Sunday, 13 January 2019

Pretty pretty vacant

A cringe moment:

I was Johnny Rotten.
Singing 'Pretty Vacant'.
On an open air stage.
In front of a hundred people...
...Maybe more.
Without a mic.

I wasn't alone - my friend accompanied me.
Pretending to be Sid Vicious.
With curly hair.
And no bass.

We snarled and swaggered and posed our way through our chosen song and won third prize in the Miming Competition.  Maybe there were only three acts.  I think we got away with it; we must have been pretty... convincing?

Despite being a bit drunk.
And fourteen.
And, you know...


Thank god there was no YouTube in '78. No camera-phones. It must have been horrendous.  But perhaps that's why we were so uninhibited too?  It was a moment in time, spontaneous, never to be recorded or viewed again. A moment, that's all.  Here today, gone tomorrow.  Whatever happened to that?!

So, how it was is this: my friend and I had tipsily convinced ourselves we could enter a competition (part of a free live music event in a local park)  just as it was happening, with no real forethought and certainly no preparation.  Oh, the bravado!  I would never do something like that in all the years since. I suppose it was like a forerunner to Karaoke (we're talking 40+ years ago, after all) although without the live vocals, just the posturing.  I do remember standing there and not really being able to see the crowd, just looking out in a cider-induced daze, imagining myself as Johnny - a silly, inebriated, normally shy schoolgirl doing her best to mimic a fully-grown man.  There are two key things about that which I was just never going to pull off:  fully-grown and man (if you'll please excuse the double entendre).  And glancing across at my dear mate, who was doing the same. I think we 'won' some record tokens.

When we came off the stage we were both immediately chatted up by a pair of young lads who perhaps saw our bluster as a sign that we were a couple of goers. I don't remember a lot about what happened next but suffice it to say I became vaguely acquainted with a skinhead boy who told me he was on holiday (?!) from Borstal.  Class!  Actually I seem to recall he was quite nice but I only got to see him in the dark so who can say?

Pretty vacant sums it all up....

Aren't you glad sometimes that, like me, you're all grown-up and sensible now?!

Wednesday, 9 January 2019

Vermicular love

They excite me so much, I can’t resist telling people.  Anyone who’ll listen: my hairdresser, the neighbours, the guy who works down the chip shop (swears he’s Elvis), you….   

I’m generally met with a look of complete indifference and the feeling that nobody really cares.   I understand.  Maybe it’s hard to get how anyone can be this excited by worms.  But I have fallen head-over-heels in love with my little herd ( to use the correct term) of Tiger Worms and European Nightcrawlers  - as introduced here.

They’re tucked away in the shed for the Winter now, their Wormery home wrapped in paper and bubble wrap to keep them warm, and every day I trudge down there first thing, before I’ve even had a wash or a cup of tea, to check on them.  Lift the lid and have a little peek, careful not to expose them to prolonged bright light, as their skin is ultra-sensitive to it and too much will cause them harm.  Check the thermometer on the wall and if it’s below 10 degrees, tuck them up again.

There’s something incredibly soothing about checking out your worms - it should be prescribed as a form of therapy.  Unlike the common earthworm which likes to burrow deep, composting worms spend more time on the surface so it’s possible to see them just by lifting their bedding.  Watch them slowly eating their way through their food, or occasionally one may climb up the inside of the worm bin for a little wander and a change of scene, especially if they sense it’s raining outside, which they can  - even from inside a bin, inside a shed.  Who knows what else they know that we can't even begin to understand?

Occasionally I’ll find a pair mating – side by side, pressed up to each other tightly for a couple of hours (!), hermaphrodites with multiple hearts (three more than a Time Lord!) - am I selling them to you yet?

If not, just one more thing....   It struck me as I was walking yesterday that worms truly are the gentlest and worthiest of creatures.  They don’t fight or kill each other or any other being over food, territory, or mates. They co-exist harmoniously with other species and are undemanding of each other.  If there’s not enough food for them all in one place, older worms will move on to seek it elsewhere to let the younger ones feed more easily.  And they self-regulate their population – too many baby worms starting to hatch in a confined space? – they’ll simply stop breeding until their numbers level out again. Maybe we could learn a thing or two from them.

I ♥ my worms

Sunday, 6 January 2019

Mystery lovechild 3: the results

I know, I know!  I put out a quiz and then take over a week to post the answers, terrible.  My excuse is that I've been distracted and frazzled by a work project which has had me labouring on through to late evening all week followed by some sleepless nights worrying about it.  This morning I finally decided it just wasn't worth it and have made the choice to pull out before it gets too far down the line to be salvaged.  The first time I've ever had to do that and to walk away from the biggest fee I've ever been offered, so it feels pretty bad, but I know I just can't risk making myself ill over illustrating a children's book...  Decision made and (a very carefully worded) email sent, now it's like a weight's been lifted and I can get back to more important things for a while... like the Mystery Lovechild results!

So - without further ado...

Firstly, thanks so much to all who had a go at these.  It's a complicated business trying to add up points (well it is for me), let alone giving an individual breakdown, so I'll see what I can work out later, but in the meantime here's the evidence of the guilty parties responsible for our freaky hybrids.


Kate Bush and Barry Manilow produced someone who is "strangely alluring" (to quote Rol, who guessed correctly).  Surprisingly she turned out less Hammer Horror and more Mandy.  It was just Barry's eyes, brows and nose here.


Yes, it's BeyoncĂ© and Kanye West.  Eagle-eyed Yve warns me that "their other 'alves will not be 'appy" so we won't linger too long, but Kanye's distinctive nose and jaw make all the difference to BeyoncĂ© here.  Well, she did sing 'If I Were A Boy'...



The name Dolly Dylan has such a ring to it; I just wish she didn't look quite so much like someone I used to work with.  Indeed, it's Dolly Parton's eyes and hair, with the bottom half of Bob Dylan's face.  No matter how much he might protest with his "It Ain't Me Babe" line, it clearly is...


I was quite shocked at how easily these two blended.  The eyebrows are pretty much interchangeable, their noses and mouths and placement of features very similar. It's only Paul McCartney's eyes and nose (and his right eyebrow) but I think they're still pretty recognisable on Sinead O'Connor's head, as did Yve and Chris


Recognising the 'big-nosed bard from Barking' here proved quite tricky (it's only his mouth, big nose and chin) but Alyson correctly identified Billy Bragg with a little hint!  Alison Moyet is more obvious - well, that hair of course...


Ian Brown meets Miki Berenyi and the result is a single girl who may wanna be adored.   Definitely one for Swiss Adam who quickly spotted Ian, and I think Miki was on the tip of his tongue...


Possibly the result of too much dancing in the dark, this bearded beauty is the progeny of Bruce Springsteen and Cher.  As you all knew.  Bet she wishes she could turn back time.


So it seems Rod Stewart's genes were easy to spot (but he doesn't want to talk about it). Less obvious was Stevie Nicks, who only contributed her eyes, nose and fringe.


This year's model is the result of endless love between Mariah Carey and Elvis Costello...


Perhaps the last one was hardest of all.   A blend of Art Garfunkel (hair, mouth, face shape) with Dusty Springfield (eyes, brows, fringe and nose). Yve correctly spotted them after some clues, but I can see where Chris was coming from with his suggestion of Taylor Swift.  

And that's the lot.  The clear winner was Yve, with a massive 17 points out of a possible 20, and then she was kind enough to create some wonderful mystery love children of her own (if you see what I mean) so that I could play along too, which was great fun for me.  Do go and have a look!  As we are both artists we have concluded that there is definitely something about the way we view people that helps us. But beware if you ever find yourself travelling on the same train as either of us, you may notice us drawing you with our eyes (not just staring in a scary, stalkery way, honest...)

Big thanks to Chris, Rol, Alyson and Swiss Adam for their answers too - lots of correct suggestions there and every mystery solved, pretty quickly too.  Far more quickly than I could get around to posting this, that's for sure.

Friday, 28 December 2018

The mystery lovechild is back...

It's all over for another year, the days are short and dark and my mind has been wandering again, as have my hands, all over the Photoshop effects menu.  Time for something pointless and ridiculous to fill the late gloomy hours when there is little else of value to be achieved apart from eating another chocolate liqueur and instantly regretting it.

If you've been here for a couple of past 'mystery lovechild' posts you'll know the premise:  What might the secret offspring, born to a famous but unlikely set of musical parents, look like?

Previously we've had, for instance, John Lydon and Joni Mitchell, whose curious 'lovechild' turned out like this:

I gather that DNA testing kits were given as Christmas presents by millions of people this year.   But why go to all the trouble of spitting into a test tube when you can see the evidence of the genes right here in black and white?

I'd love to know who you suspect might be responsible for the conception of the characters below.  No rush - the results will be confirmed some time next year (i.e. next week!)











Sweet dreams, now!

Sunday, 23 December 2018

A Merry Andy Warhol Christmas to you...

I love Andy Warhol's illustrations for Christmas cards that were commissioned by Tiffany & Co. during the late '50s up to 1962.  Much like his gorgeous inky jazz album covers, I find their simplicity and freshness really charming.

Here are just a few.

Delightful, aren't they?

Have a good one - and thank you for everything! x

Saturday, 15 December 2018

Hey, fellas, have you heard the news...

You can’t keep a good song down, that’s what I used to think.  However, having heard a few ruined by having all the guts taken out and incorporating a simpering female vocal to soundtrack an advert, I’ve changed my mind about that statement.

But this isn’t one of those songs.  I haven’t yet heard a bad version, and hope I never will. 

Here are four renditions of 'Leaving Here' and, I hope you’ll agree, they’re all excellent.


As it happens, I heard these four versions in the wrong order.  The first time I came across 'Leaving Here' was on a mini-album of tracks by British r’n’b group The Birds released on Edsel in the mid-80s.  I'd never heard of the Birds before then (only the Byrds) and had been unaware that a certain Ronnie Wood played guitar for them before his time with the Faces and the Stones.  There's loads that can be said about Ronnie but I'll offer something a bit more random....  it's about a jacket.  Whenever I think of Ronnie, I think of my friend H and how jealous I am of an item of clothing she owns (and sometimes wears).  It’s a gorgeous slim-fitting, striped boating jacket that used to belong to Mr Wood himself!  It came into her possession through a friend of hers who just happened to be married to Ron’s brother Art, and it looks a bit like this... 

She lets me stroke it from time to time.

Alongside Ron Wood in the Birds line-up was vocalist Ali Mackenzie.  Some years ago I was lucky enough to enjoy the brilliant Small Faces tribute band, The Small Fakers, perform the whole of 'Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake' (complete with Stanley Unwin’s nephew there, narrating the relevant bits) at the 100 Club.  As the night drew to a close, Ali Mackenzie joined them on stage to give us a few extra numbers by the Birds, including this song.  It was as close as we were going to get to the real thing (both Small Faces and Birds) and I loved every minute. 


Some time after discovering the Birds’ version and thinking it was their song, I must have heard it by Motorhead, although I’m not even sure I put two and two together at the time and certainly didn't know of its true origin.

Motorhead transcended boundaries when it came to musical genres, didn’t they?  Research tells me they recorded this in December 1976 and it was due to be released as a single by Stiff Records, but they were still under contract to United Artists at the time who prevented its release (in spite of UA’s refusal to issue Motorhead’s debut album).  So it didn’t make it as single at the time, although it did turn up on the eponymous Motorhead album on the Chiswick label the following year.  

I missed out on seeing Motorhead in 1978 when they played our local venue; I was only 14 and they were far too hairy and scary.  My sister went, though, and said it was so loud she thought her ears were going to bleed.  At least Mr SDS and I did once wave to Lemmy across a street in Notting Hill (and he waved back, bless him!)


Eventually, I got to listen to the original!   Eddie Holland released it in 1963.  Eddie was of course one third of the Holland-Dozier-Holland song-writing and production team responsible for many Motown hits. A far better informed friend of mine who knows his '60s soul introduced me to it, and it's great to hear the purity and power of the song's first appearance complete with brass, having only heard others' versions first. 


And finally, I heard a much more recent version when highly revered and incredibly young Irish band The Strypes, who had a penchant for the retro sound of bands such as the Yardbirds and Dr Feelgood, recorded it for their 2012 EP 'Young Gifted And Blue'.  They were all still in their teens, but the song itself, by that time nearly forty years old, suits them perfectly.  I found out in the course of writing this post that only a few weeks ago they announced that they were breaking up.  I guess they just packed in so much at such a tender age and I'm not sure where else was left for them to go, so I can understand and respect them for that.

Before I finish here, an honourable mention should also go to the Who who recorded an excellent cover, just as you'd expect.

So, I just have to hope no-one comes along and spoils it now... I don't think a soft tinkly piano version with a withering sing-song vocal would really cut it.

Monday, 10 December 2018

The wrong knickers

Not the actual knickers

Sometimes a seemingly simple walk down to the local shop can be more stressful than expected.  I have a feeling that what I'm about to tell you is something both male and female readers will identify with from time to time.  This, of course, isn’t the first time it’s happened to me.

So, it wasn’t until I had got to what must have been exactly half way there this afternoon that it started.  The riding up.   My knickers - you don't need detail, just know they're not a thong - had ridden up one cheek in a very irritating fashion, and then with every further step it just continued to get worse, of course.  Pinned against my skin by tight jeans there was no way they were going to ride down again of their own accord and settle back against their assigned place just above the natural slope of cheek-base/thigh-top interface.

So, I did that thing I think we all do (please tell me you do.) I’ve got a thigh-length coat on so as I’m walking I (very swiftly and surreptitiously) slip my hand under the hem and slide it around behind, then nip down inside the back of my jeans to do a bit of high-speed furtive sortage, having checked there are no pedestrians in my immediate vicinity, whilst continuing to walk and appear as nonchalant as possible. Would anyone from a window, or any passing cars notice?  I’ve no idea what this little manoevre looks like from the outside, as I've never tried it in front of a mirror. Possibly like getting something out of a back pocket. Or possibly like someone actually putting their hand down inside the back of their trousers whilst trying to appear not to.

Ah, that’s better, I think, as I reposition everything - snug and sorted.  For about three steps.  Then the seam rebels once more.  Up it goes.  Up.  Up again and I can’t think about anything else.  I try the sneaky you-can’t-see-what’s-going-on-under-my-coat move again but this time it just makes it worse and causes a bit of cutting in in a place you don’t want to know about.  It’s further to go home than to continue; I’m going to have to get to the shop and linger around the vegetable aisle like this.  I persevere, crazily preoccupied by what’s going on with my pants.

The point of me waffling on about this nonsense is simple – wouldn’t it just be brilliant if we could treat our private underwear malfunctions just as we do a stone in the shoe?  You feel that little piece of grit pressing into your foot and what do you do? – you stop, put your bag down, stick your opposite arm out to balance, or preferably use it to prop yourself against a wall, cock your leg and remove the shoe, shake it, express surprise at how tiny the offending object was (it felt huge!), put your shoe back on, swivel your foot about a bit on the pavement to check it’s stone-free and then continue on your way. It's all very public and nobody cares.  Similarly with the slipping bra-strap.  So I would like to advocate the same tolerance of occasional open-air knicker adjustment.  Only when absolutely necessary, of course.  A quick drop of the trousers, sort yourself out, do yourself back up and on your way, instead of all this secret faffing about.  I suspect that anyone who saw me knew exactly what I was doing anyway...

Thursday, 6 December 2018

Abstract moment of the week #10

I was very excited to order a new book: something particularly special in these circles as it happens because it’s been created and compiled by one of our fellow bloggers, Martin.  Not only that but it also contains a story written by him - and not only that but it also includes a contribution from yet another talented writer in the blogging community, Rol.   I’m full of admiration and delighted for them both and couldn’t wait to read their creative writing, as well as all the others.  I do like a good short story, plus it’s for a worthy cause, more info here.

So – book duly ordered from Amazon last week.  Package was due to arrive next day by 8pm, said the email and the tracking info.  Excellent!  

It didn’t arrive when they said it would, I don’t know why.  But never mind, a little message explained there’d been a problem and it should come later this week instead. 

But then when it did, there was no-one in, so the postman had to take it back to the sorting office.   A bit of a pain in the arse picking it up as I couldn't get up there straight away, but eventually Mr SDS managed to fit it in to another journey he was making and here it is at last.

Only the package didn't feel much like it had a book in it.   I've opened it up to find….

...Two tubes of Bulgarian irritative dermatitis ointment, well of course!

Just one more reason why I don’t trust Amazon to take over the world.

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...