Crammed Tuesday

Being a thoroughly normal person, I wash clothes and dishes and cook in the kitchen. The room does, however, have another use: it's a recording studio. So while the washing machine was churning and spinning, I was importing backing tracks into my Logic programme on the computer on the kitchen table, and setting up the microphone to sing with. I had to wait for the machine noise to calm down before I could record the vocals.

One of the songs is a cover of an Amy Rigby song, Vote That F*cker Out, which has been given the analogue electronic treatment by Willie G so I can sing his adaptation of the lyrics, to be released before the local elections in May. I have to sound angry on that one, which is easy. I need to make some tweaks tomorrow, and then it's done.

The other is a topline for a track by Sarah Corina, who used to play bass for The Mekons and The Bomb Party, and who produced one of The Monochrome Set's albums. The chorus came to me in the middle of the night, and I wrote the verses later in the morning. There is a high harmony I need to do again; all that angry vocalising made me squeak, but in general I was quite happy with what came out.

Then of course, being a thoroughly normal person and university lecturer, I had to do some last-minute marking and input the data into the system. Checking my emails later, I found an urgent request from work to write a short piece about songwriting for The Conversationalist, prompted by the Twitter spat between Damon Albarn and Taylor Swift. My initial thought was 'No, I can't do it; there isn't time', but More 4 TV has reverted back to the beginning of the Minder series, and I can't face watching it again (I prefer the later episodes without the odious Terry character). So I wrote it, and who knows if they will publish it.

I then spoke to my foster cousin on the phone and was horrified by what he told me about the way his partner's body was disrespected after his death. Humans are still sometimes chaotic and downright primitive, no matter how much we tell ourselves that we have become sophisticated beings. That's all I can say about that: it threw a shadow over the afternoon. So now I'm in pensive mood; watching TV does not appeal, and nor does reading the sort of senseless crime paperbacks that I normally find so relaxing. 

I have a long list of things that I haven't done and that I'd hoped to do today. I will be isolating from next week onwards and I'm trying to set things up this week to make that easier. There is always tomorrow, and there is some compensation that the weather outside is cold, grey and gloomy. There's no incentive to leave the house. Inside is cold, grey and gloomy too, but not quite as bad it is out there!

Finishing Poster for Glasgow Gig in March

Sunday Drawing Club was so full of interesting stories and banter last night that I made a mistake on this. It's almost finished though.

January

 

Mentioned in Mojo

Now I know they read their Tweets! My book appeared in an answer to a question in this month's Mojo.

This means a lot to me- I have been subscribing to it for years.

 

I Think It's Finished

 

Starting A Gig Poster

 

Barnet Versus Chesterfield

The conflict in a football game is a metaphor of what happens in real life, played out by a team of players who have individual personalities and goals that are simultaneously operated in service of the team winning, and that of personal development and glory.

This is why it's so cathartic to go to a match. It's also a place where you can shout and yell at the top of your voice, and that's normal. Something that is seen as completely antisocial in everyday life has a place and time where it's almost de rigeur.

It was Offsprog Two's suggestion, and we nearly changed our minds because I have friends who (I think) picked up Covid at a football match, but we decided to go even though it was cold and foggy.

The Barnet ground used to be in Barnet, just down from the tube station. I still really miss it- the chants that swelled up the hill on wintry Saturday afternoons, the super-bright lights that shone through the gloom as you drew into the station after a day's work on a Tuesday. The sloping pitch itself, and the terraces. The mad fans, home or away, who one day raced down the High Street into a bathroom shop. One of them sat on a toilet in the window display roaring with laughter, his mates in the street doubled up with glee.

The stadium moved several years ago. It stopped being a spontaneous decision to go. I'd seen Arsenal play a 'friendly' in which they scored (I think) 18 goals against a team that they consistently cherry-pick the best players from, in a really ungracious victory that passed the Arsenal fans by. I'd seen a lot of losing, but also a lot of good playing.

The new stadium is in Stanmore, almost, and is difficult to get to. I had to drive, which is an activity that I have been trying to cut down on. A talkative crow gave me detailed instructions about how to use the parking payment machine, which were more easy to understand that the printed instructions on the machine itself.

We walked with the other fans down to the stadium in a cold fug of alcohol and Chesterfield accents. They knew they were going to win, but we had gone to watch a match and support Barnet, so that didn't matter.

In the first half, Chesterfield conserved their energy, watching to see which Barnet players to take out. In the second half, they got number 19. I said to Offsprog Two, 'Watch number 11: they'll get him next'. Sure enough, they did. Also, pushing players when the referee's attention is occupied elsewhere is not a good look, and there was rather a lot of that going on.

The Chesterfield away fans were in full voice and celebrated the triumph of four goals with roars and chants that practically blew the top off the away shed. The Barnet fans took a dislike to their player number 22, a tall chap with a ponytail who was giving instructions to the team. 'Look out for number 22!' shouted one of our number. I don't think the referee needed to be told, because at one point number 22 had laughed in his face.

Got to hand it to the Barnet team, they carried on regardless. They have plenty of stamina and they defended consistently throughout the game, even though they were playing a clearly more experienced team.

About ten minutes before the game finished, some disappointed Barnet fans began to drift away, including dads'n'kids. I did feel that was a bad life lesson, to bail out before the game has finished when you're losing.

It was a bad decision too, because in the last two minutes Barnet gave us a goal. What a masterpiece of defiance. I loved that. 

It was better than winning, and you should have heard the cheer we gave them!

Illustration

We didn't do Sunday Drawing Club last night but I think a few of us drew privately at home anyway. I did! This is a drawing inspired by one of Lorraine Bowen's songs. She has put backing tracks on her Bandcamp so people can sing along, and she asked for illustrations of the lyrics. This song is called Lemon Disinfectant and you can listen to the full song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32xuKo4G46s

Mr And Mrs White Goose: The End Of The Story?

Mr White Goose had been at the pond for a long as I can remember, and during lockdown he and his first wife, Mrs White Goose, became part of our lives. We regularly visited them on lockdown walks, and they got used to us. We got to know the Fishing Man, who was irritating because he wasn't supposed to fish there ('No Fishing', said the huge notice on the wall at the back of the pond). The rich people's servants from the house that backed on to the pond used to sit on a bench and chat to the majestic feathery couple on warm summer evenings.

Then one day, disaster struck: Mrs White Goose was gone, and all that was left was a sad little pile of snowy feathers. The fox had been, and carried her off to a terrible destiny. Mr White Goose was distraught. He shouted and hissed, calling out for days. The Irritating Fisherman told us that she had been exhausted by laying eggs (which were also gobbled up by the hungry fox), and hadn't been able to escape.

About ten days later, a new Mrs White Goose appeared. She had angel wing, which means that a wing fails to develop properly and sticks out sideways. This is what waterfowl suffer from when we humans feed them white bread: it's not a good diet for ducks and geese, let alone humans.

Mr White Goose gently courted Mrs White Goose 2. They sailed quietly through the water for a few days, socially distanced. They weren't sure. The nibbled grass together, and gradually became companions. Together, they bullied the ducks. Together, they shrieked at the horrid heron that hunched on the duck house staring them out. Together, they honked at us aggressively because they Don't Know How To Be Nice.

We got used to Mrs White Goose 2 and her oddly architectured wing.

Well, on Boxing Day me and the Offsprogs went for a walk. Over towards the pond, a large white pile lay lifeless on the side. 'Probably just plastic bags', swerved Offsprog Two. Alas, the next day I went up on my own. The carcass of Mrs White Goose 2 had been removed, and there was a pale drift of small feathers scattered on the ground.

The fox had been back, and with her poor wing she had been helpless. Mr White Goose called and called for her: it was heartbreaking.

And then one day, he too had gone. We think think that he has gone to a sanctuary. I hope he has, anyway. Now, there are some elegant Canada geese, who are safe to swish about on the water without being ordered to go away.

It's just not the same up there any more.

Little Heart-Shaped People from Venus

 

I Found My Lyrics Book

I found the lyrics book that I thought I'd thrown away. There are no lyrics in it. I am crestfallen by this. I had imagined perfect songs wending their way to the recycling plant, being burnt to ash and smoke, and reaching the heavens as a series of poetic atoms.

What a shame.

Hooray! A Proper Record In The Post

The Covid-ridden Barnet Post Office has erratic opening hours. It was closed for two days before Christmas, open for two hours one day, closed again for two days... you'd think they'd realise that wearing masks might stop them infecting each other. The maskless woman behind the counter looked really offended that I was standing two metres back from her when I posted a parcel the other day. For them there is no pandemic, just individual infections with a mystery illness. Again. And Again. And again.

So we receive very little post. Every so often, even at this stage in January, a couple of Christmas cards appear. Offsprog Two's beautiful felt stuffed facsimile of her beloved cat, made to console Offsprog One, never arrived: we just have the photo. I ordered Darlene Love's autobiography, also for Offsprog One. Alibris very generously refunded me. It's probably at the bottom of a compost-heap of Christmas presents that remain undelivered. 

This, however, arrived yesterday. What a triumph! I am so looking forward to listening to it. Maybe Subway Sect have their own postal service!

Primary School

My Primary School in Wylam was brutal. Teachers were allowed to hit us, and the punishment most commonly meted out to me was being held by the shoulders and shaken until my teeth rattled. This made me giggle with fear, so of course I got shaken even harder.

Little things made me happy, often colours. A girl whose hair was flaxen blonde (I'd never seen anyone like that before). A boy with an orange sweatshirt. There were curiosities. One little boy wore grey flannel shorts and a formal shirt, with what was obviously his father's tie. Every day the tie worked its way down through his shorts, and appeared with yellow and red pointed glee out of the bottom of them, flapping  joyously about his legs as he ran around the playground. 

Dyson Vaccuum Cleaners

Really. What crap they are. You have to sweep up after them, and have a special bent coat hanger to empty out the dust and fluff. 

Using it wrongly? I think not. 

I have been cleaning floors for many more woman hours than you, Mr Dyson, and if your squad of testers say these machines are OK, they are nothing but a bunch of sycophants!

Hyper-Zen

Is there such a thing as hyper-zen? I've just driven a round trip from Barnet through Fulham, Battersea and Camberwell and back again, including a 30-minute traffic jam just to cross Camberwell Green.

Most of the route had a speed limit of 20 miles an hour, and at almost every traffic light it seemed there was a frantic young man in a small car revving his engine because he HAD TO GET AWAY FIRST. 

ME FIRST!

I sat behind the wheel, a placid lump, pootling along at twenty. 

Green light ahead? Accelerate to 25? Not me! Pootle, pootle, pootle. Wipers on, wipers off, drizzle, rain, nothing.

Glide around the corners, ease on the brakes. Slowly, I pass the Me-Firsters. They have rushed, revved, thrusted and hurried, but they are only a car in front of me. How did that happen?

I don't actually care, really, because I am hyper-zen. Slowly, I pull into my street, gently park and lock the car.

Stress. What is that?