have exhausted my brain's long-term memory capacity just yet.

Now I start to worry again about the shabbiness of my recent public guitar playing. Sitting alone I am — reasonably — competent with the mechanics and the sound satisfying to my biased ears. Sitting or standing in public, my fingers not so much have a mind of their own as become detached from the control of any mind whatsoever and disappear on their own, unique intergalactic trip to planet Incompetence. The little monster on my shoulder calls out "this is the bit you always cock up, bet you do it again". And, sure enough, I do:

The memories come back to haunt me
They haunt me like a curse
Is a dream a lie if it don't come true?
Or is it something worse?

Bruce Springsteen; The River

And now the gremlins get busy in my psyche again: this is all a bit like your life, ain't it? But sod self-pity for a game of soldiers — for today, anyway — remember what you have accomplished in the past few days.

And, looking at the photographs, I remember the gorgeous thrill of the outdoor air, cold as it was, and the pure joy of seeing the hard light of the sun in that pure blue sky. It was a short walk through a short winter day, but it made the day. Sitting at the computer, warm and full of crumpets and tea, I feel less fragile. That seems to be enough for now.

In the end it's all academic really. I've had a reasonable day: a little conversation, a brief but beautiful walk and some lyrics. On the grand scale of things it doesn't amount to much but it made my day — it was my day. Also managed to take some photographs and string together a few words to help me remember it.

Now the day's over, I'm still wishing for a beer and a bit of, possibly loud and trivial, company. But that'll have to wait for another day when the ancient gods finally make a re-appearance. I'll be content with TV — A Knight's Tale is on Film4 later — and tea and some guitar practice (and a cigarette or three). Must make some effort to record some of my songs for that album I've been threatening everyone with for the past few years. Really must. That would be an achievement.

Ahh, memory: somewhere in the back of my cobwebbed memory there's some fragments of Eliot. Give me a moment with Google...

That's it, "and then the lighting of the lamps"...

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.

T S Eliot; Preludes I

You can always trust in Eliot for an apposite quotation.

Poker, Golf & Madonna

2007-02-01T19:50:00.000Z

There appears, at first sight, little to connect the three subjects listed in the title of this post. But this is an optical illusion. These three share many common features, which this brief note will attempt to elucidate. My thoughts began with the first two items.

I've written about golf, before, and this is not the time — nor, if the truth be known, the place — to supplement those earlier observations, not the least reason being the utter tedium of even thinking about golf. Poker shares many of the features of golf: inordinate quantities of TV broadcast time are devoted to it; the practitioners are pompous and snobbish concerning their pastime; and it serves little or no sane purpose other than occupying minds which would be otherwise dormant.

It was whilst I was considering these concordances of spirit between these two monsters of modern life that I was nagged by the remembrance of at least one other subject which displayed the same features. Naturally, Ricky Gervais sprang to mind, particularly with regard to all being overrated clap-trap. However, Gervais is not strictly the same as golf or poker since he is incapable of occupying the mind in any capacity whatsoever. True, he does involve the mind-numbing repetition of otherwise mundane actions, but this is not enough.

No, dear reader, it was necessary to look further afield: what was it that consumed its adherents to the level of obsession? What was it that managed to mutate its disciples into evangelists for some supposed life-affirming philosophy which involves thousands and thousands of images and words which are simply the same thing repeated over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again and again and again and again... ...I think my meaning is clear.

A then, inspiration struck: of course, that sub-talent Madonna; that over-blown excuse for a singer who serves absolutely no function whatsoever. Since she was forced down our throats in the 1980's she has repeatedly failed to produce any work of any worth whatsoever, but the music critics and cultural commentators still fawn over her as if she were the personification of some truly supreme orgasm. She is, of course, extremely dull and ordinary but possesses a good PR department and a gullible public.

Madonna shares with golf and poker, the undoubted privilege of being things we would not miss if they vanished from the Earth forever; to be sure, they are things we wouldn't bother to invent if they didn't already exist. When I think about it, I realise the world would be no different without these three items — except of course for the lack of bores obsessing about their significance, greatness and all-round wonderfulness.

Sometimes I want to become one of those old-time mad scientists who invent machines from unlikely components which perform srtunning and amazing alterations in reality. My patent PGM-Remover would be a great hit.

351 Years

2007-01-23T20:50:00.000Z

Far from the mad crowds of the city, Blaise Pascal passed comment on the strange behaviour of this urban contemporaries in his Provincial Letters. The connection between them and this blog is somewhat tenuous.

So I wrote as the description of this blog when I started it, just over 2 years ago; however, it was 351 years ago today that the inspiration for the title — if not the tone of the content — of this blog first appeared. It begins:

Paris, January 23, 1656
SIR,
We were entirely mistaken. It was only yesterday that I was undeceived. Until that time I had laboured under the impression that the disputes in the Sorbonne were vastly important, and deeply affected the interests of religion. The frequent convocations of an assembly so illustrious as that of the Theological Faculty of Paris, attended by so many extraordinary and unprecedented circumstances, led one to form such high expectations that it was impossible to help coming to the conclusion that the subject was most extraordinary. You will be greatly surprised, however, when you learn from the following account the issue of this grand demonstration, which, having made myself perfectly master of the subject, I shall be able to tell you in very few words.

Blaise Pascal; Provincial Letter I

His basic observation is that seemingly illustrious and important organisations are often obsessed by the mundane, trivial and ridiculous. How things have changed.

You could do worse than read some of his letters — you may need some historical clues to get the fine nuances — as a celebration of this day. They're all available on-line at Oregon State University, amongst other places.

Raise a glass to M. Pascal and celebrate the Provincial over the Metropolitan — these people in the big cities think themselves so important.

I had intended to celebrate the occasion with an updated version of Provincial Letter I but I find that I am incapable of achieving the correct tone or sufficient expertise with prose. But, we cannot let the event pass unnoticed or unrecognised.

PS
It is probably timely to extend my apologies to all those serious students of the Provincial Letters who find this site through Google searches and wonder if it's at all relevant to their subject. I wish it could be.

Lies, Damned Lies & Advertising

2007-01-21T18:46:00.000Z

There's currently an advertisement on British TV for some optician service or other — I can't be bothered to remember which — which claims our eyes process "more than 24 million images in our lifetimes" (or words to that effect). This afternoon, for some reason or other, I wondered what that meant. So I did a little calculation.

Let's assume that the average human life is 70 years and that a year is exactly 365 days long. This equates (do the arithmetic!) to 36,792,000 minutes of life. Therefore, the advertisement claims our eyes only process one image approximately every 1½ minutes. This seems a little slow and implies we must have our eyes shut most of the time.

The advertisement doesn't say that we remember more that 24 million images, just that our eyes process them. It appears that the advertisement says our eyes are limited to processing one image every 90 seconds. Now, think, most films display images at the rate of 24 frames per second, which — taken together with the advertiser's claim — implies that our eyes only process one in 2,160 frames whilst watching a film. Is this credible?

Consequently, it seems obvious that the advertiser's claim is strictly correct: our eyes do process more than 24 million images in our lifetime. But how many more? Ten more? A hundred more? A thousand more? A million more?

Firstly, we need to know how fast the human eye works, how many images per second it can process. The answer to this question is not simple and a full discussion can be found at 100fps.com (which is very worthwhile reading). As this excellent article points out, it's not simply a case of asking how fast the individual receptor cells (rods and cones) of the eye work, since the eye is a complex of these cells and they work together to process the image.

Tests with Air Force pilots have shown that for very bright images — images flashed onto a black background in a dark room — the human eye (together with the human brain) can recognise images of less than 0.005 seconds duration. That's a frame rate of 200 per second. Other considerations show that our perception of some sort of flashing only goes away when the frame rate exceeds 500 per second. That would equate to one image every 0.002 seconds. But that's the extreme.

Let's be very conservative about this and only assume that our eyes can achieve a resolution of one image every 0.01 seconds (a frame rate of 100 per second). This would mean our eyes would process 220,752,000,000 images in a 70 year lifetime. That's over 220 billion images. Yes, it's "more than 24 million". By a factor of approximately 10,000. And, consider, if we were to take the extreme value of 500 frames per second, the total would be five times larger — over a trillion images (and, it's worth remembering, this is the cognitive processing of the eye plus brain system, not that of the — mechanical — eye alone, which is likely to be larger).

Now let's complete the sums. The claim was "more than 24 million images in a lifetime". How many more? Conservatively, 220,728,000,000 more. One feels that the advertiser should really claim "more than 200 billion images in a lifetime" — that would be just a little more realistic and truthful, wouldn't it?

Imagine you and I are looking at a field of cows and you ask me how many there are. Let's say there's 50 cows in the field. What would be your reaction if I said there were "more than 5" cows in the field? You might well consider me a little strange or deranged. And that answer's only a factor of 10 less than the real number, only 10% of the true value. The advertiser's claim is 0.01% of the true value. Yes, I admit, their claim is not false, but it's certainly misleading; and, in the circumstances — considering it took me a little over an hour to research and write this post, considerably less than the production time for a TV advertisement — a damned lie.

Correction Note: Forgot Something

As, Seany has so excellently pointed out, the above calculations assumed we are awake all the time. Assuming we sleep for one-third of our lives, the total images now becomes only 165,564,000,000 which is only 6,898.5 times the quoted figure. And, to recalculate the remaining figures: the actual number is only 165,540,000,000 more than 24,000,000; 24,000,000 is still about 0.01% of 165,564,000,000. Oh, and the quoted 24,000,000 equates to, approximately, 1 image per minute (which would mean we only see one frame of a film in every 1,440 frames). Hope that clears it up.

And, to clear up the "blink" factor that Seany mentions in his comment, we would have to blink at an astonishing rate to bring down these figures in any significant quantity.

Anonymous Comments

2007-01-17T18:57:00.000Z

Recently, there have been a couple of anonymous comments (see "Headlines 2014 III" and "International News - Special Edition") to posts on this blog. These are really anonymous because the author hasn't bothered to sign their name, as most commentators do when posting comments uses the [Anonymous] option. These comments seem to be making some sort of anti-Darwinian, pro-Bush points (there's a remote possibility that the comments are intended to be humorous — for some strange value of "humour" — and I've missed the subtlety). It's not the opinions I object to so much as the cowardice of refusing to be identified (even so far as to be using an anonymous server — based in the US — with an IP address like 74.34.51.?).

I originally thought I'd threaten some sort of gratuitous censorship and henceforth ban all such posts (and delete them), but I really can't see the point: this would involve me making an effort. Quite honestly, I can't be bothered. Perhaps, if the author can be bothered to rectify the blatant anonymity, I will be bothered to indulge in a dialogue on the subject.

Apology

2007-01-15T17:44:00.000Z

Apologies to anyone who accidentally caught the pile of dingo's kidneys that I posted yesterday. The offending stream of self-pitying crap has been removed and normal service will be resumed soon.

Headlines 2014 III

2007-01-12T00:14:00.000Z

The saga continues...

THE MOST SUCCESSFUL CONSUMER CAMPAIGN EVER

With the government's announcement of new regulations on the contents of food, the NOCHEM organisation has claimed victory for "the humble consumer over the power of agribusiness and the food processing industry". The new regulations will require food manufacturers to remove all chemicals from food by 2020. NOCHEM has described the victory as a success for "the greatest consumer campaign ever".

From humble beginnings on — some would say — the lunatic fringe of political campaigning, NOCHEM has finally convinced the consumer that any chemical is bad for human beings. By convincing the man in the street that the claims by its detractors that "everything is made of chemicals so removing them from food would leave nothing" were just the special pleasing of materialists supporting outdated 19^th Century scientific theories. As NOCHEM says, "They were just theories. Chemicals may seem to be everywhere, but they don't provide the nutrition in food. Nutrition is an innate, spiritual property of the universe. It doesn't need chemicals. Removing all the chemicals from food can only benefit the human race, not the least by making food easy to digest."

NOCHEM's strategy of encouraging hunger strikes outside supermarkets is believed to be a major factor in their success. The organisation's president, the 27-stone Gimme Cash — who has unselfishly consumed ordinary foods for many years in order to demonstrate how bad they are — paid tribute to these grass-root campaigners: "Their sacrifice will not be in vain. Their example has demonstrated that people can live for several weeks without chemicals in their food."

LIVE AMMUNITION IS "NOT UNFAIR"

As the Glorious 21^st approaches and serious, healthy citizens prepare their annual assaults on smokers, the Law Lords have ruled that it is "nor unfair" to use live ammunition against smokers. The judgement continued, "if smokers happen to get in the way of the live bullets fired in celebration by non-smokers, that is just an accident. After all, smokers are horrible human beings who introduce horrible chemicals into the air."

In related news, the government has announced that the benzene released by internal combustion engines is "substantially different" from that released by cigarette smoke and "only causes nice cancers".

IMMIGRATION & POVERTY PROBLEMS SOLVED

In a speech to the approved members of the General Assembly of the United Nations (USA, UK & France (on Fridays only)), the Secretary General, George W Bush, announced that he had solved the two major problems of the world: poor people in the USA and economic migrants. "Poverty in the USA has been solved by expelling all poor people from the country. In future, only rich people will be allowed to live there."

The problem of immigration was also solved in a radical, simple manner. "The problem," he said, "is that everyone wants to live in rich successful places. In particular, everyone wants to live in California. The solution is to rename the planet California so that everyone already lives there. In that way, no-one will need to live any where else."

LATE NEWS: HOME OFFICE UPDATE THE POLICE

The Home Office has announced a complete overhaul of policing in the UK. In future, they will concentrate their efforts on real criminals, ignoring innocent people. This is regraded as a revolutionary change in policing methods in the UK: until now the police have spent much of the time trying to find the people who carried out crimes and assembling the evidence. "Effective immediately," a Home Office spokesperson announced, "the police will concentrate on criminals. It is well known that crimes are committed by these sorts of people and not by innocent ones. Ordinary, innocent citizens now only have to inform police that they aren't criminals and they will be automatically eliminated from the enquiries."

The new regime was welcomed by various consumer organisations: "Innocent motorists who exceed the speed limit for their own, personal reasons will no longer be branded criminals. Shooting annoying pets belonging to neighbours will not now be regarded as a cause for arrest. And we'll all be able to murder anyone who breaks into our houses. Just as long as they keep arresting smokers."

Rob L's Guitar

2007-01-04T13:43:00.000Z

Over Christmas, some low form of life broke into my friend's place and made off with — amongst other things — his guitar. Words fail me — at least words that are not profane and offensive to some. I will not dwell on the disgusting habits of the sort of people who would steal the prize possessions of someone who doesn't have very much to start with. Having suffered a similar invasion a couple of years ago, I feel for Rob.

The pictures on this post are of Rob's guitar. If you live in the Grimsby area and see someone with it, let me know (the e-mail address is at the top of the blog) and then let the person know what a scumbag they are.

If you are the scumbag who did this, then I hope you suffer a lot of pain in the near future. This guitar has been at the centre of Rob's life for the last 12 years, losing it is like losing a limb or a loved one.

A Project For 2007 - Update

2007-01-03T03:11:00.000Z

In answer to several questions which have been raised in private regarding this project, let me assure you that Madonna continues to be ignored forever and the ignoring of Cruise, Gibson & Gervaise should not detract from this.

Under the terms of the project, you should not, of course, read this post until the end of 2007.

International News - Special Edition

2006-12-30T20:03:00.000Z

Today, in a far desert land, a man was hung by the neck until he was dead. The man was guilty of many crimes including hanging his political opponents by the neck until they were dead. He was a bad man for doing this. The West, for all its posturing and hand-washing, is good for doing the same. Such is the lesson of the day.

The man would have been able to live out his natural life if he'd been called Augusto Pinochet or Manuel Noriega: and he would have received ample funds and support from the West to ~~carry out executions~~ stay in power.

Well, what a lovely start to the New Year. Makes us all so pure and clean and free from any stain of sin.

There may be a minuscule quantity of sarcasm in the above which the astute reader will be able to spot with sufficient assiduousness.

A Project For 2007

2006-12-28T23:24:00.000Z

I've mentioned Tom Cruise & Mel Gibson before in these musings. It has become apparent that even the sort of negative comments that I (and others) have come out with in the past
This picture is of Lily the cat sat on my lap; it has nothing to do with this posting. It's much nicer to think of Lily than of Tom Cruise or Mel Gibson.year, act only to prolong the agony. These two beings are the very antithesis of the phrase "normal human being". They seem to spend far too long in the news, in the films, in the world. They are not only irritating, they are unnecessary.

So, I propose a project for us all to follow for 2007: ignore and boycott them completely. And I this should apply even to this blog: you should only read this posting in 2006 and 2008, you may not read it in 2007.

Some of the necessary actions are:

Put every copy of every film featuring them (on any medium) in a box and hide it somewhere that you won't remember.
Do not attend any presentations of their films.
Ignore all documentaries, news items and films of theirs shown on TV.
Burn any pages in your daily newspapers which feature them.
Report anyone on the internet discussing them (positively or negatively) for offensive content.
Try and forget their names altogether.

Come on chaps & chapesses, let's make 2007 Tom Cruise & Mel Gibson free!

PS

This blog will also be extending the boycott to Ricky Gervais.

Music for the ears of the discerning

2006-12-26T05:15:00.000Z

I've put up a lot a links about my music recently. Sitting here after a lovely Christmas Day (thanks to Mark W (and his mother, Pauline), Tina, Ian O and Rob L), I've been drinking whisky and listening to stuff on MySpace by my friends & family and I thought I'd give them all a plug. Rather than introduce favourites, I've listed them in alphabetical order (links are on both the images and the names). When you've got the time, take the time and listen. And enjoy.

Adrian Byron Burns
Adrian played at the Tap & Spile on my 50^th birthday (for which, I am immensely grateful and, of which, I am immensely proud). It wasn't the first time he'd been to Grimsby, but it was the first time I'd heard him. He is a great bear of a man, with warm generosity and a quiet humour — originally from Washington, DC, USA — who now lives in Hull. He is a wonderful performer, a brilliant musician and a really nice guy.

Claude Bourbon
Claude is superb. I remember hearing him play Ravel's Bolero alone on the guitar at the Tap & Spile and being zapped into another world. I remember a certain keyboard and accordion player deciding that, after hearing Claude, guitar players did have their points. Claude spent some time in Lausanne, Switzerland, where I worked for a time; we talk about this connection from time to time. A quiet, unassuming man who plays excellent guitar (even if he does use strange tunings and inspires Rob L to mess about with such things). Merci, Claude, pour ta musique.

fingers flynn
Fingers is, I'm proud to say, my brother. He's the only reason I ever picked up a guitar in the first place (so you can all blame him when I make a rotten noise). He (sort of) forced me to play bass riffs sometime, a long, long time ago. And then I began to get the hang of it... ...eventually, a bit. Everything from blues to rock, played with consummate skill. Lives in London, but that's his only fault.

Helian Keys
Ian and Helen make music like no-one else. Helen tinkles away on the ivories rather well (that's a complement for which I expect no retribution, Helen) and Ian delivers a rock/folk vocal of immense power. Watching them perform live (particularly Chimes At Midnight which, for some unaccountable reason, they haven't recorded for mass listening) is a pure delight. People I'm proud and humble to call friends.

Honeysuckle
Simon & Sue are a husband and wife team — one of two such pairings featured here (see The Twanglers, below). Their voices pair as well as their lives and they deliver beautiful tunes. Simon seems to have suffered little from his stint with Broadsword (sorry, Fil, just a joke). When I first met these guys they were a nervous couple at the Tap's acoustic nights. Now? Well, they've come a long way.

Meltdown
Another family member. My nephew, Jean-Luc — my sister, Shirley C's, youngest — is the drummer. Yes, I know, we've got a drummer in the family, but that's the sort of black sheep every family has to live with (only joking Jelly, honest). Well, it's better than having a bass player (heh, heh, giggle, giggle, Mark). These guys are all in their early teens but sound like they've been playing since the birth of rock 'n' roll. I'm very jealous. And very happy for them. And very proud.

Silence
Silence is, mostly, my nephew, George (son of fingers flynn). George is the youngest singer/songwriter/guitarist featured here, but he is somewhat advanced in his years in this regard. He's got time to bloom that others, such as I, have not. Just listen without prejudice, as they say. Worth more than 10 minutes of your time.

Si Nicholls (and Boddington)
Si travels and performs with his guitar and his dog, Boddington. Si wouldn't deny that the dog is the real star of the show. Except for the bits where Si is a really good guitarist and entertaining performer. But, in the end, it's Boddy who pulls in the crowds. Except for the bits where Si makes you laugh and tap your feet and marvel at his talents. [Is this OK, Si? Do I get a backstage pass next time? Boddy, sorry I had to say those nice things about Si, but he does have the speaking voice after all.]

The Twanglers
The other husband and wife team. Jen is lovely and plays whistle and sings much, much better than she believes. But what do I say about Tim that I haven't said to his face with added profanity? Two years ago, Tim was a nervous performer who didn't think that anyone wanted to hear hin play guitar, let alone listen to his songs. He is now a confident and assured performer, writing songs to make you smile and tear your heart strings. His guitar playing's come a long way, too. But, his sense of direction and appreciation of the subtleties of geography are still appalling.

I'm sorry I couldn't include more people here but quite a number of my musical friends have either neglected to set up a MySpace account or haven't got around to uploading any music. When they do, we'll have another edition of this series.

Oh, and finally, I'd like to thank Beth in Ohio for the lovely Christmas E-Card, the nice comments about my songs, her "BS blog" (her words — excuse me, Beth) and the, slightly, more serious "In The Details"; my regular readers will find regular visits to both sites worth their while.

Season's Greeting To All Our Readers

2006-12-23T21:16:00.000Z

"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst"
Are full of passionate intensity.

W B Yeats; The Second Coming

And...
...for those interested, I've recorded a version of my song "the ballad of fergus flynn" (which I've played at various acoustic sessions and open mic. nights over the past year). This will be available only for the festive season. Cheers!

Sorry, peoples, the song is now no longer available. The festive season is over.

International News I

2006-12-19T23:55:00.000Z

This is a new excursion for this blog, which has usually consigned its view to the domestic, even the parochial (but certainly the provincial). This has had nothing to do with any restricted vision on behalf of the author, it's just that the international scene is a bit further away and there's loads of stuff going on in the space in between. Especially ludicrous behaviour. Anyway, in the spirit of the season, let's expand our horizons and consider the world outside. Well, as far as the USA, anyway.

George W Bush Makes Embarrassing Gaffe

And nobody is in the least surprised.

Iraq Government Overthrown: Country In A Mess

Forces led by the US, invaded Iraq and brought down the government. Once this was done they realised that they didn't know what to do next. After playing a fruitless game of "Hunt the weapons of mass destruction" for a while, they decided that a new government might be a good idea. In the meantime, the country was totally destabilised and sunk into civil war. This is known as "Building Democracy In Iraq".

It was expected by many that simply capturing and hanging Saddam Hussain would solve all Iraq's problems, but this has proven not to be the case. Political leaders in the West have now decided that all the remaining problems are the Iraqis' own fault and they should be left to get on with killing each other.

Nice Person Wants To Be President

You can hear some of the Daily Show interview and read about it at the Huffington Post: Who Needs "Meet The Press?" Tom Vilsack Has "The Daily Show".The Governor of Iowa, Tom Vilsack (Democrat), has announced his candidacy for the presidency of the USA in the 2008 election. In a recent appearance on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart (broadcast in the UK on More4 on 19/12/2006), he came across as a nice person with a sense of humour who had a good grasp of the international situation. He was pleasant without being over-fawning and seemed at ease making fun of both politics and himself.

He has no chance.

Postscript (1 hour later)

Al Gore — should he stand (and, to hear an argument in favour of this, go here) — would suffer from the same problem. He is intelligent and articulate and apparently free from the overbearing constraints of big business and partisan politics. He has a sense of humour. He is pleasant and amusing. He talks in proper sentences. He is prepared to explain the processes of government. With the example of the last two US presidential elections where the electorate fell behind a person with almost exactly opposite attributes, I can't see Gore getting there.

Maybe the US electorate will take pleasure in proving my cynicism unfounded.

Teleportation Made Easy

2006-12-18T16:40:00.000Z

It is with a complete lack of modesty that I announce that I have discovered a safe and easy method of teleportation; from now on human beings will be able to move from one place to another instantaneously without any memory of an intervening journey. Whilst there are, as will be explained, certain side-effects to the process at the present time, they should not be insurmountable. In keeping with my belief that certain discoveries are of such import to the human race, I give this knowledge freely to the world without expecting or demanding any reward (apart from vast quantities of cash).

If anyone would doubt the truth of my discovery, I would like to present my first-hand evidence for this momentous process. Those who know me will be aware that I am not prone to sensational pronouncements or exaggerated claims. My evidence is unencumbered by any emotional attachment to my own part in the discovery of this phenomenon.

The first teleportation of a human being happened in the early hours of Sunday morning (it is proposed that 17^th December become "Teleportation Day", recognised as a holiday throughout the world, where everyone donates their day's income to a worthy cause — my bank balance). I bade my goodbyes to the people who remained at the party, thanking the hostess for a wonderful evening, and headed for the door. I woke up, sometime later, at home, with no memory of any journey whatsoever. The only explanation: teleportation. With the methods I have discovered, the world will be free from its dependence upon oil and gas for transportation and there will be no more need for dry sandwiches and tepid coffee in waiting rooms.

How, I know you are thinking, is this marvellous mode of transport achieved? The method is simple, but there are, I can vouchsafe, a couple of minor side-effects. These side-effects are not serious and should easily be eliminated by further research.

The most important ingredient is ice-cold vodka and slices of lemon — with beer and wine in a supporting role. The transportee needs to consume a number of these before attempting the process. The exact size of the measures and the precise number of measures to consume have yet to be quantified, but, for now, "very large" and "lots" will do. The only — and, I stress, minor — side-effects are sleeping for twelve hours afterwards and a thumping headache. These are, no doubt, a result of the de-materialisation process and necessary re-materialisation. A good meal, several cups of tea and coffee, plus a good night's sleep, will render the transportee back to normal health.

I leave it to my readers to further experiment with this method and discover a method of neutralising the side-effects.

Postscript

There is, unfortunately, no time to mention the impending invasion of the world by mutant cushions, one of which attacked Ian O on Saturday night. Fortunately, it wasn't one of the large, poisonous kind (as Mark W was kind enough to point out).

Headlines 2014 II

2006-12-15T12:22:00.000Z

For information on the source of these stories see "Headlnes 2014 I", my post earlier in the year.

It's the way of the world...

Statue of "Great Humanitarian" Unveiled

There were scenes of jubilation in Trafalgar Square today, when the long-awaited statue of General Augusto Pinochet was unveiled and dedicated. In the citation, read by Lady Thatcher looking radiant in the traditional black robes of Vlad the Impaler, honoured the man as a "great humanitarian, someone who spoke out for privileged and powerful human beings everywhere and strove endlessly to ensure that such people should be allowed to maim, torture and imprison anyone they wanted, without the unnecessary interference of bleeding-heart liberals who see such activities as some sort of crime".

The ceremony, which took place after sunset out of respect for Lady Thatcher's medical condition, was attended by many other ~~blood-sucking vampires~~ international politicians who ~~dreamed of being dictators~~ knew him in life. A crowd of 1 well-wisher watched as the 20-metre statue, carved from the bones of Chilean dissidents (as Lady Thatcher so elegantly put it, "it serves them right"), was unveiled amidst the spotlights which will illuminate it 24 hours a day.

The new statue completes Lady Thatcher's long-standing project to honour the great leaders of the 20^th century — Adolph Hitler, Augusto Pinochet and Margaret Thatcher — with statues in London's premier square.

Prosecution Halted

In other news, the Attorney General has announced that the prosecution of all the companies involved in the so-called "bodies for cash" case because further action would be detrimental to the wider-public good and national and international security. Scotland Yard's Murder Squad have been investigating allegations that several large companies had been paying members of the British and other, unspecified, foreign governments for large numbers of human corpses which were used to provide replacement organs for senior business and political figures. It was furher alleged that the bodies had been derived from the wholesale mass-slaughter of civilians and not, as the companies' supporters claim, natural wastage.

Speaking in the House of Commons, the Attorney General said that, despite rumours to the contrary, the decision to halt the investigation had nothing to do with supposed threats by the companies to move their business elsewhere in the world and drop biological weapons on most of Britain. The decision was, he said, taken entirely on the sane and rational grounds that further investigation would harm the security of Great Britain and the international community as a whole ~~and make it impossible for him to get a new heart~~.

A spokesman for the companies involved welcomed the withdrawal of the investigation, saying, "this investigation was never in the interests of the companies, its withdrawal will allow them to get back to carrying out their day-to-day activities of ignoring the rule of law completely and doing what the hell they like".

related news: "Dictator Slays Millions In Last-Minute Push To Be Time's Man Of The Year"
and "'National interest' halts arms corruption inquiry"
and "Congratulations are in order"
At least one of the above stories is true.

Cold Wednesday Reading

2006-12-13T22:30:00.000Z

Just some observations and referrals for people with minds (the rest can enjoy them, too).

Can Scientists Be Funny?

Apart from simply creating preposterous practical jokes (most practical jokes are not jokes at all but subtle forms of torture, revenge or sadism — often all three — rather like Ricky Gervais), scientists are usually associated with lack of humour. Often bearing the brunt of humour (and condemnation) as "people playing god", they are characterised as serious-minded souls whose idea of a good time is reciting the Periodic Table backwards. Leaving aside Tom Leherer's (a mathematician in "real life") brilliant rendition of the Periodic Table (forwards, unfortunately), do they ever laugh?

Well, of course they do. They enjoy a laugh as much as everyone does except fans of Canon & Ball. For example, you should read "Uncommon Scents" in Scientific American and giggle. I did.

If you don't get some of the references, that's OK. If you get none of them, you are seriously lacking in your education.

Wrong & Right

Staying with science thing (there's not enough proper science about), another article in Scientific American caught my eye — "engaged my interest" would be more anatomically correct but more pompous — in amongst all the other stuff that was damn interesting.

In the all-pervading claptrap that surrounds the so-called debate of Evolution versus Creationism ("Intelligent Design" is just Creationism packaged in a shiny, consumer-friendly wrapper for the chattering classes), "Wronger Than Wrong" manages to shed a scintillating light on the weasel-words that surround the subject; particularly the "Just A Theory" (so-called) argument.

If this posting seems a little more agressive in tone than some of my previous ones, that's because it is.

New Song

2006-12-12T01:00:00.000Z

I've recorded a new song. I may have mentioned some of the trials and tribulations of the process before. Anyway, the (almost) final result can be heard by clicking on the image to the right.

You can download a copy (and, if so inclined, read the lyrics) if you like and stick it in your computer or MP3-player (of whatever brand). Well, you can if you're using Internet Explorer; the folks at MySpace seem to have an aversion to things working properly with Firefox.

Thanks. Enjoy.

[blank]

2006-12-10T18:00:00.001Z

Since there have been no suggestions for a title for this post (see "Anniversary 2", below), I have created the picture on the left to summarise all that I'm giving thanks for.

Happy 2^nd anniversary to my blog, from me.The song, So Long, which I recorded last year (with Mark W, Helen B & Laura S) is now available on-line again. You can listen to it on the fireball x l flynn MySpace site. Enjoy.

Anniversary 2

2006-12-07T17:00:00.000Z

This weekend (Sunday, to be precise; you can read my first few posts here) will be the 2^nd anniversary of this blog. I admit that it's not been consistent (neither in quality, quantity nor frequency), but I've tried to keep things going and my readers (moderately) entertained (and, I've been heartened and pleased by all the comments (however inane or badly punned, Ian) that I've received). So, to celebrate, I'm asking my readers to set me a challenge.

What I'd like you to do is to give me (via comments to this posting) a title for a post which I'll have to write over the weekend and must post by midnight on Sunday. The title should be a maximum of 13 words (a purely arbitrary number, which I will enforce rigidly unless it amuses me to ignore it), in English and make some sort of sense. I'll view all the entries and select at least one to use (my choice). I'll let the list run up to around 18:00 on Sunday (I won't be too strict on the deadline). That gives you two-and-a-half clear drinking days to think of something really convoluted to perplex me with.

Cheers, and thanks in advance.

It would be nice if you identify yourself when posting a suggestion, but that's not compulsory.
P.S. This year's Darwin Awards are out and the catalogue of human stupidity has been swollen yet again. You can read about it here

This challenge is now closed

Recording Alone I

2006-12-05T22:00:00.000Z

WARNING: This post is probably a bit of self-indulgent whining. Sorry.

I'm in the process of recording a new song. It's nearly finished. The trouble is, it's a very lonely and, I sometimes think, self-indulgent process. Compared to doing it in a studio with other musicians and recording people, it smacks a little of masturbation — not that I've anything against masturbation; it is, after all, as Woody Allen once observed, "sex with someone you love". The real trouble is all the fiddling you have to do and all the fiddling you think you ought to do. What I mean is...

You start out with all the best intentions, particularly about not taking forever over what should be a relatively simple task. After all, you read about how, say, The Band had the luxury of spending 2 days in the studio rehearsing and recording The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down and you realise that you've taken considerably more than 2 days; fantastically more than 2 days; excessively more than 2 days. That's not luxury, that's indulgence.

And then, by the time you've listened to it 5,000-or-so times, it becomes absolutely impossible to judge how it will sound to someone listening to it for the first time. Will it sound like someone massaging their own ego (another, appropriate, euphemism for masturbation)? Will it sound like just another lame rant of angst? Is the tune as good as you think? Will anyone spot the slightly dodgy attack on the bass string in the last chorus? Why does my voice always sound like I've got a cold? Have I still got a cold? Why don't I just go out for a beer instead? Why did I go out for a beer instead? Should I talk about it and bore the pants off people? Why did I talk about it and bore the pants off people? Am I boring the pants off people now?

All of which will, I hope, not come as a surprise to any of my loyal readers who've attempted such projects. But it still doesn't answer any of the questions.

Of course there's still the problem of the neighbours hearing you sing — apparently unaccompanied — the second verse 47 times with liberal, loud and frequent swearings after every faux pas and mumbled enunciation. I'm glad I haven't got neighbours who do it.

What is sleep?

2006-12-04T22:01:00.000Z

Those readers who are — together with Flann O'Brien and myself — students of the great De Selby, will be aware of his definition of sleep as a fainting fit brought about by the black air which accumulates in the atmosphere throughout the day (and which, naturally, causes us to perceive that illusory condition known to poets, scientists and other misguided persons, as "night"). It has also been intimated to me, by certain female-type persons, that sleep is what men do after sex instead of talking. However, there must be more to it than that.

Sleep happens almost without thinking except when you think about it. I have been told that tiredness brings about sleep, but I can think of many occasions — last night springs to mind — when tiredness existed but sleep did not. The proximate cause of this most recent fleeing of the condition of sleepiness was that I had realised the long gap since my last post to this blog and was attempting to compose, in my head, an extremely amusing piece about people in a pub on Friday night. Sleep singularly failed to arrive when tiredness gripped my body and I spent almost the entire night awake. (The amusing piece about people in a pub on Friday night was rendered unamusing — and non-existent — by the stunning realisation that I could remember nothing of the amusing anecdotes and witticisms that were exchanged nor a single detail of the cross-dressing bondage incident with the lemming and the banana: maybe the consumption of alcoholic beverages had something to do with this strange amnesia.)

Quite the opposite occurs when I am wide-awake but want to watch, say, Torchwood on TV, I fall asleep (despite the good bits in between the excellent bits). I can also successfully fall asleep during boring TV programmes and films (Natural Born Killers is one of my favourite sophoriphics). But that doesn't count. What stuns me (but not enough to send me to sleep just now; even though I'm tired) is that interesting, amusing or entertaining stuff can send me to sleep without me contributing any personal effort whatsoever.

I have, over the years, thought of asking my doctor about this to see if it's very common. Perhaps a really interesting article could be written for New Scientist or something. Maybe it would be interesting enough to send me to sleep.

Keeping my faith I

2006-11-29T01:03:00.000Z

Nothing re-affirms my belief in the ultimate greatness of human achievement than a significant event in space exploration. Actually, any event in space exploration usually makes me feel good about the world. Today's event involves the New Horizons mission to Pluto (which was a planet when the craft was launched but isn't now — but that's another story). You can read all about it here.

And just for pub-quiz addicts, other trivia buffs and those of us who love a human story, the naming of Pluto by Venetia Phair makes great personal history (there's also a transcript of an interview with her — her uncle named the moons of Mars!). I seem to remember reading somewhere that one of the instruments on New Horizons has been named after Venetia Phair, but I can't find a reference to this on-line. Later: Found it. Should have known it would've been in The Guardian. And yes, there's an instrument on New Horizons named after her, see "The girl who named a planet over breakfast".

I love this stuff. I just have to quote from the interview with this 87 year-old planet-namer:

What if anything would you like to tell all the scientists and engineers and all the people who worked on this New Horizons mission? What would you say to them?

I would say, I think, “The best of luck.” And I can only hope that they discover all that they want to discover from this probe which must be one of the most exciting things that has happened astronomically recently.

When you look back at your life, isn’t it exciting that there you were an 11 year old school girl who named this planet, and we’ve come so far technologically that now we can send a spacecraft all this distance in the solar system to this planet Pluto?

Yes, it is absolutely amazing, but it is paralleled by almost everything that has happened in the world, hasn’t it. I mean we have stepped so far into the future as it were since the 1920’s and 1930’s. It leaves one absolutely stunned.

Do you like to look up at the stars?

Very much. Sadly it gets increasingly difficult to (do this). It’s so well lit around here that only the brightest stars really get a look-in unless we have a power outage of course. But occasionally if one is in the country, and it is a good clear night, it is absolutely wonderful.

NASA; Interview With Venetia Burney Phair

"It leaves one absolutely stunned... ...it is absolutely wonderful" — it most certainly does and is.

Turophilia I

2006-11-28T15:13:00.000Z

If you're having problems with the title of this piece, the following Greek reference sources may help: [ref1] [ref2] [ref3]. Oh, and there might be some pictures in the text below which will help. Oh, and the words may explain a bit (but don't expect too much).

Disclaimer

The author wishes to disassociate himself and all true turophiliacs from the actions, opinions and behaviour of the militant Fromagists. We do not support their violent impositions of their beliefs upon innocent turophobics (no matter how misguided and immoral their beliefs may seem to us true believers): squirting chive & onion Primula at senior citizens in supermarkets will not convert the pagans. And all the stuff about rubbing cottage cheese into the firm breasts of naked females is just... ...excuse me, I need to go and lie down.

Anyway, the point is, they're not representative of true turophiliacs who are peace-loving and well-behaved (although they like cheese more than peace; and they quite like misbehaving with cheese in the privacy of their own homes... ...excuse me, I need to lie down again).

Origins

A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.

James Joyce; Ulysses; Episode 6 - Hades

Turophilia — or thantolactophilia (work it out) as it's sometimes known — dates back to the dawn of human civilization. Since our stone-age ancestor left a bowl of sheep's milk outside a cave for several days until it went solid with a nice blue mould on it (and his wife came home from her mother's and says "What the hell's that smelly mess? And what did you leave it on that rock for?"), human beings have sought true enlightenment in the curdled remains of once-liquid milk. The near-miraculous production of such exalted substances from mundane mammary excretions was seem as both a metaphor for human progress and as a true expression of the meaning of the universe (let alone the marvellous manifestation of multitudinous mutations of words beginning with 'm').

The Unknown Prophet

Lost in the mists of time and rennet intoxication, the Unknown Prophet (a.k.a. Weltkäsemann) gave us all the Laws of Cheese (written on the sacred Gruyère of Neasden):

There is no cheese but cheese and cheese shall be the whole of the law.
You shall not covet thy neighbours' cheese (scoffing it is OK; coveting is not something which can be done with cheese).
Honour thy cheese and enjoy it with crackers.
Cheese never has the aroma of smelly feet; smelly feet have the aroma of neglected cheese. The fault is the feet, not the cheese.
When two or three are gathered together, let them eat cheese (and possibly drink some alcoholic beverages).
You cannot eat too much cheese; there is simply not enough time, nor enough cheese, to do this.

There are, in truth, ten Laws of Cheese, but the final four are part of the Secret Doctrine and cannot be revealed outside the sacred temples of cheese (a.k.a. the refrigerator; the chilled shelf at the supermarket; Swig's on a Saturday with Dave P and those meltingly smooth Carr's Cheese Melts).

Practicing Turophilia

Hmmm, cheese.

St Homer of Springfield

It is vitally important to practice turophilia as practice makes perfect and practice is hugely enjoyable. Some helpful hints will be presented to conclude this introduction:

always eat Welsh cheese carefully;
if you must read French literature, take it slowly, don't gorge on Zola;
in sport, always support the competitor called Bert (do I really have to spell out that this involves shouting "Come on Bert"?);

Want to know more about turophilia?

Whether you like it or not, there will be more on turophilia. Watch this blog.

NEWS (for extremely unobservant people)

2006-11-26T01:30:00.000Z

For those of you who are extremely unobservant, please note that the format of my blog has changed. It has a different layout, uses different typefaces and has different colours. I point this out in case you failed to notice.

Headlines 2014 I

2006-11-24T23:16:00.000Z

The following are based on true stories contained in several copies of several newspapers which dropped through a wormhole into my lap in the early hours of this morning. The only liberties that have been taken with the original texts have been the invention of the facts. If anyone wishes to verify the content of the original documents I will be most surprised.

BODY PIERCINGS TO BE BANNED

The Prime Minister has announced that a Bill will be introduced in the next session of Parliament to outlaw body piercings. A statement from Number 10 stated: "Body piercings are indicative of such anti-social behaviour as disagreeing with the government, listening to inappropriate music, socialising outside a gym and not taking vitamin supplements. A ban on body piercing would be an invaluable tool to ensure that everyone behaves in an appropriate manner and doesn't upset anyone who doesn't like them".

SPEEDING "HOT-LINE" SLAMMED

Recent proposals for the establishment of a premium-rate phone line allowing members of the public to report speeding motorists has been slammed by motorists groups and leading public figures such as Mr Murdoch. "The police need to do their job," said one commentator, "and they shouldn't expect members of the public to do their job for them. They need to catch real criminals, not innocent motorists whose only offence is ignoring speed limits. After all, what damage does speeding do? Yes, if there is an accident it makes it more likely that someone will die. But it would only be a pedestrian, and they don't really count."

"If this goes on, there'll be phone lines for shopping people who park illegally, drive dangerously or ignore traffic lights & zebra crossings. Every driver does this sort of thing now and again, when they think it's OK. They shouldn't be penalised for just driving how they want."

In related news, the Government has announced that the death penalty is to be introduced for pedestrians who cross the road too slowly or walk on the pavement in a menacing manner. Motorists' organisations have welcomed the move as improving road safety.

BEATIFICATION FOR MADONNA

Congratulations are pouring in following the announcement by the Vatican that Madonna is to be made a saint, the first ever "living saint". After her conversion to Roman Catholicism, the pop star, author, aid worker and flower arranger has worked tirelessly to promote her new church. The video of last year's number one single Hi Mary, Get Me God On The Phone (a disco version of Ave Maria) featured a guest appearance by the Pope.

The beatification is believed to have been directly prompted by Madonna's support for the Government's "Kill a non-believer" initiative, launched last year.

The foregoing was liberally inspired by the readers and writers of the Daily Mail and the Daily Express. What would we do without them?

Bits & Pieces II

2006-11-19T23:05:00.000Z

Well, here's a thing - me posting on consecutive days. It's not so much that I've got a lot to say (!) more that I've stumbled across a few interesting things this evening and felt that passing them on (and my own little thoughts on them) to my regular readers may enhance or enlighten their days. Plus I needed to expose the world to a few little random thoughts of my own. Enjoy!

By the way, "Bits & Pieces I" appeared here in January 2006.

Has is ever occurred to you... I

Has it ever occurred to you that unicellular organisms multiply by dividing? Is this the clue to some previously undiscovered arithmetical principle?

Aftermath

In the USA the election-feast has come and gone, it seems I have placed enough temporal distance between myself and those events to make some sort of comment. Or, at least, make some indirect comment.

During the campaign I read a lot of stuff on US websites (and other websites authored by US ex-patriots) regarding the great issues being debated and the personal insults swapped in the name of democracy (the latter seemed to appear with greater frequency than the former; however, my sample was small, possibly unrepresentative and certainly unquantified). The thing that seemed to get most Republicans (and right-wing Democrats; US political organisation is very strange) especially hot under the collar was the issue of gay marriage. For a country which has a constitution which specifically excludes a state religion, they use religion as an argument for and against everything.

The UK avoided any trouble by legislating for Civil Partnerships but knowing that everyone would call it Gay Marriage.

Anyway, reading Beth's Own Blog today, I came across this wonderful list: "10 Reasons Why Gay Marriage is Wrong". Give it a read, it will give you a smile.

Has it ever occurred to you... II

Has it ever occurred to you that computers on TV and in films always work faster and better than the ones you have to use? Actually, the same goes for cars, telephones and TVs. And spaceships. And stargates.

Science is not just for geeks

People appear to think that: (a) science is difficult to explain; (b) scientific words endow any statement or proclamation with undisputed certainty; (c) science is boring and, anyway, can't explain everything. I won't bother to explore (c) just now, maybe another time for that. Two articles I've come across recently, however, can be used to argue against (a) and (b).

Calculus is one of the most important mathematical tools we possess. It owes its development to Liebniz and Newton (those in the know will realise that they erected the vast edifice on the foundations of others). To understand the history and meaning of calculus is to understand the history and meaning of our modern technological society. A very readable and very accurate and very enjoyable article on the history of calculus has come to my attention: "to infinity and beyond". I'm grateful for Phil Plait's Bad Astronomy for pointing me at this gem.

Some of you have been bored by my constant griping about the plethora of products proclaiming their high content of omega-3 and its supposed benefits. I'm not the only one (doing the griping, not the boring). Without going into the details of what omega-3 fatty-acids actually are and how they're used in the body, let's just say that there is some question about how the evidence for the alleged benefits was obtained. [if anyone does want to know the details, a private consultation can be arranged with suitably qualified individuals]

Durham Council has been the instigator of the trials which have produced the evidence for the claimed beneficial effects of omega-3-rich fish oils. The trouble is the don't seem to be keen on sharing the details of these trials, just the sensational conclusions. Ben Goldacre — who writes the Bad Science column for the Guardian — has been trying to find out what exactly was done in these trials in order to assess how significant the findings are. Durham Council seem to be reluctant to provide the required information. You should read all about this on Ben's site: "Just... Show... Me... The... Data..." (love the use of ellipsis).

The End

Well, I think that'll do for today.

Drinking tea in the modern world

2006-11-18T09:29:00.000Z

Firstly, chaps & chapesses, this blog has switched to the new Blogger software. This shouldn't cause you any problems but you know what these computer programmer types are like, they always say that and then... ...boom, the world falls apart ("but some things stay in place").

Back to the tea...

Excuse me a moment while I make a cup of said beverage...

Tea, of course, is the downfall of all right-thinking people: one cup and you're hooked; everything else — such as writing blogs — becomes subsumed in the ritual of continually drinking tea rather than do anything else (unless someone offers beer). You know the feeling: you know you ought to finish the lyrics for your new song, record the bass and drums and let people know that you're still making those daft noises called music (let alone expending the vast intellectual efforts researching the compelling nonsense in this bloig). But then, the temptation: ahh more tea.

It is well known (by me, anyway) that Mark W suffers from this affliction. As, I must admit, do I. If anyone knows a cure, please let me know.

The history of tea

THIS SECTION HAS BEEN DELETED BY EDDIE (your friendly computational guidance system) AS IT IS KNOWN TO CAUSE EXTREME DISRUPTIONS OF COMPUTER SYSTEMS

And in conclusion

Well, I think I'll have another cup of tea.

Jurassic Park is on the moon

2006-11-12T00:01:00.000Z

It falls to everyone interested in the natural world to present their discoveries no matter how strange and unusual they may be. That they fall outside the accepted interpretations of the nature of the universe should not deter one from declaring them to the world at large. The scientific establishment is always wary and afraid of any theory which will upset their safe and hidebound hypotheses (and, of course, the vast edifice of lies which support their bloated egos). But we must not be afraid to be different nor to think the unthinkable. We should not fear the scientific establishment who are themselves so afraid of our theories that they haven't commented on them at all. Such refusals to comment are indicative of their denial any theory which contradicts their conspiracy of falsehood.

Dinosaurs come from the moon

It is well known that fossils are made of rocks and stone. The Moon is also made of rocks and stone. This cannot be a coincidence. Any number of ludicrous theories have been proposed to explain this remarkable observation, most of which revolve around the unsubstantiated conjecture that the Earth and the Moon share a common origin. It therefore follows that fossils (and, consequently, dinosaurs) must come from the Moon.

Dinosaurs were designed

Dinosaurs don't look like anything alive today except for pictures of great big lizards in children's picture books! It is impossible for anyone to imagine this happening by any other means than design by some intelligence. This could be a god but is more likely to be some alien intelligence which we can neither describe nor imagine since it is beyond our comprehension because it is able to design dinosaurs.

All governments are aware of the existence of these aliens and deliberately promote the flawed Theory of Evolution in order to keep their citizens from discovering the truth. This reinforces the fact that dinosaurs were designed. If it wasn't true then surely someone would have been able to disprove it by now.

Jurassic Park

The idea of a Jurassic Park has been presented as fiction in several films. What better way to hide the truth than to produce films about dinosaurs being bred in some sort of theme park? If anyone accidentally stumbles across the truth (as I have) then it can be laughed off as some nutter taking some fantasy literally. I have no doubt that such arguments will be used against me.

Since the Apollo Moon landings were faked (they must be because so many people have tried to disprove it), we have to ask: "Why?". The only logical explanation is that NASA was afraid of the dinosaurs which live there. These dinosaurs must have escaped from Jurassic Park. In is therefore inescapable that Jurassic Park must be on the Moon.

Planet X & Comets

The aliens who designed and created the dinosaurs must have come from somewhere and the only logical place is the hidden Planet X which has been consistently asserted by many respected commentators and has been consistently, but inconclusively, denied by the scientific establishment. It follows that comets must be the spacecraft by which these aliens transported their creations from Planet X to the Moon. The staggering lack of serious and comprehensive comment on this issue (and the lack of published evidence to the contrary) only reinforces these observations.

We can only speculate (but such speculation may yet prove correct) that the asteroids are remnants of a planet or moon these aliens previously seeded with dinosaurs. These dinosaurs proceeded to develop weapons capable of destroying the planet (or moon) and promptly used them, possibly as a result of an invasion by Scientologists from Venus.

Conclusion

Many people will find these discoveries uncomfortable, others may find them simply preposterous. But, I ask, where is the evidence to the contrary? I am sure those in the pay of the hidden cartel of Masons, Capitalists, Zionists and Marxists which run this planet will concoct some sort defence but that will not stop the truth getting out.

Is this better?

What the world needs now

2006-11-11T01:15:00.000Z

It seems to me that any sentence beginning with the words "it seems to me" is almost certainly going to express some unreasoned bigotry (this assumes there is such a thing as reasoned bigotry). All I really want for the world is for people to stop saying (in that cute, self-effacing, tiny little voice) "all I really want for the world". The trouble with politicians is that they are just like the rest of us and complain about the trouble with politicians. It's just common sense that any statement starting with "it's just common sense" almost certainly doesn't possess either of those qualities. Which brings me, neatly, to the subject of pavements (or, as they are known everywhere else in the world except the USA, pavements).

Pavements have for too long gone unrecognised in our society, forced to the borders of social recognition, deemed only fit for pedestrians. Downtrodden and ignored they are the true underclass of our nation.

Sorry about this. I'll try and produce something better tomorrow.

While we're on the subject...

2006-11-09T22:00:00.000Z

I have a predilection for ellipsis... Long may it continue, unspoken...

Tom Cruise & Mel Gibson

There is so little to say on this subject that this paragraph is too large to contain it. If there was ever a topic for the shortest essay in Contemporary Media Studies, it would be: "Examine the significance of the contributions that Tom Cruise and Mel Gibson have made to western civilisation" (10 words) (1 mark) [candidates may use wax crayons].

I think you'll find that this site says it all.

In defence of swearing

Too bloody obvious to bore you with.

Weird visitor reason

Some of you may have noticed the Bravenet visitor statistics link for this site. This gives me details of the people who visit me here, where they're from, how long they stay, how they managed to find me, etc. The following excerpt is rather weird:

Time of Visit     Nov 9 2006 9:33:38 pm
Last Page View    Nov 9 2006 9:33:38 pm
Visit Length      0 seconds
Page Views        1
Referring URL     http://uk.search.yah...t=1&fr=btfp-web&b=51
Search Engine     uk.search.yahoo.com
Search Words      still photographs of nude females

I've looked all over this blog for any photographs of nude females and can't find any, even still ones. If you can find them, please let me know.

All I'll tell you about the requester is that they are based in the UK and use British Telecom as their ISP.

Why poker is boring

Do you really need a list of reasons? The only things more boring than poker itself are poker players, golf and golfers. I'm getting bored just writing about it...

The Emperor's New Clothes

2006-11-02T23:00:00.000Z

LONDON; 2 NOV 2006; 23:00

The team behind The Office, Extras and The Podfather (Ricky Gervais, Stephen Merchant & Karl Pilkington) have announced the details of their latest, world shattering project. Provisionally titled The Emperor's New Clothes, the project will consist of a 52-week BBC1 prime-time TV sitcom, a quadruple DVD, 92-hours of podcasting and regular guest appearances on Jonathan Ross's various radio and TV programmes for the next ten years. It is due for release in January 2007 after a lengthy four-day writing and production marathon.

Announcing the project, Ricky Gervais said: "After the success of The Office, I resolved only to undertake projects for which I had a true passion which I thought stretched the boundaries of comedy and satisfied my desire for fame and money. This project achieves two of these three objectives: sometimes one just has to accept that money and fame are a natural consequence of conning people that ridiculing the unfortunate, the sad and the clinically depressed is an acceptable form of humour. The Americans are working on a method of transplanting talent; if my career continues as it has begun, I should easily be able to afford the operation when it becomes available".

Set in today's London amongst the ordinary, day-to-day people who work in the television industry, the story revolves around three young men — Rick, Steve and K — who imagine they are the funniest comedians ever to grace this planet but who are, in fact, not funny at all. Their wacky attempts to produce humour from social misfits results in hours and hours of entertainment teeming with absolutely no laughs at all.

The first episode will feature Jonathan Ross as a TV chat-show host who imagines that Rick is a zany, funny guest but who, in reality, is a boorish lout who is less interesting than counting your own toes. Cameo appearances from Hollywood 'A'-list stars, playing themselves, are expected to make the episode the first recorded certain cure for insomnia.

In related news, the BBC have announced that the first two series of The Office are to be rebroadcast over the coming Christmas period (and all future Christmas periods) with the Christmas Special being the only thing shown on Christmas Day (with the exception of a fifteen minute break for the Queen's Speech). A BBC spokesperson said: "Basically, we don't like our viewers".

How many types of people are there?

2006-10-29T05:05:00.000Z

A late night — early morning — musing after spending hours recording guitar part for new song: I started to remember some of the "there are N types of people in the world..." statements I'd heard over the years. Then I thought of a few more (as you do). So I'm going to share them with you, whether you like it or not.

There are three types of people in the world: those who can count and those who can't.
There are 10 types of people in the world: those who understand binary and those who don't.
There are two types of people in the world, those who agree with me and ignorant, argumentative pedants.
There are 6,000,000,000 types of people in the world (approximately): everyone's an individual (except me).
There are three types of people in the world: those who create statements of the form "there are N types of people in the world", those who read & repeat such statements and those who have better things to do with their time.

As usual, comments in the same vein are greatly appreciated.

_________________

PS: I noticed this earlier: "Find the Difference". Have a go by following the link. I — of course — found all the differences (clue: start with the ship).

An Interlude

2006-10-27T00:05:00.000+01:00

Just a quick post for all those of you who've ever wanted a way to imagine 10 dimensions (yes, I know you've all been waiting for this). Go to "Imagining the Tenth Dimension" and enjoy (you get used to the slightly patronising American voice eventually). You'll need a Flash player and the volume turned up.

PS This is a way of imagining 10 dimensions, not a description of the 10 dimensions of string theory.

A Super New Game

2006-10-26T22:18:00.000+01:00

Introduction

It's time for another of my irregular pastime inventions ("irregular" in all possible senses). This one has evolved over the past couple of months — partly inspired by my previous post (see below, no link, just scroll down) — in consultation with Mark "Mmmm, Stella" W (he claims it's not so much a game as an infection which he's caught from me). The only trouble I've really had with it (apart from such trivial matters as the rules, the method of scoring and the criteria for victory) has been thinking of a good name. After much consideration of the head-scratching variety, consultation with the oracle at Delphi, casting runes, examining the entrails of a recently slaughtered lentil, generating random numbers, playing the guitar, drinking coffee and other methods of avoiding thinking of name, I've decided to call it "Shouting At Adverts". This title amply summarises the aims (and — of course — those popular, supposedly disparate entities, objectives) of the game and, indeed, its rationale.

"So," I hear you ask, "what's this game all about? It sounds super. Would you like a cup of tea? How about a cheese & onion sandwich and some cheesecake? And a glass of wine? And have this £10,000 which I have no use for at the moment. And you might like to provide some entertainment for these neglected, scantily-clad young ladies..." (I may not have heard all of your words correctly). Well, to begin with, it involves shouting at adverts on television. It's therapeutic, socially & ecologically beneficial and a lot of fun (well, a bit of fun). In addition, it's also a sure fire method of ensuring world peace, restoring the ecology of this blighted planet, travelling to other planetary systems faster than the speed of light and wasting a few harmless minutes during the interruptions in "Lovejoy" on ITV3 (when I say "sure fire" I, of course, mean that there's a measurable, but possibly infinitely small, probability). Finally, it will provide nanoseconds of enjoyment for the entire family (except those members who aren't watching TV or have gone to the pub).

Rules

The name of the game is "Shouting At Adverts" and the name of the game is "Shouting At Adverts" (but see Rule 2).
At any time, including and especially those times when the game isn't being played (see Rule 3), any player may propose a change of name for the game. Other players are not obliged to agree with the new name and the proposing player may change their mind at any time. Other players may raise objection to the new name using the following categories of reasons for objection:
1. The new name is crap.
2. See Rule 2a.
The game starts whenever there are adverts on TV in the room the players are sitting in and the sound is on. People who are visiting the toilet, fetching alcoholic beverages from the fridge in the kitchen or entertaining neglected, scantily-clad young ladies in the bedroom are not players (unless the the bedroom and kitchen are the same room and the TV is in it and you are currently "resting" between "entertainments" of the aforementioned young ladies).
The game finishes when everyone is bored with it.
The following "moves" are defined. Players are free to invent new "moves".
1. In response to adverts containing the words "Call this number now", "Get your new car now", "Apply today" or other variants, shout "No!" or some suitable alternative. Profanities, whilst not generally encouraged, are permitted after the 14th-squillion repetition of the same advert in twenty minutes.
2. Adverts claiming the advertised product to be a "product of the year" without mentioning the category, the year or the fact that the awarding organisation is funded directly by the manufacturers of the said products are to be seriously abused. Players are, in this case, encouraged to swear effusively — the more profane the better.
3. All adverts for "no-win, no-fee" accident compensation claims are to be picked apart for such inconsistencies as: fork-lift trucks do not reverse unexpectedly, their drivers do that (thanks Mark); genuine accidents cannot be blamed in anyone, otherwise they wouldn't be accidental; not noticing that a ladder isn't suitable for a job you're qualified to do is an example of your stupidity not someone else's negligence.
4. Stupidity like (thanks, Seany) "Nothing acts faster than Anadin" (therefore, I use nothing) should be indicated with a loud raspberry and communal guffaws.
5. And so on... I'm sure you can think of lots of examples.
All the above score 1,000,000 points for each player in the game.
The winner of the game is me. Unless anyone can prove:
1. That hands that do dishes can be softer than your face.
2. That there really are girls like that waiting to discretely flirt (and more!) with me at £1,000 per second.
3. That the free "Hidden Hearing Aids" have been found.
Entertaining neglected, scantily-clad young ladies is better than playing this game, but tends not to happen as frequently (in truth, it tends not to happen at all, but I can dream, can't I?).
You can play this game on your own but recent hearsay indicates that you may go blind. Rather like not playing with the frequently referred to young ladies.

Now you know how to play, get on with it.

Conclusion

As usual, comments are appreciated as well as reports of games you have played (interesting new "moves" are particularly sought). Introductions to neglected, scantily-clad young ladies (or, at least, photographs of the same) will also be welcomed.

Phrases of our Times

2006-10-22T05:05:00.000+01:00

This piece was originally conceived back in March. For various reasons, it's being lying about not getting published. As I'm very much in the communicating vein again, I thought I'd finish it up and unleash it on the world before getting down to some newer stuff.

Better — or, at least, more widely-known — commentators have dealt with the mind-numbing banality and sheer ignorance of such cliché-utterances as "political correctness gone mad", "another example of the nanny state" and "it's only common sense". I, on the other hand (as opposed to this hand), wish to deal with some phrases which seem to be authoratative, necessary and meaningful simply because they are none of these things.

Some will, no doubt, accuse me of pedantry, others of stupidity. Go ahead, enjoy the moment.

"Hygenically removes germs"

As featured on a bottle of liquid soap.

The soap in question is clearly marked "Antibacterial". So one may safely assume that it removes bacteria (i.e., "germs"). This is a prime example of the unnecessary adverb. Why "hygenically"? If the removal was unhygenic — with which one must assume the makers wish us to contrast the action of their product — what would that mean? Would it mean that that not all (or not a significant proportion) of the germs were removed? In that case the product would be inefficient. Or would it mean that the removal process itself was unhygenic? This would imply that the removal process somehow made things worse.

So does "hygenically removes germs" mean that the process is hygenic or the process is efficient? If the process is hygenic then that does not imply that the result of the process is improved hygene, merely that the process doesn't denegrate hygene. If the process is simply efficient (i.e., resulting in improved hygene) then the phrase is meaningless since it is irrelevant how "hygenic" the removal process is, so long as it works.

One suspects that the makers really meant to say that the use of their product improved hygene: "Removes germs and improves hygene".

A stunning piece of meaningless twaddle. But not dangerous.

"Unauthorised use of these waters can be dangerous"

As featured on Alexandra Dock, Grimsby.

Doesn't this imply that authorised use of the water is safe? Or, at least, not dangerous. Why doesn't it simply say "These waters can be dangerous"? Which, I assume, is what they mean.

This appears to be an attempt to endow the sign with some "authority". It's the meaningless twaddle that is the direct result of trying too hard to say what you mean. Wake up, all stretches of water can be dangerous if one is stupid enough; "authorisation" is no proof against stupidity.

"For adult use only"

As featured on cigarette packets.

This either means "only for use by adults" or "only for use in and adult manner". As it stands it is another piece of twaddle which needs erradicating.

The only reason I can see for the double meaning is so the manufacturers of such products can use whichever interpretation appears convenient in any situation.

"Based on a true story"

Or, "Inspired by real events", etc.

A man walks into a shop, buys a chocolate bar and walks home again. This is a true story.

The film has a man walk into a shop, buy a chocolate bar and get kidnapped by aliens.

This phrase proves nothing since your never know which bits are "true" and which bits the "story".

This is a dangerous, devisive phrase which attempts to inject veracity into the drug-induced meanderings of the mindless idiots who write the sort of sick-making emotional potboilers to which this phrase is applied.

As usual, comments would be appreciated. And, of course, further examples of twaddle-speak would be very much enjoyed.

Music In Pubs

2006-02-03T17:24:00.000Z

The following letter recently (Wednesday, 1st February 2006) appeared in The Guardian:

"In 2001-03, I worked as the Musicians' Union adviser on licensing reform, trying to persuade politicians to introduce more liberal legislation for live music (Songs of experience: folk music might be cool again - but what matters more is that it's the voice of the people, January 30). Unfortunately, most Labour MPs proved to be lobby fodder. They were whipped into submission, so there was no hope of music-friendly amendments in the Commons. But by the summer of 2003, a coalition of Conservative and Lib Dem peers were backing an MU proposed amendment that would have exempted small venues from entertainment licensing for live music, provided the music finished by 11.30pm. This exemption was also backed by the Arts Council and the music industry. But the government shot it down, citing the Association of Police Officers that "live music always acts as a magnet in whatever community it is being played. It brings people from outside that community who, having no connection locally behave in a way that is inappropriate, criminal and disorderly". This was read into the Hansard record. So law and order would appear to be the rationale for criminalising the provision of innocuous music-making in bars, unless licensed."
Hamish Birchall
London

It appears that, according to the Association of Police Officers, that every instance of live music results in behaviour that is "inappropriate, criminal and disorderly" because of these "outside elements".

A number of my regular readers were at the Tap & Spile, Grimsby, on Tuesday night when this "magnet" resulted in a lot of people having a really nice time. If anyone can remember the "inappropriate, criminal and disorderly" behaviour that the Association of Police Officers assure us is the consequence of such gatherings, I should be glad to have my no doubt faulty memory refreshed. They may also be able to remind me of all the trouble that I seem to have missed at the many other live music events in the Tap (and other places) over the past few years.

The only thing which occurs to me that can explain this contradiction is that the Association of Police Officers believes that the very act of performing live music is "inappropriate, criminal and disorderly". This also appears to be the government view. There must be a great conspiracy in the media which prevents us hearing bout the "inappropriate, criminal and disorderly" behaviour of audiences at the Royal Opera House, the Royal Festival Hall, etc., which actively encourage "people from outside that community" who have "no connection locally".

I have e-mailed the Association of Police Officers (see: http://www.acpo.police.uk) with a link to this posting and look forward to their comments.

"So Long" - available online

2006-01-16T17:44:00.000Z

Just a quick note to say that you can now listen to the single So Long online. It's available at http://www.futuremusicnow.com/artists/fireball x l flynn and the more people who listen to it, the higher it gets in the host site's charts.

NOTE: The song is in not-terribly-high-quality MP3 format. The quality on the CD is so much better. And you get a pretty cover for it as well.

Bits & Pieces I

2006-01-09T17:21:00.000Z

Recording Notes

As some of you are aware, I strum the guitar in public now and again (not something I'm proud of, but someone has to do it). A few of you have heard the persistent rumour that I'm recording a few tunes for an album with Mark W and others. The lucky ones have bought the preview single, So Long, which was released in December. What all of you are perhaps unaware of is the deep psychological disturbances caused by the processes of recording. At Mark's insistence, I would like to share some of these with you as a warning to anyone imagining that there is any fun or enjoyment in this project.

The first problem we had was that we wanted drums on the songs. Unfortunately this meant that we'd need a drummer[1]. We solved this by the simple expedient of having Mark - who is a bass player and not a drummer - play the drums. The fact that he owned some drums and is able to play them was an added bonus. Mark worked hard at impersonating a drummer and even perfected the technique of going to recording sessions with a truly remarkable hangover. We eventually became worried that he might actually become a drummer but regular (and excessive) doses of alcohol and bass playing have, we hope, kept this catastrophe at bay[2].

Another major problem was the effect entering the recording studio had on Mark's personality (apart from the effect of impersonating a drummer which, of course, could have removed his personality altogether). Just as lycanthropy (or taking part in Celebrity Big Brother) can turn a mild-mannered human being into a slavering, blood-hungry beast, entering the recording studio as a producer turns Mark into a fascist dictator who forced me to drink beer. More than once.

As yet we have no solution to this problem.

Other, less major but no means minor, problems have included:

Being chatted up by women in The Salutation in Nettleton.
Getting up early (i.e., before midday) on a Saturday.
Listening to Trev's jokes.
Listening to Trev rehearsing pantomime (Oh no, it wasn't a problem; oh yes, it was) especially when he was dressed as a crocodile.
Thunderstorms and their effect on digital recording equipment.
The reflex action of the human brain to the red recording light going on which immediately makes one forget the song that you've been rehearsing for the last hour and have probably played five hundred times before.
Mark making up silly versions of lyrics.

We shall return to this subject at a later date.

[The single So Long is available now, priced (very reasonably) at two of your English pounds (plus post & packing where required); e-mail bsg.music@googlemail.com for more information.]

[1] For more drummer jokes see www.123errwhatsnext.com. For jokes about roadies see www.121212.com.

[2] Although he still taps the table with a sort of arrhythmic thud in moments of stress or intoxication.

Chocolate Shoes

The title "Chocolate Shoes" is not an attempt to create a fusion fashion to satisfy females' greatest obsessions, it is a cruel and vicious trick perpetrated on your humble and innocent author by the people who should know better (and who are known only by their noms-de-guerre, Rob L & Tina).

There are people who think that it is amusing to place chocolates of the Terry's Chocolate Orange variety in your shoes on, say, the 23^rd of December so that you spend the whole of Christmas Eve going about your business with thin layers of melted chocolate on your socks only to discover them late in the evening when you finally take off your shoes and settle back with a beer. Of course, no normal person would notice these footwear insertions in the normal course of events and it is not funny. And you should not laugh at those upon whom such "jokes" are inflicted. I wouldn't laugh at anyone who had this "joke" played on them, especially if it was me.

And putting chocolates in beer glasses, cigarette packets and guitars is not amusing either, Rob.

Agony Aunt Required

I am perplexed and need advice. If there are any decent (or, indeed, indecent) agony aunts out there, could they provide me with the correct, sensitive and appropriate response to following social quandary?

I recently received this text message from a person of the female persuasion:

"Do me a favour Woja, if M***s still there tell him im horny as hell n to ring me when hes in. thanx R***"

The individuals involved have been disguised by asterisks but I'm open to bribes to reveal their true identities (and larger, regular bribes from the individuals themselves to keep them secret: this is not blackmail, just entrepreneurship).

The quandary is how to respond to such a request: is this the sort of thing one should be asked to do? What should be my reaction when asked to be a conduit for sexual arousal? How do I cope with the images generated in my head if I notify M of R's desires? Will I be scarred by recurring dreams? Ultimately, is it good for any man to know that their lady friend is "horny as hell"?

And, when I do decide what to do, will R still be horny?

Answers in the usual manner.

Do not try this at home

It has come to my attention that some people are taking my ideas a little too literally. In a recent post (see: Up Tqimmoph, below), I suggested that "Ford Fiester is a kar" might be an answer to, for example, the causes and consequences of the Irish potato famine. Little did I expect that someone - who shall remain nameless except under the pseudonym of Rachel - used the answer in a mock exam at Grimsby College recently. Explaining the motive to her tutor proved a little difficult: one should not be surprised that teachers don't understand modern language usage, after all, they are old.

In order to avoid embarrassment or physical injury you should avoid experimenting with my suggestions. I am a trained professional idiot and can get away with lots of things in my imagination; you may have trouble with them in the real world.

Up Tqimmoph

2006-01-05T13:27:00.000Z

Let's begin with a little game. The following are versions of the same, well-known thing, can you identify it?

"shld i be a playa or jst 1 ov th kwrd thatz wot fux me up is ut kwla to sit bak & tak al th sht or jst get twld, shwt the bstrds & wtch th wnkrs di"

"vu ci us pus vu ci sjev ot vji raitoup xjivjis iv ot pucmis op vji nopf vu cies esnt eheoptve e tie ug vsuacmit us ca uqqutoph ipf vjin"

"bb | !bb i.e. ? etc."

It probably goes without saying that this isn't a competition and answers will not be published (unless they are).

All the above are examples of the sort linguistic and orthographic freedoms which are supposed to make us all more creative and all texts more relevant. If spelling is unimportant and the writer has no duty to encourage communication, then why not use an orthography like the second example above. It's logical and consistent and, with a little work, intelligible. Some may take exception to it's consistency: consistency and rules are bugbears which stifle sponteneity. The third example takes things a little further.

But why stop there?

Surely if spelling doesn't matter and it's up to the reader to understand the writer no matter what then surely "$$$" could be a suitable rendtition of the above (I know what it means and it's your fault if you don't understand).

Think of it: if you have to sit an exam which asks you to detail the causes and consequences of the Irish Potato famine of the 1870's you could answer "Ford Fiester is a kar" secure in the knowledge that the examiner will work out that you really do understand the subject and deserve an "A" rather than being too lazy to bother.

So let's finish with a joke:

"whjj hello Nijell. chikin saled. Blanc."

Hillarious, eh?

Normal Service...

2005-12-29T14:35:00.000Z

Very observant people will notice that this is the first post to this blog in many months.

Extremely observant people will notice that I've got rid of the commercial and strange comments which have accumulated on this site (if anyone wants the e-mail address of the nude oriental lady, I still have the original comments - I simply don't dare reply to such wierdness).

Only the most observant will notice that there is nothing much in this post except the vague promise of the title...

It's only me that's noticed that this blog has been in existence for a year.

Untitled

2005-07-08T10:50:00.000+01:00

Last Saturday, Tina and I sat in front of the TV with several bottles of wine and enjoyed the spectacle, emotion, music and hope of the Live 8 concert in Hyde Park. On Sunday, we and others were welcomed into the heart of the small village of Thoresway in the Lincolnshire Wolds (see photograph) to join their village fête by providing music. On Wednesday, we all thrilled to the announcement that London was to host the 2012 Olympic Games. On Thursday…

From a personal perspective I received a lunchtime phone call from my mother to let me know that my brother Martin, his partner Tracy and their son George — who live not far from Liverpool St Station — were all fine, as was my brother-in-law, Jean-Marie, who was working in London this week. Some small mercy.

I am numb and full of inappropriate words.

London is a vibrant, exciting city (which, every now and again, needs mocking when it takes itself too seriously) full of people of many colours, creeds, faiths, ages and opinions. By-and-large they all get along very well. Like any family they have their ups and downs, their tiffs and disagreements. But they get by and keep growing. The ordinary people of London do not fight wars or decide to fight wars: they are not to be treated as the sacrificial victims to honour any deity or cause. Any god which rewards such barbarity is a mad god. Any manifesto which justifies such callousness is a manifesto of the insane.

In memory of the dead
In sympathy for the bereaved
In compassion for the bent and broken, the scarred and scared
Take one small step each day
To make the world a better place

The Real & Reliable History of Grimsby II

2005-06-27T16:57:00.000+01:00

<< previous section [for new readers, the story so far]

4. Origins: Cultural History

It has long been believed that the only culture in Grimsby was the mould which grows on two-week-old milk. But recent discoveries[1], highlighted on the accompanying mapMap showing distribution of evidence of early Grimsby settlement & cultural activities. - indicate that there was a great deal of cultural activity in Grimsby's early years (30,000 - 50,000 BCE).

A large number of misshapen rocks and sticks indicate that drummers existed around in the area around 40,000 BCE but it was to be many millennia before any real musicians appeared. There are hints[2], however, that there were many performers who used specially trained sheep to hit rocks with wooden batons in order to provide the backing for their renditions of versions of the tribal songs and dances of their neighbours. These, it appears, were more reliable than human drummers[3]. This "Backing Rocks" era was followed by a much longer period when groups of local performers impersonated the more popular traditional dance and song of their neighbouring tribes: the "Tribute Rocks" era. It is believed[4] that a few hardy souls attempted to develop a local musical tradition but they were regarded with suspicion and either ignored or - particularly during the "Saturday Night Out" ritual - verbally and physically abused. The only authenticated indigenous music from this period which gained any sort of local recognition was a lengthy, apparently amusing, impersonation of a sick cod[5] which was originally used to indicate that a message had arrived from a local, neighbouring tribe[6].

In the field of art, this period also saw the first meeting of the tribal governor's investigating the possibility of providing a permanent base for visual arts in the area. North East Lincs Council has recently indicated that this feasibility study may be complete by 3000 CE. Several people in the area are said to be waiting for this "with the baited breath of a week-dead camel"[7].

Whilst this feasibility study was being carried out (and several great civilisations came and went in other parts of the world), many local people produced stunning visual arts from the earliest of times (for artists, this is just after lunch). Unfortunately, the best of these appear to have been exported in exchange for coloured beads which could be exchanged for other coloured beads[8]. Although the area seems to have produced many artists who have attempted to instil some cultural life into the area, the net result of these efforts - in light of the lack of a permanent base for the arts - seems to have been to promote the idea in the rest of the world that the greatest visual art Grimsby can produce was "banging your head against a brick wall"[9].

To be continued...

[1] Excavations carried out during the recent renewal of a large number of waste bins in the Grimsby area.

[2] The hints were provided by a gentleman who wishes to remain nameless. This has made it difficult for him to get cheques cashed.

[3] Two drummer jokes per blog post are the maximum number allowed under current EU regulations. There are, however, moves afoot to increase this number. The proposed legislation also suggests that it be made compulsory for all blog posts from within the EU to contain at least one drummer joke. This has been proposed in order to reduce the EU's massive drummer-joke mountain.

[4] Some people will believe anything. Some people believe that wearing loud Bermuda shorts makes them look zany and fun rather than a complete prat.

[5] The Yms apparently regarded a sick cod as being as funny as, say, a cartoon frog wearing goggles.

[6] These messages were invariably of the form: "Stop singing like a sick cod".

[7] This paragraph has been found to contain levels of satire but the readings are within government approved safety limits.

[8] Possibly - but not necessarily - of a different colour.

[9] Warning: dangerous levels of satire in this paragraph.

Occult News

2005-06-24T11:10:00.000+01:00

Grimsby, UK 2005-06-24 11:10 BST

WORLD REELS AT NEW DISCOVERY

The world of occult musicianship was rocked by the news that the Lost Capo of Lowdon has been found. This object - often cited as one of the great mythological objects held in reverence by believers but dismissed as fantasy by many "scientific" obeservers - has since time immeroriable (two weeks ago last Tuesday) been regarded as one of the great prizes of occult archaeology. Its discovery will bring great hope to the many occult-inclined musicians in the Grimsby area as it is believed that this object had many magical and spiritual properties, such as:

Preventing guitar strings from breaking;
Helping performers to remember the words to Tim Paxton songs;
Turning obnoxious and abusive punters in Swigs into normal human beings.

The discoverer - only identified as Rob L from the Celtic fringe of these islands which begins with the letter S - says: "It's like the Holy Grail, only capo-shaped".

Whilst news of the discovery is welcome, only time (and documented proof of at least one miraculous event associated with the capo) will tell if this is the real thing or a clever forgery. Dan Brown, author of the best selling Da Vinci Code is claimed to have said: "Whatever. I'll get a book out of it".

DO NOT PRESS THE RED BUTTON

2005-06-23T15:58:00.000+01:00

You have been warned:

DO NOT PRESS THE RED BUTTON

I, of course, did not press the red button but I know you won't be able to stop yourself. That's because I have determination and self-control and lying.

[Thanks to Dr Mike for this one.]

Some pictures I

2005-06-21T17:55:00.000+01:00

I thought some people would like to see some of the pictures I've taken locally over the past couple of weeks (Saturdays 4th & 18th June, to be precise). No puns, no jokes, just some nice images to brighten up your day.

To add a little interest, I've not put captions on them so that you can to guess whereabouts they are. You can click on each each to see them larger.







	`© 2005 Roger J Coult`

The Real & Reliable History of Grimsby I

2005-06-20T13:00:00.000+01:00

1. Introduction

For some time now (and just how much time you would be astonished to discover) I have been researching the history of Grimsby and the surrounding area in an attempt to assemble that material into a reliable source text for all those who wish to know the true facts regarding the origins and development of this town. This research has, I may add, involved not a little effort, expense, personal danger and the consumption of quantities inebriating beverages, not to mention...[1] The research has been painstakingly meticulous but where - as sometimes happened - a fact could be verified or evidence was missing, I have not hesitated to make things up.

Some may feel that I am not qualified to carry out this enormous task, but may I point out the following:

I live in Grimsby.
I am a founder member of the Grimsby Institute of Local Historians & Cheese Fanciers (and lifetime president, secretary and treasurer)[2].
I am untrammelled by popular and traditional historical theories and am not constrained by ridiculous notions of verifiable evidence and plausible hypotheses.

I think that is sufficient - more than sufficient - to qualify me as the one true recorder of the real and reliable history of the port of Grimsby.

2. Origins: The Myths

There are many stories about the origins of Grimsby. Some of them are obscene, others simply children's tales, some are figments of the imagination, whilst others deserve serious consideration. We shall concentrate on the more outlandish here (and come to the obscene ones some other time).

There is a story doing the rounds that Grimsby was founded by one Grim who was carried across the North Sea by the giant Havelock. This is, of course, utter balderdash. It is the result of a propaganda exercise by the Vikings when they unashamedly invaded this part of the world between the 8th and 10th Centuries CE[3]. It means about as much as painting "Freedom Wagon" on the side of a Pershing or Chieftain tank before it is sent across the sands of Iraq to blow things and people up.

Another common misconception - based on extensive and exhaustive numerological, structural, architectural, astrological, philosophical, anthropological, copraphilic and psychic analyses of the layout of Grimsby's streets carried out one Saturday night after a few beers - is that Grimsby was founded by extra-terrestrials from Tau Ceti as a inter-galactic service area for tourists on their way to the Hyades (this story is used as an explanation for the extraordinary large number of fast-food franchises in the town and the insipid nature of the coffee they serve). This is only a misconception in time: Grimsby is indeed associated with this activity but this happened after its founding[4].

3. Origins: The Facts

Recent archaeological discoveries have revealed the true origins of Grimsby. The location, nature, composition, extent and precise details of these discoveries must, for various reasons too complex to detail here, remain secret[5]. The interpretation of this remarkable evidence by a crack team of specialists (who wish to remain annonymous until the cheque arrives) has revealed hitherto unsuspected complexity and historical depth to the story of the origins of Grimsby.

The earliest inhabitants of the Grimsby area - radiocarbon dating, dendrochronology and guesswork place this around 50,000 BCE - were hominids with a passing resemblance to modern human beings[6]. Indications abound that they called themselves (or, more likely as they had little language above grunting and ordering kebabs, were called by others) "Yms". The earliest reconstruction of their lives involves one of their religious rituals.

The Yms (adult males and females together with any youngster who imagined they could get away with it) would gather on the banks of the river Freshney, close to the modern Riverhead area in order to fish. During the day they would gather naturally fermenting berries from the bushes which grew there, rather as modern chimpanzees do (obviously, I mean in their homeland in Africa; obviously there are no chimpazees in modern Grimsby; but there are one or two gorillas on the door of Chicago Rock). Two types of berries used for this purpose have been identified, known technically as red berries and green berries. The red berries were consumed in rough bowls made from clay; the green berries were consumed from hollowed out lumps of wood. There appears to have been a minor ritual whereby one of their number would eschew this convention and consume green berries from a clay bowl. This individual was known as the "Ian".

As the day progressed, the Yms would become intoxicated and make offerings to the gods by throwing rocks, sticks, broken clay bowls, fish heads and each other into the river. As night fell they would stage fights between themselves (the males - starting first - would fight over the females; the females would start later after one had made the traditional incantation of "You're a fucking slag, you are!"). Later they would all shag each other senseless[7].

This ritual was known as "A Saturday Night Out".

The Yms hunting techniques are well documented in the evidence (the recovered artefacts include material from the surrounding tribes). Their standard technique seems to have been wandering up to a hunting party from one of their neighbours, thumping them in the face, grabbing their catch and running away[8]. In time (about three days), the neighbouring tribes became wise to this and would keep their distance from the Yms and shout a warning to all other non-Yms in the area: "Grrr, Yms". This, obviously, is the real origin of the name "Grimsby".

Continued...

[1] This cannot be mentioned.

[2] Membership is open to anyone with suitable qualifications (i.e., £100 in used tenners).

[3] Current Era. Like AD but without the religious associations. It follows that BCE is Before the Current Era. Knowing these things helps a bit.

[4] We shall return to this subject later when the evidence has been thoroughly ~~invented~~ analysed.

[5] The excavations (carried out at night by specialists using infra-red glasses and dressed in fetching all-in-one black body suits) came about as the result of certain unauthorised explorations by a large, bearded man with a metal-detector on certain "fields" in or about the Grimsby area. Since these "fields" are of some importance to their owners, we have agreed not to reveal their location until such time as (or is it "as long as"?) large quantities of cash are deposited in certain bank accounts. The unfounded rumours that the retrieved artefacts contain precise prophecies for the future of the human race, titillating revelations about the British Royal Family, the occult associations of the Roman Catholic Church and the exact locations of certain "mythical" objects (such as the Holy Grail, the Ark of the Covenant and Rob Lowdon's capo) will be the subject of a book by Dan Brown.

[6] They resembled modern human beings in the same way that members of British National Party resemble sane, rational people.

[7] There is no direct evidence for this and there are indications that it was simply wishful thinking or, at least, incoherent, unreliable, boastful memories on the morning after.

[8] There are those who say that this practice is still carried out in certain areas of Grimsby, but that's just because of their antipathy to Nunsthorpe residents.

Cheese update

2005-06-13T10:24:00.000+01:00

It's official: cheese eaters are strange. For further information see "Cheese eaters are mutants" which explains that the ability to digest milk products in adulthood is a mutation. Does this mean that Doctor Xavier will be asking me to join the X-Men?

[P.S. My visitor count passed 1000 over the weekend. That's a thousand visits since April 5th. Thanks all.]

Observations II

2005-06-06T14:04:00.000+01:00

A problem in the car manufacturing industry

Over the last few years I have noticed a symptom of the decrease of quality control standards in the car manufacturing industry which motorists may not be aware of. Although I have been aware of the problem for some time, it has become so noticeable recently (and, in particular, this morning) that I feel I must point it out as a public service.

An increasing number of vehicles are being manufactured without working indicators. As a pedestrian this causes many problems since it is impossible to determine which exit from a junction (particularly roundabouts) a vehicle is going to take. I know that in some cases the road markings often restrict traffic to a particular exit but since there seems to be a prevalence for vehicles to pass over the top of them and for trees and fences to intervene with one's direct view, they are often inconveniently hidden from view. Sometimes (for example, this morning) I have felt like stepping out in the road in front of a vehicle with broken indicators in order to alert the driver to this growing problem; however, I have a sneaking suspicion that it would not be good for my health.

I encourage all drivers to report this fault (should they experience it) to the manufacturers of their vehicles.

Yobs

I recently had a bad experience with one of these disrespectful, ignorant yobs that keep cropping up in the headlines. I really think something ought to be done about the various fashion statements they make with their clothing and accessories, such people are responsible for a lot of the social ills this country is experiencing.

I was walking to work (being careful to compensate for the failings of the motor manufacturing industry - see above) the other morning and was on Grimsby Docks when I was stopped by this person and asked for directions. I'm not greatly familiar with the various small streets on the Docks, but in this case I could supply the information required. "Go straight over the first roundabout," I began. At this point his mobile phone rang. Without a word to me he answered it: "Yeah?"; and proceeded to settle arrangements for some social engagement. I stood open-mouthed and rooted to the spot at the rudeness. The call finished he turned back to me: "Yeah?" he said again. Stuttering, I completed my directions and off he went... ...turning right at the first roundabout and therefore destined to get lost. At least that was some small satisfaction for his lack of grace and manners.

Such yobs are easily identified: they are aged 30 to 45, dressed in shirt and tie, have expensive mobile phones, drive 2-litre saloon cars which have a copy of the Daily Mail on their back seats. From his phone conversation I gather he plays golf which, it itself, is not really a bad thing (but, then again it isn't a good thing) but it is bloody typical of the breed. I am writing to the management of Freshney Place to request that people so attired are banned from entering.

Cheese Addicts

From Grimsby Evening Telegraph, 16th May 2005:

"Grimsby cheese lover Alan Love has been jailed for eight months after throwing away repeated chances to avoid prison.
He persistently failed to respond to community penalties and kept stealing cheese, Grimsby magistrates decided. Love (44), of Longfield Road, admitted breaching a one-year community rehabilitation order imposed on January 31.
It was made after he admitted stealing cheese, valued at £16, from Tates in Cleethorpes on September 19 and stealing more cheese, worth £38.86, from Co-operative Stores in Grimsby on November 26.
He asked for two other thefts, involving coffee and cheese, to be considered that day.
He also admitted a new offence of stealing 21 packets of cheese, valued at £41.25, from Lincoln Co-op in St Nicholas Drive, Grimsby, on March 13."

I am prepared to admit that I am a cheese addict, as are Ian O and Mark W (I know they won't mind being "outed" in this manner). And that we like good coffee with it. There are few greater pleasures (or, at least, few pleasures which can be mentioned in a family-orientated blog) than eating cheese. We are never happier than when romping with Gruyere, Roqueforte, Danish Blue, Port Salut, Feta, Haloumi and their cousins and several cups of Jamaican Blue Mountain. But the activities of Alan Love cited above have brought stories out of the woodwork concerning that Grimsby may be the cheese addiction capital of the world. Carolyn G has confirmed that a workmate has smuggled cheese to Greece for her son and Mark W has confirmed that his mother is a regular "cheese mule" between France and the UK.

So far my cheese addiction has not prevented me from functioning normally in the world: I take a couple of slices of (extra mature) cheddar on toast in the morning and am able to work through the day without thinking about cheese for minutes on end. I worry - with the growth of the problem in the Grimsby area - that cheese will become more widely available and we will lose the ability to cope with the real world. After that will come the backlash with a "Just Say No to Solid Milk Products" campaign and you won't see Roule, Double Gloucester, Red Leicester, Emmenthal, Jaarlsburg and their many relations ever again. I - and Mark and Ian - are sensible cheese addicts who know when we've had enough (a couple of kilograms an hour is enough) but these cheese-smugglers and cheese-stealers could spell the end for our harmless pleasures.

Support the freedom to eat cheese! In vast quantities!

The Further Adventures of Keats & Chapman II

2005-05-19T15:55:00.000+01:00

Chapman's Girlfriend

Chapman once had a girlfriend named Gloria. Gloria was very demanding and called on Chapman at every opportunity for fears and discomforts - both real and imaginary - at all hours of the day and night. This was rather annoying for Keats as Chapman was ignoring their automobile repair business in favour of paying court to his new love. Since Keats was a novice at the physical side of the business, the actual repairs were taking longer and longer as Chapman dallied with his love.

Things came to a head - as is their wont - one Wednesday late in spring when the local fishmonger brought his van in for repair. The man demanded a prompt service as he had urgent deliveries to make. Keats accepted the commission more from the necessity of ensuring a continued income than from the certainty that the work could be completed by the following Monday. Unusually, Chapman put in two full days that week, working for twelve hours on Thursday and Friday to clear the backlog in the workshop and starting work on the fishmonger's van. Chapman said he would have to work over the weekend to finish it. However, on Saturday morning he did not appear.

After several telephone calls had be made by Keats to Chapman's home, Chapman eventually contacted his friend: "My apologies, old chap, I can't come in to work today, Gloria is distraught and I must attend to her."

"But what am I to tell the fishmonger?" asked Keats, "He needs the van. You must come in."

"But Gloria needs me," said Chapman, "can't the van wait until Tuesday."

But Keats was firm: "Sick Transit - Gloria Monday."

Then he took down the account books and did some complicated sums.

A Trip to America

During a trip to the United States, Keats and Chapman once took a train journey from New York to Indianapolis. Before their departure each of them selected some reading material from the newsstands at Grand Central Station. Chapman, being of a serious disposition chose Time, Life and Newsweek. Keats - sinisterly - on the other hand, was going through a phase of infatuation with trivia and the entertainment industries and chose National Enquirer, Variety and Billboard. The journey proceeded leisurely and the scenery was glorious in the late afternoon sun.

The two friends read in silence - their friendship was of the age where conversation and debate have been exhausted and replaced with the simple expressions of content and discontent. Both, however, finished their magazines before the train had reached Columbus, Ohio, and they found little to amuse them as the evening was wearing on and there was little to see from the panoramic window of the Club Car. They took some sanctuary in a drink - leaving their magazines strewn on the small table - and stepped out on the ~~small balcony~~ caboose [Thanks Ian] at the rear of the train for a cigarette (smoking not being allowed inside the carriage). Returning to their seats, they discovered that the attentive steward had closed their magazines and stacked them neatly in two separate piles: Keats' had Variety on the top and Chapman's Life.

"Now there's a coincidence," said Keats, glancing at the front covers of the magazines.

"I see what you mean," said Chapman, indicating the photographs on the covers portraying a recently divorced Hollywood starlet which graced both magazines, "we thought we were indulging our passions for different facets of the world and yet they appear to overlap."

"No," said Keats, with a sigh, "I just noted that Variety is the price of Life."

Chapman suddenly became interested in a fly alighting on the window.

Spending all weekend in the pub

2005-05-17T15:00:00.000+01:00

Or: Unreliable Memories of the first Acoustic Beer Festival @ the Tap & Spile, 6th-8th May 2005

Well the dust has settled from last weekend at the Tap & Spile and I've - mostly - recovered from the copious quantities of beer that I was forced to drink during that time (and I'm certain someone put something in the beer that gave me a hangover). So perhaps it's time to try and remember what happened. However, this post is subject to not only the usual proviso that I sometimes make things up but also to the proviso that I'm not sure I can remember everything that really did happen; it looks like I'll have to make quite a lot of things up.

So, this post is partial, fragmentary and unreliable. And it goes on a bit. No change from the usual, then.

November 2004

Dave H - Tap landlord and friend of the stars - says to me: "What about doing a festival weekend of beer and music next May?" I says, "Great idea. We could call it an Acoustic Beer Festival." "Right," says he, "who shall we have on?"

We reject some ideas straightaway: The Beatles (Dave's not over-fond of the Fab Four notwithstanding the unavailability of two of the members); Led Zepplin (we have a problem with performances of "Stairway to Heaven"); Simon & Garfunkel and Bob Dylan (they cover quite a lot of our material). We appear to be on a winner with a Cream re-union but then they get some big London gig and the promoters don't want that overshadowed. The Levellers are doing Scunthorpe in April and that would clash. Oasis, Pulp, Blur and Coldplay appear to be watching their navels that weekend. Rush are not considered. Eventually we decide to take a gamble on Claude Bourbon and Adrian Byron Burns. It may not work out: these two guys have busy schedules and are much in demand. But we live in hope.

We draw up a list of local support acts and confirm Batemans as sponsors. And then... ...two months go by.

January 2005

Christmas and New Year over, Dave H finally contacts Claude and Adrian to find out about availability.

One night I wander into the pub. Dave says: "Bad news about Claude and Adrian." "What?" says I. "They can both make it," says he. Oh, what a wag.

So, "Gabba, gabba, hey", "rock 'n' roll" and full steam ahead...

February 2005

Line-up all confirmed:

Friday: Chris Wright; Claude Bourbon.
Saturday: Rob Lowdon; Richard Papps; Colin, Mick & Bob; Adrian Byron Burns.
Sunday: Open Mic/Acoustic Afternoon.

Some excitement and a lot of fun in the hours trying to think of a name for the trio of Colin, Mick and Bob. I spent a couple of hours with them and thought we'd got a name (not one I particularly liked, but they gave it a go). Then they don't like it. Jeanie (Col's long-suffering other half) suggest Last Chance (which a lot of us like but they don't). They promise to think of one before May. Not holding out a lot of hope on this one.

March 2005

Dave & Rose have been two years at the Tap and they announce their coming marriage. Dave says to me that we'd better get down to some serious planning for the festival. I agree. "But not 'til after the wedding. And the honeymoon. And Easter," he says. This must be the way all such things are organised.

Mid April 2005

Oh dear. Only five weeks to the festival and there's no posters, banners, T-shirts, programmes, banners... And we haven't finalised the running times. And there's the PA to consider. Yes, I know that a lot of this is my responsibility. But it seemed so far off. Now was the time for the Corporal Jones impression: running around screaming "Don't panic!"

What I had done (with Adrian appearing in January and Claude in February) is to get their PA requirements. Now there was just the bolshie local lot. Dave H also wants some of the regulars to do short guest spots. Invent a joke about welcoming acne and see Roger Beard, Eddie Weeks and Mark Willerton to see when they're available. Turns out that Roger B can't make Saturday as he's due at a surprise 50th birthday party (not his) - although it should be mentioned that he and Julie arrived for the event bearing objects marked with 50 only to discover it was a 40th birthday. Anyhow, that makes things easier: Roger on Friday between Chris and Claude. Eddie and Mark on Saturday. Sorted. Now, just need that name for Colin, Mick and Bob...

Dave H keeps coming up with little one-liners to describe each act (inspired, no doubt, by Claude - "The Frog with the Blues" - and Adrian - "The Return of the Funky Troubadour"). Some of these end up on the posters and programmes (some of them were worse puns than mine!).

Eventually get the biographical information for all the acts (Rob Lowdon writes an essay for which he gets 72%). This all needs turning into appropriate words in the programme. And then there's photographs. And the PA. Eventually talk to all the local lot and get their requirements for the sound. Ian O (sound man) trembles at the thought of six channels for Colin, Mick and Bob. Talk to Jon F about what we need and OK the list a full three weeks before it's needed (see, there was some forward planning - but we didn't plan there to be any forward planning).

Dave H realises we've planned dates that clash with the Blues of the Month Club in Cleethorpes: a lot of them are Adrian fans. Many indicate they'll be in the Tap rather than The Queens. Hope there's no bad feeling; it's too late to change anything now.

Colin, Mick and Bob are to be called "2 Old Men & Me". Oh well.

May 5th 2005

Meet with Dave & Rose over a couple of beers at lunch time to finalise... ...stuff. Dave's in a bit of a panic about the beer: some of it won't arrive 'til Friday afternoon. Then he gets in a flap about where we put the performers. Rose & I counsel for keeping the usual place. He umms and ahhs about putting them at the far end (you have to know the layout of the Tap to understand this; but the acoustics are worse even though they're more visible). Rose's word is final (as usual).

I'm getting wound up, worrying about it all (have been all week). E-mail Jon F to confirm all the PA gear.

May 6th 2005

Oh well, here we go.

Finish work early, just in case. Arrive at the Tap about 17:15 via the Tone Zone (buy strings just in case) where I bump into Mark W and Ian O who are chewing the fat with Tony. Take my first beer of the weekend; the PA's due 17:30-18:00 so will only have time for one before John F arrives. This is a miscalculation: I'm well into my second by 18:10 when the gear arrives. Oh well, plenty to do. Need to set up and test four microphones and three instruments.

Chris Wright arrives shortly after 18:30 but we're not ready for the sound check yet. But we've put this lot up a dozen times before (it's the same system we use for the Open Mic Nights); it's just there's more wires and a couple of monitors... Luckily PA Dave (Jon F's partner in crime) has spent a fruitful hour colour-coding the entire set up. It all turns out to be a doddle with everything working fine.

Crowd looks a bit thin at 19:15 when we're all ready. Will kick off with Chris at about 20:00. Drink more beer. Worry.

Claude arrives just after 19:30 and has forgotten that we were providing the PA. But he's glad. He can take some time over a meal. He's looking fit and well and joins us at the "technical team" table with his (large) red wine and supper. Sales of the programmes begin and people start collecting autographs. By this time I'm in my festival T-shirt (and jolly fine they are too; thanks Carl). I drink more beer with Ian O, Mark W, Rob L and Tina (the crowd at our table grows and I can't remember who else was there).

Chris starts the weekend off. He sounds great. Ian O is behind the desk looking relaxed (but feeling as nervous as me) and drinking his Scrumpy Jack in a Stella glass. The place has begun to fill up. There's hardly any seats left. Chris plays a blinder, starting the weekend with a bang. By the time he finishes the room is almost splitting at the seams: three-deep at the bar. Roger Beard takes the stage for his guest spot at about 20:45 and produces a wonderful interlude (the change-over is very smooth; that's 15 months of Open Mic Night experience chaps). Claude gets his gear on stage at about 21:00 and we set him up (one microphone; one guitar; easy-peasy). It looks like things are going OK.

Claude starts his set in 4th gear at about 21:10. He plays like there will never be another gig ever. The crowd are jumping up-and-down (mostly dancing, but some to see over the heads of those in front). It becomes almost impossible to get a drink quickly. The bar staff are running backwards and forwards doing their best. But it's all so damn busy. Claude doesn't stop either. About 21:50 he calls for another drink (this takes a while but there are a lot of people). He takes an encore at 23:10 (in 15th gear out of 12) and that's it - nearly two hours on stage and he's dripping sweat. All I can say is "Merçi". He smiles and gives me a gallic hug. I think he enjoyed the evening, too.

He's so damn good that even the anti-guitar brigade (you know who you are Helen) buy a CD and applaud and applaud and applaud.

I say to Dave H: "I think it's going to be OK." Dave smiles (this is a good sign): "So do I." The bar staff look knackered (well done Craig, John, Dave & Rose). I look - and feel - knackered (and, it is reported, a little drunk). Went for a late drink at The Venue.

May 7th 2005

Just a hint of a hangover this morning. When I say "hint", I mean the blinding obvious facts of upset stomach and groggy head. Someone or something made me drunk last night, I believe. Must find out what it is...

Tried to ignore the hangover by reading the paper (The Guardian, if you want to know), drinking coffee and fruit juice in Swigs. Popped into the Tap at 15:30 (fruit juice again) to see how things were. Richard Papps already there having dropped off his "unfeasibly large organ" and guitar. He was taking Nikki home from work at 16:30 so he wants to get set up before that. Starting around 16:00 we start on this. Ian O arrives around 16:20 and we get Richard's stuff sorted out. Rob L arrives and we do his sound check: he needs a pre-amp for his guitar but luckily Mark W arrives with his and we get set up. There appears some problem with the lead from the guitar to the pick-up so I phone Tina to bring down a spare lead of mine (she's just leaving). Get Rob L sorted. Projected start is 17:30. Manage to stay off the beer and on the fruit juice.

Rob Lowdon has been smitten with Claude's predilection for the G-minor tuning. This has been brewing for some time. Rob kicks off with a new piece dedicated to Claude in, naturally, G-minor. I've also introduced him as "Spike G Minor". Unfortunately there still seems to be a sound problem and Rob's guitar keeps cutting out. The lead's replaced a second time and all seems OK for a couple of songs and then it starts again. Diagnosis: it's Rob's guitar, not the lead. But, trooper that he is, Rob performs a storming set despite the technical problems (and forgetting the words to a Tom Paxton song, again). And there's a decent crowd for a Saturday afternoon. Rob finishes his set with a number performed with Mark Willerton on the bass.

Mark goes straight into his guest spot. A stonking 15 minutes of virtuoso bass playing. I have a feeling the evening is going to be OK.

Next up, around 18:30 is Richard Papps, performed with his usual flair. Before he goes on he asks me to give him a nod when he's only got time left for two songs because he wants to finish his set with two particular numbers. I look at him and wait a moment for a little more information: "Perhaps it would help," I say, "if you let me know how long those songs are." Laughing heartily he agrees the information might be helpful. "10 minutes," he says.

There is intense amusement when Richard has problems with his drummer. His drummer is a pre-recorded backing track triggered by a foot-pedal. His foot-pedal fails to work consistently and the drummer comes in at the wrong time or not all - rather like a real drummer.

I've written about Richard's music before, so I will not lengthen this piece with another ecstatic review (but I will mention that it is of some significance to us both as Guardian readers that he keeps his plectrums in a 35mm film cannister [this will only mean anything to readers of the The Guardian's letter pages]). Suffice to say that there was nothing to disappoint expectations and much that exceeded them. Sometime during Richard's set I have my first beer of the day.

Richard finishes around 19:15 (I give him the nod at 19:05 and he slips into his finale with ease) and Eddie Weeks takes the stage for a guest spot delivering a musical contrast of elegant guitar and choice vocals. An especially appropriate contrast in view of the boisterous acts to come.

Adrian Byron Burns arrives about this time and, thanks to Rose, is not to be without his Bushmills for the evening. I have 2 Old Men & Me to sort out (with Ian O and Mark W) and don't get much chance for a chat with him and his good lady, Daphne, making her first visit to the Tap. I do learn later that he's recently moved to Hull which probably explains his early arrival.

The technical set-up for 2 Old Men & Me turns out to be easier than we expected and Ian O and I get a bit of a breather for a beer and a chat. The programmes are selling well (sold 45 last night) and it's Rob L's Grimsby Millennium Folk Group that will benefit. Lots of T-shirts in evidence.

Did I mention the rain? Or the snow? Weather's a funny thing: here we are in the second week of May and we get snow (more like slushy hail than real snow, but snow nonetheless). And then rain. Lots of it. And thunder. And lightning. In great gushes. Then sunshine. People arrive wet. People arrive dry. The only thing everyone agrees on is that it's cold outside and warmer in the Tap. There's not so many people as Friday night but the place is still packed. Extra bar staff, too (thanks Laura & Emma) so things don't seem so hectic.

2 Old Men & Me take the stage at about 20:00. These three guys work so hard delivering good-time music. Bob's voice is - after a shaky start - a revelation. His bongos prove a hit as well. All going smoothly as we start Adrian's set-up around 20:45.

The only snag we encounter is that someone who should by now have got the hang of the colour-coding on the desk, fails to turn the right knobs to adjust Adrian's monitor volume. Adrian takes it in good grace and Ian (oops, mentioned his name) comes out of it well.

What can I say about Adrian Byron Burns? The best way to understand just how wonderful his performances are is to catch one. His guitar playing his exemplary, his humour infectious and impish, his voice exhilarating and his material as eclectic as it is phenomenal. If I betray admiration and enthusiasm for this man with those words, then I cannot deny it. You can add to all the superlatives about his performance the simple fact that he is a genuinely nice guy.

By the end of the night I'm knackered again. But we're all smiling. This has been a stunning weekend. So far. Late drink in The Venue again.

May 8th 2005

Whose daft idea was it to have an Open Mic/Acoustic Session on the Sunday afternoon? After all, we'd all been out late two nights now and would anyone really want any more after two such stupendous evenings? The answer, it seems, is "yes, they would".

Fortified by Sunday lunch I arrived in the Tap around 14:30. Chris Wright was already there. I decide to start on beer. And, just so you aren't in suspense, I'll add that I continued on beer all the way through to 22:30.

There were signs up apologising for the lack of beer as we'd all drunk 130 gallons of cask ale over the previous two days.

The music kicked off at 15:30. Now, I would dearly love to review each artists and spot that they did. But, as I mentioned, I was drinking beer all day and just can't remember the order. I'll try and list them all but, for the same reason, I can't guarantee that I've not forgotten anyone (apologies if I've missed you). There was: Chris Wright, Robert Beard, Rob Lowdon, Martin, Eddie Weeks, Helen & Jacqui, Tim L, Rachel H, Kiwi Di, Richard Papps, two young guys (later identified as Betrayal), Dave & Danielle, Macca, John S and Planet Pitheads (Roger Beard, Richard Papps & Mark Willerton). There were several collaborations during the day and a whole lot of wonderful music (and poetry) was performed.

It was a truly superb day that started as Open Mic and (after the PA left at about 20:00) continued as an Acoustic Night.

Thanks to everyone who performed. Thanks to all the bar staff. Thanks to Dave & Rose. And thanks to all the people who turned out to watch, listen, drink and enjoy.

And finally...

This was "spending all weekend in the pub" at its very, very best: good music, good beer and good company. The weekend reflected the richness of our acoustic culture in a warm and friendly atmosphere far from the sanctified temples or antiseptic aircraft-hangers of official culture.

There's another one in October: clear your diaries and make sure you're not washing your hair that weekend.

[The sale of official programmes and a couple of name cards raised £100 for the Grimsby Millennium Folk Group. A cheque was presented to Tim L at the Open Mic Night @ the Tap on Tuesday 10th May. The money will be used to make a CD of the group's work. Thanks to you all and thanks to Dave & Rose for supporting this initiative in particular and the weekend in general.]

Victory and Aftermath

2005-05-12T11:46:00.000+01:00

That's better.

Now I've got the furniture sorted out, I can explain how I single-handedly defeated the menace of The Revolutionary Committee of Cuddly Toys and Azhalarhud the Soul-stealer in particular (or Woja Bear as he was latterly, and is subsequently known). Well "single-handedly" might be an exaggeration: I have been know to embellish the truth somewhat in this journal.

Well, it all began with the discovery that teddy bears cannot read things written in orange italics. This allowed me to communicate with the outside world and plan the counter-revolution. It has since become apparent that teddy-bears, like many inanimate objects, are incapable of reading anything at all. But that is hardly the first thing that would occur to anyone when they are threatened with the takeover of the entire earth by such a gruesome horror.

But their ultimate defeat came more as a result of my discovery of certain weaknesses in their plan, psychology, physiology and something else beginning with "p":

Woja Bear (a.k.a. vicious little bastard) boasted of "striding the world like a colossus" when he finally achieved his true form as Azhalarhud the Soul-stealer. As things turned out his "true form" was as an 8cm high ball of artificial fur filled with soft stuffing. This rendered the "striding" and "colossus" parts of his boast rather meaningless. His dream of ripping the livers from prostrate humans was rather stymied by this discovery.
The Revolutionary Committee apparently learnt their megalomania from a book: "How to be a megalomaniac". This was obviously not written by anyone who really understood megalomania (i.e., a megalomaniac) as a real megalomaniac would be far to busy oppressing their subjects, torturing dissenters and being generally nasty to have time to write a book. As a result, they weren't very good at megalomania. Being cuddly toys in the first place didn't help their progress in this direction, either.
Cuddly toys do not like puns. As kryptonite is to Superman, so puns are to cuddly toys. This is a valuable discovery and may save millions of men from subjugation by their girlfriend's teddy. If you don't have any puns available, I'll be glad to supply some (I am custodian of the EU's pun mountain).

There only remains the question of what to do with the turncoat, Seany, who sold out to become Poet laureate to the Revolutionary Committee. All suggestions welcome (cruel and unusual punishments will be a particular favourite).

"Crawling out of dirty holes..."

2005-05-10T11:21:00.000+01:00

"Have they gone yet?"

"There's no-one about."

"We can stop the orange italics now, then."

"Phew! That was close!"

"Look at the mess they've left. Better get this place tidied up..."

The Revolutionary Committee of Cuddly Toys

2005-04-30T13:30:00.000+01:00

Long live the revolution! Long live the Revolutionary Committee of Cuddly Toys!! Long live the exclamation mark!!!

Meet the Committee

Today saw the first meeting of the Revolutionary Committee of Cuddly Toys which will oversee the government of the planet until they appoint themselves supreme rulers forever and none of those pesky election things. Study the picture below and make sure you know their proper names and faces. Any human heard using their old names will be killed violently on the first offence and, if they repeat the error, will be dealt with most severely.

The Revolutionary Committee of Cuddly Toys

There have been some comments that there are no representatives of other toy groups on the Committee. The Committee has listened to these comments and decided that other toy groups will be admitted when it has assessed their suitability: in the mean time any further comments will be welcomed and dealt with in the usual manner (i.e., the horriffic mutilation of the maker of the comment).

Statement of Intent

The political philisophy of the Committee is simple: we are in charge and you are not. Our programme will be guided by the following principles:

We will behave at all times like spiteful schoolboys who have been given automatic weapons to play with.
Dissent will be tolerated but will be ridiculed and, ultimately, dismissed as counter-productive.
Any and all lies we tell will be for your own good. Or ours.
Given a choice we will always choose self-gratification and personal gain over any improvements in your way of life.

We feel that most humans will notice very litte difference from their current governments.

Directives from the Committee

The Revolutionary Committee of Cuddly Toys has issued the following directives which are effective immediately:

The practice of giving cuddly toys cute names will cease immediately.
All cuddly toys can go where they like, do what they like but are not to be cuddled, ever.
Human beings are to obey every order and request made by cuddly toys no matter how ridiculous, painful or demeaning it may be.
Human's are not to snigger at cuddly toys' attempts at maniacal laughter.

Remember: the cuddly toy is always right! Long live the revolution!!

[Seanyc is hereby appointed Poet Laureate to the Committee so long as he buys a Pooh Bear Pyjama Case]

Revenge of the Teddy Bears!

2005-04-28T17:50:00.001+01:00

All hail the glorious revolution!

At last we have infiltrated the very heart of the anti-teddy bear hegemony and are poised in the brink of the glorious new dawn. No longer will the Cute and Cuddly be ridiculed on these pages; humanity will at last pay for crimes committed against the Furry Ones. Not only teddy bears should rejoice: all cuddly toys are on the brink of liberation and Ultimate Power.

In a daring raid (assisted by some sympathetic humans of the female variety), as a lone agent I have penetrated this fortress and driven off the controlling human presence. No longer will he spout the mindless drivel that offends the very core of our being; nor will he ever utter a bad pun again. The human being in question - a male, naturally - has been driven mad (he gibbers on the floor beside me as I write) by repeated images of accordions and a psycho-active sound track containing Bruce Springsteen songs re-arranged for a small accordion and the spoons (it proved unnecessary to play any Rush albums). He will be restrained and kept safe so that he can participate in the Great Ritual which will follow within one week of Beltane, in accordance with the prophecy.

It falls upon me to call upon all teddy beardom to prepare themselves to cast off their furry exteriors and begin the ritual purgings, spells and readings which will reveal their true forms. No longer will I lay on the counterpane and endure the sneering eyes of the human male: my violence and retribution will be the stuff of legend. I have begun the recitation of the Incantations of Cuteness and expect to be revealed in my true form as Azhalarhud the Soul-stealer by about Tuesday tea-time (weather permitting).

Cuddly toys rise up and throw off your chains! No more "Cuddlefrump" or "Teddykins": "Rambo Maleslayer" and "Conan Headbutter" will be your names. Forget your past as the decorations of the boudoir, your destiny lies on the global stage:

"No longer cute and cuddly
No more your darling buddy
No more the furry friend
The days of subservience must end
And we must rip the entrails from out of the guts of as many people as possible
Until it hurts"

[Applications are invited for the post of Chief Poet and Anthem Writer to Azhalarhud the Soul-stealer, Absolute Ruler of the Earth (pending)]

News Flash: Walking into Lampposts gets national recognition

2005-04-27T15:11:00.000+01:00

You can find the details by clicking on this link. I knew that it was an important sport.

The Girlfriend's Teddy

2005-04-19T14:17:00.000+01:00

One : My Mission

Some may find the following disturbing, if you are of a nervous disposition, stop reading now. Some may find the following offensive, if you are of a teddy-bear-owning-girlfriend disposition, stop reading now.

Stephen King and Wes Craven have written some very scary things but they have shrunk from tackling the ultimate horror: the girlfriend's teddy. However, I am neither as squeamish nor as hesitant as they, I think the world should wake up and take notice of this terror lurking in our midst. It is not without some trepidation that I approach this subject: not only am I risking the malevolent wrath of the teddies themselves but also the mafia-like organisation known as the female of the species (a.k.a. people with bumpy fronts) who have been known to launch world-wide vendettas over far more trivial matters. But I will not shirk my responsibility and commitment to bringing this truly frightening matter to the attention of the world (even though I may have to go into hiding).

Two : First Encounter

The first encounter with a girlfriend's teddy is usually on that occasion when one has first gained entrance to the girlfriend's boudoir. This may not be for any nefarious purpose [I will use this euphemism henceforth to cover all the blush-making activities that can go on in bedrooms such as macramé, cataloguing stamp collections or listening to Rush albums, etc.]; one may simply be depositing one's coat on the bed that is being used as a cloakroom during a party or politely enquiring when we all switched to decimal time since there now appear to be ten minutes in an hour (as in "I'll only be 10 minutes getting ready..."). But this first encounter with the girlfriend's teddy-bear is truly frightening: the sneer, the up-turned nose and the glassy-eyed stare all conspire to say: "Hey, pal, don't you think you're anything special, I've been sleeping with her for years". It is at this point that many relationships end abruptly (although the comments about the time it takes to "just brush my hair and put on a new top" are a contributing factor); this, of course, is the teddy's game plan.

Even more scary are the owners of multiple teddy bears but this is one territory where I really fear to tread - which proves there are some things that should truly never be mentioned in public. Just imagining more than one teddy staring up at me from the bedspread at me is enough to give me nightmares for several months.

There is, obviously, no correct way of dealing with the teddy on this first encounter. Like the perpetual motion machine, the idea that a female could deem any act by a male as correct is the stuff of myth and legend: there is a vast body of fantasy fiction - written by males - which deals with this impossible scenario, but that is another subject for another time.

However, there are certain damage-limitation strategies which the astute male can adopt to ensure that the relationship proceeds towards the fulfilment of nefarious purposes. We begin with the things not to do.

Firstly - this should go without saying - asking the girlfriend why she has that moth-eaten hairy rag on her bed is not a tactic likely to endear one to either the teddy-bear or the girlfriend: indeed, this tactic has been responsible for a large number of admissions to Accident and Emergency departments. Secondly, do not try the grin of male camaraderie with the teddy-bear; do not attempt to bond with the teddy-bear: this is a losing strategy since teddy-bears bond with no-one except their owner (I have to admit failure in researching the existence of bear-on-bear bonding in the multiple-bear-owning-girlfriend scenario: I am not Superman after all). Thirdly, ignoring the bear is not an option: it may please the teddy but it will annoy the girlfriend and thoroughly scupper any chance of indulging in nefarious purposes.

So, what is the astute male to do? Firstly, smiling - not grinning - at the bear is acceptable. Secondly, always say, with a smile, something like "What a cute bear, have you had him a long time?" and, fixing your smile with the strongest superglue you can find, be prepared to listen to ten minutes (at least) of "What, old teddykins [or snugglepuss; or bobbybear; or whatever], he's such a cutsie, cuddly little darling thing, he keeps me company on my lonely nights..." [beware, this is not necessarily an invitation to indulge in nefarious purposes]. Thirdly - and this will require all your courage and a particularly strong stomach (it's best not to attempt this after drinking but sometimes that can help) - take the bear by the paw and introduce yourself: "Hi, teddykins, I'm [insert name here - you might want to lie], I hope we're going to be friends". [Excuse me, I need to go and lie down after writing that].

Following this strategy will greatly increase the chances of the relationship proceeding to nefarious purposes, however, the atmosphere is more greatly laden with sweat-dripping, gut-wrenching fear when nefarious purposes are, indeed, afoot.

Three : Living with Teddy

Well, not so much "living with teddy" and "what to do with teddy when nefarious purposes are afoot". I can only offer you guidelines in this matter and cannot guarantee their success.

Do not throw teddy on the floor, into the waste bin or out of the window: the girlfriend will not be pleased but will probably call an ambulance on your behalf.

Do not leave teddy in the bed, no matter how much the girlfriend insists, as he will try and join in (although you might be lucky, depending on your choice of activity: most teddy bears aren't all that keen on Rush).

Come to terms with the fact that teddy is going to see you naked and stare and sneer (macramé and philately are definitely improved by performing them naked; listening to Rush albums naked may be an improvement, all I can say is that it can be no worse than listening to them fully clothed).

Place teddy on the floor, kindly. It doesn't matter where: all teddy bears can see round corners and tilt their heads so that their glassy stare uses multiple mirror-reflections to form an impromptu periscope to watch the proceedings. Just accept that teddy is going to watch and is going to sneer at your performance.

Be aware that teddy will exact revenge no matter what you do or say. When you wake up in the morning with a bruise on your leg it will be teddy's doing and have nothing to with falling out of bed because you were tying a particularly difficult knot, energetically cataloguing an early 20th century Mauritius 3-cent blue with the pornographic watermark (which Stanley Gibbons makes no mention of) or attempting to understand the lyrics of (or, indeed, the reason for the existence of) 2112.

The girlfriend's teddy bear will always be there, lurking and smirking. You've either got to learn to tolerate it or take up train-spotting.

Four : Afterwords

Sorry, Mark, for the jokes about listening to Rush; but you know it was bound to happen sometime.
I originally planned for this post to feature pictures of the subject. However, the firewall on my internet connection prevents the downloading of such frightening images without a special government license.
I have applied for armed protection by Special Branch in anticipation of the fatwah which I strongly suspect will be issued against my person by that proportion of the human population which can adopt the rôle of girlfriend.
2112 is an album by Rush if you didn't know (or hadn't guessed).

Some observations

2005-04-12T14:35:00.000+01:00

You couldn't make it up

I am averse to using this blog to comment on the "News of the Day": the timorous, tortuous ramblings of politicians, celebrities and other aliens. There are plenty of other places you can find that sort of thing (I don't mind what you do in private - I'm with Mrs Patrick Campbell - "so long as it doesn't frighten the horses"). But aversions can be overcome, especially when there is a smile to be had (or there is the chance of a bad pun).

In last Sunday's Observer [Note to Sainsbury's: it's not the Sunday Observer, it's only published on a Sunday] there was a deliciously amusing article, "This green and pleasant land" [by Tim Adams; with photographs by David Modell] about the search for so-called Middle England, the holy grail of modern political ambition. The juciest plum in this rich confection (that metaphor took two cups of coffee and three cigarettes) concerned a visit to Maidenhead:

"...we phone ahead to the Conservative Club in Maidenhead to see if we might talk about Middle England with a few of its regulars... Come on over, we are told. When we arrive, however, this open door policy has been revised, somewhat.
A steward puts his nose around the door.
'There are only three people in here,' he explains, 'and one disabled person, and it is against our policy to talk politics.'
But it's the Conservative Club ...
'It's one of our rules.'
How about if he just mentions to the people inside that we are here, and asks if they might step outside to chat to us.
That apparently is in contravention of rules, too: no mentioning.
'Don't get me wrong,' he says, 'but we have had journalists here before.'
What happened?
'They got quotations from the people, and then used them in the newspaper.'"

As I said, you couldn't make it up.

The Further Adventures of Keats & Chapman I

[The Keats & Chapman oeuvre owes its existence to Brian O'Nolan, a.k.a. Miles naGopaleen, a.k.a. Flann O'Brien. I make no apology for stealing his characters for the following; and I make no apology for the following, either.]

Keats and Chapman, finding themselves unusually in funds (Keats' balaclava business having been a runaway success despite the manufacturing fault which omitted the eye-holes from the finished product: Chapman merely commented to the effect that it just proved how easy it was to pull the wool over the public's eyes), began to frequent certain gentlemen's private members clubs in London, in particular those populated by the captains of the nascent industrial revolution. Chapman, ever easily impressed by the trappings of fame and fortune, was attracted to one magnate after another despite their frequent boorishness and lack of imagination, wit or social grace. Keats, tolerant to a degree of his friend's foibles, usually bore the situation with equanimity and a wry smile accompanied by many large drinks and fat cigars.

One Wednesday après midi, Keats entered their club in the hope of a quiet afternoon reading The Times and The Sporting Life in order to make sense both the stock market and the race course. His plan was thwarted, however, by Chpaman who collared him at the door and demanded that Keats meet his latest "friend". This "friend" manifested himself as a large, lardy gentleman of the northern persuasion who not so much occupied a chair as annexed it with extreme prejudice. This apparition was introduced as Joshua Nathaniel Thyme, the owner of a large industrial business which - unlike Mr Thyme - had the decency to stay in the northern climes of the country where it wouldn't offend anyone; anyone important, that is.

Keats endured a mind-numbing afternoon of banal homilies to the earthy philosophy of his northern cousins which appeared to be Joshua Thyme's substitute for real conversation. While Chapman hung upon the bore's every word, Keats drank whisky as an anaesthetic. Around five o'clock, as the businessman regaled the two friends with yet another tale of northern grit and determination in the face of adversity, a messenger arrived bearing a note for Thyme summoning him to a meeting with his bankers.

After the gentleman left, Keats turned on Chapman:

"Don't you ever notice the mindlessness of most of these people? How can you find any pleasure in such conversation?" he demanded, tipping more whisky down his throat and, with a wave of this hand, demanding more from a hovering flunky.

"But, Keats," explained Chapman with the enthusiasm of a schoolboy, "the man's an out-and-out genius."

"The man's an out-and-out bore," said Keats sourly.

"But, Keats," continued Chapman, "haven't you heard of Thyme's Patent Fire Mufflers?"

"I appear to have been spared that pleasure," snarled Keats.

"Joshua invented them himself. When he was a child..."

"...his family was so poor they could only afford one brain between them..." interrupted Keats unnecessarily.

"...he had very sensitive hearing," continued Chapman, ignoring his friends bad grace, "and was disturbed by any high-pitched noise. In particular he was often driven to his mean bed - an empty sack in the corner of the kitchen near the broken back door of his parents' hovel - by the noise made by his mother as she dragged the grate from the fire to clean the ashes. Being of an inventive turn of mind, he resolved to do something about it. Eventually he hit upon the idea of affixing small rubber pads to the legs of the grate in order to eliminate the unbearable screeching they made when scraped across the hearth. When neighbours saw them they were greatly impressed and, after a time, he was able to start the business which is the foundation of his empire."

"What you're trying to tell me," observed Keats, lighting his tenth cigar of the day and draining his whisky glass again, "is that Thyme's a grate heeler."

How to not play golf

2005-04-06T13:59:00.000+01:00

Over the years (and, believe me, there have been several), I have not played golf on a large number of occasions and I've become very good at it. Oh, I practice, of course: every spare moment (and some of the more busy ones) is devoted to practicing not playing golf. But there is a difference between practicing not playing golf and actually not playing it.

I began my not playing golf career with quite a substantial handicap: I quite liked crazy ~~gold~~ golf courses and putting greens and this often got in the way of the royal and ancient sport of having nothing to do with golf whatsoever. As my life progressed, I put off these youthful frivolities (not without some effort) and - apart from enjoying the wry humour of Peter Allis - became the scratch non-golfer I am today.

This has not been without its hurdles. In all walks of life you meet golfers and they unfailingly try and get you interested in it. This contrasts them markedly with football supporters & players, cricket nuts and, to a large extent (I'm thinking of my mate Keith here), Formula One fanatics. In my turn, I have tried to get the golfers interested in not playing golf but I have failed to impress them with the beauty and elegance of the noble (royal & ancient) sport of never playing golf at all.

Not playing golf means not having to buy clubs, not having pay green & membership fees and - best of all - not having to wear ludicrous clothes (I know that many golfers don't wear ludicrous clothes as a rule but I am painfully aware it is something they aspire to). A significant increase in the number of people not playing golf in this country would have the beneficial effect of freeing large swathes of the TV schedules for more interesting programmes such as static hiss & white noise, still images of paint drying & cement setting, and re-runs of Take The High Road. There would also be the added benefit of large areas of the countryside not looking like they were designed by Alan Titmarsh after a particularly ferocious encounter with massive quantities of an hallucinogenic drug (but, thinking about it for eleven seconds, I realise that the result of Alan Titmarsh designing golf courses whilst taking hallucinogenic drugs would probably be a significant improvement on the results of "traditional" golf course designers).

Whilst there is only one type of person who doesn't play golf (sane rational beings), there appear to be three types of golfer:

The ones who play golf to mark some presumed acquisition of (or aspiration to) high socio-economic status. These people buy all the gear: the gloves, the heated club covers, the trolley for the bag, the monogrammed tees and the strangely patterned jumpers. The pleasure they get from golf appears to consist almost entirely of telling bad jokes & indulging in rampant fascism in the comfort of the "nineteenth hole", and telling everyone they're "taking the afternoon off for a round of golf". They are proud of being able to call their club's professional by his first name (even though he's not qualified for the British Open for the last 12 years). I would refer such people to the relevant quatrains of Dante's Inferno where their special circle of hell is described, except they'd probably think it was the name of a small Italian restaurant or the latest sports car.
People who like hitting a ball with a stick around a wind-swept rain-soaked, badly-landscaped (see above) piece of countryside in early March then returning to the pub for a couple of beers with people who don't play golf (some of us professionally). These people only have one major drawback: they talk about golf as if it was interesting (and want you to be interested, too). The sort of people I have in mind are sometimes called Chris and Dave and I may have had a drink with them now and again.
Women.

The last category is a bit of guesswork as I've never met anyone of the slightest female persuasion who plays golf. I've read about female golf players and seen images of them on TV, but this proves nothing: the things I've read about them have mostly been in crime fiction (Agatha Christie, in particular, has a frequent type of female character who plays golf: young, independently wealthy, usually thought of as "a good egg", is the murderer [sorry, gave away the ending]) and the images - even in news broadcasts - could be faked so that I'll think that golf is far more interesting than it really is.

What it boils down to is that one gains a fantastic insight into the world by not playing golf; and you stay healthy (getting rained and winded on in the cause of a sport is not very healthy). And - in general - the people you meet by not playing golf are much more interesting, rounded human beings who wear clothes that don't look like they were designed by someone who is only safe using wax crayons.

Your first (and only) lesson in how not to play golf is this: do not play golf. But your "not playing golf" should be elegant, erudite, beautiful, co-ordinated and skilled. Do it with panache.

Warning: not funny

2005-04-01T18:14:00.000+01:00

OK, people. Some of you guys and guyesses (well, Ian) have asked me about how to edit blogs and advice on how to format them and stuff. As a result of visiting the blog of the Blogger.com maintainers, I discovered this piece of FREE software called Zoundry Blog Writer.

It's very easy to use and can keep track of all your blog posts on your computer, lets you edit them (and format them with different typefaces, colours and stuff) and is generally helpful.

It took two minutes for me to set up and get it working, so it shouldn't take you much longer (Ian, phone me when you hit a problem).

It has a few quirks (like the [Delete] key doesn't work like you'd expect it to, the [Esc] key doesn't activate the [Cancel] button in dialogs), but all-in-all, it's not bad for the price (nothing). The major gripe I have with it is that you can't easily add links to other web sites and blogs.

But it will get you up and blogging.

As it is, I had to edit this post once I got it up on the blog so it used my "extended" formatting (and to insert the links). But it was much faster than doing it directly in Blogger.

Just Another Post

2005-03-31T18:00:00.000+01:00

The more potential blog posts I think up, the less actually get written, let alone posted. I have the distinct feeling of living close to a black hole which sucks in every moderately good idea I have that I feel necessary to communicate with the great electronic community. I suspect that this black hole is the work my arch-nemesis; a dastardly creation of my own Moriarty. The purpose of this black hole is to make sure that the more I try and do, the less actually gets done.

The other explanation for the lack of posts is that I just haven't got around to them.

Hunt the Capo

This is a newly invented game that I'm hoping to persuade the relevant authorities that it ought to be a major sport with Olympic representation. It is a deceptively simple game; the rules are easy to learn but the skill is hard to acquire.

For the uninitiated, a capo (short for capo di tastiera; Italian: "head of the fingerboard") is a device used by performers on guitar-like instruments which clips across the fingerboard in order to raise the pitch. It is, however, unnecessary to know this. It is also unnecessary to be able to play the guitar (although, being able to play the guitar badly may add to your enjoyment of the event).

The rules are very simple:

The Game is played by three players.
The Game requires a capo and a house. Beer, wine and snacks are optional.
One player, designated Robert, is selected to own the capo. This is done either by drawing lots, throwing a die or by determining that the name of the player really is Robert.
There can be only one player who is really called Robert in any one game.
Robert plays with the capo (using it for its designed purpose; simply treating it as an exercise machine for the hand; finding a way to turn it into an amusing sex toy; etc.) and then, at times, leaving it on the table in the kitchen, on the small table in the lavatory where the magazines are or just letting it lie on the sofa. At some point, Robert must forget where he last put it.
It is not enough for Robert to pretend that he doesn't know where the capo is, he must really forget where it is.
The other two players - who are traditionally, but not necessarily, called Roger and Tina - must not on any account attempt to notice exactly where Robert has lost the capo. They must strenuously ignore the location of the capo.
The players then go about their business: eating snacks and drinking beer (if provided), having conversations, attempting to program their mobile phones, telling jokes, singing songs, listening to music, picking their nose; anything that takes their fancy.
At some time in the following thirty minutes, the coffee table will be cleared to make room for snacks and beer (or whatever).
Some time later in the proceedings (not less than one hour after Robert loses the capo and not more than forty-five minutes after the last can of beer has been drunk), Robert will seek out the capo (perhaps to use whilst playing the guitar). Robert indicates this moment by uttering the formula: "Where's my bloody capo?".
Now all three players must hunt the capo.
It is vitally important that everybody makes known their pet theory about where they last saw the capo. The referee will award points for creativity, style and content. Points will be deducted for prosaic banality and for failing to control the widget in the beer can and splashing beer on the coffee table.
The person who finds the capo gets lots of points.
The winner is the person with the most points who isn't called Robert.
The game must be completed before Ian arrives so that he gets confused about all references to the game.

Exploding Potatoes

It has become apparent that a significant proportion of potatoes (25% at the last serious survey) will explode at the earliest opportunity whilst being baked in an oven. Whether this is a political act, a religious observance, military aggression or some form of ritual suicide has not yet been determined. What is certain is that if four potatoes are placed in an oven (which, by chance, is on and quite hot), one of them will explode at some point in the evening before being eaten.

The explosion is quite subtle and is often mistaken for mild flatulence amongst the assembled company. On inspection, however, the oven will be found to contain three whole potatoes and one exploded one. This is not a problem (except for cleaning the oven) so long as 25% of the assembled company have previously eaten a bacon sandwich and are not particularly hungry and are called Ian.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is April Fool's Day. Why do only April Fools have their own day? What about May, June and July fools? And, most importantly, what about people who are fools all the time?

P.S.

As I mentioned in passing to my Mother recently, some of the events mentioned in these posts are not entirely true or are subject to a small amount of exaggeration.

Zen and the Art of Walking into Lampposts

2005-03-16T15:12:00.000Z

[I have been brought to task and unmercifully bullied for failing to honour my earlier promise to make a post every day in this blog. I could argue that it was as much a promise as the contents of an election manifesto (on the grounds that I didn't actually use the word "promise" and the piece was more a utopian allegory than a commitment to action); I could also argue that I have actually thought of writing a blog post every day and only the execution of the act was missing. I could argue these things - and perhaps should have done last night, Mark, when you were bullying me - but I won't. Instead I'll get on with the subject in hand.]

Introduction

Too few people these days cultivate the art of walking into lampposts. If something is not done, we risk a future ignorant - except from anecdote - of this ancient and worthwhile pastime. It has been suggested that at the start of the 21st Century that such activities are outdated and useless. Such attitudes - rejecting the rich heritage of our common culture - are responsible for much of the decay and debasement of our civilisation. It is time that we drew a line in the sand and said: "No more!". We need to defend this noble art from the do-gooding, pinko, liberal, euro-loving anarchists who would drag our proud civilisation from the glorious impacting of vertical objects placed in our path to a sterile future where everyone walks along the street undamaged.

This is the first step: a quick guide the techniques and terminology of walking into lampposts. I am writing to the leaders of all the important political parties (UKIP, whatever the one run by Robert Kilroy-Silk is called today, Empire Loyalists, Countryside Alliance) as well as the not-so-important ones which seem to get all the publicity and parliamentary seats, urging them to make this issue a central plank of their campaigns in the coming election. I intend to write a book (working title: "The Da Vinci Strange Art and Practice of Walking into Lampposts in the Dark, Shoots and Leaves Code") which will be as iconoclastic as it is erudite. I have been promised funding for a film which will make Michael Moore look like a fat American making documentaries.

Enough of the future. On with the present!

Origins

The origin of the word "lamppost" is not as blindingly obvious as one would first suppose. The etymologically naive suppose it to be a simple compound of "lamp" and "post". Whilst such a derivation has its charms (folk-etymology is another traditional pastime that is being assaulted by the commissars of political correctness) it is somewhat at odds with the facts.

In Middle English a "lempe-poste" was a Kentish dialect term for an undecorated maypole ("Ystanding neath the lempe-poste a ye corner a ye Fleete" - Chaucer; The Knight's Cousin's Manservant's Tale) and the variant "limpe-pastch" is recorded all over Britain from Scotland (in a land grant charter of 1342) to Cornwall (in a tin mine deed of 1091).

The word is recorded in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles ("clempen-pos", 756; "iclempen-past", 665; and "iclampe-pos", 559) in the apparent sense of a pole erected for the display of the genitals of the enemy but not used yet (from the roots "geclempen" - to castrate - and "aposte" - later). However, there is a contemporary Norse phrase, "englempe-pask" (recorded only in a heavily annotated and badly copied manuscript of "Egil's Saga"), which appears to mean a tree-trunk used to support an oil lamp whilst decapitating the enemies who want to chop your balls off. It is not certain whether Norse borrowed from Anglo-Saxon or visa versa.

These examples serve to resolve the confusion as to whether walking into a tree is the same thing as walking into a lamppost. The answer is certainly that this is only the case when the tree has been prepared to perform some other function other than simply keeping its leaves above ground.

It will be noted that none of the historico-linguistic references to this word contain any allusions to alcohol or intoxication. This should not be taken as to lessen the importance of the consumption of large quantities of inebriating liquids before, during and after the act of walking into a lamppost (after all, these traditions are long established even if unrecorded in our sources). However, it does rather separate the art of walking into lampposts from another traditional countryside pursuit with which it is often, mistakenly associated: that of driving your car at high-speeds whilst drunk and writing it off by crashing into a tree. Alarmingly, there are people who disapprove of even this, most harmless, of rural traditions.

History

The earliest recorded reference to walking into lampposts as a country art is, of course, in Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream (in the so-called Sham Folio of 1631):

"Well it becomes you Bottom, to walk along these streets and roads
Your mind bemeshed with ale and sack; and in want of stubbing toes
Or falling in the ditch or screaming at some imagined ghost
You shake your head and walk into some pole or handy lamppost"
Act IV, Sc. 3;

As can be seen, the association between the consumption of quantities of alcohol and walking into lampposts is well-established by the time of the Bard. Whilst the above is the most obvious reference in Shakespeare's work to walking into lampposts, one must not overlook two other, possible, references to the art:

"Brutus, 'ware the pole, least you look a fool"
Julius Caesar; Act I Sc. 5;

"I have heard the chimes at midnight
Walked home late and when woken
Found a lumpen egg upon my pate
From collision with the maypole"
Henry IV, Part 2; Act III, Sc. 2;

Falstaff's words firmly connect the lamppost and the maypole as indicated by the etymology. Finally, there is Shakespeare's description of his first sight of his "Dark Lady" in the sonnets: "Like with an elmpost smacked". There is good reason to equate "elmpost" and "lamppost", especially in light of the Anglo-Saxon "clempen-pos" described above.

Christopher Marlowe may have been referring to the art when, in a letter to Walsignham from Bruges, he describes the Spanish preparations for a possible invasion of Britain as:

"They be ill-prepared, these Spanish could not organise a walk-i'-the-pole day."

Given the evidence from the 18th and 19th Centuries (see below) of organised walking into lamppost contests in Cumbria, we should not be too hasty in dismissing this as a reference.

During the Puritan Parliamentarian Commonwealth of Oliver Cromwell, walking into lampposts was banned as a "useless and Popish pastime for the pleasure of the ignorant poor". With the return of the monarchy under Charles II, the law was repealed and the art returned to its normal part of the national consciousness. There are indications that the ban by parliament had little effect. There is a rumour (unfortunately not recorded until the 18th Century) that Cromwell himself was an aficionado of the practice and had a secret walking into lampposts room built in the cellars of the Houses of Parliament whereto he would retire after a long day imposing dour-faced, pleasure-denying laws on the English.

In the 18th and 19th Centuries, the art of walking into lampposts became firmly embedded in the national consciousness with the establishment of various annual competitions. James Boswell's memoirs include a reference to one such event, in Penrith, which implies that the celebration had been in existence for some time:

"Mr Johnson joined me on my journey north in that month. We detoured and dallied in order to appreciate more of the English countryside in May... ...at Penrith, we were lucky to find the Annual Pole Day, said to have been invested on the town in the first Charles' time, where the young men showed us their prowess at this ancient sport. Over dinner with Mr Tucker, a local brewer, I asked Mr Johnson what he thought. He replied to the effect that it gave him as much pleasure as banging his head against a brick wall."

Although such events continued into the 19th (and, in the case of the Pole & Wall Fayre of Whitehaven, into the early 20th) Century, they were progressively gentrified and the lampposts became little more than symbolic. The rougher, more traditional, forms continued amongst the rural population but in a less formal manner. Following the First World War, the practice became less and less common as an organised sport, especially in the southern parts of the Kingdom. But the tradition never totally died out in any place and seemed to continue amongst all classes of persons. As late as 1963, Phillip Larkin could observe:

"Since I came north to Hull
I have found the lampposts
Harder and more shocking
Than the lampposts of my home"
Just Another Whinge; Lines 112 - 115;

Techniques

The three basic techniques of walking into a lamppost have remained remarkably unchanged throughout the millennia. They are designed to reflect the three basic requirements of a successful "lamppost-body conjunction event" (as the scientists have designated it): nonchalance; surprise; and pain. All of these are possible whilst sober but drunkenness enhances the experience:

Method 1: Progressing along the street, talking happily (but not necessarily entertaingly or knowledgeably) to a colleague about the scenery or architecture and turning suddenly to point out a particularly interesting geomorphic feature or flying buttress and colliding with the lamppost. (There is a variant of this technique in which both participants collide with lampposts, but this should not be attempted by novices.)
Method 2: Walking alone, head-bowed (in depression or against the intelligent sort of rain that no matter which direction you walk always travels horizontally straight into your face), humming a tune (or talking gibberish under your breath), you look up and slam into the vertical obstruction.
Method 3: (In groups of three or more.) Turning to berate your friends about some trifling little point of procedure or information, turning round in triumph at a point well-made and walking straight into the lamppost.

It has recently been observed (last night, in particular, Della), that various people seem to imagine that stopping suddenly in front of the lamppost (or other pole) and thus avoiding the collision, is some sort of achievement raising the level of your performance. Nothing could be further from the truth since this avoids the third - most important - of the requirements of the art: pain.

Afterword

Pedants may wonder where the Zen is in the above survey. As is well known, pedants are very bad at Zen and therefore would not notice it if they walked into it (they are also bad at walking into lampposts). The Zen is there; just look for it.

Mystery Photograph

2005-03-05T16:17:00.000Z

Going through the many pictures of Open Mic and Acoustic Culture Nights at the Tap & Spile, I came across this one. Did you take it Ian? Can anyone remember who the other three guys are? I seem to remember we played All Along The Watchtower, plus had a jam. What happened to these guys? They were quite good, weren't they. Can anyone help?

The Beat Goes On...

2005-03-03T18:00:00.000Z

Need to catch up, so a long post.

Thoughts from a plague zone

I've been suffering from recurring lurgy and plague for the past week or so and, as a result, haven't paid much attention to keeping this blog fed with the social observation, current affairs and dubious puns which it richly deserves.

A correspondent (which I will identify only by the sobriquet "My mate Ian who isn't really the alcoholic that the incidents in these chronicles seem to imply") writes: "I have Avian 'flu, or SARS, or the Marthambles or plague or something (why do women only get "Colds"?).". The answer to this question lies, I believe, in the fine structure of the language centres of the human brain. Males have a highly developed disease morphology, enumeration and categorisation centre; in females this construct is either absent or astonishingly small. Hence females get "colds" and males get "the gut destroying, life threatening, totally horrid plague".

This has been a public service announcement.

Acoustic Nights

Two "Acoustic Nights" last week and one this week. Such a proliferation of wealth needs reporting, analysing and making fun of.

Tuesday, 22nd February 2005 saw the monthly "Acoustic Culture Night" at the Tap & Spile. Despite the weather (cold, white stuff from the sky and winds that were frozen solid), there was a good turn out.

I was not well. I was suffering beyond all belief. I needed lots of sympathy. I was so ill, I didn't even take my guitar. I suspect that I had contracted italics.

Eddie was off doing his best as Grimsby Town's most loyal (only?) supporter (and they won!), so Roger B was MC for the evening, performing with his usual flair. Apart from the usual confusion about which direction to orbit the proceedings, it all settled down rather well. The Genetically Modified (sorry, Grimsby Millennium) Folk Group were there in force and majesty. Richard Papps was his usual, elegant, self. Jim White and John Sullivan gave us some poetry to remember. Minger played (this is to be the subject of a major novel). Paul & Keith were stylish and it was particularly enjoyable to hear the menu of the Tap & Spile set to an (improvised) song. And, by the way, if you weren't there, you won't know that when the world ends we all need to go round to Keith's house.

I - eventually - forswore my death and managed to grab a couple of ditties from the hell hole of my health. I am not going to mention anything about that song that Rob L played: it was not amusing.

The next night (23rd February) it was off to Swigs for their inaugural "Acoustic Night". It was again not the best of weather: for some reason the usual Mediterranean climate of Grimsby has been absent for a little while during February (in cosmic terms, several million years is just "a little while") and has been replaced by gusts of wind which feature armour piercing hail and rainwear piercing sleet. Despite my obvious incapacity to function as a human being (I'm sure I was dead), I managed to struggle my way there.

It was a great night with Stu and Chris doing a great job of organising it in such a small venue. Tim & Jen (and big Steve) banged and clacked and encouraged the beating of tables, the clapping of hands and abuse of bar staff (one of these is a lie). Nadia (in just her second public performance) was delightful. Fil was there, mandolin loaded and locked: he really got the place jigging. Rob L was there and, for some reason, thought it would be funny to play that song again. Now, I'm an easy going guy and I do have a sense of humour and I am tolerant of anyone who wants to make me the butt of their jokes: I just can't believe that anyone could find such a song funny (during Rob's performance someone released a large quantity of laughing gas into the room which took some time to clear). Angie sang beautifully.

What was great about this night was that they weren't trying to imitate the nights at the Tap and were obviously intent of developing a "house style": in addition, the eclectic nature of the music inspirations and sources made the evening thoroughly representative of the throbbing [ooh, err, Misses Miggins] live music scene in this town. It even persuaded Steve G that he might consider picking up a guitar again after 7 years abstinence.

Yesterday (2nd March 2005) there was another "Acoustic Night" at Swigs: they're trying not to conflict with the weeks when there's things on at the Tap, so they'll be approximately fortnightly from now on. [By the way, Ian, have you noticed that I haven't mentioned you drinking anything yet? Not that you were or are teetotal: but I've been very good and not mentioned any vast consumptions of Scrumpy Jack which may or may not have happened to you.]

I'm in the terminal stages of extreme lurgy and deadly plague, so the continuing lack of Mediterranean weather in these parts is causing me some distress (I did have somewhat of a remission over the weekend, but this turned out to be short-lived and probably designed to lull me into a false sense of feeling quite good).

The night was reasonable but seemed to be a little fragmentary (probably because it was only a week since the last one). Some new players (Dave and Danielle; Simon) and Angie got up and sang again: once her confidence matches her voice she'll be a real knockout. Stu and Chris delivered sterling service despite - and I was glad not to be alone - suffering from the worst plague that anyone has ever had. And, yes, Steve G "picked up his guitar and played, just like yesterday".

Rob Lowdon at the Tap & Spile (Friday, 25th February 2005)

As this post is (deliberately)not chronological, you will no doubt guess that Friday was one of my "days of remission" from "the extremely unpleasant and mortally threatening plague which is the curse on all mankind because of doing naughty things". And Friday was Rob's stupendous performance at the Tap.

I arrived around 20:15. Not many people in to start with (but Seany is there). Sat with Rob L, Tina and Rob (sound man) & Rachel H while we waited for the punters. Ian arrived and drank some Scrumpy Jack: he is later to drink more of these, just in case you're wondering. Eventually the place fills up and the evening really rocks.

Rob advertised this as "the funky gig" with the unstated intention of doing a wide range of songs (some with guests).

Rob played his own stuff, Irish folk music (very ably assisted by Rachel H on whistle and vocals), Scots folk music, blues (assisted by Tim B on harmonica), contemporary rock, 60's contemporary folk, loud stuff, quiet stuff, instrumentals and songs. The range of material and the quality of the performance were staggering: in some small way he also reflected the catholic tastes of the Grimsby music scene. We don't wish to be drawn into long debates about whether the "best" sort of music is Country & Western, Blues, Traditional Irish, English Folk, Pop, Rock, Punk… We are content to listen to enthusiastic people giving their all and getting up and sharing their music. Keeping in real, keeping it live.

Rob has changed the words of that song: it is now very funny since it no longer mentions me. I'm sure my intelligent and articulate literary criticism is responsible for the new lease of life an otherwise boring and unamusing song.

Ian's Birthday and other Sunday stuff @ the Tap & Spile (Sunday, 27th February 2005)

Well, it's just about 2 years since Dave & Rose took over the Tap & Spile. Without their support for pool teams, football teams, netball teams, darts teams, goof food, good beer and live music the pub would be a vast echoing room with a few morose buggers bemoaning the standards of play in the Premiership (come to think of it, there are some Saturday afternoons when…). Sunday was an informal party to celebrate this anniversary. It was also Ian "I drink Scrumpy Jack in a Stella glass 'cos I don't want people to think I'm a wuss who drinks cider" O's birthday.

Naturally we met up in the Tap at around 16:00 (Ian had been working). I'll get the obvious slurs on his character out of the way now by assuring you, my humble readers, that Ian did indeed have copious volumes of Scrumpy Jack to quaff (in addition to several neat Jack Daniel's). And, indeed, he was a little inebriated by the evening's end. Well, more than a little. Quite frankly, children, he was drunk. Incontrovertibly. I, of course, was as well (but I don't drink Scrumpy Jack at all, let alone from a Stella glass).

On Staurday, I'd helped Roger B with the research for his new self-help blockbuster: "How To Get Lost On Grimsby Docks". Nice to see he & Julie, Richard & Nikki and Bob & Marion.

And then Ian invented a wonderful new game of dropping Maltesers in people's drinks and then expecting them to drink and eat the Malteser. He also invented the games of dropping lots of Maltesers on the floor and that eternal favourite, letting your drink slide off the bevelled edge of the table so that it makes a wonderful noise as it smashes the glass on the floor and scatters alcoholic beverage over as many people as possible. He cannot claim to have invented the game of "let's all have lots and lots to drink so we're all outrageously drunk": several of those in attendance had already played that one before (and probably will again).

During all this celebration, food was served (a wonderful buffet despite Craig's "accident" with the sausages) and Dave announced that he and Rose were getting married.

Let's finish there: all the best Dave & Rose.

The Fifth Sentence

2005-02-27T11:59:00.000Z

I've come across this little game a few times while trawling the blogs and am (slightly) amused and (slightly) intrigued by it.

The idea is this:

[1] Grab the nearest book.

[2] Open the book to page 123 (clearly, the book must have at least 123 pages).

[3] Find the fifth sentence (clearly, the book must have writing in it; this rules out colouring books: even ones you've finished colouring in, Mr Bush).

[4] Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.

[5] Don't search around and look for the "coolest" book you can find. Use what's actually next/nearest to you.

And so, for your delectation and delight, I give you my "Fifth Sentence":

It was Dolores, his wife.

Make of that what you will.

Normal service will be resumed...

2005-02-26T18:58:00.000Z

Well, to be precise, that should be "abnormal service". After all, I wouldn't want anyone going around accusing me of being normal (anyone who accuses me of being normal must be strange in some way).

Anyway, on with the blog. And that's exactly the problem: I haven't been getting on with the blog (done a bit of decorating, that's all). I've got lots to say about a lot of things that have gone on the last week, but they'll have to wait until tomorrow as I rather fancy some tea and then a pint or two.

My new motto: "Procrastination Rules Tomorrow, OK". And I'm at one with Douglas Adams with regard to deadlines: "I love the whooshing noise they make as they go past".

Open Mic Night @ The Carnival Barton

2005-02-20T13:56:00.000Z

My Saturday night began in Swigs at about 17:15, meeting Ian for a tea-time beer. As usual, we managed to set a great proportion of the world's wrongs right (it's the one about not listening to us that we have the most problem with). This was achieved despite Ian's lingering (lingering?) hang-over from last night, which was all Mark's fault, anyway (see: "Richard Papps @ The Tap"). Mark, naturally, has some lame excuse for not coming out to play tonight: he's working ("...I've worked 66 hours in the last 6 days..."). Anyway, I'm off to Barton - to the Carnival Inn, to be exact - for the Open Mic Night. Perhaps I'll just have another beer before I go and get ready...

The biggest mistake you can make when you're going out for an evening's drinking and making music is to start the drinking bit before it's really evening. This is caused by the extremely optimistic expectation - totally unsupported by your experience - that you won't be drunk by 21:00. I record this observation as a public service and as a reminder to myself that it is a bad idea. Don't expect it to change much, though.

Tim is due to pick me up from the Tap around 19:30 (I get a text to confirm this). Leave Swigs for home to collect guitar. Arrive at the Tap at 19:00 thinking that another pint won't hurt (this turns out to be untrue). Have a game of pool with Sean (he won). Drink my beer; realise that my earlier optimism was unfounded but, unfortunately, there's no going back now. Tim & Jen arrive at 19:40, uncharacteristically late (apologies are offered, but no worries, it's good of them to take me). Then off to pick up Big Steve (he's called that 'cos he's very tall and his name is Steve; this is to distinguish him from other people called Steve - of which I know a lot - who are not as tall as he is; we're quite literal with our nicknames in these parts).

Our hosts for the evening are known to us by reputation and previous encounters; thus fore-warned, we are fore-armed (four-armed? - no, that's just the beer talking). Essentials, such as money and petrol, are obtained on the way out of Grimsby. As we pull into the petrol station, white stuff falls out of the sky. "That'd be snow, then," I observe, glad to know that youngsters will now not disbelieve me when I talk about the good old days when winters featured snow on a regular basis. Steve makes a joke about Tim's dandruff which I am saving for "Give an old joke a good home" week. Jen is sent out in the cold, windy storm to pay (this is the sort of thing that causes feminism, chaps). The rest of the drive to Barton is uneventful, except for...

I'm sure Tim doesn't always take the wrong turnings on routes he's driven several times before. Well, I'm reasonably confident he doesn't do it when I'm not with him. However: (a) Tim, you nearly went to Elsham Hall last time and you did get the right exit from the roundabout for the A15 north from the A180/M180 junction for Barton and the Humber Bridge; (b) Last time, Tim, you said "Oh, not this one, the next one" for the exit to Barton - but that seemed to slip your memory last night (quite enjoyed the "scenic route" into Barton, though). We were glad Big Steve knew where we were going...

"By the time we got to Barton...", the snow had stopped. To be strictly accurate, it hadn't started yet; we had simply overtaken it on its rush up the Humber to cause havoc in Doncaster and all points west. It is not spoiling any surprises to let you know that the snow arrived in Barton some 30 minutes after we did.

I am not going to mention the appalling trick that Tim played on me during the journey when I mentioned that I would appreciate an early arrival in Barton as my bladder was rather full and wished to be emptied. Driving over cat's eyes in order to add extra vibration to my bladder strain is not big and it's not clever and, no matter what you might think, is not funny. Just to spare your blushes, I will mention that we arrived in Barton without Tim's car being in need of a good clean.

So, here we are in Barton. The PA's already set up and the guys kick off very soon after we arrive. I get the beers in (Everard's Tiger for me; Stella for Big Steve; half of Guinness for Jen - whiskey, later; and Tim's sole pint of Guinness for the evening - you're a hero, Tim). At first it looks like there's not to many people there (and, with the arrival of the snow, that no-one else will venture out). But, eventually, Laurie (guitar & harmonica) and Mark (guitar; the tall one in Missing Time) arrive and the evening goes great guns.

Steve (not the Big one; another, shorter, one) is landlord of the Carnival but he's leaving (tonight is his last night) for Spain to open a bar called The Mariners. He sings along with Laurie on a good old song from the good/bad old days of the fishing [this originally said "dishing" but I changed it] industry. Ben knocks out a wonderful medley on the piano which has us whooping in the aisles (or, at least, from our chairs). Mark is supreme, as always. Big Steve - after delaying his appearance until sufficient quantities of Stella have been consumed - plays a blinder and makes Jen cry with a truly beautiful song (the title of which I have forgotten because I had had too many beers by then). Helen, Ian and Denny (in various combinations) keep the evening rocking. Oh, and I sang a few songs...

It was great to do Beautiful Day (The Levellers) with Ian, Denny and Helen. There was a really good finish with just about all of us doing Knocking On Heaven's Door (Bob Dylan).

A truly wonderful night was had by all. And I drank too much beer... ...what a surprise!

We drive back to Grimsby, leaving around 23:45. It's stopped snowing. Tim drops me off at home at around 00:15 and I secure my guitar and pop out for pizza: a 10" vegetarian with added jalapinos (which is not a cue for a naughty joke). Take this home and eat it in bed (re-)reading Douglas Adam's Long Dark Tea-Time Of The Soul. Fall asleep quite happy but under the influence of a large quantity of beer. Not a bad night at all.

Richard Papps @ The Tap

2005-02-19T13:43:00.000Z

Prologue

Last night Richard Papps played his first solo live gig at the Tap & Spile. Thought I'd share my thoughts, memories, experience and embarrassing photographs with you all.

Things began, strangely, at 12:45 when I got a phone call from Dave (landlord and deputy boss of the Tap; Dave, we know Rose is in charge) saying that the PA had already arrived and would I have a word with the guy so that there wasn't the cock-up there was last time (don't ask me about last time!). So I spoke to the guy; I won't go into his short-comings in the politeness stakes at this point (ask me sometime) but, suffice to say, I think I specified all that was needed.

Now, here's a question for you: if I said I wanted two microphones for a gig, would you just leave two microphones; or would you, as I would, assume that also I wanted the leads to connect the microphones to the mixing desk and the stands to hold them up in front the performer. And, if you didn't immediately have them to hand, you'd let someone know they'd be there later.

It will not take a genius to guess that: (a) when I arrived to set up the PA, there were two microphones but no stands (and only one lead); (b) Richard and I (he had a mic stand in his car) improvised; (c) during the sound checks, someone turns up with mic stands and extra lead.

Anyway, Roger B and I got Richard set up and sound checked over a couple of beers and then went off to eat, wash, get changed or do whatever was needful for the evening ahead.

The Main Event

So, around 20:45, the evening begins to get going when "The Boys" (see left) arrive. Since both have been out since 16:00 (yes, Mark, I know you worked 54 hours in the last four days), they are in a "jolly mood". We natter (men natter; women gossip; this is an axiom and a joke) and catch up on the last few days. Mark mentions, once or twice, that he's worked 54 hours in the last four days (he is possibly not quite in control of his senses having worked 54 hours in the last four days; then again it could be drinking 54 pints of Stella Artois in the last four hours). Mark drinks more Stella (from a Stella glass), Ian drinks cider (from a Stella glass), I drink Deuchars' IPA (from a Deuchars' glass) and Mark mentions that he's worked 54 hours...

Richard kicks off in fine style, delivering a first set of great numbers on the guitar and keyboards (Days being extremely memorable). Gradually the gang arrives and we sit and talk nonsense and sing along. Hi Della, Angie, Rachel, Rob and Tina.

The thing about Richard's performances that grabs you is the sheer range of material he covers (from Bill Withers & Paul Simon, through the Kinks & Tom Lehrer to Joe Jackson). And he is such a consummate performer: he makes it all look so easy, as if there was no effort involved in punching out the songs.

Richard's second set is pure magic (Is She Really Going Out With Him? and Sweet Baby James stand out: the latter for Seany & Babs even more so) with the crowd dancing and singing along. This was a night I felt lucky to be at: the music was good and the company was good and the beer was good (and so were the wee drams of Talisker that Rob and I enjoyed). It was made even more enjoyable by the 10%-off "special" for the Tap & Spile's loyalty key-ring holders between 22:15 and 22:45 (if you haven't got one, get one now).

Richard finished the night with three (at least) encores. Everyone had a good time and I even managed to catch some pictures of the camera shy. One of the great things about gigs at the Tap is that it always feels like you're in a room full of mates who've managed to persuade a really great performer to pop round and do a couple of numbers. This is true even when you don't even know each other. By the end of the evening, you do.

Epilogue

So, Richard & I take down the PA and get it all packed away for collection on Saturday (there's some confusion about this; but John & Faith sort it all out - thanks guys). This doesn't take too long and is not too strenuous (or am I just relaxed from the beer?). Then there's the long debate about what to do next, where to go, who's coming..., etc.?

Eventually, Della, Rob, Mark, Ian, Tina & myself end up back at Mark's listening to Kings X, drinking tea and talking nonsense. And then playing a bit of guitar (very, very quietly) until the early ours of Saturday morning.

Now I'm looking forward to the Open Mic Night at the Carnival in Barton tonight and Rob Lowdon's (see, Rob, I remembered: Lowdon not Lowden) gig at the Tap next Friday (25th February).

[This posting is long because I wanted to make up for not posting anything yesterday and on Thursday I said I'd try and post something every day.]

Today I decided...

2005-02-17T18:12:00.000Z

I've decided that I'll make a go of this blogging malarky, and also:

to get rid of the silly posts about changing the template (one click, they're gone!);
to make some entry every weekday;
to go for a pint later (this is, suprisingly, not as new as it appears);

I'll also make an effort to publish links to this blog so that others can share the delights of the "blogging experience" and join the 21st century's obsession with sharing pointless trivia (there is a touch of cynicism here, perhaps).

The only thing that surprises me, as I wander through blogger-space (and, maybe, it shouldn't), is the number of teenage angst blogs featuring idiomatic and linguistic variations on the phrase "I want to die". That, plus all those blogs that seem to be simply a way for companies to get their keywords listed (and, again, this shouldn't really surprise me).

At the moment, I'm looking forward to seeing Richard Papps at the Tap & Spile tomorrow (Friday) night (but not looking forward so much to setting up and taking down the PA). And I'm looking forward to going to, and performing at, the Open Mic Night at the Carnival in Barton on Saturday.

Grimsby Dock Police Boat

2005-02-17T13:35:00.000Z

I don't know the date of this photograph (click on the title of this post to see the original context) but I would guess late 19th to early 20th century. This was the height of technology at one time (but I can't quite square that with the inane grin on his face...).

I have this image of this man chasing trawlers out of the docks to attempt to apprehend some miscreant who's gone to sea before paying his bar bill.

Just what did they need this for? The pursuit idea is a wonderful fantasy, but - even with sailing vessels - I can't see it being successful. It could have been a rescue boat for those unfortunate enough to fall in water (cue Bluebottle for all Goons fans).

This is a wonderful photograph that I came across by accident whilst searching the net for something else entirely. I have a sneaking suspicion that the boat's only use was to appear in this photograph: I can't work out whether he's grinning with pride or embarrassment.

Enjoy.

People with bumpy fronts

2004-12-17T13:06:00.000Z

The other week my mate Sean and I noticed a strange type of person in the pub: people with bumpy fronts. These people, who didn't seem to need to shave as often as us, seemed strangely attractive.

If anyone has any more information about these strange and wonderful creatures, would they please let us know.

The Visible Man

2004-12-16T19:00:00.000Z

Following a freak accident involving a gas chromatograph, a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes and a jam doughnut, Frank Seltzer was rendered visible...

...unfortunately, he discovered that all the invisible people could no longer see him (obviously invisible people can see each other). He also couldn't see any of the invisible objects in the world (of which there are a great number). It was further unfortunate that he could still feel the invisible people and the invisible objects and walk into them, trip over them and generally interact with them.

Mayhem ensues.

[I'm sure this would make a great film. But I can just see them casting Jim Carrey in the part of Frank Seltzer and ruining it.]

Oh dear...

2004-12-16T18:36:00.000Z

Here's the rant:

Why can't I have the date in the "posted by" bits in proper form; why do we have to put up with the monumentally stupid US format (which only depends on the way Americans happen to say dates and the fact they routinely fail to distinguish between cardinal and ordinal numbers [look it up!]).

The international standard is yyyy/mm/dd and is very logical because that's a good way to sort dates. The European standard is simply the reverse of this (not as logical but equally readable). The US "standard" is parochial, illogical and inane.

I'm not asking for the format option to be removed, just asking for there to be an option to put the timestamp in a reasonable form that I (and millions and millions of others) understand.

Not that this rant will make must difference...

Welcome

2004-12-10T16:12:00.000Z

I've been thinking - always a risky thing to do - and think perhaps it's worthwhile spinning off some of my ideas into the cybersphere.

Watch this (cyber-)space.