30th November 2011

November 1st and the wind lifting the clinging leaves from the branches, slowly exposing the strong laboured limbs, in the warm, damp air…. it is raining over St Pauls and is gradually wetter further North, around the Scottish coasts, while here it remains mild….

There is some discussion about pricing alcohol by the unit in Scotland, causing consternation among the drinking classes. It is true though that they have the highest alcohol related mortality rate in Europe.

A 92 year old woman in Harlow is refused alcohol because she has no ID.

Speaking of Scotland, it is the 75th Anniversary of the first television broadcast, by John Logie Baird, from the Central Hotel in Glasgow. We stayed in the hotel back in 2007 for Hogmanay and had a great few days in the city. The hotel window looked out onto the platforms and it was an extraordinary time to be in the city. Perfect for people watching. The greetings visible from our perch under the eaves of the hotel, looking out onto the platforms was tremendous. Its buildings are very reminiscent of Liverpool and I felt very much at home.

It is also the anniversary of Channel Four in 1982, at the time, a similarily brave development in telecommuniation in its own way.

I scan the news stories…. Tougher penalties for gang members including a new offence of ‘carrying a gun with intent to supply’. DrugSpeak, adapted subliminally to help describe these troubled times…. Squatting may be made illegal, (as if that’s going to stop anything) and a story about the Japanese PM licking rainwater from puddles in defence of his opinion that there is no local radioactive contamination, in the wake of this years earthquakes and leaking power stations.

In the Irish Republic, a bit of over-realised double accounting reveals an extra 3.6 billion in the coffers, barely a spadeful in the 150 billion sized pile.

Pakistani bowlers are to be sentenced after the spot fixing revelations.

The Greeks are feeling the weight of Europe crushing their spirit…. the birds are arranging themselves into little squadrons and arrowing through the darkening light, in dress rehearsals for their various, defining journeys.

The threat has gone in the skies over the African deserts but to the East there is famine. Just text ‘FOOD’ and make your donation.

Fracking for shale gas off the Lancashire coasts causes earth tremors and one American commentator describes them in terms of ‘Seismocity’.

Westminster Council are raking in more money from parking fines than in Council Tax. The newspaper item brought back nightmares and memories of Dame Porter, described at one time as the High Priestess of Tory sleaze. Strikes are inevitable it would seem in response to the pensions row. I have never had a pension, expecting that the least my kids would do for me is to bury me.

I had a dream…. I was in Sutton Way and met someone called Colin Daly ???

Metropolitan Police officers are charged with offences related to over zealousness, when arresting a driver in a Mini, smashing the windows with baseball bats and terrorising the suspect. They were also charged with misusing confiscations.

Assuange loses his extradition appeal and the cocklers are up in arms. There maybe a Referendum or a Resignation in Greece.

Sir Alex makes it through 25 years and Walter Swinburne hands in his notice….

I catch a re-run of  ‘Frozen Planet’, the new Attenborough, before taking off the new varifocals and burying my head in sleep. I have got a stye and it’s a sure sign of fatigue and restlessness. I have been dreaming heavily as I always do when I am not smoking…. vivid with strange tales I can almost hear the music to.

There will be a new Bond – Skyfall – number 23 in the series, to be screened next year on the 50th anniversary of the first. I am happy to say that I only saw one of them all the way through, ‘Diamonds are Forever’, in a Dublin picture house in about 1971. I remember coming out into the bright afternoon sunshine and catching the bus to Dun Laoghaire.

At St. Pauls, legal action is suspended…. he himself would be pleased with that…. while at the G20, in Cannes no less, Sarkozy exclaims in platitudes that if the Euro fails then Europe fails.

Gorgeous George prays for consensus….

Barry Feinstein dies, the glorious photographic foil to many a rock and roll session. Genius is a much overused term but true when it comes to Barry. Iconic.

I bumped into Keith Hett, an old Labour Party activist originally from Liverpool, who I met not long after I first came to Wrexham. He was mixed up with Marek, Liz Lewis, Joe Wilson and Carol Cooper at the time. A rum enough crew. Myself and Farrell organised a number of events with them, publicising ourselves along the way. John Marek at a Poetry Slam was a sight worth seeing. Keith is 75 now and thinking about standing for the council again, an honour he has already held. I gently try to dissuade him and suggest, truthfully, that he has done enough. He has had cataract and prostrate trouble and deserves a few warm nights at home in the Winter, talking with his lovely wife instead of knocking on doors. His eyes still sparkle above his smile and his history would make a book worth writing…. and reading…. and living….

rev and go.

Friday Night Club and the usual mix of reprobates. Father Andrew arrives first, his heavy coat glistening with the rain, as confused as I am regarding the early darkness and the similarily early hour. Tracy and Andy, then Bogster just before Amanda. Lana and Elika but no Jordan tonight, she is ice skating. The Father, Bog and myself slipped into the front room to leave some space at the kitchen table. All we needed were Port and cigars. Tea, red wine and funny fags would have to do.

There was some early talk about faith and plagiarism, that was eventually tempered by mention of the new trend for mystery shoppers, online murder as marketing and franticness, a new concept of mental health that leads you into going to Cathedrals.

Rob arrived, stuffing the house with his loud laughter, full of his friendship and cans of Grolsch. Talking darkly occasionally of wishing for another DVT….. as some sort of deterrent.

‘ I myself, would do anything to be able to do nothing ‘…. It was a funny night nonetheless, filled with fellow societarians. Another Farrellism if I ever heard one.

I vowed to buy ‘Apricot Jam and other Stories’, by Solzhenytsin on the advice of The Father and we played a few sides of Steve Knightley before I headed for bed shortly after they left. It was almost 3am.

 I make a note to have a listen to Beirut on his recommendation.

There is a big road crash overnight and we wake to the news of early deaths on another Bonfire night….

Everton lose again but Daisy is back at full throttle during a spell up at the Mother in Laws. She is on a SORN at the moment (Daisy that is), while the scaffolders do their stuff, ready for our new roof.

The smell of gunpowder and the intermittent waft of burnt rubber from a stray tyre. Poor Sassy the dog, she is petrified of the fireworks and tries to settle herself beneath the kitchen table…. I stay in the house, in case of emergencies, watching towards the grass on the green as she goes, the fire flourishing quickly while the bodies, clutching bottles of beer slowly shift towards the remaining heat.

Gorgeous Georges Greek Gods and Goddesses…. reject the plans for Coalition and Consensus.

I got an e-mail from the Shelflife stable, from Wally. I have a hankering that he is from Portland or Ottawa…. who knows in this interplanetary world.

We strike out for an early bath, taking a glass of this and that with us and enough for a few jazz cigarettes.

Sunday. I lie in bed thinking of Jon Arne and the excitement of seeing friends again. Gunnhild is probably doing the same. My thoughts are somewhat purer than hers at this time, as she will be missing him I am sure.

Janet regales me with the noise of the TV, leaking up the stairs into the bedroom from the kitchen below. It is almost 11am and we have coffee, sipping between the comforting noises of our cigarettes…. ‘Life death, life death, such is the sound of human breath’…. We pack a bag and are ready…. it’s just before 3pm.

We call at Alan and Audreys, to sort out the deal for the proposed holiday to Cancun and drop them down to Laura for a bonfire party with the grand-kids. After a quick visit to see the folks we head for the train with arrangements duly made for our return around midnight.

It is only a week or two since we last made the journey. I could close my eyes and know which station to get off at…. it is somewhat comforting. We alight at James Street and turning right out of the entrance we take the first right into Days Inn where the Viking boys are staying. We ask at reception but Jon Arne isn’t registered in his own name. We try the bar on the 1st floor but it is almost empty. We understand why, when the Guinness I order and the small glass of white wine for Janet leaves us little change from £10. Where’s your mask mate ?

I try the reception again and coming out of the lift I pass a maybe familiar face. I am sure that was Paal ? I try a cigarette outside and sure enough, minutes later Jon Arne comes through the small entrance lobby. He looks really well and we embrace, before heading up to the boys on the 5th floor.

It is great to see them all, Jon Arne, Erik and Paal, looking as healthy as when we first met. We find Janet who has waited in the bar and have another round of hugs and welcomes. There are provisional arrangements to catch a meal and we set off to find ‘Bistro Francs’, on the recommendation of someone at the hotel. We find it eventually at the other end of Hanover Street and we are guided to a table. I forgot my glasses and can’t read the menu, unsurprisingly, as most of it is in French. Jon Arne, Janet and myself opt for the two course deal that comes with a bottle of wine. Each. At £15 it is superb value. Paal and Erik choose pints of Lager and just a main course.

Paal pays.

Thank you.

We head up town to the Hanover Hotel, a favourite haunt and somewhere where we had enjoyed an inebriated night all together before. We don’t have much time as the last train is 11.30pm. Jon Arne is getting married and on the lookout for a decent suit while he is in Liverpool. We are thrilled for him and Gunnhild and at the risk of causing us concern he wonders whether we would be able to go across to Norway for the ceremony. What…. Norway, for the wedding of Jon Arne and Gunnhild. You bet your life. I give him my word and already Erik is calling his partner to see if they can accomodate us. It is tentatively agreed. We are back at the station and Paal nips up to the room for a bottle off Loitens and some chocolate for us. I trade them a copy of my proposed CD release…. ‘The Llay Tapes…. More Songs about Kitchens and Stairs’. I am not sure who got the best deal.

Friends. We only find a handful.

Through all the years and the life and love we find and the strength and the sadness and the sleep it all brings…. Hang on to them.

We embrace again, wave from the lift down to the bowels of James Street station and we are gone.

For now.

A first frost.

We didn’t see it as it was gone before we woke. We could have slept all day but the ceremony for Kath called. Mum made some breakfast and coffee and we waved again to the folks, off on our way again. We were home to Wales with an hour or more to go before the service. I had a quick shower and decided not to shave. Pain in the arse some days. I was still pretty decent from the day before and dressed quickly in the black of the day, the dark hues coloured with the red check, peeking out from the inside lining of my beloved Harrington.

The crematorium was packed and we could barely get a parking space. I hadn’t seen anything like it. We tagged on to the queue looking at the hearse as it arrived in the distance. We watched the coffin being wheeled in and minutes later we still hadn’t moved an inch. The people in front of us spoke a very rich, mix of Welsh which I had never associated with Kath and we realised we were in the wrong queue. We scampered into the service just in time. Julie Ellen didn’t get in at all, not realising the situation. It was sad in its own way of course but clinical as Cremations tend to be. Betty and Julie with Amanda and Mrs Roberts, with Janet and myself sharing a few after service drinks. I hadn’t realised that Betty was from Maidstone and I mentioned an interview I had travelled down from Wrexham for, just before the Millenium. Betty sent down a couple of chilled Boddingtons for me after we got back to Tan Y Dre. 

We arrive back in time for a bottle of red and a jazz cigarette, as the relative inanities pour from the radio. It is a comforting sound though, as always, despite the commentary. Brodie Clark is getting his head squeezed by Theresa May, after the biometrical foul up that has seen the contours of the security measures, that safeguard the country, stretched to a level of calmness that begs a storm. I wouldn’t fancy his job.

The cause of the motorway crash appears to have been poor visibility from firework smoke. Dreadful.

I give the bonsai its last feed, hoping his withered leaves refresh themselves for the spring….

Wayne Kelly wins the World Scrabble Championship with the word ‘Travails’ and  Peter Allen offers him an opportunity to prove his worth…. NTULYWA…. Well?

All the talk is of the poppy ban on sportshirts, the furore over Jacko’s doctor and the death of Joe Frazier. I hear police have got George Foreman for it and have given him a good grilling. The Red Arrows lose another member and the Burnley great Jimmy Adamson dies…. Berlusconi is dead in the water….

I have never felt comfortable with the whole poppy thing. Somewhat flippantly, I used to pronounce that I will wear one when we bring an end to wars. But really…. I still feel exactly the same…. make a living not a killing.

At work the next day I am heading from town with my newspaper, tomato soup and cheese sandwiches for my lunch. There is a message for me…. one of Janets uncles has killed himself, hung in Acton Park. In the panic Janet left me a garbled message and I didn’t even know which uncle….. I immediately thought it was Steve…. No…. Dave Barker.

I arrived at the house and everyone is stunned. The doctor comes and prescribes some medication for Audrey and the house fills and falls with the visitors who come and go. The news is followed the next day by the news of Carmels father passing away as well as the sad death of Jim Woodall. A lovely man, found a week or so after losing his way with his Alzheimers.

Brian Gould also passes away, the architect of New Labour in his own way and while the Headteachers opt for strike action, coming out for the first time in their 114 year history, there is another earthquake in Turkey…. protestors are out again for the Student Loan debate. EMI records is sold once more….

Despite my feelings for the whole remembrance idea, I still manage to find a quiet spot at the gate outside work and think what I think on 11/11/11. A lot of my own family over the years including my Fathers namesake, Great Uncle Joe Byrne, was killed in Belgian and French fields. I also think of Judith Sambrook, in Wrexham Magistrates Court, guilty of not filling in her Census form as a protest to Lockheed Martin, pureyors of military hardware as well as helping to ‘process’ the Census, on behalf of England and Wales.

No sooner had the smoke died away from the remembrance cannons, than cuts of 16,000 were predicted for the armed forces as part of the Governments proposed austerity cuts.

Father Andrew rang to tell me about Scorcese’ new documentary film on George Harrison…. It was nice to hear from him. I told him I knew it was on but I would wait…. I might even get it in my Xmas stocking…. Berlusconi gets his due and there is a new George in Greece.

Monday already, I think about a duvet day but it is too close to my week off. Lord Justice Leveson starts the enquiry into Media Standards and expects the lives of at least 28 News International journalists to be magnified. Lord Treacy too, opens the Stephen Lawrence enquiry and it is confirmed Anders Breivik, the Norwegian murderer, is  insane. 

Norwegian and Murderer are not two words that you would normally see together.

The Lord Mayor holds the annual banquet….

The unemployment figures are at a conservative 2.62 m with over 1m young people among their number. I mentioned it a few months ago, the NEETs are the new kids on the block. Growth is down and the St Pauls crew have orders to leave by tomorrow night.

The Beech in the car park at work is almost golden, its boughs ready to let its treasure fall…. I must get a photograph and remind myself to bring my camera…. Nonny (my colleague Sonia) is busying herself about her college work, worrying unduly about her assignment…. what she needs is to form another band…. Nonny and the CBTs….. When I get home, I do a little work on a couple of songs, hoping to get some recording done when I get down to Rob Rileys rest home when I am off work next week.

I take a last draught from the morning news….. Basil D’Olivera has died, Gaddafis son is captured and there is more trouble in Syria.

We head to meet the family for the procession up to the crematorium again, in memory of Dave. I can only describe the whole affair as anguished nothing more nothing less…. Dave has picked his own music, The Who and Frank Zappa get a turn each…. it is the only light relief that we enjoy.

Back to the house for sandwiches and on up to ‘The Gate Hangs High’ for a few rounds of drinks. Unfortunate name in the circumstances. I head home for about 8pm and I am in bed for just after 9pm. It has been a dreadful week. I can hear various people drift back to the house and I dream through the noise and wake just after midnight. All quiet. I go down and have a glass of red and a couple of cigarettes before heading back up to bed. Janet slides in beside me an hour or two later having been sleeping in Elikas room. I get up again.

What a day…. What a night…. What a week….

It was all about me…. and you.

I am up early and head into town to the bank, managing to get myself a breakfast in Crumbs Cafe and read the papers. I get back just as Janet is heading out shopping. The phone goes as I rise from the kitchen up the stairs. Lanas’ waters have gone. Another little treasure on the way or you could say, another member for the female mafia that are already in the house. Me, Clint and Jamie get bullied enough as it is. Janet is back and to from the the hospital and still no sign. She heads for an early bath and Joel comes around with a couple of bottles of Tuborg. Interesting. We sit and smoke and play our guitars and make some rough plans for recording. He is off work himself this week. Kian is staying and wanders in and out watching and listening. He is going to have another sister and we tease him a little. Not that he is worried, he loves it and can give as good as he gets already. Lana still hasn’t started her labour so by Sunday afternoon they decide on a Caesarian again. She had hoped for a natural birth this time. Not to worry, as long as everything is alright with them both.

There are more than 30 dead in Tahrir Square in Cairo as trouble flares before the elections….There is a new man in Spain…. I put the dinner on low and wait for news.

A little girl…. Nevaeh…. Beautiful.

I have been looking forward to my week off but I just can’t get going with myself. The radio growls on…. housing stock to increase as part of the new Housing Bill. I can just hear it now ‘….Get building Britain….’ The great and the good make the Leveson enquiry while the banks set about cutting ties with Iran, as punishment for their contemplation of the nuclear option. I try to get some work done but the windows are filled with bodies, as they get the work on the new roof done. There is banging and scaffolding and tiles being loaded for next door. The dog barks constantly and I just want to sleep or cry. I feel shattered. I really feel the pace sometimes these days.

I get myself out of the house and go and see the baby around lunchtime. She is gorgeous, dark skin and very like her Dad. The sun is warm and the wind is almost still and even walking to the shop later, the smoke rose perpendicular from the ridge tiles of the roof, encasing the heat from the fire below. The air grows a little cooler and the wisps of breath catch my face as I walk briskly back home.

Pol Pots boys fill the muted TV screen as I head for bed.

Coincidentally, the debate goes on about the preference for natural and Caesarian births. The POVA issues, the Child Protection issues and the NICE guidelines all get a tidy up kind of a mention.

The new Metropolitan Police Chief gets a run out. He talks of a ….’ permafrost of bureaucracy…. ‘ They are on the backfoot in Bahrain with regard to recent torture allegations…. the new Muslim Brotherhood get a talk through….

I head down to see Rob on the Thursday and we set about getting some tunes done…. I have written some lyrics for one of his instrumentals…. ‘Motown Stranger’ and get the vocal overdubs done quickly. We have got about 4 hours to do the session and I waste 30 minutes because I can’t play all the chords to my other preferred choice. I root out an alternative and play Rob the chords while he vamps out a keyboard arrangement. I get the vocals down pretty fast again, mainly because they are all written and ready for a change and we sit smoking a jazz with 20 minutes to spare. It was like a Peel session…. I think in the car on the way back, that I could do with a patron…. Harriet Shaw Weaver who looked after James Joyce was from Frodsham, only a few miles from Ellesmere Port.

The radio in the car talks about the first transgender footballer, an American Samoan, who have just won their first game in their history…. For a moment I thought the radio mentioned a ‘ a syphilising effect ‘ but realise it said civilising.

There is a mention of snow but I still make the trip to the shop for wine in my shorts. I am determined to wear them through until December…. More MOD computers have been ‘mislaid’ and news comes of the deaths of Shelagh Delaney and the Liverpool poet Peter Redding.

We enjoy a Friday Night Club for the first time in a while and entertain Amanda, Bog, Father Andrew and an emptyhanded, tobacco less and already drunk Bryn, star of many a previous Friday. We wind him up slowly and get him talking about Nazism and the art of lying about his conquests. Bog has devised a plan for a website, ‘Ask Brynster’, where callers are encouraged to seek help with lies to get out of tricky situations. Bryn has a motto and it is ‘Lie to get by’…. Munchausens online. Bryn Bonkers….

We are awoken by Elika, Jordan and Kian, all keen for an early breakfast. Jan takes them shopping. I watch Glyn and Sheila march up the street in tandem after their trip to town. He is 91, I can’t believe he is that age. Does he ever wonder…. ‘Is it today ?’ …. Kay brings her youngest to a house with no Kath. I chance the shop in my shorts again and come back with papers, wine and Crimbles, a perfect mix for a Saturday afternoon match before heading back to work. Football…. a glorious irrelevance….

I get gradually inebriated and head for a couple of hours sleep, already practising the routines for work on Monday in my head.

Janet wakes me about 9.00pm and I can’t believe it is so late. I get up for a bite to eat and a glass of grog listening to an interesting article about sports stars and depression.

‘Curiosity’ is on its way to Mars, as the fallout from Nato airstrikes on the Pakistan/Afghan borders are described as ‘unfortunate deaths’. What a line.

Barrymore busted…. the last thing I hear on the TV news before shaving, bathing and taking to my bed.

Sunday. I get up early and throw the radio on as I make coffee. Gary Speed has died…. found hanged at home. I am totally shocked by the act, the context and try vainly to fathom the possible reasons. Who knows…. who ever knows.

A ship sinks off Anglesey and Prince William is at the controls from RAF Valley for the rescue atempts…. 5 dead…. Two clubbing deaths in London, possibly XTC…. unusual these days.

Bog called down for an evening brew, seeming confident about his Fathers improving health…. we talked of long coats, More cigarettes and hanging around in shop doorways, smoking and talking…. What was that about. I squeezed a last hour out of the weekend and felt short changed by my time off…. I didn’t see the folks, nor the girls, nor Jamie and Snez and Chloe….

I was glad to get back to work.

Martin and Sonia were both off on annual leave so myself and Peter, with the undaunting support of our volunteers ran a lively drop in session for 40 or more. Clint has got the plasterers in, like Ragged Trousered Philanthropists…. him and his Dad making a grand effort with his bedroom. 

Ken Russell dies, leaving a huge legacy in his wake.

In Los Angeles, the tent protesters are offered a move to the outskirts of town for a proposed commune. I watch the clip of Fenton and The Deer and his owner again.

The Autumn Statement arrives on the eve of the Day Of Action. Jodie calls to do her stuff with Janets’ hair and makes a lovely job of it. Much shorter than usual but a great shape. Kev and Tracy call down and the honeymoon plans are talked through. The Lake District for the boys, bit of walking, talking and drinking. The girls consider an all inclusive for a hot weekend away. 

As I set my alarm, both of the Mersey Tunnels are closing for the strike, at the same time as the 1st Harry Ramsden Chip Shop, in Leeds, does the same thing after 83 long years.

The day is a flurry of bickering and biting, as the knives come out for the various defences of the right to protest…. Work longer, pay more and get less back…. Typical of the justice handed out by the Tories. Students storm through the compound of the British Embassy in Tehran…. Jacko’s doctor gets 4 years in prison.

I watch the weather forecast as I ready myself for a shower.

Rain and wind to come but you can’t deny, Autumn has given us the strength for another Winter…. On its final day, we salute those we have loved and lost already….

I head to my bed sick to my stomach.

Rest in Peace