I Can't Tell the Bottom from the Top.....

When I first started this blog back in 2003 (sheesh....), within a matter of days Tony Blair and Dubya unleashed shock and awe on the inhabitants of Iraq.  Now I've just started re-blogging and the latest New Labour acolyte Cameron is on the verge of sending the in jets to 'protect'  the opponents of Ghaffadi.  Now, I'm not an advocate of doing bog all, he's a twat; but he's always been a twat and, furthermore, a twat that we've had no problems cosying up to when it suited.  We've sold him arms and turned a blind eye to the abuses he inflicted on his people.  Sure he was branded a fully fledged member of the 'axis of evil' post 9/11 but he always held that lucrative trump card: oil.  Just like Saddam in the days before he became too unruly for even the neo-cons on Capital Hill.

So the waiting game has been played.  Like the other Arab states Tunisia and Egypt, it was assumed by the current Government that the opposition would take control after a brief and relatively bloodless struggle.  William Hague the all-seeing and all-knowing confidently regurgitated a rumour that the Colonel was on a plane to Venezuela, giving ill-informed and ill-conceived journalistic speculation a leg up the credibility ladder.  Mind you he was probably too over-eager to smear Chavez to check the veracity of his sources.

And then we find that 'Diplomats and members of the SAS' have been detained by Rebel forces after entering the country illegally armed with numerous fake IDs and passports.  Buffoonery of the highest order if you ask me.  So now the waiting game has proved pointless and the moment that Ghaffadi mobilised his goons and started to look like he'd still be here at Christmas it became apparent that some form of intervention would be inevitable. 

I've heard people saying they are weary of the situation in Japan being constantly broadcast on our channels.  It's too depressing now, we've had enough.  Misery overload and all that.  Let us just donate some cash and switch over.  The images are too distressing - even on the sanitised stations of the Western media empires.

There are also heart-breaking and heart-warming examples of the basic resilience and common humanity that the vast majority of ordinary folk on this planet have deep, deep reservoirs of.

But, yes, all the bad news certainly makes it difficult to be one's usual cheery self.

The nearest ATMs to our house are at a monolithic Tesco Extra.  Three of 'em all next to each other at the entrance to the store.  The other evening, on my way home from work I parked up and ambled over.  There were queues at all three.  I took my place and for once I felt quite happy waiting my turn with the other ten or so needers of cash.

The next thing a lady in her later years joined the queue next to mine humming and half remembering the words to 'Que Sera Sera' - the fatalistic Doris Day hit from way back when.  She (the lady not Doris Day) carried on until she came to the 'Here's What She Said to me....' lead in to the chorus.

I joined in.  'Que Sera Sera...Whatever will be wil be...the future's not ours to see.......'  God knows why.  I don't normally do that sort of thing.  But y'know what?  Pretty much everyone else joined in too!  How good is that?  Three queues of us singing Que Sera Sera smiling, unprompted and probably quietly gleeful.  I know I was.  I thought it was absolutely wonderful, a moment to be savoured.

It didn't take long for the magic to move on after the chorus when words were harder to remember and the 'ooops what ARE we doing' embarrassed Englishness reasserted itself and the grim reality of the World around us kicked Doris into the long grass.

Serendipity that's what it was.  Serendipity, my favourite word.

A memory asserted itself unbidden the other day as I gazed over the sprawling North Cheshire plain, chewing a flaccid baguette containing long wilted lettuce and the meat of something mammalian yet unfamiliar.  Turkey?  Beef?  Ham?  Who knows?  Anyway, for some reason, my brain has a habit of retaining information about when I've looked a bit of a prick in glorious Technicolour whereas my triumphs are rendered in scratchy super-8.

As I folded the rest of my lunch back into the bag it came in and stuck it in the bin I remembered sorting out a PC problem for a very girly girly-girl who used to be a secretary at my previous place of work.  I've always thought of it as a technicolour moment but, looking back who knows?

Everything about her was girly pink.  Nails, bag, shoes.  She LOVED pink.  Her hair was always immaculate.  She was pristine.

She was pleasant enough but came across as a bit of a Celeb-obsessed, Heat-magazine reading one dimensional creature who would phone in sick if she broke a nail.

She was going for lunch when I arrived to fix her PC but, against all procedures gave me her userid and password in case I needed to log on as her to check whether the fix worked.  Her password was 'Mimsy'.

"Aaah" said I, completely re-assessing my erstwhile lowly opinion of her cultural world, "Beware The Jabberwock my son, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch........."  She looked bemused and, frankly, a little pitying.  "The Jabberwock," I said "y'know from the Lewis Carroll poem Jabberwocky?"

"I've never heard of it," she said.

"But......your password.....

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

All 'MIMSY' were the borogroves....Mimsy.  That's your password.  I've never heard the word anywhere else so where would you get it from if not Jabberwocky?"

"It's my dog's name."

Turns out she had a little, arsey, scrap of dog, a Pomeranian or somesuch that was probably carried everywhere by 'Mummy' in it's bright pink collar with matching coat.

I've been out in the garden today.  Mowing the lawn and generally tidying up.  The Spring sunshine was welcome I can tell you.  Hopefully we'll be getting a bit more sun next week as me,  Dearest, Youngest, Mrs Youngest and Littlest nip over to Majorca for 5 days R 'n' R.

I've charged my Kindle, my iPod has been replenished and my camera lenses polished.  I'm looking forward to it and also the Summer to come.

We had the garden's drainage problem sorted last year and really enjoyed using it to the full again.  One evening at about 9-o-clock as a gentle Mancunian rain pattered and brought relief from the humid weather we had been experiencing, I stood on the patio and took this snap.  It reminds me of a perfect moment.  Let's hope the poor buggers at the mercy of events unfolding find some perfect moments of their own again after time has healed.

The Sunday Papers

Here's a cracking spoof review of Man City's game with Aris on Wednesday night.  Well, I say spoof, some wags are sure it's taken from The Daily Mirror verbatim:-

"Manchester City's £1bn squad again failed to impress as goal-shy Edin Dzecko and £200k-per-week flop Yaya Touré scuffed them into the next round.

Despite packing his side with expensive attacking flair, Roberto Mancini watched in dismay as his handsomely-paid charges once again failed to inspire, scoring only three times and never looking likely to concede.

A defensive error and a lucky deflection gave an undeserved gloss to a scoreline that cannot disguise the fact that a side that everybody predicted would take time to gel has, in fact, taken time to gel and is now, surprisingly, beginning to gel.

The absence of Carlos Tevez's name on scoresheet will concern those observers whose tactical analysis extends no further than insisting that City only win when the busy Argentinian gets a goal, while the failure of Mario Balotelli to do anything that could be slowed down and endlessly replayed as evidence of his suspect temperament offers further proof that he is yet to justify his enormous price-tag.

Mancini cut a forlorn figure in the dugout as he contemplated a trip to Kiev in the next round of a tournament that, although regarded as beneath contempt by the punditocracy, his side must now win if he is not to be branded an abject failure and hounded out of office come the end of the season."

Quality.  :)

I Just Died in your Arms Tonight....

A group of us watched a man die a lingering death on Friday evening.  Given the location I guess we kind of knew that it was a very real possibility but even so it's still a shock when it happens.  Right in front you.  Up close.

Looking back I can recall the exact moment he realised he might not get through and began to do all the things you shouldn't do when you're deep in it.  Shallow breaths, talking too fast, imploring those around to help.  All to no avail.  It was shocking.  

Yes the Frog and Bucket on a Friday night can be an unforgiving place.  Lose the audience and you are Royally fecked and, without a doubt Paul F Taylor was Royally fecked on Friday.

Personally I'm of the view that if you lose a comedy club audience on a regular basis then it's time to consider a different career path.  Comedy club audiences are - on the whole - packed to the rafters with people receptive to comedians.  They want to laugh, that's why they are there.  It should be easy to make them titter.  Even if your material could do with an overhaul, your delivery tightened a little, the crowd are on your side.  Your performance may be a little flat, the laughs a little thin but generally you'll get a clap for trying.

It takes a special skill to get an audience to cheer when you say it's time to go, a very special skill indeed.  He waved as he went.  Or was he drowning?

I've been re-reading Stuart Maconie's excellent 'Pies and Prejudice' recently.  I love his description of his arrival to and investigation of Oldham.  I think he's bang on with his impression of the place - bars, pound shops and very little else; apart from the portable 'field hospital' the Health Authority provides on a Friday and Saturday night to stitch up and placate the local drunks.  It stops them clogging up A&E y'see allowing more serious cases to be dealt with without the ever-present possibility of things turning nasty. 

It's different now though.  You can't get to Oldham by train (I know, incredible isn't it?)  It will eventually become a 'stop' on Manchester's Metrolink tram system by which time it's decline will probably have become irreversible.

I don't often go to Oldham, there's no need.  It has absolutely nothing to offer that can't be found elsewhere.  It used to have a famous market - Tommyfield.  Coach trips used to head to it from as far as Leeds and Bradford.  It's a car park now and, thanks to the Council, the 21st century market consists of a dozen or so portable stalls scattered along the side of a couple of windswept streets.  It has no cinema, no unique shopping, no fabulous eateries.  Nothing.  The only distinctive thing in Oldham is the Coliseum.  But how often do I go to the theatre? 

Dearest works in the centre of Oldham and, it being one of her working Saturdays I got a bus up to meet her for lunch.  We went to the Three Crowns for a helping of their home made meat and potato pie with red cabbage and I have to say it was excellent.  Thick chunks of steak with lovely spuds and gravy all topped off with a thick pastry crust.  It set me up for my trundle round the town.  I was going to try to see it from a tourist's perspective so  I discarded my cynic's specs and donned an eyes-wide-open pair.  First stop:  the Georgian heart of Oldham, Church Lane.

Church Lane Oldham

It's a lovely little lane Church Lane.  It runs all of 100 yards from the Army recruitment centre (I guess Kandahar does have some things Oldham doesn't) to the parish church.  It consists mainly of Georgian terraces enhanced by the period street lamps that some heritage-fixated councillor insisted on back in the day.

A dour Saturday afternoon was perhaps not the best time to be examining it anew for I have seen this place back-lit by an autumn sun and been thrilled at the view.  It has character and it's a pity it's out of the way of the town centre itself.  It seems forgotten somehow.  A fading memory of times past.

Lancashire House, Church Lane Oldham

The lane itself is predominately occupied by the legal profession who, to be honest, must do very well off the local clientele. There's a church run cafe that, so I've heard, produces some fabulous dishes that don't hit the pocket.  Their cooked breakfasts  are 'to die for' apparently.

Most of the buildings are listed and the council  has made it a conservation area which is great but it's only a 100 yard conservation area.  Well, maybe a bit more.

At the top of the lane is Oldham's Gothic parish church.  The current building was erected in 1830 although there have been churches on this spot since 1280.  It was designed by a Manchester-based architect Richard Lane who employed Alfred Waterhouse as an apprentice.  Alfred would go on to design Manchester Town Hall, the Natural History museum in that there London and a whole host of Gothicry all over the place. 

At the top of the lane we turn right onto a flagged walkway which takes us past the west side of the church down to the cenotaph by the Greaves Arms and opposite the original town hall.  It was on these very steps that the new MP for Oldham - a certain W Churchill gave his first speech as Oldham's Tory MP.  The town hall is a Grade II listed Georgian neo-classical construction built in 1841

Oldham's original neo-classical town hall

Turning left we leave the town's civic heart and amble down Yorkshire Street.  We could have turned right and ambled up Yorkshire Street to the Spindle's shopping centre but there's only so much a man can handle on his day off.  

This was the street Maconie walked up from the now redundant train station.  It's no wonder his impression of Oldham was bleak.  You could successfully argue that Yorkshire Street is Oldham's premier street.  It's only rival is Union street which runs parallel on the Glodwick side of town.  Apart from the Oldham Coliseum, you won't find any culture hereabouts.  This part of the street resembles the Wild West at weekend.  It's here where the Triage tent is erected every Friday and it's not hard to see why.

 






 





Drink offers.  2 for 1 kebabs and curries.  Poundland, betting shops, Poundworld, clubs for drinking, clubs for lapdancing, Poundstyle (honestly), bars, chain pubs, 'It's all a pound!'  Cash converters, 'Don't ask the price it's a pound', 'We'll sub you 'till payday' finance operations, KFC, MacDonald's, Chinese, Primark, Discount shoe shops and all the other tell-tale signs of a town on the skids.


Where the historically authentic, we-know-our-heritage cobblestones have gone missing (thrown in a riot after closing time perhaps?), the powers that be have replaced them with dollops of tar.  Dollops of tar!  Dollops.  Of.  Tar!  I think that tells you all you need to know Oldham's  aspirations. 





The really sad thing about the place is that it could rebrand itself because it does have a lot to offer.  It lies snuggled at the foot of the Pennines.  Within it's Metropolitan Borough walls it has an absolute gem in Saddleworth.  The Peak National park is 20 minutes away at Dovestones Reservoir and the whole of the bleakly beautiful 'backbone of Britain' is on it's doorstep.  Get a grip Oldham.


I carried on my walk down to the Mumps area of the town - doesn't sound very inviting does it?  Maconie describes it thus:-


"I disemabarked from the Manchester train at Oldham Mumps Station.  Perhaps I'm overly delicate but for me it doesn't bode well when the town's main station shares its name with a uniquely unpleasant childhood glandular disease that wreaks havoc with the testicles"



This is the Mumps area of the town.  Lovely eh?  The street on the right is Yorkshire Street.  On the left is Union Street.  Union Street is a hopeless mish-mash of fast food emporia and taxi firms at one end, with the offices of the Oldham Evening Chronicle at the other.  There used to be a railway bridge at the Mumps end of town that rather like the 'Welcome to Bronte Country' signs near Howarth had painted on it: 'Welcome to Oldham.  Home of the Tubular Bandage'.  It's gone now.  It had to make way for the coming Metrolink.    Here's a lovely time-lapse video of its end.





As I trundled up Union street I was beginning to lose the will to live.  There is honestly nothing about this place that - at present - attracts me.  To use a phrase from the lips of the fictitious Malcolm Tucker, Oldham is an omnishambles.


Union Street has less to offer than Yorkshire Street and yet, come the tram, will be the place most folk see when they emerge from Mumps Station.  A lot needs doing before then most definitely.


There is talk of making this Oldham's 'cultural quarter'.  We'll see.  At present it is still home to the library which has recently moved into a state of the art building that also houses an art gallery and various function rooms. 


The Local Studies Library I know very well.  My dissertation was on the Mule Spinners of Oldham during the turbulent years leading up to the Brooklands Agreement in 1893.  There's many a Saturday afternoon I spent here trawling through uncatalogued minutes and correspondence of the various Trade Union bodies, Cotton Master's stuff, old newspapers and other historical paraphernalia.  It were bliss.  'Appen.


The library itself is also a stark reminder of the aspirations of the Victorian age.  Not everyone I know but can you imagine a public-subscription (with or without the help of Carnegie) library being built in this day and age? 




 


I retired to one of the many pubs doing a desultory trade on a Saturday afternoon and reflected on my experience.


It might be a while before I'm back.


Now, where did I put my cynic's glasses?

Rainy Days and Mondays Always Get Me Down

  Rainy Day Dream Away Still Raining Still Dreaming by WakaJawaka

The track above isn't by WakaJawaka actually - that's just my Zappaesque user name on Soundcloud.  It's James Marshall Hendrix for those interested.

Driving to work the other Monday morning as the familiar Mancunian rain spattered and beaded my windscreen, I longed to be back in my bed.  The tardy heater had still not sputtered it's desultory and frankly tepid whisper of comfort and my arthritic frame was extracting groans and grunts everytime I was forced into moving my arms or legs.  The working day lay before me like a childhood month.

I pulled onto the Mancunian Way as the surly and recalcitrant dawn glimmered behind the Beetham Tower like a.....like a...well, like a surly and recalcritrant teenager to be honest and I was subsumed in a back to work slough of despond. 

'Does it get any worse than this?' I muttered as David Cameron's oleaginous twaddle oozed from the Sony in the dashboard.  I vaguely stabbed a forefinger against the 'source' button and switched to whatever CD was still lurking there since the last time I played music in my car. I'm glad I did.  It was home made affair - from the days before iTunes and the like.  Furthermore, it was a track that, in it's entirity, probably only exists on the master tape and my hard disk/CD. 

Checking out the date stamp on the file later I realised that I created it in 2004.  It's the track above if you're interested.  If I were you I'd be playing it now, not reading this.

It's Jimi Hendrix 1968.  From Electric Ladyland.  It's two tracks from different sides of that album that were obviously one longer track chopped in half.  I loved both of them as a fourteen year old and still do.  'Rainy Day Dream Away' and 'Still Raining Still Dreaming'.

One day back in 2004, I came home from work and was messing about with some sound editing software I had acquired when one of the tracks came on my cd player.  I got the idea then and there to try and put back together what James Marshall had rent asunder.

I don't know about you, but until the remastered version approved by Hendrix's estate, MY version is definitive.

 

I Predict a Riot

 

"So now we know. By September dozens of youth centres, libraries and swimming baths will close. The number of elderly people who qualify for subsidised care in their homes, or free transport, will be slashed. Instead, they will be given the number for a taxi.

"Bin collections will be halved. Many deprived families will have to find their own housing. A council-run advice service will be scrapped. Streets will not be cleaned between midnight and 6am. We will have to pay to park in Manchester on Sunday for the first time. Thousands of jobs will be lost.

"By September, then, the cuts will mean Manchester is a very different place. It is a pattern that will be repeated in other councils across the region in the days to come"

Manchester Evening News 8th Feb 2011

So, there we go.  The high-faluting Dispatch box pronouncments  are finally being translated into gritty reality.  The swingeing, front-loaded cut backs that for so long have been abstract, some-time-in-the-future concepts have ceased shape-shifting and become flesh.  

It's easy isn't it when you're looking at a spreadsheet?  A library here, a leisure centre there.  A few old folk aren't going to miss their transport to the day centre - y'know the day centre where they get to meet up with other human beings as opposed to sitting in their living rooms all day and evening staring at a TV.  And the driver - a familiar face they can trust?  Well, he'll be OK, you're sure he'll find something else when the private sector kicks in and creates the tsunami of jobs you predicted.  In the meantime a driver with a public license is just the sort of volunteer the 'Big Society' needs and anyway it can't cost that much in a taxi can it?  Especially not 'up North' where everything's so much cheaper.  Not that it matters anyway, the day centre'll be shut within a couple of months.

2,000 jobs.

It's a good job you can blame it all on the previous administration isn't it?  Otherwise you would just look like idealogically driven shiny faced arseholes wouldn't you?  What you need to do now is keep up the bombardment of catchphrases and snappy one-liners designed to make everything appear an abolutely no-turning-back necessity.  Now.  All at once.  And just to keep everyone on their toes how about a complete reorganisation of the NHS on the side?  The grim reality is that, as you have pointed out, the Health Service needs the shake up that only a back door privatisation can - and will - provide.  It will emerge fitter and leaner and ready for the challenges ahead. Ok so there'll be less staff but hey that would be the last Governments fault wouldn't it?

But don't stop there,  we've not had any good old fashioned Gerrymandering since Shirley Porter back in the day.  You can dress it up as 'much needed boundary reform':  it'll go down a storm in the Home Counties.  They'll be able to look forward to a Tory governement for the rest of time especially if you insist on chaining it to the referendum on AV just to muddy the waters.

As someone once said: "I warn you not to be ordinary.  I warn you not to be young.  I warn you not to fall ill.  I warn you not to get old."  And that was in anticipation of Thatcher's '83 landslide and the cuts she promised.  Cuts that were nothing like as deep and quick as  Baronet Osbourne's.

And no Plan B either.

Still, at least we're all in it together.

What a Difference a Year Makes

Well, if there's anyone still out there:  howya doooin?  12 months to the day since my last post and such a lot has happened.  Some great, some good, some not so good and some just downright crap.  The World still turns, the best of us get on with it and the fuckwits still indulge in gold standard fuckwittery.  Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

I have. of late, felt the need to offload - ejaculate if you will - the joy and frustrations in my life once more.  I have, as some of you will be aware, been perusing the blogosphere during my year long absence and it really is like catching up with old friends.  Hearing of their ups and downs and highs and lows brings a smile to the lips and occasionally a tear to the eye.  All Human life is there to dip into and savour.

So, I'm back.  With a new layout as well.  The pic up above is the Mancunian skyline from a hill about 5 minutes walk from my front door.  If you look close you can see the stanchions of the City of Manchester stadium, Beetham Tower (aka Manchester Hilton) and the CIS Tower at the heart of the new co-operation Quarter.

So, what's changed since I was last here?  Well the biggest change has been the arrival of Littlest who is very, very dear to Dearest and me.  We have him overnight every Saturday and it truly is a joy.  Watching him evolve from the little alien he originally was into the proper little boy he is now has brought a wonderful sense of hope back into my life.  Suddenly I see the future toddling around with his inquisitive little fingers and his inquisitive mind invading our living space.  Children are wonderful.  Grandchildren are magical.  He carries my father's name as well which gives me a sense of continuity.  Such a shame they never met.


My Mother has moved into sheltered accommodation just round the corner from us.  It's a two minute walk from my front door and it has certainly improved all our lives.  In my Mother's case it was just in time really as she had started becoming very forgetful and eccentric and we knew she couldn't live entirely alone any more.  She now has a new flat in a residential block with a hairdressers, restaurant and lounge area where they have daily resident's get togethers with bingo, singalongs and other things that old folk seem to enjoy.

Care attendants call twice a day to make sure she's dressed and eating.  They dish out her medication and sit and chat for 15 minutes or so.  All in all it's worked out very well.  She has finally been diagnosed with Alzheimer's so keeping her daily routine as simple as possible is helping.  She has an equally afflicted friend called Ellen who she spends most of the day with, each of them repeating the same stories to each other as though being heard for the first time.

I have taken them both out to a local hostelry on occasions.  An old fashioned Mancunian pub with an organist and a free and easy attitude to people getting up and bashing out an old-fashioned song or two.  My Mother gets up and sings - pitch perfect - from a repertoire of ten or so numbers that she remembers ALL the words to with no problem.  It's a strange thing the brain.  I should have looked after mine a bit better.   I must admit though, at the end of the evening I am absolutely drained.  The nervous tension involved in making sure they don't drink too much, set off for the loo in plenty of time to avoid accidents, getting them home safely and generally listening to the same stories - in stereo - for three hours or so does tend to wear you down somewhat.

It comes to us all.

Work wise I have survived the first Public Sector Coalition cull - just the second and third to come through unscathed.  It seems all my life I have toiled under the threat of redundancy.  I have though  seen some hard working, decent people put in positions of horrible uncertainty about their futures.  The human face of 'balancing the budget' that the shiny faced arseholes in Government think is required.  It makes blood boil.  I swear if I hear the phrase "we're all in this together" again I won't be responsible for my actions. 

It's a good job the 'Big Society' (© Shiny Faced Arseholes)  will step in to look after us all isn't it?  Just wait until April when it REALLY starts to bite.  Surely the Lib Dems can't keep propping this shower of shit up much longer?  Have they no self esteem?

In recently acquired gadget news I am know a Kindle owner.  I'm very impressed with the whole reading experience with this cracking piece of kit essentially because you forget about the device you are reading from.  It doesn't get in the way if you see what I mean and the e-ink technology is superb.  No headaches from staring at flickering screens.  On top of that the battery lasts for a month on one charge.  Excellent..  Can't wait for the colour version.

Where the Kindle does come into it's own though is holiday time.  With the surcharges that airlines are racking up on luggage weight it was becoming difficult for Dearest and I to take enough reading material to keep us both occupied for a fortnight's leisure without tipping the scales.  We went to New York last autumn (loved it!) and I borrowed Eldest's.  It was that experience of it that convinced me to buy one.  Apart from a nice collection of books I also had a few newspapers delivered to it each morning so I could flip through them as Dearest made herself look fabulous.  When you add in a (not very good really) web browser and a built in dictionary as well as a text to speech facility it really is the Dog's proverbials.

Musically I'm having lot of trouble with my right shoulder which is making it difficult to play guitar for longer than 15 minutes or so.  It's looking like intense physiotherapy or, failing that, surgery.  I never had a problem with it until I became a postman.

To keep me ticking over I've got myself a digital piano which I have installed in my eyrie.  It has many other voices and functions but I use it primarily as a piano.  It has a lovely grand piano sound with a great touch-sensitive keyboard.  It's starting to come back to me.  I passed grade 5 piano when I was 11 and have hardly touched a piano or read sheet music since so it's been quite a learning curve.  It does requires a completely different musical approach than a string instrument.  I don't know it just seems to be a broader sonic palette.  I feel there are more harmonic choices to be made.  I'm lovin' it and so does Littlest - he sits on my knee and bashes away on it with rapturous abandon.  Start 'em young I say.

I won't be resurrecting the sight reading though.  Life's too short.

I've also added a new digital studio to my toys.  A Zoom R16 16 Track Recorder and Interface Controller.  Acutely aware of the fact that the Beatles never recorded on more than 16 tracks and that Frank Zappa only needed 16 tracks to produce as seminal a piece of work as Hot Rats, I am caught in a weird place where excitement at the possibilities smacks headfirst into the ever present fear of inadequacy.  I sometimes look at what is at my disposal and think to myself 'could do better'.  It's like a damning school report back in the day.  I have the equipment.  I have the ideas.  I have the ability.  It's just getting it all together that's the problem. 

Some pics.....eeeee it's just like old times isn't it?

Sicily

Dearest surveys Capri

It's a Hard Life

It's a very hard life.

Colours

Littlest is getting fed up of the camera

Autumn

Bay City

Up 34th Street to the Hudson

Looking Downtown from the Empire State

Downtown

The Empire State Building from the Top of the Rock

From the Staten Island Ferry

Starling Fest

Littlest learns to crawl

Littlest gets ready for Halloween

Littlest celebrates his 1st birthday

Blackpool

The hard life just keeps getting harder

And harder

7th Avenue Waiting to Cross

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!