Room 101

You've all seen the TV programme "Room 101" where celebrities discuss their most hated things. I was inspired to write in similar vein after a visit to my local supermarket whose name, for the sake of libel action, I have changed.

Why, in the name of all that's holy, do children turn from normal, everyday monsters into shrill, devil-ridden, hyperactive maniacs whenever they go through supermarket doors? Equally, why do mothers allow them free rein to rampage amongst the poor innocent shoppers, laying waste to all in their path? What chemical imbalance is triggered the moment those doors open to admit yet another bratlet whose genes replicate those of Mongol warriors, running amok through the Steppes?

Today, as I wandered around Scummerfields, optimistically gazing at the occasional mouldering pieces of fruit and veg. on the predominantly empty shelves, my peace was shattered by the arrival of three sweet, cherubic children. Well, they seemed quite normal as they walked demurely across the square and then, Shazzam!, it happened. Screaming at the tops of their voices they hurtled up and down the aisles whilst normal folk hid desperately behind the stack of "Buy one, get one free" Transylvanian Shiraz. Their parents murmured gently to each other as they loaded their trolley with another 20,000 E numbers, totally oblivious to the shoppers hastily opening corned beef tins in a desperate attempt at suicide.

Gritting my teeth, I selected my few comestibles and hurried to the check-out, which leads me to Hate #2. I know that the cheerful greeting of the operator is totally false in supermarkets but, in this particular one, even a glance would have been appreciated. The lank-haired, pustulent retard totally ignored me whilst carrying on a conversation with another of his colleagues who stood there idly juggling packets of pork scratchings (an exotic delicacy to the average customer).

Me being me, I thanked him profusely for his attention and apologised for having interrupted his leisure time but the irony seemed lost. I always try and chat to checkout operators because it must be a thankless task but one thing that really, really gets to me is rudeness. I'm sure they do special courses in ignoring customers and my final, gleeful hope as I escaped was that, if there was any justice in the world, he would get lumbered with the children!

Right, next pet hate: women in short teeshirts that shouldn't! I mean, do I really want to see their stretch marks? If you have a belly that hangs down below your crutch, for God's sake, hide the damn thing! Usually, such people are tattooed (you can tell the posh ones because the tattoos are spelt properly) and wear dirty white stilettoes, leggings and ankle bracelets. I'm all for freedom of choice but there is a limit! See, you can tell I'm getting steamed up now by the number of exclamation marks!

BMW drivers are another one, especially old, red BMWs. If they owned the frigging road, they'd be given Deeds of Ownership but oh, do they act as if they do. Window down and 20,000 watts of bass deafening all those around, they hurtle through the streets ignoring all and sundry. Maybe they can't see because they are wearing their trendy shades and their windscreen is obscured by their "Daz and Trace" sunstrip. Just you wait until I'm Prime Minister, the crusher plants will be doing a roaring trade.

Last one now, honest.

We have Sky: something for which I am eternally grateful as I have always wanted to watch innumerable repeats of The Vicar of Dibley. However, what is going on with the shopping channels? Who on earth is going to sit there for 30 minutes watching some shrieking American audience going positively orgasmic about an electrical device which can turn normal food into a tasteless, rubbery mass? More to the point, who the hell is going to pay good money for such a gadget? Tummy trimmers, food steamers, underwear that can turn a Size 24 into an anorexic - do people actually buy these things? Is it a coincidence that they're never seen in normal shops?

I was watching a demonstrator extolling the virtues of a car polish the other day (purely in the interest of this blog) and he poured lighter fluid over a car bonnet, set fire to it and then gleefully turned to the camera. "Just look at that, it's still shiny" he exclaimed. I was immediately tempted to buy. After all, what better than, after my car has caught fire and incinerated me, the fire service gaze admiringly at the gleaming bodywork and remember it as a suitable memorial.

Mrs B. occasionally watches Create & Craft (usually in the middle of a sleepless night, when even The Vicar of Dibley has run out of steam). Why, I don't know? She is usually a woman of exemplary taste. I sit there aghast at these jolly presenters enthusing about someone demonstrating how to make a totally shite card for about 5 times the cost of buying something far better. I try to imagine the look of pride on the crafter's face as a slightly wonky card is handed over and the recipient has to mutter strangled words of gratitude. Découpage sounds really cool until you realise that it is merely sticking bits of card, really naff pictures and some totally disgusting fake gemstones in a pile and pretending it's a wonderful creation.

I love to hear the presenter praising the product and demonstrator to the skies. "Oh, wow, so that's how you use a glue stick. Amazing and only £16.99 plus another £6 post and package. How about using it with these wonderfully exciting designs, rather reminiscent of 1950s wallpaper, and these teabags?" Teabags!!! Are they mad? Apparently, teabags are pieces of paper which these craft-y people can turn into all sorts of fun things and are defined thus:

Tea bag folding uses some of the techniques of Origami combined with tiny squares of patterned paper. Once folded these squares are combined in attractive geometric patterns to form a larger design. The art of tea bag folding is said to have been born when a clever Dutch crafter decided to work with the decorative envelopes used to hold fruit tea bags. As the craft developed specially printed sheets have been produced with patterned squares ready to cut out and fold.

Gosh, no wonder they all look so excited!

Oh, for a Room 101. Not that I am getting old and crotchety, I just like what I like. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to cook myself a full 6 course meal in only 5 minutes on my Whizz-O-Matic griddle - a miracle of modern science and worth every penny of the personal loan I took out to buy it. One of these days, it's going to work properly.........it looked so easy on the shopping channel.

Memories are Made of This

It's not often that one gets the chance to see a Rolling Stones concert. Leaving aside the scarcity of tickets and the cost (an arm, a leg plus other assorted extraneous bits), they're hardly a band who play regular gigs at the local Palais.

We journeyed up to what was the Millennium Dome, now sponsored by O2 and called, with amazing logic, the O2, clutching a free pair of £100 tickets won from (you've guessed it) O2. We wanted to re-acquaint ourselves with a band that we had both last seen in our teens and, unknown to each other until recently, at the same venue: The Hyde Park concert. Neither of us had been to the Dome before so it was going to be a good day out all round.

Th travel up there was painless; car to Brighton Station, hop straight onto a (surprisingly) clean and comfy train and, an hour later, we were at London Bridge. As we both know London fairly well, we decided to go direct to Greenwich and have a good look round, but first we detoured to find a direct descendant of Dick Turpin masquerading as a coffee shop owner. Now, prices down our way aren't cheap but £8 for two small coffees and wafer-thin cookies is pushing it! Travelling on the Jubilee Line through such exotic places as Bermondsey and Canary Wharf, we arrived at the Dome and it was quite a sight. Obviously, it's all very new and the infrastructure is extremely smart so we had high hopes of passing a few pleasant hours before the gig.

There were already people wandering around in a variety of Stones-related apparel and the merchandising shop was setting up to sell even more. They had everything: dozens of different tee-shirts, hoodies, boxer shorts, pyjamas, bandanas, wallets, flip-flops etc. etc. As usual, these weren't cheap with tee-shirts starting at £22 and programmes £15 but, judging by the number of people milling around, they wouldn't be short of customers. We had a chat with one of the guys who's been on the whole tour. The "Bigger Bang" tour started two years ago and comprised of 147 shows around the world with only these last 3 at the O2 in England. He scotched any reported rumours that tonight's show was their last ever and gave us a bit of an insight into "Stone'sWorld".

Having seen all that, we wandered round the rest of the O2, which was primarily a food mall. Everything from sushi to snacks were available and we eventually settled on a meal in "The Slug & Lettuce". Without going into gastronomic detail, should you ever see one of these in your travels: keep going"! Of course, everywhere was non-smoking so there were vast crowds outside partaking of what the minority determined and we periodically emerged, blinking, into the sunshine. More and more people were arriving and I suddenly realised that this army of Stones fans, in their "uniform" of assorted tee-shirts had about 6 complete heads of hair between them!. It's quite weird to think of this balding, large-bellied older generation gyrating to Mick and the boys in an earlier era and I laughed as I mentioned this to Mrs. B. She solemnly pointed out that we were of similar vintage so I shut up at that point.

n.b. Just to clear up any ambiguity, I am not balding and am within 4lbs of being "normal" on the BMI scale and Mrs B. scrubs up pretty well too. The only one I'll admit to is the age comment!

By now, there was a small multitude at the merchandising point and selling had commenced. I umm-ed and ahh-ed about whether I actually wanted a tee-shirt but in the end, there was one I could live with and it's kind of traditional to always buy one at gigs (or several if it's Neil Young). I fought my way into the crowd and finally managed to get next in a queue. The woman in front of me spent £280 on various things and took an age so I was mightily relieved when she disappeared. "May I have the the euphemistically labelled "DVD Tongue" in Large, please?" I asked the bored-looking lady. She eventually returned and with a laconic "We've only got them in Medium" proceeded to the next customer!

I re-emerged from the scrum more than a little disgruntled but with a certain satisfaction that their lack of tee-shirt had reduced the Rolling Stones profits by a few quid. That'll make a difference!

Talking of matters financial: say a ticket averages £100. There are 20,000 seats in The O2 and 3 nights. I make that £6 million in ticket money alone! Apparently, The O2 is a relatively small venue and there were 147 shows so we're talking close to £1000 million for the whole tour. They do no sound checks etc. themselves so their role is 2 hours per night, meaning less than 9 35 hour weeks worked in the last 2 years. Just for playing music and being adored!

Anyway, the show was approaching and we managed to blag upgrades into the O2 Executive area. This was not as exciting as we first thought as all it got us were comfy seats in a white leather-walled and upholstered lounge where the drinks were twice the price of anywhere else and O2 hosts and hostesses came and pretended to be interested in what people were saying. Still, we had special wristbands so we could pretend we were important.

Finally, it was showtime. A 10 minute walk round to find our entrance and then up a couple of long escalators as we went higher and higher into the dome itself. When we went inside, it was astonishingly high and the tiers angled at 45 degrees so both of us suddenly decided vertigo was the word of the day. However, when we eventually dared open our eyes, we found we were directly in front of the stage so all seemed well.

The support band "The Enemy" were into their set although the majority of the audience were still outside so I fiddled around with my camera to try and work out how I could get a decent photo of a stage approximately 3 miles away. As the time drew nearer, the auditorium filled and the lighting guys, sound engineers etc. all took their places. There were 7 riggers in the lights above the stage so I thought it safe to say that all would be slick, if nothing else.



The lights dimmed and the big screen behind the stage was filled with images and then, to a mighty roar of appreciation, they emerged and launched into Start Me Up. Fortunately, great camera work ensured every movement of the band was captured and Mick still moved well, and non-stop, throughout the performance. His voice is still pretty good too and only one James Brown cover proved difficult for him. Mrs B. did comment on the sight of a 64 year old man parading in skin-tight trousers and 8 inches of stomach showing being a trifle sad but I'd be happy to be in that shape at his age, and whatever you may think, Mick is a showman par excellence. Ronnie seemed to be having a good time and his slide guitar was as good as ever. Charlie looked on from the back with a slightly amused, avuncular air, indulging the others whilst, no doubt, dreaming of going back home for a nice cup of tea and some jazz drumming. He used to live in Lewes, not far from me and had been lnown to pop into the local pub for their Monday jazz nights, along with Herbie Flowers.

I'd been looking forward to seeing Keith Richard especially, given his predilection to try and make Ozzy Osbourne look normal. All I can really say is that when I try and play bass, I occasionally seem to fit in with the rest of the music and he was the same. Whether the dried frog pills were kicking in sporadically, I don't know, but at times he seemed to be playing a totally different song to the others.

Halfway through the set, the stage suddenly moved forward on a massive walkway and they were right in the middle of the auditorium, surrounded by a sea of adoring fans. I managed some decent video from there and they were by now well into the "golden oldies". Satisfaction, Honky Tonk Women and Sympathy for the Devil were belted out in rapid succession. Jumping Jack Flash, with Brown Sugar as an encore, finished the performance as well as the Tour and 20,000 people all descended towards the tube station.

As we emerged, I found myself disappointed. What I'd seen was a performance of total slickness but a performance lacking in real feeling. There was no frisson of excitement that their records once generated. There were fans there from all over Europe who wouldn't really care what the band performed as they were there because it was the Stones. In other words, it was an occasion. Of course, I should expect nothing else. They have come a long way since those heady days of their youth when the music was their whole raison d'etre and the fact that people wanted the old stuff was an indication of their apparent inabilty or lack of desire to move on musically. They are an anachronism, a reminder perhaps of people's youth that they desperately want to cling to. The only analogy I can make is that it was like watching the 1980 England squad playing now. You can see that the skill and knowledge is there but it's just not as it was.

The journey home was a nightmare. The trains which British Rail had told us were due, according to their website, were as elusive as the Hogwarts Express. However, we eventually managed as far as Gatwick, which was the nearest we could get to home. Fortunately, we made the last National Express coach and arrived back at Brighton Station at 2am. After almost losing my Visa card in the payment machine at the car park, we finally made it back indoors.

An interesting day out which I think will get even better as time goes on and we forget the inadequacies and just remember the fact: we saw the Rolling Stones.

Party Night

Well, it's over and, carrying on the song title theme, oh, what a night!

By teatime, I had convinced myself that it was all going to be a disaster; no people there, laptop spontaneously combusting , me being tarred and feathered for daring to impersonate an entertainer etc, etc. It's a funny thing though, when I got there I felt totally calm and ready. Even when one of my speakers was more silent than a Trappist monk with laryngitis, I remained calm. This was primarily because, as my electrical knowledge is so totally non-existent, I knew that I could do nothing. Fortunately, the band were setting up and Geoff, the bass player, came to offer some techie advice and swapped a few cables round. His knowledge, and some neat rewiring by Katie's brother, meant that I was once more full stereo and ready to go. The pub had been decorated, people were there, chef Nathan had a buffet prepared so all was ready.

Katie was due about 8 so I put some music on autoplay and sat on the terrace with a pint of Mr Carling's liquid Valium. Was it my imagination or did I see groups of young ladies casting admiring glances in my direction? Could it be my mature good looks or the lure of basking in the reflected glory of the DJ? Ooh, talking of reflection, I realised that they still had the delight of the gold sequin shirt which I was saving for just before the grand entrance.

We got a hurried phone call - target sighted! ETA 10 minutes. I was in the middle of a discussion about a stage name at the time and someone had just suggested DJ Gray-veYard (a bit hurtful, I thought) so I hurried upstairs to change and came down to looks of astonishment and comments such as "F*** me, it's a walking Glitterball". Realising that my credibility had just been blown sky-high, I launched Celebration by Kool & the Gang as Katie turned up. Bless her, she had absolutely no idea of the surprise and her face was a picture,

Fortunately, all the equipment worked more or less perfectly so the band and I alternated the music for the next 3 hours. Tasteless, who'd donated their services, were, as usual, superb and even I was up and dancing. It's probably been about 10 years since I last danced but I was reluctantly dragged onto the floor (thanks, Kelly!) and had a whale of a time.

Suddenly it had turned into a real party and it was therefore time to go in for the kill! Macarena, Mambo No.5, Timewarp etc all came out in quick succession and everybody was having fun. I realised that I was relaxed (and probably a tad over-imbibed) when I had an overwhelming urge to sit on the floor with everybody else and join in Oops, Upside your Head !!

Anyway, cutting a long story short, I reluctantly finished at 1am and finally got away at about 2.30. It was a great night and I felt good at having done my bit to contribute to a successful evening. Since I retired, I miss challenge and the actual achieving of success. I'm also not very good at enjoying success but I have to say I went home well satisfied, especially as I was offered a fortnighly Friday night DJ slot! Still not sure whether I will do it but it's nice being asked.

So, the saga of the Party Night is over and now it's time to prepare for our trip to London for the Stones concert tomorrow night. Wonder if they want a DJ?

My Latest Record Attempt

In the days when I was young and fancy-free, I used to go to the occasional night club or disco. Obviously, most of the time, I used to stay in and practice my cross-stitch but, just now and again, I would be dragged kicking and screaming into these dens of iniquity, full of lithe young females, alcoholic beverages and loud music. I never really thought of the DJs and what was entailed but that's all changed now.

At my local hostelry, young Katie, the Bar Supervisor, is leaving due to her being with child (how nicely put) and therefore a small soiree (OK, a grand piss up) has been arranged. For reasons best known to the organisers (probably lack of funds) I've been asked to DJ and be Master of Ceremonies and me, being the shy, retiring type, agreed with alacrity.. Piece of wee really: take a few CDs,select a few lucky recipients of my acerbic wit and Hey Presto!, Stringfellows eat your heart out.

As usual, the famous Bertie optimism was sadly off radar. First of all, the songs; what do I play? I'd be happy playing "my" music but Mrs B pointed out that I was responsible for entertaining people (she can be a bit cutting at times, not to mention musically retarded). I had a choice: did I go for all terribly cheesey party songs or did I try and inject some sophisticated musical choices covering the 50 year age range of the customers and guests? I figured if I was going to be a party DJ then I'd go the whole hog and assembled about 70 songs which tend to be sold in the cheap CD section of Tesco. Trouble was, I needed to listen to them all to ensure that they were all playing properly.

My sniggers at inflicting the likes of Whigfield, Wham and the Macarena on the assembled throng quickly turned to silent screams as I sat here, crouched in a quivering heap, listening to a total pile of crap coming through my heaphones. Once I have played the Fast Food song Friday night, I will take great delight in Frisbeeing the CD into the river which runs alongside the pub. Of course, it didn't help that Mrs B was entering into the spirit of the occasion and belting out I Will Survive at 10,000 decibels whilst I certainly had doubts about whether I would. I did survive however and my thoughts then turned to my equipment, so to speak.

The sound system at the pub is a CD player made by the "On It's Last Legs Co" of Taiwan and totally unsuitable for the role I had assumed. Of course, by now, I was getting delusions of grandeur and imagining myself joining the exalted ranks of Fatboy Slim, Tony Blackburn and my daughter's latest favourite, DJ Binky RapSmeg or some such name. I needed to be slick and therefore I needed two CD players at the very least.

Katie's brother, who is organising it all, helpfully buggered off on holiday and won't be returning until the day before the gig so, after muttering something about seeing if he could hire something, I was left high and dry. I've got hold of some speakers about 4' tall and 20 tons each and an amplifier thingy with lots of inputs, outputs, sliders and stuff but still nothing to actually play the music, so I had the brainwave of doing it all from my laptop using DJ software. Mentally patting myself on the back, I got hold of some software and figured my troubles were over. Silly me! The screen was filled with a mass of controls which made about as much sense as a space shuttle cockpit does to a retarded gibbon and the PDF Manual (of 171 pages) didn't really help either. I spent a happy time delving into the world of looped cues, BPMs and Vu Hold Delay and a mark of my lack of progress was the wild excitement of being able to play YMCA 11 times without pause (OK, it's a fair cop, I hadn't worked out how to stop it!).

After a fraught day of experimentation, educated guesses and prayers to St. Jude (the Patron Saint of Lost Causes) I have managed to get sound and actually fade one track into another, which is about as far as I intend to push my luck. Of course, it's meant I've had to listen to the damn music all day again and that made me panic that I would be publicly lynched if it didn't go down well so I've therefore put a further 300 songs on the laptop. These are Rolling Stone magazine's Top 300 Songs Ever and far more to my taste (4 Neil Young amongst them - woohoo!!).

I was starting to relax about it all and then.........the laptop crashed! What if this happens on the night? OK, belt and braces job called for. This evening I have compiled 16 CDs full of back-up material so that, if the promised hire equipment turns up, I am covered as well.

The logical part of me says that the punters won't really care what happens as long as the beer pumps work. The perfectionist part of me wants to be able to finish the evening knowing that I've done my best. The realistic part of me knows that I wont really care as there is no way I intend to do this sober. The honest part of me admits that I am absolutely scared silly of making a total prat of myself.

Why, oh why, do I always get myself involved? Surely one day, I'll learn to say "No"? Until then, I shall remember those immortal words from Bananarama (CD1, track 14), now engraved forever on my brain: "It ain't what you do, it's the way that you do it. That's what gets results."!

In Pursuit of Trivia

I've always had one of those enquiring minds that enjoys trivia and, for some strange reason, retains it. Because I was one of these boring farts who can talk for hours about matters totally irrelevant to anybody of normal mind, a couple of years ago, a friend of mine who owns some pubs asked me to create and compere a Quiz Night which I duly did, and it proved successful. I'm pleased to say that they became a permanent fixture and are still going strong. I create all the quizzes myself and even design the posters which takes a fairly large chunk of time. Why do I do it? Well, the lure of the microphone and the built-in entertainer in me are two reasons but the main one (if I'm brutally honest) is that I really get a buzz from seeing people enjoy themselves and knowing that I am partly instrumental in that.

The quizzes I host (ably assisted by Mrs B as scorer and peripatetic hint-giver) aren't about people's knowledge being tested. The questions aren't particularly difficult but they tend to be on the "interesting" or humourous side. The teams that compete aren't there to show off their knowledge but merely to have fun, try and wind up the others and send a barrage of friendly abuse in my direction. Fortunately, there are a wealth of sources both on the net and in all good charity shops that provide me with a fund of questions and, at a rough guess, I reckon I've had to select or invent 8000 or so questions so far!

There are no big prizes; the last thing I want is people taking it seriously and the "professional" quiz goers soon lose interest when they discover that the potential prize of £5,000 is actually a scratch card for each member of the winning team!


Fancy trying a few? (and no Googling!):

All the answers begin with A, B or C

1) What colour is the Queen’s blotting paper?
2) Which London Underground Line opened in 1906?
3) Which breed of dog is called the “King of the Terriers”?
4) Beards of which colour grow quickest?
5) What was the name of Jacques Cousteau’s famous survey ship?
6) Which TV sitcom centered around Whitbury Newton Leisure Centre?
7) What turns blue litmus paper red?
8) What is between Strand and Fleet St.on a Monopoly board?

How about a bit of Pot Luck?

1) What facial feature does not feature on the Mona Lisa?
2) Which is the only American state to end in 3 vowels?
3) How many 4 pence stamps are there in 3 dozen?
4) In medieval times what did a nob thatcher make for a living?
5) What word becomes longer when the third letter is removed?
6) What is the longest medically recorded erection?
7) Which brand of coffee was named after the hotel where it was first served?
8) What colour is the milk of a yak? White, green or pink?

In the mood now? Each Quiz also has a Table Round for teams to work on throughout the evening. Here's one I did for last week's Quiz, it's basically all cryptic clues for types of food i.e. Casino equipment would be Chips - get it?

1	red head breaks?
2	throw or hurl a sweetener?
3	a mixed aunt and aquatic vertebrates?
4	snooping a look at the mallard?
5	flying torpedo with rabbit food?
6	wrap that's used in packaging. a mouse sound?
7	scoring system in golf becoming infertile?
8	a cats door in a box?
9	king or tiger have an alcoholic mixed drink?
10	wee and a bolt to spread on bread?
11	canard in citrus colour?
12	a rubbish tip, sounds like ping?
13	a cow wearing wet weather boots?
14	granny smith is fragmenting?
15	the french to break or to crack. a part in a play?
16	sounds like a north american elk?
17	struck with a leather strap so some ointment is needed?
18	small green vegetable able to know 3.14159?
19	covered in au dripping with a thick sweet liquid?
20	on the cob snow particles?
21	environmental baked or stringed pods?
22	this border herding dog like to bloom?
23	the best man will do this with a drink?
24	a condiment and sounds like pony?
25	type of stew from north west england?
26	telling cockney lies?
27	yellow-bellied ukraine capital?
28	mother could?
29	northern dales and desserts?
30	a nick name for western films, a meat based italian pasta sauce?
31	this will keep vampires away, a baker’s best seller?
32	14th letter + cold + big food storage?
33	the colour of old age hair in a big chelmsford festival?
34	bachelors, campbell and heinz make this.
35	used to keep hands warm. not out?
36	rapper t or cube is whipped single or double?
37	a small bird goes to the toilet?
38	rocking session spread?
39	dutch cheese made backwards?
40	ebony dessert?

I can't claim any credit for the above. It came from another site and, sadly, I can't give them credit because I've forgotten where it was!

I'm busy trying to get all technical by doing menus and things to make navigation around the blog a bit easier so I might just do a little weekly quiz if I can make it "clickable". There again, maybe I'll just accept that not everyone has a a desire to know the average weight of a blue whale's testicle. Perhaps, dear reader, you could leave a comment if you like the idea of a quiz section?

I'll leave you with a link to the kind of site that is a Paradise for trivia addicts - http://www.angelfire.com/ca6/uselessfacts/ Click to open and venture into a whole new (and useless) world. Enjoy!

Juke Box Jury

When I was but a callow youth, I was fascinated by many things. As a boy it tended to be scabs, crevices (sadly, usually my own), toy guns and Corona ice cream soda. As I reached puberty, it became football, girls and...... well, that's about it really. There was however one other fascination that used to transfix me throughout my adolescent years and that was juke boxes. Of course, we're used to all the gadgets and gizmos that there are these days but I used to be transfixed by the gleaming machine that sat in the corner of the local caff. It stood there, chrome shining and lights flashing and I never tired of the way that the arm moved across and plucked the selected 45 before depositing this gently on the turntable. How on earth did it know which one to pick?

The reason I bring this up is that, as you may have noticed, there is now a juke box on the blog. OK, it's not a Rockola or a Wurlitzer but I was so happy to get it and looked forward to playing a few of my favourite songs; that's where the problems began! How on earth do you pick favourites? There were a few that immediately sprang to mind but then I started looking through the several hundred CDs we have at home. In the end, I just uploaded what felt right. I shall probably change some of them now and again but they represent some of my musical tastes, albeit a little prehistoric in places. One band not appearing is The Stones which, considering that we've just won a couple of tickets to see them Sunday week, may need to be addressed shortly.

To me, favourite songs are occasioned by mood or by the evocation of a time or circumstance so it's really difficult to be objective. Songs bring back memories, both good and bad; reminders of situations like bookmarks in the great book of Life. CSN's Marrakesh Express was a hit at a time when my girlfriend was on holiday in Morocco and I can still recall sitting on the stairs at home, totally lost. Floyd's Careful with that Axe, Eugene was my first realisation of just how incredible their music was and it never fails to evoke memories of sitting in a friend's flat with some dubious herbal substances! Incidentally, if you've never heard it, then Umma Gumma is an amazing album which I thoroughly recommend.

Even songs which I don't particularly enjoy are reminders of pleasant times and I guess that's why music will always be so important to me. Please dwell a while and listen if you want, I hope that there's something there you might enjoy. Oh, and another thing; please feel free to leave a comment in my nice new "Chat to the Chairman" add-on. It's nice to know who's visited and how you feel about the site, whether good, bad or indifferent.

Read All About It !!

I was up early yesterday, taking the car yet again in the vain hope that the garage might actually get around to fixing it. Normally, we're late birds so 7am is the middle of the night for me but there I was, up and about, marvelling that others were also; and some even looking awake!

As I sauntered home, I noticed a paper boy and my thoughts travelled back to my days as one of this forgotten army.

It was great when I first started at the tender age of 11. The summer was here and, in that first week, I strode around, bag swinging jauntily on my skinny shoulder, merrily pushing the Daily Sketch etc. through a variety of apertures and dreaming of what I would buy with my 11/6d per week. It all went downhill after that. My Mother explained that, as I was now working, pocket money was a thing of the past, and it started raining.

Levering myself out of bed and squelching around with a bag-full of soggy papers seemed rather different from the envisaged life of financial and geographical freedom but I soldiered gamely on, discovering the lesser known aspects of newspaper delivery. Why did spiders always have to spin huge webs across gateways? Why were paperbags made of totally unyelding canvas? Why did letterbox manufacturers take such delight in fitting such strong springs? Most of all, why did people have to go on holiday?

The shop owner always marked the numbers on the papers but, no matter how many times I checked, I would often end up finding No. 25's Mirror as I wandered up to No. 23 (Financial Times). There then followed a frantic backtrack trying to find out where I'd gone wrong and, hoping against hope, that everybody was still asleep and I could rescue the situation. Of course, Life isn't like that but I got used to the reproachful look as I turned up at the shop next morning. Like anything, I got used to the paper round but there were three moments of recall that spring specifically to mind:

First was the introduction of supplements; this was a dreadful morning which I recall with startling clarity. In those days, there were few magazines (maybe the odd People's Friend or Womans Own) but most houses just had the one paper. I stood at the top of Carlisle Road one Friday, gazing with horror at the bag full of Telegraph supplements. Even the East German female weight-lifting gold medallist couldn't lift it it without her beard curling at the effort and, I'm ashamed to say, I just stood there and cried. I can still see a deep groove across my left shoulder where that damned bag sat but at least I was able to spend the other days of the week devising ways of escaping Fridays. Of course, none of them ever worked. I really thought I'd cracked it when I announced to my Mother (and truly believed) that I had leprosy. She coldly pointed out that athlete's foot was NOT terminal and sent me on my way.

The next episode concerned a school friend by the name of Mick Mills. Mick worked weekends at a sweet shop but had aspired to counter work. This meant that we were constantly supplied with illicit goods which he seemed to obtain in vast quantities. One winter's day at school, during the dreaded cross-country run, he offered to trade goods for the use of my woolly gloves for the duration of the run (well, walk for us sensible types!). I held out for a big payout and eventually he offered me a cigar. Now, at 12 or 13, a cigar was a thing of wonder. I had never smoked as, in those days, underage smoking was akin to serious crime and I was a born coward, but this suddenly took on a glamour all of its own. I imagined myself as a young sophisticate, lounging beside a swimming pool and surrounded by swimsuit-clad women (thanks to No. 4 Reynolds Road's Reveille magazine at which I furtively peeked each week).

The deal was done and I then faced the next problem - where did I smoke it? As I've said, petty crime was not something that was part of our life (unless you were Mick Mills) and I had visions of several Mk. X Jaguars, with blue lights flashing, turning up and me being slung into clink, with my parents turning up occasionally to tell me what a disappointment I was to them.

Of course! The obvious time was 6.30 in the morning on my paper round with nobody about and the fresh air dissipating the aroma of evidence. I carefully unscrewed the cap and pulled the cigar from its metal canister. Clamping what seemed like a small torpedo between my lips, I lit it and went on my way.

For a while, I felt grown-up and still retained the memory of the swimsuit-clad women but, as time passed, I became conscious that a) they took a long time to smoke and, b) I was starting to feel rather ill. I finally got home not only with the usual grime of newsprint on my hands but an interesting green complexion to my face. I guess, at the time, I should have given up on tobacco but I was never one to learn lessons very quickly!

The third memory is far more pleasant. I guess I was about 13 and my whole experience of the opposite sex was limited to a traumatic episode at the age of about 6 and a well-thumbed copy of Health & Efficiency which had been doing the rounds at school. The former was attributable to Veronica, the girl next door, who offered me the chance of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" and then reneged on the deal once it came to her turn. The latter confused me for years due to the considerable use of airbrushing. As far as I was concerned, naked women had breasts but absolutely nothing else of interest to a young schoolboy.

This all changed one morning as I blearily trudged up yet another of the seemingly endless paths to deliver another instalment of the continuing follies of the Viet-Nam war. As I plucked the paper from its cosy nest, I noticed a movement through the front windows and was greeted with the sight of a real woman.....naked! I stood transfixed as she wandered around her kitchen, oblivious (presumably) to my presence. I took in the the realities gleaned from my foray into Health & Efficiency but then got totally confused by the seeming inaccuracies. She soon disappeared to another room but it was a moment of pubescent revelation to me and I always quickened my steps as I neared her home subsequently.

To that lady, whoever she was, Thank You. It certainly beat sex education at school (unless you had a fetish about frogs) and almost made several years of early morning drudgery worthwhile. It sure as hell beat cigars!

Café Coffee Chaos

For the last 8 weeks I have decided that I want the body of a God other than Buddha so have been very good and eaten (dare I say it) healthily. I have marched past cake shops with my head held high, ignored the little Haribo imp on my shoulder persuading me to buy and eaten lots of exciting things like fruit, vegetables and salad. My local supermarket has taken on the role of public library as I slowly move along the aisles poring over labels and trying to fathom the relationships between monounsaturated fats, sugar and the like in the vain hope that I might find something I vaguely like which is also good for me.

I find myself snarling at the slim people gaily shovelling biscuits, chocolate and pork pies into their baskets as I self-righteously place my "I Can't Believe This Has No Fucking Taste Whatsoever" low-fat spread into my own. Of course, sometimes I give into temptation and treat us to a box of breadsticks (6 kcal, fat negligible) but on the whole I've been quite good.

Well, I disgraced myself today. Mrs B had to go and have something done to her nails which, I think, is merely an excuse to sit quietly for an hour and have a good natter to the girls in the shop. I decided I would be very continental and sit at a pavement café and read my book, the latest offering from Bill Bryson.

I had every intention of having something like diet water or the like but I suddenly saw the words "iced coffee". By a reasoned process of logic along the lines of "What the hell" I persuaded myself that this was quite OK and wouldn't turn me into Michelin man. The order was made, the die was cast and I sat there, sun shining on my newly trim physique, awaiting this little burst of Heaven. Suddenly the minion appeared once more and asked if I would like cream on it?

A strangled groan escaped my lips, shortly followed by a small dribble of saliva. The silly girl , obviously mistakenly, took this as a positive indication and disappeared within once more to prepare this calorifically orgasmic concoction whilst I sat there looking cool and chic. The iced coffee arrived with a reasonably accurate representation of Mont Blanc in cream atop it as well as a small jug containing yet more iced coffee. "I made a bit too much" said the girl coyly, as she disappeared once more.

I sat there, ready to savour the first sip and debating whether to fetch a spoon to attack the cream or just wrestle with the tastefully spiralled 12 inch straw. To my horror I noticed that the cream was already melting in the heat and, following faithfully the theory of displacement, was threatening to overflow the precious nectar. Leaving aside the suave, sophisticated image for a moment I grabbed hastily at the glass, anxious not to waste a precious calorie and, of course, managed to drip it everywhere. I then resorted to trying to suck up the cream but the straw was somewhat tricky to handle, I needed the suction of a Dyson and I therefore made even more of a mess.

Several napkins later, I had restored order and was delicately sipping once more whilst giggling to myself at the antics of Bill Bryson's childhood. The peace was shattered by a group of four ladies parking themselves next to me and chattering loudly. My attempt at relaxation was destroyed so I finished the drink, carefully sucking up every last bit and trying not to make too many noises as I nosed around for the dregs. Shooting one of my best "If looks could kill" glances, I wandered off; 20,000 calories in debit, willpower in tatters and a pebble-dashed teeshirt.

Having said that, this latest Bill Bryson book is magnificent. I have a very dear friend, who is more like a brother than my own ever was, and he once said that my style reminded him of Bill Bryson, albeit on a bad day. He didn't know that Bryson is a hero of mine with his dry, subtle but hilariously funny observations so that was praise indeed. The latest book recounts the story of Bryson's childhood and I was amazed to read that he also had an alter-ego; The Thunderbolt Kid. He came from another planet which was destroyed, just like Bertie's, and also had superpowers. He was also sent to Earth and adopted by Earth parents! I've toyed with suing him for plagiarism but The Thunderbolt Kid's selection of weapons far surpasses Bertie's so I will just write it off as a meeting of two great minds.

The really annoying part of his new book is that, some while ago, I had decided that, if I was ever to write a book, it would be of my childhood. Once again, I've lost out - but it couldn't have been to a better man!

The Story of Butch

When I was in my late 20s, I lived in a little bungalow which bordered onto farmland. Although there was a road in front of the bungalow, I was situated right at the end thus effectively making it a very secluded close. My wife and I acquired a very sweet little kitten who was promptly named Pickle and he proceeded to become the love of my life. I'd always been a dog man before and tended to rather look down on cats: I mean, what fun could you have with a cat? I couldn't have been more wrong, of course, and that little bundle converted me to a feline fan overnight.

Pickle had a good life, often bringing me friends from the garden including one day, as I proudly threw open the front door to show off the new dark green hall carpet, his bestest friend Mr Seagull. Sadly, Mr Seagull was not well and his feathers (and a few bits of him) were scattered all around the carpet. I can only assume that Pickle found him in the garden and somehow managed to get him through the catflap as a suitable present for us.


Pickle Claude Arthur Bonfozzwackett Volestrangler


Anyway, I digress. There used to be a rather sweet but doddery old lady who lived opposite to whom I would wish a cheery "Good Morning" One day we started chatting and she told me about how she used to feed all the animals around her garden. Amongst these was a cat who, apparently, was incredibly timid and would wait until she had gone back indoors before tentatively creeping in to partake of a meal. We pondered on what circumstances could have made the cat thus and I'll never forget the conversation, because she then said how the animals had really got to like her and that one hedgehog had been there a couple of days without leaving. Sure enough, a hedgehog was motionless beside the coal bunker which doubled as the animal diner - I didn't have the heart to tell her it had eaten its last meal and later sneaked back to remove the body.

One day, the lady, whose name I never got to know, asked me if I would take over feeding duties as she was away for a week. I agreed and daily set out the sumptuous feast for the indigenous animal and bird population. Being the arrogant 20 something that I was, I was convinced that I could befriend the cat but failed miserably. I could sometimes see him from a distance, watching me, but as soon as I made one step towards him, he was off like a shot.

Anyway, time passed, my wife decided she had fallen for another man and had moved out to be available to him - apparently he was married, and I was left alone with Pickle (Incidentally, my best friend was full of commiserations about the break-up until I found out it was actually him but that's another story).

Pickle then became ill and, at the tender age of 2 had to be put out of his misery. I came back from the vets and within about 3 hours there was a knock on the door. A lady stood there and explained that my neighbour had gone into a nursing home, never to return and had asked if I could take over cat feeding duties otherwise she would have to get the RSPCA to catch and, presumably,destroy the cat. I really had no choice but to agree and decided that, come what may, I would give the cat a home.

He was jet black, quite stocky and had a large nick out of one ear. A real bruiser of a mog so I decided to nickname him Butch. This was before the days of Gay connotations and because he reminded me of the cartoon dog in Tom & Jerry.

It was Summer and every night and every morning, I would put food out for him. I stood at a distance and chatted and eventually it got to the point whereby he would sit on his side of the road and I would sit at the top of the five steps up to the bungalow door and just talk quietly to try and get him used to my presence. Finally, I put his food bowl at the bottom of the steps and he moved closer. He still wouldn't eat until I had gone in but he was obviously more relaxed. This had taken about 4 weeks and I dread to think how many hours I sat on that top step but then, one day, he actually ate whilst I was sitting there. A few weeks after that he had actually started to venture up the steps and I was putting his food by the front door.

By now, the desire to give him some love and care was all that was in my mind. Each day, I hurried home from the office and he would always appear from some hedge or other as if to say "Welcome home". We would chat and then came a really big moment when he tentatively sniffed my outstretched hand. He was still skittish but I was obviously making progress and my next stage was to try and entice him indoors.

I had no need to worry. It was almost as if he suddenly thought "Yep, he'll do" because one evening he just strolled past me and went inside. I left the door open and tried to be nonchalant whilst he had a good look round and he seemed to approve as he spent the rest of the evening with me. Eventually, bedtime came and I was then faced with a problem. I couldn't kick him out and I didn't want to keep him in and undo all the good so far. In the end, I showed him the cat-flap, explained the arcane entry procedure (hit flap hard with head) and trusted to luck.

As I assumed my usual embryonic position in bed and started drifting off, I felt a movement; Butch had jumped on the bed and snuggled into me, purring fit to burst. I couldn't believe that he was actually there and no feeling of achievement has ever been better than at that moment. A moment that I'll treasure forever.

Butch spent the rest of his life with me and wife Mk. II. He still went to another room whenever visitors were around but he always remained true to me and I to him.

Rest in peace, my Butch - You were one hell of a boy.

Thoughts from the Depths

I was looking today at some writing I did about 8 years ago. It talked of my early years, and how it was well into my adult life before I realised just how much childhood had influenced adulthood. I was tempted to publish it but, although this might have a cathartic effect on me, others might take it as self-pity and I have therefore decided to resist the idea.

That childhood was quite instrumental in the depressive episodes from which I continue to suffer but perhaps it's time I re-visited the whole thing and took stock of life as it is today, rather than 8 years ago?

I've been very lucky insofar as I have done quite a few interesting things in life. I still regret the missed opportunities rather than enjoy the achievements but that's something I live with. I have formed coping mechanisms and am lucky that I have a loving family and friends that are firm and true. The question is, am I happier now?

On the good days, I can enjoy simple pleasures that, once upon a time, I might not even have noticed: the sun on the water, the freedom of choice that early retirement brought (albeit enforced), the chance to do whatever I wish and the luxury of Time. On the bad days, I long to hide away from Life and spend my time punishing myself for reasons both real and imaginary. I crucify myself for wasting yet another day of my time here and descend into a deep, dark pit.

Even in my more positive moods, I still pose the question: Is it right that I should spend my life giving in to what others want at the expense of myself, or am I worthy enough to be allowed the luxury of choice? My own lack of self-esteem won't allow me to be deserving enough to adopt the latter, yet the execution of the former serves merely to propagate the feelings of frustration and constraint.

It's all a Catch 22 situation really and one from which I can see no escape. Having said that, I still haven't answered the question I posed initially: "Am I happier now?" The short answer is Yes but the long answer involves far more. When I find out what it is, I'll tell you!

It occurs to me, I've always been pretty successful in my career but could never take pleasure from over-achieving. Instead of celebrating, perhaps a performance achievement of 120%, I would brood on actions I had omitted to do which might have improved that result to 125%.

I'm the same about a lot of things and I'm told not to be so hard on myself but I just don't know how to change. There is however one exception, I can read back over things I've written over the years and still totally accept them for what they are with no regret or desire to change. Considering that I never plan what I write and just allow it to happen with little, if any, amendment apart from grammar or punctuation, it doesn't make a lot of sense..........but then, the way I'm feeling at the moment, what does?

Manly Hall, a Canadian philosopher said "It is only a step from boredom to disillusionment, which leads naturally to self-pity, which in turn ends in chaos". I've always had a low boredom threshold, disillusionment (tempered with an optimism that surely, sometime, things will work out) and the self-pity is more than apparent at the moment. Gosh, something to be positive about: only chaos to achieve and I've got the set!

So why am I publishing this for people to read? I suppose predominantly because I am doing it for me and not for others. It's a therapy and maybe even a means of admitting to people that Bertie Bassett is a means of escape, a different personification of me which is, at times, real and others false. He's another coping mechanism whereby I can let my thoughts fly as far and as fast as this particular Superheroic alter ego. My head is full of complications: some from the past, some from the present and some which have maybe always been within that small embryo that became Me. Bertie has no such problems, he strolls through life and takes it by the balls. Perhaps I really should go out and buy some Speedos!

Talking 'Bout My Generation

Back in 1966, I was the tender age of 14. England had won the World Cup and my cup couldn't really overfloweth anymore - or so I thought!

The charts were an interesting mix of artists with the likes of The Beatles and the Kinks vying with Jim Reeves, Frank Sinatra and Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich. Although my tastes were firmly with the former, music was not the force it was later to become. This all changed one fateful day when my 18 year old brother came home clutching a couple of albums which would influence my life in a big way.

The albums in question were Fresh Cream by Cream and Back to Back by Booker T. & the MGs and they completely took my breath away. Fresh Cream primarily paved the way to a lifelong love of Blues music, rock guitar and rebelliousness. In those days, it was very difficult to get hold of blues albums but I was able to gradually learn about the great Delta bluesmen of the late '20s like Blind Lemon Jefferson, Mississippi Fred McDowell and, of course, the great and enigmatic Robert Johnson. I was fascinated by the rawness of the emotion that came across and the primitive but haunting guitar. Later, the blues spread north and, with amplification, there was spawned a further bunch of "greats" like Muddy Waters, Willie Dixon and Howlin' Wolf.

I was very lucky because many others also appreciated the sound and soon, there was an amazing number of bands, all playing with those self-same influences. It was an almost incestuous time with a family tree gradually spreading out its branches. John Mayall, Alexis Korner and, to a lesser extent, Graham Bond were the bands from whom so many went on to form other bands, interchanging and interlinking; but always wanting to stay true to their Blues roots. I spent all my time listening to The Yardbirds, Canned Heat, the Stones, Hendrix and the like and could (and, sadly, still can) reel off all the names of the band members together with their histories.


By now, I had grown a few years older and was lucky enough to be going out with the daughter of Brighton's biggest music venue. Not only did we get free seats to the several bands appearing each week but also had backstage access. Of course I can remember meeting several of my heroes but I am still saddened by not knowing which future greats I also saw and met. By now, Cream had long gone and Clapton was doing like so many others musicians at that time, drifting from band to band desperately trying to find a niche that still allowed him to keep true to his roots whilst trying to satisfy the increasing demand for commercial albums from the producers and record labels. One or two labels were quite brilliant in encouraging creativity and introducing new artists, notably Polydor and Island: but there was the call of stardom, drugs and alcohol to lure far too many to their ultimate demise.

It was at this time that I discovered a gentleman by the name of Neil Young. In his early days, the cynical yet naive poignance of his first albums really fascinated me and I used to listen to them for hours on end. Young has stood the test of time, always experimenting. Techno, grunge, heavy rock and country have all been parts of Neil Young and, although I can't confess to liking all his many recordings, they combine to form what to me is an intriguing and still very angry man. His songs fitted my attitudes: melancholy, aggressive, frustrated, whimsical and beautifully romantic. A true great.


I occasionally go and see some of those still going strong and was fortunate enough to meet Mayall at a gig last year. He's 72 now and still playing mean blues. Gary Moore and Mick Taylor were playing with him and, although stil superb guitarists, it was sad in a way to see how my heroes were now no longer the young men that I always remembered. When I think back to the pretty, young man replacing Brian Jones at the Stones' Hyde Park concert, time has not necessarily been kind to Mick Taylor!

Music also influenced my own musical aspirations, my (losing) battle to become a guitarist and my capitulation to the role of drummer - but that's another story. In the meantime, I shall sit here and be eternally grateful that my youth coincided with the great explosion of musical magic that was the late 1960s.

They're talking about My Generation!