The F-Word

The fourth part of Cazz Blaise's f-Word account of women and punk is up!
It features interviews with Caroline Coon, Gina Birch, Lucy O'Brien and myself and you can read it at:
http://www.thefword.org.uk/features/2010/07/women_in_punk_t_1
The f-Word is a brilliant e-zine.

Tomato-a-la-Tom

I've been catching up with the papers that I forgot to cancel before I went away.
There is Tom Ravenscroft, son of the late John Peel, recommending summer listens.
I remember the young scamp, aged about three, crawling across his parents' ample kitchen table and dribbling into the tomato salad that was due to be served up to the guests that were coming for lunch.
I yelped a warning yelp, but his mother just smiled wisely and carried on preparing the food; no-one noticed!

Ironing

What better pastime for a hot and muggy day than ironing?
I call it 'joining in with the weather'.
The iron and myself are strangers; I bought a cheap one from Sainsburys and have been battling the terrifying snorting hog ever since. It is a steam iron that steams when you don't press the button and doesn't when you do.
I steamed the toaster to a flurry of blurred chrome, and dried the wrinkles into my clothes.

It was the silk Italian holiday-shirt that made me fight the ironing board out of the cupboard (only six bruises so far!). The shirt has been bundled up for weeks begging to be restored to its original glassy sheen.
As I slid the fizzing and spluttering device over printed pictures of important Italian buildings, I mused on the idea of teaching geography by clothing. Madras shirts, Scottish woollens, Chinese cotton shoes... world-plunderers, we are.

I remember finding out that my main feminist friend ironed her partner's shirts. I was shocked!
My ex-partner was a perfectionist and I suspect him of re-ironing his shirts after his mother did them.
(I wonder if she thought I was too lazy?).

There is something peaceful about it, if time is  no pressure; it can feel like ice-skating for the hands, or at least that's what I tell myself to avoid boredom.
And then the clothes are flat and smooth, and fit again even when you thought you had got too fat for them: does ironing stretch them?
You can stuff more of them into the drawer and you don't have to send them (back) to the charity shop.
Thank goodness I have finished: that's the job over for at least another three months!

Reading back over my posting, I have noticed short sentences and an unusually 'punchy' delivery. I have been adversely influenced by Mark Radcliffe's awful autobiography, a book I bought to read on holiday. It's full of short sentences. It's an attempt to make it pacy. It's almost breathless! Like this!
I got a two-for-one offer with the equally terrible biography of Malcolm McLaren by Ian Macleay. What a mess: there is a stack of good information there tossed about casually like a summer salad. 
It's so frustrating to read; he darts about from one time period to another, padding it out with irrelevant information. It is a distressing attempt to cash in quickly on the man's death; McLaren was interesting and articulate, if not very likeable, and he definitely deserved better than this.
No wonder I have almost stopped reading altogether...

P.S.

My car failed it's MOT with flying colours yesterday.
What-ho!

After mistakenly telling everyone that the gig was at a pub called The Railway, I walked into The Station at Hither Green for the Icarus Club's bonny night.

The club has it's own crowd, who are listeners and smilers, and the MC Andy holds everything together with a subtle iron fist in a velvet glove (pervy, moi?).
Eddie Johns was playing again, and it was nice to see him singing his songs which have a distinctive almost-devotional feel to them- that's meant as a a compliment, they don't sound like Sunday School songs!
I loved Caleb, a duo who play treated guitars and sing beautiful dreamlike songs with a sort of tempered wailing: the woman has an extremely powerful voice that she controls perfectly and the guitars spread out underneath the songs to create a shimmering bed of surreality. They concentrated hard- they weren't a pair of jolly japesters by any means, but they were mesmerising, and are definitely worth seeing and hearing www.myspace.com/calebband
I enjoyed playing my second set: the knackeredness of the 400 mile drive the day before evaporated, and I played Summer Days, Daisies and Gotta Have a Heart at full throttle, spurred on by Caleb's upping of the ante!

Snapshots of Northumberland

Bullies... cow-ards!

Sandprints

Look carefully- the stripy caterpillars are in disguise!

Northumberland: Beautiful County I Love

Last week was spent exploring Northumberland with Martin: we managed to cram in loads of stuff somehow.

I had always wanted to see the Alnwick Garden. It is surprisingly small considering the fuss surrounding it, but it is perfect for children and even has little green and yellow tractors for them to fight over and rattle around in. I also liked the fact that no plants were so special that you had to be a clever gardener to grow them. And the lovely rose garden! It was raining when we went and you could stuff your nose into all manner of rose fragrances, from the strong and opium-like to the hint-on-a-breeze type. Lots of the petals had fallen to the ground and covered the earth with a layered carpet of crumpled pink and cream.
I could have stayed there forever.

The next day we went to the Farne Islands. This was a brilliant trip on a little boat that bounced us around the North Sea. Seal's noses poked upwards in the water.

'That's how they sleep', explained the fisherman who was steering us out to sea. 'We'll soon wake them up!' As we buffeted towards them, their heads poked out of the briny like crooked fingers. They look like doggies, with long muzzles, unlike the West Coast ones who look like teddies. 

They slurped about in the waves, camera-shy and sleek.

We landed on Inner Farne, almost tripping over tern chicks who were lazing about on the walkways.

The smell of gull goo was overpowering and the noise was dense and internimable.
(did you know that in Chile they mine guano for use as a fuel? Wotcha think of that, BP?)

Guillemot, Kittiwake, they sound like Victorian children's names... of course, the puffins are the best. They zip about on unfeasibly small wings, red legs akimbo. Their chicks are in holes in the ground, guarded by smart generals in black and white livery with painted beaks who stand to attention and point North, South, East, West, to make sure predators don't creep up behind them.

Lindisfarne was next: we drove through the rippling tide on the causeway and avoided the tourists by slipping round the side of the church, where we discovered, in the wind-carved holes in the stones, a sparrow with a secret nest.
Over on the other side of the island, upturned boats had been converted into fisherman's lockups. Someone was growing a forest of exotic coloured lilies in their garden, something I would not have believed possible in the salty and fresh climate of the north-east coast.

Last day, we walked to Dunstanburgh Castle from Craster, witnessing the weirdest event of the week.

A herd of young heifers were bullying a pigeon, who was Not Scared of Them. The pigeon stood on the ground, while the heifers, with their heads down, mooed at it full-volume through sloppy noses. The pigeon walked forward at leisure, with the cows following it, mooing all the time.
From time to time, one cow took a rest before joining in with the gang again, bowing its head and steaming the pigeon with its moo-ey breath.

The pigeon led the cluster of cows across the path and perilously close to a small cliff.

Had it murder in mind?

We didn't wait to see: there were fossils on the beach and our own cliff to sit on and look at the breakers.

That night, we made chili for John Cavener and his wife, and talked music into the night. 

We have a virtual band, a little bit Daintees, a little bit Band of Holy Joy, a little bit Chefs and  little bit Sureshots. Who know where it might go?

Icarus Club

I have a gig tonight at the Railway in Hither Green, just next to the station: it's one of those mixed nights and had a great atmosphere last time I was down there. The Icarus Club, who promote the night, also have their own radio station: I will look for the URL and post it here.
www.icarusradio.co.uk

Went Away, Came Back

Hello Blog and Bloggees, whoever and wherever you are (always a mystery, or mostly, anyway).
I have just driven 400 miles down from Edinburgh with a brief stop at Druridge Bay.
I have done many things, but lack the energy to tell you what at the moment.
My plants are still alive, and a rather indignant toad was waiting in the middle of the yard, annoyed that he had to share it with a large perpendicular creature with a green plastic watering can and a sunburnt nose.
There were no important letters, no pay and no bills, so the situation is neutral.
The clothes are in the washer, the mouldy fruit that's been in the car for ten days is in the bin, the teenagers faces are superglued to the computer, the fridge's empty apart from two disgusting pizzas bought en route, and I'm going to drink me tea now.
What you been up to while I've been away?

Back on Wednrsday

Hello Peeps, if my car behaves I shall be back and posting on Wednesday evening; if not, I shall be weeping into a cup of instant coffee at a Travelodge off the A1 somewhere.

Back soon! x

The Relief of a Cancelled Day

I was going to head down to Utrophia to Songs of Praise: you play a song, and get praised for it.
I have a real soft spot for the Utrophia people as they were very kind and supportive in the best kind of way when I was splitting up from my ex-husband. They have moved to a new warehouse and I have lost touch with them a bit, so it would have been a good way to catch up.
But
Gina was finishing my film and I realised I did not have time to do both and decided to go to East London to collect it
But
She discovered too late that the film would not burn to a CD properly
So
I stayed at home and tidied out the under-stairs cupboard, finding a lithograph I'd done at Art College for McMum, who gave away too much stuff when she moved and was delighted to find that I had another copy of the print to give her
And
I found a box in a difficult-to-get-at cupboard that had Offsprog One's teddies in it, and she's here
And
She has just made me a lovely salad
And
It's not been too bad at all stuck at home today.
Amen.

Goats Cheese Versus Strawberries, Barnet Versus Arsenal

I discovered that goat's cheese is low in cholesterol from a man I bought some from, round the back of the shopping centre (makes it sound slightly seedy: I assure you it wasn't).
My pals came round and we ate it with toasted fresh bread, followed by bowls of strawberries and raspberries, and then we took ourselves down to Underhill to watch Arsenal thrash Barnet.
Was I the only Barnet fan there? I think so! There were authoritative Arsenal knowalls all around, especially behind us, blasting out their opinions on what a crap team Barnet are.
Excuse me, but isn't a friendly supposed to be friendly?
Of course a game like that is going to be won by a Premiership team!
Three goals were scored in the first half: poor Barnet were doing that desperate thing of passing the ball from side to side instead of taking on the defenders, getting through them and focusing on the goal.
It's so frustrating to watch players doing that, and I tried to think up remedies: games to sharpen their minds, even dancing lessons to make their footwork better.
After half time, they'd obviously been given a pep talk. They came out energised and I was pretty impressed by their playing, especially little natty-dreaded Number 13, who zipped about hither and thither, and managed to keep the ball even after he fell over, giving it 100% right to the end of the game. Number 21 who was substituted in the second half was good too, gangly and far-reaching.
Arsenal scored another goal in the second half.
Scornful, the knowalls carried on opining. It must have been so hard for the Bees. I looked round the stadium and the whole thing seemed to be a sea of Arsenal shirts; the problem is that a lot of Barnet fans support Arsenal too. I had to suppress my cheers and keep my involuntary miming of ball-kicking to myself and stopping my legs from twitching.
Before the end, lots of the the Arsenal fans (shall we call them the Arses?) went to the pub in disgust, muttering about the game.
Once more: isn't a friendly supposed to be friendly?
Why did they come?
We bought ice creams and walked back home to sit round the kitchen table and talk about the music business: one pal works for the record label 4AD, and both are musicians.
Later, I went to see my friend Rowen Bridler play at The Barfly. She is due to emigrate to Prague, and this was her goodbye concert. She looked and sounded beautiful, and I appreciated the music even through the sea of tiredness that engulfed me almost as soon as I got there.
So now I am slumped in a heap, too lazy even to watch TV.
Somebody put the kettle on and make me a cup of tea!

A Working Day

Yesterday I filled the car with flattened boxes and crawled round the M25 at five miles an hour (rising to 25- is that where the name comes from?) to Brighton.
Offsprog One has had extremely bad luck with accommodation, just as I did when I lived there, actually. She moved from damp, cold hellhole with rude and facetious Brighton University Housing Association staff making matters worse, to tiny temporary room, to nice flat that she then got asked to move out of...
Just like a tailor who cuts their cloth short, the two flats have a month's gap between them, and I went to help her to move her stuff into storage temporarily.
Some days, your body Just Says NO to moving heavy boxes full of books and crockery.
I had to insist.
Two carloads into an overhead locker at a ramshackle storage place later, we managed to sit and eat lunch at 3.30 p.m., with the sea twinkling enticingly in the background.
I was knackered; this is the second emergency visit I've done and I hereby resolve to go on a pleasure visit and catch up with the lovely people I know there as soon as possible.
I realise that I actually have more friends in Brighton than I do in London.

As we drank our Earl Grey tea and coffee, I looked around the caff.
Shabby chic, like lots of places in Brighton, and one of its charms. Almost everywhere, damp bubbles up under paintwork or plaster, crumbs on tables tell stories of cakes consumed, and fluffballs snigger in darkened corners and crevices.

I remembered taking the Offsprogs to a wedding reception at the Sussex Arts Club, a funky place to have a wedding reception if ever there was one. I think it was Mark's, from The Blue Hearts.
Offsprog One was about six and Offsprog two was about three; they were holding hands.
'It's grubby here', declared Offsprog One.'Take me home'.

Caramba! Got the song up!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4rmuu8yfY9E