Another strange year, another strange Christmas - but here's wishing you as peaceful, happy, safe and rockin' a Christmas as you can possibly have.
It wouldn't be the same without a weird Victorian Christmas card...
And here's a nicely noisy, OTT guitar-drenched Christmas cover version from US punk band Atomic 61 to stir us from those mince pie induced slumbers:
Atomic 61: White Christmas
Take care, with love x
Another delve back to the '70s, not to Hyde Park this time but to the county where I did most of my growing up, courtesy of a copy of a local paper from that decade which turned up during a sort out at my mum-in-law's house.
There's something about looking through old newspapers from a time you've actually lived through which is both interesting but heartstopping at the same time, don't you think? Heartstopping in that it suddenly dawns on you that you really have been around for quite a long while. But interesting for seeing the house prices, the adverts, fashions, names, even just the different journalistic style and the sort of things that made the news.
We don't know exactly why my mum-in-law kept this particular issue from January 1975 (and sadly don't think she'd remember now) but it does have some quite unusual stories so perhaps that's why. For instance, the front page is dramatic - covering the hijack of a British Airways 'plane at the nearby airport - a huge news story for a small town. More amusingly, there's a report about some vandalism at the local cinema in response to it showing 'Last Tango In Paris'. There's also the very important announcement that a record shop was opening its doors in the new shopping precinct - the place where I would later spend many a Saturday afternoon and most of my pocket money, of course, and which probably deserves a blog post of its own some day.
But in January 1975 I was 11 and I don't think any of those stories meant much to me at the time. Nor was I old enough to be trawling through the job ads from the back pages. But I did yesterday! It was only then that I fully appreciated how, in 1975, I would've had to pass on quite a few job applications purely on the basis of being the wrong sex - it served as a great reminder of how much things have changed for the better in that respect. I should say that not all the ads in the paper specify a gender (or age) preference, but where they do, it really leaps out....
Still, thankfully we had ballsy women like Suzi Quatro to help address the subject of equality in 1975. Take it away, Suzi!
I stepped into a time machine the other evening and travelled back to 1971, courtesy of a charming documentary currently available as part of a BBC Four collection on the iPlayer. If you’re in need of some uncomplicated escapism and have 50 minutes to spare, may I recommend this unhurried wander through London’s famous Hyde Park amid a fascinating variety of human (and a few animal) visitors from 50 years ago.
It’s a lovely location, but of course it’s the people who
make this so interesting. There’s the man
in his swimming trunks standing on his head, the novice rider with no sense of rhythm,
the humble 'Geranium King' who doesn’t like geraniums. There are the Cockney boys eager to get on camera (“woss it all abaht?!”) and the not-so-Cockney
boys eyeing up bikini girls through their telescopes (“…an hour with her!”) It’s like a community within a community, with
unabashed orators and placard-holders at Speakers’ Corner, a fashion shoot taking
place on the bandstand and a fabulously percussive performance of ‘Roll Out The
Barrel’ - not on the bandstand. Then there’s
the lothario strutting around in his teeny tiny trunks who… well, don’t let me spoil it for you if you want to watch! And so many others observed without judgement nor comment, the combination of which seems to illustrate in the simplest terms both the frustrations and
joys of just being human - the collapsing deckchair and the squeaky wheel could have
come straight out of a comedy sketch show.
But one of the main things that makes this film report so
delightful and immersive is its style. It has such a lightness of touch which seems rare now. There's no generic piano music in the background, nor those irritating pizzicato strings
to lead us subliminally to an intended emotional reaction. No over-dramatic narration to humiliate its
subjects and lure us towards a predictable opinion (I can't stand being subconsciously directed on what to think!) You can just let go and enjoy your guided
tour... at a comfortable 1971 pace.
That’s how I like my observational documentary style. You too?
Here's the link (Man Alive: Hyde Park): https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p00rzvww
And the song to accompany Mr Lothario:
Breasts! Now I have your attention, I'm going to write about… well, yes...breasts! Indeed, those delightful squidgy orbs possessed by a significant proportion of the population; what lovely things they are.
I’m on the subject because the other day I nearly found myself lying unconscious in a crumpled heap on the floor and, erm, naked from the waist up – apart, that is, from a facemask and a pair of earrings - with a woman I’d never met before, all because of breasts. Not that I'm trying to be deliberately titillating (or maybe I am, just a bit; life can be rather dull at times…)
Ah, those soft, sweet mounds! They embarrass the hell out of us when they start to appear, arriving at a time when we’d probably really rather be without them. Then there’s the dreaded first bra conversation, followed by a host of other potential humiliations until, hopefully, we learn to love and cherish them whatever their natural size, shape, or wobbliness quotient.
Assuming all is well (which I hope it is for anyone reading this) - they accompany us through various
stages of life and then we hit a
certain age when along comes the first routine mammogram. I know medical procedures and the reasons behind them are not subjects to be taken lightly, but hope you'll let me off for expressing some stuff...
I mean, breasts are quite delicate really, aren't they? - and yet having a mammogram requires them being slowly
squeezed (but not in a nice, warm, comfy way) and then squeezed some
more, and then squeezed some more, into what feels like the impossibly tight
aperture between two flat, unyielding plates. Aargh!
If you're never likely to have one, please do have a little wince. It’s like putting them in a vice.
So last week I braced myself for my third routine breast scan and thought
I knew what to expect. It’s an odd experience anyway, standing there topless with a kindly nurse trying to
manipulate your torso into exactly the right position which is not one that
comes naturally at all. Hold your
left arm up here, bend forward a little, place the side of your face against the
glass, step back slightly, now step to the right, keep your waist front-facing, drop
your shoulders down – it sounds like some kind of soft porn photoshoot. At last you’re in the required pose (which is most awkward) and she’s able to place the relevant bit of you
onto the platen and skip away to operate the machinery. The squeeze begins - suddenly I have visions
of a car going into a crusher (sorry) - it is a little painful but nothing I
can’t handle.
This time, though, I was warned that the compression would be a bit stronger in order to reduce the amount of radiation you’re exposed to. I’m grateful for the second part of that phrase, if not the first. And I don’t know what happened but, just as we’d got the right one out of the way and I was being positioned in the machine ready for the left one, I started to feel strangely whoozy.
Whoozy, dizzy, weak, giddy… suddenly I thought I was about to
pass out…
…what the hell?
Oh god, what a stupid, inconvenient, ridiculous time to faint.
Just as I believed I really was about to lose consciousness, thankfully
my brain engaged enough to operate my mouth and tell the nurse. She quickly rescued me and sat me
down with my head between my knees until the room stopped spinning. I was so embarrassed. Indeed, I realised I was far, far more
embarrassed about my peculiar attack of the vapours than at my state of
undress.
Anyway, thanks to all the good people at our invaluable NHS, we get access to the incredibly sophisticated technology that scans and checks our body parts at no cost to us and I'm so grateful for that. It's absolutely worth the relatively brief discomfort I describe above, I know - please don't be put off. The nurse suggested that it was quite common to come over a bit faint, not just through anxiety at the procedure itself and all the connected worries, but that wearing a face mask during it can affect the way you feel and, perhaps most significantly, how you breathe too. I feel sure that explains it. So, next time I can only hope that, as I take off my top, my mouth and nose will also be as free as my wobbly bits. If they could eventually come up with a nice, warm, comfy scanning machine as well one day, that would be even better.
Not far from me, if you go up to where the witchfinders once roamed, where jackdaws chuckle from the treetops and devil's coach-horse beetles scuttle across your path, cursing you with their scorpionesque tails, this is where you'll find...
... the caravan park from hell!
Oh, what horrors lie in wait behind those mildewed panels?
I'm glad to say there really is an innocent explanation for these creepy caravans - but why spoil a dark flight of fancy?!
I’m standing in the drawing room of a grand 17th century mansion, where the glassy eyes set in porcelain-white skin of the many portrait subjects seem to gaze over my head from every wall. Henry VIII is tucked up there in the corner, an 18th century general takes up more space by the window. A slim young man with fabulous long wavy locks reminiscent of Charles II is in front of me – and if it were not for his facemask and an English Heritage lanyard I could have believed he’d stepped straight out of one of those paintings. But no, he’s very real, and also extremely engaging, recounting the history of this 100-room country pile and its occupants with such meaning, enthusiasm and a charming dash of dry humour that I’m captivated - if only he’d been my History teacher at school! (He also looks as if he should be in a band, which is rather appealing...)
Is it a "thing", I wonder, that history becomes more intriguing
as we get older? It's a subject which failed to engage me in my youth, yet now I find myself increasingly fascinated. And that never happened in the school lessons
delivered by Miss Jones! She was quiet
and timid – inoffensive enough but without any spark. In soft monotone she’d read out long paragraphs
for us to write in our exercise books, about Parliamentary Acts and… and… and
what? Proof of my lack of attention is that I
honestly can’t remember. Where was the human
interest angle? I’m sure my adolescent ears
would have pricked up if only she’d thrown in a few gory executions, egregious betrayals
and definitely a dose of syphilis or two.
So at school I responded to the tedium of writing out these passages, parrot-fashion, by trying out different ink tints in my fountain pen (remember Quink?)
There was black, blue and blue-black, and my favourite was a fancy turquoise. Ooh, the satisfying thrill of filling a real pen, squeezing the sides of the squidgy ink barrel, watching it suck up the kingfisher-coloured liquid. Then I experimented with different handwriting styles - a lean to the right, a lean to the left. Curly loops on my f’s, g’s and j’s one day, vertical mouse-tails the next. Scratchy italics versus smooth cursives. My History exercise book became a gallery of calligraphy and colour, and each lesson a place to drift into daydreams as Miss Jones droned on about whatever she droned on about - it’s just a shame I don’t remember a thing about the actual words with which I decorated the pages.
Anyway, later on at the grand mansion last Monday, there were Capability Brown gardens to enjoy, a Victorian nursery and dolls house, one of the country's first 18th century flushing toilets to peer into (I said peer...) a painting of George II which led to a conversation about Elvis (seems they died in similar circumstances), huge glass cabinets of stuffed birds and mammals which sort of horrified and enthralled in equal measure, and a café which served wine and gin (yes, of course I did) - but best of all was the much appreciated companionship of two long-standing pals whom I’ve known since school, since Miss Jones' dictation and turquoise Quink. God, I needed to get out, I've really been missing seeing my mates and in this instance it certainly is a lengthy friendship - we go back to 1974. There’s a lot of history there too.
Oops. I was just about to start this post with the words, “Don’t you just hate it when…?” but that would have been exactly the kind of generalisation which irks me enough to actually write something today.
It’s just that lately I've noticed more and more prevalence of the type of statement which begins “Because we all like… “ or “Everybody needs…” or "We all want...", etc. And I don't like it!
It frequently crops up - on TV, in ads, in written articles,
etc. For example, “We all love a
picnic, don’t we?” some annoyingly merry voice will announce at the start of an
inane magazine show segment about strawberries, or wasps, or wet-wipes… Sure, I don’t mind a picnic or two as it
happens; you know, a bottle of wine and a crusty baguette will do very nicely thank you,
and don’t forget the Brie, but I really do dislike the assumption that the
entire population will feel the same way…
A little while back I was waiting at the dentists and a receptionist, a woman around the same age as me, announced to her colleague “Ooh, I can’t wait to get home and listen to some Michael Bublé!”
“Mmm, yes!” her colleague replied as she
printed out my next appointment card. “Everybody needs a bit of Michael Bublé
in their life, don’t they?” and with
this she looked up at me expectantly. Oh
god, how could she even begin to think I might like Michael Bublé? Oh please! Did the 666 tattoo on my forehead not tell her
otherwise? (It’s at times like this that
I do have a hanker for one). I know it was
a bid to include me but oh, I wish she hadn’t, because all I could hear was my naughty
inner voice echoing around the chambers of my mind:
“No! I can’t fucking stand Michael Bublé!”
And all I could do was to be grateful that my facemask hid my involuntary grimace whilst hoping she thought I hadn’t heard. Everybody needs a bit of Michael Bublé in their life?! I would love to know what Iggy Pop might have said in response, although I appreciate that his presence at my dental surgery is unlikely. Even then, I can't assume that Iggy doesn't like a bit of Michael Bublé in his life and for all I know he might be a huge fan, but it would've been fun to hear either way...
Of course I was far too polite to suggest that I’d rather listen to some ‘60s psych or the Sid Presley Experience or King Tubby or any number of other artists/genres that I realise could have come across as being wilfully obscure. Confrontational, even. I guess you could say I didn’t want to burst her bublé…
Anyway. I’m very glad we don’t all like or love or need the
same things and it would just be fine if we could all stop being categorised as
if we do. Or is that me being
presumptuous too?
Not Michael Bublé. Instead, some great early '70s psych from Peru... !
We All Together: It's A Sin To Go Away
I MUST get blogging again. I must! I must! At last I've given myself a whole week completely away from work and routine to allow myself a recharge, and d'you know what? I think the writing cogs are just about starting to whirr again. It may take me a while to get back to more frequent posting but I could try by revisiting some of the many mini-series I've had on the go here at one time or another. At least that way there are old themes I can work with, e.g. this one....
So yes, it’s on days like this that a certain "semi bohemian suburban childhood" memory comes to the fore. Summer rain is pouring down as I type, distant thunder reverberates, and I suddenly find myself thinking about tortoises…
We were a family with animals. As well as two tortoises we had cats,
goldfish in the bathroom, a pond full of frogs and newts, a bat (albeit a dead
one, but pickled in a jar following an unfortunate window incident) and a
tankful of African aquatic toads (alive and well on a diet of earthworms) in my sister’s bedroom. Let's not forget the guinea pigs nor, in the dark recesses of the larder, a house spider called Fred.
Of course Fred was not so much a pet as
a squatter, perhaps several different squatters, but welcome anyway. Occasionally we looked after the odd stray
cat, and once fostered ducklings in an old metal bathtub.
But the tortoises… well, Twinkle and Toby roamed free in our
long, hillside garden during the Summer months.
They were natural weedkillers, munching their way through the dandelions,
and making the most of the shade cast by my mum’s small stone sculptures when
the sun beat down on a clover and daisy-studded lawn. And this is where I recall the rain and the
storms, on humid holiday afternoons, when I rushed out to rescue the
tortoises from the downpours and… well,
it was never as easy as it sounds.
I’d search everywhere.
I’d call their names. Toby knew
his (honestly!) and would often come when he heard it, suddenly appearing from
within a flower bed with more haste than you might think possible, knowing that
his reward would be a lovely sticky banana… and who doesn’t like a lovely
sticky banana? But on rainy, stormy
days they were nowhere to be seen.
The bedraggled cats would come into the kitchen and get
pampered with a towel dry. The guinea
pigs would be safe in their hutch and the frogs and newts no doubt enjoyed the
jacuzzi-like qualities of their rain-splashed pool. But where on earth had the tortoises gone?
I would go on a desperate mission to find them. Sift through the compost heap, check behind
the stones in the rockery, peer through the screen of bamboo shoots… Then came
the lengthy process of inspecting every single plant and flower – and there
were a lot - until finally I would be
relieved to glimpse the back-end of a hard, shiny shell concealed in the
undergrowth. The tortoises had always burrowed
face-first into the earth beneath something with thick stems and tight leaves,
beautifully camouflaged like pebbles in the bedding. Safe, asleep, oblivious to the weather and,
unlike me, completely dry - of course.
So, the rain pours down and what am I doing, thinking back
to around 50 years ago? The only things with
shells in my much smaller, flatter garden are the snails, and I rather miss having tortoises - but it’s funny how vivid the memories can be, prompted merely by the
weather. Time for a banana.
I'm afraid life's a little fraught and tiring round these parts at the moment... My poor old mum-in-law is in a bad way, both physically and mentally, and every day (and night) seems to bring with it a new drama / development (with liberal sprinklings of weirdness) to ramp up the stress levels around me. Of course we know there'll be no happy ending either so it's all a bit heavy-going. Therefore please excuse a lazy post today in that I'm just going to share a video but I hope, if you have around 12 minutes to spare, you'll get the same pleasure from it, and perhaps reminiscences too, that I have...
I was around the same age as these four lovely young guests appearing on Irish TV in 1983 and, in spite of our different family backgrounds and geographical location, I felt an immediate kinship - maybe you will too? I'd have certainly spent the same amount of time and effort on my hair... and didn't we have a lot of it?! The third interviewee, John, is particularly engaging, and reminds me very much of some of those brilliantly individual kids I hung around with in art school (well, of course!) It wasn't always easy - but it felt so important at the time.
Ah, youth tribes, eh...
Happy Easter hols!
You know, there is something about walking at 3.30pm on a cold, rainy February day. Oh, something special, something... a feeling, a memory, a Proustian rush, if you like.
I'm walking home from school. When I get in, the cat will be sprawled out on the huge boiler in the kitchen, mum will be there, it will be warm, there will be condensation on the window. The only light in the living room comes from the gas fire with its flashes of blue and pink licking at the grills, and the table lamp in the corner of the typical G-Plan shelving unit - it's ambient, not quite dark outside. I kick off brown shoes and damp white socks, give Cleo a stroke so she lazily licks my face (ooh, such a raspy tongue - like sandpaper!) - then I perch on the yellow stool at the kitchen counter to have a bowl of Weetabix with warm milk. We seem to be incessantly hungry at 12 years old, I already had a gingerbread man from Simmonds on the way home (who can possibly ignore the temptation of sweet baked delights in the window of the best cake shop in town after double Maths and a Geography test?) 'The Changes' will be on telly soon.... chilling but compelling, I'm hooked.
Why am I telling you this? Simply because I was walking at 3.30pm today - a cold, rainy February day - and the words I've just written were floating around in my head. The rain soaks my hair and I don't care, the high collar on the warmest coat that has ever been invented (honestly, it's amazing, like a blanket) is turned up, stroking my cheeks. Thank god no school uniform...no damp socks, or Double Maths, but I still get that feeling. Green doors do it too, you know that really strong shade of mid green; I've no idea why. Anyway I'll write this down when I get in and post it, I thought - not much, I realise, but a way to break the silence at last, if nothing else...!
I appreciate that the comfortable memories of simple things from the past hold their appeal more than ever at the moment, but I've always had that rainy afternoon thing, a place to go to which can't be spoiled, and I like it very much.
Is there anywhere you go?
