What a Count

 'He looks like a man who could tame anything.  If he had married a tigress, instead of a woman, he would have tamed the tigress...'*

I've been romping voraciously through the eras in my reading matter lately, and after spending time in a surrealistic, folk horror near future, 1950s science fiction and a 1970s urban childhood (perhaps more on those another day), have just finished the highly successful 1860 'mystery thriller', The Woman In White by Wilkie Collins.  

I loved it for many reasons but, oh, against my better judgement perhaps, I've also become curiously enamoured with the most charming and flamboyant of villains, as well as with the author's fantastic ability to so lucidly conjure up and colour in this particularly unique character: Count Fosco.  How on earth do you come up with such an imagined person?  Once he'd made his first appearance, I longed for the Count's presence on every page, picturing and hearing him so vividly, perhaps more strongly than any other literary persona I've come across - and yet he is unlike anyone I could ever know in real life.  Hopefully!

Count Fosco is sixty years old, as corpulent as Henry the Eighth, plump-fingered, with a facial resemblance to Napoleon, appears to wear a wig, possesses a double chin, has a devilish fondness for a fruit tart or four, and yet...

'...I think the influence I am trying to find in him is in his eyes.  They are the most unfathomable grey eyes I ever saw, and they have at times a cold, clear, beautiful, irresistible glitter in them which forces me to look at him, and yet causes me sensations, when I do look, which I would rather not feel.'*

This Italian nobleman is superbly cultured, highly intellectual, urbane and well-dressed too...

'A blue blouse with profuse white fancy-work over the bosom covered his prodigious body, and was girt about the place where his waist might once have been with a broad scarlet leather belt.  Nankeen trousers, displaying more white fancy-work over the ankles, and purple morocco slippers, adorned his lower extremeties.'

But it's his eccentricity which really sets him apart.  He can sleep and awaken at will, plays the concertina (most theatrically!) in the garden and keeps his beloved pet white mice (which he lets scamper all over him and pop in and out of his waistcoat) in a tiny, colourful pagoda which he designed and made himself.  What's not to like?

Count Fosco (just as I imagined him before seeing this!) with Marian Halcombe,

wood engraving by John McLenan 1860

Have you read it - if so, did Count Fosco mesmerise you as he did me?  Do you have a favourite literary villain whom it's impossible to dislike in spite of their evil-doing?  Please point me their way!  I am ready to be led astray.

*As written by the book's plucky feminist heroine, Marian Halcombe

A ghost story for Hallowe'en

Everything described here really happened.

 "Ooh, I think you must have seen a ghost!" my friend S suggested excitedly, as we sat at breakfast in a Norwich hotel, the morning after the Edwyn Collins gig.  As her words sunk in I felt a slight tingle, the clichéd shiver down my spine - the thought had never occurred to me.  But I'd just been telling my two pals about an experience I'd had soon after entering my bedroom the previous day when we checked in.  And I was only telling them because in retrospect I'd thought it quite funny - comedically funny, I mean.  It was certainly memorable.

I'd just arrived in my room and, if you'll excuse me, I was really very desperate for a wee after the journey, so I'd hurriedly plonked my overnight bag down on the floor just inside and headed straight for the loo in the tiny ensuite bathroom.  Unbuckled my belt, unzipped my jeans, etc... when half way through relieving myself, aargh! - there was a knock on the room door.  "Just a minute!" I called out urgently, but I wasn't sure I'd be heard from there.  It'll be my friend L, I thought; her room was a bit further down the creaky-floored corridor, maybe she needed me for something.  I expected her to wait or knock again but... suddenly... I heard the room door opening - someone must be coming in! Oh no!  I quickly tried to finish what I was doing, frantically pulling up my clothes as best I could, and ran out of the bathroom - never mind that my jeans were still unzipped and I hadn't had time to do up my belt - what if someone is stealing my bag...?

"But it was this very small old lady," I explained, as I continued the story to my friends next morning.  "A chambermaid, you know, black clothes. Very thin with long grey hair. She had these really blue eyes, but they were sunken, sort of hollow looking, dark circles round them - she didn't look at all well, really, rather sad-faced, poor woman.  And there was me, standing there all dishevelled with my jeans gaping open and my belt dangling, wondering what on earth was going on!  She just asked something, opened a drawer, looked inside the wardrobe and then left.  But, argh, how embarrassing...!"  

It was at this point that S suggested, much to my surprise, that I may have had a spooky visitation.  "I'm pretty sure this place is supposed to be haunted," she added. Of course, I then wanted to delve a little deeper into the hotel's history... so I checked.

My room was in one of the older parts of the establishment, an impressive building dating back to the 13th Century, with ancient beams, long winding corridors, narrow staircases and sash windows, and in Tudor times it had been a busy coaching inn.  And yes, the hotel was indeed rumoured to be haunted.  Stories abound of a long-gone innkeeper who wanders around checking that everything is still in order, of a giggling child who can be heard but not seen, of a 17th Century Mayor who walks the corridors shaking his head.  And of the ghost of a forlorn-looking but kindly older lady who had been a chambermaid centuries ago, checking the rooms and still going about her duties...

My spine tingled a little more strongly and goosebumps appeared on my arms... oh, I wonder, I wonder if...?

The thin lady in her maid's uniform did look deathly pale and she was certainly old-fashioned with an air of sadness, - or bewilderment, perhaps - but with a kindness in her somewhat sunken eyes.  And it was rather strange that she'd just come into the room like that unexpectedly, briefly searched it and then, with silent footsteps, left.

"I reckon she was that ghost!" ventured S.  "What was it she asked you?"

I thought back to that moment when the old woman's hollow eyes met mine, a slightly flustered look on her gaunt, sallow face.  What was it she'd said to me?  Oh yes.  "She asked if I needed a bag for the hairdryer..."

Simply thrilled, honey

Well, I'm still riding high on the fantastic experience of seeing Edwyn Collins on Monday night. Songs I  haven't heard in years,  such as 'Blue Boy' and 'I Can't Help Myself',  echo around my head, accompanied by remnants of the warm glow - a warm, emotional glow - which filled the entire hall and certainly my heart.  Clichéd though it may be to say so, the love in the room was palpable.

Whilst I would like to be able to pen a proper review, other people have done so far better than I could and thus I refer you to the superb write-ups (and photos) of other dates on the Testimonial Tour by my fellow bloggers Khayem and JC.  The performance in Norwich was slightly different (Edwyn's son Will didn't join him on a stage as he did elsewhere) but otherwise everyone witnessing his "last lap around the UK" has been treated to a fine selection of tunes spanning both Orange Juice and solo careers, from the beginning (kicking off with 'Falling and Laughing') to the most recent ('Knowledge' from the current album 'Nation Shall Speak Unto Nation') and some absolute gems in between.

Edwyn Collins: Knowledge (2025)

So I won't detail what's already been said by others but just come from my personal experience - oh, what an uplifting and moving happening it was for many reasons. Such admiration, appreciation and gratitude flowed out from surely every single soul in the audience to the man himself.  I'm not embarrassed to say that there were several instances when the tears just poured down my cheeks, and I'm not even sure exactly why (they came at moments when I wasn't expecting them).  Maybe it really was a spiritual thing: a coming together of joyfulness and thanks for the music, and of awe for Edwyn himself too.

All due credit must go to the band too, of course; there was a brilliant rapport on stage and particular mention should be given to guitarist Patrick Ralla who'd already gifted us with his playing in support act The Hanging Stars, of whom he's a permanent member.  Two solid performances in one night, and just a quick change of jacket and T-shirt in between!   Talking of which, I'd really been looking forward to seeing The Hanging Stars and absolutely loved them - very much up my street, being reminiscent of the jangly, psych and country-tinged, sixties-influenced bands I listened to avidly in the '80s.  It was fab to see them perform some of my favourite tracks from their back catalogue such as 'Happiness Is A Bird', 'Sweet Light' and 'Black Light Night', as well as their excellent new single, 'Sister Of The Sun'.  

The Hanging Stars: Black Light Night (2022)

And then there was the audience.  A sea of silver heads for the most part, and what a sweet comfort there is to be had in that, what with all our specs glinting in the lights too. The reminder that in spite of it we're all still part of the same thing, part of the tribe who tuned into John Peel under the bedclothes, and knew what it meant to buy an obscure 7" single from Small Wonder or Andy's or Revolver or wherever it was, either the local murky, musty record shop or the mail order one listed in the back pages of the NME.  Although it was a seated venue (how very civilised! and we drank wine!), there were those who couldn't resist giving their enthusiastic indie moves some free range in the aisles, only to be ushered back gently by security guards half their age.  Rebels!

After the gig my two companions and I - we three have been friends for over 50 years - wandered merrily back through the streets to our hotel, high on the music and solidarity with strangers.  The air was still and mild, and the full moon absolutely glowed, it almost seemed symbolic - the year's first supermoon. Back in my room I drifted off to sleep around 1am feeling more uplifted than I could even have imagined, the punctuating fuzz guitar riff of 'A Girl Like You' on repeat in my head.  What a glorious night.  I might even have had an encounter with a ghost in the ancient hotel too, which perhaps I'll write about another time. But for now I must thank Edwyn Collins, his band, and the Hanging Stars, for inspiring me at last to actually put a new post up here!  

Dad's the word

I haven't seen my dad in over 9 years.  There's some baggage there but I don't wish to unpack it now - instead, my baggage will be light next week when I go to Wales to visit him at the care home.  Tops, sandals, sunnies... I'll be beside the sea for a few days!... plus notebooks and pens for him, a bottle of his favourite lemonade, a decent newspaper and a book, 'Fermat's Last Theorem', which I'm hoping will light up some of his 96 year old synapses.  It's right over my head - a bestseller about maths? - but my dad is just about holding on to his intellect whilst early signs of dementia (I think) are starting to creep in and our more cerebral phone conversations about climate change and protein in peas are now peppered with references to spies in the care home using "mindbending software".  Or perhaps he's right?!  

Notebooks, pens, lemonade, newspaper, a book, and some daughterly love.  I made peace with the baggage!

I know I'm going to be something of an emotional wreck on my return, but I'm so glad I'm making this visit at last. Steeling myself, though.  Deep breaths...

Mum's the word

 "Look at what the little buggers have done...!  They've shit all down the wall!"  Mum was looking out of the side door and up towards the roof.  A beautifully constructed nest under the eaves was adhered to the apex with mud; the housemartins were well and truly at home here.  How lucky we were to have them - again!  Another Summer of their chattering and swooping and the wonder of tiny chicks to come.  Another Summer of having to sprint down that section of outside passage to avoid an unwanted messy shampoo from above, poo being the operative word.  But Mum, did you really have to say that to my new boyfriend on one of his first visits here?!

That was my mum, though.  She didn't worry about stuff like a few swear words, bugger and shit being her favourites.  Sod and bloody too.  Nothing stronger.  But it had been like that since my last few years in primary school and for a long time I was highly embarrassed by it - my friends' mums never swore. However, I think it probably endeared her to the boyfriend.

Anyway, yes, that was my mum.  And I was thinking about her the other day when I was sorting out some old portfolios and in amongst some of my ancient artworks was a very small selection of hers, even more ancient, which I had kept since she died.  It's a sad irony that her death was the catalyst, and provided a rare opportunity, for me to risk a complete change of career into something artistic.  At 35 with no dependants, the bereavement was the reason for my epiphany and I was young enough to take that chance, old enough to weather a failure.  You could say that the stars aligned, but... Mum, the one I had to thank for so much, wasn't there to witness it.

She was such an artist herself, always encouraging me, even taking me along to her art classes when I was a small nipper, where I could casually observe Joan and Daphne and Gerry magicking up vases of begonias in watercolour while I drew made-up story characters, princesses, cats, children and houses on scrap paper in biro.  Elbows.  Elbows were problematic, I drew arms which curved around with no joint until Mum's tutor stepped away from his paying students and showed me the  trick - dare to draw a sharp angle!  What a difference - never forgotten.  Then Mum witnessed all my personal projects through the years but never got to see me make it my livelihood.  She would've been so chuffed.

Before I put them all away again in a new portfolio I took pics of some of her larger studies from the '60s and '70s and thought I'd put them on here as a way to help preserve them.  There were so many more and I wish I had them, but they're now long lost to time.  

Bugger!

Art and soul

When you take a trip to the big city, you really have to do a few things you can't at home, don't you? So the other week on a visit to London my friends and I had (a very-nice-indeed) lunch accompanied by a sparkling flying horse - not just any old sparkling flying horse, either, this one has a 30ft wingspan.  

The striking sculpture - a crystal-encrusted Pegasus - is a Damien Hirst, and we were in the Brasserie of Light inside Selfridges.  Must admit - I'm not too keen on Selfridges itself, all that materialism/ consumerism, all those impeccable looking people contemplating which £700 pair of shoes to buy - it doesn't do anything for me and I'd far rather be sitting on the edge of a muddy pond looking at frogspawn (genuinely).   But, that said, having lunch in the Brasserie of Light was a lovely experience.  Gorgeous food, super service, and a trippy crystal horse soaring over our heads - they just don't have that down my local.

From there we headed away from the dust and crowds of Oxford Street and ducked down Duke Street, past some Georgian villas with hanging baskets and traditional lamp posts and across Manchester Square to see Grayson Perry's 'Delusions of Grandeur' show at the Wallace Collection. The exhibition really harmonises with its surroundings at the elegant Hertford House and the fanciful, decorative curviness of the Rococo furniture and fine art in many of its other rooms; it was a visual banquet.  And just to mix it all up a bit,  another Grayson alter ego is introduced in the form of an Eastender called Shirley Smith, who herself has another persona, the Hon. Millicent Wallace (do keep up!)  There were also some darker, bleaker references to mental illness and the inclusion of some work by (real) outsider artist Madge Gill intertwined with this.  Maybe that all sounds a bit complicated but, to be honest, I didn't mind - just soaked up the feel and the fantasy alongside the art, went with the flow and loved it.

Here she is - Grayson Perry's alter ego Shirley Smith's alter ego Millicent Wallace:

'The Honourable Millicent Wallace'

Tapestries, carpet, ceramics, paintings, sculptures, wood-cuts, drawings, a dress and even a bedspread made the whole exhibition very multi-layered, colourful, sensual and, sort of, hallucinatory.  I just kept thinking too how much I'd love to witness his creative processes - especially on some of the really big works.  I adored this gorgeously illustrated chest of drawers:

'The Great Beauty'

Detail from 'The Great Beauty'

There was one more thing I really needed to see whilst we were there at the Wallace Collection, though, an unexpected bonus upstairs.  A man whose face and moniker are so familiar and famous that I don't think I've ever really given him too much thought.  And yet...

'The Laughing Cavalier' Frans Hals

It's hard to describe that certain feeling you get when you see the original of such a well-known painting after having only seen it in print, isn't it?... ok, I can't!... apart from saying that the Laughing Cavalier (a name only later given to him by the Victorian press) looked so fresh and flirtatious and knowing and corporeal that I could almost swear I saw his upturned moustache twitch just a little and, as for that look in his eyes -  I think my cheeks may have reddened slightly.  

Doesn't art just make you feel good?

Bristol calling

 

This time tomorrow I should be on my way to Bristol. It’ll be just a few days shy of ten years since I visited the city for the first time; I wonder how much has changed...

I went there then at the invitation of a friend, L, whom I had met at Chelsea School of Art where we were doing a part-time illustration course, and she used to travel down from Bath once a week just for the teaching sessions.  This would seem to most people to be quite a big undertaking anyway but I have no end of admiration for L for doing it because she also had some significant physical impairments, one of which affected her ability to simply breathe.   Yet she was one of the most driven, feisty and active people I have ever known, determined to squeeze the absolute most out of life even though at times it really must have been a struggle, plus she was very much a fighter for justice and equal rights.  Sadly L is no longer with us but I’ll think of her while I’m in Bristol again this week as it was thanks to her offer to take me to her MA Fine Art Graduation Show at UWE that I went in 2015.

For much of the time, though, I explored on my own.  I wandered, unworried about time or distance, got lost near Clifton, found my way again, was ambushed by some film-makers outside the Arnolfini (where I was persuaded to try out a prototype VR headset to walk right through the middle of Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’),  fell in love with a 50-year old giant lobster called Patrick at the Aquarium, met a cat on a wild hill near the Avon Gorge, and time-travelled in the Red Lodge Museum, amongst other delightful activities during my stay.  

Now a whole decade later I'll be there once more, and on this occasion I’m so pleased to be able to unite with one of the loveliest groups of people you could wish to spend time with: my fellow bloggers!  It’ll be something of a whirlwind trip but what a treat to be among such good folk, a couple of whom I’ve not met before.  Something tells me there’ll be smiles, anecdotes and probably drink aplenty, and that being back in Bristol may well feel like visiting an old friend too.

See you soon!

A sweet spot of sixties psych

I caught myself doing a bit of reflecting recently.  Not always a good thing, I know, but what it led me to was thinking about those little sweet spots in life.  I do like that phrase, 'sweet spot', and found the perfect definition here: "An optimum point or combination of factors and qualities".

And what that led me to was music, and how there had been one very specific sweet spot in several decades of my personal musical meanderings. An optimum point in the 1980s when I first discovered and became immersed in 1960s psychedelia (and similar pop, beat and garage obscurities) which came into my consciousness via some independent label reissues, compilation albums, as well as boxes of musty vinyl at record fairs in London hotels and the Record & Tape Exchange in Notting Hill Gate and Camden.  Oh, what aural pleasures there were to explore!

Much of these underground treasures were like nothing I'd really heard before.  All those various elements of backwards, or fuzzy, or jangly and melodic, guitars, of piquant melodies and swirling (is there any other type?) Hammond organs, of trippy lyrics and richly enunciated vocals.  Plus there were the soulful numbers infused with mod rhythms, and dreamy Alice-In-Wonderland experimental freakouts...  All I could do was to imagine what it would have been like to be 17 or 18 in 1967, hanging out at the UFO Club or buying my clothes from Biba.  And imagining it was fine - moulded to suit my will and unbound by reality, one foot in my tangible world and the other in the curated version of a past I could inhabit freely through music and associated ephemera and imagery.  

I think the thing was, nothing could come along and spoil it.  The bands and their records had been and gone; it was finite.  Punk had been my gateway musical genre (and a very important one), but living through it in real time also meant being there for its demise, being there should it get 'spoiled' - which, in many ways, it did.  From the characters who became parodies of themselves and the unsavoury transition into Oi, to the postcard studded-belt, giant Mohawked tourist attractions, it evolved alongside my contemporaries and me.  But by delving back into moments in music which had already passed nearly two decades earlier, there was no future unwritten.

It was a bit of a sweet spot in life for me too, really.  That stage when you have some responsibilities - paying the rent, etc. - but  not too many it seemed, and they were a fair trade-off for youthful independence.  My '60s psych obsession fuelled my creativity and I adored making my own fanzine, all hand-drawn and hand-written, an uninhibited expression from the heart.  Swapping some meticulously compiled tapes with a fantastic friend introduced me to other similar bands and musical side-trips, opening it up even more. I also inherited my mum's lovely 1969 Triumph Herald, one of those cars which epitomised the era, and found an original paisley top or two in the racks of pokey second hand and charity shops. 

Being only 20-something in the analogue world to which I'm still best suited may have a lot to do with it too, but this isn't meant to be nostalgic - just a celebration of one of those sweet spots, and some music to dream to.  Here are three favourites, then and now....

Ruperts People: Dream On My Mind

The End: Cardboard Watch

The Factory: Try A Little Sunshine

Do you have a musical sweet spot too?