Hocus Pocus....

Well hello. Long time no see and all that. The excitement over the arrival of Littlest combined with a particularly nasty chest infection have kept me from this blog this past month. I'll take this opportunity to say I hope you had a great Christmas and all the best for the New Year.


Apart from the remnants of the aforementioned illness, I had a fabulous Christmas. Ten family members round the table with the newest family member slumbering in his own special chair. The ice and snow outside added to the Xmas atmos as ale was quaffed, wine sipped and food digested. We wearliy stumbled to bed in the early hours and slept like the righteous.


Boxing day and up to clear the previous day's detrius. Took my Mam back to her flat, had lunch and then off to the local to watch the richest club in the world present it's new manager who, in turn, presented us with a clean sheet and a victory against a robust Stoke City. A further two league wins since has seen us edge into the 'top four'. Heady days indeed.


New Year's Eve saw us at the local Italian for a meal and, later, a disco and fireworks. The restaurant overlooks a lake and we all gathered on the upstairs terrace to watch other displays across the Mancunian skyline. When these had finished ours began. When the display was over we were astonished to see the sky absolutely full of Chinese lanterns serenely floating in the crisp and clear night sky.


Soon after the New Year came.....the SNOW!!!! Tons of the stuff. I had to book a couple of 'snow days' as it was impossible to drive and the public transport was predictably unable to cope. Cars were abandoned in the road near where we live blocking access.


And still it fell.


I took a walk round the neighborhood, camera in hand, with Eldest and his mate before taking Dearest for a pub lunch whilst Eldest, Mrs Eldest and a gang of kids in their cul-de-sac built a snowman so big he was featured on the BBC regional news and the Manchester Evening News.


And still it fell.


We liberated some old plastic sledges from the shed and went sledging on a nearby hill. That brought back some memories I can tell you. A great couple of hours before heading back to the snugness of home.


The day after I did some shopping for my Mam and generally chilled at home. By Thursday the roads were ok to drive on with care although the side streets were a bit hairy - especially with erratically parked cars on either side. As I write this a week later the snow is still covering the pavements and quite a lot of the less well-used roads and it's just started snowing again.


One of the consequencies of all this white stuff is that Mrs Youngest can't get out and about with Littlest - prams and buggies are not designed for snow and she's not allowed to drive for another couple of weeks. In order to give them a break Dearest and I had Littlest overnight on Saturday. They went for a meal and were in bed fast asleep by 10:30pm. Heh heh! Two more erstwhile 24 hour party people embrace the shock of parenting and understand the presciousness of sleep.


We lay Littlest down on his changing mat and removed his nappy so he could kick his legs about - he loved it. After a while I went and got my acoustic and strummed a rich G chord. His eyes went wide and his limbs stiffened before he started pumping his legs and arms. He loves music that's for sure. I'll buy him a ukelele as soon as he can hold one.

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Well, it's been a week since I wrote that last sentence and the snow has finally gone although the forecast is for more mid-week. Mind you the same body forecast a mild winter and a barbecue summer not so long ago, so why should we trust them to get this right? If it does come I'll guarantee that the country will grind to a halt again - especially now we have almost run out of grit.


It was back to normal at the World's richest football club also as we succoumbed to an energetic and skillfull Everton. Robinho came on as a substitute for the injured again Santa Cruz and was himself substituted. The sulky beggar did his usual trick of marching straight down the tunnel. It'll be interesting to see how Mancini deals with him over the coming weeks. Personnally I'd stick him in the reserves.

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And another week has passed since the last paragraph. I really must post this as otherwise it will languish on my hard disk and be forgotten.


I though City looked unconvincing against United in the first leg of the League Cup Semi Final on Tuesday night. Notwithstanding the result we played far too deep and if we recreate that on Wednesday at Old Trafford we'll not be going to Wembley. The teams that have done the best there have been those that get stuck into them, those that attack. We can't afford to sit back and try and soak up their pressure - that way lies defeat.


We did manage to avoid a potential banana skin at Scunthorpe yesterday and we did it with quite a few Acadaemy products in the team. A fact that somehow passes by commentators who just peddle the 'World's Richest Club' soubriquet time and time again. These are the same commentators who excuse Arsenal's loss at Stoke with the argument that Wenger played kids because of the injury list he is dealing with at present.


The 'World's Richest Club' sported Cunningham, Boyata, Ireland, Ibrahim and Onuaha - all products of our academy - not a mention on the TV, just a constant reference to the 'Richest Club in the World' over and over again.


It's now Friday 29th January and five days since the last paragraph. City's Wembley dreams are over for now. A great game at Old Trafford ended in defeat over the two legs 4-3. I was disappointed but encouraged. The times they are a-changin'.

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Since the last paragraph I have actually been to the cinema for the first time in 29 years. Avatar in 3d. What a spectacle! Absolutely superb three dimensional effacts with, sadly, two dimensional characterisation and one dimensional dialogue. I'd recommend it though, the 3D effects are stunning. I could never get the 3D effect with the old style red and green glasses on account of my defective eyesight and I must admit that as I trolled along with Mr and Mrs Eldest to the local mega movie house, I did think I may be wasting my time. But times have changed and instead of a pair of white cardborad, red and green lensed bits of crap, we received prpoer plastic 'men in black' jobbies. It rocked. It's amazing. Go and see it in 3D.....even better go and see it in 3D at an IMAX!


And since the last paragraph a gutsy and up for it Hull City have just taught Roberto Mancicni what his teams can expect on cold February afternoons in the north of England. Well done Hull you deserved it.


I'm finding it difficult lately to acquire the inspiration to post anything on here. Ideas flit through my brain but rarely make it to the screen. Is it time to shut the blinds and say 'the rest is silence'? Maybe. Maybe not, we'll see. In the meantime I may just use it as a photoblog until inspiration returns (if it does). Listen to Mumford and Sons....


I'll still be reading yours and commenting every now and then though. Here's some snaps


Littlest and Dearest


Beer in the local.


Mr Potter Takes a Tumble

Tea for Two on my Patio Before it Really Started Snowing


View Towards Central Manchester


The Giant Snowman! He Lives!!


The View from my Desk


Snow in the Playground


Post


Snow Tree


That's my Car


I 'Heart' Snow


Brake Lights in the Snow

......Operating, Generating New life, New life......

Can I just say...I'M A GRANDAD!!!!!!!!!!!!

Welcome to the world Littlest!



Proud!

Trans.....

I got a call out of the blue the other week. Well, not out of the blue as such, more out of Stalybridge. It was my old band partner who, for the purposes of this blog, we shall dub 'Riff'. He was down my neck of the woods to do a live interview and play a few of his songs on a local radio station and suggested meeting up after it to catch up on the five years or so since we'd last made music together.

Geography and apathy were the reasons we drifted apart. There was no animosity. That's not to say there was a lack of 'musical differences' towards the end, but it was still amicable.

The last band we were in was a five piece predominately blues combo with acoustic leanings. We had a female vocalist, a bass player, harmonica, guitars, mandolin and a good mix of harmony vocals. Later a drummer appeared but by then the boredom had set in. Apart from anything else I was living miles away from the rest of them so every practice session ended up a very late night for me. On top of that the practicing was only being actually practiced by a dedicated few: other members made the same mistakes week after week. It was infuriating even though they usually got their act together for actual gigs. Worrying about bum notes from other members of the band while fretting about your own makes for a volatile mix though - guaranteed to churn the stomach.

On top of this I was curator of the most of the equipment which meant that I had to arrive at the venue and start putting the gear up and then pulling it down at the end. I was fed up with the whole enterprise and wanted to twiddle around in my little home studio.

And that's just what I did - much more enjoyable. Anyway I digress.

I listened in as Riff was probed by a local presenter and sang three of his self-penned numbers. Later, over a couple of drinks we reminisced about old times and told each other who'd died/had a stroke/divorced/gone to prison. It were grand!

Riff's in the process of recording his new CD and wants me play mandolin on four tracks. He's sent me the basic demos - just him and his acoustic so now it's down to me to come up with some arrangements. Three of them are fairly simple but one of them is run-laden master class in guitar playing that cries out for the mandolin to follow. I could get away with vamping chords in the background but my musical soul tells me that I would be doing the song a disservice.

There's some intense mandolin practice on the horizon that's for sure.

Riff is also a member of a loose coalition of musicians who call themselves the Acoustic Collective. It's an ad hoc, no strings coming together to play and sing for the hell of it. They do occasional gigs and festivals and he's asked me to pop along one night to check it out...........tempted. Very tempted.

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For the first time in my Personal Communications Device mobile phone toting history I have finally acquired a brand new one. From scratch as it were. No more accepting hand me downs from my kids as technological advances lure them on to the next new thing, I've bitten the bullet. To be fair this wasn't just a whim - the phone I had (a very nice but battered HTC with pull-out keyboard , wi-fi and unlimited Internet) was great untill it started playing up: freezing, turning itself off and phoning people in the middle of the night!!! The decision was made.

I decided I was staying with O2 as I also had a dirt cheap fast broadband deal with them. So it was an 8Gb iPhone 3G.

I love it.

Apart from anything else it's a sublimely designed thing of beauty - as most Apple products are. It doubles as an iPod. I have downloaded an app to make it a DAB radio. I've downloaded an app to remind me of all the mandolin chord shapes I've forgotten. I access my email on it. Surf the net, watch YouTube videos, message, use it as a torch, play the piano, record and playback stuff....you can even phone people up on it if you wish.

In fact the only thing on it that lets it down is the camera. A measly 2 megapixel jobby that performs reasonably well during the day but is woefully lacking in low light. It looks like it has a variable ISO thingy to attempt to compensate for slower shutter speeds, but all this seems to do is add a lot of (visual) noise to the images. When I get my replacement in two years time I expect the camera to be at least as good as the one I had on my Sony Ericsson last year. Still....mustn't grumble....... Did I tell you I love it?

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One of the apps you can get for the iPhone is Spotify, but at £9.99 a month I'll give it a miss. Even so it's odd that Apple have allowed this undermining of its own iTunes with a piece of software that allows you to listen to stuff in its entireity as well as now offering the option to purchase tracks. I guess Steve Jobs knows what he's doing so who am I to question.

But speaking of Spotify, once again I am indebted to this swell little Swedish service as it has allowed me preview another album before nipping along to iTunes to get it. Pugwash's amalgamation of past glories into a new album entitled 'Giddy' is a gem to match (if not surpass) The Duckworth-Lewis Method's homage to the Gentlemens' game earlier in the summer. Superbly crafted pop songs crisply played and produced and sung with a true pop voice by Thomas Walsh - driving force behind both bands.

I have started creating playlists for my own listening pleasure. I am half way through creating lists from my musically formative years - '65, '66, '67, '68, '69, '70, '71 and '72. A rummage around on Google soon throws up lists of stuff from the years mentioned that you can then find on Spotify and add to the lists. It's a nostalgia-fest that constantly reveals forgotten gems.

A great example of this was redsicovering 'Birth' by the Peddlers from 1969. I had completely erased this from my memory banks. I'm conviced I've never heard it since on radio or TV. It had just gone. But in 1969 I loved it, it was so out-of-odds with everything else that was happening musically. Three jazzers with the classic jazz line up of piano, bass and drums and the pianist singing in a strange half-strangled manner, took this into the top ten before promptly disappearing. And there it was on Spotify, waiting for me to find it again after all these years.

Pics as we wait..........


Nice bound.


Early morning on my way to work. iPhone


Fog!

That's all folks!

Ram On....

OK not much to say at the moment as very, very exciting things are occurring so, just to prove I'm still here, here's some pics. See you soon........


Shannon enjoys herself on Allonby Beach, Cumbria.


Eldest's Dearest, Dearest and the shit machine.


Sunset in Silloth, Cumbria


Another sunset in Silloth, Cumbria


Allonby Beach, Cumbria


Allonby Beach, Cumbria


Maryport, Cumbria


Apples through the window. Cowan Butts Barn, Cumbria


Eden Valley, Cumbria


Cumbria, autumn evening


Private property, city centre, Manchester


Albert Square, Manchester


Albert Square, Manchester


Autumn leaves, St Ann's Square, Manchester


Off Cross Street, Manchester


Friend's Meeting House, Manchester


Victoria Station, Manchester


The Manchester Wheel

That's all folks.....

Mondays Thursdays are for drinking with the seldom seen kid

It all started on a Thursday night when Dearest and I attended a solo acoustic concert by Steve Earle. Alt dot country or what? With an hour to spare before kickoff we found ourselves in the Briton’s Protection pub. The Jennings was inspiring. Dearest stuck to vodka and diet coke. As I waited at the bar a familiar figure approached. “I know him” I thought. A few minutes later I had placed him. It was Guy Garvey of Mercury prizewinning Elbow fame. I shook him by the hand and thanked him for the music (sorry!)

Now I love Elbow and I think all the albums they have produced have been superb. What I wouldn’t have expected though is just how humble and pleased Mr Garvey was. We chatted for about 5 minutes as we waited at the bar – he was on Guinness with a single malt chaser – and, as I left, he shook me warmly by the hand and thanked me for the kind words. They were just that: kind words, not the witty, incisive and intelligent words that pour out of him like water from a running tap. They’re in the studio this week recording the follow up to Seldom Seen Kid.

As we were near the Bridgewater Hall he asked If I was off to see Mr Earle and we had a chat about him. “It’s a solo acoustic tour “ I said. “It may well be” he replied, “but he’s still got the mother of all tour buses parked up ‘round the back. “

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Steve Earle was pretty impressive – a few too many Townes Van Sandt numbers for my liking, but he was promoting his album of Townes’ songs so I guess that’s what should be expected. I never quite got Van Sandt. All his songs sound pretty samey too me and, given the musical similarity, I don’t hear much profundity in the lyrics. Could just be me though. The Bridgewater hall isn’t the greatest place for a rock gig I’ve been told but it was pretty good for one man and a guitar or mandolin and a great appetizer for our flight to Skiathos the day after.

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After enjoying the delights of the VIP lounge at Manchester airport – free drinks, snacks and wifi – we spent as cramped three and a half hours on one of Monarch airways delightful Boeing 757s Once on board we were informed there were a few seats with extra legroom for an additional charge of £25. Nobody took up the offer. Ten minutes later the same same steward announced she was sorry but she’d got the price wrong, it should’ve been £15. At least she had the decency to blush when the entire aircraft burst into sarcastic laughter. “Give it ten minutes and it’ll be a fiver” some wag shouted. It didn’t become a fiver, but still nobody took up the offer.

As we waited for our baggage at Skiathos’s miniscule airport it started to rain. It carried on raining for the next two days. And I’m not talking airy fairy showers here: I’m talking incessant and by-the-bucketload. The entrance to our apartments was via a small track – after day one it was via a plank over a fast-moving rivulet. Still at least myself and Dearest are nimble enough and in command of our faculties enough to take on such a challenge: we were told that the week before that the rivulet was that deep and forceful one couple had had to arrange alternate accommodation until the raging torrent had subsided.

Sunday and Monday were fine and gloriously sunny. Monday evening we dined beneath the stars and marvelled at the flashes that lit up the night sky. By midnight we were experiencing a fabulous thunderstorm. Lightning flashes and claps of thunder to quicken to pulse and to momentarily imprint the surrounding woods onto the retinas. It was fabulous. A one-off. Something to be experienced properly. There was only one thing for it. We stripped off and stood wild and naked as the warm rain flooded over us. It was elemental. It was strange . That deeply ingrained Victorian Englishness we all carry told us it was naughty and Chatterleyish, but just to stand on that drenched grass and feel the water run down our bodies and important little places was wonderful. If you ever get the chance don’t pass up on it, grab it while you can . Live a little - you won’t regret it.

Even watching Dolphins in the wild a few days later paled into insignificance compared with the nakedness, but even so, dolphins in the wild are not to be sniffed at. They have this ability to cheer everybody up, I don’t know what it is but, once again there is a connection between the human and the natural world. You look at those dolphins and think “look at them surviving without the need for technology, clothing, transport........”

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Sunday saw us watching Manchester United v Manchester City in a local outdoor bar with me and Dearest (City), a random bloke from our site (he’s not from Manchester – United), another random bloke not from our site (also not from Manchester – United) and a token Evertonian (from Liverpool).

I’ve got over my initial disgust at the amount added time given – I do think that, overall, the best team won – just. Even so it left a nasty taste and soured what was one of the great Manchester derbies. City should’ve done what I was always told when I played: play to the whistle!

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And so back to work tomorrow.............


Old friends.


Off Skiathos Town


It's a hard life #6


It's a hard life #5


Chairs


Patatiri, Alonissis


Scopelos


What is this life if full of care, We have no time to stand sit and stare?


Plane spotting Skiathos Town.


Duck!


This fella looked happy enough with his view!


Skiathos Town


Night ferry, Skiathos Town.


Back home to Autumn.

This Sporting Life.....

So, there we are on the platform at Nice waiting for a train. We (Eldest, Youngest a mate and me) are off to Monaco to the European Super Cup between Shaktar Donesk and Barcelona. The previous evening's excesses are beginning to fade and the sun is shining. As the train pulls in the crowd starts to mill towards the doors creating a bit of a crush. The doors slide open and we all start to clamber aboard. Once all four of us had got on we stood in the crowded carriage and started to chat. At that point some French guy heads towards the door of the train he's just got on, pushing through exclaiming "excuse moi, je suis désolé".. He pushes the door back just before it fully closes and gets off. We look at each other, shrug our shoulders and the train sets off.

Then a bizarre event occurs. All of a sudden a French man stood a few feet away shouts my name out. Forename, middle name and surname. I was stood there dumbstruck. How the hell did this foreign stranger know my full name? Why was he shouting? What had I done?

I indicated that the name he had bellowed was mine and he handed me my passport which he had picked up off the floor. My passport had been in a zipped up pocket in my shorts so how on earth had it ended up on the deck? Seconds later an American guy in the same carriage shouts out that his passport has gone then his wife yelps that hers has too.

The Americans got off at the next stop while we breathed sighs of relief. Apart from anything else we needed my passport to pick up the tickets that awaited us at the stade Louis II and we weren't the only ones. Practically everybody attending the game had to pick up tickets and provide some form of ID. Rich pickings for passport pick pockets on overcrowded trains.

The rest of the day was spent constantly checking our pockets.

Once we had the tickets we relaxed a little and settled outside a small restaurant where we ordered quatre bières. Then the truly bad news: "Je regrette pas d'alcool."

Merde!

It turns out that the authorities had imposed a blanket on sales of alcohol throughout the vicinity. Nous avons été dévastés!! But then the proprieter glanced around for lurking gendarmes before tapping his nose and disappearing into his premises. He soon reappears and places four empty non-alcoholic beer bottles on our table and goes back inside. A few minutes later he comes out with four half litres of lager. Result, well....apart from the price: 8 euros for a beer.

Later we took in the entertainment in the various bays of Monaco before finding another establishment prepared to flaunt the rules. Some food and a few more beers later we headed off to the match.

It was strange being fenced in. Just like the 70s and 80s. It was strange seeing the flares being set off with no sanction. It was a crap match, played on a crap pitch with just the one goal - which we missed because the game had gone to extra time and we had a train to catch.

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Saturday we flew back home and on Sunday we set off for Old Trafford and Engalnd v Australia Twenty20. We all met up at Sinclairs Oyster Bar in the centre of Manchester and got a taxi to the ground.

It's no wonder Old Trafford has lost it's Test venue status, they couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery. 40 minutes to queue for the bar. The same number of Gents toilets as Ladies and seats that would be hard pressed to fit a\ toddler on nevermind a broader backside. I'm told that when they host concerts the facilities are not what they could be. Lancashire Cricket Club need to pull their finger out if they want to attract top events and Test match cricket.

Whereas in years gone by you could pretty much turn up at any gate and amble round the ground to your seat, this time we were told we could only get in via the gate printed on the ticket as the barcodes could only be read from the correct device. It sounded and still sounds like bullshit to me but we had to walk a hell of a way around the surrounding office blocks and car parks to a gate on exactly the opposite side of the ground from where we were.

After Austarlia's healthy innings England were soon 4 for 2 after one and a bit overs. Then the heavens opened and the match was abandoned. Two days later the next meeting was abandoned too - without a ball being bowled as the much heralded new drainage system failed to deal with the Mancunian climate.

Not an experience I'll be repeating in the near future that's for certain.

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The next day was better. A memorial Twenty20 game at my local cricket club in honour of a stalwart who had died at the tragically young age of 51.

The local Manchester City Supporter's Club provided a team to play a team of members and waifs and strays from the pub with all proceeds going to charity.

Stumps at 2:00pm, the coin toss and the members, waifs and strays decide to bat. 77 all out. It was an easy target that the City team soon got to with a couple of wickets in hand. It was just as well as the rain set in soon after the end so it was under the awnings and gazebos for potato pie, chilli and and lots of other good stuff.

It was a lovely way to spend a bank holiday and, after the presentation of the trophy we sank a few beers and watched the rain soak the wicket through the open doors of the clubhouse.

Beat that Old Trafford.

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I'm getting a bit fed up with this never-ending barbecue summer aren't you. I can hardly see, what with the sweat flowing freely down my brow. Shirt stuck to my back. Constant glare from a searing sun and the all-pervading aroma of UV protection liberally applied.

We are told that weather forecasting is not an exact science but in this summer's case it's not even been a not-quite-an-exact-science it's been a completely and utterly inexact science. I fail to see how a prediction can be so buttock-clenchingly embarrassingly wrong. I mean it's one thing to forecast dry, sunny weather and have a few clouds spoiling the day but we've had weeks of the heavy, scudding type emptying their payloads on us as we attempt to light the barby. Last weekend when we were in Nice, the BBC website alerted us to the fact that for the duration of our stay it would be raining. In fact they promised us 'heavy showers' Thursday and Friday with a brief return of sunshine on Saturday.

There wasn't a cloud in the sky all the time we were there. 30+ degrees every day. I've come back with a tan that would have David Dickinson green with envy. How is it possible to get this so monumentally wrong?

You don't need a weather man to know which way the wind blows.........

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Dearest and I fly to Skiathos on Friday - a Greek island I've never been to. In fact it's a Greek island I've never given much thought too until Dearest suddenly decided it was the place to be. I thought nothing of it until I was asked by a colleage which island we were going to. "Ah Skiathos" she replied, "that's where they filmed Mamma Mia." So, mystery solved, we're taking a chance on Skiathos. Two weeks of slobbery in the sun with a pile of books and an iPod full of tunes.

Apart from the more recent novels I have also deceded to re-read Cold Comfort Farm and I felt it was time I read some 'classics' that everyone has heard of but I've never read. So for this trip it will be Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K Jerome.

Has anyone got any other suggestions? Classics I mean. Nothing too heavy, Ulysses certainly won't be in my kit bag and my days with Dostoyevsky are definitely over. So, feel free.........


Monaco


Monaco


Nice


Twenty20


Twenty20


Twenty20