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Dilemmas of a lazy blogger

I seem to be building up a lot of posts in draft mode and never getting around to finishing and publishing them. Let's delete some and post others. I'm not sure about my all time top 100 albums. By the time I've finished that one, Kate Bush will have released another album! As for the review of "The Play Wot I Wrote" which I started months ago, I'll think I shall give up on that. At least the recording of Radio 4's "Just A Minute" was recent enough for me to remember, so I will try again. Anyway, here is a post I wrote several weeks ago and never hit the publish button . . . .


Two modern day dilemmas.

1) The Key.

The back door key is a silly shape. It has a prong sticking out on the edge that you insert into the hole. Over time the prong gets more and more bent inwards, until the key stops working. Before it gets to this stage I took it to a key cutters and asked if they could re-cut the key, with the bent prong in a straight position. The key cutter got to work using the duplicating machine as much as possible before finished it off by hand. The result looked similar enough so I got out my money. "No" said the key cutter chappy, "try it and if it doesn't work, then throw it away. If it does work then come back and pay".
When I got back home I tried it and it worked perfectly.
Given that it might well be a month before I'm back in that town and able to pay them, should I eventually pay them? Will the key-cutters just think I'm a right plonker for paying for something that they may well have forgotten about and I could have had for free?

2) The Bike.

I'm driving along and I see a car ahead with its hazard warning lights on, parked just before a bend. Just as I take this in, the two cars between me and the parked car both started signalling left and started to pull in behind the parked car. Just as I was starting to curse about the stupidity of parking just before a bend, I suddenly realised that I was passing a person lying on the grass verge with a crumpled bicycle next to them.

My thoughts for the next couple of seconds went like this:
Man down! Stop and assist!
But wait, that explains why those three cars have stopped here, and people are now getting out of their cars. If I stopped as well that would be four cars parked before that corner. Also I have no medical training and no working mobile phone. I didn't even see how the fallen fellow came to be there. What use will I be?
Oh blow it, carry on.

Trouble is, I spent most of the remaining journey home feeling guilty about not stopping.
Was I right for not stopping?

A bit of bush

At the end of the film "The Golden Compass" you can hear a rare outing of
Kate Bush. Yep, she has once more plunged into her underused and dusty
studio and knocked out a song called "Lyra" for the end of the movie. It
features a nice vocal by Kate over some rather lazy hazy backing which
ultimately does very little. I suppose if you consider it as ambient music, it sort of works, but otherwise is hardly something to jump up and down
excitedly about.

OK, so it is something new by Kate Bush, perhaps I will do
a bit of jumping up and down after all, but very small jumps, in slippers,
on the carpet.

Meanwhile Sky News reports that by recording this new track, Kate Bush now
has "a taste for recording" and "fans are being told to expect a new
offering from Bush, but probably not until late next year". Pardon me while
I rock with mirth. I'm sure Kate may well be thinking about recording
some more material sometime eventually, but let's not get excited for a few more years yet.
 


Kate hard at work in her high-tech studio.

Just the thing for Kitschmas

Ship of Fools have just the things to buy your loved ones for Christmas, including this great calendar.

Speaking of this unspeakable time of year, .T. and I did a "oh no it is December and we need to get some things from King's Lynn, so let's get there by 9am so we can avoid the mad people" trip today. Although for this time of year it was quite calm, even by 11am when we left. I was rather saddened by the sight of the former Fopp (still with its signs up) now housing a cheap Christmas store and I gawped at the grotty grotto that has appeared. (Mum to small child: "Ooh, do you think Father Christmas is in there?" Small child: "Don't be silly mum".)

Also overheard when passing new trendy wine bar LXIX, "Is that pronounced licks?"

Eat Poop U Cat

I've not heard of Eat Poop U Cat before, but it is an advanced (and fun) variation on Chinese Whispers.

Still waking at 6am. Still no idea why. Still knackered. I wouldn't mind if I could just roll over and fall asleep again, but usually Mr. Bladder starts to demand attention, followed by that itch in the middle of the back, followed by the tap-dancing sparrow in the gutter, followed by Lewis Hamilton practising in the road, followed by that panic that you hadn't actually set the alarm but find out that you did and now it is only 10 minutes before you have to get up so you might as well anyway. Bah.

6am

I'm not getting enough sleep at the moment. For some reason I keep waking up at 6am, even at weekends. In that twearly part of the morning, my mind does start to wander. This morning I was thinking, if you had a Klein Bottle bank, would you have to take your bottles to it, or are they already in it? I then tried to count sheep jumping into a Klein Bottle. All this thinking made me thirsty so I had to get up in the end.

How to feel young again

There I was feeling rather middle-aged when on the radio, they starting talking about a new social network aimed at middle-aged people who find the likes of facebook and myspace a bit too young-people orientated. They then said it was aimed at the over 50s.
Yey! you have to be over 50 to be middle aged, so I'm still a youngster for a few more years yet.

No Mouse On Mars

Those strange holes on Mars that I mentioned before, are perhaps not so cavey after all.

Is "cavey" a proper word?
Is it really nearly a month since I last posted?

Seeing that picture of Nigella in the previous post reminds me that I did my best 'Domestic Goddess' impersonation last week and baked some chocolate brownies that were just bloody perfect. Not those nasty dry possibly been placed near some chocolate at some point type brownies that you get in shops but proper moist, gooey, very chocolatey brownies that are so yummy, they make you fat.

Happiness is a warm bun

My buns are thoroughly warmed by the news that Nigella is back on the tele' this Monday. I really shouldn't go all gooey over a posh daughter of a Tory, but somehow Nigella strikes home. She even makes me cook, in the same way that Rachel De Thame makes me garden and Kate Bush makes me listen to her music. (Ok, that last one doesn't quite fit the pattern.)

I do notice that when it comes to having any sort of a crush on anyone, it is usually dark haired ladies of around my age. I liked schoolgirls when I was at school, 30 year olds when I was 30 and now a bevy of 40 year olds now I am 40 (and a wee bit). I can't wait until I'm 80 and start lusting over those hunched up grannies with their zimmers.

 

Anyway I am glad to see Nigella back in the kitchen. That daytime chat show she tried a couple of years ago made me laugh at how bad it was. It was close to being a spoof.

Feeling a bit pink in Downham Market

Shopkeepers in the North are nice
They ask after your kids and wife
And when you've had a good chinwag
they pop your provisions in your bag.

"Shopkeepers in the North are Nice" by John Shuttleworth.

I guess John Shuttleworth has never been to Downham Market, as he might then change his song to "Shopkeepers in the North (and East) are Nice". Downham Market seems to have been in a timewarp for 30 years as it is still full of useful shops, a novelty in such a small town. They either become useless-shops-for-tourists or the-same-shops-as-everywhere-else shops. When I was a wee lad, my local town of Bromsgrove used to have useful shops, but by the time I was a teenager it was getting close to The Shoe Event Horizon with every other shop being a shoe shop. Now it is full of generic high street stores.

Downham Market on the other hand still has a butcher, a baker and, although there is no manufacturer of wax-based illumination holders, I'm sure you could buy a really nice candlestick somewhere. The car parks are free, the old people are never grumpy, the gangs of teenagers politely move out of your way, the pizzas are really juicy, the vets know your pet's name on sight, you can buy just the right size of washer for that leaking tap, and you can be amused by a lawnmower store called "Lawn-boy". Well, it amuses me anyway.

I needed a new refill for an unmarked (but rather splendid) pen and rather than face the ignorance of a Saturday girl in King's Lynn, I went to the teeny-tiny stationery shop in Downham Market, showed them the mysterious refill and they instantly went straight for the correct replacement with a smile and a brief chat about the weather. I left the shop with a small brown paper bag containing my purchase and a warm glow of customer satisfaction. I like the cakes from the bakers as well. You buy a innocent looking small chocolate delight and a little banana cake from the jolly lady, get them home, unwrap them and then gasp in amazement at their sheer size. They must grow between shop and home, or else I become the size of a Borrower upon leaving the bakers.

The last time I was in Downham Market I went to the Post Office to send a package. Again Downham Market has a different sort of Post Office. There was no queue and three open hatches each with a happily smiling lady eager to serve. I dumped my keys down while manhandling the parcel onto the scales, paying the lady and talking about the weather. Upon leaving I heard another customer, a man say "Excuse me, are these your keys?", turned and saw my keys dangling from his hand. Once more Mr. Brain had failed to remind me to pick up my keys.

"Yes they are mine, thanks" said I, retrieving my keys, only to hear him say "Oh, I did wonder, because of the pink key".

I was somewhat nonplussed, and left swiftly.

So, is a man not allowed to have a pink key? Was this guy trying to imply something? Should I mention that he had a moustache and a medallion or would I then be accused of implying something? Answers please on a postcard to:

Boolbar
Downham Market's Big Gay Post Office
Norfolk

First Rule Of Plumbing

Spot the mistake :

The upstairs toilet has a blocked sink.
Remove and clean the gunk filled U-bend.
Replace U-bend and test sink. It is still blocked.
Remove pipe from U-bend to wall, find it is full of gunk.
Clean out pipe outside and return to upstairs toilet.
Hands are dirty, wash hands thoroughly in sink.
Mop up large quantities of water from floor.
Replace pipe.

The Big Sky

One advantage of living in Norfolk is the huge expanse of sky, ideal for a bit of star gazing, not so ideal if all your neighbours insist on having those mega-spotlights on all night because it is so dark. Why they need to illuminate a patch of grass is beyond me, especially as it makes it so much easier for burgulars to hide in the nice sharp shadows. Any passer-by looking at the house would be blinded before they spotted any wrong-doers.

Anyway I can now do a bit of desk astronomy with the latest Google Earth release, which includes the night sky from anywhere on the planet, plus zoom in on anything interesting.

My god, it's full of stars!

And I can now see what those Antipodean folks can see as well. Neat!

New Found Fish Legs

I notice that people are coming to this blog (yey!), hardly in huge numbers (boo!), but a steady trickle. According to my recent "keyword" stats, 26% are looking for Marcus Brigstocke's religious rant, 11% for Kate Bush related stuff, 11% for Genesis related stuff, 8% for Portsmouth Sinfonia and a mere 3% for me. I guess to increase my popularity I must blaspheme while wearing a leotard and playing "I Know What I Like" somewhat out of tune.

Meanwhile to help some of those who searched, but were probably disappointed at what they found . . . . .

Kate Bush Lycra

Kate Bush is not made of lycra, she is made of rubber bands.

New Found Fish Legs

Birds Eye are branching out. Bigger than fish fingers, more tasty than fish heads!

how is cambridge o level exams graded

With grammar like that, you'll only get an A grade.

Genesis secret mangosteen

If you play "Supper's Ready" by Genesis backwards, then about 10 minutes into the track you can hear the distinctive sound of Peter Gabriel rubbing a mangosteen into Tony Bank's left thigh.

Kate Bush Pi Secret Code

If I told you that then it wouldn't be a secret anymore.

Kate Bush Pi Code

Oh, the non-secret code. I can tell you that. If you take all the missing digits from the track Pi, convert them to letters via hexadecimal, solve the resulting anagram and translate from Greek to English, you will get the statement "We paint the penguins pink".

How many hamsters does it take to power a car?

It depends on the weight of the car and the size of the hamsters. Assuming that you are using Syrian hamsters and they are pulling a Vauxhall Astra using tiny ropes then it would take around a million hamsters, and even fewer if you took the handbrake off.

(Actually you might want to take a peep at this.)

A Level Playing Field

Once more exam results are out and they are better than ever before. Once more we get the same reasons why they are better (teaching methods have improved, children are harder working) and once more we hear the complaints that exams are getting easier and the exam system is devalued.

Personally I wouldn't say exams are getting easier to take, but I would say that exams are getting easier to pass. A subtle difference, but an important one. (I'm certainly not going to deny the poor sods who work their butts off and end up getting a pile of "A" grades.)

Back in my exam days (some 25 years ago) passing the exam meant doing two lots of exam papers on two separate days (with the odd exception, like the oral test in French or the "identify these bits of animals" test in Biology). If you cocked up on one of those days, that could easily be one or two grades lost, so any headaches, hay-fever, feeling ill, or being sat in blinding sunlight behind the smelly kid could really make a big difference. It annoyed me that the way you felt in a single 2 or 3 hour period on one particular day could affect the result of 2 or 3 years work, and the primary requirement for passing an exam was to have a good memory, not necessarily an understanding of the subject.

We were told by more than one of our teachers how most exams were graded (unpopular subjects like Astronomy or Russian would have predefined pass levels). Once all the papers were marked, a bit of analysis on the resulting bell-curve graph was used to assign the grades to the marks scored. This was done in such a way that more or less the same number of people got an "A" grade, a "B" grade etc. each year, so that if the paper was a bit easier or harder in one year, the overall results would be much the same (making the sensible assumption that any year of school kids would have the same level of intelligence overall).
At O-level, about 5-10% of kids would get the "A" grade, most would get the "C" grade, and I think it was about 30-40% failed ("D" grade or less). This struck me as a fair way of doing things. One result of this system was that if someone did get a straight set of "A" grades at O-level, they often made the news for being so clever.

A few years after I left school they changed the system so that various work done over those 2 or three years would also count towards the overall result. This was a great move, I often achieved A grade in my course work, only to end up with a B or C in the resulting exam. OK, so it was too late for me, but it was an improvement. The other thing that changed was that the percentage mark needed to get particular grades was apparently fixed before the exam, which struck me as a bit dodgy, especially as there are several different examining boards offering exam courses and schools started to be valued on their pass results. Surely a school would pick the exam course that had a higher number of pupils passing, and wouldn't then the setters of an exam course set the pass grade lower to make their course more tempting to schools? Note that I am not even thinking of the difficulty of the exam questions and the course work, these are almost irrelevant and from what I've read are meant to be strictly controlled.

The one thing that irks me to this day is that they are still called O- and A-levels, which meant that people from my era have grades that now seemed rather poor in comparison to the new results coming out. In the late 1990s I had a job interview along with some young bragging upstart who implied only getting 3 or 4 grade "A"s at O-level (I got 4) was rather poor (he got 8). I would much rather admit that I am so old that they didn't have "N- and P-levels" in my day.

It strikes me that an exam system that lets more and more pupils pass at higher and higher grades, to the extent that they have to bring in a new "A*" grade, is not actually grading pupils in a useful or meaningful way. They should bring in the old system of checking the figures then assigning the grades, allowing approximately the same percentage of pupils to get the same grades every year, then getting an "A" grade would still mean something special. Then universities can still select candidates on merit, employers can still compare people from different years.

"Higher pass rates mean more young people are achieving advanced qualifications that will help them fulfill their ambitions, and this is something we should all celebrate."
Jim Knight (Schools Minister)

Now this is about the only argument that supports a system of artificial higher grades. If children are more motivated by getting great grades at O-levels, they are more likely to go on to do A-levels and then on to higher education.

Now if only they would come out and say "yes, it is getting easier to get higher grades in exams, but look at the happy smiling children signing up for higher education". Then the next time someone tries to compare young Johnnie's eight "A"s at O-level with my ancient results I might not feel the urge to give them an "F" and a "U" in English Language.

Tempus Fugit

Time flies . . . bloody things buzzing around my head and by the time I've swatted them, it is the middle of August.

I was only thinking last night while lying on the decking outside for a while watching for the Perseids meteor shower (saw two and lots of clouds before going in, and why do the media get so excited about it - you see about one a minute not a "spectacular firework display" - silly sods) that I've not even been on the 'pooter for more than 5 minutes at a time for weeks.
And what has happened in that time? Well I haven't got time to tell you now.

See you in another month?

that god thing

I really enjoyed Marcus Brigstocke's anti-Abrahamic religion rant on Radio 4's The Now Show broadcast this evening. If you didn't hear it, go to the BBC website and listen again. (I think it was in the second half.)

Having worked out that Father Christmas didn't exist at around the age of 5 I then went on to realise that 'god' was just another invention of adults to try and understand that which is mind-bogglingly amazing (the cosmos both known and unknown, our world, us), and hence doesn't exist. Hence I was always the grumpy one in primary school assemblies, refusing to sing or pray. I have always been both puzzled and sometimes annoyed at peoples inability to cope with being a part of all that is splendid and magnificent without believing in a humanised figurehead which instantly restricts their view like a blinkered horse.

Enjoy life, be nice to other people. It is so simple.

Oh, and stop lying to children. They find out you know.

"We are made of star stuff. " - Carl Sagan

Summer!

Yesterday it stopped raining just long enough for Summer to occur. The ants took note and at work I spotted out of the window a load of ants running around on the wall. The flying ants were hatching and I could see lots of the silver winged beasties matching up the wall in a long line . I watched them go up and up and . . . . at the top of the window I was amused to see a robin sitting on a branch next to the wall, happily eating the flying ants that passed.

I looked at the robin, the robin looked at me, and I could swear that it winked at me.

The Hasselhoff, The Cyberman and The Small Print

Oh yes, the small print. That stuff that you may read once, but never again. Way back in 2001, .T. and I bought a 'pooter. I then spent a few evenings dialling various dial-up ISP accounts until I settled on Vispa. They seemed a tad faster than the others and despite going down for 24 hours in the first week, it proved reliable thereafter and we happily used the email and webspace that came with the dial-up account. Years later and the tempting apple that was Pipex Broadband was waved before our eyes. It all seemed OK so we moved onto it. I won't bore you with the resulting problems that happened (well not yet anyway) but I'll say it took 3 months before the desire to strangle David Hasselhoff on sight passed by.

At the end of June I fired up the broadband, grabbed my email and replied to a few messages. Beginning of July I fired up the broadband, grabbed my email . . . . no, invalid login. Went to the online email and tried to login. Invalid password. Hmmm, could Vispa email be down? Looked at the message boards and found this.

We would like to draw our customers attention to the following paragraph in our general terms and conditions;

11.4 Vispa reserves the right to terminate all connect pioneer dialup accounts that have not been accessed via dial‐up during a 60 day period. Accounts at this point will be suspended for a further 30 days giving the customer a total grace period of 90 days to continue with the Vispa service. If no contact is made by the customer over this period, Vispa reserves the right at this point to re‐issue the username and delete any files relating to this account.

We are currently starting to disable any accounts which have not been accessed . All services will be disabled such as Mail,FTP,Dialup etc.. If you require your account re-instating, please email support@vispa.net within 30 days from this notice.

Argh! That small print. This was something I hadn't considered. By using broadband we hadn't been using the dial-up. Yes, we had used the email and FTP-ed files to websites on a frequent basis, but not the dial-up. I could see why they were doing this, they must have accumulated a lot of dead accounts over the years, all filling up with loadsaspam.

I phoned Vispa to see if I could reactivate the accounts. After waiting in the queue listening to the REALLY ANNOYING COLDPLAY EXTRACT over and over again I got through to a support person. I explained the situation, that we were still using our accounts and could they be reactivated?

"You have not used the dial-up in the last 60 days, so you will be deleted".

Is there anything that could be done I asked.

"You must use the dial-up in the next 30 days, or you will be deleted".

So if I use-the dial-up you can reactivate the account?

"Yes, otherwise you will be deleted"

By now I had an image of a cyberman with its finger hoovering over the DELETE BOOLBAR button. Can anything be done to make these accounts more permanent without the treat of being deleted? The cyberman suddenly spurted out a load of techno-speak in which I thought I heard the words "open", "domain", "move". So could I buy a domain from Vispa and mirror the existing websites to it, (thus saving the high position of the existing URL in various search engines?)

"No, the accounts will be deleted. All your files will be DELETED!"

"Gah", said I.

"Delete! Delete! Delete!" said the cyberman raising its evil weapon . . .

Well, not quite. We dashed around to the in-laws to use their antique dial-up to save the accounts. .T.'s still worked, but mine was well out of action. The following day I noted that .T.'s account was now frozen, even though we had dialled up the night before! Another call to the cyberman was needed.

This time I was straight to number one in the queue. One hour later I was still number one in the queue although by now I had emailed a complaint to Vispa and decided I would strangle Chris Martin on sight. I used a second phone just to see if I would end up as number two on the queue only to go straight through to a human.

"err, I've been in your queue for an hour on another phone"

"Have you, I haven't had a call for an hour, oh, hang on a minute, we had to swop our phone exchange an hour ago, I bet you ended up stuck on the old system"

Arghhhhhhh!

However this guy was full of apologies and sounded HUMAN! I told him my dilemma and he agreed it was a bit draconian and some advanced warning should have been issued and would reactivate our accounts straight away, even if it meant he would get into trouble. Email now sorted. Nice chap on support (and if I had phoned a couple of minutes later there would have been no wait, which has always been my experience with Vispa up until that cyberman call).

So always read the small print and remember it off by heart. You never know when you might need to know it 6 years later.

Email

For those who need to know - my usual email address has had to change. The one in my profile is OK. I'll tell the tale of the cyberman and the niceman at my former ISPs support department another time, once I've updated every online service with my now current email!

"You will be deleted. Delete! Delete! Delete!"

Vroom vroom!

I'm not really a car person. They are just things to get me from A to B and hopefully don't cost much in order to do it. My lack of interest often stops potential 'blokey' conversations stone dead ...

Driving Missed Boolbar
A play in one act.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE
BOOLBAR, your humble blogger, head full of fluff
BLOKEY BLOKE, a typical bloke, head full of carburettors, alloys and fuel injection

Act 1, scene 1

[Setting : A typical office]

Blokey bloke : So what sort of car do you drive
Boolbar : A small blue one.

(cue tumbleweed)

[Exeunt]

I enjoyed my first two (original) minis as they were rather cute, despite the rust. My current spate of KAs are nippy, you don't have to take out a mortgage to buy new tyres, and you can get a 6 foot long wooden gate into one, providing you can drive with your head bent down looking through the steering wheel.

A few months ago I spotted a rather nice looking car, rather retro, nice pale blue colour, going the other way. I have seen a few others since then and could never see what type of car it was. There was no obvious name on the back and only a tiny symbol on the front, which when you are moving was hard to define (or my eyesight is fading.)

Yesterday on the way to the swimming pool I passed one parked on the side of the road, hit the brakes and reversed back up to it. The word "Figaro" was embossed in the chrome on its rear.
A quick webby search revealed it is the Nissan Figaro, a retro styled car from 1991. Second hand cars are being imported into this country and are gaining cult status. I want one!



I also find myself strangely drawn to these nice pink versions. Cute!

Trouble is I can't even afford a bicycle at the moment.

I'm fopped off.

Alas poor Fopp. It only opened two months ago in King's Lynn. *sigh*

Back t'internet for my music!

Barking

.F. our faithful doggy often barks at nasty scary animals on the TV*. Today we switched on the TV and the first thing that appeared was Gillian McKeith. .F. went barking bonkers. I always knew he had good taste.

* like kittens or frogs.

Genesis - Calling All Stations (Yikes!)

Ok, so let's look at another album. Being a bit of a fan of early Genesis, and a fan of a bit of later Genesis, I bought this dirt cheap despite all the negative comments made about it. I can afford 99 pence.

Genesis used to be a great prog-rock band. Then when Peter Gabriel left they tried to be a more poppy proggy band, and sometimes succeeded. Finally they stuck to pop, Phil Collins style, and some of that was rather fun. Then they disappeared, leaving Phil Collins to annoy the hell out of everyone and Mike to do his Mechanics all over Radio Two. 1991 saw a return with an album (We Can't Dance) with loads of yawn-worthy material, and two poppy hits. They really shouldn't have bothered, and Phil Collins left after a while. That was the end of that.

Six years later, and for some reason, Rutherford and Banks still wanted to be Genesis, so they got some generic singer called Ray Wilson to warble over some rather bland soft rock and released this worthless lump of shite.

OK, so that is a bit harsh, so let us look at what we have here. First, what an awful cover. So Invisible Touch is even more ghastly, but this scores nil points for effort.

As for the music, it starts off sounding like a bad version of post-waters Pink Floyd. Calling All Stations is a rather mundane song which is made worse by a repetitive drum sound banging on all through the track which really annoys me. At the end Ray tries to inject a bit of oomph into his singing but the track fades out as he starts to let rip. Perhaps he was getting a bit too interesting.

A rather bad start, but underneath all my niggles with this track there is a sign of some hope. If they used a more interesting sound, got rid of the nasty robotic drum, let Ray go for it, found a decent tune and ended it properly then I might have liked it a bit. But wait, things do look better. Congo with its ethnic flavour and quite a catchy chorus almost deserves another chance, but hey, I'm not that generous, and it does have another bloody fade out. Lazy sods. Shipwrecked is nice, almost moving, almost worth checking out. Almost. Then we get the first long track. I guess they were trying to attract the older prog-rock loving Genesis fan with length and keep the more modern pop loving fan happy with safe sounds. Alien Afternoon starts off rather dull, I am reaching for that cup of cocoa before bedtime, but they bung on a pleasant if rather muddy instrumental second half which kind of redeems the track, almost making me not notice that fade out. Lazy sods. Well, that's three tracks in a row with a tiny bit of promise. They then let themselves down with two slow plodding dull songs. I'm now very bored. And to be fair, I've listened to this three times now. Gah! I need slapping in the face with a wet herring.

So far so unGenesis. Nothing so far sounds anything like anything Genesis have released before. I know Invisible Touch sounds nothing like Foxtrot, but at least there was a progression through the albums inbetween. This could be any generic rock band. As such The Dividing Line is a pleasant surprise. Lots of real drumwork, the synths sound like Tony Bank's synths and there is an overall Genesissy sound. There is even a proper ending! Yey! Shame it isn't that exciting. Trouble is they then go back to the bland and dull generic soft rock pap for the next three songs, although Ray tries to give it some welly in There Must Be Some Other Way so I guess it deserves better than the great skip button of doom. Finally we get to One Man's Fool, another lengthy track which goes nowhere and ends the album with another fade out! They know how to irritate me.

It all seems so half-hearted. I'd rather they bring back Phil and those pop songs! At least I can get drunk and wobble my bits to them.

Next time I shall spend my 99 pence on another Girls Aloud single. At least they have fun.

More Maude

Someone has started a Maude Fealy blog. They've found some photos I haven't seen before, and some useful biog. info.

I'm pleased with getting this lovely picture of her.

Sleepy

After going to a wedding, building a large wooden frame for a bit of decking in the garden, and then having a good swim yesterday, I am now officially knackered. Back to work for a single day tomorrow, so I might get some sleep then.

Luckily .J. sent me a compilation CD containing lots of Grandmaster Gareth which has cheered me up and also this fab song.

Favourite site of today : oddmusic.com

Job Application

Dear Fenland Citizen,

I am applying for the obviously vacant post of proof-reader . . . . .




I now feel all itchy.

IM OUTTA YR LOOP

Forget lolcats and lolfruit. It's time to get programming in lolCode!

Alien

I moved from the Midlands over to the Fens about 7 years ago. It was a bit of a culture shock. The strange dialect, weird dress sense, odd customs : but the locals soon got used to me. I do like the plethora of farm shops and roadside veg stands, and upon seeing a sign for asparagus and strawberries I popped into one such local farm shop.

I found some strawberries but couldn't see any asparagus so I asked the woman behind the counter if they had any. "We've just sold the last bunch" said she, and then called to the back of the store "Can you get me some more asparagus".

A large bloke appeared behind me wielding a knife, looked at me, looked outside where it was now bucketing it down with rain, and then put on a small and hardly waterproof cap and marched outside. "He won't be long" said the woman.

During the wait for asparagus, I spotted some odd looking things by the till. Round purple balls with mutant green fleshy leaves. I asked what they were, fruit or veg. "They're mangosteens, try one, just pull off the green bit and bite it. They're lovely." I thought that due to the odd look of the strange fruit, I would buy them and try eating them in the privacy of my own home. So I bought four.

"Try one, just pull off the green bit and bite it. They're lovely," repeated the woman just as the bloke, now wet, marched back in. "You won't get fresher than that" he said dumping some fresh cut asparagus in the scales. The woman put my purchases in a bag and once again tried to get me to eat a mangosteen, "Try one, just pull off the green bit and bite it. They're lovely. Everyone who tries it says they're lovely".
"You won't get fresher than that" said the man putting the asparagus in the bag.
"Go on try one", said the woman handing me the bag.
"You won't get fresher than that" said the man.
"Just pull off the green bit and bite it. Everyone who tries it says they're lovely" said the woman, as I backed out of the store, thanking the man for his soggy efforts.
"You won't get fresher than that" replied the man.
"Try one, they're lovely" called the woman as I made a dash for the car.

Back at home I thought I would try one. I pulled of the green bit and took a small bite. Blergh!
I then cut into the fruit and discovered that it had a fleshy outside and a juicy white inner bit, which was the edible part. I wonder just how many people have tried the fruit in the shop according to her instructions, and got a mouthful of nasty tasting flesh. In fact according to the wikipedia entry for mangosteen, the outer flesh contains pigments that are an avid dye on skin, so there could be a few purple mouthed people around.

The inner bit tastes a bit like lychee and orange and is rather delicious. The fruit is also the current in-thing, so mangosteen juice will no doubt soon be replacing pomegranate juice.

There's a hole in my planet

Apparently there are mysterious holes in Mars. I wonder what is in them. Probably a layer of caramel.


(If you look at the enlargement of the last image on this page, you can see what looks like a thin surface over an abyss.)

Not A Fish

I used to hate swimming. At primary school it was every Wednesday morning.
I disliked having to get up half an hour earlier to catch the coach to the
pool, feeling travel sick there and back, and then spending the rest of the
day feeling somewhat moist in the underwear region.

To begin with it wasn't too bad as non-swimmers were in the nice warm
kiddies pool which was in its own room, and hence unsupervised as the
teacher was by the main pool barking orders at those who could swim. When a
bit older, I had to go into the shallow end of the big pool with the other
older non-swimmers, splashing around with my legs while clutching a
polystyrene float. Not much fun, but then again I didn't want to be in the
deep end being made to go up and down, or jumping in wearing pyjamas. I
hated pyjamas, and the thought of having to appear in public wearing them
put me off learning to swim. I'll just stay here with my float, splash
around a bit and look forward to vigourously toweling myself down before
raiding the vending machines for some chocolate and fizzy drink.

I then got my first pair of goggles. Suddenly a whole new world opened up,
a world of legs wiggling underwater, tiled surfaces and drain holes. I
propelled myself around with waggling arms and legs. One day while showing
my Dad my new found skill of underwater movement, I surfaced faster than I
expected and found myself heaving my way across the surface. What's this? I
could swim! Somewhat splashily and ungainly, but I was getting around
unaided. My Dad suggested trying to swim across the width of the pool, so I
set off splashing my way towards the other side. I made it, and was
surprised to see one of the lifeguards applauding me on the side. He then
gave me a swimming badge, one of those thin stripes with the word
"SWIMMING" sown into it. I had seen others with lots of them sown onto
their trunks in different colours, but now I had my own, in white, for
swimming one width. Oooh, cross channel swim here I come!

The trouble was, If I now could swim, I would have to go into the deep end
and face the discipline of going up and down to order, and the potential of
those pyjamas. Noooo!!! So I kept quiet about my new found skill at school
and stayed in my comfort zone with my float. Nice floaty.

After primary school there was no more school swimming and I didn't swim
for many years. Around the age of 30, .T. took me to Droitwich Lido a
couple of times which was rather alarming. I found that although I could
still swim around a bit, I found it hard to stay afloat. My belly wanted to
meet the bottom of the lido and my legs had hidden stores of lead.

More years passed and due to the need to stay fit, Downham Market Leisure
Centre found .T. and I puffing and panting our way around the gym. .T.
started to pop off to the pool for a few lengths and last Autumn persuaded
me to join her for a dip. It was hard work! Swimming needs different
muscles to anything else, and my swimming muscles had long since retired,
put their feet up and were looking forward to watching repeats of "Last Of
The Summer Wine". I also didn't like the look of that deep-end. There is
something rather disquieting about putting your feet down and finding
nothing there. But perseverance pays off and over the next few months I
have developed a crude but working version of the breaststroke and a
splashy but reasonable crawl and can sometimes do the 25m length in 25
seconds. Coo, that's about 2.24 miles per hour! OK, so I have to catch my
breath for a minute afterwards, but it is about half Olympic speed (and
they wear skin-tight lycra - cheats!)
Now I just have to get my breathing right (remember: air good, water bad).
I keep breathing out in time with my strokes and after a while realise that
breathing in might be useful. I also find my sinuses get well rinsed out by
the occasional tsunami zipping up my nostrils.

Yesterday we went for a dip and found that the pool was warmer than usual.
Whether this was a bank holiday treat or those refugees from King's Lynn
pool needed mollycoddling I'm not sure. But it sure kept the cramp at bay
for an hour. Now my confidence has increased I enjoy swimming to the bottom
of the deep end and traveling along the base of the pool for as far as
possible. A handy technique in case I get chased by aliens through flooded
tunnels: provided I'm not wearing pyjamas.

Foritensum

I've always been a bit of a puzzle fan, so IQ tests are usually fun things to do. The hardest and most intriguing IQ test I have come across is Foritensum, which attempts to make the test "culture fair". In other words "an alien from a different planet should have the same chance to score well as someone raised and living in the western world."
I've solved several of the problems, but some are still making me ponder.

Password

One of the biggest problems I have with changing my password is I have a brain like a goldfish. I remembered that I changed it, and that I changed it to something that I wouldn't forget, but I still took a worried 5 minutes staring at the blogger login form before it popped into my head.

I've also forgotten that great post that I had in my head just before falling asleep last night.

Meanwhile, you know how some larger ladies wear dresses like tents ....

Strange Fruit (& Veg)

<Start seductive voiceover and Santana music> This isn't just a blog post, this is the finest blog post made from my memories of the weirdest Norfolk folk and carefully stolen images from google image search . . . .
</enough of that!>

While in Marks & Spencer on Saturday, I found my way somewhat blocked by four old people standing in the fruit and veg section. I sneaked past them to grab some greens and noticed that they were standing in a line, not speaking, and staring very intently at the vegetables. I then went to get some choccy cake, bread and wine (good diet!) and a few minutes later went back down the fruit and veg, past the same four people still staring at the vegetables. One of them finally spoke: "There aren't enough vegetables here, let's go to the farm shop instead."

Had I stumbled upon the British entry in the International Fruit & Vegetable Staring Contest having a training session? Are they now in a farm shop staring some poor carrots and pears into submission? Or is this just a popular pastime in Norfolk?

Anyway - I asked some fruit and veg for their comments.

 

Lovely pea picture found here

Kate Bush - Aerial

Blimey! It takes me nearly as long to get off my backside and write this review as it took Kate to bother getting off her backside and make this album. After the emotional but often musically lackluster The Red Shoes album way back in 1993, Kate took time off to do her own thing, including starting a family. She briefly popped into the studio in 1996 to knock the single King of The Mountain into shape, but nothing further happened for many more years.
Having long since given up any expectation of seeing another Kate Bush album, I was somewhat surprised back in the summer of 2005, when it was announced that a new album was soon to be on its way. As such there was no lengthy period of "it is coming eventually" as with previous albums, leading to expectations running high. I was just very happy to have new Kate material. And hey! there are two CDs of material in a very nice package! Well, very slightly over 80 minutes of material which could have been squeezed onto one CD if somebody did a bit of editing. Having two CDs does mean you can choose whether to listen to the assorted odds and ends CD or the "birdie" concept CD, or just take a handy loo break half-way through.

The first CD "A Sea Of Honey" is the odds and sods half. A mixture of the great and the plodding. The single King of The Mountain was the first song to be heard and the first on the album, and it really doesn't do that much for me. It is as cleverly done as most Kate songs, and came with a typically batty Kate video, but the slurred vocals and lack of oomph failed to please. Yes, I know that the slurring is her impersonation of Elvis Presley, but it does irritate almost as much as that bloody big fade out at the end. You'd have thought that between 1996 and 2005 she could come up with a decent ending. Anyway we are on to more interesting territory with the second track π (pi), a song not about the number itself, but a man obsessed with the calculation of pi. It has often been mentioned in Kate Fan Circles that Kate could sing the telephone directory and it would still sound good, and here Kate goes for around 100 digits of pi. Trouble is, I still find a lack of involvement. There is no great hook, no amazing music, even Kate's vocals aren't that special. It sure is intriguing, not least due to the missing 22 digits and the few digits emphasized by backing vocals. Could this be Da Katie Code?
Things start to pick up with the delightful Renaissance-esque Bertie, a song about her son. Given the subject matter, it could so easily have been yucky, but the interesting choice of music combined with not-too-specific lyrics means it easily escapes the "pass the paper bag" hell of most odes to children.
Even better is Mrs. Bartolozzi, with just Kate at her piano it takes me back to her early material. Here though her maturity shines through a great set of lyrics. Never quite describing precisely what is going on, you get the impression of a great loss, precious memories and a life of willing domestic drudgery which is all Mrs. Bartolozzi has left to get her through each day. If you thought this was just a song about a washing machine than think again.
Unfortunately after that we have to get through the rather dull and plodding How to Be Invisible, a song that sounds like Kate, looks like Kate but for some reason doesn't dance like Kate. The lyrics seem to gently mock the more obsessive fan and her own apparent attempt to hide from view (according to the media). It never really gets going, staying on one level throughout. Luckily the song about a soldier's view of Joan Of Arc, Joanni shows that her talent for poppy hooks hasn't deserted her, this being one of two songs that could have been released as singles instead of King of The Mountain. The lyrics don't really say much and it's far from the best song of her career, but it is fun.
The final piece on the first disk is stunning. A song of memories and loss. Again just piano and vocals, A Coral Room is an emotional piece dealing with Kate's loss of her mother and how time can soften the pain. It made me cry, and still does sometimes. In fact it is difficult to listen to at times, but always worth the effort. Apparently Kate almost left this beautiful track off the album, luckily she didn't.

So the first CD is a mixed bag, but no more so than the last two albums. A quick trip to the loo (see, I said it was useful) and then on to the next CD, "A Sky Of Honey".

Basically this is a continuous concept piece covering most of a day (afternoon through to the following dawn) with a lot of birds thrown in. It is quite faux-classical sounding at times, and manages to sustain a beauty for most of the first half. It begins with a short but charming introduction (Prelude) with Bertie as "The Sun" watching and wondering about the birds. We then go straight into Prologue, a most lovely piece with Eberhard Weber's strange bass noise underpinning light touches of piano and string and Kate's gorgeous vocals. When something works as well as this, I can forgive the rather intrusive drums at the end. Next Rolf Harris as "The Painter" murmurs about his painting and leads us into the rather retro sounding An Architect's Dream, reminding me of Delius from her album Never For Ever and featuring that fretless bass sound that critics like to deride. You'd have thought by now that people might have worked out that Kate does her own thing, and doesn't follow the current fashion in music. If she thinks it is what a track needs she will use it, even if everyone else thought it died out in the 1980s. More orchestral strings play through the short linking piece The Painter's Link which takes us into Sunset. From the start Kate sings "Could be honeycomb" in a way that makes me melt. If I haven't already succumbed then it is about now that I feel that well of tears build up, that odd feeling in the belly, that lump in the throat. Absolutely marvelous! Sunset starts off with a somewhat laid-back jazzy feel, similar to pieces from Jane Siberry's Maria album, before bringing in the flamenco guitar and ending with a joyful carnival of sound. Ok I do have a few niggles about the over-repeated lyrics, but so far this is one of the best recordings of Kate's career.

Aerial Tal, as cute as it is with Kate singing along with a blackbird does break the flow of this disc (and it is where the vinyl version splits "A Sky Of Honey" in two). I do think that this short piece could have been developed further, or used just before the final piece Aerial which starts with a similar flow. It is around now that things take a downward turn, with Somewhere In Between coming across as not really a Bush track at all. Her voice sounds odd to me, the percussion rather bland, and the whole affair just plods by. It is a shame as the lyrics are great and there is a decent tune in there, but the end result is boring, especially coming after all that good stuff. Nocturn starts off sounding as if it is trying to get things back on track, with an eerie keyboard sound and Kate giving some good vocal. Then, it is back to a bloody boring backing beat. Nothing much happens for the next few minutes but gradually more and more layers are built up and that backing beat gets buried. Hurrah! The track finally starts to impress, hits a climax and goes plop into the electronic wibble that starts the final track Aerial. Hurrah! Almost unexpected, this disco booming bouncy track ends the album on a high note. Kate laughs along with the birds celebrating a new dawn and we go into a guitar wankfest with Kate singing unintelligibly. This is fabulous! I usually replay this track I love it so much. You'll find better guitar work elsewhere, better Kate singing, better bouncy beats, but who cares. This is one kick-your-arse-and-make-you-dance-on-the-rooftops type track. Yey!

Overall a damn good album, if you cut out the few bad bits and you like your pop supplied with emotional clout. Not her best (see The Dreaming) but still well worthy of entering her back catalogue.

So there we are. Kate came back, popped her head over her parapet and dropped this album on our heads before disappearing into whatever media-based fantasy land we think she lives in. So goodbye Kate and thank you for this one last album.

Or is it......

RIP Cassettes

Could this be the end of cassette tapes? I used to spend many a happy hour compiling my own compilation tapes to send to people and was always pleased to get one. Even better was when someone created their own cover. I have a pile of tapes, no longer played and gathering dust in a cupboard, but having a clatter through them I found several compilations from others that I ought to give another listen to. Check out those groovy covers (the one with the dog is actually covered in furry felt).

Next - the end of CD compilations, as I now exchange MP3s on small cards.

Plug me in!

Kid's stuff

As a child I spent many a happy hour making things out of lego. Castles, cars, trains, spaceships, all out of those little coloured plastic bricks. However I never thought of doing anything like this version of Escher's Relativity. Yep, people make the strangest things out of lego.

When I was older I got into Origami and made many a flapping bird and many other animals. Nowadays it has become part of spaceship design and people have developed it to make
extremely complex models, like this dragon with folded scales. (Although the site is in Japanese, it is easy to navigate. Check out the insects!)

The Wire

Every now and then, I treat myself to a copy of The Wire, a magazine that covers a more interesting type of music to the usual. I used to get Q magazine but it started to go downhill about 10 years ago. (I even wrote a diatribe around then about how bad it was getting on their online message board, only to find the whole board had been cleared due to "technical problems" a few hours later.) I gave up completely a few years ago as every issue seemed to have a list along the lines of the "top 50 albums by artists that our noses are stuck up the backsides of".

Now where was I. Oh yes, The Wire. I popped into the new Fopp again and found a copy of Sun Ra's "Space Is The Place" (yey! weirdo jazz-jam jollyness!) and then spotted a familiar gurning face by the counter. What's this? Mark E. Smith collaborating with Mouse On Mars? And a freebie CD stuck on the cover? Yes please! So with a copy of Mojo's second best weirdest record ("The Top 50 Records That Will Fry Your Brain") and The Wire under my arm, I went home a happy Boolbar.

The freebie CD is great, and unlike many a giveaway magazine CD I've had before, it is very consistent. The lesser tracks are at least interesting: the odd sound collage does give the effect of biting on sunshine melted Kit-Kats with bits of foil left stuck in the chocolate that find your fillings. (Now there is one good thing about modern packaged Kit-Kats.) Overall the tracks are kept short and snappy, there is plenty of variety, and a nice bit of Throbbing Gristle thrown in. Lovely. As for the Mark. E. Smith / Mouse on Mars "Von Südenfed" track, well it sounds a bit "I've heard stuff like this before" at first. Almost a damp squib, but one that is then heated up in the oven to dry it off, before being put in your pocket along with several matches and some sandpaper. Nice.

As for the Sun Ra, I've been meaning to get this for a while as apart from the aforementioned Mojo list (I have half of the top 20 albums on that list, and they are all great albums), two of my favourite albums of recent times namecheck Sun Ra and this album: Blur's 13 (I seem to be in a minority of one for thinking that 13 is Blur's best album by far) and Primal Scream's XTRMNTR. The title track is a groovy workout with several things happening at once for the majority of the piece, and sounds similar at times to Captain Beefheart's wonderful Mirror Man sessions. At times the album sounds like it is getting into swing territory, at other times an unholy racket, but it is at least fascinating and at best it is an invigorating mind blast.

Hopefully Fopp will continue to supply a decent range of albums, and not end up just providing the mainstream like so many record shops do.

Addict

I haven't posted for days! I blame this for wasting my time. That and going swimming twice in three days which has lead to wanting to flop and rest aching limbs. Hey, I can propel myself from one end of the pool to the other in 30 seconds now, but have to rest for a couple of minutes afterwards. I blame the custard doughnut - it weighs my middle down. Hmmm, custard doughnuts . . . . . .

New Earth

Oh look, somewhere new to go on my holidays. Just need to get the hamster-powered starcar up to speed . . . . .

Big Bunny

I've noticed this rather large bunny on Ananova One could ask "why?", but I think it's rather fun.

I Are The Music Man

There used to be a shop in King's Lynn called "We Are The Music Man". It was a rather stripped down music store, nothing flashy, with a constant background barrage of country music set to a poppy beat. I often popped in there to see what was in the bargain £1 section, and ended up with a few worthy albums as a result. I just bought what looked interesting, and at £1 a time, it was hardly going to be much of a waste if I hated it. Here's a few that I remember :

Mimi - Soak
Ex-Hugo Largo vocalist goes solo and releases a beautiful melodic album. Mainly atmospheric but with some bizarre rockier moments. Just the sort of thing that I like.

The Tiger Lillies - Shockheaded Peter
Imagine The Pogues playing Tom Waits music with vocals by Dame Edna Everage. That's sort of the area that this album comes from. Martyn Jacques' falsetto voice can take a bit of getting used to, but these fairytales of children meeting gruesome endings work so well. Great stuff.

Another Girl - In The Galaxy
Decent female singer/songwriter and multi-instrumentalist. A nice variety of rock, pop and acoustic. Enjoyable.

Pond - Rock Collection
Reminds me of Granddaddy, a mixture of well crafted songs, sometimes moving and sometimes bland, with a few instrumental bits.

Holly McNarland - Stuff
I bought this as the artwork featured a dog's arse. Female singer/songwriter with guitar based acoustic and rock music. Strong vocals and no nonsense lyrics pull this album up.

Pet - Pet
Apparently the first group on Tori Amos's record label, and they do end up sounding a bit like what Tori would, if she fronted a straightforward rock band. Nothing that special, but worth the odd spin.

Anyway, I popped into Lynn and was delighted to find that a Fopp had opened. I like Fopp. Even better was a stand of £1 and £3 albums! Yey! Now although I am on a tight budget at the moment, I still walked out with 6 CDs. Renaissance, Deep Purple, Dolly Parton, Spiritualized, Captain Beefheart come to me! Cheap music rules.

The Great Cushion Invasion

Since Life On Mars ended (what a great show that was), we seemed to have stopped watching TV. We only watched Desperate Housewives, Doctor Who and Have I Got News For You in a week: roughly 2.5 hours of TV. Then last night the big slop happened. The sofa grabbed our arses and held us there, hypnotising us with house-improvement programs before those Wisteria Lane gals returned. After that the comforting cushions stopped us rising, and we had to giggle at Harry Hill (what are the chances of that happening?) Three hours of TV in one night, more than the previous week put together. Something was making us lazy.

I blame those cushions. There are 10 on the sofa. Why do we need 10 cushions on one sofa! Even T. threw a couple on the floor at one point and she loves a good cushion. There are cushions in the bedroom, cushions in the kitchen, cushions in the outhouse! I mean I do like a good cushion to rest my tired back upon, but soft furnishings are taking over. I guess they must be breeding, and I ought to divide them up, but how do you sex a cushion? Or do they just split like amoebas do?

Ha! that's it, they drain our energy while we are watching TV and use it to perform their dance of mitosis. At their current rate of multiplying, our house will be full of cushions by the end of April.

Married Life

Just to prove how middle-aged I am, one of my hobbies is collecting old postcards. See www.maudefealy.vispa.com for my little collection of Maude Fealy postcards. I do like this one below though, it is just like the life T. and I lead!

I'll better hide now before she hits me with a cushion.

Hamster Shredder

I came across this delightful device on Tom Ballhatchet's site. Great for saving energy. Now how many hamsters does it take to power my car?

Magnificent The Wonderfish

Among those soggy bits of paper (see previous post) I found a story. Back in that first tech. support job, we had email for the first time (it was a novelty back at the end of the 1980s for us Brits, I know Americans have had it since the 16th century). Our department soon used email for passing around wacky stories composed piecemeal by each person adding a few lines to the end and passing it on to someone else. One one occasion I got bored and knocked up a spontaneously written epic about Magnificent The Wonderfish which was printed out on some random printer in the building. It got found, passed around and so, due to popular demand of one, I wrote another one. Soon there was four such silly stories and people feared to approach me. 20 years later, here is that first story, now in glorious technicolour (the colours black and white). Note also the period details, such as references to British Railways.

Magnificent The Wonderfish Fights The Early Morning Blues

Twas Flopday and all was groovy. The trees were rising over the horizon and bricks were wafting in the early morning thermals. A steaming kipper was sunbathing in the shadow of a large but friendly rock. This piscian creature was no cats' dinner however, for this was Magnificent the Wonderfish, the fish who single fin-didly saved the universe three times before breakfast.

Magnificent opened one beady eye and announced to no-one in particular "I hate mornings!"

"I wholeheartedly agree" oozed a passing BR pork-pie (ex-stock 1978). "There's nothing worse then having to face lots of bleary-eyed commuters on the 6:23 from Wigan every morning".

Magnificent pondered this for a while and decided to do something about mornings. "They must be terminated!" he cried to a now sizable audience of agreeable egg-whisks.

"Yes! Yes!" they chanted, whisking like mad and enjoying the fact that they had a speaking part in paragraph five.

Magnificent waved his magic wooden spoon, shouted "Oregano!" and cooked a lentil surprise with juicy mushrooms to give him much needed energy for his new quest. "Burp" he concluded and had a quick nap.

Upon waking from a nice dream about amoebas Magnificent gave a fishy grin and flew east which seemed to be the direction from which mornings came. On and on he flew. On and on and on. On and on and on and on. In fact he flew quite a long way until finally he came to a very bulbous cloud with a silver lining. A wooden sign announced "Big Bouncy Beer Bar" so Magnificent headed towards the sound of merry-making and wassailing.

He entered the bar which was situated in a large green podule on top of the cloud. Carving a way through the thick smoke and language within he headed for the counter with a shout of "A pint of Whumph and a bag of Wiggets please!". Beverage supplied he eyed the inhabitants of the hovel. Several flowerpots were playing un-pool (only equipment you need is a heavy cue and a good aim) while a pack of sticky labels pontificated from a table about life, the universe and the 6:23 from Wigan. In a strangely rounded corner sat several shredded wheats who were burbling and arranging themselves in threes.

Magnificent suddenly had a brain-wave. After vigorously toweling himself down he realised that it must be the shredded wheats who were behind mornings. "In order to make people eat boring gray breakfasts, there must be a morning in which such horrors pale beside the effort of getting out of bed!" he said with a swish of his shiny tale.

He swiftly launched an attack. "Garam Masala!" he yelled and dived at the evil shreddies. A few seconds of fishy superpower was all that was needed. Magnificent stood surrounded by crumbs and a free plastic toy (collect the entire set!), "Hurrah!" cried the nearby soap-on-a-rope, "You've saved us from a lifetime of morning misery".

"Ah shucks!" muttered Magnificent and headed home just in time to see the dawning of a new afternoon.

The bricks made no comment.

Slug Eaten Bits From The Past

I was rooting in the depths of our falling down garage and found a soggy, slug eaten pile of old papers from 20 years ago. They had been boxed a couple of house moves ago and long since dumped in the back of the garage. I found a couple of doodles from university days . . . .

This one obviously represents the great circle of life and how we all struggle to stamp our unique identity during our brief time alive. Or I was just bored during a statistics lecture.

This one is a concept showing how organised religion can destroy the preciousness that is innocence by introducing a fear of evil. Or I was still in that bloody statistics lecture.

I also found this snippet from a printer manual, obtained during my first ever job on telephone support for a computer company. Step three is vital!

The Impossible Quiz

I have just wasted some slightly amusing time on The Impossible Quiz. I gave up on Q42 though.

Eggspectant

I was rather amused by this snippet from todays Eastern Daily Press.

In Search Of The Lost Mudley

One of my all time favourite singles is The Portsmouth Sinfonia's "Classical Mudley", which was their response to the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra's "Hooked On Classics". Basically short excepts of well known classical music set to a disco beat. The Portsmouth Sinfonia had an out of sync beat with their typical fuzzy approach to the classics. I usually find I end up in tears as I laugh so much. I tried to find a copy on the 'net but could only come up with another of their tracks on YouTube.

Spring

Spring is here.
I can always tell, the moment you realise that you can't buy the things you like in the supermarket because they've had to make room for mountains of chocolate eggs. Gah!
Still, only 5 months until the Christmas Puddings appear.

I am also one of those people chosen by Tescos to use as a barometer of what to stock. If I buy the same thing for more than a couple of months, then they stop stocking it.
I'm sure that they think I'll start buying something else instead, like their own brand. Well, I do end up buying something else, from another supermarket.

They won't achieve world domination if they don't stock my wheaties.

Fool

I've only just noticed that it is April. Yey! I really don't notice the days go by any more.

Ye Olde Boolbar

Something is making me feel middle-aged.
Now was it getting up bright and early on Saturday to get to town by 9am, to avoid the crowds? (Well, King's Lynn at noon is not a pretty sight, and the bakers might sell out of buns if I'm not there soon enough).
Was it going to a garden centre and thinking that a water butt would be useful?
Or was it taking to a cauliflower in the supermarket? (it was a particularly splendid example of cauliflowerhood, so it deserved a "hmm, you'll do nicely").
I do seem to be talking to myself (or to inanimate objects) far too much just lately. And falling asleep in front of the TV.
At least I do go and see some up-to-date music, like Muse. Although at their last gig (Birmingham) a lot of the audience seemed to be families, and many looked older then I. I remember being at a Muse gig back in 2000 where I felt like the oldest swinger in town, now I must be pretty average . . . or at least pretty :)
I guess I'll have to find some other modern beat combo to listen to, just to keep my street cred. Like these Articulated Monkeys or Kaiser Chefs I keep hearing of.

A secret Life.

I have a confession to make.

I am a Kate Bush Fan.

There. I've said it. Exposed myself. You can leave now if you want. The door's over there, the one with the Kate Bush poster on it. Yes, I know she's dressed as a lion and it is a bit kinky, but just see yourself out.

It is a social embarrassment, having people suddenly pointing at you saying "look, a Kate Bush Fan" and whirling both their arms around their heads screeching "It's Me Cathy" (the poor deluded people don't realise that it is only one arm for Wuthering Heights, both arms is Wow.) Way back at the end of the 70s and early 80s I sneakily liked to watch this strange woman in leotards doing cartwheels, roller skating and patting her backside, all done to rather catchy pop. However being a young lad at school I had to hide this strange quirk of mine, instead discussing the relative merits of the current in favour rock band (Rainbow! Motörhead! Asia! yikes!).

At university I discovered the delights of prog-rock and soon Kate was forgotten. After all when you have songs of 10 minutes and longer, lyrics about lawnmowers, aqualungs and amoebas, sung by blokes standing on one leg or dressed as a flower, who needs pop. Pop was to be avoided at all costs. Nasty little tunes with boring beats. Yuk.

However in 1987 I was suddenly reminded of her existence. Pangs of nostalgia and the horrible thought that I couldn't remember what Wuthering Heights actually sounded like forced me to venture into the local record shop. I walked in and right in front of me was a stand covered in Kate. Kate in the sale. A sign! Her lips seemed to be saying "you know you want me - buy me, buy me now!” I was weak, I couldn't resist.

Trouble is, I now had to buy Kate, this meant interaction with a sales bloke behind the counter. People might see me buying this! And I thought buying my first condoms was bad. I walked past the stand, grabbing a Kate cassette, hoping no one would notice. Then straight to the Brian Eno section to buy something that hopefully would save me some embarrassment. I waited until there was no queue and went to the counter. Just then half the customers in the shop decided that it was about time they too should go to the counter. People behind me! What if they saw what I was buying? I pushed the two cassettes across the counter with the Eno on top of the Kate. The assistant tapped in the price for the Eno and then held the Kate cassette high above his head and shouted to some other bloke at the back of the store, "HOW MUCH IS THE KATE BUSH".

A shocked silence descended.

Well it seemed that way. I had a feeling that everyone had turned in horror and was staring at me. I thought I should turn and say it wasn't for me, it was for a friend. But that would mean I had a friend who liked Kate Bush, and that would be just as bad. This assistant was rubbing my face in it. Why wave the offending article so everyone could see it, why bellow so loudly so that not only the entire shop, but people outside would know what I was buying? They would all be lingering outside the store, waiting to see what sort of person would venture in public to buy Kate Bush albums.

After an eternity that lasted a good second, the price was yelled back, money was exchanged and I got my rather red face out of there and started to hoof it home. After 5 minutes I realised that the plastic bag was mainly transparent and Kate's face was in full view. Argh! Quick wrap it up, walk faster, get home.

Back in my bed-sit with a really good mug of tea to calm myself down, I slipped the cassette into my tape deck, and with a last check to make sure everyone else was out of the house, I pressed play. . . .

A few minutes later I was blubbing. Feelings that had lay dormant for years had been stirred. She was back. It was good. Kate was to be my new musical love.

Soon I found I wasn't alone. There were others like me. I started meeting other fans, usually in secret locations like Top Withins on Haworth Moor where only sheep and deluded hikers go. A chance to be a Kate Fan and talk to like minded people about Her, without people rounding us up and chasing us out of town. I started wearing Kate Bush T-shirts in public, no doubt shocking a few people, but soon found that most people don't really care.

It's been 20 years now. Kate fans seem to be generally accepted these days. After all we may be a bit shy about admitting our love for the red-lipped warbling banshee, but underneath we are normal people, almost. Just don't say things like "It's been a long time since her last album hasn't it" or "Do you always wear leg warmers in Summer?" or "Tori Amos is great!" and Kate Fans usually remain calm.

So go on, say "Wow" a few times. You may get to like it.

Autogeddon

A couple of weeks ago I drive happily into a Tesco garage, fill up, and within 1 second of driving out of the forecourt the car starts stuttering and juddering. The part of my brain that likes to store useful information away, but in the wrong box, suddenly pulled out the sheet of paper that read "Tesco have been selling dodgy fuel! It's been in the news for weeks you dolt!". The part of my brain that likes to swear sprung into action . . . .

My poor car crawled around for a couple of days until I booked it into a garage. I called Tesco and they confirmed that that garage on that day did have the demon fuel. Oh dear.

Time passes . . . .

My car is fixed! Trouble is, the garage have found that the ignition coil was playing up, there was a faulty spark plug lead and an oil leak. Nothing to do with fuel whatsoever.
Oh and my brakes disks were as thin as a supermodel in a car-crusher, and the suspension was like a kangeroo on e-numbers. And would you like this bill for £500?

Just my luck to have a car that will run on the nastiest fuel, but decides to go pop seconds after filling up with the stuff.

Mutant Chocolate Eaters

T. and I received our regular box of chocolates from those nice chocy people at Hotel Chocolat . However upon opening the box we found a disaster awaiting. Several chocolates had melted and flowed over most of the rest of the box. Wait a mess! Luckily a phone call later means another box is on its way. I did ask what I should do with the melted box and they told me to throw it in the bin.

What! Throw away chocolate!

We have been picking out mutant lumps of chocolate all afternoon in a "guess what centre this used to be" kind of way. Yum.

Albums Reunited

Due to a tank of dodgy fuel, my car is out of action. Luckily the in-laws have lent me their car so I can still get to work (no public transport, unless I want to take all day to get there). It has a cassette player which has forced me to dig out all those old cassettes of mine, with recordings of all my old vinyl. I haven't heard some of this stuff for years! Brian Eno's "Another Green World", Gryphon's "Red Queen to Gryphon Three", Quiet Sun's "Mainstream", International Harvester's "Sov Got Rose Marie". All great albums that have been hidden away for years. I do now notice how ancient some of it sounds though, those squeeky synth sounds and muffled studio recording (although that might be down to the age of my tapes!). Within a few minutes though I forget that and just indulge in those early 70s sounds.
I find the same happens with the 80s. Nasty sounding synth squeals to begin with, then 10 minutes later, I'm just enjoying some great music.

All this nostalgia is making me itch to dig out my hamster driven turntable from the loft. I am slowly buying old vinyl albums on new shiny CDs, but you can't beat a big cover, two sides and a bit of dust. I used to know what the track titles were, but now it's just "track 4 is great".

I feel old. Bah!

New Old Albums

Speaking of Claire Hamill, I was rather pleased to get a couple of her old albums on CD from Japan. They are miniature versions of the original LP sleeves, even down to the insert found in Abracadabra. So cute!
In the same post, and from the same era ('74/75) I also got Steve Hackett's "Voyage of The Acolyte", and I had to laugh at seeing the bonus track "Shadow Of the Hierophant (extended version)" being 17 minutes long. Someone must have thought that 11 minutes just wasn't long enough; let's make a long progrock classic even longer (and having heard it, I don't see the point - the original is just the right length but has an unnecessary fade-out (UFO), the extended version just drags on and still has the UFO. I was expecting some sort of proper conclusion that didn't fit on the original vinyl LP).
Yes, I hate UFOs. Why not end a track properly! It is like being at a great party, then someone ties you to a chair and slowly moves the party down the street leaving you stuck behind. Grrr.
(Note that I don't condemn all fade-outs, just the unnecessary ones!)
I shall attempt to review these albums shortly (all favourites for 20 years, that makes me feel old.)

Start

I keep looking at other people's blogs, so I thought it was about time to start my own. No doubt I will go on and on about music, Mornington Crescent, bad Vauxhall Astra drivers and those strange things that seem to appeal to myself only, like Claire Hamill singing "October has a leafy smell" which somehow makes the happy lobe connect to the giggle bone.

I will now butcher that profile thingy so it makes more sense.


Clapham South