Jonathan Ross is to receive an official reprimand from industry watchdogs for using the F-word at 22.30 on Comic Relief "because children may still have been watching". 30 people complained (out of how many millions?)
Yet Graham Norton uses (virtually) the whole gamut of obscenities from 10.00 p.m. onwards and receives not one slap on a limp wrist?
With my small ‘c’ catholic taste in music, it’s not easy finding two vinyl albums with a similar attitude, to merge onto one CD – this is the closest I could get.
I first saw the Dickies live when they were just a support band. As usual, we were getting the drinks in before the main band came on, but were universally vacuumed out of the bar by the sounds of the Moody Blues’ classic “Knights in white satin” being played at 90 m.p.h. This trademark style of the Dickies was in no way used to mask musical ineptitude – far from it - but enabled them to pack 40 minutes of album play into 30, go home early and get wrecked. Nowt wrong with that!
“Where’d his eye go?” poses the theory that monocular vision would only enable you to see the right or left side of objects, as opposed to 100% of a 2-dimensional picture – and all postured in the cryptic lyric “Now he only sees half of everything”.
“Manny, Moe and Jack” is a vocal ‘Yellow Pages’ advert for garage services –
“For the right price,
They will sell you fluffy dice”
and starts with the sound effect of a car being fired up.
(I once convinced a passenger that I’d wired the ignition into the cassette player).
There are two oriental-flavoured tracks – “(Stuck in a pagoda with) Tricia Toyota” and “I’ve got a splitting hedachi”. I never have been able to discover what a ‘hedachi’ is/was? Search engines will provide you with tons of data about the band, while their website’s being rebuilt.
And, bless ‘em, they’re still knocking stuff out – “All this and puppet stew” being their latest product.
999 were due to play at a small venue in Portsmouth, hosted by the Students Union. The doorman (euphemism for neanderthal) had unilaterally decided that unless you could produce your Union card, you weren’t getting in. The resultant ‘discussion’ with non-Student types was resolved by the band threatening that unless everyone was admitted, they wouldn’t play and so there’d be a real riot.
This totally, non-financially-based? ultimatum endeared the band to us immediately and even if they’d played crap, we’d still have begged encores.
The album has no especially memorable tracks – “I’m Alive” gently rips into the boredom of routine:
“Do the same thing all day
I can’t stay up too late
Watch out for me now
‘Cos I’m alive”
but it’s a solid piece of original work which still remains an occasional favourite.
I tacked on “Homicide” from the laughingly-entitled “20 of a different kind” – a supposed punk album which included, inter alia, Plastique Bertrand and The Jam, neither of whom would have been pleased to be categorised as Punk.
Even with the Dickies whizzing along at Warp Factor 9, I couldn’t fit any more from this particular compilation onto the CD – so that’ll be another Burns tale…
The topic for today’s FlashBlog, soon to be revealed over at Clear Blue Skies, reminded me of the eulogy I was asked to provide for my Aunt’s funeral. I saw her not long before her death, when my cousins arranged a family get- together while she was still capable of recognising faces from her past – you could tell it wouldn’t be long ..
Now I really dislike addressing an audience - even one composed mainly of family - but I felt honoured to be asked and steeled myself to deliver it without reading from notes.
So, stood there at the lectern and wearing my loudest tie (as instructed) she got what I hoped was a humorous send-off, because she was that sort of person.
I’d remembered both of our families driving out to a field and playing French cricket. Being a tad portly, we decided that when she went into bat, we’d deliberately miss her with the ball and had her running around like a demented banshee, until she collapsed from exhaustion.
One Christmas, she called round wearing her best coat and my brother and I ambushed her with two cans of Crazy Foam. She sat there, rocking with laughter, like a large meringue being electrocuted.
And once, I showed her what a magnifying glass and the sun could do – on the back of her hand. I learned two new words that day – one was “sadistic” and the other was a bit surprising, because I knew that she knew my Dad?
Whenever she was stuck for a word, she’d say “And ‘er um”, which to this day we use as a euphemism for deodorant – underarm, y’see!
I felt I’d earned the right to tap the coffin on the way past, as my goodbye to Auntie Anderum. She was, as they say, a good old stick.
Yesterday saw the last of this year’s wallet-distressing series of celebrations.
I’d solo’d to my half-century and Mrs.D. and I duetted to Pearl (30 years and the Harbour). On a purely personal level, I made my 25th scuba dive, in the beautiful Honaunau Bay, Place of Refuge, on Hawaii’s Big Island.
And on Sunday, me Ma fell into line with my mother-in-law and step-mother, who this year also made their ‘three score and ten’. So Bruv and I took three of the four Mrs.D’s out to Sunday lunch (the fourth was, of course, more than welcome to join us, but sadly it’s going to take a major family disaster for that to ever happen).
We then left Ma and a companion the worse for three large glasses of medium white, but having enjoyed a very pleasant ‘family day’.
The wallet is now under sedation, in a critical but stable condition.
I’m as inordinately proud and protective of my two kids as any father could be, but even though I’m fully aware that in today’s world, both sexes are expected to equally provide for the Domestic Unit (ah, here’s Mrs.D. now, fresh? in from her shift as a JCB driver at the local tip) almost inevitably the male will be the more permanent earner in the partnership. Purely because of the obvious biological contribution to the procreative element of the relationship, y’understand. Oh dear, I’m not putting this over too well, am I?
Let’s just say that my daughter has, for some time, had her future mapped out as far as it is possible to do so in this uncertain world, yet my son remains disconcertingly ‘vague’ about what life will hold out for him.
Am I right to worry or be concerned? Probably not. He’s very personable (immensely entertaining on his all-too-rare visits to the family dining table), fiercely supportive of his “swotty” sibling and a considerate lad when it comes to family matters. We’ve had various – and perhaps too – revelatory e-mails and ‘phone calls from his latest European tour, so he’s clearly happy to voluntarily stay in touch with homebase.
I guess that as long as he’s healthy and enjoying life, the money will come (and go – it certainly does for me!) and as I can’t - and wouldn’t want to - live my life through him, I’ll just leave the future to the fates and gods that may control his destiny.
Meanwhile, I’ll just hang around with my wallet open…
Being the first of an occasional series of insights into my Music Library
(and if you don’t want to see the results, look away now)
Frank Zappa "Zoot Allures"
Frank Zappa / Captain Beefheart "Bongo Fury"
Lucky person that I am, my more recent "modes de transpor’ " did not come equipped with a cassette player, so for some time I’ve been unable to listen to old stuff that you can’t get on CD (and I’m chary of driving with earphones plugged in).
Now, however, I’ve acquired some software which enables me to burn vinyl onto CD (“Oh Gawd”, muttered the philistine that is Mrs.D.)
Emboldened by Quarsan’s recent Guest-blogging over at TD and prompted by today’s FlashBlog by CBS, my virgin burn involves two albums by the inimitable (“Thank all the saints for that”, she said) and much-lamented Frank Zappa.
“Zoot allures” has a graphically-obscene photo of the band (in particular Mr FZ himself) on both sides of the cover. So maybe it’s just as well I haven’t learned to post pictures yet. Disappointment for the laydeez, then.
“Black napkins” is a superb example of FZ’s guitarwork and his acid (sic) humour appears in “Ms Pinky” (“$69.95 boy, give her a try”), “Wonderful Wino” and the stilleto-like “Disco Boy” (“Leave his hair alone, but you can kiss his comb”).
I was lucky enough to see the band at Brighton Conference Centre shortly before FZ succumbed to cancer. His black lead vocalist sang “What’s that hanging from a neighbour’s tree? Looks like coloured folks, to me.” Only they could have got away with a lyric like that, in front of such a cosmopolitan audience..
"Bongo Fury" is the mainly-live recording in ’75 for the impending USA bi-centennial celebrations. As an import, it cost me £5 at the time, the amount we spent on food each week, so it’s been nursed through several house moves.
The album includes duets with Captain Beefheart (or Don van Vliet as his mum knows him) but although I really like his solo work, I still can’t get into his beatnik prose. Therefore, memorable belters like “Sam with the showing scalp flat top” and “Man with the Woman head” didn’t make it to the CD. (That’s the CBS connection).
But the humour was still there, with “Debra Kadabra” expressing mystification about the notion of masochism and the gloriously over-the-top entitled “Poofters Froth, Wyoming, plans ahead” ripping the proverbial out of the cynical commercialism involved in the “200 Years Old” festivities:
“T-shirts. Racks. Rubber snacks.
Posters rolled with matching tacks
And here’s a special beer for sports,
In paper cups, that hold two quarts”
This august and diverse body unwittingly introduced me to my first blogger - still one of the most interesting of my daily reads.
Others followed randomly, being at times thought – provoking and often consistently entertaining (though the postage by this SagaMaster is rapidly reducing my daily average of “Sites visited during the lunch hour”). In turns, my links access output which is manic, mildly morose or just plain scary. Some provide occasionally incomprehensible information (but nonetheless are still regular reads). Others are, in the nicest possible sense, inclined to eccentricity, sub-consciously? constructing persona as guilelessly as a geisha applying her mask of make-up.
A few make you feel protective (when they’re home) or whimsical. One or two have found niches, cheerfully dispensing virtual refreshment of a Friday afternoon (though there are muttered rumours about retirement from the catering industry) or providing actual interactivity. A couple often produce work which is sometimes so outlandish and lurid that you emit “No, wheee” (a particularly Pompeyan expression, that). Many merit remuneration – though not from me; my cashflow problems are legion and legendary.
You will all know who you are (but can you resist linking?).
Yet throughout all of my regulars, there seems to be a common, ‘Ebay-ethos’ theme of honesty? In the public medium that is Blogworld, sheer fantasy would be a wasted topic for blogging – it’s a purely personal thing, so there’s no point sharing (except with other like-minded consenting adults, of course). But as with all auctions, you don’t need to sell out every one of your possessions.
My nascent blog will be similar in its degree of self-exposure and until I can work out how to incorporate those clever little boxes which contain the “100 things you desperately needed to know about me but couldn’t be ar5ed to ask” , you’ll get what I give you.
It means that the reminiscences playing in my head, like a video-taped film, can be re-scheduled into a different timeframe from their original premiere, but
a) you won’t know; and
b) you won’t really care.
So that’s Ok then.
Right – that’s everyone on my linkrack double-blogvertised today, so that’ll be an Archer apiece. After all, we don’t want these kind souls getting their mitts on my ill-gotten, do we?
Unusually for me, I'm struggling to finish a book that I started in the summer.
The pitch seems to be that a trio of warring, dysfunctional brothers eventually press-gang enough neanderthals (or whoever was around exactly 2000 years B.C.) into building the greatest-ever temple.
I'm finding it somewhat incongruous that people were able to talk so articulately then, but I guess that conversations peppered with "Ynggh" and "Grarrggg" would make the plot a tad difficult to follow. And some people must have had the vision and drive to succeed in their desire to construct something which must have seemed impossible to others?
But I have this irreverent vision when, after the final stone is put into place and they all stand back to admire their handiwork, a crew of itinerant navvies roll by and call out "Oi, we've got some spare asphalt. You want a path round that?"
I have been with my current employer for 13 years today * peers round nervously, looking for P45-bearing envelope *
During that time, I’ve hired and fired, directed, specified, liaised, advised and many other –eds.
I’ve had the pleasure of working in many locations, spent too many nights in hotel rooms, gone through 5 company cars and, best of all, worked with some excellent people.
At the weekend, I decided to mow the lawns for, hopefully, the last time this year.
Actually, “lawns” makes them sound rather grand. You might envisage peacocks, strutting around. Herbaceous borders filling the air with their heady scent. Etc.
So perhaps I should re-define the areas as patches of earth, sparsely populated by brown wisps of seared grass?
Anyway, the next day, on my spangly-pristine and crew-cut vista, Mother Nature decided to scrub the remaining leaves off of the trees and dump them unceremoniously everywhere.
Take a look down your highway
Tell me what d'you see
Well if you're down my way
It could well be me
Stood on your corner
I'm nearly down on one knee
Can you hear me calling for you
So damn easy to see
And it can't be forever
And it won't be for long
So don't you think that it's better
We speak the same tongue
Out here in this weather
We must surely belong
Birds of a feather
Whatever the song:
Please give me a lift man
It can't be for far
The way that you shift man
In your empty car,
I've got the highway blues
In my holy (holey, wholly) shoes
And I cannot choose
What I look like
And I got here from yesterday
On porridge and bait
Swallowing sorrow
Following fate
Poaching tomorrow
From God and the state
Of homo his shadow
The well known long haired straight
But I've got a good reason
For being this way
I'm happy for certain
And hoping to stay
Travelling trust
Across the new day
Gathering dust
Down your highway
Please give me a lift man...
It can't be for far
The way that you shift man
In your empty car
I've got the highway blues
In my holy shoes
And I cannot choose
What I look like
Out on the streets
Or where my drum beats
In between the clean sheets
Of my love life
And I need little Margaret
Out here again
Screwing some traffic
From the shaven insane
With thumbs like a dragnet
She pulls like a train
And she looks like a magnet;
And she comes like a warm rain
Please give me a lift man, etc
I'm sorry that the site is still looking derivative and derelict, but I volunteered to blog for Mike during Guest Month and he went and put me in for Week One, second on the grid.
So no time to wallpaper, or even paint the edges, or link to the very kind people who have called to say Hi. It's like owning two homes (not that I'm ever likely to).
Joe Walsh (of the Eagles) sang
I have a mansion
For-get the price
I've never been there
They tell me it's nice
Maybe those lovely and loving people over at Uborka will break in while I'm working elsewhere and I'll come back to a transformed home.
So, the weekend revolved around returning NoD to Uni. NoD = Number One Daughter (we have one of each - it's a lame, family joke). It's her last of four years, to be then followed by two years of clinical placement, then the seventh year for her PhD. Seven years of financial support and Red Cross parcels. Start saving now folks! Meanwhile, practice by attaching leeches to your limbs and wallet. Don't mean it, NoD!
Hopefully she will then start to earn obscene amounts of money and/or marry a research scientist with a Lottery grant. Either of them can then buy the boat I have been lusting after for far too long. "See that boat disappearing over the horizon, Daddy" she says, "Wave it goodbye 'cos you're never going to see it again!"
She explains that the job will involve her making decisions about the treatment to be meted out and someone else sticking in the needle. Now a very close relative was sectioned a couple of years back (and a huge thanks to the NHS for returning him safely to our planet) so I know a little about what happens.
I therefore have this vision of her, white-coated and like a visiting dignitary being asked to review the parade, following behind a nurse who, like an old-fashioned cinema usherette, has a large tray of goodies strapped to her.
"She gets two of the small green ones" she'll dictate. "He needs a large blue one". Etc.
And the customers, like ravenous fledglings or parishioners at Holy Communion, will open wide and take the medicine (and hopefully make it back home).
NoS (you know how to work it out by now) is currently touring Europe with a skateboard and an H-plated Toyota, so it's damn quiet at Aprosexic Towers.
More than 20 years ago, some good friends achieved their life ambition and emigrated to America and, eventually, Hawaii. During the intervening years, we often promised to 'go visit' their coffee farm, with its donkeys and goats rescued from the locals' barbecues. This year, we finally made it and it was all you could expect.
Within a month of us returning home, we learned that she's hosting a particularly virulent cancer, so the farm is up for sale, the animals have been re-homed and the web-site which advertised their beautiful holiday accommodation and surroundings, has been taken down. Their entire life and plans for retirement have been completely blitzed.
So, people - my first post will include that well-worn but absolutely sincere exhortation to treat every day as if it was your last. One day, it will be and generally, you don't get to choose it.
Drinking and Driving (but clearly not simultaneously)
