In trouble again

I can't think why, but my older son alerted C to the Fascinating Aida special Christmas song - making the crudely ironic comment that its message was not about me at all.

Having decided to play this on my laptop to the assembled company (C, Ben, Vicky and my Mum) on Christmas Day I was obliged to hit the 'Pause' with alacrity some 50 seconds into the song. Suffice to say that it appealed to my sense of humour but was unlikely to amuse Mum.

After Mum had gone to bed I played it again to (I thought) much amusement. And couldn't resist playing the next F. A. song on the Youtube list, a jolly, equally funny, little ditty called "Dogging". Well it seemed to go down well.

But later in bed I got a SERIOUS talking to. "You are not to embarass your son and daughter-in-law like that! They only laugh because you are!"

So that's me in the naughty corner again. Don't care - like most dads am under no illusion as to my status in the family - somewhere below the cat, and we haven't even got a cat.

Anyway I had a fantastic Christmas with the family - thanks everyone! You are all such nice people and I love you all. (Including those not on the photo!)

 

Marital Conversations (37)

M: What happened to the M and S Chocolate Yule Log? I didn't have any yesterday and was looking forward to a slice for tea.

C: I gave it to Adam and Cassie to take home.

M: !

A new Christmas horror: the 6am Christmas Eve Food Shopping Trip

Once again Tim Dowling proves he is the cerebral equivalent of my identical hand twin. This is what he wrote in last Saturday's Guardian:

"Christmas, as far as I am concerned, is self-ruining, full of unrealistic expectations, disasters-in-waiting and panic buying."

Couldn't have put it better myself.

However this year, in spite of everything, I feel a lot more relaxed about the whole catastrophe that is Christmas. Which is mostly due to becoming resigned to the fact that it will consume our entire residual income for November, December and (this year) January.

I decided the best way to regard Christmas is as a formal project. It has a project manager, who - contrary to best practice - is also the project leader (C) and a resource (me).

It has an objective (i.e. getting to New Year's Day without a relationship break-down, an assault, or a life-changing injury), a clear set of deliverables (edible turkey, pristinely wrapped presents, cries of delight etc), unmovable deadlines, and a project plan (C's lists).

It will easily be delivered on budget - because the budget is open-ended (see above). Scope creep, usually the bane of any project, is not only allowed but practically mandatory.

So from now on in it's focus on the current task, cherish any fortuitous interactions with stakeholders, and hope for some positive feedback or maybe even a sticker, from the project leader, once it's all over.

Meanwhile Happy Christmas to my many, many units of readers.

PS  I still think the 6am shopping trip was a bit mad.

Some words for Emma, 23/12/13

I met Emma Priest some three-and-a-half years ago when I began as a volunteer adviser at the Citizens Advice Bureau in Nottingham. Emma died suddenly aged 41 on December 9th; her cremation was today.

It was a privilege to work with Emma. She was my advice session supervisor many times over this period and always gave knowledgeable and considered help when I needed it. She wasn't only a respected and valued supervisor but a colleague with a wry sense of humour with whom you could have a joke. Above all Emma was simply a nice person who was fun to know.

Like other workers and volunteers at the CAB Emma felt huge compassion for those disadvantaged or suffering injustice, for whatever reason, allied to a burning anger at the policies and actions responsible for perpetrating or prolonging injustice and at the individuals behind these policies and actions. And she was determined to do something about it.

I didn't know Emma outside the bureau but I know from the tributes at the ceremony that she loved and was loved, and lived her life well.

Emma's partner, Brian, who she met on her initial CAB training course, had just 10 years with her. I'm sure he feels utterly bereft; I would in his situation, and I've had over 30 years with C. How do you begin to restart your life after such a loss?

I don't know.

The Manhattan - JFK transfer

Before travelling I read up on the web about getting from JFK to Manhattan. It sounds a bit complicated at first but after seeing the same information in a couple of places it looks do-able – and certainly quicker than a transfer by road during the afternoon rush hour. You catch the Airtrain to either Jamaica Station or Howard Beach and then hop on the Metro into Manhattan. It’s a different Metro line depending which Airtrain stop you get off, and they go to different parts of Manhattan.

Something you don’t quite appreciate when you’re used to the London Underground, is that on the New York Metro the platforms are not line-specific. So the next train might not be going your way! No matter: I opted for the Howard Beach – A-line option which goes to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, which I know is an easy walk from Times Square. To avoid walking in the wrong direction when I got to street level (which I always do in London!) I even packed a compass. The train ride took just over an hour, partly above ground and through some inner-city parts of New York City. Even the main stations in Manhattan don’t seem particularly smart.

On my return trip it’s a Sunday afternoon so presumably the roads are OK. But in the interests of economising I decide to take the same route back to the airport. I print off my boarding pass before checking out of the hotel.

I know that I don’t want a Lefferts Blvd train but a Far Rockaway or Rockaway Park as the former does not go to Howard Beach.

Arriving at the Port Authority Terminal in good time (some 3-and-a-half hours before departure) I use my Metro card to get through the turnstiles. I’m looking for the A-line platform, of course. But suddenly I spot a notice saying ‘For JFK take the E-line to Jamaica Centre Sutphin Boulevard/Archer Avenue’. 

Sutphin Boulevard/Archer Avenue!!! This is a new one! Not mentioned at all on the websites I’d looked at before coming! Still, they must be recommending this for a reason.

I duly descend the steps to the E-line platform. There are announcements through the tannoy like “the something train to X is 4 stops away”. The train comes in. It isn’t going to Jamaica Station. Another train comes in. The carriages have destination displays saying “Jamaica” among other things. But I know there is more than one station with ‘Jamaica’ in the name and how do I know this one stops at Sutphin Boulevard/Archer Avenue?!! Do I get on it, and risk travelling 1 hour to end up in the wrong place?

Unlike on the London Underground there are NO MAPS ANYWHERE. There are NO helpful “Next train” displays anywhere either.

I decide I need help. I let the train go and walk back up the steps to the concourse. There are several platforms branching off this, and several entrances/exits, but NOWHERE is there anyone to ask. There’s a phone you can pick up for assistance but I with the noise here I don’t think it will be easy to use. And it’s probably for when you’re being mugged, anyway.

Then I notice, the other side of the turnstiles, an information desk. Bugger! If I exit the station I’m going to have to put more money on the Metro card to get back in again! All this time I’m trying not to look like a lost tourist (difficult): those are always the people who get mugged in New York crime shows.

I decide to follow the recommended route and return to the platform ...but here’s a notice of Sunday repair works resulting in bus transfers - and it’s on the E-line in Jamaica. Oh no!

I’m standing on the E-line platform, dithering, when a train pulls up on the next platform – according to the display on the side of the carriages it’s going to Lefferts Boulevard – must be the A-line! Right – perhaps the next one is going to Rockaway!

I cross over the bridge to the next platform. And wait. And wait. A train comes but it isn’t even an A-line train. I get hassled by someone wanting sponsorship.  I wait some more.

On this platform there aren’t even any announcements. After some 25 minutes I now have rather less than 3 hours before take-off, and I’m still an hour away from JFK! Shit! Anxiety levels are rising exponentially. And I start to wonder if the Rockaway trains are only about once an hour. Maybe that’s why they recommend you getting the E-line! If only there was some information somewhere!

I decide to take the E-line after all, and cross back over. But before the next train comes, another one comes in on the A-line platform I’ve just left. To Far Rockaway!!!

I run to the steps like a demented Usain Bolt impersonator, take them 3 at a time, hurl myself down to the platform, and leap onto the train. On my way at last! The rest of the journey is uneventful.

New York public transport = piece of cake.

 

 

New York (got the ways and means)

New York - got the ways and means, but just won't let you be (Truckin', Robert Hunter)

It’s hard to describe why anyone would make the trip to New York just for 2 gigs.

First (unless you are speaking to another Deadhead) you have to describe what is so special about a live performance of the Grateful  Dead’s music.  (I.e. the songs, the jams, the dancing, the audience ...and the magic and sheer joy that explodes when these four come together). Then (to a DSO virgin, anyway) you probably have to explain what is so good about the Dark Star Orchestra (why Jeff Mattson is the perfect guitarist for this material, why Lisa sings as good as Donna Jean did, why the drums/space sections are more interesting etc  etc). Then, unless you’re super-rich, you have to justify the expense.

Finally, in my case, you have to explain that you got a diagnosis of osteoarthritis in a hip this summer and are worried that soon your boogieing days may soon be numbered. And that, when you were blown away by DSO last year in London you made a silent promise to yourself to see them again – in the absence of any European tour then in the States. And, finally, that you have a very understanding wife who is prepared to trade this for birthday and Christmas presents for the next several years. I don’t even have to play the “you’ve had Forest season tickets for umpteen years” card! (Can save that one for later!)

To assuage my conscience for this splurge I find the cheapest flights available and get to and from London (by train and couch) for the princely sum of £35. In NY I use the Metro ($7.50 each way) to get between JFK and Manhattan, and live on bread and water while there (not really).

For hotels it’s got to be the pricey Midtown area - partly because C is does not want me getting mugged in the middle of the night in New York and partly because I feel the same way. But I book the cheapest 3* hotel I can find that is reasonably close to the venue. 

The fact that it's New York isn't so exciting as this will be my third visit - plus I'm not going to over-indulge in any exhausing sight-seeing. Or risky ice-skating (even though the idea of outdoor skating in NY was partly why I bothered to learn 2 years ago.) 

I'll be saving my energy for the gigs!

Can you fall in love with the same person twice?

The One Show (BBC), today, is featuring couples who got back together after many years apart. In some cases they were involved with other people but then re-connected after gaps of 9, 27, 34 years. These people genuinely stopped loving each other but years later, sometimes completely by chance, met up and formed happy and lasting partnerships all over again.

A question sometimes asked of agony aunts and in chat-rooms: can you fall in love with the same person twice?

There are a number of celebrity second marriages (Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson, for example) but they typically don’t last long.

But how about the situation where you genuinely forget about the other person, so when you see them you genuinely don’t remember having known them before. Yes I know it seems to be about to happen in The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, but anything can happen in films. This is even stranger.

Back when I gave up football, I guess around 2004, I would make a point of jumping on our exercise bike for 20 minutes now and again and my entertainment for the duration was videotaped episodes of (yes it wasn’t very good, but it did feature 3 female lead characters, and there were lots of shots of my favourite city San Francisco) ...Charmed.

There was a special reason for watching Season  8 - the presence of a new character, Billie Jenkins , a blond, super-hot, freelance fighter-of-demons who the sisters befriend and try to reign in. Well I never saw the whole of Season 8, so never did really get the story arc (though the penultimate episode was staggeringly good, involving a massive battle and deaths of three front-line characters – which the writers when wrecked by having these events reversed in the final episode). And, fond though I was of old friends Piper, Phoebe, and Paige, it was newcomer Billie who lit up the screen and triggered all sorts of thoughts (entirely pure and platonic).

I probably last saw Billy in 2006. Then this summer  I stumbled upon The Big Bang Theory. So funny! The characters, basically 4 geeky physics researchers, are brilliant ...and so brilliantly balanced by the gorgeous Penny who lives in the next apartment. I genuinely thought it was love at first sight.

I got the boxed set, Seasons 1-5, for my birthday. A few weeks later I idly decided to check out Kaley Cuoco, who plays Penny, on IMDb ...only to find one of her alter egos was Billie Jenkins!  You could have knocked me down with a feather!

So there you go – you can fall in love with the same person twice!

(Yes this probably says more about my visual memory than anything else, but hey, it was fun looking for pictures of Kaley.)

 

Filling those long empty days of retirement

Monday 25 November 2013

Autumn in Sharphill Wood

I was asked, last week, by someone in full-time employment, what I do all day. I'm sure the pause which followed was taken to be the sad contemplation of what dire daytime TV I've been vegetating in front of, rather than the confusion caused by wondering what day it is and where I'm due next. It isn't the first time I've been asked this question, so I decided to make a diary of the last couple of weeks. I wouldn't claim they were typical weeks, but then again they weren't particularly exceptional either.


Monday 11 November: watched 'The Adjustment Bureau' DVD; did a few jobs in garden; played tennis

Tuesday 12th: short walk with C; lunch at Carluccios in town to celebrate A's birthday (30 already! How did that happen?); saw Gravity in 3D at cinema; Friends of Sharphill Wood monthly meeting in evening.

Wednesday 13th: CAB monthly meeting am, seeing clients pm. Call from Bromsgrove - can I come tomorrow as Franklin sent home from nursery poorly? As I'm scheduled for drop-ins rather than prearranged appointments tomorrow pulled out of my CAB duty.

Thursday 14th: drove to Bromsgrove 5:45am; Franklin OK but not very lively; came home (rush hour) in time for play "The Duck House", a farce at Theatre Royal (amusing, no LOLs).

Friday 15th: met other FoSH at the wood for a site visit with Gaynor of the Notts Wildlife Trust. Got a lot of useful advice from G to help us plan ongoing management.

Singing to the twins via Skype!

Saturday 16th: Off, with C, to York 7:45am. C worked on Mum's new curtains, did some tidying in garden, took Mum and my auntie Joyce to Nags Head for lunch, then took Mum to Elvington to tidy Dad's plaque; Skyped the twins; came home after Strictly

Sunday 17th: rest day - mowed the lawn; did food shopping; Ben + Vicky for tea

Monday 18th: haircut, some housework, blood donor session, made (Delia's) Christmas pudding mixture, pre-theatre meal at Le Bistrot Pierre the Greg Davies at Royal Centre (brilliant)

Tuesday 19th: steamed Christmas pudding (8 hrs)

Wednesday 20th: ASDA shop am, CAB pm; another call from Bromsgrove - Oscar sent home from nursery; now on antibiotics for ear infection. As I have client appointments tomorrow, said I couldn't come

They can climb on the sofa, now

Thursday 21: CAB all day; C and I to Bromsgrove after tea for (planned) childminding tomorrow as Ca is on a course.

Friday 22: looking after the twins; took F to doctors - throat infection, antibiotics. Both snotty and coughing but still lively and fun some of the time. Babysat, evening.

Saturday 23: drove home mid-morning; B+V for lunch; wrote blog; out at friends in the evening

Sunday 24th: monthly FoSH work party - 5 or so hours planting saplings at agreed locations in the wood; knackered.

Not to mention the shopping, washing, cleaning - all of which is enjoyable when you don't have to rush it. So yes, there's more leisure time and, most weeks, not too much to pack into too little time. But it can get hectic, and it certainly isn't boring.

Five men (and four women) in a boat (1)

A cold November in 1976, straight after work on dark and gloomy Friday afternoon.

Nine intrepid explorers, employees, ex-employees, friends, and partners of employees of UKCIS – the pioneering “United Kingdom Chemical Information Service” (variously known as  “You-Kiss, “Uck-Siss” and sometimes “Yuck-Siss”)  -  set out on an expedition into the wilds of Staffordshire. Their choice of transport is daring, none of them ever having captained a narrow boat before.

We advanced as far as possible by road to the watery outpost where we could charter a vessel. After bartering with several unsavoury characters on the dockside we settled on a converted barge with rudimentary facilities. It slept 10, mostly in single bunks in an open plan area amidships. The owner gave cursory instructions, mostly relating to the surcharge to be expected should anyone become violently seasick in the galley, took his money, and headed for the bars and fleshpots of Sawley.

Our group quickly stowed our provisions and settled in, the couples drawing lots for the one private bedroom towards the bow. C and I missed out on the private room but did draw the double bed in the communal area. Then we headed for the nearest tavern to eat and quench our thirst.

Several hours later we staggered back to the vessel. The lights were not working. It was as cold inside as it was outside. Someone vaguely remembered the salty dog who rented us the boat saying something about not leaving the heating on for long while the engine wasn’t running. We conclude that the battery is flat.

Imagine nine inebriated twenty-somethings fumbling in the dark trying to find their night attire and bunks. In the cold. Use of the bathroom for anything but emergencies is out of the question. But, hey, we’re explorers!  Did Livingstone on his travels have the luxury of a toothbrush, soap, electric lighting?

Needless to say that there was no suggestion of talking into the small hours over steaming mugs of coffee. Everyone simply got into bed as fast as possible in the hope of warming up, and soon a peaceful silence settled over the troubled ship.

 But my lasting memory of that night was C and me getting the giggles. 

You know how it is when something sets you off laughing at a time and place where you shouldn’t be? When you daren’t look at the other person, as you know it will set you off again? Perhaps someone, to whom you could not possibly point it out, has innocently delivered a particularly choice double entendre. Or you've done something naughty, or at least socially frowned upon. And the last thing you need is to be helplessly giggling about it, but you just can't help it. Well that was us. I won’t give the reason, except to say we each had the silent thought that we should not waste our good fortune in securing the double bed.

Nobody has ever spoken about what they may or may not have heard in the narrow boat that night.

Five men (and four women) in a boat (2)

We woke the next day to a cloudless sky and wasted no time in stoking the engine, casting off, and getting under way. Since we all had to be back at work on Monday we wanted to push as far into the unknown as possible before we had to return.

We took turns at the wheel and made good progress, there were no other vessels on the water and no trouble from the local fauna. (Didn't see a single croc or hippo.) In fact, although it was very noisy at the business end of the barge, you are so far from the engine at the front that you frequently would see wildlife such as kingfishers before it was scared off.

The crew, a somewhat motley assortment, mostly of chemistry and biochemistry graduates with a sprinkling of PhDs, got along reasonably well, I think. Although one member was notable for not smiling during the whole weekend.

We passed through the town of Burton-on-Trent without mishap and pressed on, mooring for the night near to the remote village of Alrewas.

The next morning we decided we should turn back, as the boat had to be returned before dark. Unfortunately we were facing the wrong way, and the canal being rather less in width than even half of our boat, utterly unable to turn around.

We did know that we had passed a place where the canal was wider, about half a mile behind us. We would have to reverse!

Now unless you've tried to reverse a narrow boat yourself, you are unlikely to realise that this represents what all the best managers would call "A Challenge". The rudder is at the back. It is there to control which way you go forward. It has no effect on which way you go backwards. You can put the engine in reverse, but this is mode is only meant for minute adjustments when mooring up . Steering in reverse is effing impossible.

On top of this there had been a sharp frost during the night and the water in the canal was covered with a thick layer of ice.

But we're information scientists! We're not going to be beaten!

We had one person leaning over the back of the boat with what we took to be a barge pole doing his best to smash the ice. (So that's what they're for!) Next to him was the bo'sun on the wheel (for what it was worth) also with a hand on the throttle, the purpose being to slow down every time we looked to be drifting towards the far bank.

One person was scouting ahead for under-ice hazards: tree trunks, supermarket trolleys etc. Someone was set to push the vessel away if it started ploughing into the bank.

The rest of the crew were walking along the bank holding ropes fore, aft and amidships, trying to keep the vessel going in a vaguely straight line.

Thank Christ there were no witnesses. Overall we resembled a bunch of hobbits ineffectually trying to control a rampaging oliphaunt whilst trying to stop it crapping on the carpet.

(Incidentally if any business is looking for a unique and highly effective team-building activity, please contact my agent.)

After an hour or so of this ungainly activity we arrived at the turning point and after that the return trip was a breeze. Pub lunch in Burton followed by a straight run back to Sawley, albeit in thick fog. We never repeated the experience.

Marital conversations (36)

(While viewing the end of the quiz show 'Pointless', waiting for the 6 'o clock news.)

M: Surely far more people know about tennis than motor racing!

C: No. F1 is very popular with men. But you wouldn't know that. You're not a man

M: ?

C: Well not a macho man

M: !

Postscript: Think what you like, but I hold that enjoying women's tennis, especially the slo-mo replays, is a lot less dodgy than watching blokes driving around in circles in very noisy souped-up go-carts!

Three go mad in Gloucestershire

At Belas Knap long barrow

November 1 - 3, 2013: the annual walking weekend of the Three Rivs.

This year we are based at the White Hart in Winchcombe. Much the same as last time: laughs, long walks, poor jokes, remembering our childhoods and teenage years, bumping into three imaginary randy sisters on a similar reunion (the perennial problem being how to persuade 2 of them to make do with my brothers).

It's nice to have lifelong friends like these.

Not quite the same as when we started this tradition in the Malvern Hills 4 years ago:

• we're all drinking halves instead of pints
• more time spent discussing our various ailments
• talk includes my brothers' plans for retirement
• distinctly less colour in our hair (P is positively bleached) though, sadly, at my rate of change I'm probably fated to another 2 decades of ginger
• 12 miles in one day is quite enough for me

Captain Mike

I don't have a lot of  nautical experience. And what I've had has not inspired me to seek more.

A channel crossing in 1964 was so rough that most of the passengers heaved and the side of the boat was decorated with multiple steaks of pebble-dash. A 'day trip around the island' of Spetse in 1980 was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a wind which conjured up a 10-foot swell from a mill pond in about 5 minutes, resulting in frantic orders to get back on the boat - and a scramble for the life jackets by many of the passengers.

I have taken control of a boat on just two occasions. Firstly a small rented craft on Lake Windermere in 1967 with friends Chris Jackson and Andrew Beckett, during which we came close to disaster by losing the starter handle overboard, and then a narrow boat in 1976, which turned into a survival challenge when the canal froze over.

Notwithstanding these inauspicious precedents, I was determined to hire a boat for a day during our week on the Greek island of Paxos last month. The prospect of finding a deserted beach inaccessible from the land where C and I could have a private, hopefully naked, swim, chill, and picnic was too tempting.

Unfortunately Stelios, the owner who had kept a boat in the water this late in the season especially for us, was less then impressed with my seafaring CV. He told us to stay on the east side of the island, away from the wind, and not to attempt the crossing to Antipaxos, the only place with sandy, as opposed to pebbly, beaches.

Also, rather than the modest little boat I expected we could beach and paddle ashore from, we get a sporty, almost new, 30HP number. This had to be kept in deep water and anchored when we stop - the only way ashore was by swimming. So there was no way to get a dry towel, picnic etc over to any beach we find!

Undaunted we set off and, crossing the first bay, were delighted to find ourselves chasing a shoal of flying fish - they really do seem to fly, perhaps 10m out of the water before re-entry. And the power of that engine when you push the lever up! It reminded me of my motor-biking days. Then at a certain speed the boat started to bounce a bit on the waves ...until C yelled at me to slow down and sadly I never did get to top speed.

We got to the northern end of the island and stopped and read a bit then pootled back south. We anchored at a bay with some apparently ruined houses and olive trees, downed the anchor and swam ashore but with nothing to sit or lie on it was not very comfortable. On the way back to the boat I got water in my snorkel and took it out to breath, forgetting it was not attached to anything. Down it sank, evading my desperate grabs.

There followed several pantomine attempts to retrieve it. I would swim to roughly where it was lying - directed by C on the boat, locate it using my facemask, then attempt to dive down to pick it up. C is quite explicit: "Just do a summersault!". But all my attempts come to nought. Try as I might I could not seem to get at the right angle to swim down. "Didn't you get your lifesaver certificate?!". (Actually I'm pretty sure I never had any swimming lessons at all, apart from Mum holding my trunks to stop me sinking aged about 7 in York Baths.)

I did manage to get vertical once, and started fierce breaststrokes downwards until I needed air, but never got remotely close to the wretched snorkel. Oddly the expert, C, never offered to have a go. "I could never open my eyes under water" doesn't really hold water as an excuse, excuse the pun, when there is a choice of 2 facemasks available.

Returned to port having lost a useful item, which had a vague symmetry considering my first outing as ship's captain, especially as this may well be my last. And managed to get tied up without crashing into the jetty.

One for the Ann Summers catalogue

Chatting with friends over a bottle or two of wine the other night, the topic of onsies came up. Someone was proposing a onsie party, which was a non-starter, thankfully, since nobody has one (or would own up to having one).

Now my mental image of a onsie is basically a shapeless, padded adult-sized baby-grow, and I couldn't help wondering how to spice up this revolting garment. The it hit me - the CROTCHLESS ONSIE! Surely a winner for those cold winter nights when it has to be a quickie.

Just to check my idea really was novel I googled "crotchless onsie": 3210 hits! Mind you, most of them relate to an album by Scientific Funk whoever they are.

Oh well - at least I can make hit no 3211.

Madeline - April - Callum

I cannot begin to imagine the anguish of losing a child. And in recent years I’ve begun to think that the murder by the state of certain offenders may not be such a bad thing after all. And the McCanns can only be commended for their persistence in keeping their daughter in the public eye all of these years, and for getting the police enquiry re-opened.

But I can’t help asking – when did it become OK to leave an infant alone in an insecure hotel room? Checking every 30 minutes may, in some circumstances, be enough for the child’s welfare (though in this case Madeline had complained about waking alone the previous night!) ...but, Jeez, I wouldn’t leave a shaver in an insecure hotel room let alone an infant! When did parenting become part-time?

And – years after this well publicised event – when did it become OK to let a 5-year-old play out on the street completely unsupervised? Or to let a 3-year old wander about a hotel, past a swimming pool?

Jamie Bulger lost his life because his mum was distracted; she made a mistake. But Madeline, April, and Callum were knowingly placed in danger.

Our littles were never put at risk in this way. Parenting is a 24/7 role and you don’t get down-time unless you have another adult you can rely upon. Poor Kate McCann summed it up in the BBC programme on Monday, talking about her feelings of guilt: “Why did we think that was OK?”

 

Crosby, Stills & Nash, NIA Birmingham, 6 October 2014

C was determined to come to this. (Maybe an excuse to call in to see the family at Bromsgrove?) I didn't resist for long, in spite of it involving driving into and out of the dark heart of Birmingham. And a very fine concert it was without being exactly exciting.

Lots of my favourites, with some fine playing by the other musicians.

Crosby's voice, in particular, is exceptionally strong, especially when delivering his big anthems like Almost Cut my Hair. (Stills's is not so - but he gave a nice rendition of Treetop Flyer.) And the harmonies are still all there.

One highlight was Crosby's jazzy/funky version of Triad. Not that I wouldn't rather hear Grace Slick or Diana Mangano singing it, but is was fun to hear a completely different version.

We're all a lot older than when C and I saw them at the NEC in the 1980s. Wonder how long they'll keep going?


Set list: http://www.setlist.fm/setlist/crosby-stills-and-nash/2013/nia-academy-birmingham-england-13c739f5.html

A letter to Loki

(Yes, I know Loki is the Norse god of mischief, but, searching for a rationale for my recurring misfortunes on the roads in and around Birmingham, I've come to the conclusion that his current manifestation is as the God of Motorway Diversions. The bastard.)

Come on! I get, completely, the false sense of security established by my driving from the centre of Birmingham all the way to the M6 without mishap. So I can't be surprised that I was due for a fall. Then sending me the wrong way up the M6 for the second time in as many months last Sunday was damn annoying, but frankly this repeated use of those roadworks is getting monotonous. You need to up your game or the whole pantheon is going to be taking the proverbial.

Admittedly the 15-mile diversion at junction of the M42 was a new one which nearly set my satnav along the road to irritable bowel syndrome and me into a near-miss panic attack, and one which resulted in an exceptionally late night. But all in all I'm disappointed. Let's see if you can do better on my trip to New York next month.

I've been wondering why you have it in for me. All I can come up with is the Thor T-shirt I wore in the early 70s. And it's taken you 40 years to react? ...must be a whole lot of people on your list!

Being 62

A couple of events have triggered a revival of the diary begun 2 years ago chronicling my decline into decrepitude. Firstly arrival of my 2-yearly poo test results (thankfully negative, so we won't be reporting the indignities of bowel cancer in the near future). And secondly the results of an X-ray showing osteoarthritis in my right hip.

Yep, I'd been having some pain at the top of my leg for several months. It hadn't stopped me doing anything and would mostly occur when turning over in bed. But then I got a couple of short sharp shocks which stopped me in my tracks while shovelling wood chip for the paths in Sharphill Wood and decided I should go see Dr Loverseed.

Since the X-ray a few things have made sense - the fact that it was hard to describe where the pain was (haven't had joint pain before); the frequent "are you limping" question from C when we're out shopping (I wasn't aware I was). And I've noticed that if I'm standing, the weight is always on my left leg, not the right. So I must have known about the problem, without registering it.

I'm now more aware of discomfort during the day as well. And suddenly I see guys walking slowly with a stick with renewed sympathy. Almost the first article I read on a Google search said 'many patients need replacements after 1-5 years'. What a depressing thought. There doesn't seem to be anything I can do to slow down or stop the progress of this condition.

Why the right leg? Maybe because it made nearly all of the passes, shots, tackles during my weekly games of football for the best part of 30 years?

I am definitely not alright with this situation. It sucks. Most people over the age of 80 have 3 or 4 age-related diseases. I have one already. Nearly all the stuff that I wanted to do in my last few years of active life involves either walking short or long distances or other physical activity; now it seems this phase of life may be much briefer than I'd hoped. Better get stuck in!

Reasons to visit St Agnes, Isles of Scilly

St Agnes is a small island with a winter population of about 80 people. There's one pub, a restaurant, a cafe, a church, a camp site, a village green. We had a relaxed and peaceful 4 days here in August. You soon find, talking to people, that it is a place that visitors come back to again and again. For many reasons.

1: to stay at Covean Cottage - no en suite, but a most comfortable bed, great breakfasts and co-owner Rosie is just a lovely person. Her partner Zane, is a man of few words but produces the most delicious creamy mushrooms on sourdough. (You get the feeling he'd rather be crafting elegant 4-course dinners, but I don't suppose there's the demand.)

2: the song thrushes. They are all over. We never see them in our garden, but here they are as common as house sparrows.

3: the lack of traffic. There are golf buggies and the odd tractor, but otherwise the island is quiet apart from the black-backed gulls

4. the rocky coastline. You can walk around the island in a couple of hours, longer if you explore every cove and headland. You'll see just a handful of people, mostly as you pass the campsite. If you want solitude, it is plentiful.

5. the sandy beaches. There are several sandy beaches. The one just down from the Cottage (sometimes called Cove Vean) was nice for a swim on a sunny afternoon - I actually persuaded C to come in! And don't miss the rocky sculpture cove, where you can get creative with the stones.

6 the weird granite outcrops - Nag's Head and the little knob rock are inland but much of the coastline is spectacular.



Tips for visitors to St Agnes.

If you're having a meal at the Turk's Head make sure you get your order in before the evening trippers from St Mary's get up from the quayside. (You can sit outside and see the boat arriving.)

The evening bird watching tour is good; the otherwise dour boatman becoming really animated when talking about the birds and the stories of the ships lying on the ocean floor below us.

If you want a newspaper, go to the post office/shop and order it the previous day

Trevor Charles Howell

Not until this afternoon did I learn the name of the man who blighted my life forever in December 1971.

My final year at Sheffield. Working pretty hard, I seem to remember. My bedroom at the top of Mrs Heinlein's house on Botanical Road freezing cold (ice inside the windows, some mornings). Looking forward to Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention towards the end of term.

The one and only time I had a ticket to see the maestro - composer, bandleader, dazzling guitarist - Frank Zappa. In Sheffield City Hall, venue for some magic events over the past 2 years: John Mayall, Pink Floyd, Quintessence, Pink Fairies, Edgar Broughton Band, Curved Air...

So the scene was set for a really special night.

Until 10 December ...when Trevor Charles Howell climbed onto the stage at the Rainbow Theatre, London, and pushed FZ off the stage into the orchestra pit, a drop of some 12 feet.

The news that Frank had broken his leg and that the tour was abandoned quickly spread around the country. Gutted!

(I now know that Frank sustained not just a badly broken leg which kept him in a wheelchair for the best part of a year and left  him with lifelong mobility and back problems, but also concussion, a broken rib, and a crushed larynx.)

Howell apparently got 12 months. A suitable punishment, I guess. I hope he went on to live a fulfilled life and didn't cause any more trouble..

To add insult to injury when I told a (much younger) FZ fan this story in 2004 he said "Have you still got the ticket - it must be worth a ton!" Well no! In 1971 why would I not have gone to the ticket office for a refund ...with just a meagre student grant to live on?

This incident is curiously similar to 1978 when C and I were at a Tubes concert in De Montfort Hall, Leicester. Midway through the gig the singer, Fee Waybill picked up a chain saw, started it up, and began chasing various band members around the stage in a wild and manic fashion, whilst revving it up. But in his frenzy he didn't notice the edge of the stage and tumbled off! 

We didn't know if it was part of the show until he didn't reappear and we eventually found he had broken a leg. Lucky he didn't saw it off!

North Birmingham Infinity Loop.

Quiz night at the Foley Arms, Stourbridge, August 19. It was possibly the last outing for the Inquizitors (because one member is soon relocating to Spain), and we did not exactly excel. We were saved from the ignominy of last place only by the couple around the corner. But it was fun to spend some time with my girl friends (not girlfriends!) again.

The journey home started in interesting fashion when, spotting an traffic-free opportunity, I boldly pulled out of the pub car park and across 2 lanes to turn right without noticing the (distinctly minimalist) central reservation. No matter. I don't think it caught the exhaust pipe.

After dropping Liz at her house I set the TomTom to take us back to Nottingham. Before too long we were going north on the M5 to join the M4. Which is where things started to go wrong.

A sign stated that the M4 was closed between junction something and junction something else. Not knowing the junctions this was rather meaningless to me, but was soon to become incredibly important. As we reached the M4 there were lanes coned off, and a very confusing set of signs, but I succeeded in getting on the M4 OK. On the other side of the road the traffic was at a standstill, so I glibly commented to Shelagh that I was glad to be going that way.

After a couple of miles, though, with the TomTom asking me to take the next exit, it became apparent that we were actually going north rather than east. It seemed prudent to follow the next big "Diversion" sign.

At the junction roundabout I found  myself in 3 lanes of lorries with no helpful follow-up Diversion signs anywhere, and ended up crossing over the motorway bridge and taking the third of three very close exits ...and proceeding along the self same stretch of road but in the opposite direction! And into the queueing traffic we'd passed earlier! Meanwhile Shelagh was phoning her husband to say she might be late home.

When we eventually arrived back at the first junction the M4 was predictably closed, there was lots of traffic, a huge roundabout and no obvious Diversion signs so I took an exit at random, anxiety levels through the roof, desperately trying to remember one of the destinations listed for it (Wednesbury, Wednesbury, Wednesbury...). Eventually there was an industrial estate where I could pull over and look at the map. After some searching I found Wednesbury and determined that we needed to be going in the opposite direction. Relieved to have a plan of sorts I drove back to the roundabout, albeit through a red light I didn't notice in the process.

But somehow, at the roundabout, with the lane closures and diversions, I ended up driving back north on the M4 ...to the SAME exit and roundabout I'd just come from!

Well at least I knew which exit I definitely didn't want - I opted for the first of the three this time.

...and convinced myself I was travelling towards Birmingham. We have history, Birmingham and me (see The TomTom), so I made a U-turn and went back to the roundabout, chose the second of the exits, which took us over the motorway and away.

This whole thing would have been bad enough without a passenger in the car. The normally irrepressible Shelagh had fallen strangely silent. I tried my best to reassure her, adopting the most manly tone I could muster. "I WILL get you home!" (If I say it loud enough, perhaps I'll believe it...)

I figured that if I got far enough away from the M4 and then looped around, that will get me past the closed junctions and back on familiar ground. Sure enough, after 2 or 3 miles there was significant junction and a chance to go right. There was even a Diversion sign here, and it seemed a good idea to follow it. 

Not so. Some 10 minutes later we were back at the roundabout AGAIN. For the FOURTH time.

This was the time to start feeling that there was some malign Blair Witch-like force at work. In reality I was too tired and fed up to think of anything except what to do next.

Something drastic needed to change if I was not going to spend the entire night revisiting this roundabout. So I made the complete circle and took the road I've just come down. With as much assertion as I could manage I told Shelagh "We're not turning until we see a sign for Sutton Coldfield". The poor satnav was having an anxiety attack equal to mine: "Make a U turn when safe!", Turn left and then left!", "Take the second exit!", "In 100 yards turn right!".

But, eventually, we did manage to reach Sutton Coldfield. From there I was prepared to let the TomTom to take me to the M42.

There were some moments of unease when we seemed to be proceeding along an increasingly narrow, and very dark, country lane but, to the TomTom's surprise, I followed obediently and blindly until, Hallelujah!, there was a sign for the M42. Moses could scarcely have been more happy to see the promised land.

Dropped off Shelagh; got home at 1:45 am, 3 hours after leaving the Foley Arms. C was waiting, worried. Shelagh has not spoken to me since.

The Doors Alive, Flowerpot, Derby, 7 Sept 2013

Catastrophe! Only managed to pogo for the first 3 minutes of Roadhouse Blues before needing a rest! Is this the beginning of the end of my rock 'n roll life?

Recovered in time for LA Woman and kept going (by limiting jump height) till the slow bit in the middle.

Willie (vocals) and Buzz (drums)

Another excellent performance by The Doors Alive. Long live this fantastic music and the bands that play it!

P.S. Going for X-ray on right hip on Tuesday

It's been a difficult week

Stood up.

Picked up bog roll.

Wiped bum.

Dropped bog roll into toilet.

!

Devon: what makes it worth driving

Having condemned the roads in Devon to Room 101 I should redress the balance and say something about the good stuff.

The pint at the Ferry Boat Inn, Dittisham! You can get the ferry over the Dart from Dartmouth and walk 4 miles north then reward yourself with the best pint I had in our entire 18 days holiday. You need first to get the ferry back over from the east side of the Dart to the west but the FBI is conveniently placed at the end of the jetty and the FBI bitter is like nectar. There's a ferry back to Dartmouth from the east bank if you don't want to walk back. We had 2 cars so left one at both ends of the walk.

Slapton Sands. This whole area (about 7 villages) was subject to compulsory evacuation (without compensation!) for use by the US Army for D-Day training in 1944. Slapton Sands in particular is infamous as the place where some 900 US servicemen lost their lives during practice landings, an incident which was hushed up at the time for obvious reasons.  The Sands are a 2-mile pebble bar with the sea on one side and a freshwater lake, good for wildfowl, on the other. At the western end is a Sherman tank, heaved up from the sea bed in 1984, which stands as a very moving memorial to the victims.

Cork Oak, Blackpool Garden

Blackpool Garden. This well hidden hillside garden has been restored recently after decades of neglect. It boasts many unusual trees from the southern hemisphere and is well worth a visit. Allow 90 minutes. You can park in the Blackpool (pebbly) Sands car park for free and get a ticket and leaflet from the car park attendant for the gardens.

But the best thing of all was being able to spend a week with our family in a nice place ("Vantage Point" in Hillfield Village near Dartmouth) and being there for the twins' first trip to the beach.

Driving in Devon

In the Midlands your driving may be influenced by the odd pothole, but at least you are generally on what can reasonably be described as roads. I got a shock visiting Devon on holiday.

Therefore in the interests of public safety I feel it is essential to publish these essential tips for anyone deciding to turn right after they reach Bristol.

1. Leave your satnav at home.
   
   After years of shunning this 21st century technology I am now a fan of my TomTom, which is very reliable and especially useful when driving without a passenger to navigate. But in Devon it sent us along mile after mile of tiny single-track lanes bordered by towering 3-meter high hedges and/or walls, thus adding hours onto the most simple of journeys. How these insignificant tracks can be mistaken for roads defeats me.
   
   Using a map you may have to go round 3 sides of a rectangle to stay on proper roads but it will be much faster and infinitely less stressful.
   
2. Don't leave the Valium at home
   
   The above-mentioned lanes boast "passing places" (i.e. very slight bulges in the lane - say, 50cm ish), but only every half mile or so.  After one very hairy 400m blind reversing exercise, a (very) near head-on miss with a 4-wheel drive, and one particularly challenging mile where I swear the vegetation was slapping BOTH sides of the car at the same time I had quite had my fill of Devon roads.
   
   It doesn't help that, away from the rare-to-the-point-of-almost-extinct dual carriageways, no roads in Devon are straight - apart from the one that runs along the shingle bar at Slapton Sands, the geometry of which is determined by geology rather than man. So you generally don't know what's going to hit you until the last second. To walk, run or cycle along these lanes is to express an extreme form of deathwish.
   
   Even on an A road you can suddenly find yourself plunged from sunshine into the darkness of a dense wood just exactly at the point where the road randomly narrows from a comfortable 2 lanes to a frightening one-and-a-half.
   
   I've driven on roads in south-western Ireland where this happens at the point where the EU funding ran out. Perhaps Devon County Council could look for some similar funding and bring their roads at least into the 20th century?

Saving Sharphill Wood ...Again

Back in the mid-noughties, long before I was politely arm-twisted into agreeing to become vice-chair of The Friends of Sharphill Wood, I stood one Sunday morning in a field joining hands with a line of fellow protesters. The cause: a plan by David Wilson Homes and landowner Brian Wells to place several hundred houses around the wood, a nature reserve on the brow of a hill to the south of Nottingham.

That battle was lost in 2009 - permission for 1,200 homes was agreed - but the threat to the wood was minimised to some degree by the adoption of a mitigation plan.


Winter 2012/13

In the event no houses have been built; the developer has just done enough to keep the planning permission alive.

Now, by 2028, Rushcliffe Borough Council are proposing to increase the houses at this development by 500! The agreed country park will be smaller, houses will be closer to the wood, and the built-up area will be wider to the north and west of the wood in space which was going to be left open for fauna to move to and from the wood safely. The mitigation plan has been torn up.

Appallingly only 8 of the 50 councillors invited to attend guided walks in the wood bothered to come ...and most of these were people who already knew the wood and were fully aware of the implications of this plan. Most Rushcliffe councillors live a long way from West Bridgford and don't care two hoots about what happens in it.


Early June morning

Why is Sharphill Wood important?  It is a designated Site of Importance for Nature Conservation but it isn't very old, doesn't have any particularly important species or historical identity. It does have some tall, quite grand oak and ash trees, beech and lime, and two excellent specimens of wild cherry. But mostly it is just an unspoilt piece of quiet space for humans, animals and plants to exist.


Wild cherry

To have such a place within walking distance of so many people (Edwalton and a significant part of West Bridgford) - and accessible by bus and foot from most of Nottingham - is a rare amenity enjoyed by many and deserving of protection. The new development means that it will almost certainly lose its badgers and much of the other wildlife and become steadily more degraded and lifeless. In 15 years I shall be 77, but for those to come we have to do our best to modify these proposals. To put the work in to register objections and reasons for these objections and make alternative proposals. All before the end of the consultation period on August 9. More info here.


Footnote: There is currently planning permission for some 400,000 new homes already granted by UK councils. But builders are refusing to make use of these on the grounds that they can't make enough profit building the affordable housing that is really needed (see http://www.theguardian.com/society/2013/sep/18/thousands-affordable-homes-axed-councils). Time to take this (and many other) vital services away from entities whose only raison d'etre is profit rather than social value.

"When you love someone, there's never a happy end to it"

Alive: In the Face of Death (Rankin)

Liverpool, July 6-8, 2013

Perhaps the most memorable experience of a weekend in Liverpool full of memorable experiences was Rankin's exhibition at the Walker Art Gallery.

I didn't even know it was on; we were in the Walker simply because we'll probably never go there again.

The bulk of the exhibition showed the results of a project to photograph people who know their life expectancy is limited (through cancer, congenital conditions, lung disease etc). Mostly these were people you'd see in everyday life; the only face I recognised was that of Wilko Johnson.

Accompanying the exhibition is a short video showing some of the subjects talking about why they took part, and with each portrait is a little text about the person.

Inevitably Rankin has captured some of the character and spirit of each of his sitters. I felt very sad thinking about these lives and coming deaths, but equally was humbled by the sitters' positivity and determination to take the rough with the smooth and live each day to the max, not letting their conditions define who they are.

The BBC2 Culture Show documentary about the project, broadcast last weekend, gave you a chance to know some of the subjects in greater depth and added extra meaning to the portraits.

Every person who spoke was a star.

Watching Louise Page pose for the camera, surrounded by lights, reflectors, crew ...and spontaneously cry - in the knowledge that she died shortly after the opening of the exhibition - was almost unbearable. We know the reason for her sadness - not for herself but for the loved ones being hurt by her illness. And what was the most poignant series of photos in the exhibition suddenly became personal.

The quote at the top of this blog is from Louise's partner, Al. His point being that, even though you know the ending (unless you are someone with delusions of immortality) nobody would knowingly turn from the enrichment that loving someone brings to your life.

Rankin said that he wanted people to be more aware of death, and one of his collaborators said something about spending 15 minutes a day thinking about it. Not a bad idea: to contemplate death you have to also notice life. Wilko Johnson spoke of his elation in stepping outside and seeing the vibrancy of the world after he was told he was dying.

It shouldn't take a death sentence for the rest of us to notice.

Gutted

Ambling along our high street a couple of months a go I noticed, horror of horrors, that my favourite restaurant, Felicinis was no more. In its place the revoltingly named Mud Crab.

It may be a surprise to regular readers that I even had a favourite restaurant given that I am not a big fan of restaurants at all. But Fellicinis had some nice and reliable vegetarian dishes, a nice ambience, and was the scene for some memorable family events. Such as the anniversary meal where we asked for the bill to be told that our sons had phoned earlier and arranged to pay it themselves. (WHY didn't we order champagne!)

Also we only only recently discovered that County Council employees benefited from a 20% discount on food upon providing proof of employment. After years of dining there for birthdays etc! Which explains why I was called upon, late one evening, to locate and deliver a pay slip to C and some friends.

So I guess it will be the Poppy & Pint in future. Not as posh, but a great menu for vegetarians.

Coffee, anyone?

10:30 pm. The barbeque has gone cold but we are still outside on a rare balmy June evening. I check how many people want tea and how many coffee and come inside to get the kettle and the filter coffee maker going.

I fill up the jug from the cold tap and start to tip the water it carefully into the coffee maker. But almost straight away there is a curious gushing noise. Odd, thinks I.

(What happens next is, for the most part, due to my not having bothered to put on the kitchen light and hardly at all due to the minuscule quantity of beer that I have consumed during the evening.)

It isn't until I see a tsunami of water rushing across the worktop that I actually stop pouring and think "That's odd! Did I completely miss the opening for the water on the top of the coffee-maker?"

I grab the tea towel to stem the flow. This is clearly going to form an incomplete barrier so I pull open the tea towel drawer and yank out another two.

I peer into the coffee-maker. It's dark but I can make out a reflection part-way down - there does appear to be some water in it. So why won't it fill up properly? The jug is still, perhaps, one-third full so - not one to give up once I've started a task - I carefully pour in the rest of the jug.

Which results in the tsunami exhibiting a second wave.

More tea towels. In fact I'm now feeling around in the bottom of the drawer in some desperation and finding ancient tea towels I haven't seen for years.

Obviously the machine has developed a leak somehow. Not wanting any electrical accidents I unplug it and move it across the kitchen out of the way. After wringing out the tea towels I eventually manage to dry the worktop. It will have to be instant coffee.

Back outside I wait for a lull in the conversation to inform C discreetly that there won't be any filter coffee because the coffee maker is kaput and doesn't hold water any more.

She responds with "But I told you I'd filled it already!".

Marital conversations (35)

(After 2 weeks of spending a lot of time either in York, where Mum is in hospital after breaking a hip, and Bromsgrove, where a grandson has had chicken pox.)

M: I haven't seen Joan (our elderly neighbour) for ages

C: You haven't seen your wife for ages

M: Well I've been spreading myself rather thinly. ...But you can always have the thick end.

C: You're DISGUSTING!

M (taken aback): It's an ANALEGORY! (Expression of indignation rather defused by choice of a non-existent noun.)

Put Littlejohn in the dock

Nathan Upton, a 32-year-old primary school teacher, had finally come to the point where she could publicly become the person she had always felt herself to be - Lucy. Before Christmas 2012 parents and students at her school were told that after the break she was to be known as Miss Meadows.

A simple enough request. The schools governers and staff were supportive. Perhaps some of them bothered to read up about gender identity disorders which occur, for a variety of reasons, in perhaps 1 in 10,000 male and 1 in 30,000 female human beings.

Which cleary some of the parents - and uninvolved journalists - did not.

In particular Richard Littlejohn made it his business, on December 20 2012, to inform the readers of the Daily Mail about Lucy's situation thereby turning a discreet local event into a nationwide circus.There were press camped outside her house and parents were offered money for photographs, the sort of pressure that anyone would find unbearable let alone someone going through a major life change. On 3 January she complained to the Press Complaints Commission. On 19 March she took her own life.

At the inquest the coroner said

"Having carried out what can only be described as a character assassination, having sought to ridicule and humiliate Lucy Meadows and bring into question her right to pursue her career as a teacher, the Daily Mail's response was to offer to remove the article from the website," he said, adding: "It seems to me that nothing has been learned from the Leveson inquiry."

The Daily Mail has removed Littlejohn's piece from its web site.

It would not be possible to prove a cause-and-effect between Littlejohn's attack and Lucy Meadows's death. But it is time that powerful so-called journalists like Littlejohn, and their publishers, were made to take responsibility for their actions. Obviously manslaughter cannot be proved, but the very act of exposing the private lives of ordinary people to public scrutiny and ridicule is close to wilful misconduct and should be punishable with long prison sentences.

Neil Young and Crazy Horse, Birmingham LG Arena, 11 June 2013

For Neil Young devotees this must have been the perfect concert. His voice has not lost its power over the years and, combined with fine playing by a truely together band and with certain songs treated to very long jams, this was classic Neil Young. His guitar playing, while not flashy, is passionate and uniquely suited to his music and he clearly enjoys playing with Crazy Horse. (At times the guitar players closed in together and it was as if they forgotten the audience was there.)

So why did I feel at best detatched from, and occasionally frankly bored with, what was happening on stage?

Admittedly the remoteness of Block 5 from the stage at the LG Arena is an issue. (I like to be right up there in front of the stage ideally). But that's the deal with arena gigs. Secondly, which I respect his Neilship and am pleased to have seen him, I don't count myself as a real fan. I didn't particularly like 'Harvest'. There are no Neil Young songs where I'm thinking "I really hope he's going to play that".

Then there was the fannying about with props: roadies in white coats unpacking enormous mock-ups of amps and, bizarrely, a 6m high microphone. A (work experience?) girl criss-crossing the stage with a guitar case during 'Singer without a song'. Durrrh?

Finally there's the music itself. Solid, rooted, loud, multi-layered, but mostly (plodding) single-tempo. After the support band, the excellent Los Lobos, left the stage I heard nothing that made me want to move, let alone dance. This is definitely not dance music - a conclusion evidenced by the almost total lack of movement in front of the stage. If the music DSO makes lifts you off the ground, then this surely makes your feet sink! So sombre! Some songs come across as positively dirge-like. It's enough to make you want to give the poor man a hug.

By the end I'd enjoyed most of it but was ready for him to finish; no regrets and his (solo) rendition of "Blowin' in the Wind' alone made the trip worthwhile.


Set List

Love to Burn
Surfer Joe and Moe the Sleeze
Psychedelic Pill
Walk like a Giant
Hole in the Sky
Heart of Gold
Blowin' in the Wind
Singer without a Song
Ramada Inn
Cinnamon Girl
Fuckin' up
Cortez the Killer
Mr Soul
My my, hey hey
enc: Powderfinger