I Can Hear Music

When I bust my left foot way back in March, I found myself sat in my eyrie fiddling with my instruments (oooh matron). I started arsing around with a "bagpipe" type of melody I concocted whist walking around in the Scottish rain a few years back.

I called it "In Scottish Rain" because I'm literal like that and here it is for your delectation.

In Scottish Rain.

Recorded via a Yamaha MD4S Minidisk Recorder (used as a mixer) direct to N-Track on my laptop. Sonic Foundry's Acid Music was used to add drums and to facilitate some of the key changes. Finally Soundforge was used for the final mix.

I tried to be a bit Mike Oldfieldy with this. That's why there's harmonised bagpipe-type guitars. Personally I think it needs a bit of bass boost or - a proper bassline adding. I tried to rely on the synth samples to provide the bottom end but, on reflection perhaps more oomph is needed.

All opinions, good, bad or indifferent welcome.

Cinema Show

I've just come across a free website where you can store video a bit like Flickr. Youtube it's called for some reason. It's handy for those of you with digital cameras that also have a video facilty although it does compress the file somewhat. Online storage - it's the way forward.

Anyway, here's a video of a typical Saturday at Eastlands featuring such gems as the walk from the car, the walk up the spirals of the stadium, one of the most boring matches ever, followed by the walk back in the dark. Rivetting stuff that I predict will be up for a Palme D'Or at Cannes next year.

Honest.

In my Liverpool Home

Football clubs across Britain staged their tributes on Saturday to the late George Best, who passed away aged 59.

Manchester United and Northern Ireland legend Best died in a London hospital on Friday after weeks of ill health.

The Premier League asked referees to conduct a minute's silence before all games this weekend, including United's trip to West Ham on Sunday.

But a minority of Liverpool and Leeds fans failed to observe the silence and the tribute had to be cut short.

At the City of Manchester Stadium in the game between Liverpool and Manchester City both sets of fans applauded as Best's name was read out.

But some fans of United's bitter rivals Liverpool disturbed the minute's silence, which did not last the full 60 seconds.

Referee Alan Wiley followed Premier League instruction in cutting the silence down to barely 20 seconds once it became obvious a minority of the visiting supporters were not going to respect it.

The conduct of some of their fans earned jeers from the City fans and their manager Rafael Benitez admitted it was disappointing.

"It is a pity," said Benitez. "It was only a few people and most of them did applaud but it is a pity, you can't say anything else."

City boss Stuart Pearce added: "I have no idea which group of supporters it was but the vast majority paid tribute to a legend of the game who gave a lot of pleasure to a lot of people and that is the important thing.

George Best's imprint on our national game will never fade Football Association chief executive Brian Barwick:

"You have to look at the positives rather than dwell of the actions of a handful of people in a crowd of 47,000."

It was a similar scene at Millwall's New Den where a section of the Leeds fans also led to the tribute being cut short.

I was there and I heard and I saw. A man has died for Christ's sake. Regardless of his allegience and/or the club he played for, are football fans not able to see through the nonsense of club loyalty? Players play here and then play elsewhere. It's bigger than football. Manchester CITY fans applauded the man and tried to observe a minute's silence for a superb footballer and, I have to admit, I thought it would be the City fans that would cause the problems today (only a few nutters though).

Unfortunately some probably (or hopefully) pissed up brain-deads thought it was the perfect opportunity to make their voices heard. I used to quite like Liverpool, but after today I am very, very disappointed.

Great support for your team today but, seriously, no class whatsoever. No class at all.

I watched George Best many times in the late 60s early 70s and, although it breaks my heart to say it, he was a complete footballer. It's a man's life and it's been reduced to the pathetic tribalism of football supporting.

Most of those arseholes booing George Best today have never seen him play - and that's what annoys me more than anything. Wankers. Brain dead.

That "minute's silence" lasted 20 seconds.

A shame.

I Wanna Be Adored

I have been subjected to more than my fair share of fucking whooping and hollering on TV shows recently. Whenever a Z list celeb appears, somebody does something for charidee or a Z list celeb leaves the stage, we hear this cacophony of screaming that makes you fear for the audience's sanity.

When the cameras pan across the same audience though, you NEVER see any of 'em whooping, screaming, hollering or even vomiting. General applause I think it can be classed as. Nothing more, nothing less. Not quite a very British applause, but not far off. The Americanisation of popular entertainment response has put an end to the days of a very British applause. RIP.

So, where does it come from? The whooping etc? Well it's obviously piped isn't it? But why? Who needs it? I'd like to think the artistes would be pissed off if they heard artificial enhancements to the audience response after their efforts. But what do I know?

Not the at home audience surely - they don't need whipping into a frenzy because Will Young has just finished miming to his latest hit single, Ian Hislop has just walked down Parkie's staircase or Beryl and her friend Janine from Hitchen have won an all-inclusive break in the Maldives courtesy of some perma-tanned day-time chat show host - surely?

So that just leaves the studio audience. Y'know that section of society that sends off for tickets to see such events as The Eammon Holmes Half Hour, Brucie's Big Night Out or The Les Dennis Show. They are not being enthusiastic enough and that's why squeaky-bummed producers are resorting to canned whooping.

Well, here's a message you wankers. Sort it and sort it now. The next time you're surrounded by similarly dressed and coiffered 'borgs with inane grins, let's have a little more effort when it comes to slapping the palms of your hands together. Perhaps a cry of "Bravo" or "Encore" wouldn't go amiss. Anything to let the object of your obvious attentions know that they have touched something deep in the very core of your soul.

'Cos if you don't start doing it now, then sooner or later all those trainee pricks who watch shows on the TV like The Eammon Holmes Half Hour, Brucie's Big Night Out or The Les Dennis Show, will start acquiring tickets to watch the recording of shows like The Eammon Holmes Half Hour, Brucie's Big Night Out or The Les Dennis Show and think whooping and hollering is the norm.

So let's put a stop to it now before, like binge-drinking, suduko and Avian Flu, it overwhelms us.

Don't you dare whoop though.

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Roy Keane. Ha ha ha ha ha ha!

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Dearest took the dog out the other evening. A lovely crisp winter's night. Clear sky overflowing with stars and the moon as full as a harvest fruitbasket hanging low over the chimneys and trees. It had that ring that swathes it on nights like these. Glowing away like a halo.

The dog spotted it and shit herself (probably literally). She is officially scared of the moon. The past few nights have been a fucking nightmare I can assure you. Tess doesn't grasp the metaphysical you see. It's a fuckin' mystery to her as much as it was to Stone Age man just what that big, bright orb in the sky is.

A few thousand years later though and Stone Age man's descendants have played golf on the moon.

Tess's species were shittin' 'em then and are shittin' 'em still.

I guess that's just the way God wanted it to be.

Caught a bit of I'm a Celebrity.... before. David Dickinson's got bigger tits that Jilly Goulden. Fact.

When you Wish upon a Star

Wahey. That didn't take long did it? Subtle hint dropped to Dearest ("I want a lava lamp"), followed by Dearest calling me infantile. Later, in the pub, she attempts to ridicule my lava-ish longings in front of her girly mates. This results in one of the mates saying they have a lamp they have no further need for - having grown up presumably. Well, in my book growing old is mandatory but growing up is optional. I snapped her hand off.

The colour's faded in the liquid but I'm sure I can sort that in the near future, although it looks ok as it is. In the meantime it's warming me cockles up in my refuge from the road. Dearest's just saved herself £50 an' all. I mean, I didn't want a cheapo.

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My initial love affair with the Arrow digital radio station is beginning to fade. Why? Well, I'll tell yer.

Repeats that's what. Repeats.

I've been listening fairly regulrly for a week and I'm starting to tire of Brown Eyed Girl by Van I'm-a-fucking-intellectual-therefore-constantly-fucking-grumpy Morrison, Eric the-victim Clapton and CS friggin' N. Now don't get me wrong, I am not condemning this triumvirate's entire ouvre as shite - far from it. What is so depressing though is that Rock stations, like any other I guess, fall back on predictable playlisting in order to give the greatest happiness to the greatest number. So with Van - it's always ol' Brown Eyes, with Clappo: Layla and CSN: Ohio or Suite:Judy Blue Eyes. C'mon for fuck's sake, their respective catalogues hold so many many more treasures. Be brave. The audience you're attracting must be well capable of handling a little something off the beaten track.

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Every month a copy of Word falls through my letterbox and a mighty fine read it is too. On their website they have a feature where readers set their iPods, iRivers, or whatever MP3 devices they have to hand, and set them to shuffle. They then have to post the first five tracks that are played.

Obviously it doesn't have to be portable devices, it can be whatever turns up on iTunes, Musicmatch, Winamp or owt else that can be set to random, shuffle or whatever. So, here's mine. How about you?

Road to Hell - Chris Rea. Unfashionable I know but, there you go, we all have guilty pleasures.

Eye to Eye - Audience. Obscure band from the early seventies. Probably the weakest track from their excellent album "The House on the Hill".

Lakes of Ponchartrain - Paul Brady. A favourite from my folk club days. I have been known to perform it, but I have to hold my hands up and confess others did it better.

Va Va Voom - Va Va Voom. This is off a jazzy compilation album. Didn't know I had it and have made a mental note to delete it as it's taking up valuable space.

Woman - John Lennon. You know, of all the Lennon tracks on my iPod, tracks with street cred and artistry, I have to end up with this maudlin affair. C'est la vie.

Over to you and no cheating.

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Is anybody having problems with pop-ups when accessing this blog?

I was looking at the Big Sky

Kate Bush. What a gorgeous new album. Especially the second disk. Idiosyncratic as ever (birdsong imitations anyone?), but a real grower.

There's a Sharp factory near us. Attached to it is a factory shop where they sell discontinued stuff and stuff with dodgy packaging at very cheap prices. About 18 months ago Eldest bought himself a DAB radio for £120. We all agreed it was a good price as up to that point they were usually about two hundred quid. Then last Christmas Dearest and I spot the same model in the Sharp shop for £70. Bargain - we snapped it up. A few weeks ago, my mother and father required a new stereo so the Sharp shop was the place to go. What do I see when I get there? The same radio for £35. I got one for the parents and now they sit there marvelling at the way it says "hello" and "goodbye" when they turn it on and off and lapping up the Saga station.

It did occur to me at the time to buy another one for my room but I figured I had enough distractions in there as it was. However every now and then the idea kept leaping, unbidden, into my mind. So, yesterday, I decide to go and get one and it's a good job I did because I got the last one in the place - result.

It's a good job they stopped sponsoring United or I wouldn't have been able to buy any of it. So now I'm sat typing this and listening to the great rock sounds of The Arrow as recommended by the Fat Buddha

I still need one more distraction for my room however and I've decided on a lava lamp. I'll start dropping hints seeing as it's nearly Jesus' birthday. You know, when we were kids in the mid-sixties we would walk for a couple of miles to see lava lamps in a shop window they were that bizarre for the time.

And when the corner shop got a new bacon-slicer the queue stretched for miles.

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Nowt much happening around here at the mo' as you can tell. Nice to see God's second best friend get defeated over the 90 day detention stuff. The beginning of the end I feel and about time. I must admit I can't get that worked up about politics anymore, I couldn't give a shit who leads the Tory party or what type of underwear they favour. The shenanigans in the Labour party leave me cold whereas at one point in my life I would have been transfixed.

The best thing this week was watching Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Were-Rabbit. It's frighteningly good with some laugh out loud scenes as well as all the usual tit-bits in the background for the observant.

I can't see it playing well in America though.

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I just nipped out to acquire some ale for this evening's probable Sven-inspired bore-a-thon against Argentina. I nearly didn't come back on account of a chav, mobile stuck to ear, rounding a bend on the opposite side of the road.

Skin 'em alive and dip 'em in brine. That'll learn 'em.

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For all of you who attempted to kill music via home taping back in the 70s, 80s and 90s, see if you can find your favourite brand here.

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Dearest has just arrived home from an all-dayer at Cheshire Oaks - it's 3:45pm. She went there at 9:00am to buy a dress. She didn't get one. The place is massive and chock-full of every dress shop you could possibly imagine. Six hours and she couldn't find a dress. Six hours and all she has bought are two pairs of pyjamas (Xmas presents for some apparently pyjama-less acquaintencies or family members).

Christ I'm glad I'm a bloke.

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**UPDATE** Well that was not a bore-a-thon but a cracking game of football played in the right spirit and ending with the right result.

Crying

There they were in their finery. Old suits and blazers bedecked with campaign medals from here, there and everywhere. Berets. Badges. Grey hair, grey skin, wrinkles, aches, pains, pins and poppies.

They called me "young sir" like some surreal, aged Fast Show protagonists. One of them - tall as a tree - bent and personally attached the poppy to my lapel. They thanked me profusely for my meagre offering. They thanked everyone, no matter how small the donation.

I couldn't help think of my Grandad who, in his later years, was helped by the British Legion and the Dunkirk Veteran's Association. The next thing I've got big bobbers brimming and I fear I'm going to urst into tears. I walk off into the horror that is a shopping centre awaiting the arrival of Father fuckin' Christmas and contemplate what I may have been walking into, but for an accident of birth, all those years ago.

Thank you for your sacrifices on our behalf.

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It's funny y'know, but on my side of the family I can't remember anybody living past eighty. In a lot of cases the poor buggers never made it to seventy and in some cases sixty was a far off dream. Take my dad for example. Seventy six and practically housebound. Bladder problems. Mini strokes and prostate problems. Would he want to live untill eighty in his present condition? No of course he wouldn't. Trouble is he dreams of "getting right again". He thinks he'll be tripping the light fantastic again sometime soon. He just needs a little "tweak" to the old waterworks and all will be fine.

Today at the poppy stall, octogenarians ruled the roost. Straight-backed and healthy in their own way, they accomplished tasks my Dad has been incapable of for two or three years now. It's a lottery health. Sure I know there are lifestyle choices you can adopt that prolong vitality but, by the same token, you can drink 'n' smoke 'n' romp 'n' cuss and live to a ripe old age.

It's a lottery I tell yer - a lottery.

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Thursday night saw myself, Eldest and Youngest down at my Mam and Dad's moving furniture out of their bedroom in readiness for the decorator who was arriving "first thing Friday morning". The temprature must've been 110 and lifting heavy weights was a damp experience, believe me.

Two TVs they've got in their bedroom: two.

"Why have you got two teles in your bedroom?" We enquired. We were told that one had a good picture and the other had a good sound. My Mam was quite happy to ditch one, but not my Dad.

I reckon he can't bear to part with anything from his past.

It's not a recent phenomonon though. Shifting stuff from one room to another revealed much useless detrius. From ancient reel-to-reel tape recorders (with no tapes) to stacks of LPs with no record player.

We emptied drawers in an effort to make the job easier. In the bottom of one set we discovered newspaper lining - it's one of those things that folk used to do, line drawers with newspaper.

"They look old", I thought.

Further investigation revealed broadsheet copies of the Manchester Evening News from 1967! Nineteen! Sixty! Seven! I was thirteen the last time they changed the lining in those drawers. They've moved twice since then. However, as my Mother said: "well, they didn't need changing".

There was a story about Manchester's proposed "Skyway" in one of the papers. That Skyway became the Mancunian Way, a monstrous, concrete, ribbon of crap that scars the Mancunian landscape on a par with the Luftwaffe's attempts a couple of decades earlier.

Manchester City had just embarked on a season that would eventually yeild the First Division Championship (for all post-Murdoch football fans, that's the same as the Premiership), so you can tell it was a long, long time ago.

Anyway, after a few hours, we had the bedroom emptied and ready.

Did the decorator turn up though?

Did he bollocks.

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Sat here now, typing this with what sound like bombs going off right, left and centre. The dog's going wild and City lost today.

Time to shorten my life with an alcoholic lifestyle choice I feel.