The Dotterel

How would you make someone's day better?

2011-12-09T11:29:00.001-08:00

How to clean a mirror spotlessly with Chelsea

2011-10-03T02:43:00.001-07:00

Ruby Flipper

2011-09-17T03:44:00.000-07:00

I've been enjoying the recent nostalgia-fest on BBC Four - the weekly repeats of Top of the Pops 1976 - because that was precisely the year, aged ten, I watched most avidly. I loved the show and never missed an episode if I could help it. But there's a puzzle: I have no recall whatever of the dance troupe, Ruby Flipper. I remember Pan's People well enough; I remember Legs and Co. though in neither case with any great affection. In those innocent, pre-pubescent days they were rather tiresome interludes; I wanted to see the bands. By the time I wanted to see the girls, I'd given up ToTP completely. So it's not really a surprise that Ruby Flipper don't feature in my I remember this 'live' in '76 moments; but not to remember them at all, not even any irritation at their half-naked cavorting to a tune I'd rather have seen mimed by the band? It's a mystery. Mind you, I rather think it would be a different story today. In googling them for this post I've found an entire site dedicated to the ToTP dance troupes as well as a bewildering and rather exciting array of YouTube videos of them in various stages of undress, of which this is one.

Oh yes, these days it would've been a very different matter.

They Might Be Giants

2011-09-08T03:31:00.000-07:00

... actually, there's no 'might' about it. Do the 'Boss of Me'. But not before the best cover of Chumbawumba ever:

Top Tip: How to Remove Permanent Marker from a Whiteboard

2011-08-10T02:09:00.001-07:00

The launch of Atlantis - final Shuttle mission

2011-07-09T01:21:00.000-07:00

I couldn't resist this. We sat in front of the telly yesterday - Charlie, Sally and Eloise (though she was far too young to take an interest) and watched a piece of history. It was a strangely moving moment, one that took me back to the seventies and being woken up by my mum and dad to see an Apollo launch, a splashdown, or - amazingly - a lunar landing. My early childhood seemed to be regularly punctuated by another moon landing and I was convinced I could see them when I looked out at the moon at night. I wonder if Charlie will remember the last Shuttle launch, or what future space missions there might be for him to tell his own children about...

Borg v McEnroe ... again!

2011-06-29T12:38:00.001-07:00

Tree porn

2011-06-07T05:52:00.000-07:00

It's not bad, but the acting's a bit wooden...

Oh, Blogger!

2011-05-14T02:52:00.000-07:00

Well, that was interesting wasn't it? Friday 13th certainly did for Blogger yesterday - and for all of us with blogger blogs! I still haven't heard what caused the 'outage'. This morning things seem back to normal; lost comments are slowly being restored; we can post again. But my, what a catastrophe. Twitter was abuzz with it, as - no doubt - were other social media sites. I was surprised not to hear it on the six o'clock news. But behind the hoo-ha lies a serious point: we forget to back-up at our peril.

Paranoid as I am, I not only keep a file back-up of my posts (that's easy enough on Blogger) but have a 'mirror' site on Wordpress. I like Blogger, like it a lot. It's easy, simple to use and - of course - free. I know a lot of 'pro' bloggers prefer Wordpress - self-hosted or not and there's a handy comparison to the two main rivals here. But being a user of both platforms I can honestly say I prefer Blogger.

Which doesn't mean, of course, that I'm not extremely grateful for my Wordpress 'shadow'. The fact that my blog exists in both worlds and there's a version standing by, ready to be brought out into the light of day should anything permanently untoward occur is a great comfort.

But then, if they both went down I would be stuck!

Now, where's my old typewriter?

Home

2011-05-06T12:52:00.000-07:00

In a quaint old English market town...

John Humphrey's doesn't know his AV from his elbow....

2011-05-04T08:52:00.000-07:00

At least, according to David Cameron yesterday. The BBC is rather politely described the exchange between Today anchorman John Humphreys and the Prime Minister as a 'disagreement on a technicality'. What do you think?

It may not help you make up your mind for the vote tomorrow, but it sure is entertaining!

The luckiest man alive?

2011-04-30T04:22:00.001-07:00

The Fureys: Green Fields of France

2011-04-22T08:38:00.001-07:00

The Royal Wedding

2011-04-16T00:42:00.001-07:00

If only...

Nouvelle pub Grimbergen

2011-04-13T11:40:00.000-07:00

Is this the best beer ad. ever? And can anyone translate it for me? No idea what the beer is like, but...

Watching the planes go by

2011-04-03T04:11:00.000-07:00

I don't belieeeeeeve it!

2010-10-21T11:33:00.001-07:00

The Tomy Top Tips Guide

2010-02-19T10:09:00.000-08:00

Tomy Top Tips for Today's Parents

Tribute to Howard Keel

2010-02-09T02:01:00.000-08:00

Ok, you asked for it...

Never work with children or animals, eh?

I'll get me coat...

New post

2010-02-02T01:18:00.001-08:00

So, are the DISQUS comments working?

Choo choo

2010-02-01T08:29:00.000-08:00

Thomas and Friends is back, and it's bigger and better and newer and shinier and lovelier and I'm so happy. Milkshake is our constant breakfast companion, and it the truth be told it's all for Thomas. I've got a train-mad, Thomas-obsessive and that 8.25 slot can't come round quick enough.

But guess what? Best of all about the brand-new series which began last Monday (and continues on Five's 'Milkshake' at 8.25am daily) is the name of the newest engine: Charlie. Yes! Sodor's latest addition to the railway network is a little Manning-Wardle 0-6-0ST (Saddle Tank) Class L engine named after 'Thomas and Friends' Biggest Fan. I can hardly believe it!

That's not the only change either. For the first time, the series is produced in CG animation, giving it a full 21st century studio update. And the engines can now speak with their own character voices, so there's less work for Michael Angelis to do. And another thing. All those clothes-peg characters that populated the station platforms whether in the person of the passengers or the fat controller Sir Topham Hat himself now move. And no longer will Sir Topham say in that ridiculous manner 'You 'ave caused confusion and delay.' And James doesn't sound like a cross between Jimmy Osmond and Ian Rush. And relegated to narrating duties, Angelis is on surer ground. He can do it all in his own voice. Which, of course, is what he always did. Although he wasn't meant to.

So, here's to the latest Thomas series! Amazing to think that those little trains created by an elderly clergyman are now pensionable age.

Choo-choo!

Christmas Past

2009-12-01T02:01:00.000-08:00

Last Christmas, to be precise... Charlie's first:

Christmas Rules. OK?

2009-11-22T00:22:00.000-08:00

Sorry to mention it, but in five weeks time it'll all be over. All that cooking, eating, shopping, wrapping, telly watching. Done and dusted. Finished for another year.

Christmas isn't meant to be hard work. Or expensive. Long before the birth of Christ was celebrated, our pagan forefathers (and foremothers) had a huge midwinter feast to keep their spirits up in the cold, dark days of late December. The Romans had an orgy of festivity around December 21st called Saturnalia. It's said that when Constantine decided Christianity should be Rome's official religion he moved the festival of Christ's birth to December (Saturnalia) in order to make things run a little smoother. Get that! A politician trying to make everyone's life a little easier. And at Christmas, too.

Now we worship at the altar of consumerism things are harder. Kids demand more and better presents, everyone expects to be showered with gifts and consume half a year's worth of calories in a few days and be able to sit down for hours before the telly.

We try to do it differently chez Dotterel. For a start, both Sarah and I sing in different choirs, and Christmas is a busy busy time for singers. The best-attended service of the year - midnight mass - is one of our biggest gigs and usually comes after about a dozen other carol services and concerts. By Christmas Day we're both usually knackered! So, like the good boy scouts (or girl guides in my wife's case) we once were, our rule is simple: 'be prepared'. Shop for Christmas presents through the year. Wrap as early as you can. Print a set of labels to address those Christmas cards. And then in January, buy the cards for next year in the sale!

I know, I know.

But it works for us.

You can read more Christmas Rules as posted by various bloggers on the John Lewis website.

And if you don't believe me when I say we spend the festive season singing, take a look at this....

(Don't say I didn't warn you!)

If I Never....

2009-09-02T01:22:00.000-07:00

This is the debut novel by Gary William Murning, and it's a corker! Price and George are friends, if you can call it that. George bullies Price in every imaginable way, and Price well... Price just takes it. He takes everything George throws at him, including punches. Why? And why does he continue doing so when warned that he's in danger, when love beckons, and when things begin to spiral down into a world of kidnap, murder and crime? Why can't Price just walk away, and live happily ever after? To find out, you'll have to read Gary's book and you can read the first chapter here for free. But the thing about 'If I Never' is... it just gets better. Don't get me wrong; chapter one is good. But the novel builds an inexorable momentum as the pages keep on turning faster until you reach a stage towards the end when you have to consciously slow down in order not to finish the book too soon. Published by Legend Press, an indie publisher with an eclectic list, this is sure to be a winner. On the surface it's a rattling good yarn, fast paced and well-written. But one finds so many thought-provoking layers of hidden meaning that - in spite of knowing the ending - it's a book that will repay further reading. And that's a pleasure I'm about to take. If you'll excuse me...

Beside the seaside...

2009-07-23T08:18:00.000-07:00

Is everywhere in the UK now officially seaside? Or have the seagulls suddenly evolved into landgulls? They've always been partial to following the plough, I know. But years ago their constant squawking call was something you had to, well, go to the seaside to hear. My grandparents, to be precise, in Scarborough. And now, my parents. But not me. I don't live near the sea. I'd like to. We've a river and it's tidal. But I'm getting all the sound-effects without the scenery, and it's annoying me - especially at three o'clock in the morning.

Perhaps gulls are just ahead of the game. Maybe they're getting used to their new home. After all, if this comes true then we we'll all, wherever we live, be near the sea...

Daddy

2009-06-23T00:08:00.000-07:00

A person you can talk to
When you're feeling low,
It's nice to know you always
Have somewhere to go.

A daddy is a soulmate,
Who holds your hands in his palms,
And then he love and cradles you
In his big, safe arms.

A daddy would do anything,
If you asked him to,
And I want you to love me Daddy,
That's all I ask of you.

Sally Atkinson, aged 11

Twenty20 Vision

2009-06-08T05:52:00.000-07:00

It's cricket, Jim, but not as we know it. In fact, Twenty20 is cricket in the same way that pantomime is theatre. In other words, it takes place on a cricket pitch and involves bats and balls and stumps and runs and umpires and the rest, but there the similarities end. Ever see this on the Thursday of the Lord's Test, for instance?

No, thought not. But there was this a-plenty at the Oval on Saturday (along with rain - inevitably - and warm beer at exorbitant prices). There was also crowd noise - lots of it. The last cricket match I went to was at Scarborough, involving Yorkshire. The only noise - apart from the incessant wailing of the seagulls - was that of bat on ball, or hand and hand and the occasional cry of 'shot!'. Here there was a cheering, cheer-leading, thumping music playing, yahoo-ing cacophony. It's no wonder Australia were 15-3 at one stage. They probably couldn't believe their ears. And their performance didn't silence the Aussie spectators, either. If anything, the noise level rose as it became more obvious that West Indies were systematically destroying the world's best team. Along with at least one ball, a pavilion window and probably a bus, along the Vauxhall Road. Chris Gayle can certainly hit a six. I wonder when he qualifies for England?

The true cost of democracy

2009-05-14T01:28:00.000-07:00

At the risk of sounding like Stephen Fry (and becoming an instant blog-o-sphere pariah) might I point out that not everything about the scandal over MP's expenses is bad news. I've just had a very tasty bacon sandwich; earlier, I enjoyed a mug of tea. Oh, and there was last night's supper, and this morning's shopping; blogging (and the cost of the lap-top on which I blog), the house I'm blogging in, the electricity necessary for blogging, the cost of the broadband connection in order to post these musings... oh, the list is endless. And, until this week, I hadn't realised how vital they all are to the smooth running of the democractic process. I shall be submitting my claim - retrospectively, of course - asap. After all, the bugger's couldn't do without the voters, could they?

Owl

2009-04-08T01:17:00.000-07:00

Is my favourite. Who flies

like a nothing through the night,
who-whoing. Is a feather

duster in leafy corners ring-a-rosy-ing

boles of mice. Twice

you hear him call. Who

is he looking for? You hear

him hoovering over the floor

of the wood. O would you be gold

rings in the driving skull

if you could? Hooded and

vulnerable by the winter suns

owl looks. Is the grain of bark

in the dark. Round beaks are at

work in the pellety nest,

working. Owl is an eye

in the barn. For a hole

in the trunk owl’s blood

is to blame. Black talons in the

petrified fur! Cold walnut hands

on the case of the brain! In the reign

of the chicken owl comes like

a god. Is a goad in

the rain to the pink eyes,

dripping. For a meal in the day

flew, killed, on the moor. Six

mouths are the seed of his

arc in the season. Torn meat

from the sky. Owl lives

by the claws of his brain. On the branch

in the sever of the hand’s

twigs owl is a backward look.

Flown wind in the skin. Fine

Rain in the bones. Owl breaks

Like the day. Am an owl, am an owl.

George MacBeth (1932-1992)

Untangling the Roots

2009-03-30T01:00:00.000-07:00

Someone once asked how much modern fiction I enjoyed. The answer was, very little. I’m a fan of Ian McEwan, I like some Faulks (but not Engleby) and enjoy Julian Barnes. But modern fiction can be rather inward-looking, and I although I admire the stylists (like John Banville, for example) I’m always on the look-out for ‘ideas’ books. To find a novel in which style and substance co-exist – and do so happily – is rare. But ‘Tangled Roots’ is just such a book, and as Sue Guiney’s cyber-book tour stops off here today, I thought I’d ask her all about it.

So first, the style. Sue Guiney’s prose is highly-polished. Words are placed with great care and attention paid (as you would expect from a musician) to the cadences of sentences. The result is poetic and slightly hypnotic, and I was interested to find out whether Sue deliberately conceives her work in this way.

“I do believe,” she said “that all writing should all be poetry in a way. I write and read a great deal of poetry and my first published works were poems rather than prose. I tend to write with my ears, so to speak, and I am always aware of the cadence, rhythm and euphony of a sentence.”

And how much effort does that take?

“I revise A LOT, going over every sentence many, many times, reading it out loud and labouring over individual words and phrases. If anything though, I do sometimes get lost staring at the bark of the trees and forget about the surrounding forest. So I guess I would have to say the relationship between what is first written and the "final" product is the difference between a smooth stone found on the beach, and that same stone polished and worked into a necklace.”

For anyone who hasn’t read the book (and I can’t recommend it highly enough) two first-person narratives interweave to tell the story of John – a cosmologist – and his mother, Grace. I wondered how important it was for John to be a physicist and how much research Sue had had to do.

“John was always a cosmologist to me. I see him as a man who, because of childhood events and pain, moved away from his mother - or at least he tried to. Rationally he did. But his emotional ties were too deep, too "tangled", and in many ways he is very much like Grace. So although he rejected her forays into spirituality and religion, he is still drawn to the same questions - who are we? How did we come to be here? How are we connected? But he approached those questions through rational thought, math (as opposed to his mother's use of words and language to tell her stories), and so became a physicist. I never had any formal training, but I've always had a layman's fascination with it. And I do believe physics is just an alternate way of asking these big questions. I did a great deal of reading in physics as I researched the book, and everything I read led me to the same conclusion. The idea of quantum entanglement or entangled particles which John often refers to is actually a scientific expression of the idea that everything is connected to everything else and you can really only understand something in terms of how it relates to something else. Grace came to understand this concept in her chapter about seeing a fox during her walk in the woods. And so really, all of this dances around the question of whether there really is one knowable reality. And I guess that's one of the biggest questions I tried to address in the book.”

Now before you get the wrong idea, I should point out that quantum theory isn’t the only metaphor for Sue’s investigation of appearance and reality. Popular culture features too, from The Doors to Mel Brooks. Sue says, “I'm a HUGE Mel Brooks fan and the quote about being ‘wet and hysterical’ is one my sister and I have teased each other with forever. Rock n roll is just as important, and The Doors are often in my head, punctuating my life. Music in general is central to who I am and I still play the violin. But for some reason, it remains separate from my writing. I can't listen to anything at all when I write. But I am longing to write about music sometime, and I'm playing around with a concept for novel 3 centred around music. I have to finish novel 2 first though.”

Tangled Roots is an immensely satisfying read. It’s out in paperback from today and deserves to do really well. And as I’m adding Sue to the select list of living authors I enjoy, I hope the wait for novels two and three won’t be a long one.

Tragedy

2009-03-23T06:07:00.000-07:00

The sad news of Nicholas Hughes' suicide will not receive the coverage devoted to Jade Goody's premature death. I doubt the Prime Minister will express his sorrow at the news. In fact, I doubt he'll even notice. But the son of the late Poet Laureate, brother of the artist, poet and columnist Frieda and - of course - child of Sylvia Plath is in some ways more deserving of our sympathy. The story of his mother's suicide, of her sealing up the children's bedroom before turning on the gas, of her leaving milk and biscuits for when Nicholas and Frieda woke, is sad enough. But the subsequent suicide of Ossia and Shura Wevill, the public vilification of his father by misinformed outsiders, his father's death to cancer and now the suicide of Nicholas Hughes himself raise the story to the level of a Greek Tragedy. Ted Hughes was a giant of 20th century literature. Sylvia Plath, both through her writings and iconic feminist status, became a legend. And yet, in the midst of such powerful human drama was a father trying desperately to shield his son and daughter from the pain; a man subsequently revealed in his letters as a deeply caring individual desperate to lift his children from the mire of tragedy and controversy that engulfed the family.

Nicholas Hughes inherited a deep love of the natural world from his father. He made it his living, working in Alaska and becoming both a successful environmentalist and academic. As his sister has said today, he deserves to be remembered for that. But inevitably there will be speculation. Was the depression he was suffering linked to events earlier in his life?

It's ironic that the news of Nicholas Hughes' death should coincide with Childline revealing figures showing that the number of young people suffering suicidal tendencies has quadrupled. Next Sunday, Young Minds, the charity aimed specifically at supporting young people with mental health issues (and who receive support from the proceeds of my novel Writing Therapy) are broadcasting an appeal on Radio Four. You can find details here. Surely the case for everyone of whatever age receiving support from organisations like this is overwhelming? Mental health provision in this country can be a somewhat hit-and-miss affair, and people cope with life in many different ways. But the great tragedy of most suicides is that delay of merely twenty minutes can be sufficient to make someone change their mind. Shame that seems not to have been the case for Nicholas Hughes.

ITV RIP

2009-03-05T02:21:00.000-08:00

Oh dear. News yesterday of 600 job cuts and a loss of £2.7bn last year doesn't make happy reading. Advertising revenue is in free-fall, competition has quadrupled, audience share declined and now they're going to close the Kirkstall Road TV studios in Leeds, home of Yorkshire Television, Countdown, Emmerdale Farm, Farmhouse Kitchen (hands up if you remember Dorothy Sleightholme) Indoor League ("I'll see thee!" - not if I see thee first, Mr Truman) Rising Damp and Joker's Wild, Follyfoot, The Flockton Flyer, and not forgetting 321. When it was opened, Kirkstall Road was the first purpose-built colour television production centre in Europe. A sad end.

Personally, I think ITV has been in free-fall since 27th October 2002 when all those lovely, local stations with their quaint on-screen idents were abolished, to be replaced with ITV1. And how long now before that's replaced by ITV-none. For those of a nostalgic disposition, you can vote for your favourite ITV regional ident of yesteryear on the side-bar. Get voting while there's still time.

Yours free - a giveaway!

2009-02-12T07:11:00.000-08:00

Zaftig to Aspie, the memoir by the writer, blogger and Queen of the caption-competition Denyse Kirkby is a remarkable book. You can read a full review of it here. And I have a signed copy to give away to one lucky reader who e-mails me direct. The only condition is that you review it yourself, and publish the review both on your own blog and on Amazon. And if you enjoy the book as much as I did, that's going to be a veritable labour of love!

Order! Order!

2009-01-26T09:37:00.000-08:00

I rather hastily volunteered to be the subject of Expat Mum's interrogation-game last week (Imagine Bruce Forsyth as Commandant of Guantanamo) and she's kindly e-mailed me her questions. They're very good - probing, thoughtful, intelligent and shrewd. You'd like them; really you would!
Here are my answers:
1. One to two hours, on average. I write something every day, even if it's just my diary;

2. Discovering the UK, a school textbook for Wayland;

3. The fact I don't miss work at all;

4. This was a deliberate ploy to ensure Sally is our unpaid nanny;

5. I think you must mean Sarah!

A 'Dotterel's Delight' goes to the first one to correctly post the questions!

Oh, and the game stupulates that you can invite others to participate, so if you'd like me to stick my beak in, do please drop the Dot an e-mail.

A Voyage Round John Mortimer

2009-01-19T02:55:00.000-08:00

So, now I've never met John Mortimer either. Having watched 'Voyage Round my Father' at the age of 11 or 12 and had his book Clinging to the Wreckage as my thirteenth birthday present (what other newly-minted teenager would have done that?) and loved them both, not only did I not become a barrister (though people told me that I should) but neither did I do something so great I might have been on the same guest list as him, and might have at the very least been in the self-same room as him. Of course, the old toad has his faults - the women, the champagne breakfasts. (Actually, they're not faults at all, come to think of it.) But now another great figure from my lifetime lives no more.

Its been the same all along. I was at Hull University when Philip Larkin died. I could have talked to him, too, many times. I remember walking past him on the so-called 'Great White Way' (oh, lore!) looking into those mischievous eyes and thinking to myself - perhaps I ought to stop and tell him how much I enjoyed The Whitsun Weddings? The old curmudgeon would have either smiled and tottered on his way to the staff bar thinking 'what a tit' or else berate me for being so presumptuous as to breathe the same air he did. And so ignoring him was all that I could do, my only option. And I've ignored celebrities ever since. Not that either Sir John Mortimer or the nearly-poet laureate were what you'd call celebrities, in the Channel Four sense. They'd never have had them on Big Brother! If they had (notwithstanding practical difficulties such as reincarnation) I might have watched it. Now it's too late. Never mind. I hope God's ready for an argument or two.

From Zaftig to Aspie - D.J.Kirkby

2009-01-10T01:01:00.001-08:00

Zaftig to Aspie is a remarkable memoir of a remarkable life. The richly evocative descriptions of an ostensibly idyllic, hippy childhood slowly succumbing to the vagaries of lust, greed, and jealousy are gripping from the start; when you realise they are mirrored by the author's own struggles first at school, then with her family and finally with the realisation of her own autism they become both poignant and significant.

Growing up 'indulged' (to the extent that she was given free reign to 'plash in puddles') and 'showered with loving attention', enjoying a gentle innocence in which the smell of marijuana evokes memories of 'peaceful happy childhood moments’, the young D.J. Kirkby is nevertheless overwhelmed by such simple things as the antics of skunk kittens, so much so that 'tears welled in my eyes until they brimmed and ran down my cheeks'; she finds herself unable to cope with the playground noise of the children at her new school; she is a girl who weeps uncontrollably at her father's wedding not out of any sense of sorrow, but in response to the deep sensory overload of the emotions invoked by such an occasion. At times, the confusion of her over-sensitive perceptions seem almost akin to synaesthesia.

The writing style is flowing and engaging, punctuated intermittently with poetry and with a neat line in understatement and self-deprecation. I can recommend this book unreservedly – it is a personal story with important echoes for society general. As the author herself says: “Everyone struggles sometimes but what matters is the attitude you have about it. If you want to get on and do things and are willing to work at it, then you will succeed.”

The book is being launched at Jardin Du Vin in Rosies, Southsea, Hampshire on January 26th and you can obtain a ticket here. Denyse Kirkby's blog - Chez Aspie - is always worth a read, as - of course - is the blog of the book.

Flying Grannie!

2009-01-01T07:19:00.000-08:00

People really should take more care when walking the dog!

A Fair Cop

2008-12-14T03:34:00.000-08:00

I've lived a law-abiding 40-something years (which means, I suppose, I've not been caught!) and I've a healthy respect for the police and good ol' British Justice. At least, I thought I had. After reading Michael Bunting's book, two things have changed. One, reading the day-to-day details of a policeman's lot confirms what G&S already knew - it's not a happy one. Entering the house of a deceased single-mum to find her infant children feeding on her corpse to keep them from starving sticks in the mind, as does the incident where PC451 arrests a violent drunk, sustaining serious injuries in the process, and at the same time sealing the quirk of fate that see's him transformed into prisoner DK8639. It's a gripping read, not just because it really brings home how utterly random the judicial process can become: a different judge, on a different day and Michael might still be PC (or more likely, Sergeant Bunting after having passed his promotion exams whilst suspended from duty awaiting trial for assault). I'm not naive enough to believe that the cops are always good and the robbers bad, or that people who feel badly done to don't sometimes want to write their own self-justification. But Michael Bunting's story isn't like that. His self-awareness is evident throughout, as is the fact that a good policeman was transformed into a criminal fearing for his life in prison by the vicissitudes of the criminal justice system. Highly recommended!

And Ivor puffs no more...

2008-12-10T02:00:00.000-08:00

Wasn't the greatest thing about Oliver Postgate his voice? You could listen to the Clangers, Bagpuss, and Ivor the Engine without pictures. At least, I could. And let's face it, the animations do look as if they were knocked up in his garden shed. (They were! And they're none the worse for that.)

We interrupt this programme....

2008-11-10T02:40:00.000-08:00

Is this for real?

Liverpool Oratorio

2008-11-08T03:15:00.000-08:00

This 'tag' of favourite musical items isn't supposed to turn into a random act of self-aggradisement (nor to be taking quite so long) but having mentioned Paul McCartney here I was prompted to add this to the growing list of pieces with a bit of a story to 'em. I'm there, honest! (Third or fourth row from the back, but not in close-up in this clip - I've spared you that!) 'Twas a great night (although, to be fair, some of the music is a bit poor and the words are dreadful) - Kiri te Chuwawa, the (now late) Jerry Hadley, Sally Burgess and the magnificent Willard White whose laugh rumbled round the cavernous cathedral like a clap of thunder. And then afterwards, of course, Sir Macca's hand...

Not a nice night at the opera, either

2008-10-24T09:57:00.001-07:00

Well, not if you're the Don, anyway. The rest of us are in for a real treat. Who said that Mozart's Don Giovanni was the single greatest work of art in any medium? (Me, actually!) Oh, and don't forget this isn't where it's at, this is.

Not the Last Night of the Proms

2008-09-19T00:54:00.000-07:00

Having been asked - weeks ago - to compile a list of films for the Gadjo Dilo film festival (Dilo, CB1 - one 'd') and failed miserably, I've jumped on the favourite music bandwagon. Here's an eclectic list of choral masterworks, if ever there was one.

First, Dream of Gerontius. I know, I know - it 'stinks of incense'. And nobody believes in God any more. But nobody believes in Wotan, Loki, Thor and all the other inhabitants of Valhalla; nor did they when Wagner set them all to music, and that doesn't make the Ring any less impressive. Anyway, Elgar, and the Dream. Elgar had a habit of setting bad words, so I'm not allowing that to count against him, either. And besides, he wasn't the only one - Walt Whitman, for goodness sake? What were you thinking of Vaughan-Williams et al? But the real reason Elgar's masterpiece is number one is this: I've sung it, many times. Why, I even find I have recorded it! Of course, what I mean is, if you're lucky and your hi-fi is absolutely bloody brilliant, you'll hear me singing slightly flat in amongst the other thousands of basses. We (the Liverpool Phil) joined forces with the Huddersfield Choral Soc for God's sake!

I always fancied being a classical musician; I played the double-bass once, but gave that up at the same time as I gave up going to school. So sitting behind a real, live professional orchestra, watching them make an enormous din in something like the Elgar, then making an even bigger din yourself and getting the applause (and record contracts) on the back of the hard work of the real musicians, people paid to play, people who practised when they should have been out playing football or cricket and are now so good they can sit and flick through car mags in their 125-bar rests before picking up their trumpet (it was always the brass) and nonchalantly playing a solo phrase to musical perfection, or people who use the interval bell as their cue to order one more round of drinks (brass, again) well... it was a huge thrill. And never more so than when singing this.

The Sea

2008-09-01T04:38:00.000-07:00

Just to prove the North Sea isn't always cold (and Bridlington is sometimes sunny) -

Sally and I even went swimming yesterday, in the eerily still, mist-shrouded silken water. You don't have to travel to enjoy yourself!
Find out more here.

Extra-special Christening guest

2008-07-30T13:25:00.000-07:00

PS: This ain't my main blog. This is!

Bringing up Charlie...

2008-06-25T13:35:00.000-07:00

This is merely a repisotory for things that don't fit in the broader narrative. Here's the main blog...

http://bringingupcharlie.blogspot.com/

Check it out and leave a comment.

Work in Progress

2008-06-23T12:49:00.000-07:00

My favourite church, Beverley Minster...

Dotterel (noun)

2008-06-09T13:32:00.000-07:00

Small, reddish-brown bird found on moorland and grassland. Unusually, it is the male that incubates the eggs and rears the chicks.