The battle of Islington

We all love a foppy-haired, well spoken, aristocratic gent. In fact, in these days of almost hypnotic compliance with political correctness it could be about the only guilt-free moment of national pride we have left.

Normally these all-round good chaps are found hanging about in muddy fields, wearing bespoke tailored tweed, accompanied by well-groomed, enthusiastic Labradors with animated ears and tongue (the dog, not the aristocrat). Which it is why should be worrying to think one could soon be ruling the Manor of London.

In many respects Boris Johnson has many of the personality traits of the existing Mayor. Both have an uncanny ability to put not only their foot, but in many cases their entire lower legs into their mouths. Both seem to not only long for but genuinely believe they live in an age where everyone rides a bicycle and all form of motorised vehicles are banished outside an exclusion zone ending somewhere near Doncaster. Both have had a slightly wonky career in politics, and have a love-hate relationship with the media. So regardless of who wins, it’ll be business as usual in the small island-living community of Londonia.

There’s something odd about the idea of a Ken and a Boris battling it out for the hearts of Londoners. Whilst the name ‘Ken’ seems to conjure the image of a tall, thin grey-haired gent who spends days in his shed crafting things out of wood (anti-car congestion zone barriers, probably) and eating Worthers Originals, I’m struggling to think of a good ‘Boris’. There’s the lovable rogue Yeltsin, a tennis player of minor note, and an opera and that’s about it.

Of course only Londoners get to vote and there are 10 million people living in London, but on any given day this is doubled by tourists, visitors and workers priced out of trendy office-conversion apartments and I think they should get a say too. Big Brother’s viewing figures are down so why not have a phone vote for the country on who should be mayor? We could all sit back and watch as the future of London unfolds under the country’s chosen candidate. There’ll be no eviction votes, of course, but we could have a diary room for Ken to talk about his hatred of motorists and the combustion engine, or Boris could come in a stutter about the beastly queue on the Tube and try not to mention the Liverpudlian he saw on there reading The Star.

The best part of this plan? London becomes a massive theme park. You can actually visit the Big Brother House of Boris or Ken. London is our nation’s capital, whether you prefer to think your own province is independent or not, and as such we all own a stake in it. Whilst we might not get a vote because of our postcode, we can all influence the phone-vote by convincing our Loft-apartment-dwelling brethren who they should be voting for.

The blog of the ancient Geek

Why is it that Facebook and MySpace are cool, but mention that you have a blog and it’s like wearing a shell-suit and calling yourself Simon?

An over-dinner discussion turned to friends of old, and ways of keeping in touch. There was a general concensus around the table that Facebook was a fantastic tool. People spoke of logging in daily (or much more often as it transpired in some cases) to see what others were up to, and how you feel compelled to update your status bar frequently to keep people informed of what you’re thinking or what you are doing.

I casually dropped into the conversation that I don’t update mine so frequently because I use my blog for that kind of thing and suddenly everyone starts looking at the floor. I’ve turned into a Geek in their eyes. Clearly. How do bloggers get such bad PR. Suddenly there were some questions to be answered: Is the blog funny? Is it just like a journal? Is it interesting? It was like all my street-cred rested on my answers. I was quite far from civilisation at this point in the southern regions of Norway, and was beginning to wonder how long it would take passers-by to find my mutilated body in the the lane.

I’m sure if I’d said I used the MySpace blog tool it would have been fine. I think it comes down to the amount of effort you put it. If you use the social networking sites it’s like you’re a casual user. You can take it or leave it. You’re just one of the crowd who update people on what you’re doing because it’s the done thing. Put in some effort and suddenly yo’re a different person. It’s like sitting at home after a day of really momentous events and waiting for someone to call you so you can tell them all about it.

If the same were true of home decoration or entertaining guests, I’d have to welcome people to my house but invite them to bring a bottle and a chair, then we’d all order out for takeaway – and that just wouldn’t be polite would it?

Cabin crew, seats for take-off

So, I’m settling in to my seat on the plane, wondering why in-flight magazines have all the finesse and writing style of a Sunday supplement in The Telegraph when:

Muffled Speaker overhead: Ladies and gentlemen, this is Head Steward Gary and I’d like to welcome you aboard this British Airways flight to London Heathrow this evening. We’ll hopefully be preparing to set-off in about 10 minutes, a little later than scheduled. Some of you may have noticed we have some musicians on board, and we’re currently waiting for some engineers to attend the aircraft to secure the cello that’s traveling with us this evening. Hopefuly we’ll see what we can do to make up this time once we’re in the air, but for now just sit back and relax, and I’ll keep you updated.

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. So I now have an entire plane looking round to stare at me. And better still, they all know I’m the one making everyone late, so they’re more glaring than staring. Not to worry British Airways’ baggage handlers made us one whole bloody hour late because they didn’t watch the Count on Sesame Street carefully enough as children and put 1 too many suitcases on the place. Not to worry that on the way out the entire population of Terminal 4, except notably me who was otherwise indisposed on the toilet, knew that passenger Dury was travelling with a cello and needed to make himself known to personnel at the gate to board before all the other passengers, which he was going to make late.

Never mind all that, for now, right at this minute, I have everyone on a plane wanting to make sure that, in an emergency, I’m the last one down the chute because I’m the one that’s made everybody late.

The engineers in Oslo were very good at their work, although I’m not quite sure what they were expecting a cello to be. They brought strong-enough rope with them to tie down a grumpy pre-menstrual gorilla, and a long enough rope to reach all the way to bloody Heathrow and quite possibly back again.

They also took pride in their work. Put it this way- if they’d been part of Houdini’s stage-crew he’d never have made it to his first free Saga magazine and reduced AA insurance premium.

So there you have it. The world’s favourite airline – not so good at booking tickets or counting suitcases, but very good at tying knots.

Up and away

I’m currently sitting in Oslo airport waiting for my flight to be called. That’s not technically true, by the time this is published I’ll be sitting at home in my living room. In fact, if we’re going to be particularly pedantic about this, I’ll probably be in a rehearsal, out on my bike, or shopping at the precise time you’re reading this word. THIS word. This one here>>”This one“. But you get the point…

It’s been a fantastic week. The second concert (last night DCT (Dury’s current time)) almost moved me to tears. Not the playing, although that was obvisouly fantastic and tear-jerking in a professional, you know, moving way, but just the warmness of the people. The concert was in a small town in the Telemark district of Southern Norway. Expectations of attendance were very low, but as 6.50pm arrived, so did half of the town. Our little church was suddenly becoming a giant people magnet for most of the town’s inhabitants. We were not just performers, we were a public event.

Anyway, the tear-jerking bit came at the end. Having finished our concert we had the clapping in the unison-rhythm that had become customary (a local way of showing complete satisfaction with the performance). Then we were invited back on stage to be presented with gifts from the local church society. They were CD’s presented as gifts from the community and contained examples of local musicians in all sorts of styles, from chants to pop music. We had given them the gift (their words) of our music, so they wanted to give something back. They showed immense gratitude for us having chosen their town as they very rarely have classical music performances.

It all made me realise why I’m a musician and a performer. To give something to the audience.

It also got me thinking about how isolated most parts of Norway are. Everyone knows everyone else, because they have to. Town’s could be isolated for weeks in the winter and everyone has to get by. Then in the summer, they just tend to stay that way. So our choice of location really was a gift for them, and a real night out.

So there you have it. Why I play music and why I do it.

The end.

Walking with Dinosaurs…

…flying into the wind.

I always love flying with my cello. There’s never any shortage of conversation, as every Tom, Dick, Harry or Mabel feels compeled to talk to you about their cousin Frank who once played the cello… or was it the clarinet… maybe the Kazoo. He was an Aquarius you know.

Somehow I always end up near a family with small children, and the flight to Norway was no exception. In front of me I had Tarquin and Camilla (aged 10 and 8 2/3’s respectively). That’s at least what I can only assume their names to be, as they were insisting on calling each other ‘Muggle’ and ‘Ruggle’. They were sitting in a row with ‘the old lady‘ from Radio 2’s Steve Wright show who I presume, despite the ‘cock-a-ney’ jarring with their own RP, must have been the Mug and Rug’s grandmother. Dad was staying well out of it on the other side of the plane, embroiled in a book on Civil Wars in Africa – clearly an ‘Amazon Recommends’ purchase – and it quickly became apparent why.

Tarquinn: You’re such a lesbian
Camilla: Thanks. You’ve got bad hair.

*Brief pause for thought and a sip of a weak squash drink*

Tarquinn: I get sooo claustraphobic. Shut the blind… No really. I’m gonna die. We’re all gonna die. The plane’s crashing. Have we started moving yet?
Camilla (In weary school mistress voice): You’re not claus-tro-phobic.

I then chatted with the very lovely lady, Emma as I discovered, sat next to me on the plane (stupid BA seating policy – “British Airways – meet new people and make new friends so we can save time and money by separating you from your companions”). Emma, as it turned out, was a professional dancer with Oslo Opera, and a fellow former dweller of the Caerdydd, but even she wasn’t ready for the children, who clearly had been formed from a Rhoald Dahl story, who began a Rough Guide-style critique of Oslo from the air:

Tarquinn: Is that it? It’s a bit sparse. (Daddy’s choice to educate privately was clearly paying dividends with the vocabulary there)
Camilla: There’s nothing there. Just a few wooden houses and trees.
*Muffled snorts and giggles from myself, Emma andjust about everyone within earshot*
Tarquinn: Are we crashing? We’re going down too fast! I’m claustrophobic…

So there you have it: Oslo, officially ‘a bit sparse’, hoping to be twinned with Slough (or Swindon as a second choice) some time near 2012.

Chicken – Headless

I like travelling. Actually, that’s not completely true. I hate enclosed spaces, buses, shared youth hostel dormitories since turning 22, buses, take-offs, landings, queuing, the price of water in air-side kiosks and repeatedly having to say loudly ‘I have bought a t-i-c-k-e-t for my cello’.

But, you know, apart from that I like travelling.

It doesn’t seem to matter how often I do it, I still end up doing everything at the last minute. This time has been no exception, and therefore I found myself today, 24 hours pre-travelling, trying to sort out my parents’ birthday presents which have to be dispatched to arrive whilst I am away. They’re very nice, but made for a muddled shopping trip in the midst of my travel purchases.

The hardened traveller knows all they need are comfy shoes, a sturdy bag with at least as many pockets as there are Eastern European countries, trousers with pockets large enough to hold a passport, and some polo mints.

Today my shopping list was somewhat elaborate in comparison. First there was the do-we don’t-we conundrum of the travel plug. I’ve never bought one yet always seem to have one when needed (thanks to the lovely Sarah who must have a secret stash), so this always leaves me thinking I need one. Then there was satin material. About 1.5 metres – something no traveler should be without in case of a need to look ‘dressy’. In fact to wrap the cello in case it flies upside-down. Shoe deodorant, because the bin in the kitchen can no longer be regarded as the sole source of the smell that seems to be lingering in the hallway. Bubble wrap to wrap the aforementioned birthday swag in. So not your normal  lotion and loafers.

Then Starbucks were handing out free coffees. This left me wondering, has some osmic force decided I need a bit of r&r, or is it warning me I need a caffeine injection if I’m going to be ready in time? Is it possible to feel grateful and resentful at the same time? Our survey says ‘yes’.

So, 5am check-in on Sunday here we come. I see not only the forces of the great SB are at work – I arrived home to see only two-thirds of the M4 Eastbound were only passable by small yacht. So that’s trial by coffee, trial by water, and I foresee at least a trial by lack of sleep and trial by security guard – ‘a cello, you say, sir? And does, aforementioned cello have a seat and passport?’.

Oslo, here we come. You’d better be in the middle of Summer, or there’ll be trouble…

Fisticuffs in Bohemia

Slugger-Prescott has certainly been a highlight of my casual observance of politics over the last few years. I take more interest than I should, but always with a constant awareness that they’re all just there to shaft whoever they need to to be successful. I think I spent too many years listening to songs that tried to ‘sock it to the man‘.

David (is the) Camera-on(?) looks like a kid at school we all called ‘burger-bum’, and Gordon Brown is like the stately fat-guy with the threatening voice. Arguably PQ time in the Commons would be far more fun if there was the possibility of a school-yard fight, but let’s face it, unless a pasty farmer throws an egg, there’s very little chance.

Thankfully in Prague they do things a little differently. I very much enjoyed this video of a Presidential adviser and a politician throwing punches as a full audience watched on. I like the casual flick that starts the whole thing off, and the woefull first punch which continues into a fight as though they took lessons from Hugh Grant and Colin Firth.

At least they won’t be short of free medical attention – the audience comprised Czech dentists…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-qa1kp5KR84

Selling Houses

As a student I grew to gain a sort of enjoyment from the daily deluge of pamphlets and advertisements that came through the letterbox, partly because they weren’t bills. They mesmerised with their bright colours and swirly patterns. They hypnotised you with dreams of faraway places or luxury goods. Or they made you feel slightly queasy with images of plastic-looking pizzas or pre-digested baltis the like of which were normally the preserve of the pavements on a Sunday morning.

Now I’ve moved up the property hierarchy and those leaflets have been replaced with more simple ones in primary colours and Times New Roman fonts from estate agents. “We are looking for properties in your area”, “Buyer waiting to move in in your postcode”, “Top prices paid for your property”, “Thinking of moving?” they all shout in your face. If you read on further they flatter you by saying how your postcode is sought after for its ‘excellent location’, ‘fantastic setting’ and ‘spacious properties’. They also all say how they are ‘selling properties in your street now’. Flattery will get you everywhere in most forms of selling, but aren’t they trying to persuade me to move out?

There is of course a reason why people want to live where I live – it’s a nice place to live. They hit the bullseye from the word go by saying how nice the area was. That’s why I chose to live here. It’s why I like living here. It’s why I don’t plan to move  in the near future. I also can’t help thinking that if I was a) ever likely to be a property owner in this area and b) thinking of moving, telling me how fantastically placed and valuable my house was would make me think twice about risking moving into some shadowy darklands frequented by hooded teens called ‘Bradley’ and drug dealers in cars only needed in the more treacherous parts of the Amazon.

So, estate agents of the Chipping Sodbury area here’s a suggestion for the next leaflet – ‘Tired of living in a tranquil and safe setting? Tired of always finding your car where you left it? Want to live somewhere where you need a burglar alarm? We can advise you on more exciting and less salubrious locales whilst finding a family with 2.5 children to move into your paradise home. Call… and mention our risk-taker offer.’

That should help boost their sale sheets I would imagine…

Sheer Magnetism

The other night the lovely Sarah had an accident in the bedroom. Although slightly embarassing, thankfully it was only a minor spillage.

In dropping her jewelery collection on the floor I found myself calling for a magnet – something I can’t remember doing for a long time. When was the last time anyone needed a magnet? Yes, I know they’re in computers, scrap yards and recycling centres, but I’m talking about magnets in the sense in which we all knew them as children.

I can remember learning about magnets at school and how quickly they became playground currency. I, like every boy, had a small collection in my trouser pockets at all times. There were the typical Acme(Tm) style ‘u’-shaped ones in red, oblong ones and square ones. In the quest to win the magnet wars at playtime (where polarities are reversed and the winner is the one to repel the other the furthest), the stakes were continuously raised. People set about dismantling the speakers of home stereo systems to gain the biggest magnets possible. Fortunately stereos were obliging by being the size of a small canal boat at the time.

I get a strangely fuzzy glow when I think back to magnets, but this nostalgia is dangerous stuf and it got me thinking about the things we no longer need. Vitamin tablets, for example, were once a daily childhood fix of sanatagen before school but are now the preserve of flaky-haired women in stripey jumpers who are members of Save the Earth. Wellingtons and Earmuffs are a thing of the past, unless you’re a farmer or a trendy new media type with thick balck plastic-rimmed glasses called Robyn. Those black coats with fur-lined hoods that found fame in Quadrophenia, but which now are only seen on Eastenders.

There are of course things which enter your life to help you mark the milestones of getting old. Moisturiser, embodied in my childhood as mystical bottles of Oil of Ulay, becomes a daily chore to stop the skin on my hands, which once repaired itself almost immediately after a minor bump or scrape, cracking like the fault lines of California. I now have glasses to help me find my misplaced contact lenses, where once my hawk-like pork pies could spot a new Matchbox car at 1000 yards. Garden kneelers come along to help you get down close to the mud and bushes I once made camps in.

Life changes, but it only takes a split second for an object to re-enter which makes you regress to days of anti-septic sprays and immortality…

C D end is night, I told you so

So sales of the humble CD are down and music as we know it is about to go down below the surface for the third time. We’ve seen it before. Many doom-mongered the death of vinyl, then cassettes. I’m sure back in the days of yore a heavy-set chap in a loin cloth set in that season’s colours ‘og’d and ‘ug’d his way through a rant about the death of cave-painting before writing an editorial about it for Mojo and Q.

The problem is that this time there’s no emerging media to take its place. That’s not entirely true of course, it’s just that mp3 means you can pick and choose your favourite bits – there’s no need to listen to the entire album. Like visiting the Louvre and going straight the Mona Lisa without taking in the other works, and no one does that do they…?

It’s unlike music fans to be nostalgic, what with the entire hobby being based around capturing and listening to historically ‘significant’ moments afterall, but it’s sad to think there might never be another Dark Side of the Moon or Sgt Pepper’s. I can remember Christmas mornings spent as a child playing with newly unwrapped toys in the warm glow of the Christmas tree accompanied by the annual performance of the Dark Side of the Moon vinyl. Counting Christmas money and new trains whilst Dave Gilmore poured his socialist heart out in Money.

It really was only vinyl that compelled you to listen to the entire album of an artist. You could try your luck at placing the needle in the right place, using a speck of tip-ex if you were scientifically minded, but if you wanted the record to last the distance it was easier to listen from start to finish. But you see, it all ended there. cassettes gave you the option of fast-forwarding the slow burners, and by the time you get to CD’s most players give you the option of completely reworking the album and programming the track order yourself. So really mp3’s are just an extension of this.

So is this the end of the album? Probably, yes. People will only download tracks they know – have you ever paid for a download of a song you know nothing about, even if it is an artist you know? It’s difficult enough to get audiences to stay in concerts long enough to play them something they haven’t heard before, but curled up on the sofa in slippers with a chocolate hobnob in their hands you’ve got no chance.

The thing is it’s all going to have a much wider impact on music. With no filler tracks, record companies are only going to be interested in songs which make money, and as we all know the ‘hit’ has a very simple formula – hook, verse, drum fill and stonking singalong chorus. The world is turning Disney and there’s nothing we can do. The airwaves will be filled with clones of Barbie Girl by Aqua, and Wigfield singing about her Saturday Night.

Ask yourself a question: How many tracks on Sgt Pepper would’ve been discarded by record company execs because they wouldn’t see an adequate return if everything had to sell as an individual download? Then go out and buy a cd before everything goes Fopp.