Assumptions, assumptions!
I've just had a hilarious loyal customer call from Mojo mag, asking for Dr Reddington.
They had a special offer- Q, Arena or Empire for a quid for three months.
The young man on the phone was utterly confused.
'Sorry, I thought it Was Dr Reddington who was the subscriber...'
Oops, young man, oops!
'It's just that I thought with Mojo being a music magazine...'
Oops, oops, young man, oops, oops!
I was very nice, considering.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Morning Thoughts
Alas, eBay bidders were not impressed by my sewing machine that sews by itself* (no bids) my teasmade (£5.00) or my King Kurt t-shirt (£2.40), so I shan't be moving to L.A. as planned.
Instead, I shall be playing at Offline this Friday for Em's birthday (on at 9.00) before, I hope, whizzing up the road to see the Irrepressibles play at the Vauxhall Tavern. And then on Saturday, it's the Troubador in Earl's Court with Daniel Takes a Train.
Meanwhile I have had to wash every single bit of clothing I own, after a couple of moths guiltily fluttered out from the jeans pile. They are on the line now, fluttering in the drizzle (moths or clothes? You choose). There's a Help-the-Aged donation bag downstairs, giving me encouraging looks. I suppose... no clothes, no moths, right? I'll give it a thought.
That's it for now. The day awaits, and I am going to do a bit o' singing and playing today.
*it's terrifying. I left it alone once for a mere 5 minutes and when I came back with my cup of tea I could hear it buzzing away all on it's own. I was too frightened to go into the room at first.
Later, I was told that it had probably overheated and short-circuited. This may be true , as there was a strong aroma of burnt electrics, but it's worked since. Perhaps it was operated by a passing ghost?
Instead, I shall be playing at Offline this Friday for Em's birthday (on at 9.00) before, I hope, whizzing up the road to see the Irrepressibles play at the Vauxhall Tavern. And then on Saturday, it's the Troubador in Earl's Court with Daniel Takes a Train.
Meanwhile I have had to wash every single bit of clothing I own, after a couple of moths guiltily fluttered out from the jeans pile. They are on the line now, fluttering in the drizzle (moths or clothes? You choose). There's a Help-the-Aged donation bag downstairs, giving me encouraging looks. I suppose... no clothes, no moths, right? I'll give it a thought.
That's it for now. The day awaits, and I am going to do a bit o' singing and playing today.
*it's terrifying. I left it alone once for a mere 5 minutes and when I came back with my cup of tea I could hear it buzzing away all on it's own. I was too frightened to go into the room at first.
Later, I was told that it had probably overheated and short-circuited. This may be true , as there was a strong aroma of burnt electrics, but it's worked since. Perhaps it was operated by a passing ghost?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Funnily Enough
I pootled down to the Price Albert in Coldharbour Lane to catch a bit of Offline's new acoustic and comedy night.
Funnily enough, as I walked up to talk to Mike, he was talking about me to the proprietor of the Railway in Tulse Hill (that's Tulse Hill, not Gipsy Hill, btw) who had done a Google and found my review of the gig the other night. He said he didn't mind the Oxfam-shop analogy, so that was OK.
Vic Lambrusco (Santa's evil nephew) was hosting with his usual cross humour- he always reminds me of a man with an annoying fly buzzing around his head. He was mirror-mirrored by Joe Cairo (top), who outMitchelled Phil and Grant and who was even angrier and more aggressive than Vic, but just as funny. I liked his 'poem' (more of a Cavalry charge) about the dream in which he was discussing all sorts of flowers with Alan Titchmarsh in his garden shed, before dispatching him with a spade. There was quite a lot of testosterone-fuelled poetry last night, and poor Oscar Wilde must be turning in his violet-strewn grave. I can foresee a time when wars will be won and lost through aggro-poetry, with each country pitting their most Alpha poet against each other to see who cries first and loses. The baying crowd won't be able to resist throwing in rhyming couplets to encourage their champion. Ha ha!
I was really pleased to be able to see most of Salt and Blue's set before rushing for the last tube. They are a woman hurdy-gurdy player and a male cellist, whose material is traditional French, English and American folk, both instrumentals and songs. The hurdy-gurdy is a fascinating instrument to listen to- I first heard one played by the seven-piece man-band Admiral's Hard a couple of years ago. The singer of Salt and Blue has a real folksinger's voice, pure, but it's not grating and it blends in beautifully with the sound of the hurdy-gurdy and the cello, which is played in amore experimental than traditional way. I thought it was lovely and the whole evening was well worth the long trip down from the far north; Mike's nights are always good- he cares so much about the different acts he puts on and you can go along by yourself and feel entirely at home, which I like.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Eurovision 2008
I wonder if this is the first review of Eurovision 2008? It's just that I can't be bothered to wait for the bit where everybody votes for each other's best friend no matter how crappy the song is.
I actually found it really absorbing this year, helped by the fact that the British song wasn't too bad and the fact that Andy Abrahams looked like a genuine performer instead of trying to send it up, which the British entry often tries to do, all alone in it's arrogant little bubble while everyone else is streets ahead and stopped sending it up years ago. It's a fierce competition nowadays, and this was the year of the mini-drama, all feathers, fire and shiny fringing.
Denmark's song was the poppiest and it had a sort of Donovan vibe; the one that I liked best was France's, which was weird in a nice way. El Chiki Chiki by Spain- well Jonathan King, I know you're in there somewhere. Did you lose a bit of weight in jail? Turkey's was fronted by the devil himself (mmm, scary!), Russia had an ice skater to distract us from their song, 'I believe in shoe', Sweden's was horrid with the best example of unfeasibly high heels and unfeasibly hairless armpits (de rigeur for many countries) of the evening. The winner should be Norway, who had a good song, a good singer, and whose show looked good in an elegant way.
So may of them had had lessons in how to look at the camera, how to hold the mic, how to smile and sing at the same time, how to move: they were trained, trained, trained.
Wogan was a hoot as usual. To the guys in the Green Room, running towards the camera with their big microphones and silly smiles, the wacky ones, he advised, 'That's it, shout as loud as you can! It's FUN!!!"
I actually found it really absorbing this year, helped by the fact that the British song wasn't too bad and the fact that Andy Abrahams looked like a genuine performer instead of trying to send it up, which the British entry often tries to do, all alone in it's arrogant little bubble while everyone else is streets ahead and stopped sending it up years ago. It's a fierce competition nowadays, and this was the year of the mini-drama, all feathers, fire and shiny fringing.
Denmark's song was the poppiest and it had a sort of Donovan vibe; the one that I liked best was France's, which was weird in a nice way. El Chiki Chiki by Spain- well Jonathan King, I know you're in there somewhere. Did you lose a bit of weight in jail? Turkey's was fronted by the devil himself (mmm, scary!), Russia had an ice skater to distract us from their song, 'I believe in shoe', Sweden's was horrid with the best example of unfeasibly high heels and unfeasibly hairless armpits (de rigeur for many countries) of the evening. The winner should be Norway, who had a good song, a good singer, and whose show looked good in an elegant way.
So may of them had had lessons in how to look at the camera, how to hold the mic, how to smile and sing at the same time, how to move: they were trained, trained, trained.
Wogan was a hoot as usual. To the guys in the Green Room, running towards the camera with their big microphones and silly smiles, the wacky ones, he advised, 'That's it, shout as loud as you can! It's FUN!!!"
Looking for Primrose Hill
I had always wondered where it was so I went to find it.
It took ages; I drove through an area with the most amazing posh red-brick victorian villas, so posh they even had their own atmosphere; they had turrets, some of them, and stained glass windows, and they were so immense and secret that I was breathless with awe. I got to the end of the street, and there was a tube station with, apparently, no name. Aha, I thought, they even have their own private secret tube station that nobody knows about.
Turns out it was Swiss Cottage, or Swiss Poshage as I shall call it from now on.
Primrose Hill materialised just as I convinced myself I was lost and should go home. I parked and walked up to the top of it. the view was perfect- all of London, the wheel, the Telecomms tower, everything, all lit up in weird hues at dusk. there was a group of young people sitting playing Beatles songs on toy guitars and a mandolin, singing in harmony. A Goth girl shared her fags with a tall Rasta on a bike. Three teenage girls sat beside me on the bench drinking alcopops. A jogger adjusted his shoelaces.
It was peaceful and restorative, and I walked back when I'd had enough.
Next stop was the all-night Tescos at the North Circular. The aisles were clogged with trolleys as dazed staff stacked shelves; me and the East-Europeans yawned and got in each others way, our faces peeled by fluorescent lighting. I bought twelve tins of chopped tomatoes and failed to buy catfood (sorry Charlie). The cashier was unnaturally friendly for that time of night- I couldn't cope.
Back in my car I chewed on an elastic croissant, and crawled back home thinking about the view from the top of Primrose Hill.
It took ages; I drove through an area with the most amazing posh red-brick victorian villas, so posh they even had their own atmosphere; they had turrets, some of them, and stained glass windows, and they were so immense and secret that I was breathless with awe. I got to the end of the street, and there was a tube station with, apparently, no name. Aha, I thought, they even have their own private secret tube station that nobody knows about.
Turns out it was Swiss Cottage, or Swiss Poshage as I shall call it from now on.
Primrose Hill materialised just as I convinced myself I was lost and should go home. I parked and walked up to the top of it. the view was perfect- all of London, the wheel, the Telecomms tower, everything, all lit up in weird hues at dusk. there was a group of young people sitting playing Beatles songs on toy guitars and a mandolin, singing in harmony. A Goth girl shared her fags with a tall Rasta on a bike. Three teenage girls sat beside me on the bench drinking alcopops. A jogger adjusted his shoelaces.
It was peaceful and restorative, and I walked back when I'd had enough.
Next stop was the all-night Tescos at the North Circular. The aisles were clogged with trolleys as dazed staff stacked shelves; me and the East-Europeans yawned and got in each others way, our faces peeled by fluorescent lighting. I bought twelve tins of chopped tomatoes and failed to buy catfood (sorry Charlie). The cashier was unnaturally friendly for that time of night- I couldn't cope.
Back in my car I chewed on an elastic croissant, and crawled back home thinking about the view from the top of Primrose Hill.
Imagine Elton John
I was sitting in the car at the traffic lights, listening to what I thought was a track by Elton booming out of the next-door car.
Oh no it wasn't!
It was John Lennon's 'Imagine'
I realised that Elton's made a whole career out of developing Lennon's womb-chord piano style and his whiny singing, following it this way and that like the branches of a piano tree.
Lucky old him.
Oh no it wasn't!
It was John Lennon's 'Imagine'
I realised that Elton's made a whole career out of developing Lennon's womb-chord piano style and his whiny singing, following it this way and that like the branches of a piano tree.
Lucky old him.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Peter's Party
On Tuesday I drove all the way to Brighton for Peter's 50th birthday do. It was a sunny, beautiful evening and I caught a brief spell looking at the sea from the beach in Hove; the sea was the most incredible shade of greeny blue, or bluey green, and looked like liquid jade.
It was a Hawaiian themed party, to which I turned up in my 1960s drip-dry red and green tartan dress. Aw shucks, just call it style and look the other way. Peter was buzzing; he'd been given a ukelele and some more extraordinary gifts, including a pottery mug that looked like it had Easter Island heads on it. People had fake leis festooned around their necks and the bar was decorated in true Tiki style- a bit like the Beat Route in Soho used to be, though probably more fireproof! Blow me if Nick Pearson wasn't there, he of the 'Frighteners' that featured in Shingles magazine back in 1979, little poems you could order from him to send to a friend, anonymously. There was a rockabilly band, rockabillying away and looking painfully stylish, and lots of excited chatter, partly from me, I have to say. Alas, fearing the coach turning into a pumpkin on the strike of twelve, I sped back home just as the joint started jumping, a bushel of loud shirts screaming at each other as I left. Worth the journey? Well worth it. Happy Birthday Peter, many happy returns!
It was a Hawaiian themed party, to which I turned up in my 1960s drip-dry red and green tartan dress. Aw shucks, just call it style and look the other way. Peter was buzzing; he'd been given a ukelele and some more extraordinary gifts, including a pottery mug that looked like it had Easter Island heads on it. People had fake leis festooned around their necks and the bar was decorated in true Tiki style- a bit like the Beat Route in Soho used to be, though probably more fireproof! Blow me if Nick Pearson wasn't there, he of the 'Frighteners' that featured in Shingles magazine back in 1979, little poems you could order from him to send to a friend, anonymously. There was a rockabilly band, rockabillying away and looking painfully stylish, and lots of excited chatter, partly from me, I have to say. Alas, fearing the coach turning into a pumpkin on the strike of twelve, I sped back home just as the joint started jumping, a bushel of loud shirts screaming at each other as I left. Worth the journey? Well worth it. Happy Birthday Peter, many happy returns!
Silly Helen gets lost, but a good evening anyway
I suffered for my idiocy.
It took three hours to get to Gipsy Hill, during which time I got stuck on a box junction after driving through an amber light (I'm waiting for the fine as we speak) and then driving into the congestion zone by accident after being confused by all the diversions (thus necessitating a phone call to pay by card when I got to the gig). My car was all the time making alarming creaking noises, telling me at was going to shortly cost thousands of pounds in repair bills.
After rushing up and down Gipsy Hill and asking in every pub I came to, I realised that the gig was, in fact, at Tulse Hill, and I had to employ guesswork and Mc-nav to get myself there and not shout (you know how it is when you make a humungously stupid mistake and only have yourself to blame, how you wish so much that it was someone else's fault so you could target your explosion at them!)
Ah for the calm! The Railway at Tulse Hill has something of the Oxfam-shop about it so I felt instantly at ease. Ingrid Andrew was setting up, with Leon, her soundman; musicians were arriving and chatting peacefully in different corners of a room that seemed to have more corners than most. People strummed bits of songs without interfering with each other's zone. A brief check, and we were off. Johan had come all the way from Sweden to see me play, and I hoped the evening wouldn't disappoint him.
Ingrid played a song to begin, and then the first guest took to the stage, a woman with a powerful and impressive voice that resonated around the whole room; she was mesmerising and set a high standard for the evening. She was followed by Cath Tait (above), a comedienne and musician whom I've played with before at the Bar Latina in Tottenham. She was on form tonight, balancing casual cynicism with sensitivity of style, so her material had a subtlety that kept it engaging. Sometimes relentless comedy makes me shut down, but her approach was relaxed and varied, and her presentation style was confident but laid back enough to allow people to listen; she's wise enough not to be the party bore, but to pull people into her very funny songs instead. Excellent, and very entertaining.
Me? I took my watch off. I guessed Joan Armatrading was a lesbian when I saw her perform on TV with her watch on; it showed a comtempt for style that singled her out as a 'different' artist. I don't care whether people think I'm a lesbian or not, but taking my watch off is a symbol of how much I care about my songs. This new start to my playing career means a hell of a lot to me. The only problem was, I left the bloody tocker at the gig and didn't realise till I looked at my blank wrist on the way home!
Anyway, I played four songs- Bad Day, Love on the Wind (made a mistake, grrr!), London (best I've ever played it- it's such a hard song to play but I have been practicing it like mad), and Memento Mori. It was a listening audience and I was mindful of the fact that Johan had come such a long way. I hope it was worth it. Johan!
Ingrid recited a poem and sang a song again- she has her own individual style, there is no-one like her. She's full of bonhomie and good vibes. I had a yak with Mike and Emerald- Mike was just off to DJ at the Windmill in Brixton.
Then it was home-time; I missed the rest because I was so anxious about getting back, although it looked like it was going to be a really stimulating night.
The traffic lights were on my side, the endorphins were doing their job, and I even remembered to eat when I got home so I didn't wake up in the night starving.
Tally-ho!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Gipsy Hill
Playing tonight at the Railway pub in Gipsy Hill, right next to the train station. It's a night of poets, songwriters and so on and costs £3 to get in, money goes to charity.
Come along if you can.
I will write about Peter's party tomorrow when I've got my Tiki-hat on!
Come along if you can.
I will write about Peter's party tomorrow when I've got my Tiki-hat on!
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Getting My House in Order
Well, nobody wants to buy the house, but that doesn't mean I can't get it in order. I've raided the loft and put a Teasmade,a sewing machine and a King Kurt t-shirt on Ebay. I have cleaned it and preened it, and gardened the little bit outside the front door, wielding the shears like a superbeing, after being shamed by the sight of a tiny neat old lady down the road sculpting her hedge with a power-device.
It all looks spick and span.
I have masses of comics to sell, obscure titles like Neil the Horse, but that involves lots of taking photos and I'm still rolling through 108 songs. I listened to 54 yesterday and might do more today but I feel I need an Ears Rest.
The clothes and books go to the charity shops; all I have to learn now is not to exit with as much as I enter with!
There's a song writing thing down at the South Bank tomorrow but it looks a bit rapper-ish and I'm tired of all that male arrogance and bravado. There seems no subtlety and I find it sinister that morals and attitudes are being controlled so much by lyrics. I have talked to some teenage girls about it and they seem to have that attitude that it's other girls that are the slags and sluts and bitches and hos referred to in the songs. Well, girls, you may feel like that but the guy's don't and they are the ones in control!
Humph.
Grumph.
Mike called yesterday full of plans, plans, plans and it was nice to talk to him. He has a new night starting on Tuesday next week at the Prince Albert in Brixton that sounds worth a shot.
Meanwhile, Carl, if you read this, please get in touch as it is time we sorted this Chefs compilation out for once and for all. Let's get on with it, it won't take long and we can release it in September.
It all looks spick and span.
I have masses of comics to sell, obscure titles like Neil the Horse, but that involves lots of taking photos and I'm still rolling through 108 songs. I listened to 54 yesterday and might do more today but I feel I need an Ears Rest.
The clothes and books go to the charity shops; all I have to learn now is not to exit with as much as I enter with!
There's a song writing thing down at the South Bank tomorrow but it looks a bit rapper-ish and I'm tired of all that male arrogance and bravado. There seems no subtlety and I find it sinister that morals and attitudes are being controlled so much by lyrics. I have talked to some teenage girls about it and they seem to have that attitude that it's other girls that are the slags and sluts and bitches and hos referred to in the songs. Well, girls, you may feel like that but the guy's don't and they are the ones in control!
Humph.
Grumph.
Mike called yesterday full of plans, plans, plans and it was nice to talk to him. He has a new night starting on Tuesday next week at the Prince Albert in Brixton that sounds worth a shot.
Meanwhile, Carl, if you read this, please get in touch as it is time we sorted this Chefs compilation out for once and for all. Let's get on with it, it won't take long and we can release it in September.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Girl Guides
Someone from Senegal two weeks ago, someone from India today: Myspace does the backpackers trip I couldn't afford to go on, but didn't want to anyway because I was screeching and thudding away in a punk band.
Something reminded me... I used to work as a volunteer for the Girl Guides. Once, a woman was standing outside the church hall in the dark with a miniature horse. It was bring-your-pet week.
It was delightfully unsound. One week, bats came, with their handlers. There'd just been a massive scare about rabies and bats, but Mr and Mrs Guide leader didn't care a hoot (or should that be a radar-twitter?) about a silly old thing like safety. I made cranachan once, which disappeared almost before it was made.
We had a mad trip to Trent Park, where we lit about six bonfires amongst the dead leaves under the trees, and cooked bacon and fried bread.The bacon didn't cook properly and a lot of it fell into the leaf mould to be scooped up and returned to the pan, but even the delicate little vegan guides greedily scoffed it all as the open air hit them. Mrs Guide leader just vaguely twinkled her glasses in the dusk and let everyone get on with it.
The highlight, I think, was Carol Singing in the Retirement Home. I took my guitar and happily improvised around high-speed versions of carols sung mainly out of tune and off-key, and the Guides held sheaves of photocopied carols in one hand and fast-burning candles in the other, which dripped hot wax all over their fingers at the same time as setting the carol sheets on fire. The elders loved it; the Guides wrinkled up their noses and complained of a smell of wee, but I'm sure they learned something from it.
I did. There was a poor old lady with Alzheimer's, thinking the bus was coming along any minute to take her home. I learned that there are lots of things more important than shopping, exams, getting there on time and hierarchies of all descriptions. Sometimes the moment is perfect; little things in life are a blessing while we have our faculties to appreciate them with. We all abide by rules which are made up often to spoil our lives by distracting us from the best things in life, which of course are free.
Something reminded me... I used to work as a volunteer for the Girl Guides. Once, a woman was standing outside the church hall in the dark with a miniature horse. It was bring-your-pet week.
It was delightfully unsound. One week, bats came, with their handlers. There'd just been a massive scare about rabies and bats, but Mr and Mrs Guide leader didn't care a hoot (or should that be a radar-twitter?) about a silly old thing like safety. I made cranachan once, which disappeared almost before it was made.
We had a mad trip to Trent Park, where we lit about six bonfires amongst the dead leaves under the trees, and cooked bacon and fried bread.The bacon didn't cook properly and a lot of it fell into the leaf mould to be scooped up and returned to the pan, but even the delicate little vegan guides greedily scoffed it all as the open air hit them. Mrs Guide leader just vaguely twinkled her glasses in the dusk and let everyone get on with it.
The highlight, I think, was Carol Singing in the Retirement Home. I took my guitar and happily improvised around high-speed versions of carols sung mainly out of tune and off-key, and the Guides held sheaves of photocopied carols in one hand and fast-burning candles in the other, which dripped hot wax all over their fingers at the same time as setting the carol sheets on fire. The elders loved it; the Guides wrinkled up their noses and complained of a smell of wee, but I'm sure they learned something from it.
I did. There was a poor old lady with Alzheimer's, thinking the bus was coming along any minute to take her home. I learned that there are lots of things more important than shopping, exams, getting there on time and hierarchies of all descriptions. Sometimes the moment is perfect; little things in life are a blessing while we have our faculties to appreciate them with. We all abide by rules which are made up often to spoil our lives by distracting us from the best things in life, which of course are free.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
George
You've no idea what it means to me at my time of life
To hold a young baby in these arms of mine
My pacemaker's ticking my heart to the grave
But new life's reminding an old man that he can smile
The roll-up's a part of my smoke-pickled face
My flat cap's askew and my specs need a clean
I don't like anyone who wasn't born in my street
But here is your baby
So small and so sweet
New life, new life
New life, new life
The baby and the old, old man
He died on my doorstep that dull Christmas Eve
A man full of hatred, a man full of love
A baby cut through to the human inside
His eyes filled with tears at the thought of new life
New life, new life
New life, new life
The baby and the old, old man
To hold a young baby in these arms of mine
My pacemaker's ticking my heart to the grave
But new life's reminding an old man that he can smile
The roll-up's a part of my smoke-pickled face
My flat cap's askew and my specs need a clean
I don't like anyone who wasn't born in my street
But here is your baby
So small and so sweet
New life, new life
New life, new life
The baby and the old, old man
He died on my doorstep that dull Christmas Eve
A man full of hatred, a man full of love
A baby cut through to the human inside
His eyes filled with tears at the thought of new life
New life, new life
New life, new life
The baby and the old, old man
Friday, May 16, 2008
Watch out!
By the way, someone gave me one of those nice guitar tuners that clip on to the headstock of your guitar. I had it in the zip-up pocket on the ouiside of my gig-bag, on my back, and I was travelling in the rush hour. By the time I got home, some one had been in there and filched it.
Wandrin' Friday
Toora-loora, down to Tottenham Court Road and into Rare and Vintage Guitars to ask if it's OK to do some photos there next week. I was delighted that Flea knows me anyway so that's all sorted- it's such a funky shop, all oldfashioned and non-hi-tech, just the job.
I wandered through Covent Garden in to the Diesel shop to see if they had those olive green overalls, but they didn't. There was a remarkable headless sales assistant lounging on a seat that I discovered was a shop dummy, but I'd been impressed for a second or two until I realised.
I looked in Paul Smith Women- too posh and lady like for me, and the Tintin shop, aimed at chaps and not tomboys (verily, we are two different breeds) and the Camper shoe shop (too little-girly, I'm afraid). I passed Stanford Maps and thought what fun it would be to use their stuffed world-map globes as cushions on my non-existent sofa.
So the next scheduled stop was meeting my friend and mentor Dave Laing in a tapas restaurant. I had never had tapas before, but I have now and it's nice. Dave is always full of news about mutual friends, usually academic ones, and he is also a writer (who is working on a book about Elton John at the moment). He's the person who wrote possibly the best book on punk, One Chord Wonders, which I hope will be re-printed in the near future. He is a very good writer who manages to write about some quite complex academic theories while at the same time being very entertaining. His section in the book on tartanry- the style of singing that Johnny Rotten ( I am an anarchiste-AH!) shares with vintage Scottish singer Harry Lauder (roamin'-ah in the gloamin'-ah!) had me laughing my boots off.
Which reminds me, I must polish up my Andy Stewart sings Edith Piaf routine: ah, that wink and the kilt-flicking leg!
Here I am back home, lounging, having employed a cleaner for the first time in my life. I used to be one, you see, and it's hard to have someone do it in your own house. But she's better than me and those 8-hour cleaning stints were killing me on top of working.
What shall I have for tea? Stuffed world-map globes, doncha know, with aioli dressing (whatever the f*ck that is), yum yum!
I wandered through Covent Garden in to the Diesel shop to see if they had those olive green overalls, but they didn't. There was a remarkable headless sales assistant lounging on a seat that I discovered was a shop dummy, but I'd been impressed for a second or two until I realised.
I looked in Paul Smith Women- too posh and lady like for me, and the Tintin shop, aimed at chaps and not tomboys (verily, we are two different breeds) and the Camper shoe shop (too little-girly, I'm afraid). I passed Stanford Maps and thought what fun it would be to use their stuffed world-map globes as cushions on my non-existent sofa.
So the next scheduled stop was meeting my friend and mentor Dave Laing in a tapas restaurant. I had never had tapas before, but I have now and it's nice. Dave is always full of news about mutual friends, usually academic ones, and he is also a writer (who is working on a book about Elton John at the moment). He's the person who wrote possibly the best book on punk, One Chord Wonders, which I hope will be re-printed in the near future. He is a very good writer who manages to write about some quite complex academic theories while at the same time being very entertaining. His section in the book on tartanry- the style of singing that Johnny Rotten ( I am an anarchiste-AH!) shares with vintage Scottish singer Harry Lauder (roamin'-ah in the gloamin'-ah!) had me laughing my boots off.
Which reminds me, I must polish up my Andy Stewart sings Edith Piaf routine: ah, that wink and the kilt-flicking leg!
Here I am back home, lounging, having employed a cleaner for the first time in my life. I used to be one, you see, and it's hard to have someone do it in your own house. But she's better than me and those 8-hour cleaning stints were killing me on top of working.
What shall I have for tea? Stuffed world-map globes, doncha know, with aioli dressing (whatever the f*ck that is), yum yum!
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Well it's funny...
Yes- Paul Davey's other band from the 1980s, Daniel Takes a Train, have had a revival as part of Virgin Radio's 'Where are they now' feature. They have got into the last three of a competition to be the wherest were they nowest, and have to record a couple of jingles, which they did at Tom's yesterday evening, a version of Wild Thing and a version of Valerie, to be judged by The Zutons next Wednesday. What's so weird is that I mentioned them here a week or so ago, because it was their lead singer who went to see Mon Fio in Stoke Newington after hearing their soundcheck. Daniel Takes a Train are doing a gig in Earl's Court on the 31st of this month, and they have asked me to play too- and they asked Mon Fio, but they are busy, which is a pity.
Joby, I hope you have recovered after your fall from your wheelvehicle. At least these disasters give us material to write about in our blogs. Sometimes, I wonder what came first, the incident or the blog?
I was going to tell you about the frying Guides in the woods but I'll leave that till another time.
Joby, I hope you have recovered after your fall from your wheelvehicle. At least these disasters give us material to write about in our blogs. Sometimes, I wonder what came first, the incident or the blog?
I was going to tell you about the frying Guides in the woods but I'll leave that till another time.
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