Found: a piece of England...

I wondered, as soon as I saw it laid in front of me as I walked down a leafy avenue in Hull, what the significance of this object was. It felt as if a point was being made. A copy of Billy Bragg and The Blokes' England, Half English discarded. Spent. Left to rot.


But it didn't stop me from picking it up, checking to see if the CD was intact (it was) and passing it to M to pop in her bag for safekeeping. "No," she said, "I'm not. That'd be like stealing it." Which it wouldn't. The CD had been well-handled and had been tossed aside, unloved. But the fact that I'm picking up someone else's rubbish....that's very 21st century Englishness, isn't it? Begging, stealing, borrowing. It's on the CD player now. After one play, I shall drop it in the street and let this copy of England, Half English continue its journey.

Worth noting that, on the inner sleeve, there's a George Orwell quote:

"Englishness is continuous. It stretches into the future and the past, there is something in it that persists, as in a living creature. What can the England of 1940 have in common with the England of 1840? But then, what have you in common with the child of five whose photograph your mother keeps on the mantlepiece? Nothing, except that you happen to be the same person."

George Orwell, England, Your England from The Lion and the Unicorn (1941)

Sticking it out...

In town filming some footage for a Larkin25 project I'm involved with. A dearth of people with anything to say, other than "never heard of him". Then a chap outside of Waterstone's starts waxing lyrical. "There's that Nick Cave song, yeah? Where he talks about Larkin being stuck in the library in Hull. I find it amazing that there's this songwriter from Aussie writing about a poet from Hull, don't you?"

Karl Marx squeezed his carbuncles
while writing Das Kapital
And Gaugin, he buggered off, man,
and went all tropical
While Philip Larkin stuck it out
in a library in Hull
And Dylan Thomas died drunk in
St Vincent's hospital

from Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds' There She Goes, My Beautiful World

It's only rock 'n' roll...

Vinyl, eh? Those were the days. I shipped all mine to me Mum's a couple or three years ago during one of our numerous house moves because I was sick of lugging the stuff around and, well, where's safer than the matriarch's residence? For a long time it all lived in her spare room (my old bedroom from 1982-1987). Then, understandably, she wanted to do something in there other than let me use it as a store room, so half of it moved up into the loft, the rest being allowed a stay of execution before it was moved somewhere else indoors. Then the second half was moved again: Ma phoned me one day to let me know it would be living in the shed but not to worry, it was dry in there and she would protect it anyway using various hi-tech covers. She phoned me recently to tell me there had been a leak. "Don't worry, though, your records were covered in a plastic sheet." Ah. Right. "Erm. Have you looked at them recently? Are they covered in mould?" "They're a little bit damp I think."

The leak might not have done for them but the condensation certainly had. Ah well. My attachment to them had waivered during, I think, the aforementioned house moves and, where this news might have destroyed my very being once-upon-a-time, I took a philosophical 'never mind, I've got Spotify and mp3s galore and I own every track I want to listen to in a different format anyway' view of the demise of my physical record collection, which I started amassing, what, over 30 years ago? Surely not. Shit. How old am I?

Dad, something of a collector of vinyl himself, took great pleasure in showing me how to take a record out of its inner liner and get it on the turntable without so much as a finger print ever getting on the thing and I did treat those black discs with tender love and care for so much of their lives. Now? Lots of sleeves are stuck together and the vinyl within looks as if it may sprout fungus within weeks. A previous me might have cried. But, as I failed miserably in my attempt to part Bob Dylan from the Rolling Stones, I thought the wreckage looked rather, well, delightful. I suppose I'll salvage what I can, transfer the few obscure titles to some electronic mumbo jumbo, maybe make a collage out of the least-damaged covers and then hurl the rest towards the council tip. Shame but, y'know, life goes on.

No regrets...

"Never," they (who? - source req'd ed) tend to tell you when you're involved in the writing of stories, "let the facts get in the way of a good story". What, then, is a fact? It's at times like this when I reach for the top shelf which is not, I hasten to add, the resting place for a vast collection of pornography but, in our home at least, the place where we store our reference library. First in line is The Concise Oxford Dictionary, which, even now, even after years of people paying me money to write misspelt claptrap, I wouldn't dare do without. A fact, the OED tells me, is "a thing that is know to have occurred, to exist, or to be true". For the sake of irony, I also turned to Wikipedia for its take on fact. "The term fact," she tells me, "can refer to, depending on context, a detail concerning circumstances past or present, a claim corresponding to objective reality, a provably true concept, or a synonym for reality." The word fact has been used in conjunction with an appearance by a certain Robbie Williams at last night's Brits awards, where he received a lifetime achievement award before performing a career-spanning medley of hits, which "was the highlight of the night for many inside Earls Court" (but not, I would suggest, outside Earls Court, where free will, freedom of expression and free thinking was upheld). The word fact has been used by Ian Youngs, a music reporter for BBC News in his report looking at the "real Brits Awards winners and losers". Mr Youngs's talked of the opportunity that RW was afforded to "remind us that his best anthems were huge, euphoric, communal and enduring pop landmarks." And the fact? "The fact that we needed reminding was also a bit sad because it means it must have been so long since he has had one of those mega hits." Is that really a fact? The fact that we needed reminding? Have we not just cast those "pop landmarks" aside because we now realise that they are insignificant? And isn't the claim that RW's best anthems were "huge, euphoric, communal and enduring", with the possible exception of Angels, a little bit grand? Youngs also praises Peter Kay's "withering one-liners". Peter Kay could certainly be described as withering, depending on the definition you opt for.

Adelphi...

Hull's Adelphi Club is 25 years old. There's a great installation at the Ferens Art Gallery that sums up the importance of the club and those 25 years. Lots of interesting video looped round and around which is well worth a watch and the bus, covered in Adelphi flyers. Tax = £Free. Only on 'til Monday though.

Sunday evening shindig #25...

Wire - I Am The Fly
I am the fly in the ointment
I can spread more disease than the fleas
Which nibble away at your window display

Sunday evening shinding #23...

Pearl Jam - Yellow Ledbetter
I said I don't know whether
I'm the boxer or the bag

Kevin Cummins...

Kevin Cummins is responsible for copious amounts of iconic rock imagery and he will no doubt be taking photographs for years to come. The opening of a précis of his career in today's theguardian Guide got me thinking, however, that if KC ever attempts to get a gig in a different field of work, his CV might raise a few eyebrows: "Photographer Kevin Cummins has shot everyone from Madonna to Mark E Smith..."

Nipped along to KC's official website, as you would, but there's not much going on there today:

Sunday evening shindig #18...

Grandaddy - Elevate Myself
I don't wanna be a part
Of all the quality that falls apart these days
I'd rather make an honest sound
And watch it fly around
And then be on my way

Monday morning...

Another week. Half of the first day almost gone already, so the working week is all slipping away from me again as I speak. But so what? Who cares?

A nice weekend, during which I generally mucked about and relaxed with M and the boy F, which I don't feel like I've done for quite some time. We walked in the sunshine. We went to the park. We laughed. And meandered. General japes. Some monstrous vegetable burgers over at mothers. Bit of decent telly too - northern flat cap, whippet stroking rugby league Challenge Cup semis thrillers, then the miners night on BBC Four and Louise Theroux in The City Addicted To Crystal Meth, while not exactly mood enhancers, were jolly interesting. Bit of a disappointing musical experience - The Twang's Jewellery Quarter, demonstrating an act trying desperately to fit too many lyrics into too small a space. But maybe it needs a few listens. In contrast, I was also tempted to pop Sign O The Times back on the CD player for the first time in a long time and that was good to hear again.

Submitted play to theatre last week, waiting for news. This morning I sent some radio gubbins over to a Radio Four producer. I won't hold my breath. But that would be good to do.

Generally, I'm not doing enough, although I feel overworked. Flat battery syndrome. Thinking too much about stuff that ties me in knots to my own detriment. About removing the desire to fulfil my 'false needs', about the mess we're all in, about how to opt out of 'the system' if, indeed, it's possible. We have no money. A big part of me doesn't care. Another part of me worries. I wake up at around 4am most mornings. Not sure if it's the thinking or the tea-filled bladder weakening under the strain.

Sunday evening shindig #16...

Solomon Burke - None Of Us Are Free
The world is getting smaller each passing day
Now it's time to start making changes, and it's time for us all to realise
That the truth is shining real bright right before our eyes
None of us are free

Sunday evening shindig #11...

Groove Armada - Chicago

The saxman cometh...

This gent's a postive contribution to the streets of Hull. When we passed he was playing a whacked out version of the Pink Panther theme.

Gagging for First Love...

Director Lee did us proud with his musical choices for Gagging For It. One of which was The Maccabees First Love - a smashin' track that makes great use of the word 'symmetrical'.

Sunday evening shindig #10...

The Enemy - We'll Live And Die In These Towns
You spend your time in smokey rooms
Where haggard old women
With cheap perfume say
It never happens for people like us, you know
Well nothing ever happened on its own

Sunday evening shindig #5...

Pavement - Stereo
Pigs, they tend to wiggle when they walk
The infrastructure rots
And the owners hate the jocks
With their agents and their dates
If the signatures are checked
You'll just have to wait

Sunday evening shindig #3...

Public Enemy - He Got Game
It might feel good
Sound a litle somethin'
Damn the game
If it don't mean nothin'

Sunday evening shindig #2...

Beastie Boys - Intergalactic
If you try to knock me you'll get mocked
I'll stir fry you in my wok
Your knees'll start shaking and your fingers pop
Like a pinch on the neck of Mr Spock

Sunday evening shindig...

After 25 Sunday evening feelings, I think it's time to perk up a little bit. Besides, those feelings of dread have subsided somewhat given that my journeys to an office elsewhere have come to an ending of my own making. So, here we go...

Elbow - One Day Like This

Cause holy cow, I love your eyes

And only now I see you like

Yeah, lying with me half-awake

Stumbling over what to say

Well, anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day
So throw those curtains wide!

One day like this a year'd see me right!

Sunday evening feeling #22...

Arcade Fire - No Cars Go
Between the click of the light and the start of the dream