Awayday

Armed with little more than a rail ticket, some beer tokens, a pair of falling over trousers and my Oyster Card, I was making a whistle stop foray to the Thames Delta; you could say I was on a mission.

Travelling south on a Friday is easy; everyone's coming the other way. And the East Coast Iron Horse, sixteen coaches long, makes light work of the 200 miles that divide York and London.
Arriving at King's X a good ten minutes ahead of schedule I hot footed it to the place I always hot foot it to whenever I land in the capital; hidden away in a maze of streets between Euston Road and Grays Inn Road, I've seen The Harrison transmogrify from humble backstreet boozer to what is now a terrific bar/diner with fabulous beers, a simple menu and always great sounds. Steve and I have been coming here since we set up our company of the same name (we're both huge fans of The Dark Horse). In April of this year they opened a basement bar with music, cabaret and comedy turns - regularly selling out.

A couple of very pleasant hours passed before I look at my timepiece and realise we have an appointment with a very important dignitary: The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town. Let me explain.

I'd been told that, situated not a stones throw from Liverpool Street station, is an establishment called The Breakfast Club. 'But I'll have already had breakfast' I told my friend on the inside earlier in the week. Not to mention the handsome lunch I'd put away at The Harrison. 'Listen' he said. 'Walk in, find a table and the waiter will ask for your order.' Nothing out of the ordinary here I hear you say. But here's the twist: when the waiter came I did as I was told: 'I'd like to see The Mayor, please' I said. 'Follow me' he replied. And this is where it gets spooky: he told us to follow him and walked up to the Smeg fridge on the back wall. He opened the door and we were lead, in true Narnia, style into a dimly lit nether world. Down two flights of stairs we found ourselves in a secret bar - an upmarket Winchester Club - very nice,very Speakeasy. Four Moscow Mules later and it was time to continue on our quest.

Going to Southend means catching the Fenchurch Flyer where, in a little over half an hour, east London gives way to Essex complete with Oil City backdrop before we disgorge at Southend Central. And the reason for our smash and grab visit to the seaside? My good friends Mondo and Piley are spinning a few discs at their local hostelry, warming up the crowd ahead of an appearance by the original one chord wonder, T V Smith.

We dump our bags in The Palace (who once played home to Laurel and Hardy in 1952) and slide down to The Railway Hotel. Mondo introduces us to all and sundry - from T V Smith and the delightful Gaye Black (formerly Gaye Advert) to characters with handles like Marmite Boy and Retro Man; We're treated like long lost friends in an almost Cheers sort of way. I've stumbled upon a distant planet where the atmosphere, the decor, the music, the vibe is irreproachable.

Piley and Mondo devour their crates and turn every 45, every album trackn into a floor filler - they even played a few of my requests, bless'em. T V Smith came on at about ten and turned the clock back 35 years. He's got new material, of course, but Gary Gilmore's Eyes, Bored Teenagers and One Chord Wonders are the Holy Trinity that men of a certain age had come to hear him play.

With T V Smith signing merch at the back of the room it's time to restart the Podrophenia engine - and she fires up first time. Top tunes abound and with arms and legs flailing (I'm not a pretty sight when left to my own devices on a dance floor) I drink my last drink, say my goodbyes and disappear into the night. It's been a long day.

Out to lunch

Johnny: Seen who's behind me?

Sid: The waiter. So what?

Johnny: Not the bleedin' waiter, you tart. It's that geezer from the films.

Sid: What geezer's that then?

Johnny: My name is Michael Caine.

Sid: No it ain't.

Johnny: Give me f**king strength.

James Medd: The Funk Job

Jubilation

  A Royal knees up, 1977 style 

We've been invited to a street party on Monday; not living on the street in question we shall probably feel like interlopers. I hope that by taking along a bottle of something nice and a loaf of Medd's Bread, the natives will give us their blessing.

Thirty five years ago the residents of Rushcliffe Road closed off their street and laid out the pasting tables and bunting. Living at number 17, my credentials were not in question; they even put me on the wheels of steel - in charge of the decks all afternoon.

Working out of a horsebox and swigging Top Deck, I proceeded to inflict my record collection on an unsuspecting street full of flag waving Royalists. I don't remember too much (though we were all given a shiny commemorative coin) but I can recall, vividly, that, despite it being the summer of punk, this class of '77 weren't digging The Sex Pistols (it was late in the day, I couldn't resist): any accusations that she ain't no human being were denied vigorously by the locals.

So, I quickly flipped it over and banged on the B-side.

I was relieved of my duties shortly thereafter.

Sex in the city

What's wrong with this picture? Looks perfectly normal to me, I hear you say. And from a distance, it does. One city centre office block photographed from, seemingly, another city centre office block. But if you look at what's going on in the bottom left hand window, you may be surprised; unless you're one of the two performers that is, in which case you'll probably be packing your things and looking at the property pages in today's paper. The paper, more than likely, whose Newsdesk received said photograph. And, before you ask, I'm not betraying any confidences here - this 'what the butler saw' snap was posted on Facebook (of course it was) within minutes of the act taking place; probably while yer man was still zipping up his flies. Which begs the question - so what happened to good old fashioned blackmail?

Taking a reading

Six months ago I set up a Book Club. We're known as The Sun Readers; meeting monthly in The Sun Inn, what else could we have called ourselves? We're a merry band of readers who between us have an eclectic taste in all things literary. Everyone gets to have a say (we never stand on ceremony) and it's always fun to pull the pin on an idea, lob it into the group and watch the sparks fly. Does the beer stimulate the conversation? Maybe. Do we take ourselves too seriously? Definitely not. Are we brutally honest about our reading experience(s). Always.

So who have we read? Magnus Mills, Edward Rutherfurd, Julian Barnes, A D Wilson, Henning Mankell and George Orwell thus far. After a rigorous discussion we always close the evening with the scores on the doors - Barnes' Sense Of An Ending is shading it at the moment closely followed by Wilson's Snowdrops and The Scheme For Full Employment by Magnus Mills. Paramedics had to be called to The Sun Inn last week, such was the ferocity of the kicking Henning Mankell received for his non-Wallander dirge - Kennedy's Brain. He'll survive.

We also have a sub-branch: when friends from Nottingham came over  a couple of months ago they took the idea back with them and now, complete with a couple of new recruits, read along with us and email their pithy reviews and all important marks out of 10. If anyone would like to be one of our 'distance readers' we're currently reading The Road To Wigan Pier, followed by Fannie Flagg's Can't Wait To Get to Heaven.


Any excuse to shoehorn Ringo (or a Ringo lookakikey) into my Blog

Car coats and driving gloves

 

Cybermen not pictured

The Great North Road; just the mere mention of its name is enough to make the screen in my head go all wavy. Time was (when glove compartments were actually used to keep your gloves in), if you were travelling from London to Edinburgh, calling at all staging posts inbetween, the A1, as it later became known, was the only viable artery running through the country. If you don't count chuffers.

Long before all the roundabouts were ironed out and it became just another eight-lane stretch of blacktop, The Great North Road was one of the reasons driving used to be enjoyable. The joy of motoring was not just some mythological time dreamed up by the History Channel: getting in the car and hitting the open road really was something to be savoured. Ten mile tail backs on the M25 was a nightmare that wouldn't be unleashed on the unsuspecting British motorist for at least another 30 years. From the top of the North Circular, where signs to Hatfield and the north promised so much more than a Galleria housing a second division shopping mall built over a tunnel, to Scotch Corner and beyond - The Great North Road allowed your right foot to be just that little bit heavier than normal; except when slowing down for the traffic lights at Sandy, that is. And winding your way through market towns like Grantham and Newark.

Speaking of Newark, it was announced earlier this week that the iconic service station at Markham Moor has been granted Grade 2 Listed status. This concrete structure built in 1961 with its hyperbolic paraboloid shell roof (not unlike a smaller version of Sydney Opera House) was a gas station you didn't mind pulling in at. Any Doctor Whoevians will know it was once used as a backdrop for a John Pertwee episode. Or was it Tom Baker? Anyway, it's now a Little Chef. It could be worse, it could be a Subway.

He ain't heavy, he's my brother-in-law

I read the final draft of David Brodie's Treacherous Games just after Christmas. It's now available as a Kindle from Amazon or as a touchy feely book direct from his website.

The novel tells the story of the run up to London 2012 and poses many what if scenarios: what if a dodgy sports agent was able to get at rival competitors? What if a terrorist cell based in the UK did the unthinkable and penetrated the tight security cordon that rings the Games venues, even as we speak?

It's a cracking read.

The day after the Lord Mayor's Show

Like the puppy given as a present on Christmas Day, your record store needs you to be there for it the other 364 days in the year; just because the lines started forming in the early hours of Saturday morning and resembled war time ration queuing by opening time, I'm guessing that, once inside, you could swing a few cats around today.

For the record, I pitched up at Jumbo Records in downtown Leeds. Dodgy, everyone's favourite comeback kids, played an exquisite 40 minute sent on the top deck of an identikit shopping centre; a perfect warm up for next week's gig at The Lexington in London's swinging Islington.

They were well received, even though the slack-jaws on the escalators wired to their i-Pods couldn't work out why anyone would want to take an hour out of their day and watch (free) live music.

I shelled out for a copy of Stand Upright In A Cool Place on which Matthew, Andy and Nigel were good enough to scrawl their monikers. An enjoyable afternoon was had by all.

Next stop Norway

North is one of the four cardinal points on the compass. It is the opposite of south. We've just spent a few days in The Highlands - Inverness to be precise. And it is very north. While we were there we pulled in The Bandstand Beer Festival in Nairn; without doubt the most northerly beer festival I've ever been to. But it was only when we went to see Ross County and Dundee kicking a pigs bladder around on Saturday afternoon that we realised just how far north we'd come (Ross ply their trade in Dingwall) - The Osvald Pub in Stord, Norway have an advertising hoarding on the main stand. If only I'd taken my passport.

Congratulations to Ross who have won the league by a country mile. They'll be toughing it out in the SPL next season; I'll be looking out for their results. And I really must praise the food in the tea bar at half time - their Haggis Pies were sublime.

Soldier in the shade

How long do you have to know someone before you can call them a close friend? I don't think there's a scientific formula to work these things out.

We first met when Jenny and I moved to these parts a couple of years ago; right from the get go, he and his GLW made us feel part of the community (yes, we really do belong to a community) and from that day to this we've never looked back. Well, actually, I have. Or did. But that was just a wobble and I came out the other side with my sanity intact. But I digress. Amongst his many attributes he's a fine songwriter, real ale connoisseur, bon viveur and has an outlook on life that belongs in the mind of someone thirty years his junior. He is also, I'd like to think, a close friend.

He has a significant birthday coming up this weekend. Although we're away in Scotland for a few days, we hope to be back on Sunday to sing a few songs with him and toast his longevity* with a glass or two of something dark and hoppy.

* He'll kill me if he reads this

Private Pepper

Still to earn their stripes

In the overly populated world of Beatles tribute bands, news reached Medd Towers this week that a bunch of wealthy hopefuls with familiar surnames may soon be added to the census.

This despite the fact that there must be a homage to the Fab Four playing in every town in the western world on a Saturday night. So what will this hapless quartet bring to the table? And what will they play? The set-list will write itself - any original material they decide to throw in will give everyone chance to empty their bladders and or refill their glasses; I saw Macca Jnr. a couple of years back and despite the fact that he couldn't even fill a small club in the East Midlands, it goes without saying that this new behemoth will have their sights set on the arena and festival circuit.

Anyway, this will play out over the coming months like some cheap docusoap and, hopefully, will soon be yesterday's chip wrappers. But not before, one would like to think, they first bring in Pete Best's son and get their manager to drop him like a stone.

A Bridge too far

 Canvas c/o Mongolian artist Khurelbaatar

We were in Hebden Bridge on Friday night: we'd got tickets to go and see a tribute band. Thing was, I didn't know we were going to see a tribute band. We'd bought tickets for Jah Wobble at The Trades Club months ago. Apparently he's patched up his differences with Keith Levene and selections from Metal Box were promised. So far, so good.

What I didn't know was that Wobble and (the now skeletal) Levene have got in a lame brain John Lydon lookalikey from a Sex Pistols covers band to handle the vocals. Oh dear.

This is what they looked like:





However, just because it caught me off guard doesn't mean that other people in the room weren't lapping it up. Apologies then to anyone who was offended by my heckling and sincere apologies to John Wardle if I was less than complimentary when we met after the gig.

Only idiots smile all the time

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