Good old Ivor Cutler. Our mum and dad brought us up on his odd music and somehow I always believed he was hatched in the same hatchery as my dad. Something to do with the pursuit of pointless activities with a ferocious drive. And asking dad for a new pair of shoes when I needed them-'No, you can't have a new pair of shoes, but you can have a new pair of socks'. Very Gruts.
I remember listening to dad when he was by himself in the kitchen, clearing up after pancake day, muttering 'A better bit of batter on a flatter platter'.
Me and my bruv saw Ivor a few times- Sunderland Arts Centre with Phyllis April King who did a poem about squashing the middle bit of white sliced bread into a doughball and eating it, which I thought was pure genius, because I did that too! Also at the Bloomsbury Theatre, where he played his harmonium amongst a whole load of African sculptures, and when somebody heckled him he tapped out lots of different African time signatures on to one of the sculptures just to show them that he wasn't just a batty Scottish primary school teacher- he knew loads about music (and words). He looked great too- best way to be ancient, a wispy ghost!
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