Thursday, 14 May 2015

O brother, where art thou?

I read the news today (Oh, Boy) and was mildly alarmed to read that Liam Gallagher thinks he can 'get the band back together' without Noel. Hmmm: what Liam Gallagher is blissfully unaware of is that he's a Number Two. In the same way that Art Garfunkel is a Number Two. And John Oates.

Unlike Liam, I have a soft spot for his big brother. Noel is the brains behind the operation. Without Noel there isn't an Oasis. Without Noel it's just another Beady Eye. Or worse, a Beady Eye tribute band, And as any right minded individual will tell you, the best part of any Oasis gig was always in the interval when Liam and his cronies went to the bar for twenty minutes, leaving Noel out front sat on a stool playing his acoustic.


Sunday, 10 May 2015

A day at the seaside



Yesterday's trip to the seaside was a joy from start to finish. From the mug of builders tea in the railway station caff to the last beer 'for the road', we saw the sights and then some.






A wedding on the beach, beer with disturbing pumpclips, fright wigs, fish and chips, gulls from hell, telephone boxes that worked, a madly in love couple playing cards and road signs that, not to put too fine a point on it, look like kn*bs. A fun day out. Thanks to Posh Bird and Boss Man - our pacemakers for the day.






Wednesday, 6 May 2015

I'm looking for the wessel


It was Saturday lunchtime and Lee and I were blowing the froth off a couple of cold ones, when in walks a total stranger and makes his way to our table. He reached for his inside pocket and pulled out a faded black and white photograph. Pictured was a very old ship. 'I'm looking for the vessel' he said pointing at the photo profusely. 'Do you know where it went down?' I looked at Lee. Lee looked at me.

If only he'd been Russian and couldn't pronounce his Vs.

Tuesday, 5 May 2015

All that money and they live like pigs

Trough not pictured
A little over ten years after the publication of Animal Farm and two young piglets, in true Orwellian style, took over the nation's TV screens and refused to budge. However, unlike Napoleons and Snowball, Pinky & Perky made a right song and dance about it. Week in, week out.

They even predated the Now That's What I Call Music brand by releasing their own versions of the hits of the day. In 1974, just when you thought Paper Lace had scraped the bottom of the MOR barrel with Billy Don't Be A Hero, our two little piggies took it to market and then put it through their very own sausage machine.

Saturday, 2 May 2015

I want to ride my bicycle (but not in lycra)

The lovely Heidi

We had the Tour de Yorkshire pass through our region yesterday. The whole town saw fit to deck itself out in blue and yellow - the race's colours: even the sheep. The sprint stage was at the rear of our local, so it was only a hop skip and a jump from my bar stool to watch the ten seconds of action and return to my beer. In that ten seconds I managed to get a photo of the leading bunch. Note to self: lycra is not a good look.

Wednesday, 29 April 2015

Backs to the wall


Last Sunday afternoon was too nice not to take the guitars into the back garden and annoy the neighbours. The Number One Son and I played this song a couple of weeks ago in a very traditional folk club in Leeds. We'd not been before and, as we were making our way to the venue, I said to James that he'd be the youngest person there; and I'd be the second. Right and right again. As you can see, we play this without resorting to putting our fingers in our ears. I hope you can listen to it without doing the same.


And a big thank you to Kirstie


Saturday, 25 April 2015

Calling a spade a spade

Borrowing my friend Jane's turfing spade to form a new border (for Doris to sunbathe in) cost me dearly the other day. After inadvertently hitting rock, the tool buckled beneath the weight of my size nines and soon took on the appearance of a bizarre Uri Geller experiment.

Turns out the spade in question is a family heirloom dating back to the turn of the nineteenth century and was reputedly used to tend the gardens in nearby Castle Howard. Apparently you can't put a price on it. You can, however, put a price on a Spear and Jackson modern day replacement. Whether or not Jane ever speaks to me again, on the other hand, is anyone's guess.

Sunday, 19 April 2015

Pick up a Penguin


That's six now. I may take a Penguin vacation and revisit them later. In the meantime, a couple of them are for sale over at Artfinder.

And if you can't see what you like there, feel free to get in touch via the comments box below.




Thursday, 16 April 2015

This one skips along at quite a pace

When you get paid to write about music you should stay well clear of the cliché. And the dreaded screamer! If a band or artist's new platter is a return to form, it's best not to mention it; just think it. Likewise, said record may well be a sonic cathedral of sound - but keep it to yourself.

When The Banned recorded Little Girl in 1977 I had no idea it was a cover. Yet despite (cliché ahead warning) nailing it, I think it's safe to say it can't hold a candle to the original.

Syndicate of Sound: often imitated, never bettered, And if you were to say it skips along at quite a pace, I wouldn't argue with you.


For James

Sunday, 12 April 2015

Sweetie


Adele has the honour of being my fifth Penguin and also my first mixed medium: acrylic and water colour. And unlike the previous four (Ian Fleming, Paul McCartney, Jenny Medd and Jane Friend), I've painted her edges.

Although Adele isn't really a posh bird, she is a baker. And a sweetie.


Wednesday, 8 April 2015

Turn back the dial


My friend Phil does up old radiograms and Bluetooths his eclectic record collection through them in his rather wonderful pub. The names on the dial conjure up all sorts of imagery and evoke so many memories. I swear I can smell the valves warming up. And that's not a euphemism.

From top to bottom, left to right:

BBC Third, National, Hilversum, Athens, Budapest, West Reg, R Norm, Western Reg, Scottish Regional, Brussels, Beromunster, Dublin, N. Ireland, London R, Marseilles, Prague, Radio Eireann, Athens, Madrid, Berlin, Rome, Northern Reg, BBC Third, Cork, Mid. R, Welsh Reg, Paris PTT, Sottens

Oslo, Luxembourg, National, R. Paris, Lahti, Kalundborg, Motala, Ankara, Moscow, Huizen

Monday, 6 April 2015

They should call it the Humber Delta

I was born in Kingston-upon-Hull. That's what it says on my passport. You'll know it as Hull. And if you're a true local you'll drop the H. If you ever pitch up there, the chances are you're not passing through; it's not on the way to anywhere
(except Rotterdam) and, despite its City of Culture status it's still better known for white phone boxes than William Wilberforce. And, of course,  tenfoots.

Saturday, 4 April 2015

The McNamaras are coming (back)

'Roscommon' acrylic on canvas
Later this year I shall be making an emotional return to Roscommon. From being a babe in arms to a stroppy teenager, I and the rest of the Medds went on an annual pilgrimage across The Irish Sea to my maternal grandmother's year after year after year. And for the first fifteen of those summers I had a blast. But by 1977 I'd had enough. So much so that two days into the vacation and I baled: a quick 'phone call to my favourite Auntie north of the border and I was travelling, alone, on a bus through 'the troubles' and spent the rest of the fortnight in Lurgan, Co. Armagh. Happy days.
  But now, I want to go back. See the old place again. Will it have changed? Probably. Will I recognise the place? Definitely. Will I be able to take a walk down to Hessians and grab myself an ice cream wafer. Alas, no: Cyril Hessian, like the lone Texaco petrol pump on his forecourt, is long gone.
  My cousin Raymond, who will be joining us on our quest, sent an email to the local rag ahead of the trip. I'm not expecting a ticker-tape reception, but a pint of the black stuff with their reporter & toggy would be nice. Here's what Ray had to say.


I am Raymond Murray, son of Aidan Murray (born 1934, Ballyleague) and Carmel McNamara (born 1936, Strokestown). My mother’s family moved to Ard-na-Greine in Roscommon town around 1940. My grandfather was Sergeant Joe McNamara, my grandmother, Mary (Maxie), nee Lynch from Donegal. They produced 14 children, Sean, Phyllis, Gerry, Joe, Myra, all deceased, and Mabel, Olive, Dolores, Carmel, Paddy, Adrian, Noel, Bernie and Stella. 

My granny may well be remembered by many still living in the town. She was a renowned golfer and a tremendous consumer of a product called Jameson’s Whisky. You may have heard of it! My aunt Stella (Finnerty) has lived locally in Knockcroghery for 40+ years, a couple of doors down from the great Jamesie Murray’s pub. As you know, in the 1950s work was hard to come by in rural Ireland, with many having to go overseas to support themselves. 

My parents moved to London in 1953, returning to marry on 5th August 1957, before returning to England until 1968. We now live in Lurgan in County Armagh. Several of my mother’s sisters also moved and settled in England and live there to this day. As separate families, the various McNamaras travelled from parts of England to visit Ard-na-Greine each summer, but often our paths would cross as we squeezed into granny’s three bedroom house. As is normal, you veer towards those of your own age. So John Medd (born 1960. son of Dolores), Adrianne Stone (born 1959, daughter of Mabel), Susan Medhurst (born 1959, daughter of Olive) and myself (born 1959) formed special bonds. 

Memories of ice-cream from Cyril Hession’s shop opposite the county hospital; what seemed like very hot summers spent at Portrunny on the Shannon in the pre-sunscreen days of old; and the occasional night out to Con Moran’s pub or the Kon-Tiki near Rooskey to hear the soon to be famous Brendan Shine. Then life took over…..we grew up, we married, had children, did what people do….and drifted apart. John, Adrianne and Susan remain in England, but let’s not penalise them for that. We did, after all, thump them at rugby quite recently. But with many of our domestic commitments now fulfilled, and with luck having smiled on us, we have recently rekindled our friendships. We had a wonderful gathering in Lurgan in 2013, but always felt that a visit to Roscommon town would be a fitting way to seal our reunion. It is now 40 years since we spent a summer together in your town……and it’s been too long. Flights are booked, cars are hired and the four of us are staying in Gleeson’s on Saturday 4th July along with our wives and husbands. The girls have husbands, the boys have wives. (It’s not something you would have thought necessary to mention in the 1960’s but the times they are a changing). We hope to visit some of the afore-mentioned places and perhaps pay a tribute to Jameson’s, which killed my poor granny at the age of 93. Legal proceedings are ongoing. I hope this story is of interest to you.