Wednesday, December 23, 2009
"...drinking my vodka and lime"
When the card from Bolton arrived and I saw there was a letter enclosed it was with a heartsink that I sought out the signature first.
Two names, still: the letter explaining how his Chemo had gone well although, at their age, these things are not as straightforward as they might be.
They were my Mum & Dad's friends.
And they were good friends. Mostly summer friends. They met at the Club and spent their quality time in the pub. But even when they no longer came to stay at the caravan they kept in touch and visits were made both ways. There weren't all that many people my Mum could be bothered with, but she always had time for them. Then they had that trouble with their daughters - both a few years older than me. What with the youngest marrying that "right wrong 'un" and, inevitably, thankfully, divorcing him a few years later and then her older sister turning out to be "like that", "not that it matters".
Since my Mum died I've inherited her space on their Christmas Card list. For the last couple of years it's been touch and go.
Hazy Shade Of Winter - Simon & Garfunkel
The Christmas Song - Owl City
Fareweel Regality - Rachel Unthank & The Winterset
Goodbye England (Covered In Snow) - Laura Marling
Two names, still: the letter explaining how his Chemo had gone well although, at their age, these things are not as straightforward as they might be.
They were my Mum & Dad's friends.
And they were good friends. Mostly summer friends. They met at the Club and spent their quality time in the pub. But even when they no longer came to stay at the caravan they kept in touch and visits were made both ways. There weren't all that many people my Mum could be bothered with, but she always had time for them. Then they had that trouble with their daughters - both a few years older than me. What with the youngest marrying that "right wrong 'un" and, inevitably, thankfully, divorcing him a few years later and then her older sister turning out to be "like that", "not that it matters".
Since my Mum died I've inherited her space on their Christmas Card list. For the last couple of years it's been touch and go.
Hazy Shade Of Winter - Simon & Garfunkel
The Christmas Song - Owl City
Fareweel Regality - Rachel Unthank & The Winterset
Goodbye England (Covered In Snow) - Laura Marling
Sunday, October 25, 2009
At first we weren’t even sure we’d go there at all, it wasn't part of the plan.
Then it was decided, by mutual hardly spoken consent that we’d drive by: just to see. A glance off to the left - a reflection in the rear view mirror, a glimpse through trees - that would be more than enough.
But when we arrived it was Open Day and without hesitation R turned up into the drive and onto the car park, where it used to be all fields. Really, it did. Who even had a car in those days? Maybe that one girl from Devon and the other, who came back for the second term with freshly divorced parents and her own transport.
While prospective students and the parents of prospective students single mindedly sought out the shiny new accommodation blocks and asked their tabard wearing guides tough questions about the state of the art sports science facilities we roamed the empty corridors of the old halls, unchecked, trying really hard to remember anything of significance and almost totally failing.
Except...except that I do remember this particularly seminal staircase, and this view of Stanley and I'm sure the ‘photocopying suite’ was once the entrance to the bar (which, unsurprisingly, is totally ruined - there’s no way you could have a disco in there now. Or spend hour after hour lounging around willing something of significance to happen).
In Southport it was the same - street after street that we might never have walked down before, an unremarkable flat on a road we would never have recognised. Not remembering things was a recurring theme: alternating with sheer wonderment at all those miles we thought nothing of walking in search of a night out or a bag of chips.
No wonder we were thin.
Now, if only we'd understood that.
Then it was decided, by mutual hardly spoken consent that we’d drive by: just to see. A glance off to the left - a reflection in the rear view mirror, a glimpse through trees - that would be more than enough.
But when we arrived it was Open Day and without hesitation R turned up into the drive and onto the car park, where it used to be all fields. Really, it did. Who even had a car in those days? Maybe that one girl from Devon and the other, who came back for the second term with freshly divorced parents and her own transport.
While prospective students and the parents of prospective students single mindedly sought out the shiny new accommodation blocks and asked their tabard wearing guides tough questions about the state of the art sports science facilities we roamed the empty corridors of the old halls, unchecked, trying really hard to remember anything of significance and almost totally failing.
Except...except that I do remember this particularly seminal staircase, and this view of Stanley and I'm sure the ‘photocopying suite’ was once the entrance to the bar (which, unsurprisingly, is totally ruined - there’s no way you could have a disco in there now. Or spend hour after hour lounging around willing something of significance to happen).
In Southport it was the same - street after street that we might never have walked down before, an unremarkable flat on a road we would never have recognised. Not remembering things was a recurring theme: alternating with sheer wonderment at all those miles we thought nothing of walking in search of a night out or a bag of chips.
No wonder we were thin.
Now, if only we'd understood that.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
8.38 On Time
One day last week we went to the cafe in Stanley Park, to kill some time and eat a bacon barm (me, not him). It was much nicer than you'd think, and with the sun shining the way it was, it was almost like being on holiday.
On the wall is a price list from 1973.
In 1973 I would've had the egg & chips (22p), my Mum would've gone for the ham salad (42p) and my Dad would've wanted fish & chips but, on realising they were offering plaice rather than a proper fish, would've changed his mind. For pudding you could have apple pie or ice cream (or apple pie and ice cream if you were really pushing the boat out) and that was pretty much it.
Not that we would've been in Blackpool in 1973. We would've been in Morecambe.
Or Minehead or Barry Island or Ayr. Which is why I really love this book.
The Existence Of Harvey Lord
One day last week we went to the cafe in Stanley Park, to kill some time and eat a bacon barm (me, not him). It was much nicer than you'd think, and with the sun shining the way it was, it was almost like being on holiday.
On the wall is a price list from 1973.
In 1973 I would've had the egg & chips (22p), my Mum would've gone for the ham salad (42p) and my Dad would've wanted fish & chips but, on realising they were offering plaice rather than a proper fish, would've changed his mind. For pudding you could have apple pie or ice cream (or apple pie and ice cream if you were really pushing the boat out) and that was pretty much it.
Not that we would've been in Blackpool in 1973. We would've been in Morecambe.
Or Minehead or Barry Island or Ayr. Which is why I really love this book.
The Existence Of Harvey Lord
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
On This Day In History...
17:41 Fifteen Minutes Late
August 26 1979:"I've got a form from Edge Hill. Shall I fill it in?"
The day the results came out I realised I wouldn't be spending my next three years at the University of East Anglia after all. Mum & Dad were on holiday and, once I'd got the crying out of the way, I realised I didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to do next. The first person I tried to call was my English teacher. Luckily for him, he was unavailable. The second person was my RealBestFriend. Luckily for me, her dad was a head teacher.
Anyway, I filled the form in and was interviewed by a man who reminded me of my of my old maths teacher (which was a Good Thing even though maths was never a strong point although - bearing those results in mind - it turned out that my strong points weren't strong points either).
It's very possible, thinking about it, that they were, at that time, happy to accept anyone and everyone who applied. It would explain a few things. But I'd rather hang on to the belief that what got me in was a vehement antipathy to DH Lawrence and the fact that I owned up to enjoying the 'Peace' in "War & Peace" but being bored by the 'War'.
It's just as well, all things considered, that I didn't make it to East Anglia. I would never have lasted.
August 26 1979:"I've got a form from Edge Hill. Shall I fill it in?"
The day the results came out I realised I wouldn't be spending my next three years at the University of East Anglia after all. Mum & Dad were on holiday and, once I'd got the crying out of the way, I realised I didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to do next. The first person I tried to call was my English teacher. Luckily for him, he was unavailable. The second person was my RealBestFriend. Luckily for me, her dad was a head teacher.
Anyway, I filled the form in and was interviewed by a man who reminded me of my of my old maths teacher (which was a Good Thing even though maths was never a strong point although - bearing those results in mind - it turned out that my strong points weren't strong points either).
It's very possible, thinking about it, that they were, at that time, happy to accept anyone and everyone who applied. It would explain a few things. But I'd rather hang on to the belief that what got me in was a vehement antipathy to DH Lawrence and the fact that I owned up to enjoying the 'Peace' in "War & Peace" but being bored by the 'War'.
It's just as well, all things considered, that I didn't make it to East Anglia. I would never have lasted.
Labels: nostalgia
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Another Reason I Love The Internet Is...
Sunday, August 09, 2009
"...not my place to know what you feel. I'd like to know, but why should I?"
I'm curious.
Say you could meet yourself at nineteen?
What's the second thing you'd tell yourself?
Talk Of The Town - The Pretenders
Too Nice To Talk To - The Beat
Electricity - Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark
Take Me I'm Yours - Squeeze
Say you could meet yourself at nineteen?
What's the second thing you'd tell yourself?
Talk Of The Town - The Pretenders
Too Nice To Talk To - The Beat
Electricity - Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark
Take Me I'm Yours - Squeeze
Labels: nostalgia
Saturday, August 08, 2009
I need to make a compilation CD (mostly) spanning the years 1979 - 1982.
I've got until the second week of October.
You wouldn't think it would be too much of a challenge would you?
Currently, TV21's 'Playing With Fire' is proving elusive.
I've got until the second week of October.
You wouldn't think it would be too much of a challenge would you?
Currently, TV21's 'Playing With Fire' is proving elusive.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
17.41 On Time
It seems unlikely, but I'm sure I know it to be true, that from the window of a National Express Coach pulling into Leeds coach station in 1982 I saw a billboard advert for John Player Special with the slogan "Black Up North".
In my head, right on cue, came the line: "the Northern Lights are in my eyes, they guide me back to you…"
My throat tightened, my eyes burned. Like the billboard almost said I was 'Back Up North.' There are some places you just know you were meant to be, and others where you will never thrive. Although I was still a good hour away from home, once that song started playing in my head I knew that, for a little while at least, I was safe.
They told me they were happy if I was happy, and then undermined it by saying I didn't have to go back if I didn't want to. Walking away, after that weekend, was the most difficult thing I've ever done.
My Mum told me, years later, she'd always felt she should've stopped me.
Of course, she wouldn't have been able to.
Northern Lights - Renaissance
It seems unlikely, but I'm sure I know it to be true, that from the window of a National Express Coach pulling into Leeds coach station in 1982 I saw a billboard advert for John Player Special with the slogan "Black Up North".
In my head, right on cue, came the line: "the Northern Lights are in my eyes, they guide me back to you…"
My throat tightened, my eyes burned. Like the billboard almost said I was 'Back Up North.' There are some places you just know you were meant to be, and others where you will never thrive. Although I was still a good hour away from home, once that song started playing in my head I knew that, for a little while at least, I was safe.
They told me they were happy if I was happy, and then undermined it by saying I didn't have to go back if I didn't want to. Walking away, after that weekend, was the most difficult thing I've ever done.
My Mum told me, years later, she'd always felt she should've stopped me.
Of course, she wouldn't have been able to.
Northern Lights - Renaissance
Labels: leeds, music, nostalgia
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
16.53 Thirty Minutes Late
Five years.
So it wouldn't be surprising if I was running out of steam.
Hold Time - M Ward
Five years.
So it wouldn't be surprising if I was running out of steam.
Hold Time - M Ward
Labels: music, nostalgia, real life, train
Friday, June 05, 2009
17.41 On Time
Feel like shit again.
My head's all over the place – can’t concentrate – can’t focus – can’t be off sick due to the three line whip – so I’m rambling instead ... and thinking about stick insects.
I wasn’t allowed pets as a child, so the pets I did have were unavoidably imposed. The first was 'Twinkle', named after the comic. A goldfish given to me as a birthday present by the woman my mum cleaned for. The fish, the bowl, the coloured stones for the bottom of the bowl. No other ornamentation. I can’t remember being especially thrilled to have been given a fish. When she (?) died I’m pretty sure my dad flushed her (?) down the toilet. I don’t remember being overwhelmed by grief.
The next thing was the stick insects. I can’t remember who they came from. Was it someone at school or maybe even the school themselves, desperately trying to give the wretched things away and stupid me being dumb enough to be keen to have them. Why? What was I thinking? They ‘lived’ - for want of a better word - in a coffee jar and ate privet culled from Grandma & Grandad’s hedge. When I eventually became bored with them I released them into that privet hedge to an almost certain death. I don’t feel remorseful, even today.
The third pet I wasn’t allowed was a mouse. Patrick (I was into a big horse racing phase at the time) was much more interesting. He was given to me by my best friend, TheVegetarian, and I saved up my own pocket money to buy him an aspirational, state-of-the-art mouse cage from my Mum’s Freemans catalogue. I'd had him for a couple of years, then he went to stay with my best friend, TheVegetarian, while we were on holiday. When we got back he was dead. She said his cage had been in their greenhouse and, somehow, some wild mice had "got at him" and he had died. It sounded a bit odd at the time and it sounds even more suspicious now. Although I was sad when it happened, I was also a bit relieved that I wasn't the one to have to have discovered the body .
During the years we don’t mention there were a couple of unpleasant hamsters, a half-wild black rabbit, an unfortunate semi-feral tabby and … I might be going crazy, but, I’m sure at one point, for a brief time there was a goat – how could I not know if that was true? I don’t know…but hiding a goat on some waste ground and then building a shelter for it and, ultimately, ‘giving it away' to a school comes to mind. There was definitely a shelter building episode. And it wasn’t even a nanny: there was no milk, just an evil-eyed billy-goat wtf??? Anyway, none of them were my idea.
Jess was my idea.
My only proper pet ever and sometimes I think: should we get another cat?
But I don’t think we ever will.
XO - Elliott Smith
Feel like shit again.
My head's all over the place – can’t concentrate – can’t focus – can’t be off sick due to the three line whip – so I’m rambling instead ... and thinking about stick insects.
I wasn’t allowed pets as a child, so the pets I did have were unavoidably imposed. The first was 'Twinkle', named after the comic. A goldfish given to me as a birthday present by the woman my mum cleaned for. The fish, the bowl, the coloured stones for the bottom of the bowl. No other ornamentation. I can’t remember being especially thrilled to have been given a fish. When she (?) died I’m pretty sure my dad flushed her (?) down the toilet. I don’t remember being overwhelmed by grief.
The next thing was the stick insects. I can’t remember who they came from. Was it someone at school or maybe even the school themselves, desperately trying to give the wretched things away and stupid me being dumb enough to be keen to have them. Why? What was I thinking? They ‘lived’ - for want of a better word - in a coffee jar and ate privet culled from Grandma & Grandad’s hedge. When I eventually became bored with them I released them into that privet hedge to an almost certain death. I don’t feel remorseful, even today.
The third pet I wasn’t allowed was a mouse. Patrick (I was into a big horse racing phase at the time) was much more interesting. He was given to me by my best friend, TheVegetarian, and I saved up my own pocket money to buy him an aspirational, state-of-the-art mouse cage from my Mum’s Freemans catalogue. I'd had him for a couple of years, then he went to stay with my best friend, TheVegetarian, while we were on holiday. When we got back he was dead. She said his cage had been in their greenhouse and, somehow, some wild mice had "got at him" and he had died. It sounded a bit odd at the time and it sounds even more suspicious now. Although I was sad when it happened, I was also a bit relieved that I wasn't the one to have to have discovered the body .
During the years we don’t mention there were a couple of unpleasant hamsters, a half-wild black rabbit, an unfortunate semi-feral tabby and … I might be going crazy, but, I’m sure at one point, for a brief time there was a goat – how could I not know if that was true? I don’t know…but hiding a goat on some waste ground and then building a shelter for it and, ultimately, ‘giving it away' to a school comes to mind. There was definitely a shelter building episode. And it wasn’t even a nanny: there was no milk, just an evil-eyed billy-goat wtf??? Anyway, none of them were my idea.
Jess was my idea.
My only proper pet ever and sometimes I think: should we get another cat?
But I don’t think we ever will.
XO - Elliott Smith
Thursday, June 04, 2009
17:00 On Time
As I try to work out how to express the sentiment: 'please, just sort this thing out, otherwise I'll have to actually read the four page letter I'm enclosing and work out for myself what’s gone on and then explain to you why you need to fix it, so please just do it now and save us both some time' only in not those exact words, I bat a squeezy rubber stress-ball from hand to hand. It's not really necessary. The letter isn't all that difficult, but it makes it look as though I'm struggling, having to think things through, means I can spend longer doing a job that should take five minutes tops.
To make it look even more serious I'm using my glasses again, which I don't really need for the screen, but I do so enjoy looking over the top of them, especially at ThinksHe'sAllThat, I think it unnerves him. At least I hope it does. Taking a break between paragraphs I hold the stress ball against my bottom lip, giving the impression of a person deep in thought.
When I was about nine years old, for Christmas, I got a huge, rubber, bendy Pink Panther. It smelled fabulous. Sometimes I was tempted to take small bites from it and, in the same way, I’m tempted to bite the stress ball now.
Eventually it perished.
Veckatimest - Grizzly Bear
As I try to work out how to express the sentiment: 'please, just sort this thing out, otherwise I'll have to actually read the four page letter I'm enclosing and work out for myself what’s gone on and then explain to you why you need to fix it, so please just do it now and save us both some time' only in not those exact words, I bat a squeezy rubber stress-ball from hand to hand. It's not really necessary. The letter isn't all that difficult, but it makes it look as though I'm struggling, having to think things through, means I can spend longer doing a job that should take five minutes tops.
To make it look even more serious I'm using my glasses again, which I don't really need for the screen, but I do so enjoy looking over the top of them, especially at ThinksHe'sAllThat, I think it unnerves him. At least I hope it does. Taking a break between paragraphs I hold the stress ball against my bottom lip, giving the impression of a person deep in thought.
When I was about nine years old, for Christmas, I got a huge, rubber, bendy Pink Panther. It smelled fabulous. Sometimes I was tempted to take small bites from it and, in the same way, I’m tempted to bite the stress ball now.
Eventually it perished.
Veckatimest - Grizzly Bear
Monday, May 25, 2009
"...first night of your life, curled up on your own, looking at you now..."
Songs that unexpectedly ambush you?
First, TheYoungerBoy rings up to say he's on a waiting list for eye surgery and he's scared.
Later, we're in the pub when a song comes on that, at first, doesn't even register.
Then it does register and then, there it is:
- that line -
And I'm standing, helpless
Outside the SCBU
Not listening to explanations.
Looking down into that incubator...
Wires - Athlete
First, TheYoungerBoy rings up to say he's on a waiting list for eye surgery and he's scared.
Later, we're in the pub when a song comes on that, at first, doesn't even register.
Then it does register and then, there it is:
- that line -
And I'm standing, helpless
Outside the SCBU
Not listening to explanations.
Looking down into that incubator...
Wires - Athlete
Labels: music, nostalgia, real life
Friday, May 08, 2009
Life In A Northern Town
8.38 On Time
I’ve got a bit of a headache now but that’s the tiredness not the wine. Although it’s true we can’t handle it like we used to: and I wasn’t that good at handling it then.
We tried to remember what it was we'd seen in him.
Then we tried to work out who the 'Cool Girls' had been, but didn’t get far.
We didn't think we could remember much at all, except...walking for miles trying to find some party or other, popping out to The Zetland for the last hour, those prawn crackers from The Joy Garden. The bowl of fat under the sink, the empty milk bottles everywhere and that bedroom being freezing.
Trudging up and down St Helens Road in all weathers and at all hours.
The drama studio, The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, The Grapes of Wrath and Quiet Flows The Don. Watching FirstRoomMate scribbling notes about 'Henry Gibson' and being almost sure she was getting it wrong. Never ever getting the hang of diphthongs. Or the phonetic alphabet.
And whatever did happen to J’s sister’s shoes?
We tried to remember what it was we’d seen in him, and had to agree that we couldn’t even imagine it … maybe we'll have ourselves a proper reunion come the autumn. If we can get our acts together.
Crash - The Primitives
I Can't Stand Up... - Elvis Costello
Walk Away Renee - Billy Bragg
Tiny Voices - Joe Henry
Life In A Northern Town - Dream Academy
I’ve got a bit of a headache now but that’s the tiredness not the wine. Although it’s true we can’t handle it like we used to: and I wasn’t that good at handling it then.
We tried to remember what it was we'd seen in him.
Then we tried to work out who the 'Cool Girls' had been, but didn’t get far.
We didn't think we could remember much at all, except...walking for miles trying to find some party or other, popping out to The Zetland for the last hour, those prawn crackers from The Joy Garden. The bowl of fat under the sink, the empty milk bottles everywhere and that bedroom being freezing.
Trudging up and down St Helens Road in all weathers and at all hours.
The drama studio, The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, The Grapes of Wrath and Quiet Flows The Don. Watching FirstRoomMate scribbling notes about 'Henry Gibson' and being almost sure she was getting it wrong. Never ever getting the hang of diphthongs. Or the phonetic alphabet.
And whatever did happen to J’s sister’s shoes?
We tried to remember what it was we’d seen in him, and had to agree that we couldn’t even imagine it … maybe we'll have ourselves a proper reunion come the autumn. If we can get our acts together.
Crash - The Primitives
I Can't Stand Up... - Elvis Costello
Walk Away Renee - Billy Bragg
Tiny Voices - Joe Henry
Life In A Northern Town - Dream Academy
Labels: nostalgia
Thursday, May 07, 2009
17.41 On Time
Because I read Blake Morrison's birthday card to Alan Bennett at lunchtime (alright, so it was a little after lunch time, but it's been quiet again today) ThesaurusBoy had to put up with a couple of hours of me trying to remember the name of the man who was in the chip shop at the time of the Kestrel incident in 'Writing Home'. Not for any good reason, just because I knew I knew it and knew I'd forgotten.
It came to me eventually. Then I Googled to make sure.
Guest List - Eels
Isn't It A Lovely Night? - The Decemberists
Our Little Angel - Elvis Costello
Because I read Blake Morrison's birthday card to Alan Bennett at lunchtime (alright, so it was a little after lunch time, but it's been quiet again today) ThesaurusBoy had to put up with a couple of hours of me trying to remember the name of the man who was in the chip shop at the time of the Kestrel incident in 'Writing Home'. Not for any good reason, just because I knew I knew it and knew I'd forgotten.
It came to me eventually. Then I Googled to make sure.
The chip shop in the Kestrel incident is the one we used to go to on Thursday nights, after Brownies, for a bag of chips & scraps. Not every Thursday mind, if it'd been every Thursday it wouldn't have been a treat would it?
The chip shop, back then (when it was good), was owned by relatives of the ManWhoPreferredSherbertStrawberries.
There isn't a punch line. Just history.
Fade Into You - Mazzy StarGuest List - Eels
Isn't It A Lovely Night? - The Decemberists
Our Little Angel - Elvis Costello
Labels: nostalgia
Sunday, April 19, 2009
"...while my head spins, and you knew it would"
I don't know if I'm really allowed to say this or not but, MyOwnTrueLove and I met through the NME personal ads. I think it's romantic but he's always kept a bit ... well ... quiet ... about it.
Before we ever met I knew we had a pretty good chance of 'hitting it off' due to the judicious exchange of compilation tapes that had supplemented the letters and...phone calls. One track from his first offering (The Lilac Time - 'Love Becomes A Savage') has since become so essential to my life that I hardly ever stop to think back to that pivotal "Who is this?" moment when I first became aware of it's existence.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, I stumbled across Sinead O'Connor's 'Troy' via Spotify. This one I remembered, but hadn't heard in years. And yes - the hairs on the back of my neck still stand up.
Also on there was 'Black and Blue' by Johnny Dangerously, a track I've spent this week YouTubing and crossing my fingers that John Bramwell will be performing when we see him in Lancaster in May.
And now, this very evening, (thanks to The Vinyl Villain) I've been re-introduced, after years of oblivion, to 'Skin Storm' (both versions!)
Looking back: how could I have failed to have been pre-seduced?
Skin Storm - Morrissey
Love Becomes A Savage - The Lilac Time
Troy - Sinead O'Connor
Skin Storm - Bradford
Before we ever met I knew we had a pretty good chance of 'hitting it off' due to the judicious exchange of compilation tapes that had supplemented the letters and...phone calls. One track from his first offering (The Lilac Time - 'Love Becomes A Savage') has since become so essential to my life that I hardly ever stop to think back to that pivotal "Who is this?" moment when I first became aware of it's existence.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, I stumbled across Sinead O'Connor's 'Troy' via Spotify. This one I remembered, but hadn't heard in years. And yes - the hairs on the back of my neck still stand up.
Also on there was 'Black and Blue' by Johnny Dangerously, a track I've spent this week YouTubing and crossing my fingers that John Bramwell will be performing when we see him in Lancaster in May.
And now, this very evening, (thanks to The Vinyl Villain) I've been re-introduced, after years of oblivion, to 'Skin Storm' (both versions!)
Looking back: how could I have failed to have been pre-seduced?
Skin Storm - Morrissey
Love Becomes A Savage - The Lilac Time
Troy - Sinead O'Connor
Skin Storm - Bradford
Labels: nostalgia
Thursday, February 19, 2009
"...what really matters is what you like, not what you are like"
8.38 On Time
While delving back to find some proof of exactly how much half a cider used to cost I came across:
Feb 19th 1981
"Yesterday I bought Talking Heads and he bought The Stray Cats".
I should have been warned.
While delving back to find some proof of exactly how much half a cider used to cost I came across:
Feb 19th 1981
"Yesterday I bought Talking Heads and he bought The Stray Cats".
I should have been warned.
Labels: nostalgia
Friday, February 13, 2009
"...do you still see the same old crowd, the ones who used to meet every Friday?"
21.45 Fifteen Minute Late - Waiting For A Driver
We'd been drinking and we'd been talking about drinking.
About how, when we were students (not all together, and not all at the same time, it was a work night out not a reunion. Except that it was a sort of reunion because of Charlie having left us in January) it wasn't really a case of deciding what you'd like to drink, it was a matter of choosing the lesser evil: crap cider, crap lager, crap white wine from the Offy before the event. It was very definitely a means to an end - except for ThesaurusBoy, who claimed to have enjoyed the taste of beer even then. Maybe it was different in Kent?
Charlie had recounted how great nights out in late nineties Reading could be got for under a fiver (50p for the cloakroom, £1 to get into the disco, £2 for two pints of snakebite and £1 for the taxi home) and I was thinking (while we were waiting for that driver) that I was pretty sure that £1 of your grant money was all that was needed to procure a great Ormskirk night in 1980: four halves of cider at 20p a go and 20p for three songs on the jukebox. Unless it was a Wednesday: Disco in the coffee bar. For free! Some weeks were better than others.
The more things change the more they stay the same. Some of my best nights are still on a couple of pints of cider and a handful of songs proving, I suppose, that it's not what you drink but who you drink it with.
Setting Sons - The Jam
We'd been drinking and we'd been talking about drinking.
About how, when we were students (not all together, and not all at the same time, it was a work night out not a reunion. Except that it was a sort of reunion because of Charlie having left us in January) it wasn't really a case of deciding what you'd like to drink, it was a matter of choosing the lesser evil: crap cider, crap lager, crap white wine from the Offy before the event. It was very definitely a means to an end - except for ThesaurusBoy, who claimed to have enjoyed the taste of beer even then. Maybe it was different in Kent?
Charlie had recounted how great nights out in late nineties Reading could be got for under a fiver (50p for the cloakroom, £1 to get into the disco, £2 for two pints of snakebite and £1 for the taxi home) and I was thinking (while we were waiting for that driver) that I was pretty sure that £1 of your grant money was all that was needed to procure a great Ormskirk night in 1980: four halves of cider at 20p a go and 20p for three songs on the jukebox. Unless it was a Wednesday: Disco in the coffee bar. For free! Some weeks were better than others.
The more things change the more they stay the same. Some of my best nights are still on a couple of pints of cider and a handful of songs proving, I suppose, that it's not what you drink but who you drink it with.
Setting Sons - The Jam
Labels: nostalgia
Thursday, February 05, 2009
7:57 Four Minutes Late
So, there I was, gazing out of the window and thinking about 'records' and the days of ‘I’ll do you a tape, if you like’ and about how illegal downloading isn’t killing music any more than home taping killed music because people who think music is important will always find ways to spend their money on it. And that led me to thinking about how expensive records seemed back then, how £2.49 was five weeks pocket money, and how the 50p a week I got from my Mum & Dad was supplemented by the 50p a week I got for going round to my Grandma and Granddad's after school every night to do their shopping. Then, before I knew it, I was remembering the awkward 10 minutes or so I used to spend, after the shopping was bought and put away, standing on the rug in front of the fire trying to think of things to say and wondering if I could leave yet.
Standing.
Always standing because there was never anywhere to sit. The chairs, like every other surface, were cluttered with the things they had to keep within easy reach – not being particularly mobile, either of them - paperback westerns, knitting needles, oranges, The Yorkshire Post, a pack of cards, an ash tray – the fabulous, magic ashtray which opened up when you pushed down on the plunger and the ash and dog ends whirled down into it. It didn't, but really should have, played 'The Carousel Waltz at the same time – a tea caddy full of cigarette cards, custard creams, raffia, bundles of co op stamp books, wool, the current Empire Stores catalogue. And, beneath these essential day-to-day items, hoarded layers of randomly accumulated stuff that 'might come in'. From time to time there would be an avalanche.
Sometimes I had to get their tea as well. Sardines on toast or a sullenly scrambled egg. The kitchen was as cluttered as the rest of the tiny flat, and the surfaces always slightly sticky.
My Uncle Bob lived in the flat too. He used to climb telegraph poles for Norweb, until he went mad. He didn’t speak much. My Mum said that, when they were tiny, him and his twin brother developed a private language. Once they were apart he didn’t really communicate with anyone.
Because just getting up, never mind moving around, was a struggle, the fire was always on. Because my granddad chain smoked the walls were always yellow. Because my Mum did their laundry for them at the weekends there were always piles of unwashed clothes around.
Because of all these things, it was a flat you could barely breath in.
My Dad's mum lived in a house on the older estate, across the other side of the road, with a garage and a well tended garden. My Nana was the very definition of sprightly. Fastidious, abstemious, proper to a fault. She was climbing on chairs to dust the pelmets into her eighties but, because she didn’t need to offer me 50p a week to do her shopping, I saw far less of her.
So, there I was, gazing out of the window and thinking about 'records' and the days of ‘I’ll do you a tape, if you like’ and about how illegal downloading isn’t killing music any more than home taping killed music because people who think music is important will always find ways to spend their money on it. And that led me to thinking about how expensive records seemed back then, how £2.49 was five weeks pocket money, and how the 50p a week I got from my Mum & Dad was supplemented by the 50p a week I got for going round to my Grandma and Granddad's after school every night to do their shopping. Then, before I knew it, I was remembering the awkward 10 minutes or so I used to spend, after the shopping was bought and put away, standing on the rug in front of the fire trying to think of things to say and wondering if I could leave yet.
Standing.
Always standing because there was never anywhere to sit. The chairs, like every other surface, were cluttered with the things they had to keep within easy reach – not being particularly mobile, either of them - paperback westerns, knitting needles, oranges, The Yorkshire Post, a pack of cards, an ash tray – the fabulous, magic ashtray which opened up when you pushed down on the plunger and the ash and dog ends whirled down into it. It didn't, but really should have, played 'The Carousel Waltz at the same time – a tea caddy full of cigarette cards, custard creams, raffia, bundles of co op stamp books, wool, the current Empire Stores catalogue. And, beneath these essential day-to-day items, hoarded layers of randomly accumulated stuff that 'might come in'. From time to time there would be an avalanche.
Sometimes I had to get their tea as well. Sardines on toast or a sullenly scrambled egg. The kitchen was as cluttered as the rest of the tiny flat, and the surfaces always slightly sticky.
My Uncle Bob lived in the flat too. He used to climb telegraph poles for Norweb, until he went mad. He didn’t speak much. My Mum said that, when they were tiny, him and his twin brother developed a private language. Once they were apart he didn’t really communicate with anyone.
Because just getting up, never mind moving around, was a struggle, the fire was always on. Because my granddad chain smoked the walls were always yellow. Because my Mum did their laundry for them at the weekends there were always piles of unwashed clothes around.
Because of all these things, it was a flat you could barely breath in.
My Dad's mum lived in a house on the older estate, across the other side of the road, with a garage and a well tended garden. My Nana was the very definition of sprightly. Fastidious, abstemious, proper to a fault. She was climbing on chairs to dust the pelmets into her eighties but, because she didn’t need to offer me 50p a week to do her shopping, I saw far less of her.
And all because Rol mentioned 'records'.
The Old Church Is Still Standing – Martin Stephenson & the Daintees
My Little Town - Simon & Garfunkel
Costafine Town - Splinter
Hello In There - 10,000 Maniacs
Labels: nostalgia
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
"...as I was going over the Cork and Kerry mountains"
8.38 On Time
The chap hauling a tan coloured suitcase of the type you don't really see anymore up the steps of the Pendoino has a dissolute appearance; sallow skin, bleary eyes, and dishevelled hair. The cord jacket has seen better days too. Something shakes loose in my memory and I think of the first college boy I made myself miserable over. He was dishevelled and bleary-eyed, with a cord jacket and a set of matching luggage stowed away on top of his wardrobe.
I moped over, on or around him for five months. Then stopped.
He was the sort who would either not have made it through his twenties or be running an empire by now. Or be struggling, with an overstuffed suitcase, on the steps of the Pendolino on a cold January morning after a series of unnecessary business meetings hastily arranged to facilitate an unsatisfactory Travel Lodge liaison with a woman he met on the Internet.
Or I could be wrong.
Whisky In The Jar – Thin Lizzy
The chap hauling a tan coloured suitcase of the type you don't really see anymore up the steps of the Pendoino has a dissolute appearance; sallow skin, bleary eyes, and dishevelled hair. The cord jacket has seen better days too. Something shakes loose in my memory and I think of the first college boy I made myself miserable over. He was dishevelled and bleary-eyed, with a cord jacket and a set of matching luggage stowed away on top of his wardrobe.
I moped over, on or around him for five months. Then stopped.
He was the sort who would either not have made it through his twenties or be running an empire by now. Or be struggling, with an overstuffed suitcase, on the steps of the Pendolino on a cold January morning after a series of unnecessary business meetings hastily arranged to facilitate an unsatisfactory Travel Lodge liaison with a woman he met on the Internet.
Or I could be wrong.
Whisky In The Jar – Thin Lizzy
Monday, December 15, 2008
"...how can you say that I'm too old?"
8.38 On Time
My favourite shoes ever were the bright blue Clarks I had in 1980.
Earlier this year Clarks decided to revive the style and rebrand them 'iconic' or some such. Unfortunately, this time the range didn't include bright blue.
According to Tim, red shoes are an acknowledged sign of madness. Less of a sign of madness than red trousers apparently, but madness none the less. I don't care. They are, officially, the most comfortable shoes I ever owned.
One day I'll have to break it to him that I have owned a pair of red trousers too. 1980 was a strange year. Let the record show that I have no nostalgic yearning for those trousers.
Although to be able to fit into them again would be nice.
(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes - Elvis Costello
My favourite shoes ever were the bright blue Clarks I had in 1980.
Earlier this year Clarks decided to revive the style and rebrand them 'iconic' or some such. Unfortunately, this time the range didn't include bright blue.
According to Tim, red shoes are an acknowledged sign of madness. Less of a sign of madness than red trousers apparently, but madness none the less. I don't care. They are, officially, the most comfortable shoes I ever owned.
One day I'll have to break it to him that I have owned a pair of red trousers too. 1980 was a strange year. Let the record show that I have no nostalgic yearning for those trousers.
Although to be able to fit into them again would be nice.
(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes - Elvis Costello
Labels: nostalgia
