As I write this I'm sitting in a tenth floor hotel room in the middle of Eindhoven, Holland, about to join some work colleagues for a steak and a few beers in the bar.
I've been here half a dozen times in the last couple of years, and due to an upcoming change in jobs this may well be the last time I ever come here.
Eindhoven is best known as being the home of PSV Eindhoven, a football (or soccer for those of you outside the EU) team who I believe have been pretty successful over the years, but as a non-fan I'm only going on hearsay.
Were I Bill Bryson, and chance would indeed be a fine thing, I would regale you with tales of the quirky local establishments, of which there are a few that I know of, or with the fact that all of the buskers here seem to be of Eastern European origin, and play violins, or accordions. I actually got talking to one of them last time I was here, a young man called George if my memory serves, and he told me of how he had come from Estonia to pursue a better life, and that he wanted to come to London, where he had heard that life was good. I didn't have the heart to put him straight, but I did take a photograph of him and his friend, to add my growing visual catalogue of my life.
This weekend I am paying another visit to Amsterdam. This will be my fourth time, and while it will never steal my heart away as Paris did, and continues to do, there is something about the place that I truly find endearing. Once past the crowds of British stag boys, there are a couple of lovely gems tucked away.
I am looking forward to my third visit to a tiny bar that is run by a rotund, bearded Dutchman, who one day may appear in one of the many novels that I have constantly kicking around in my head. His bar is decorated with all manner of curious artifacts, including a gorilla hanging off a lamp post and wearing a top hat, scores of old bottles, their glass of many shapes and colours, a full size mannequin of an Indian Fakir who stands atop a staircase that goes only to the ceiling and no further, and a hundred and one other curiosities.
I know that once I step foot from the train, it will be one of those rare moments when the writer in me takes a sidestep to allow my other, more recent, passion to take centre stage for a few hours - the photgrapher.
A city like Amsterdam is a joy to capture through a lens, and thus far on my travels ranks only behind London and my beloved Paris as my favourite city to shoot. I long to return to Paris one day and once more drfit like a ghost through its streets and alleys, capturing her spirit once again, and drinking in her intoxicating essence.
For now, though, Amsterdam will be my mistress, my muse, and my subject once more.
In the meantime, there's a rare sirloin calling me, so I bid you farewell for now....
Thursday 28 February 2008
Tuesday 26 February 2008
Cold Metal Rhythm
It's May, it's 1979 and I'm nine years old.
It's also Thursday which means that it's Top Of The Pops on the television, which in turn means that I'm glued to it, drawn like a moth to a flame.
On the screen a young man with blonde hair dressed in black in singing in a flat, monotone voice over a heavy, doom laden synthesiser, looking like a rabbit caught in headlights.
The man is 21 years old, from London and is the unwitting innovator of a new style of music that will be variously known as new wave, new romantic and electronica.
His name is Gary Numan and he's singing his number one hit single Are Friends Electric?, a tune that would provide the backing for another number one some 23 years later, almost to the week, but this time with vocals by three teenage girls who weren't even born at the time.
Are Friends Electric? became the first single that I ever bought with my own money, and the album that spawned it, Replicas, the first album I bought with my own funds.
29 years later I'm sitting here listening to the just released redux version, complete with an entire disc of previously unreleased demos from the Replicas sessions and I'm nine years old again, falling in love with this cold, electronic, unemotional masterpiece all over again.
So much has changed in the intervening years, people have come and gone, friends have been born and died, but still I love this album more than pretty much anything else that I've ever heard.
This album anchors me to me, is my constant in a life full of change, and is more important to me than I could ever put into words.
In two short weeks I'll be seeing Numan play the whole thing live, and it'll be akin to a religious experience for me, particularly when Down In The Park is aired, a bleak tale of synthetic friends, rape machines, ritualised death and crippling isolation that I have always found strangley cathartic.
And so I sit here, and I feel absolutely complete. I have good red wine, a packet of smooth cigars, and a deep sense of peace and tranquility as I write of my past, which defines my present and future. I am, in short, in a place that I can only describe as Heaven. If I were to die tonight, then it would be in a state of absolute calm and indescribable peace.
Such is the power of music. For a few short hours I am whole, I am complete, and I am happy.
"We are not lovers
We are not romantics
We are here to serve you
A different face but the words never change"
Down In The Park by Tubeway Army (1979)
It's also Thursday which means that it's Top Of The Pops on the television, which in turn means that I'm glued to it, drawn like a moth to a flame.
On the screen a young man with blonde hair dressed in black in singing in a flat, monotone voice over a heavy, doom laden synthesiser, looking like a rabbit caught in headlights.
The man is 21 years old, from London and is the unwitting innovator of a new style of music that will be variously known as new wave, new romantic and electronica.
His name is Gary Numan and he's singing his number one hit single Are Friends Electric?, a tune that would provide the backing for another number one some 23 years later, almost to the week, but this time with vocals by three teenage girls who weren't even born at the time.
Are Friends Electric? became the first single that I ever bought with my own money, and the album that spawned it, Replicas, the first album I bought with my own funds.
29 years later I'm sitting here listening to the just released redux version, complete with an entire disc of previously unreleased demos from the Replicas sessions and I'm nine years old again, falling in love with this cold, electronic, unemotional masterpiece all over again.
So much has changed in the intervening years, people have come and gone, friends have been born and died, but still I love this album more than pretty much anything else that I've ever heard.
This album anchors me to me, is my constant in a life full of change, and is more important to me than I could ever put into words.
In two short weeks I'll be seeing Numan play the whole thing live, and it'll be akin to a religious experience for me, particularly when Down In The Park is aired, a bleak tale of synthetic friends, rape machines, ritualised death and crippling isolation that I have always found strangley cathartic.
And so I sit here, and I feel absolutely complete. I have good red wine, a packet of smooth cigars, and a deep sense of peace and tranquility as I write of my past, which defines my present and future. I am, in short, in a place that I can only describe as Heaven. If I were to die tonight, then it would be in a state of absolute calm and indescribable peace.
Such is the power of music. For a few short hours I am whole, I am complete, and I am happy.
"We are not lovers
We are not romantics
We are here to serve you
A different face but the words never change"
Down In The Park by Tubeway Army (1979)
Sunday 24 February 2008
Lets Bee Friends
A little ealier than I anticipated, but my bees are back!
Let me explain. When I moved into the house I live in a couple of years ago, I was sitting watching a movie one night and I become aware of a very faint buzzing sound. I paused the DVD and listened carefully, trying to identify where the sound was coming from.
After a few moments I figured out that the buzzing was coming from behind the gas fire (which I have never used in all the time I've been here), but I couldn't for the life of me begin to imagine what could be causing it. Sure, it sounded like a bee, but surely not....
A few minutes later, I had resumed the movie when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something small had appeared on the hearth, and so I once more hit the pause button and got down on my knees to investigate.
Lo and behold, there was the tiniest bee I'd ever seen. It was a baby, effectively, that looked as though it had just hatched from its egg, and was docile enough for me to scoop it up with a piece of paper and take a good close look at it.
Its tiny antennae were moving around sluggishly, and its wings gave an occasional flutter, as if it were trying them out for the first time. After a few minutes gazing in fascination at this beautifully formed creature I took it to the front door and released it into the world.
Over the next few weeks, this happened several times. Sometimes I'd get home from work to find two or three baby bees clinging to the net curtains at my front window, having been drawn by the light but unable to find their way outside. So, in true animal (and insect) loving style I would peform my daily ritual of helping these youngsters to reach fresh air.
I suppose that I should really have called in the pest control people, but I figured that whereas wasps may have been dangerous, baby bees posed no threat to me, and to have them killed just because they happened to be living in my chimney seemed a little harsh.
My bee rescuing activities continued last year, as well. I couldn't help but wonder if some of the young bees I had helped had somehow remembered their safe haven and had come back to nest once more in my chimney.
And so, for the third year running, they're back, and with the liberation of the first one sure to be happening this morning, I'm looking forward to helping a whole new generation of bees get a fair start in life. (Of course, many of them may well be picked up for lunch by a passing Starling the minute I set them free, but such is life.)
Let me explain. When I moved into the house I live in a couple of years ago, I was sitting watching a movie one night and I become aware of a very faint buzzing sound. I paused the DVD and listened carefully, trying to identify where the sound was coming from.
After a few moments I figured out that the buzzing was coming from behind the gas fire (which I have never used in all the time I've been here), but I couldn't for the life of me begin to imagine what could be causing it. Sure, it sounded like a bee, but surely not....
A few minutes later, I had resumed the movie when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something small had appeared on the hearth, and so I once more hit the pause button and got down on my knees to investigate.
Lo and behold, there was the tiniest bee I'd ever seen. It was a baby, effectively, that looked as though it had just hatched from its egg, and was docile enough for me to scoop it up with a piece of paper and take a good close look at it.
Its tiny antennae were moving around sluggishly, and its wings gave an occasional flutter, as if it were trying them out for the first time. After a few minutes gazing in fascination at this beautifully formed creature I took it to the front door and released it into the world.
Over the next few weeks, this happened several times. Sometimes I'd get home from work to find two or three baby bees clinging to the net curtains at my front window, having been drawn by the light but unable to find their way outside. So, in true animal (and insect) loving style I would peform my daily ritual of helping these youngsters to reach fresh air.
I suppose that I should really have called in the pest control people, but I figured that whereas wasps may have been dangerous, baby bees posed no threat to me, and to have them killed just because they happened to be living in my chimney seemed a little harsh.
My bee rescuing activities continued last year, as well. I couldn't help but wonder if some of the young bees I had helped had somehow remembered their safe haven and had come back to nest once more in my chimney.
And so, for the third year running, they're back, and with the liberation of the first one sure to be happening this morning, I'm looking forward to helping a whole new generation of bees get a fair start in life. (Of course, many of them may well be picked up for lunch by a passing Starling the minute I set them free, but such is life.)
Thursday 21 February 2008
The Song Remains
Things come and go, people arrive and depart, sometimes staying for a few brief moments, sometimes for a lifetime.
One thing that always remains are the songs.
I'm sitting listening to August And Everything After by Counting Crows and I'm reminded once again just why this is one of my favourite records. Ever.
It fills my head with images, and memories, and desires. It gives me hope, it makes me despair, the music lifts my soul and the words break my heart because I understand them completely.
Since coming into my life thirteen years ago, Adam Duritz's lyrics have reached into my soul and ripped out my very being, holding it up in front of me, broken and bleeding for me to regard, to consider, to refelct on and ultimately to heal.
There's nothing so powerful as a song that is you, and so many of the Counting Crows songs seem to tell my story, even though I've never been to some of the places, or met some of the people, but still, they're me.
Duritz sings of love, of loss, of walking the fine tightrope that is sanity and of occasionally falling from it. He yearns for solitude and peace, and yet craves company and understanding. He sings pain, he sings joy, he sings from the heart and he sings me.
And I listen, and learn, and empathise, and remember and try to forget and re-live fragments of a life that isn't my own but could be.
If there is something beyond this life that we struggle through, then I have but one wish, that I can take the songs with me. For they are me, and I am them, and as long as I have them then I am never alone.
"We couldn't all be cowboys
So some of us are clowns
Some of us are dancers on the midway
We roam from town to town
I hope that everybody can find a little flame
Me, I say my prayers, then I just light myself on fire
And I walk out on the wire once again"
Counting Crows - Goodnight Elisabeth
One thing that always remains are the songs.
I'm sitting listening to August And Everything After by Counting Crows and I'm reminded once again just why this is one of my favourite records. Ever.
It fills my head with images, and memories, and desires. It gives me hope, it makes me despair, the music lifts my soul and the words break my heart because I understand them completely.
Since coming into my life thirteen years ago, Adam Duritz's lyrics have reached into my soul and ripped out my very being, holding it up in front of me, broken and bleeding for me to regard, to consider, to refelct on and ultimately to heal.
There's nothing so powerful as a song that is you, and so many of the Counting Crows songs seem to tell my story, even though I've never been to some of the places, or met some of the people, but still, they're me.
Duritz sings of love, of loss, of walking the fine tightrope that is sanity and of occasionally falling from it. He yearns for solitude and peace, and yet craves company and understanding. He sings pain, he sings joy, he sings from the heart and he sings me.
And I listen, and learn, and empathise, and remember and try to forget and re-live fragments of a life that isn't my own but could be.
If there is something beyond this life that we struggle through, then I have but one wish, that I can take the songs with me. For they are me, and I am them, and as long as I have them then I am never alone.
"We couldn't all be cowboys
So some of us are clowns
Some of us are dancers on the midway
We roam from town to town
I hope that everybody can find a little flame
Me, I say my prayers, then I just light myself on fire
And I walk out on the wire once again"
Counting Crows - Goodnight Elisabeth
Tuesday 19 February 2008
Then and Now
The past is a funny place.
It defines who we are, and has shaped us into the people who are living in the here and now.
I'm currently writing a semi-autobiographic book which means that I'm spending a lot of time there at the moment, and it's reminded me of many good memories. Inevitably the mind begins to wander and speculate on what would have happened if you'd made this choice, or that choice, of what might have been, of what could have been, but though it's fun to speculate on these alternate realities, I have to be honest and admit that I wouldn't change a thing.
Instead I look on the past as a favourite movie - I get to replay my favourite bits, and ignore the bad times, and draw upon my experience in this wonderful, scary, mysterious country to be the best person I can be today, tomorrow and until the day I die (which hopefully will be some way beyond tomorrow).
This ability to look back and reflect is an asset that should be regularly drawn upon. When the present hits the inevitable bumps in the road, or sometimes seems to have guided you into a cul de sac, then a quick reflection on past difficulties almost always reminds us that things do get better, that the bad times are usually brief, if intense, and that looking forward is not only positive but an exhilarating experience.
Right here, right now, my life is good. I am loved, adored, worshipped, and respected by someone who brings out the best in me. I have the freedom to write regularly, to indugle my passions for photography, for words, for movies, books and games, and I feel the most content that I have ever felt.
The past is indeed a funny place, but to dismiss the people, places, events and trials that comprise it would be an unfortunate folly. Instead I embrace it, learn from it, and let it help me to put my best foot forward into this bright future that I am about to step into.
It defines who we are, and has shaped us into the people who are living in the here and now.
I'm currently writing a semi-autobiographic book which means that I'm spending a lot of time there at the moment, and it's reminded me of many good memories. Inevitably the mind begins to wander and speculate on what would have happened if you'd made this choice, or that choice, of what might have been, of what could have been, but though it's fun to speculate on these alternate realities, I have to be honest and admit that I wouldn't change a thing.
Instead I look on the past as a favourite movie - I get to replay my favourite bits, and ignore the bad times, and draw upon my experience in this wonderful, scary, mysterious country to be the best person I can be today, tomorrow and until the day I die (which hopefully will be some way beyond tomorrow).
This ability to look back and reflect is an asset that should be regularly drawn upon. When the present hits the inevitable bumps in the road, or sometimes seems to have guided you into a cul de sac, then a quick reflection on past difficulties almost always reminds us that things do get better, that the bad times are usually brief, if intense, and that looking forward is not only positive but an exhilarating experience.
Right here, right now, my life is good. I am loved, adored, worshipped, and respected by someone who brings out the best in me. I have the freedom to write regularly, to indugle my passions for photography, for words, for movies, books and games, and I feel the most content that I have ever felt.
The past is indeed a funny place, but to dismiss the people, places, events and trials that comprise it would be an unfortunate folly. Instead I embrace it, learn from it, and let it help me to put my best foot forward into this bright future that I am about to step into.
Saturday 16 February 2008
Live and Smilin'
I mentioned previously that I'd managed to snag us a couple of tickets for the not-so-secret Sheryl Crow gig at the Scala, so off we went on Thursday night, riding the train into the Big Smoke.
As it was St Valentine's day we were half expecting to find outselves dodging and weaving our way past scores of swarthy looking men asking "Rose for the lady?" in broken English, but no, our path from Kings Cross to the Scala was romantic blackmail free. (Not thatI have anything against Valentine's Day as such, it's just that I'll buy the lady a rose when I damn well feel like it, not when told to.)
The gig was amazing. I've wanted to see Sheryl Crow for years, but didn't want to go and stand in an aircraft hanger for the privilege, so instead we stood at the upstairs bar looking down on the stage, and enjoyed the best part of a couple of hours of live music.
The thing that I really enjoyed, though, was not watching Sheryl (though it has to be said I do find her very easy on the eye, and there's something about the slightly older woman that's always done it for me), but instead watching her keyboard player Mike Rowe.
Here was a guy who was clearly having a blast indulging in his art, something that I can identify with by way of the sheer joy that writing brings to me. The grin never left his face as he deftly switched between the three or four sets of keys surrounding him, and I found myself grinning along for the duration of the gig.
It reminded me once more that while I love music in all shapes and forms, you can't beat seeing it live, particularly when the performers are clearly doing it for the sheer joy of actually being up there on stage and playing.
We've got a whole series of gigs planned so far this year, with artists as diverse as Newton Faulkener, Radiohead, Iron Maiden, Ace Frehley and Gary Numan on the calendar, and I can't wait to see each and every one of them.
As it was St Valentine's day we were half expecting to find outselves dodging and weaving our way past scores of swarthy looking men asking "Rose for the lady?" in broken English, but no, our path from Kings Cross to the Scala was romantic blackmail free. (Not thatI have anything against Valentine's Day as such, it's just that I'll buy the lady a rose when I damn well feel like it, not when told to.)
The gig was amazing. I've wanted to see Sheryl Crow for years, but didn't want to go and stand in an aircraft hanger for the privilege, so instead we stood at the upstairs bar looking down on the stage, and enjoyed the best part of a couple of hours of live music.
The thing that I really enjoyed, though, was not watching Sheryl (though it has to be said I do find her very easy on the eye, and there's something about the slightly older woman that's always done it for me), but instead watching her keyboard player Mike Rowe.
Here was a guy who was clearly having a blast indulging in his art, something that I can identify with by way of the sheer joy that writing brings to me. The grin never left his face as he deftly switched between the three or four sets of keys surrounding him, and I found myself grinning along for the duration of the gig.
It reminded me once more that while I love music in all shapes and forms, you can't beat seeing it live, particularly when the performers are clearly doing it for the sheer joy of actually being up there on stage and playing.
We've got a whole series of gigs planned so far this year, with artists as diverse as Newton Faulkener, Radiohead, Iron Maiden, Ace Frehley and Gary Numan on the calendar, and I can't wait to see each and every one of them.
Thursday 14 February 2008
First Person Scarer
Last night I found myself running for my life through the darkened streets of Manhattan as buildings collapsed around me, sending waves of masonary-filled dust clouds washing over helpless civilians, and trying desperately to stay alive in the face of some unknown.....thing.
Well, that's what it felt like anyway.
I was actually sitting in the comfort of the Broadway cinema watching the latest offering from Lost and Alias creator J J Abrams, the cryptically named Cloverfield. To say I was impressed is an understatement. To say I was pretty much dazzled and blown away with its ingenuity is much closer to the mark.
I've loved monster movies since I was a kid, cutting my teeth, so to speak, on the old Universal and Hammer movies that they used to shown on television on Saturday afternoons in Canada, where I was brought up.
I've lost count of the number of Godzilla movies I've seen, not to mention virtually ever other permutation of radiation, atomic energy, man-made viruses and animals and insects that have stomped, rampaged, run amok, and in the case of The Blob, oozed through the towns and cities of this ball of rock we call home.
Never before, though, have I been placed right in the action, at ground level, as ignorant, frightened and confused as the rest of the people generally are (except for the one bespectacled scientist who figures the whole mess out in a matter of minutes), and I loved it.
The biggest surprise, though, is that this idea has never been done before. Yes, the Blair Witch Project, which I saw when it came out and was immensely disappointed by, pretty much pioneered the notion of presenting the whole movie from the point of view of just a hand held camera, but aside from a few odd trinkets hanging from the trees and the disturbing sight of Heather Donahue's snotty nose in all its 20-foot glory, there was no sense of unease or terror.
Cloverfield, however, nailed this in spades. No doubt aided by the memories of footage from 9/11 showing confused New Yorkers running scared through dust-filled streets, the images of destruction and the sense of not knowing what the hell was going on had me nailed to the edge of my seat.
Even cleverer than the movie, however, was the (almost) innovative internet build-up. Beginning mid-way through last year with a brief teaser trailer that gave nothing away, not even the name of the movie, the campaign managed to succeed in the viral marketing stakes where so many others had previously failed, and more importantly, delivered one hell of a monstrous punch line.
The only other campaign to even come close was the build up last Spring for yearzero, the most recent Nine Inch Nails album, which led fans, myself included, on a lengthy, intelligent and incredibly deep journey into the background of the concept album, which revolves around events that could realistically happen in America in the near future, and was thus even more chilling than the slightly less likely scenario played out in Cloverfield. (Check out http://www.ninwiki.com/Main_Page for an example of what one man's fertile imagination can conjure up - you won't be disappointed, I promise.)
Undoubtably there will be imitations in the coming months and years of Cloverfield and its build-up, but they will lack the impact of this groundbreaking movie and campaign. See it on the big screen if you can, but definitely catch it on DVD. I guarantee that this is one of those movies that will be spoken of with respect in the coming years as having taken a tired old genre, the monster movie, and breathing new life into it.
Hang on, I just heard something outside. Let me grab my camera and I'll be right back...........
Well, that's what it felt like anyway.
I was actually sitting in the comfort of the Broadway cinema watching the latest offering from Lost and Alias creator J J Abrams, the cryptically named Cloverfield. To say I was impressed is an understatement. To say I was pretty much dazzled and blown away with its ingenuity is much closer to the mark.
I've loved monster movies since I was a kid, cutting my teeth, so to speak, on the old Universal and Hammer movies that they used to shown on television on Saturday afternoons in Canada, where I was brought up.
I've lost count of the number of Godzilla movies I've seen, not to mention virtually ever other permutation of radiation, atomic energy, man-made viruses and animals and insects that have stomped, rampaged, run amok, and in the case of The Blob, oozed through the towns and cities of this ball of rock we call home.
Never before, though, have I been placed right in the action, at ground level, as ignorant, frightened and confused as the rest of the people generally are (except for the one bespectacled scientist who figures the whole mess out in a matter of minutes), and I loved it.
The biggest surprise, though, is that this idea has never been done before. Yes, the Blair Witch Project, which I saw when it came out and was immensely disappointed by, pretty much pioneered the notion of presenting the whole movie from the point of view of just a hand held camera, but aside from a few odd trinkets hanging from the trees and the disturbing sight of Heather Donahue's snotty nose in all its 20-foot glory, there was no sense of unease or terror.
Cloverfield, however, nailed this in spades. No doubt aided by the memories of footage from 9/11 showing confused New Yorkers running scared through dust-filled streets, the images of destruction and the sense of not knowing what the hell was going on had me nailed to the edge of my seat.
Even cleverer than the movie, however, was the (almost) innovative internet build-up. Beginning mid-way through last year with a brief teaser trailer that gave nothing away, not even the name of the movie, the campaign managed to succeed in the viral marketing stakes where so many others had previously failed, and more importantly, delivered one hell of a monstrous punch line.
The only other campaign to even come close was the build up last Spring for yearzero, the most recent Nine Inch Nails album, which led fans, myself included, on a lengthy, intelligent and incredibly deep journey into the background of the concept album, which revolves around events that could realistically happen in America in the near future, and was thus even more chilling than the slightly less likely scenario played out in Cloverfield. (Check out http://www.ninwiki.com/Main_Page for an example of what one man's fertile imagination can conjure up - you won't be disappointed, I promise.)
Undoubtably there will be imitations in the coming months and years of Cloverfield and its build-up, but they will lack the impact of this groundbreaking movie and campaign. See it on the big screen if you can, but definitely catch it on DVD. I guarantee that this is one of those movies that will be spoken of with respect in the coming years as having taken a tired old genre, the monster movie, and breathing new life into it.
Hang on, I just heard something outside. Let me grab my camera and I'll be right back...........
Tuesday 12 February 2008
La Mer
We've just returned from a few days near the sea, in a small Devon town called Teignmouth to be precise.
Music fans, and particularly those of a rock persuasion, may have heard of this sleepy little coastal hamlet thanks to it being the birthplace of Muse, but they have long since vacated it to play their sci-fi tinged classical rock (or whatever you want to call it - I just call it great) all over the globe.
While they have abandoned Teighmouth, however, the sea has remained, as it has all around this green and pleasant isle, and regardless of how far inland I normally reside, I always feel a calling.
The sea is my eternal mistress. She fascinates me as she calls, dances, seduces, entices, ebbs, flows, and kills, a timeless body that is dark, delightful and dangerous.
I feel a deep, almost spiritual sense of calm when I am near the sea. Perhaps there's something to the theory that as the moon pulls the tides to and fro by way of gravity, our blood also ebbs and flows through our veins in thrall to our nearest neighbouring planetoid.
She, and the sea is a she - such a mass of delicious contradictions and passions could never be male, is ruled by no earthly force, deferring only to the moon. Since time began she has held man in her gentle, deadly grip, and following in a long, long line of sandy footsteps, I believe that if ever I were to end my life prematurely, I would give it to her, just start walking and not stop until it was as if I were never there............which brings me nicely to this poem, written by yours truly while gazing at the sea a couple of years ago.
Never There
I sit and watch you
As you lap at my feet
Playful
Teasing
Inviting
But I know your motives.
Outwardly calm, but beneath your
Placid surface there lie
A thousand bloated souls
Seduced
Captivated
Called
And I know that this too is my fate.
I have tried to resist you,
But each night you call
Rhythmic
Persistent
Relentless
And finally I cannot deny you.
The sun hangs low in the sky
As I stand and begin to walk,
My body increasingly enveloped by you
Until your surface is still once more.
It as is though I were never there.
Music fans, and particularly those of a rock persuasion, may have heard of this sleepy little coastal hamlet thanks to it being the birthplace of Muse, but they have long since vacated it to play their sci-fi tinged classical rock (or whatever you want to call it - I just call it great) all over the globe.
While they have abandoned Teighmouth, however, the sea has remained, as it has all around this green and pleasant isle, and regardless of how far inland I normally reside, I always feel a calling.
The sea is my eternal mistress. She fascinates me as she calls, dances, seduces, entices, ebbs, flows, and kills, a timeless body that is dark, delightful and dangerous.
I feel a deep, almost spiritual sense of calm when I am near the sea. Perhaps there's something to the theory that as the moon pulls the tides to and fro by way of gravity, our blood also ebbs and flows through our veins in thrall to our nearest neighbouring planetoid.
She, and the sea is a she - such a mass of delicious contradictions and passions could never be male, is ruled by no earthly force, deferring only to the moon. Since time began she has held man in her gentle, deadly grip, and following in a long, long line of sandy footsteps, I believe that if ever I were to end my life prematurely, I would give it to her, just start walking and not stop until it was as if I were never there............which brings me nicely to this poem, written by yours truly while gazing at the sea a couple of years ago.
Never There
I sit and watch you
As you lap at my feet
Playful
Teasing
Inviting
But I know your motives.
Outwardly calm, but beneath your
Placid surface there lie
A thousand bloated souls
Seduced
Captivated
Called
And I know that this too is my fate.
I have tried to resist you,
But each night you call
Rhythmic
Persistent
Relentless
And finally I cannot deny you.
The sun hangs low in the sky
As I stand and begin to walk,
My body increasingly enveloped by you
Until your surface is still once more.
It as is though I were never there.
Saturday 9 February 2008
Hell On Earth
We've just returned from a brief shopping expedition to the local superduperhypermarket and so I am in the usual psychopathic, depresssed state that visiting these places brings out in me.
They say, well George A Romero did anyway, that when there is no more room in Hell, the dead will walk the earth. I have to disagree, because Hell is already right here on earth and goes by the name of Tesco.
I swear that some of the hordes of people that wander aimlessly from aisle to aisle, pushing their trolleys with the enthusiam of a man digging his own grave, have long since shuffled off their mortal coils, and are acting on the most primal of our instincts, to shop.
They have an shocking inability to understand that if they are standing looking glassy-eyed at the meat counter with their trolleys inconsiderately parked at crazy angles jutting out into the aisle, then they will create an obstacle that forces people like me do a kind of vertical limbo around, whilst silently thinking how entertaining it would be to see how far their heads would roll down the aisle if detached with the help of a machete.
I'm not actually a violent person at all, but the overwhelming mass of idiots, morons and worst of all, unruly and occasionally it seems feral children who congregate in the nation's, and indeed the world's food stores bring out the worst in me. After ten minutes in Tescos, or any other supermarket, I am practically begging to be let loose with an AK-47.
However, I am thankfully a quick shopper, and so usually manage to leave the premises before doing anything rash (armed only with my shopping), though there are occasions where I cannot resist a quick sideswipe with my trolley at the most moronic members of my species, leaving bruised ankles in my wake.
I suppose I really should look into internet shopping, but if I'm honest, I think there's a small part of me that enjoys the aggravation, as once it is over with, and I am sitting with a coffee and a good book, the feeling of calm and tranquility that envelops me is divine.
They say, well George A Romero did anyway, that when there is no more room in Hell, the dead will walk the earth. I have to disagree, because Hell is already right here on earth and goes by the name of Tesco.
I swear that some of the hordes of people that wander aimlessly from aisle to aisle, pushing their trolleys with the enthusiam of a man digging his own grave, have long since shuffled off their mortal coils, and are acting on the most primal of our instincts, to shop.
They have an shocking inability to understand that if they are standing looking glassy-eyed at the meat counter with their trolleys inconsiderately parked at crazy angles jutting out into the aisle, then they will create an obstacle that forces people like me do a kind of vertical limbo around, whilst silently thinking how entertaining it would be to see how far their heads would roll down the aisle if detached with the help of a machete.
I'm not actually a violent person at all, but the overwhelming mass of idiots, morons and worst of all, unruly and occasionally it seems feral children who congregate in the nation's, and indeed the world's food stores bring out the worst in me. After ten minutes in Tescos, or any other supermarket, I am practically begging to be let loose with an AK-47.
However, I am thankfully a quick shopper, and so usually manage to leave the premises before doing anything rash (armed only with my shopping), though there are occasions where I cannot resist a quick sideswipe with my trolley at the most moronic members of my species, leaving bruised ankles in my wake.
I suppose I really should look into internet shopping, but if I'm honest, I think there's a small part of me that enjoys the aggravation, as once it is over with, and I am sitting with a coffee and a good book, the feeling of calm and tranquility that envelops me is divine.
Friday 8 February 2008
When In Rome....
It seems that the Archbishop of Cantebury has well and truly put his foot in it.
If you've missed all the fuss, or if you're reading this in the future (from now, as I'm writing it, obviously, not from your future, unless, that is you're watching me right now from 2011 as I'm typing away.....) then let me fill you in.
Dr Rowan Williams has publically stated that he believes that the adoption of certain elements of the Islamic Sharia law system by the UK legal system is 'inevitable' and that the UK has to face up to the fact that some of its citizens 'do not relate to the British legal system.'
Predictably the UK press and its dear readers have responded with extremely vociferous objections to these comments, mostly for the right reasons in that the simple fact is that when you choose to live in a particular country, or even if you are born there, you cannot choose to ignore those aspects of that country's laws that you 'do not relate to'.
There are, somewhat predictably, the morons who think that Dr Williams is welcoming the uglier aspects of Sharia law that could see stonings and beheadings for certain crimes (though I have to admit, I'm not completely against this for certain crimes, particularly operating a BMW car without indicators), but this isn't the case, and more importantly isn't the point of my objection to his statement.l
The old saying 'When in Rome,' may be something of a cliche, but as with all great cliches there is an underlying elemnt of truth to it. If you wish to live in a country, then you must obey its laws. Period. End of discussion. If you don't like its laws, or can't relate to them, then by all means please feel free to pack your belongings and emigrate to your utopia of choice.
There is also the rather serious point of not having parallel law standards, between which we can pick and choose. There must only be one legal system, and those laws must be clear and enforced. By all means come to certain arrangements outside of court, within whichever community you subscribe to, but realise that this must fly under UK law.
Of course, the danger, thanks to the rabid politically correct brigade, in objecting to the adoption of something like this is that one is labelled a racist, or intollerant. There are documented cases of polygamous marriage within certain communities in this country that are tolerated by the authorities because of a fear of being seen to discriminate, when the reality is, if I were to take two, or more if I were feeling particularly masochistic, wives, then you would be sure that the law would descend on me like the proverbial ton of bricks.
I'm surprised at Dr Williams making such a reckless statement, especially given that he is clearly an intelligent man who apparently speaks and/or reads eight languages, and equally surprised that he is surprised at the backlash that is being directed at him.
The biggest surprise, however, is the sheer numbers of my fellow countrymen who have opted to comment on this, considering the apathy regarding domestic and international affairs that usually seems to be the norm these days.
Perhaps we're not quite ready to roll over and play dead under the onslaught of increasingly selfish, moronic and duplicitous politicians and religious leaders. Perhaps there is yet hope for the voice of the people.
I certainly hope so.
If you've missed all the fuss, or if you're reading this in the future (from now, as I'm writing it, obviously, not from your future, unless, that is you're watching me right now from 2011 as I'm typing away.....) then let me fill you in.
Dr Rowan Williams has publically stated that he believes that the adoption of certain elements of the Islamic Sharia law system by the UK legal system is 'inevitable' and that the UK has to face up to the fact that some of its citizens 'do not relate to the British legal system.'
Predictably the UK press and its dear readers have responded with extremely vociferous objections to these comments, mostly for the right reasons in that the simple fact is that when you choose to live in a particular country, or even if you are born there, you cannot choose to ignore those aspects of that country's laws that you 'do not relate to'.
There are, somewhat predictably, the morons who think that Dr Williams is welcoming the uglier aspects of Sharia law that could see stonings and beheadings for certain crimes (though I have to admit, I'm not completely against this for certain crimes, particularly operating a BMW car without indicators), but this isn't the case, and more importantly isn't the point of my objection to his statement.l
The old saying 'When in Rome,' may be something of a cliche, but as with all great cliches there is an underlying elemnt of truth to it. If you wish to live in a country, then you must obey its laws. Period. End of discussion. If you don't like its laws, or can't relate to them, then by all means please feel free to pack your belongings and emigrate to your utopia of choice.
There is also the rather serious point of not having parallel law standards, between which we can pick and choose. There must only be one legal system, and those laws must be clear and enforced. By all means come to certain arrangements outside of court, within whichever community you subscribe to, but realise that this must fly under UK law.
Of course, the danger, thanks to the rabid politically correct brigade, in objecting to the adoption of something like this is that one is labelled a racist, or intollerant. There are documented cases of polygamous marriage within certain communities in this country that are tolerated by the authorities because of a fear of being seen to discriminate, when the reality is, if I were to take two, or more if I were feeling particularly masochistic, wives, then you would be sure that the law would descend on me like the proverbial ton of bricks.
I'm surprised at Dr Williams making such a reckless statement, especially given that he is clearly an intelligent man who apparently speaks and/or reads eight languages, and equally surprised that he is surprised at the backlash that is being directed at him.
The biggest surprise, however, is the sheer numbers of my fellow countrymen who have opted to comment on this, considering the apathy regarding domestic and international affairs that usually seems to be the norm these days.
Perhaps we're not quite ready to roll over and play dead under the onslaught of increasingly selfish, moronic and duplicitous politicians and religious leaders. Perhaps there is yet hope for the voice of the people.
I certainly hope so.
Wednesday 6 February 2008
The 51st State
I've just had the most amazing revelation.
I was working on a chapter for my ongoing semi-autobiographical book about the rock scene in the 1980s, and was covering the bizarre story of ex-KISS man Vinnie Vincent's wife's disappearance in January 1998.
That's another story for another day, though, along with Motley Crue bassist Nikki Sixx's doppelganger, who claimed that he replaced him in the band for three years following a near fatal car crash. Seriously, you couldn't make this stuff up.
Anyway, my revelation came about when I was running the spell checker and aside from the usual transposed letters and my constant inability to spell focused correctly, my laptop suddenly informed me that I had spelt Conneticut incorrectly.
Now, the eagle-eyed among you will have noticed immediately that I have just deliberately misspelled it (and if you actually live in the state and didn't notice, shame on you), but I was literally stopped dead in my literary tracks because for my whole life I have been convinced that Connecticut was actually spelled Conneticut.
I sat looking at this strange new, yet clearly correct (I even checked with the state's official website), spelling and felt not unlike a small child having finally realised that the only fat guy in a suit that comes into your room on Christmas Eve is, well, let's not spoil that for any believers who may be reading.
I just couldn't comprehend that America's fourth most densely populated state looked as though it should be pronounced connect-i-cut, which for some unknown reason had my brain conjuring up images of the old Connect 4 game.
It started me wondering how many other things I have wilfully misinterpreted over the years, and reminded me of a story I read once about a holy man who had prayed in front of the same stained glass window for his whole life and when asked was certain that there were three panels, when in fact there were four. I wish I could find this story again, but sadly Google is not my friend on this occasion.
On the bright side, however, I now know how to spell Connecticut correctly, and thanks to my visiting the state website know more about it now than I ever did, including the fact that one George Walker Bush was born there.
Oh well, ever silver lining has a cloud, eh?
I was working on a chapter for my ongoing semi-autobiographical book about the rock scene in the 1980s, and was covering the bizarre story of ex-KISS man Vinnie Vincent's wife's disappearance in January 1998.
That's another story for another day, though, along with Motley Crue bassist Nikki Sixx's doppelganger, who claimed that he replaced him in the band for three years following a near fatal car crash. Seriously, you couldn't make this stuff up.
Anyway, my revelation came about when I was running the spell checker and aside from the usual transposed letters and my constant inability to spell focused correctly, my laptop suddenly informed me that I had spelt Conneticut incorrectly.
Now, the eagle-eyed among you will have noticed immediately that I have just deliberately misspelled it (and if you actually live in the state and didn't notice, shame on you), but I was literally stopped dead in my literary tracks because for my whole life I have been convinced that Connecticut was actually spelled Conneticut.
I sat looking at this strange new, yet clearly correct (I even checked with the state's official website), spelling and felt not unlike a small child having finally realised that the only fat guy in a suit that comes into your room on Christmas Eve is, well, let's not spoil that for any believers who may be reading.
I just couldn't comprehend that America's fourth most densely populated state looked as though it should be pronounced connect-i-cut, which for some unknown reason had my brain conjuring up images of the old Connect 4 game.
It started me wondering how many other things I have wilfully misinterpreted over the years, and reminded me of a story I read once about a holy man who had prayed in front of the same stained glass window for his whole life and when asked was certain that there were three panels, when in fact there were four. I wish I could find this story again, but sadly Google is not my friend on this occasion.
On the bright side, however, I now know how to spell Connecticut correctly, and thanks to my visiting the state website know more about it now than I ever did, including the fact that one George Walker Bush was born there.
Oh well, ever silver lining has a cloud, eh?
Monday 4 February 2008
Moments
Life is made up of a neverending series of moments, strung out one after another from the moment we draw our first breath to the final exhalation of our last.
The majority of these moments pass us by without any particular fanfare, being merely fleeting seconds in otherwise unremarkable minutes, hours and days.
There are other moments, though, that have deeply profound effects on our lives, and that once experienced, change us forever.
Sometimes this is a good thing, other times not so good. Some of them we want to hold onto forever, to relive them again and again, remembering a moment of bliss, a moment of happiness, a moment of perfect contentment.
Others, however, we bitterly regret. These moments of rash actions or words, of snap decisions, of uncharacteristic behaviour, dropping our usual vigilence and letting the monster that lives inside each and every one of us break through for the briefest of moments.
The good moments are joyous, the moments that we can retreat to when we need a pick me up, when we need to smile, or remember that things aren't that bad really.
The bad ones, however, are nasty. They lodge themselves in the darkest recesses of our minds and pick and pick and pick at our sanity, reminding us that we're not the white knights we so desperately want to be, that we are in fact just flawed, broken machines, and that some of us will always find a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
The key to mastering life's moments is to cherish the good ones, and learn from the bad ones, but as with many other things, this is sometimes easier said than done.
The majority of these moments pass us by without any particular fanfare, being merely fleeting seconds in otherwise unremarkable minutes, hours and days.
There are other moments, though, that have deeply profound effects on our lives, and that once experienced, change us forever.
Sometimes this is a good thing, other times not so good. Some of them we want to hold onto forever, to relive them again and again, remembering a moment of bliss, a moment of happiness, a moment of perfect contentment.
Others, however, we bitterly regret. These moments of rash actions or words, of snap decisions, of uncharacteristic behaviour, dropping our usual vigilence and letting the monster that lives inside each and every one of us break through for the briefest of moments.
The good moments are joyous, the moments that we can retreat to when we need a pick me up, when we need to smile, or remember that things aren't that bad really.
The bad ones, however, are nasty. They lodge themselves in the darkest recesses of our minds and pick and pick and pick at our sanity, reminding us that we're not the white knights we so desperately want to be, that we are in fact just flawed, broken machines, and that some of us will always find a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
The key to mastering life's moments is to cherish the good ones, and learn from the bad ones, but as with many other things, this is sometimes easier said than done.
Sunday 3 February 2008
A Rare Intimacy
As I mentioned a few days ago, we've got tickets to see Sheryl Crow at the Scala in London, a small, very intimate venue near Kings Cross.
I'm particularly pleased about this because I've wanted to see her live for years but I have an intense dislike of seeing bands and artists in the various aircraft hangers and enormodomes that the most popular artists are compelled to play these days in order to maximise their revenues, and to accomodate the sheer numbers of fans that are clamouring to see them.
It wasn't always this way, though, a fact I was reminded of when I was doing some research for my book on the rock scene in the late 80s / early 90s.
Back then, rather than play a single date at Wembley Stadium, bands like Iron Maiden or Def Leppard would instead book themselves in for multiple nights in the more intimate venues in the capital. For example, on their 1985 World Slavery Tour (so called because of their Powerslave album, as opposed to any apology-inducing references to our bad old English ways) they performed for six consecutive nights at the old Hammersmith Odeon, now called the Labatt's Apollo, not nearly as appealing a name, but that's corporate sponsorship for you.
Similarly Def Leppard played there for three nights on the first leg of their mammoth Hysteria tour, although by the time they returned the following year they were big enough to play multiple nights at Wembley Arena and Birmingham's NEC, but that first time around it was a fantastic opportunity for their fans to see them up close and personal, as it were.
Now, though, and I'm aware that I'm sounding like a curmudgeonly old moaner, it seems that the minute one of my favourite bands gets a sniff of success that they're booked in at some place where unless I'm queuing outside the venue at noon on the day of the performance then there's a good chance that I'll be in a different post code to the stage by the time I've grabbed a beer and made my way to my seat.
C'est la vie, I guess, and with the way the record industry is going more importance is going to be placed on live performance, and the corresponding revenue of course, so I'll just accept that unless I catch a band on the upswing, then I'll be herding myself into the country's cattle sheds to see them, and take comfort in the fact that every now and again someone will 'do a Sheryl' and play somewhere like the Scala.
I'm particularly pleased about this because I've wanted to see her live for years but I have an intense dislike of seeing bands and artists in the various aircraft hangers and enormodomes that the most popular artists are compelled to play these days in order to maximise their revenues, and to accomodate the sheer numbers of fans that are clamouring to see them.
It wasn't always this way, though, a fact I was reminded of when I was doing some research for my book on the rock scene in the late 80s / early 90s.
Back then, rather than play a single date at Wembley Stadium, bands like Iron Maiden or Def Leppard would instead book themselves in for multiple nights in the more intimate venues in the capital. For example, on their 1985 World Slavery Tour (so called because of their Powerslave album, as opposed to any apology-inducing references to our bad old English ways) they performed for six consecutive nights at the old Hammersmith Odeon, now called the Labatt's Apollo, not nearly as appealing a name, but that's corporate sponsorship for you.
Similarly Def Leppard played there for three nights on the first leg of their mammoth Hysteria tour, although by the time they returned the following year they were big enough to play multiple nights at Wembley Arena and Birmingham's NEC, but that first time around it was a fantastic opportunity for their fans to see them up close and personal, as it were.
Now, though, and I'm aware that I'm sounding like a curmudgeonly old moaner, it seems that the minute one of my favourite bands gets a sniff of success that they're booked in at some place where unless I'm queuing outside the venue at noon on the day of the performance then there's a good chance that I'll be in a different post code to the stage by the time I've grabbed a beer and made my way to my seat.
C'est la vie, I guess, and with the way the record industry is going more importance is going to be placed on live performance, and the corresponding revenue of course, so I'll just accept that unless I catch a band on the upswing, then I'll be herding myself into the country's cattle sheds to see them, and take comfort in the fact that every now and again someone will 'do a Sheryl' and play somewhere like the Scala.
Friday 1 February 2008
Who Wants A Piece?
There's this girl that I've known for almost ten years now, ever since she was seventeen in fact, and I've watched her grow, become a young woman and achieve things that many of us only ever dream about.
When I first knew her, she was a fresh faced, free-spirited teenager who loved life and seemed to have a long, bright future ahead of her.
Recently, however, she's taken a wrong turn somewhere and seems to have become trapped in a downward spiral, something I can identify with because I hit something similar in my mid-twenties too, but I managed to get my life back on track and couldn't be happier these days.
I fear that she may not be so lucky, though, and that any currency she once had with her friends and those who claim to have loved her is now worthless.
The most heartbreaking thing, though, is that she has a couple of young kids, two boys, who thanks to her increasingly erratic behaviour she has lost custody of, to her ex-husband. At a time when they need their mother, she is in danger of losing everything, including if she's not careful, her life.
It saddens me that she can't see that the people she is surrounded by, her so called friends, are nothing of the sort. They're willing to sell her out to the highest bidder and rather than try and help her, just seem increasingly amused as to just how low she can sink.
It's like watching a car crash in slow motion, but I can't do anything to help, I don't even know her. I just wish somebody who does would do the right thing, and rescue her from herself.
Otherwise I fear that Miss American Dream will slip into a nightmare from which she'll never wake up.
When I first knew her, she was a fresh faced, free-spirited teenager who loved life and seemed to have a long, bright future ahead of her.
Recently, however, she's taken a wrong turn somewhere and seems to have become trapped in a downward spiral, something I can identify with because I hit something similar in my mid-twenties too, but I managed to get my life back on track and couldn't be happier these days.
I fear that she may not be so lucky, though, and that any currency she once had with her friends and those who claim to have loved her is now worthless.
The most heartbreaking thing, though, is that she has a couple of young kids, two boys, who thanks to her increasingly erratic behaviour she has lost custody of, to her ex-husband. At a time when they need their mother, she is in danger of losing everything, including if she's not careful, her life.
It saddens me that she can't see that the people she is surrounded by, her so called friends, are nothing of the sort. They're willing to sell her out to the highest bidder and rather than try and help her, just seem increasingly amused as to just how low she can sink.
It's like watching a car crash in slow motion, but I can't do anything to help, I don't even know her. I just wish somebody who does would do the right thing, and rescue her from herself.
Otherwise I fear that Miss American Dream will slip into a nightmare from which she'll never wake up.
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