I think the manufacturers of these protective gloves must be having a bit of a laugh.
Tuesday, 19 June 2018
Friday, 8 June 2018
If you’ve been following the life and times of Matt Johnson and The The, you probably know that they have just embarked on a really special comeback tour but also that last weekend in the midst of this, Matt’s father died unexpectedly. I know that he and his brother, and the whole family, are absolutely devastated at this huge loss and my heart goes out to them all; my deepest sympathies. It is so very sad and perhaps especially poignant at this time. Eddie was a remarkable, much-loved man and I can say this with conviction because he had also become very dear to me personally.
I am actually still struggling to believe he’s gone. He was such a big character that I just felt like he'd go on forever. I was going to pop round this week for our usual cup of tea and a natter (and a big slice of cake or a Belgian bun, he always treated me!) - something I’ve done dozens of times in the last couple of years. Through the deep sadness following the illness and death of my good friend, his eldest son Andrew, it was something so positive; we had formed a lovely, easy connection of our own. At first it was really that we had Andy in common and took comfort from that, but it soon became a unique friendship in its own right. It was perhaps an unlikely bond given our age difference, but Eddie had a presence and timelessness about him which meant you could relate on so many levels and age was no barrier at all. As I said to a friend the other day, how many octogenarians are likely to talk to you about anything and everything from jellied eels to Johnny Marr?! I remember coming home from seeing him one day, smiling to myself about the fact that our two hour conversation had just ranged through so many subjects, from Brexit to Auf Wiedersehen Pet to pease pudding to J G Thirlwell!
Just like Andy, he was a fantastic conversationalist with a cheeky sense of humour and I never tired of the tales of the extraordinary life he had led in his eighty-plus years. This was a man who had mingled with some of the East End’s most notorious characters in his days as landlord of a popular pub, a venue where he’d also had the Small Faces rehearse in an upstairs room. He had also coped with more than his fair share of tragedy. And he could tell you fascinating stories about the past, but was not stuck in it. We frequently talked about politics and current affairs, and he taught me a lot; in return he seemed to enjoy it when I shared some of my knowledge on subjects close to my heart such as birds and nature.
But even more than all the things we enjoyed in conversation, he was caring, warm and generous, a great father to his immensely talented sons, and he allowed me to feel so included, being supportive and interested in what I was doing too, and I valued that. I just wish I could pop round for a cup of tea with him now and tell him - but I think, and hope, he knew.
I shall miss him greatly.
Friday, 1 June 2018
I mentioned in my last post how "it felt like I’d grown up fast" the night I first went to a gig without my friends. I also mentioned that I had quite liberal parents, who had no issues with me seeing bands and getting into punk in my early teens. I suspect they also knew that the smell of Polo mints on my breath whenever they picked me up from a night out was only there to hide the whiff of cigarettes and alcohol, but they never said anything. So it was all pretty good, back in ’78 and ’79, and I have such fond, vivid memories of those exciting and undoubtedly pivotal years.
Things changed just a couple of years later when my parents’ marriage finally fell apart.
It had been on its last legs for a long while, to be honest. I’ve made no secret of it: my mum suffered from clinical depression throughout her adult life and had had some pretty horrendous episodes. At the same time, she and my dad were becoming increasingly incompatible; the two things were somewhat intertwined. To cut a long story short, my father left home when I was 17, after a weird and painful break-up. He's never shown any interest in me or my life in all the years since, which feels more shitty now in retrospect than it did at the start, but that's another story. Going back to when they split, I witnessed a lot of shouting, tears, and even some broken crockery. Oh and mum playing David Bowie’s ‘Aladdin Sane’ album in the early hours (I couldn’t fault her taste there – a great album - but I can’t disassociate it from that period!)
Anyway, when my father finally left, my older sister had just moved out too, and so there was a really odd and uncomfortable period in my life when it was just me and my mum living at home, and my mum was suffering from depression. She'd been hospitalised for it before so I was familiar with the scenario. Sometimes she would spend days on end in bed, and I’d have to go and get her prescriptions and take care of her, which - being a snotty, self-obsessed teenager - I resented. It's kind of what makes you resilient, though - natural teenage selfishness! At other times she’d be up and about but behaving strangely – her actions could be a bit over-the-top or misjudged. Not that it was always easy then for me to discern between what was strange and what was normal, because she was my mother – she was all I knew. However, I realise that this is the reason why I sometimes still feel a certain discomfort if life around me gets a bit chaotic, and why I also feel the need to steer clear of anyone or any situation which might be toxic in some way. Do you know what I mean? Some people seem to get off on all that in a weird way, but there are so many toxic people - toxic relationships - that can bleed into your psyche if you let them. I just can’t go there, I need to protect myself . One whiff of toxicity (it’s just like that smell of Polo mints masking cigarettes and alcohol) and I’m out.
But at the same time, something very positive came out of it, because I learned that I simply couldn’t depend on either parent at that time and thus, ultimately, I only have myself. It sounds harsh but it was as if there was no role model I could really lean on mentally because one was absent and the other could be a bit doolally. It felt as if there was no big, strong, 100% reliable, parent figure who could make everything alright. Whilst leaving me feeling a little cast adrift - unsafe, even - it also quickly instilled in me a very deep and strong sense of self-reliance, self-sufficiency. I'm a big believer in the notion that we all need to take responsibility for ourselves and our lives, so much so that it irks me when other people don't. I read somewhere recently that this often happens when the parents of teenagers divorce (which may be a different effect to that on those who are very young); their children quickly learn to develop their independence.
People have far worse situations to deal with when growing up so I've nothing to complain about, but the way our experiences shape us is something that fascinates me and I'm interested in the psychology of why we develop the way we do, and where some of our attitudes and characteristics come from. I'm pretty sure the way I feel about self-reliance is as a result of my odd home life in those teenage years, and it developed in me an innate determination to achieve my personal goals and not to expect nor depend on help. Maybe it’s no bad thing sometimes to have to grow up a little fast.
A lighter post to follow next time!
A lighter post to follow next time!
Monday, 28 May 2018
On May 28th 1978 Adam & the Ants were booked to play at my local venue. I was barely able to contain my excitement when I heard. It was only five months since I’d been to my first gig, when Siouxsie & the Banshees had played at the same place. Five months is a long time when you’re 14 and in that interim the venue had become my regular haunt, usually twice a week (depending on the demands of homework). My three friends and I always went together to watch bands, drink cider and mingle with fellow punk fans.
We felt at home there in a way we rarely did anywhere else; we were all outsiders together. Mostly punks, a few rock types, a couple of hippies and one or two general oddballs. The club occasionally played host to artists who were not too well-known to overcrowd its intimate small-town setting, but were established or culty enough to have made it into the music papers or perhaps recorded sessions for John Peel. Bands like Adam & the Ants who, in spite of not even having recorded their first single yet, had gained an underground following I’d read about.
And they were coming to my town! Presumably with Jordan – the embodiment of London art punk outrageousness, the most outstanding looking woman I’d seen in the whole of this brave new underworld - I was in awe.
But my friends couldn’t come that night. At fourteen, and female, was I brave enough to go on my own and spend the whole evening there without them?
“Well we’re going down to the Jazz Club later, so you can come home with us,” my mum said – meaning that she and my dad would be in the adjacent bar for the latter part of the night and my lift home was assured. It was a deal. (I was deprived of any excuse to rebel against them - they were too liberal!)
It was a warm, light evening as I walked across town on my own, then waited nervously outside the door to get in, along with some unfamiliar faces who’d clearly come down from London - but the queue wasn’t as big as I’d expected. And then I noticed the hand-written sign and overheard the conversation filtering through the line: Adam & the Ants had cancelled.
So on this date 40 years ago I didn't actually see Adam & the Ants, or Jordan. I saw The Automatics on my own instead. Regulars at the Marquee and with a vocalist who'd briefly been a member of the Boys beforehand, they were pretty good (listening to them again now, they sound quite power pop too). And being on my own had its advantages; I got chatted up by the guitarist from a local band who was also there on his own, a bloke a fair bit older than me, about 20.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
“Oh yes, a pint please”.
“A pint of what…?”
“Beer”, I replied helpfully, thinking myself very grown up.
And then we stood together with our drinks, hardly able to talk above the noise. I think the ‘beer’ went to my head a bit, because it wasn’t long before I turned round and kissed him full on the lips. Well, he looked like Mick Jones. I think I took him a little by surprise.
When the evening ended, it was a little awkward, as I had to wait for my parents, which didn’t seem very cool. But ‘Mick Jones’ and me said lovely if slightly clumsy goodbyes and, even without Adam & The Ants, I’d had a great evening. Then I waited there in the foyer alone, as the last few people filed out of the hall. A great big older punk bloke whom I’d never seen before – a Londoner, I think, maybe he'd been part of the Automatics' entourage – stopped and looked at me.
“Do you wanna fuck?” he asked, just like that. Straight to the point.
I don’t think he was too chuffed when I said a polite “No thank you”, trying not to show my disbelief.
With that, he called me a “boiler” and marched out the door – just before my mum and dad appeared and drove me home - I didn't tell them.
It felt like I’d grown up pretty fast that night.
Adam & The Ants did come to my town in the end – in March the following year, six months before the release of Dirk Wears White Sox.; they were great. And I stood and watched them with the bloke who’d bought me that pint, as we'd been going out together for 2 weeks.
The Automatics: When The Tanks Roll Over Poland Again b/w Watch Her
Adam & The Ants: Zerox Machine
Wednesday, 16 May 2018
Anyway, yesterday I did, and took quite a few pics, including some of the spotty pigs and Dave, or was it Steve? I merely ate the macaroni cheese. We saw bees chasing a gardener (they didn't like the vibrations of the lawnmower, apparently) and fed the carp in the moat. Of all the many beautiful, ancient and quirky sights we enjoyed, though, there was another favourite thing - or perhaps theme - that kept catching my eye, all within this one location. What is is it about old and often tatty doors and windows that I find so appealing? Something mysterious perhaps - and the idea that they are portals, that so many people have passed through or peered through them, over decades - or centuries. I'm glad that now includes me.
(Inside the high, creepy attic - which easily fitted the
criteria for this)
criteria for this)
Saturday, 28 April 2018
Yesterday in a small market town in Hertfordshire, two women were spotted looking at their reflections in the windows of a Toni & Guy. “Let’s check ourselves out!” one had suggested, laughing - and looking back at them, posing stupidly in the rain-spattered reflection, were two 55-year olds, smiling broadly under their umbrellas, both dressed in leopard-spot coats, dark jeans and black boots. A bemused customer inside having her roots retouched grinned in the mirror.
We did turn a few heads. I mean, I knew she had a leopard spot coat too – a bit different from mine in that it’s fluffy and a tad more golden in shade, but what were the chances of us both wearing them today? We only get together a few times a year, reuniting here in our old hometown, the place we rarely visit now, but where we first met at school. If it had been sunnier, I would've worn my green coat. If it had been warmer, she would have worn her black jacket. But it was cold and wet and we'd both dressed as big cats.
“Hey, but we’re cool! We’re rock’n’roll! We used to be in a band!” I assured my dear friend playfully – we were never in a band, at least not a real one, but somehow we might as well have been, as that’s how it felt to be part of our little punk scene here, forty years ago. You sort of felt like a someone; it was like a rural equivalent of the Bromley Contingent. And some of its regular characters who weren’t known then did go on to be bigger someones. It was as if there was something special about this town and its thriving underground music scene that nurtured its rebellious youth a particular way.
As well as catching up on news and views over lunch, we luxuriated in a little reminiscing, about a time when we might both have killed for the leopard spot coats we were now wearing, but wouldn’t have been able to get one anywhere. I'd been lucky enough to get a pair of tailor-made leopard print trousers (with a drawstring waist!) through a small ad in the back pages of the NME when I was 15. The young fashion student making them up to order on her electric sewing machine knew she was onto something. I loved those trousers like a pet - a rare, exotic pet. You just couldn’t buy these things off the peg in the late seventies – in fact the only women you’d see in this fabric pattern (a scarf, or a skirt, perhaps) were also likely to be in their late seventies. Okay, they probably weren’t, they were most likely only 55 too – but anyone over the age of 30 just got boxed into a category we thought of as ‘old’, didn't they?
Maybe that’s what the 15-year-old schoolgirls coming down the street thought when they caught sight of us as we wandered back from our reunion lunch with wine and garlic on our breath.... Oh - look at those two daft old ladies, both in leopard print coats!
(No! We're rock'n'roll! We used to be in a band! Almost!)
Monday, 16 April 2018
Ooh, I had a troubled mind at the weekend. You know when everything feels a bit dark and well, yes, troubling is definitely the word - because of things in your life which, at that moment, aren’t quite right. They gang up in your mind and heckle you. They don't let you rest. Some of them even slip slyly down to the pit of your stomach and bang on its walls.
The family problem, the letter from the council, the hot water playing up, the plumber not getting back to us about it, the work I couldn’t get right, then the blocked toilet, the bill for unblocking said toilet, more of the family problem (a constant backdrop to life at the moment), the worrying about someone thinking I might have done something I didn’t, the worrying about how to say something difficult to someone that makes a point I need to make (oh, the psychological knots we tie ourselves up in!), the work I still couldn’t get right, dammit – all niggling and nagging at the same time this weekend (funnily enough Monday morning wasn't so bad.)
But there was a saving grace! I was reminded of a truly excellent song….
Thursday, 5 April 2018
If I were ever to try writing a ghost story, I’d want to base it on experience. I don’t have much, but I’ll tell you this…
It’s about our bathroom, and some odd little things that are hard to explain. It’s downstairs, next to the kitchen. That’s odd, for a start. But no, I mean the noises. A little while back I went in there to wash before bed and heard funny sounds above me in the single-storey roof. Maybe it was a cat or a rat or a bat - a fat bat - but whatever it was I was so unnerved I nearly did something that rhymed with it. At least I would’ve been in the right place. Still, I put the thoughts of a headless monk knocking on the pantiles above me to one side and carried on brushing my teeth.
Nothing happened for a few weeks. And then the other evening there was another strange occurrence. The toilet flushed on its own. That’s weird, I thought - I hadn’t pressed the little button thing on the cistern by accident, had I? No - but it was definitely flushing. “I think we’ve got a ghost in the bathroom,” I said to Mr SDS, “and they’ve just used the loo!”
It hasn’t happened since. But, oh, something else has. Two nights ago, shortly before midnight, I was just trying to put some moisturiser on my face without my glasses on (always a bit hit and miss) when, well, how can I put this politely? I heard a very long drawn-out, squeaky bottom burp. A real ripping raspberry of rectal turbulence. A proper classic blow-off. Right beside me. I mean, so close to me that I froze right there in the middle of its duration to check that it wasn’t actually me. It definitely wasn’t. Perhaps it was the soles of my slippers on the floor? I slid them about a bit and tried really hard to make them mimic the anal acoustics I’d just heard but nothing, my slippers were silent.
“Now it’s farting!” I said to Mr SDS when I went upstairs. He was already looking at me strangely due to the blobs of white cream in my hairline and nostrils. Once I’d heard that spectral trouser trumpet right next to me I'd decided not stay in the bathroom any longer than I had to, and I definitely wasn’t going to look in the mirror for fear of what might look back at me. Sod the moisturiser. Even without glasses, a hazy headless monk was too much to apprehend.
It’s not exactly M R James but that’s my ghost story and it's true. Have you ever heard of such a thing? A farting phantom flusher?! Whatever next - will I find the end of the toilet paper folded into one of those pleats like they do in hotels? Who knows? I’ll keep you posted if it returns...
In the meantime, here's some stonking '60s garage from an appropriately named band to blow the ghostly cobwebs away:
In the meantime, here's some stonking '60s garage from an appropriately named band to blow the ghostly cobwebs away:
The Haunted: 1 2 5