Grist to the Mill

2008-09-18T16:08:00.000+01:00

Tea 'healthier' drink than water

The researchers recommend people consume three to four cups a day
Drinking three or more cups of tea a day is as good for you as drinking plenty of water and may even have extra health benefits, say researchers.

Hurrah!

2008-04-05T17:49:00.002+01:00

DRIVING TEST

Well, I passed - eventually. Driving is scaring the crap out me, though. Cycling at night around Hyde Park Corner / through Victoria / around Marble Arch is about one hundred times less stressful than pootling around Reading in a car. This is going to take some getting used to, and I'm not enjoying it much at the moment.

2007-11-04T11:44:00.000Z

NEW WORD

"A word I like at the moment is calenture. It was a condition where sailors who had been at sea for a long time would get the delusion that the waves were countryside and covered with grass and would try and get off the ship and wander around. Nice word, beautiful sound to it and expressing rather a devastating concept."

I love this word too. It resonates, it's significant.

- Will Self

2007-11-04T11:37:00.000Z

CHANCE & TIME & CONNECTING

The following passage was in the line notes of a Richard Hawley album. No need to paraphrase him. The feeling he expresses is plain:

In every city and every town there's a place.
A special place where people meet. Not a mythical place but somewhere real, a place that exists, not in the past, but now.
In my city there's a place just like that. You won't see a street sign for it and you can't find it on a map, but it's there, right under everyone's feet, thousands and thousands of feet have stood there, waiting in the warm morning sunshine or stamping bored and impatient in the freezing winter night annoyed at someone who's late or will never come.
Yeah it's there alright. I know. I've stood there.
This place in my town is called Coles Corner, in Sheffield, right in front of where the old Cole Brothers department store used to be... a long time ago.
It got knocked down in the 60s to make way for the bright new vision of the future somebody planned.
The new building's old too now... but not as old as Coles Corner.
For years, lovers, friends and families have met here on this spot.
There must be so many people that are here in Sheffield and in this world who are alive because a love bloomed after meeting here... on Coles Corner, in Sheffield, the city where I live.

2007-08-28T00:35:00.000+01:00

AUTUMN

"All of us have been dying, hour by hour, since the moment we were born. Realizing this, let all things be placed in their proper perspective... Remember, it is always later than you think." Og Mandino

"The hollow horn plays wasted words
Proves to warn
That he not busy being born
Is busy dying." Bob Dylan

Mid-afternoon:
The sea smoothes
The crumpled land
With foaming briny fingers
Limpid, languid, listless.
Drowsiness at three o’clock.
Distilled in the drone of a bee
Drifting to a distant field
Where golden rounds of hay
Stand separate as men
Like giant sandcastles
Tempting a naked foot to stamp them out.
A glinting jet weaves a vapour trail
Stretched out across the clear blue,
Blue-sky dome:
A subtext of mortality
On an autumn day.

2007-07-25T21:50:00.000+01:00

SPEAK, MEMORY

The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness... Nature expects a full grown man to accept the two black voids, fore and aft, as stolidly as he accepts the extraordinary visions in between. Imagination, the supreme delight of the immortal and the immature, should be limited. In order to enjoy life we should not enjoy it too much. I rebel against this state of affairs.

Vladimir Nabokov

2007-07-23T00:01:00.000+01:00

LOVE

"Yeah, I heard a funny thing
Somebody said to me
You know that I could be in love with almost everyone
I think that people are
The greatest fun
And I will be alone again tonight my dear."

Right now, I feel I know what Arthur Lee was getting at. People, friends, when you seek out the right ones, are inspiring ("the greatest fun"), connecting you - as they do - with some kind of life force, giving you feelings of warmth and hope for the whole world ("almost everyone"). And yet, here I am writing this at five minutes past midnight, all alone ("Alone Again Or"), and not minding that fact at all. Arthur Lee, bless you, RIP.

2007-07-15T13:43:00.000+01:00

OX BELLY STEW

Spent five days over Easter in Hungary and a couple of days cycling through the countryside. Just collected the photos, sadly blurred because I only realised the camera shutter speed was wrong, unfortunately at the end of the roll of film. Anyway, I remembered a silly incident that I'd kind of forgotten about. At a restaurant somewhere away from the city on the banks of the Danube (Neil? Where?!) stopped for lunch. I ordered the above from the menu, envisaging the flesh of the animal - I'm so ignorant, though. I AM NOT A BUTCHER! I thought 'belly' meant a soft, tender cut of meat, something like tenderloin (which I know now is nowhere near the stomach). When the meal came, it looked very strange. It took a few minutes to figure out that it was tripe. Honeycomb tripe, at that. The "meat" (if you can call it that) was cut into strips, and it had odd, hexagonal-type 'gills' on it. God knows what function they serve. Probably to 'waft' the half digested food through the innards of the ox, towards the large intestine, or worse.

It was offputting, but hey! mussels don't look great if you look at them too closely but they're delicious, so I wasn't about to let the look of it put me off. I didn't want to be the kind of person who orders an ommelette at an Indian restaurant, so I was gamely trying to trick myself into liking it. Also, tripe is, or at least, has been, a staple of people in that region for centuries. A continent of people can't be wrong. And out in rural Hungary, at least it would be cooked properly. It had lots of tomatoes and the right seasoning, so I was confident it had been cooked right.

It was irredeemably foul in every way: in taste, texture (especially that) and appearance. Not to worry, at least I know what it's like now.

2007-07-09T21:37:00.001+01:00

HUMAN CONDITION - THOM GUNN*
*Further to 'Staff Room' entry, which reminded me of this...

Now it is fog. I walk
Contained within my coat;
No castle more cut off
By reason of its moat:
Only the sentry's cough,
The mercenaries' talk.

The street lamps, visible,
Drop no light on the ground,
But press beams painfully
In a yard of fog around.
I am condemned to be
An individual.

In the established border
There balances a mere
Pinpoint of consciousness.
I stay, or start from, here:
No fog makes more or less
The neighboring disorder.

Particular, I must
Find out the limitation
Of mind and universe.
To pick thought and sensation
And turn to my own use
Disordered hate or lust.

I seek, to break, my span.
I am my one touchstone.
This is a test more hard
Than any ever known.
And thus I keep my guard
On that which makes me man.

Much is unknowable.
No problem shall be faced
Until the problem is;
I, born to fog, to waste,
Walk through hypothesis,
An individual.

2007-07-08T01:24:00.000+01:00

DAVID BYRNE

Back in the 80s, there were some good bands. It wasn't only Kylie, Stock Aitken and Waterman, 'NOW! THat's What I Call Music' compilations. I love the film of this gig ("The Citizen Kane of the concert movies", according to The Face). And David's so sexy. Look at his odd maneouvres!

2007-07-08T00:31:00.000+01:00

STAFF ROOM

Lying on someone's desk: a well-thumbed copy of Sylvia Plath's Ariel, which contains one of my favourite lines from any novel/poet/pithy moraliser. Particularly since it's also an opening line, and pure declaration. Here it is:

"THIS IS THE LIGHT OF THE MIND: COLD AND PLANETARY" (said of the moon).

I love that. And yet, in the department staffroom, I felt I shouldn't mention this. They don't seem to get excited by their subject v often. Perhaps that's not entirely true... it might be more a case of them looking askance at me for "being weird". So I kept quiet - seems to be for the best.

2007-07-03T20:03:00.000+01:00

LA ROCHEFOUCAULD'S MAXIMS

'The bitter and pessimistic philosophy expressed in this work was to contribute greatly to the taste of seventeenth-century France'. It strikes me as excessively cynical. The writer doesn't trust any outward behaviour whatsoever. He's always looking at the dark possibilities lying beneath. Here are some of his nuggets of wisdom:

We are never as fortunate or unfortunate as we suppose

We have no more say in the duration of our passions than in that of our lives.

Often we are taken in ourselves by some of the tears with which we have deceived others.

Love may be delightful, but even more so are the ways in which it reveals itself.

A neighbour's ruin is relished by friends and enemies alike.

Little is needed to make a wise man happy, but nothing can content a fool. That is why nearly all men are miserable.

It is far easier to stifle a first desire than to satisfy all the ensuing ones.

Some people are so shallow and frivolous that they are as far removed from having any real faults as from having any solid virtues.

The vivacity that increases with age verges on madness.

It is impossible to love for a second time anything that you have really ceased to love.

The man who lives without folly is not as wise as he thinks.

The glory of great men must always be measured against the means by which they have used to acquire it.

The vagaries of our moods are even stranger than those of fortune.

No fools are so difficult to manage as those with some brains.

We are almost always bored by the very people by whom it is vital not to be bored.

2007-06-27T22:13:00.000+01:00

THIS MOMENT

AArrgh. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!

2007-06-03T21:03:00.001+01:00

JEFF BUCKLEY

Jeff B died ten years ago this week (ten years ago, already) so I checked him out on YouTube. His talent floors me every time, especially when I haven't listened to him for a while. How many musicians/songwriters can SING like this? There's not much to say - just watch and listen in awe.

The 'official' video is strange to say the least. It must be just what he felt like putting together at the time. Who knows, who cares, when the song and performance are so great.

2007-05-28T23:53:00.000+01:00

DRIVING LESSON

I had my first driving lesson today with a very nice bloke called Kev (who talks too much). I drove around an industrial estate for an hour and a half. Fortunately, I seemed able to tap into something from my lessons of sixteen years ago. Finding the biting point on the clutch, for example, didn't seem as much of a palava as I remember it being back then. Thank goodness. It would be magnificent if I could pass before my summer holiday, but since this is in seven weeks' time, it seems unlikely. Come what may, with or without a car, I'm determined to spend some of August under canvas, camping out. Yay.

2007-05-28T23:28:00.000+01:00

AT THE RIVER

Had a thirty minute walk along the river in the rain at the weekend. It was a nice and increasingly rare night out, and a fantastic walk to get there. It was evening on an extremely wet Sunday, so I didn't pass a soul on the way there. It was raining quite hard all the way, too, and the trees were low slung, so I kept dislodging water from them with my umbrella. Because there were so many trees growing densely along the riverbank, I was struck by how massive the leaves are on Horse Chestnut trees. They are really in their prime now. I think all of nature is, at this time of year. The leaves were lime-green coloured, and enormous:

Another nice thing to witness were the moorhens, swans, canada geese and other miscellaneous ducks. I know there's no need to illustrate my metaphors, but the internet makes it all possible, so:

At one point, there were two sets of mating pairs, with about ten cygnets apiece, just waddling about on the grassy bank, killing time. I'm sure this was because the river was so swollen and fast-flowing they didn't want their babies washed away. Not such nice weather for ducks, then.

2007-05-23T18:40:00.000+01:00

SCOTT WALKER

Scott Walker is clearly a man with a lot going on. You only need listen to his music to spot his depth and emotion. There was a documentary about him last night -interesting, but not very revealing. I felt none the wiser about the man, but quite a lot wiser to his music. I didn't realise the extent of his avant garde streak. He's one of those musicians/artists who will forever be shrouded in mystery until he dies, at which point biographers will shed a lot more light. It's not nice to wish people dead (and I don't wish Scott Walker dead) but it's the only way the public will ever find out what makes him tick.

2007-05-15T22:36:00.000+01:00

THE 'GALLOP APACE' SOLILOQUY

Somewhat inevitably, am covering Romeo and Juliet for GCSE (I love Shakespeare, but I'd *much* prefer that we studied Hamlet). This soliloquy is one of the best: it's so lovely; so utterly, unashamedly romantic in every department - in its allusions, imagery, repetition and emphasis. It's full of suggestion and laden with imperatives. She just can't wait to have him!

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging! Such a wagoner
As Phaeton would whip you to the west
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That runaway's eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms untalked of and unseen.
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Played for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.
Hood my unmanned blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle till strange love grow bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.
Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-browed night;
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possessed it. So tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not wear them.

2007-05-13T14:08:00.000+01:00

MY CAR

I have a car to call my own: it’s a 1997, 5-door hatchback Daihatsu Move. Only 46,000 miles on the clock and a 846cc engine, which is apparently equivalent to a motorbike. It’s great though, and cost only £23 to fill the tank. It’s quite dinky as it’s incredibly narrow (no hassle parking snug against the kerb) and it has very small wheels. My mate down the road was trading up to a new Beatle, so she very kindly donated this to me. Now I have to pass my test!

Thing is, though, I’m a cyclist before I’m a motorist. I’m extremely grateful to C for the car, but nothing beats the thrill of urban cycling – sawing the handlebars right down and taking huge risks in London traffic. I used to love it so much. It doesn’t have the same appeal in this town. But, beating the lights; hopping onto pavements (case-need); going into a high gear and charging along long, flat arterial stretches; breaking into a sweat through effort and exertion; tacitly ‘racing’ other cyclists; noticing the changing seasons in the air; setting off with a bunch of other commuters when the lights change; judging the exact spot on a road where you want to come to rest (often HMV on Oxford Street); cutting loose through Regent’s Park; cycling the final strait without holding the handlebars; passing glum people at bus stops; smiling at cute couriers,; getting to your destination more quickly than you ever did before; getting there more quickly than people using the tube; getting to the top of a steep hill when you didn’t on previous occasions; managing to balance at lights without putting a foot down; cycling home through the dark listening to the birds; feeling the pure fusion and simplicity and responsiveness of your muscles powering non-motorised parts; blah, blah. Also, some of the best and most interesting people ride bikes. Who would you rather have at your dinner party? Jon Snow or John Prescott? Boris Johnson or Jeremy Clarkson? Cars suck, but bikes rock!

2007-05-08T21:05:00.000+01:00

STEVE REICH

Picked up a heavily discounted Nonesuch sampler, at the weekend for three quid. Nothing much on it, apart from Section 6 of ‘Music for 18 Musicians’ by composer (and arranger, I presume) Steve Reich. Oh! but it’s good! I’ve had it on repeat – the relentlessness of playing it on repeat suits the music. I don’t even like classical music as a rule, but this is different. It’s similar to Brian Eno or David Axelrod but it’s all played by musicians, so it’s not electric (or electronic, even). An ebayer comments:
To label the work 'repetitive' would be an understatement, but also an unfair one. It is in its repetition of themes and original musical ideas that this admittedly minimal work finds it's strengths.

The fact that the very modern sounding piece is played entirely acoustically, along with the almost unrecognisable (yet sublime) presence of four female voices both contribute greatly to a piece of music which should not be ignored. This (‘Music for 18 Musicians’) is one of the most accessible of his works and is hauntingly repetitive and very beautiful – if you are new to the 'minimalist' music of the ‘70s, this work will astound you with its originality.

2007-05-07T19:46:00.002+01:00

SAMUEL PEPYS' DIARY

I haven't got time to read it properly (there's so much of it) so instead I read entries quite randomly. He's relatively interesting - maybe a seventeenth century Septuagenarian: flawed, repetitive, occasionally funny. Here's what he says about keeping his accounts in order, on 31st March 1666.

All the morning at the office busy. At noon to dinner, and thence to the office and did my business there as soon as I could, and then home and to my accounts, where very late at them, but, Lord! what a deale of do I have to understand any part of them, and in short do what I could, I could not come to any understanding of them, but after I had thoroughly wearied myself, I was forced to go to bed and leave them much against my will and vowe too, but I hope God will forgive me, for I have sat up these four nights till past twelve at night to master them, but cannot. This ends my month, with my head and mind mightly full and disquiett because of my accounts, which I have let go too long, and confounded my publique with my private that I cannot come into any liquidating of them.

2007-05-05T23:41:00.000+01:00

APOLOGIES

Apologies to any visitors of this blog (are there any?) who couldn’t find it. I had a passing emergency and had to hide it for a few days. Panic over.

2007-05-05T23:40:00.000+01:00

HEN NIGHT

I went to a Hen night recently. It was sweet of the bride to invite me as we’re casual friends and not terrifically close, and so I figured it would have been rude to decline.

We went along to a show called SingAlongAnAbba. It was somewhere between theatre, karaoke and pantomime. You had to hold out props in time to the music (3D glasses for SuperTruperLightsAreGonnaBlindMe; an S & O card for SOS; etc). I tried to get into the spirit of it, but spent the evening feeling like a bit like Woody Allen and Sylvia Plath’s weird lovechild.

To be truthful, I felt quite dissimilar to the other ebullient, well-adjusted Hens, and then even further away from getting married, or liking Abba, so the whole thing was a bit like a grisly sitcom. Things improved later, when we got to the pub. Thankfully, there were a couple of others who seemed a bit out of kilter, which helped.

2007-05-05T22:55:00.000+01:00

WHERE'S JUDE?

Calling TheJulianKennedy. Come in, TheJulianKennedy.

2007-04-17T21:39:00.000+01:00

iPOD

Like a blue cheese, my Pod is maturing nicely. Sometimes it's fun just to arrange things alphabetically. Filing has never been such a pleasure. Take the "I'm"s:

I'm a Man
I'm a Mindless Idiot
I'm a Roadrunner
I'm Always Crying
I'm Bugged at My Old Man
I'm Down
I'm Dreaming
I'm Glad
I'm Gonna Do It All
I'm Gonna Get Your Thing
I'm Gonna Keep What I've Got
I'm Gonna Make You Love Me
I'm Happy Just To Dance With You
I'm In a Different Word
I'm In Love With a Girl
I'm in Love With You
I'm Looking Through You
I'm Moving On
I'm Not Crazy
I'm Not In Love
I'm Not Your Stepping Stone
I'm On My Way

... and that's just "I'm: A to O". There are a lot of "I'm: P to Z"s. It brings out all kinds of dilemmas such as whether to capitalise prepositions and articles, etc. And if you have the same song twice, to delete it from the album or greatest hits??

There are 5,000 songs now and each one is roughly vetted before it stays on. I don't want any filler or padding from albums, nor (much) mediocrity. So it shouldn't be that suprising when, playing it on random, it serves up three songs in a row that are not only perfect but perfect together. Like a fruit machine doling out three melons on the winning line, at the bus stop today I had:

Old John Riley (The Byrds). Ker-CHING!
Be My Baby (The Ronettes). Ker-CHING!
Laughing (David Crosby). Ker-CHING!

2007-04-17T21:17:00.000+01:00

OVERHEARD #2

Airport cafe, flight side. As I checked in, I noticed another flight was departing to Milan at about the same time as mine. In the queue, noticed an obviously Italian mother and daughter: slightly bling accesories, warm olive complexion, air of glamour. The mother pushed her daughter forwards, presumably because of daughter's superior command of English. Daughter asked for two espressos. The woman working in the cafe looked dubious and suprised, and then warned them off "an espresso is a very small amount, and it's very very strong!!"

Woman obviously not realising that Italians are a nation of people who thrive on strong coffee.

Italian daughter looked equally surprised. Not quite following, she said "Er, medium? please."

I don't know if the working woman decided to explain. I kinda hope she didn't.

2007-04-17T21:10:00.000+01:00

OVERHEARD #1

...In WHSmith at the weekend, a young couple looking at stationery. I think they were discussing the stationery for their wedding invites. She was umming and ahhing while he seemed to be trying to guide her towards his preferred choice. He had a pained expression on his face. I heard him say "But that's thirty quid just on envelopes".

Sad, that barely, or just-about comfortably off people see the need to buy into all that bourgeous bollocks about stuff that isn't important. In my opinion, at a wedding, all you need to do is provide an atmosphere of bonhomie and a reasonable meal. That's all! Incredibly straightforward. No one cares about envelopes. That couple should have got brown envelopes from the stationery cupboard in their office. Or even emailed their invitations. Looking back, noone will think "They made a great couple and they had lovely envelopes".

2007-04-17T21:06:00.000+01:00

IN THE LIBRARY

Browsing in the library today, happened upon a slim volume of poetry by a relatively obscure poet (at least, outside America). The collection was called "Pallbearers Envying the One Who Rides". Way.To.Go!

Great title.

2007-04-11T19:28:00.000+01:00

MORE NEW MUSIC

Just because! All of it in that particular kind of American indie low-fi vein that I'm enjoying so much at present. There's not much demand for it in Reading.

BRENDAN BENSON

RUSSIAN FUTURISTS

BROKEN SOCIAL SCENE

JOSH ROUSE

SUFJAN STEVENS

2007-04-02T00:28:00.000+01:00

FOOTBALL

I don't know how many games of football are left to play this season - only that there aren't many. Leeds won a game of football on Friday. If they can't win again for several weeks, they might as well have not bothered - just prolongs the agony. It's all very tight at the bottom of this division, we will have to wait and see. COME ON LEEDS!

19 Burnley 38 6 6 6 22 19 4 6 10 14 22 -5 42
20 Barnsley 40 7 4 9 24 28 5 1 14 22 43 -25 41
21 QPR 39 6 5 8 25 26 4 5 11 21 35 -15 40
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
22 Southend 40 6 6 8 27 29 3 6 11 13 34 -23 39
23 Leeds 40 8 3 9 23 28 3 3 14 18 37 -24 39
24 Luton 40 7 5 8 32 31 2 5 13 15 36 -20 37

2007-03-23T21:33:00.000Z

GREAT MUSIC

Great music isn't thin on the ground, but everything is so fragmented now that there’s no clearly defined ‘scene’, it can be difficult to know where to look. British bands seem to have been consistently rubbish for about ten years - all posturing 22-year-olds tunelessly thrashing guitars in the hope that attitude and posturing will make up for lack of melody and talent. Guitar–driven mediocrity - Razorlight / Kasbian / The Killers has passed me by. I'm aware of the names only.

Here's some of the best from further afield. All North American (natch) with the exception of Sleepy Jackson, and they’re Australian. John Vanderslice’s ‘Trance Manual’ my favourite song for a couple of years.

THE SLEEPY JACKSON

BROKEN SOCIAL SCENE

JOHN VANDERSLICE

SUFJAN STEVENS

2007-03-08T18:45:00.000Z

SMART ALECRY

2007-03-03T13:58:00.001Z

A deeply unfunny subject, written about in a surprising way...

From the local newspaper (The Chronicle), this could be straight out of Private Eye.

AN OBESE paedophile who fled the country before facing trial in 1988 has admitted indecently assaulting a young girl.

Balding Matthew Stevens, who used to live in Mylum Close, Kirklees, pleaded guilty to two counts of indecent assault on a girl under 11 at L Crown Court yesterday.

The bespectacled 56-year-old, who has a grey moustache, was arrested in November last year when he resurfaced after more than eight years on the run and living in Wales, the court heard.

What's the point of the litany of unflattering characteristics? Can't help supposing the journalist is helping people to recognise him, to ensure he's given a tough time.

2007-03-01T18:07:00.000Z

VICTIM STATEMENTS

On the radio this morning, there was a piece about “victim statements” being read in court. A pilot scheme has apparently been taking place over the last ten months, with statements read after the verdict but before sentencing. It’s clearly about recognising “the victim” and giving them a voice. Only trouble is, the legal system is supposed to be clear-eyed, systematic and dispassionate. Worse still, these statements are often crass, if the programme I heard is anything to go by. The woman who was interviewed said, “My friends were buying their boyfriends DVDs and aftershave, but I was ordering mine a wreath”. (((!CRINGE!))). So, if these statements do have a tenuous impact on sentencing, which of course isn’t supposed to happen, presumably it’s the eloquent who have the most impact, which penalises those who debase sudden death and bereavement, for which there are no words, by discussing these intensely painful and personal mysteries in the same breath as DVDs.

I'm aware that this may be (and in fact, probably is) a deeply snobbish attitude. You could argue that the statements closest to ordinary life, which don't deal with abstrations in high-flung language, contain the most pathos and sentiment, and that these are therefore the most moving. Either way, this has to be a bad move.

2007-02-25T17:25:00.000Z

SUFJAN STEVENS

"No iron can stab the heart with such force as a full stop put just at the right place." This was going to be one of a number of 'literary quotes' displayed prominently around the classroom to try to inspire the students. And then I decided that I couldn't be arsed. However, it came into my mind again this morning, because no sound can quicken the pulse or gladden the heart like a Sufjan Stevens number. A quick check on Wiki. reveals the following:

Sufjan Stevens is an American singer-songwriter and musician from Michigan. He is known for his lyrically focused and instrumentally rich songs that often relate to faith and family. Stevens has enjoyed wide critical success in the United States. He is considered part of the folk revival in indie pop, but his influences are very broad. His music has been likened to electronica, the pop jazz of Vince Guaraldi, and the minimalism of Steve Reich. Stevens has announced plans to make a concept album for each of the 50 U.S. states, having begun the series with Michigan (2003) and Illinois... his ambitious "50 states" albums, a collection of folk songs and instrumentals inspired by his home state of Michigan. The result, the expansive Michigan, included odes to cities including Detroit and Flint, the Upper Peninsula, and vacation areas such as Tahquamenon Falls. Melded into the scenic descriptions and characters are his own declarations of faith in God, sorrow, love and the regeneration of Michigan.

Following the release of Michigan, Stevens compiled a collection of songs recorded previously into a side project, the Christian-folk album Seven Swans, which was released in March 2004.

Next he released the second in the 50 states project, entitled Illinois. Among the subjects explored on Illinois are the cities of Chicago, Decatur and Jacksonville, the World's Columbian Exposition of 1893, Chicago's observance of a holiday in honor of Casimir Pulaski, the poet Carl Sandburg, and the serial killer John Wayne Gacy Jr.

Some titles of songs include -

Come On! Feel The Illinoise!
Say Yes! To M!ch!gan!
Detroit, Lift Up Your Weary Head!

excellent.

2007-02-17T14:00:00.000Z

SOUND WAVES

The next-door neighbour listens to Radio 4 all day. Often, I do, too. I'm sometimes working upstairs in the back room, which backs onto next door's garden and kitchen. I can hear their radio - usually broadcasting the same programme I'm listening to. I've been struck by the delay in the sound of their radio reaching me - next door's radio seems two whole seconds behind mine yet they are merely a few metres away. I couldn't figure this out; it's not like the delay of one hundred feet, such as the time taken to travel from the top to the bottom of a cliff. I've realised it's likely to be that their digital radio is not synchronised with my analogue model. So now the delay seems to have a prosaic explanation, after all.

2007-02-15T17:08:00.000Z

VALENTINE'S DAY

In addition to this being an old feast day (The Feast of Lubercus, whoever he was), Europeans believed Valentine's Day was the day when birds would chose a mate and commence nest building. Cute. Thus, Drayton wrote about birds mating on Valentine's Day

Each little bird this tide
Doth choose her beloved peer,
Which constantly abide
In wedlock all the year.

And Chaucer, in "Parlement of Foules" wrote "For this was Seynt Valentine's Day when every foul cometh ther to choose his mate". True enough, it must be round about now that they begin to pair.

2007-02-10T22:06:00.000Z

Main Type	Overall Self

Take Free Enneagram Personality Test

Enneagram Test Results

Type 1	Perfectionism	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	47%
Type 2	Helpfulness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	48%
Type 3	Image Focus	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	45%
Type 4	Hypersensitivity	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	49%
Type 5	Detachment	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	56%
Type 6	Anxiety	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	55%
Type 7	Adventurousness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	43%
Type 8	Aggressiveness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	38%
Type 9	Calmness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	49%

Your main type is 5
Your variant is self preservation

Take Free Enneagram Personality Test

Enneagram: Type Five
The Thinker tries to figure out life. The Thinker has a compulsive need to know and understand, to be self-sufficient, to be left alone, and to avoid not having the answer or looking foolish.

2007-02-05T20:44:00.000Z

KNOTS - LAING

These knots are kind of startling and I'm enjoying reading them

There must be something the matter with him
because he would not be acting as he does
unless there was.
Therefore he is acting as he is
because there is something the matter with him

He does not think there is anything the matter with him
because one of the things that is
the matter with him
is that he does not think that there is anything
the matter with him
therefore
we have to help him realize that,
the fact that he does not think there is anything
the matter with him
is one of the things that is
the matter with him.

2007-02-04T22:45:00.000Z

DICKENS - Oliver

Just noticed this brilliant line:

"If he were not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought an action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages."

2007-02-04T22:28:00.000Z

WAKING THE DEAD

The first two in the new series were terrible. Just awful. But they've been getting steadily better. Tonight's was particularly good, developing, somewhat inevitably, the conflict between Foley and Boyd. I love that counterpoint: Trevor Eve's aggressive, dynamic "take no prisoners" style of pursuing a line, and Sue Johnson's empathetic, intuitive and more probing, psychological approach. They are, of course, stereotypically gendered roles, but that doesn't matter.

More than anything else when I watch this show, I realise that I want that kind of job. Far too late for me, now, of course. But psychology with a proper practical application must be the prize for anyone who makes it that far, and the 'carrot' for the many thousands of psychology undergraduates. Tonight the Foley character yelled at Boyd which led to him pondering all sorts of pertinent questions about denial and repression. I'd love a job like that... that is, if they even exist, and are not the constructions of television commissioning editors.

2007-01-30T22:01:00.000Z

SOHRAB AND RUSTUM - (M ARNOLD)

"...But the majestic river floated on,
Out of the mist and hum of that low land,
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved
Rejoicing, through the hus'd Chorasmian waste,
Under the solitary moon - he flow'd
Right for the Polar Star, past Orgunje
Brimming and bright, and large; then sands begin
To hem his watery march, and dam his streams
And split his currents; that for many a league
The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles -
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had
In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere,
A foil'd circuitous wanderer - til at last
The long'd for dash of waves is heard, and wide
His luminous home of waters opens, bright
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea"

"The poet or his reader, dreaming of the river that breaks at last into the free ocean, sees in this image his own life and death... in accordance with a deep organic need for release from conflict."

'Archetypal patterns in poetry'. M Bodkin

Naturally, literature is best when you can psychoanalyse it to some extent.

2007-01-29T17:21:00.000Z

SPRING

... feels like it already sprung. Winter came and went last week. As I recollect, it lasted for one day. Last night I walked along the canal/river (it's actually both, they run parallel) in the dark (it was about 6.30) and put my hand up in the air to try to figure out how cold or how warm it was. There was a breeze - there usually is next to water - but it was a mild breeze. It felt mild to my ungloved hand because the air wasn't cold relative to my body temperature. And yet - it's fricking January!!!! When I was kid (there's a phrase if ever there was to give away one's age and latent conservative tendencies) every January involved prolonged snow, wellies, gloves, hats, bundling into the house and parking oneself inches away from the fire, etc etc.

This morning, as I arrived at school, the kids were in the playground at 8.20 and some of them had abandoned their blazers and were wearing just a shirt!!!! As it dawned on me that kids were playing out at 8.20 on a January morning in just their shirts, I realised once again that we are in very big trouble indeed regarding the climate.

2007-01-22T23:13:00.000Z

PICNIC / AWFUL / PURPLE

Occasionally, with the lower-ability lower-school kids, I think of random words and get them to write sentences containing those words. They seem to enjoy doing it and there's no forward planning required. A dreamy, terminally disorganised boy who always swings on his chair so much that he falls over backwards (he also has an exasperated father - at parents' evening "I don't know what to do with this boy!") spontaneously composed the following, for picnic/awful/purple:

On a beautiful day watching the purpley orange sunset at an awful picnic, a man said "as long as we're family all we need is each other".

I think there must be an element of repeating things they hear at home.

2007-01-21T14:16:00.000Z

OWL JOHNSON

This WarnerBros cartoon about a straight-laced Germanic family of owls and its jazz-loving offspring is very charming indeed.

2007-01-16T22:54:00.000Z

MISUNDERSTANDING STUFF

Until about six months ago, I would blithely refer to a lacklustre person/event as "a damp squid". Someone pointed out my error, but 'squid' seemed more logical. I had thought the idiom meant a squid that had been out of water and which was no longer tough/muscular/supple, but which was beginning to dehydrate, wither and wilt - like a neglected houseplant. It seemed particularly reasonable given that a squib is a chink of light, and light is 'dry'.

Just marking a paper and a student had written of a character "[he's] like a gardening angel". Now, I can only begin to guess at the logic behind this. I'll have to ask him. Presumably he envisages a host of angels tending a heavenly garden.

2007-01-11T22:09:00.000Z

44%

This is the national average proportion of 16 year olds who pass 5 GCSEs at grade c or above, including English and Maths. So the inevitable headlines in August, screaming about the 'dumbing down' of exams and record pass rates, are misleading. Still, 44% is pretty staggering. Are we a nation of idiots? How difficult is it really? (not very, surely). What is wrong with people, with parents, with schoolchildren, with teachers, with schools? It's such a low pass rate. Are people really as dumb as the statistic suggests? So it would seem, but you have to wonder......

2007-01-09T21:31:00.000Z

COUNTERINTUITIVE

"contrary to what intuition or common sense would indicate..."

Mute speechmaker
Backwards-looking mystic
Dying healer.

A shepherd
Who follows his sheep.

A watching, painted clown
Holds his sides laughing
At what he sees.

Siren, siren, siren,
Dashing only herself
On such impassive rocks.

2007-01-07T15:21:00.000Z

R D LAING - KNOTS

Only two days back at work and already there are several urgent deadlines. Hence, I'm spending a lot of time looking out of the window at the birdfeeder and generally pissing around. But R D Laing is rewarding my efforts at displacement activities. 'Knots' is about behaviour, which I'm incurably curious about. Here are two knots. They are convoluted and dense; the paperback is about 100 pages. I'll have to get round to buying it sometime.

There is something I don't know
that I am supposed to know.
I don't know what it is I don't know
and yet am supposed to know,
and I feel I look stupid
if I seem both not to know it
and not know what it is I don't know.
Therefore I pretend I know it.
This is nerve-racking
since I don't know what I must pretend to know.
Therefore I pretend to know everything.

I feel you know what I am supposed to know
but you can't tell me what it is
because you don't know that I don't know what it is.

You may know what I don't know, but not
that I don't know it,
and I can't tell you. So you will have to tell me everything.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I know you believe you understand what you think I said,
but I'm not sure you realise that what you heard is not what I meant.

and so on.

2007-01-07T14:56:00.000Z

SEPTUAGENARIAN

Check out Septuagenarian's blog over on the 'links' column, even if it is a bit gloomy this week with the death of one of his mates. He's taken a fantastic digial photo of a Christmas decoration. Septuagenarian is something like cult reading. He's a parody even of himself, with his incessant grumbling about 'lax Brittanicans', 'terminal economic and social decline', etc. etc. He's a man who takes earplugs to his social club on New Year's Eve. He has such a problem with women he can't even bring himself to spell the word correctly (unless, which seems unlikely, he's a right-on PC exponent attempting to rid the word of its androcentric component by masking the word 'men'). He's so full of contradictions - not least, continually berating all and sundry for their lazy work ethic while himself taking early retirement back in his 50s and steadfastly resisting any work since - not even voluntary work which he thinks is for 'do gooders' and hypocrite busybodies. It amazes me that he will criticise everyone, indiscriminately, for laziness in spite of avoiding work for, what, a good twenty years? At least he's honest, I suppose.

2007-01-02T13:01:00.000Z

SCHOOL

2007-01-01T12:44:00.000Z

NEW YEAR

And while it's still new, and happy, before anything goes wrong or we have to go back to work, here's a beautiful Bright Eyes song to try to start the year on a positive note. Bright Eyes = Conor Oberst. This YouTube video is of people listening to the song. It's undeniably lovely.

2006-12-31T13:56:00.000Z

LAVA-LAMP THOUGHT

Cascading worlds float
In a molten-wax jet-stream.
Accomplice satellites stretch away,
Young planet: sail on, slip on through
Fuse and melt, make or break,
Like lovers. Like planets
Colliding in a glass jar.

2006-12-31T12:34:00.000Z

NIGHT-TIME

A helicopter buzzes past the slightly opened window. An angered wasp. The engine drifts away but never disappears - it beats its metal wings and hums. Tarmaced stip of prey; cracks in the brickwork like crows feet in a face. Winter night. Clouds roll the moon along outstretched arms and across the back of a headless neck. Dance to the tune of blades, sirens and rain.

2006-12-30T11:05:00.000Z

MADEJSKI STADIUM COMPLEX

The 'Madejski Stadium Complex' is:

a new development consisting of a medium-sized football ground with all the things you'd now associate with the Premiership - eg Integral William Hill betting, pie shop/McDonalds/conference halls/a luxury hotel/etc

or

the name of a psychological condition in which the afflicted person feels the need to name grandiose and expensive projects after himself; compulsive eponymous habits.

Obviously, it's the former, but whenever I see or hear reference to the "Madejski Stadium Complex" - which is often - I think of it in terms of the latter. Madejski is a Polish multi-millionaire, who made his fortune with AutoTrader magazine and gifted the town with a 21st century football ground. Perhaps it will enter the language of psychology. Probably not.

2006-12-28T15:15:00.000Z

IN/OUT/AT

About three years ago, I arranged to meet someone I’d only ever emailed. It was an unusual meeting but it wasn’t murky or illicit in any way (it wasn’t an internet date). We agreed to meet at a West End pub – the Three Cocks, as I remember. At least, I think that was the name. With hindsight, the name wasn’t important. Bizarrely, the preposition turned out to be the important thing. “At the Three Cocks”. I arrived on time and bought a drink and settled in a corner, reading a newspaper. I kept looking for him, but he was nowhere. I felt a bit let down when he didn’t show but didn’t worry about it unduly. I went home. The next day, he emailed me and said something like: “I was there. Honest!”. I wondered how this could possibly be, but it turns out he’d been standing outside, all along, in the fading twilight.

We sorted things out from there, and I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that we became friends for a while. I think we did, anyway. I never see him now… although I still think of him, obviously. He was tall and slim and had a certain way of raising his eyebrows. When he smiled, his lips would kind of twitch in a half smile. Occasionally he made me feel unsure of myself. He didn’t mean to. I don’t know what the logical end to this story is. The misunderstanding with the pub shows that small things can signify greater meaning. It was a kind of metaphor for our intractable differences.

2006-12-27T23:59:00.000Z

iPod

I did a self-indulgent thing and bought an iPod. And, oh! - how I love it!!!! I waited for so long and couldn't wait any longer. When I heard that James Brown had died on Christmas Day, rather than rifling through mountains of CDs I just scrolled through. I spent ten seconds wondering about his finest hour... I'd say it has to be "Live at the Apollo", Harlem, 1962. An instant later I was listening to 'Lost Someone' and 'If You Leave Me I'll Go Crazy'... magic! It's all very instant and twenty-first centruy, but brilliant - also handy for moments when you hear about the sudden death of musical legends.

2006-12-27T22:38:00.000Z

SAUNA POEM

Three Henry Moore statues are reclining
The nearest in the pose of The Thinker.
Tufts of hair on his balding head
Enlightened by the bulb in the corner
Beads of sweat shine on his balding scalp.
Marbled white legs, thighs like loaves
Bend at the knee, doughy and soft.
Bared bodies, smelling of flesh
And in the hot tub
One knee beneath the bubbles
Flat and large and smooth
A pebble in a fast-flowing stream.
A man with a beard, like seaweed
Clinging to the rock of his chin.
The water drifts it to and fro
The brush of a flailing hand
The unexpected touch of a toe.

2006-12-27T21:09:00.000Z

WATERSTONES

That's Waterstones the high-street book retailer. I went in a few days before Christmas and came out with a large carrier bag - I asked for one in order to 'disguise' a present bought elsewhere which I didn't want to be visible. Getting sidetracked, but picking up the carrier bag again now, I just noticed that the legend on the side of their carrier bag says "A bookstore is one of the only pieces of evidence we have that people are still thinking" [Jerry Seinfeld]. Which is a bloody laugh, because I only went in, in the first place, to pick up the autobiography of Stephen Fry, or the biography of Kennneth Williams, or both. I think each has contributed to cultural life in recent years and both appear to be fascinating, complicated characters. In the biography section there were just 'pile em high' racks of biographies of Jade Goody, Teri Hatcher (who is she? Was she in Sex in the City?) and their like. Neither the Kenneth Williams nor the Stephen Fry book was there!! Which means their 'quote' on the carrier bag is bogus. "A bookstore is evidence that people are thinking... too much about people from the tele" .

2006-12-21T20:04:00.000Z

FREEZING FOG

These days, many of us tend to be thoroughly entertained and comforted by central heating, games consoles, flat-screen TVs, 'in car stereo systems' etc. There's nowhere left for the mind to wander, our minds are so busy, busy, busy. But freezing fog on the longest day of the year? Just forget about modern life with all its distractions and imagine living two hundred years ago out in the country in this weather. Imagine a very damp, rickety stone cottage - all candlelight, shadows and draughts, heated by an open fire, with fog rolling in over the fields.

2006-12-12T21:10:00.000Z

Haikus

Dusk. The bird on the fence.
A contemporary
of mine.

And the quiet cat
Sitting by the post
Perceives the moon.

2006-12-12T21:04:00.000Z

A Simile

I picked up a nice little (and therefore overpriced) book of similes the other day, taken from many and various sources. One that caught my eye was this:
"I felt lonely, like a little boat that no longer goes out to sea".
Which I liked. Along with the knuckles-as-moutain-range which I can't remember properly. Although I do recall they were gripping the steering wheel of a car.

2006-12-12T20:49:00.000Z

In praise of Vee

Veerle is a Belgian who hates Belgium. She speaks Flemmish and English (well), plus German and French (less well). Veerle thinks her calves look 'like leeks!' and shouts 'I'm free!' under bridges. Veerle works on Eurostar, pushing the drinks trolley, fending off criticisms that take the form of 'Grooming is very important, you understand'. Veerle worked picking fruit in a field this summer. Veerle is smiley, freckly and blonde, with shining green eyes. Veerle is 36, funny, feisty and intelligent; many English people call Veerle 'Vee' because it's much easier to say. Veerle is my good friend and I love her.

2006-11-06T23:09:00.000Z

STRANGE DREAMS

I dreamt I was standing in a field, a wide-open-space type field, a la the US great plains. Sharing this field were several large, solid cows of the "prize specimen" variety. They were powerful, pedigree, valuable and fairly docile. Until, that is, one after another, they ran out of the field and onto a road. Naturally, this was all my fault and I felt anxious about it.

Another one: a kitchen was on fire. I'd definitely been in this kitchen, but had no understanding or recollection of how the flames had actually taken hold; it really didn't seem to be my fault. I tried to fight the fire with water but to no real avail. I went back in and to my relief the fire was less intense and not spreading to the rest of the building.

Some patterns emerging here, and probably relating to work - i.e. (trying/failing) to contain/control situations... Dreams are so transparent, and, like a soap opera, I'm wondering what the next uncontrollable situation will be. Fire and animals are very obvious symbols for this theme, so I'm curiously anticipating the next one.

2006-08-25T15:41:00.000+01:00

CHARLIE BROOKER IN TODAY'S GUARDIAN

This seemed at once so very true, and so funny, and it chimes with my experience to such an extent, that I can't resist lifting it from the Guardian's website, for prosperity.

"Hands up anyone who's had a great experience with romance. Now put your hands back down and stop lying. Romance never works. Romance never does what it says on the tin. Romance, ultimately, is bullshit.

If I sound jaded, it's because I am. I'm so sick and tired of love and its pitfalls I can scarcely lift my fingers to type. If love were a product, the queue at the faulty goods desk would stretch right round the universe and back. It doesn't work properly. The seams come apart and it's full of powdered glass.

Each fresh romance has two potential outcomes: 1. One of you falls hard, heavily, and quickly, until this helpless, unattractive neediness sends the other running for the hills; or 2. by some miracle, your desperate neediness levels balance out, and you stay together for several years - until the love between you withers and dies, at which point one or both of you will stagger away, howling like a wolf with a hook in its gut, wounded beyond reason.

When you're smitten, romance is a thrilling high-wire act over a looming lake of woe. Your head's full of music; the first few steps are a joyful scamper. Then the skies darken, the breeze picks up, the tightrope shudders and you fight to retain your balance. In your heart of hearts, you know you're heading for a tumble, but you're out and exposed and there's no turning back - and who knows, maybe you'll make it?

Imbecile. Of course you won't. Instead, the rope snaps and suddenly you're plunged back into the monochrome work-a-day reality of flowers in the dustbin and dogs being sick on the pavement.

At this point, wandering in a post-romantic shock, things get even worse. Being numb and distant somehow renders you magically attractive to others. It's sod's law in action, and before you know it you're abusing the privilege. Hungering for another go on the tightrope, you hurl yourself at the nearest admirer, but since the love canary's recently flown your cage, you're selfish, robotic, and doomed to wipe your arse all over their soul. Congratulations: you've become an emotional vandal. And you'll do it again and again and again until you meet another special someone - only this time, because of the last time, the tightrope's even higher up and more precarious, and you're so scared of falling that your feet shake the moment you step aboard.

On and on and on it goes, and there's no end to it. This madness must be stopped. We can medicate depression into oblivion; why not romance? A preventative tablet, perhaps, or an adhesive patch that suppresses the relevant endorphins, which you can slap on your skin at the first sign of attraction, killing romance dead, stopping you in your tracks before you make a fool of yourself or a hapless idiot of another. And sizzled on the back of every packet, embossed on every patch, just to keep things melancholic and swoonsome, you'd find the last line from Graham Greene's The End of the Affair - the battered protagonist's final plea, which sums up the absolute aching awfulness of romance so eloquently it makes your heart nod along with tears in its eyes: "O God, You've done enough, You've robbed me of enough, I'm too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone for ever.

Next week - some jokes"

2006-08-23T17:09:00.000+01:00

TEXT MESSAGE

Received at a very busy outdoor summer festival...

"Where are you? I am about where we were before. If you can go somewhere easy to find, go there and text me."

Perfect! Could hardly be vaguer.

2006-08-22T20:43:00.000+01:00

LYRICS 'WASTE OF PAINT' - BRIGHT EYES

"I have a friend, he's mostly made of pain. He wakes up, drives to work and straight back home again. He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper, I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover. Then I tried to tell him that he had a sense of color and composition so magnificent and he said thank you please but your flattery is truly not becoming me. Your eyes are poor, you're blind, you see no beauty could have come from me. I'm a waste of breath, of space, of time.
I knew a woman, she was dignified and true and her love for her man was one of her many virtues until one day she found out that he had lied and she decided the rest of her life from that point on would be a lie. But she was grateful for everything that had happened and she was anxious for all that would come next. But then she wept, what did you expect, in that big old house with the cars she kept. Oh and such is life she often said, with one day leading to the next, you get a little closer to your death which was fine with her, she never got upset and with all the day she may have left she would never clean another mess or fold his shirts or look her best. She was free to waste away alone.

Last night, my brother he got drunk and drove and this cop, he pulled him off to the side of the road and he said officer, officer, you've got the wrong man, no, no, I'm a student of medicine, the son of a banker, you don't understand. The cop said no one got hurt you should be thankful and your carelessness, it is something awful. No I can't just let you go and though your father's name is known, your decisions now are yours alone, you're nothing but a stepping stone on a path to debt, to loss, to shame.

The last few months I've been living with this couple, yeah you know the kind who buy everything in doubles. They fit together like a puzzle and I love their love and I am thankful that someone actually receives the prize that was promised by all those fairy tales that drugged us. And they still do me, I'm sick, lonely, no laurel tree, just green envy. Will my number come up eventually? Like love's some kind of lottery where you scratch and see what's underneath. It's sorry, just one cherry, play again, get lucky.

I've been hanging out down by the train's depot, no I don't ride, I just sit and watch the people there. And they remind me of windup cars in motion, the way they spin and turn and jockey for positions and I want to scream out that it all is nonsense, oh your life's one track, can't you see it's pointless? But just then my knees give under me, my head feels weak and suddenly it's clear to see it's not them but me who's lost my self-identity as I hide behind these books I read while scribbling my poetry. Like art could save a wretch like me with some ideal ideology that no one could hope to achieve and I am never real, it's just a sketch of me and everything I've made is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of tape, of time.

Now I park my car down by the cathedral where the floodlights point up at the steeples. Choir practice was filling up with people, I could hear the sound escaping as an echo, sloping off the ceiling at an angle and when the voices blend they sound like angels. I hope there's some room still in the middle. But when I lift my voice up now to reach them, the range is too high, way up in heaven so I hold my tongue, forget the song, tie my shoes, start walking off and try to just keep moving on with my broken heart and my absent God. And I have no faith but it's all I want to be loved and believe in my soul, in my soul, in my so-o-o-oul."

Looks like I have a New Favourite Band!

2006-07-11T23:51:00.000+01:00

JOKE

- Why is it a bad idea to marry a tennis player?
- Because love means nothing to them...

2006-07-11T23:26:00.000+01:00

CLASSICS

Came by a GCSE 'Classical Civilization' paper. Incredibly, it runs to 55 pages! This is partly because the curriculum is pretty broad with lots of either/or units of study. And it's also because different translations must be acknowledged. Consider the following 'Euripides' extracts (from Hippolytus and Alcestis). At first I thought the text laid out like poetry was superior, but the more I compare it to the other, the less sure I am:

Well now, listen to me
All mortal men are bound to die - inevitably.
There's no man living who can confidently say -
Not one - that he will still be living the next day.
The road of chance leads on by a mysterious way;
It can't be taught, nor is it grasped by human skill.
So, now you've heard and profited from what I've said;
Well, then, cheer up and drink! Say to yourself, 'Today
My life's my own; tomorrow it belongs to Fortune,'
And there's another goddess too that you must honour:
The most delightful, charming Aphrodite. She
Is a sweet, lovely goddess. All these other cares
And griefs - forget them; just do as I say, if you
Agree that my advice is good - I think you do.
Come on! Away with this excessive melancholy;
Rise about circumstances; put a garland on
Your head; and join me in a cup of wine. The cure
For gloomy thoughts and knotted brows is the sweet splash
Of wine in a wine-cup - I'm sure of it. You know,
We're mortals, you and I; we should behave like mortals.
As for these solemn souls, these anxious worriers,
If you want my opinion, life for all that kind
Isn't life at all; it's one long calamity.
(Trans: VELLACOT).

Just listen to me. Death's a debt all men must pay; there's not a living soul knows for sure if tomorrow's morn will see him alive or dead. As to how fortune's plans will turn out, it's far from clear - no amount of teaching or practice can give you that knowledge. So heed my words and learn from me: be happy, drink, think each day your own as you live it and leave the rest to fortune. Give honour, too, to Cypris, kindest, sweetest of deities to mortal men; she is a gracious goddess. As to everything else, pay it no attention and do as I say, if you think I'm talking sense; I think I am. Let's have no more of this extravagant grief. Come and drink with me! I know just the thing to shake you out of this tense frame of mind, these frowning looks - sinking a good few cups of wine, that'll change your attitude! We're mortal men and ought to think mortal thoughts. Life for all you sour-faced enemies of pleasure, if you want my opinion, is not really life, it's a chapter of sorrows.
(Trans: Davie)

I think the Davie extract is better. Interesting that the content is the same in each case, yet expressed quite differently...

2006-07-11T23:17:00.000+01:00

THE GOOD HUMOUR MAN

Here's an obituary made in error, published in a prominent public school's quarterly newsletter:

"Last year we were told that GML Jones (1923-1928) had died, and his name was the first in 'Obituary' in the November issue. However, the Editor was delighted to receive the following letter written on 14 November:

'Dear Sir, I was particularly intrigued to note that in the Obituary with which I was honoured in your last issue, my demise was dated as December 2004. That year's diaries revealed no catastrophe that could have precipitated my departure. It remains a mystery - as a National Charity, from which I retired as director thirty years ago, dated my death as September 2005. My obituary was fortunately not as dismissive as that of Frederick Prince of Wales, father of King George III, whose ran to a mere 17 words, "It is only Fred, who was alive and is dead, so there is nothing to be said". With every good wish, Yours sincerely, Gordon M. L. Jones.'

We offer our profound apologies, and our thanks to him for responding as he has.

2006-07-03T00:52:00.000+01:00

It's too hot to sleep!

2006-07-02T16:23:00.000+01:00

WHEN CULTURES CLASH

Walking through the centre of town last week, I passed a group of young, fairly working-class football supporters. They were all blokes, they'd clearly been drinking, and some of them were singing "Let's go fucking mental, da daaa da da". (Football supporters of the "Ing-er-land" variety.) Eventually, the footy boys caught up with a group of young Muslim women who wore the full burquah (sp?). The women were with their customary very small children. When the football fans had passed and were sufficiently ahead (a few feet) they started to sing "Ge-et your fa-ace out for the lads".

Ouch. It was quite witty, really. But to those who say "If you wish England to be your real homeland you should adapt" (ie by not wearing the pillarbox-style burquah), it would be undesirable, clearly, for every settler to adopt this particular brand of Englishness, wholly authentic and English through-and-through as it was.

2006-06-26T23:40:00.000+01:00

MIDSUMMER'S DAY

What happens when you light a very large, very hot bonfire approximately 20 feet directly beneath full-voltage power lines, and let the fire rage for seven or eight hours?

Well, we waited to find out, but "nothing" is the correct answer. We had fun with worst-case scenarios as we sat in a circle around aforementioned bonfire, conjuring visions of the lines melting, snapping and pinging down near the fire, killing a few members of the assembled company.

It would have been no laughing matter to have found out the hard way.

2006-06-25T22:48:00.000+01:00

POSTERS

I've always admired the despair.com range. Fridge-magnet mission statements deserve to be satirised. Despair have new additions to their range, but these are my personal favourites.

2006-05-29T21:48:00.000+01:00

BIG BROTHER

Despise myself for this, but I'm utterly gripped.

2006-05-24T20:13:00.000+01:00

SHOCK REALISATION

Have suddenly, in the last six months, found two OLDER (by quite a bit) men - early 50s - very attractive. Admittedly, personality has much to do with it. One is an architect in possession of a certain Je ne sais quoi. Ten years ago, in my early 20s, the same people would have seemed ancient and pensionable - now they appear charismatic and not-in-the-least unattractive.

So, attraction to/interest in older people (who you'd have never noticed before) has to be a sign of getting older - I don't know of a surer sign. Have only just made the connection between 'noticing that there *is* such a thing as a very attractive older man' and 'not so young yourself these days'. Which is a bit startling, really.

2006-05-24T16:48:00.000+01:00

BIG BRUUUVAH!!

"A suicidal, Scottish-Pakistani former gay rent boy; a pop singer with Tourette's syndrome; a self-professed porn star who claims the biggest breast implants in Britain...It's been called a "psychoanalyst's wet dream". And so it appears to be...

The chief executive of the Mental Health Foundation, Andrew McCulloch, wrote to the director of programming at Channel 4, Kevin Lygo, to express his concern at vulnerable people being turned into figures of fun for TV viewers.

"While I can only guess at Shahbaz's clinical condition, we are concerned that vulnerable people apparently continue to be allowed into such a high-pressure environment. "

It's been compelling. Sadly, no longer, as Shahbaz has left the set. Reality shows are only ever as interesting as the 'contestants'. That's why Celebrity Big Brother was so much fun to watch, with Rula Lenska, Barrymore and George Galloway. Shahbaz was the only truly interesting character, so there's no point watching it now. Andrew McCulloch, the executive of the Mental Health Foundation, said "While I can only guess at Shahbaz's clinical condition..." Well, although I'm no shrink (sadly. I think it'd be the most interesting job in the world), it seems to me that he'd be a borderline personality. By turns, passive agressive (not speaking) and aggressive aggressive (shouting and screaming); weeping and sobbing followed quickly by an energetic and outgoing high. Needy and insecure but incapable of listening or receiving advice, etc etc. Highly unstable, in other words.

What gets me though, are two specific things:
- Shahbaz (an otherwise reasonably intelligent person) seems to have made it to 37 without ever having a job - it sounds as though he's lived alone all his life in a council flat, and yet it doesn't occur to him to think "Is there something wrong, here?". His fragile, dysfunctional psyche is writ large across our screens but he seems to be the last to realise. How can that be?!

- Also, the others, of varying ages and intelligence, seem to think he's just annoying, melodramatic and over-the-top. This makes them just as short-sighted as Shahbaz. They must be very stupid indeed if they can't see that Shahbaz, although not sectionable or with a full-blown mental illness, is in need of help - most probably in the form of long-term therapy. Noone thinks to ask him about his past or show a bit of sympathy, they only condemn him and show him zero tolerance.

All of which has made for cruel and queasy viewing. It also illustrates two other things:

- The 'screening' of contestants by psychologists cannot be very rigorous. It was quite easy to see that Shahbaz was in deep trouble.

- People (ie the other contestants, as representatives of society at large) have no understanding *whatsoever* of mental health.

Anyway, good luck to Shahbaz on "the other side". I hope he makes a success of his life.

2006-05-17T23:14:00.000+01:00

DROUGHT

I've mentioned the exceptionally wet Spring of 2000 a couple of times over the last few days, with relation to the current drought. Nobody remembers it at all. I do, though. It was astounding. Every day - torrential non-stop rain. As it turns out, the Met Office have a section on their website called 'Interesting Weather'. Here's the entry for April 2000.

A very wet start

After a dry March, the UK had a record-breaking wet April.

Heavy rainfall during the first 12 days of April produced a reversal of the traditional pattern, with significantly more rain falling in the east than the west.

Rainfall amounts over western Scotland, Northern Ireland and Wales were not too far from average. In contrast, eastern Scotland and much of England received three times the normal amount for the period.

Large parts of England and some parts of Scotland received well over (in some areas 50% over) the average rainfall amount for the whole of April.

At Heathrow, comparable quantities of rain in April have occurred on only four other occasions during the last 50 years, the most recent being in 1993.

So, rainfall is not so dim or distant a memory. Not yet, anyway.

2006-05-04T00:43:00.000+01:00

TIME (AND TIDE WAIT FOR NO MAN)

So, in twenty minutes time it will be 1am 2mins 3secs 04.05.06.

What else is there to say about it? Not a lot. Just an interesting little curio.

2006-04-25T22:36:00.000+01:00

STUFF

Overheard a small boy in a shop (he'd have been about six), using emotional blackmail on his mother: "Mum! Mum! (very excited) I've wanted this all my life. I've wanted one of these since I was born!" (She didn't buy it.)

Old lady in a shop said irritably to her friend, for effect and to show off: "Oh! I wish I could remember what I've read!".

Saw a wonderful film, Le Gout des Autres. Tremendous. Nicely understated - didn't hammer the point home like the usual American rubbish. A middle aged businessman (he had an awful wife) without too much in the way of accomplishments / awareness of liberal intelligentsia, falls for a language teacher and actress. We spend parts of the film feeling a bit sad for the way her circle think he's a buffoon. With thirty minutes to go, something had to happen. Kept waiting for her to thaw out and stop being a snotty Parisian ice queen. She did eventually. Usual French features of snobbery, existential crises, interpersonal dynamics. Several spoilers here but what the hey, a great film.

Embarrassment in the classroom:

Boy (to me): Can I take my blazer off, miss?
Me: Yes, it's a hot day and this room is stuffy.
Boy 2: I thought he said "Can I have a blow job, miss?"
Much mirth, a couple of people quite embarrassed.
Me: (several minutes later), "Okay, it was funny five minutes ago but I don't expect you all to be still laughing about it now".
Class immediately stop chuckling and get on, obviously relieved that they don't need to continue finding it funny.

Just watched the European championship semi-final. Interesting thought: where a penalty is awarded unfairly, the penalty is saved in 70% of cases.

2006-04-19T23:11:00.000+01:00

NOT MAKING SENSE

There are a few things about the job market and economy in this country that I just don't understand. Take, for example, the recent closure of the Peugot plant in Coventry. There is now, surely, very little manufacturing left - first shipyards/shipbuilding collapsed in the north-west, followed by coal, steel, now car maunfacturing. Yet there is such talk of economic growth and a buoyant economy, which I don't see any evidence of at all. Unless you include Poles, Lithuanians, Latvians, etc, working in Costa Coffee and other shops. Can the UK manage its collective £trillion debt on the back of the retail sector alone? Not everyone works in a call centre or Tescos, and many who do are from Eastern Europe. Can consumer spending really sustain the economy for much longer, or will it collapse in about 18 months time? Most probably, house prices will save the day (again).

2006-04-16T22:55:00.000+01:00

LINDA SMITH (RIP):

"If God wanted us to believe in him, he'd exist."

2006-04-13T19:15:00.000+01:00

SCHOOLS AND TEACHING

I'm sick of this course and haven't enjoyed it since before Christmas. Constantly encountering the following spin and dross makes me feel miserable.

All pupils have special needs!
They are all different
They each have their own strengths and weaknesses
They all possess, in varying needs, a number of intelligences which need to be engaged in order to learn
One of these intelligences is emotional intelligence - maybe most apparent in the pastoral system of the school

yeah, yeah, yeah.
a. These platitudes are obvious
b. They quickly go out of the window when you are trying to control 30 teenagers, mark coursework, complete an abundance of paperwork and chase up late homework, students who don't attend detentions and 1,001 other small matters.

At first, this gumpf amused me but now it is depressing. Amazingly, there are those who seem to take it seriously. Of course, when you're doing the job, it seems to be more a matter of making it through each day. On the training, we are constantly confronted with exactly this kind of psychobabble which is at once hopelessly vague and also obvious (so much so that it is, in the end, meaningless).

2006-04-04T16:19:00.000+01:00

SO OBVIOUS, and yet...

It seems to me that moods are like seasons. Maybe seasons are moods, in some sense. September would be nostalgia; April trepidation; December a relaxed kind of apathy. If you are in a state of happy, uplifted optimism, it’s very difficult to recall precisely what it means to be depressed. If you are in April, it’s a challenge to enter into the particular atmosphere of October. All you can do is recall the time(s) when you were last there. The bolder impressions may be close to the surface but the fleeting nuances and hazy ambience are ephemeral and therefore harder to recapture. It all fades to memory. Although recollections may feel vivid, they are not the same as being in it.

2006-04-04T12:13:00.000+01:00

BLOG CARTOON

(Speech bubble) "I'm just updating my blog": (Computer screen) "Me Me Me Me Me Me Me"

So says the cartoon in Private Eye. In the pub last night, an anti-blog person suggested all blogs are examples of self-absorbed tedium. 'Solipsistic', I believe he said. Er, yes - of course that's true. How can you write about anything at all unless you've seen, heard, conversed, thought about it?

There is no more egocentric form of writing in my opinion than the majority of newspaper columnists. Bloggers don't even begin to compete with the likes of Euan Ferguson writing 1,000 words on the highs and lows of using cufflinks, and Barbara Ellen informing us of how she'll watch the Oscars at home in her living room wearing a dressing gown. Julie Burchill and Alexander Chanceller seem to be the only columnists who are consistently outward looking and intelligent (although Julie is occasionally ridiculous).

So, blogging is okay, just so long as noone pretends it's art. If everyone bears in mind that it's nothing more than a free outlet for people to write shite, what could be wrong with that? Having the ego to do it for a living and charge people for it is much, much worse.

2006-04-03T11:50:00.000+01:00

RUSSIA

Saw a documentary a few nights ago about the inexorable decline of Russia. It was very well put-together and presented by Louis Theroux's more attractive, Russian-speaking brother, Marcel. Hard to believe that this huge, formerly great nation is now in such a terrible mess. The programme contained no great revelations: since the collapse of the soviet bloc, when everyone was poor but provided for (and knew their place and purpose in life), the new world order has benefited a tiny minority and left the majority bereft, poverty-stricken and directionless. Although communism was flawed, it gave meaning of a sort to the lives of its citizens. Freedom, choice and independence are only meaninful against the background of imminent, or at least some fledgling signs of prosperity. For the majority of the now-declining population, the concept of prosperity or material comfort does not even exist in the imagination. There have never been any realisable, attainable models in evidence to aspire to - either before or after communism (oligarchs don't count). Add a massive AIDS crisis and institutional corruption for a truly bleak picture.

The programme interviewed a businessman - one of those types who did well by sweeping up land and assets after the fall of communism. He looked exactly like Harry Enfield got up as a dodgy Russian businessman. He was in the process of securing himself a municipal appointment, wanted to clear away local housing to create a hotel and golf course, and had made allies of the local administration. When the residents tried to protest about the proposed demolition of their homes, they were chased by armed guards. Their behaviour was in the process of being criminalised. All par for the course, apparently. Of course, I may have re-told the events slightly more crudely than they were presented in the show, but the patterns of corruption are predictably along exactly these lines. (Fact: there is no Russian word for 'business'.)

Alcoholism is becoming all-pervasive and life expectancy across the country seems to have declined by eight years in the last 15 years. Life expectancy for men is now in the mid-50s. The birth rate is half what it needs to be just to sustain the current population which will soon, if trends are to be believed, become ravaged by AIDS.

Also, along the border of one of the former-USSR countries (Krygstan, Kazakstan?), there is a community of Meshket Turks systematically persecuted, harrassed and discriminated against by Russians. It turns out that 30,000 Meshket Turks are to be accepted into Buaffalo, New York... which suggests a decidedly dodgy and politicised US immigration policy.

It is hard to foresee how Russia will emerge from this period. Its problems don't seem to have a profile or receive any attention here, although policy-makers in back offices must surely be giving the situation some urgent attention - not least because the country is so rich in oil and gas. Also, I can't help thinking about the presentation of society in the great 19th century novels - in Tolstoy and Turgenev and Gogol, where of course things were less than ideal but compared to now, no less so than anywhere else.
All those great novelists, scientists and composers! And now look...

If I were a Dead Russian Composer, I would be Dmitri Shostakovich!

I am a shy, nervous, unassuming, fidgety, and stuttery little person who began composing the same year I started music lessons of any sort. I wrote the first of my fifteen symphonies at age 18, and my second opera, "Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District," when I was only 26. Unfortunately, Stalin hated the opera, and put me on the Enemy Of The People List for life. I nevertheless kept composing the works I wanted to write in private; some of my vocal cycles and 15 string quartets mock the Soviet System in notes. And I somehow was NOT killed in the process! And Harry Potter(c) stole my glasses and broke them!

Who would you be? Dead Russian Composer Personality Test

2006-03-30T21:34:00.000+01:00

INFERENCE & DEDUCTION

We have to teach these 'reading skills' as if they are different (as though? as if? !?!?). But they aren't, really.

Anyway, today I managed to extract a definition. 'To infer' means to understand from given, but incomplete, information. 'To deduce' means to arrive at an understanding from available information.

The dictionary definition of 'Infer' contains the word 'deduce', and vice versa. Most unhelpful.

2006-03-25T18:57:00.000Z

Spring

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

2006-03-05T23:15:00.000Z

WEATHER FORECAST

A couple of evenings ago, during the current "cold snap", I saw a weather bulletin on ITV. It was dumbed down to primary-school level. In place of meteorological charts or even a map with stickers of cloud-/sun-symbols, or language half-way subject-specific, the on-screen captions stated that "Jack Frost will be visiting us again". Which was fairly obvious anyway, from the air temperature.

Children probably aren't familiar with the concept of Jack Frost, so it'd be useless for them, and it would surely just annoy the majority of adults. At least we don't pay for ITV, so I can't launch into a curmudgeonly diatribe against the cost of the license fee.

2006-02-22T21:19:00.000Z

JOHN VANDERSLICE

Immature, I know, to worship musicians like Gods... But when they are as cute as J. Vanderslice, and pay so much attention to creating lush, orchestrated, well-produced, melodic and sonically detailed music (just the way I like it), well, then the temptation to relapse back to a teenage girl is too great...

2006-02-21T22:20:00.000Z

BUNCEFIELD OIL DEPOT

It's in the news again today because - two months on - no-one knows quite what sparked the blaze. I remember it happening because I was in South London on the day. I was awake at 6am and felt something odd. I didn't think much of it at the time as it was so momentary. Later, though, when I got up and heard the news, I realised that it had felt like a sudden draft - like the 'whoosh' that accompanies ignition.

The thing that puzzles me, though, is that just a day later, the authorities said the fire hadn't been triggered by anyone on the premises, in the grounds of the depot. How on earth could anyone know that?! The fire was still raging at that time. And if anyone did spark it - with a cigarette lighter or similar - they'd have been reduced to ashes pretty quickly... maybe leaving a very charred and shriven pile of bones somewhere that wouldn't have been discovered until a good few days later, when the flames were fully extinguished and the smoke dispersed. It sounded like too hasty a pronouncement and I wondered (still do) how anyone could reach that conclusion so quickly.

2006-02-19T14:58:00.000Z

"IT HASN'T GOT A TUNE. I CAN'T TELL WHAT HE'S SAYING"

...as my Grandfather used to say. This week saw the annual Brit Awards (does anyone take it seriously?). It seems to be little more than an excuse for crowd-pulling, student-pleasing "acts" (in reality - little more than PR machines) to have a good night out. And their music is, frankly, a steaming pile of shite. The Kaiser Chiefs? Do me a favour. James Blunt's "Your Beautiful", as a newspaper columnist pointed out, is now like the flu, or weather. Who else is there? I've done a mental edit, can't even remember.

Step forward Richard Hawkins of Sheffield who writes and plays music for grown ups. Here are some reviews of Coles Corner and Low Edges, (although I'd recommend starting with the Coming Home single).

'Music is full of callow young men desperately seeking to make musc on an epic scale: here's how to do it'
Mojo

"Music to make jaws drop"
Mojo

“Richly orchestrated torch song in the style of Scott Walker from one of this country's most distinctive singer-songwriters. Smooth and velvety.” 4/5
The Sun

"...the most brazenly emotional and heart warming pop album made by a Briton this side of the millennium...no hint of post-modern irony here: this is music with it's heart on it's sleeve..."
Daily Telegraph

"Intimate tales packaged for universal appeal"
Q

'If he remains overlooked after a record this heartfelt then, well, perhaps there really isn't a God after all' 4/5
Q

"...like mid 70's Walker Brothers produced by Phil Spector...his songs are an unabashed cry from the heart - in their swoonsome company, you'll find it hard not to surrender yours..."
Mojo

"...it firmly pitches Hawley as one of the most distinctive of contemporary British singers, already a contender for one of the albums of 2003..."
NME

"...another masterstroke of timeless torch & twang...it confirms Hawley as a balladeer of the highest order, if he moved in next door (to you), your lawn might cry..."
Q

"...a haunting air of regret hangs over each country-tinged waltz, as jaded love battles with eternal hope in the quest for love...the shy simplicity and devastating finality are pure Hawley & Hawley alone..."
The Guardian

"...really lifts you from the humdrum of average 2003 indie rock...beautiful, easy going music, peppered with earthy lyrics, evocative and effortless in its ability to please...wonderful..."
Time Out

"...American sourced Yorkshire-based love songs that thrum with a peculiarly domestic wistfulness...wonderfully old sounding songs (that) sprint ahead of most other British singer-songwriters ...lovely..."
The Observer

"...he sings with the same sort of lazy baritone as Lambchop's Kurt Wagner, his sublime arrangements are ripe with moody romanticism...the end result is gorgeously impressionistic..."
The Times

"...sublime countryish balladeering, of a Roy Orbison meets Mark Lanegan kind, sounds both world weary and, simultaneously, aglow with a renewed sense of what's really important in life...kitchen-sink tales for starry eyed romantics..another warm, honest triumph..."
ID Magazine

"...a quiet marvel...starry-eyed balladeering...unafraid of non-ironic crooning or tender romanticism...his voice alone could make itemised phone bills sound like magic realist poetry..."
X-Ray Magazine

" ...he's delivered the assured collection he's always promised...the arrangements are sublime...the whole coheres like one seamless, impressionistic mood piece...(this) should banish all those lazy, grimy Northern journalistic metaphors forever..."
Uncut

2006-02-08T21:45:00.000Z

VISITORS

2006-02-07T01:21:00.000Z

SILVER APPLES

Bought a CD by them from a second-hand music store. This is what they're all about:

"Decades after their brief yet influential career first ground to a sudden and mysterious halt, the Silver Apples remain one of pop music's true enigmas: a surreal, almost unprecedented duo, their music explored interstellar drones and hums, pulsing rhythms and electronically-generated melodies years before similar ideas were adopted in the work of acolytes. The Silver Apples formed in New York in 1967 and comprised percussionist Danny Taylor and lead vocalist Simeon, a bizarre figure who played an instrument also dubbed the Simeon, which (according to notes on the duo's self-titled 1968 debut LP) consisted of "nine audio oscillators and eighty-six manual manual controls...The lead and rhythm oscillators are played with the hands, elbows and knees and the bass oscillators are played with the feet." Although the utterly uncommercial record — an ingenious cacophony of beeps, buzzes and beats — sold poorly, the Silver Apples resurfaced a year later with their sophomore effort, Contact, another far-flung outing which fared no better than its predecessor. "

I took the CD to the desk, where the sales assistant guy looked at me with awe and reverence, and launched into effusive praise: "Woooah! Oh right! - Yes! Yes! This is brilliant - you'll love this!".

Well, I don't know if I love it exactly, but it is pretty interesting and I quite like it, in spite of all 12 tracks sounding identical. I'm not sure whether I like it when sales assistants go so OTT, though. If and when I buy another CD from the store and the assistant doesn't go wild, I'll be thinking "Why aren't you enthusing like you were last time? Is this one no good?". Generally speaking, people's confidence is too easily won. Or perhaps that's just me.

Silver Apples, though. Falling off the edge of 'odd'.

2006-02-06T22:02:00.000Z

"THE PAST IS ANOTHER COUNTRY"

True, true, true! But what of the future?

2006-02-05T16:09:00.000Z

NEW YORK TIMES EDITORIAL

…additional census data obtained by the Economic Policy Institute show that only the top 5 percent of households experienced real income gains in 2004. Incomes for the other 95 percent of households were flat or falling.

Income inequality is an economic and social ill, but the administration and the Congressional majority don't seem to recognize that. When Congress returns from its monthlong summer vacation next week, two of the leadership's top priorities include renewing the push to repeal the estate tax, which affects only the wealthiest of families, and extending the tax cuts for investment income, which flow largely to the richest Americans. At the other end of the spectrum, lawmakers have stubbornly refused to raise the minimum wage: $5.15 an hour since 1997. They will also be taking up proposals for deep budget cuts in programs that ameliorate income inequality, like Medicaid, food stamps and federal student loans.

They should be ashamed of themselves.

2006-02-05T15:51:00.000Z

A NEW ARRIVAL!

A new arrival this weekend to the garden - a solitary, fat little wren. I've seen it a few times but it tends to come alone. I wonder where its mate is?

2006-02-05T15:45:00.000Z

SOME RELIGIOUS CARTOONS:

2006-01-30T23:41:00.000Z

TIME

Already, the first month of the year has gone - that's another month closer to the grave! On the bright side, Spring must be just around the corner because I left somewhere at 5.10pm today and the sky was still light. Apparently, it gets lighter 12 minutes earlier each day.

2006-01-29T00:18:00.000Z

A Literary 'Yeah But No But'

Madame Bovary not Anna Karenina
Nabokov or Gogol not Bulgakov
John Donne not Andrew Marvell
TS Eliot not Ezra Pound
Emma not Pride and Prejudice
Swift not Pope
Mrs Dalloway not To the Lighthouse
Raymond Carver not Ernest Hemmingway
Hamlet not Lear, Othello, or Macbeth
King James version not New International version
The New Statesman not The Spectator
The Observer not The Sunday Times
The Mayor of Casterbidge not Jude the Obscure
A Passage to India not A Room with a View
The God of Small Things not Atonement
Adrian Mole not Bridget Jones
The Beano not Dandy, Whizzer or Chips
Large print Westerns not Catherine Cookson
Any diary not The Friendship Book of Frances Gay
Ted Huges AND Sylvia Plath