31st October 2011

October 1st…. the telephone line is still down. No chance of getting my ‘Last day of the Month’ article for September done now.

I find some solace in the fact that I have got to go to town to watch the Derby. We don’t have the Murdoch channels and I get a lot of comfort from the fact that I can access free Football Streaming. OK, it’s a bit hit and miss regarding the speed of the feed and the potential for a Singapore commentary but, equally, there is always Radio 5.

I am wearing tailored shorts and my black and pink Everton colours, cutting a hopeful jib along the Holt Road in the autumnal sun. I am singing Husker Du, ‘Dead set on Destruction’, heading for an early Guinness.

I went to the bank first, to see how much money I didn’t have. Roughly about a tenner I was thinking to myself as I fed the card into the hole in the wall. Christ, £41.42p…. They hadn’t taken my overdraft charges. They are usually swallowed up on the last day of the month. I took a tenner and walked down to Lloyds via W.H.Smiths for a paper. The Snecklifter from Jennings was on offer and I waited eagerly. Two people came after me and were served first. The next guy, who was really in line before me, asked for coffee and the barmaid disappeared behind the corner of the counter. A young chap came out of the back passage at the same time and served someone at the far end. I was boiling. I hate rudeness, I take it personally like you should with any injustice. I grabbed the ‘Independent’, spead out for an hours reading and stuffed it in crumples under my arm, exclaiming noisily about the service in this shithole. I headed for One to Five, a decent enough if expensive alternative. At least they have enough TV’s on show. I ordered a Guinness. I was still seething and, leaving my breakfast half drank on the bar, I went back for the rest of the cash at the Halifax. It was still there. I couldn’t believe my luck. I could actually, we lost 2-0 and the only good point was meeting Andrea, a Carlisle born Blue, with Red overtones, who I hesitate to call a football mongrel because of her lovely way and also, for not taking my seat to watch the game when it was offered. We talked of Gwyneth and St.Catherines in Birkenhead and more besides before we bid each other goodbye. All the very best….

I made my way down Charles Street for some flowers for Jan and a bottle of Red at the local Dick Turpin. Bastards, they should wear a mask the prices that they charge. I met Angela and Liam, Wyndham and Wendy, Paddy and Mandy, Vernon on his way back home from the pub after the game…. I felt like I belonged. It was a good feeling. Wrexham has been really good to me over the years.

It was still only early when I got home considering…. no broadband as yet…. I had a flick through what was left of the paper and sketched out some ideas for future consideration as blog pieces or new stories… one about growing a cannabis plant at my Mum’s one summer…. one about the kids when they were younger, God love them, probably to be called ‘In a minute’. I managed a bit more work on the detail of a piece half written, called ‘The Painters’…. sketching young Deans face in my mind “…. a block of a jaw but with curiosity in his eyes and a smile to more than compensate.” Another about hanging around the shops when we were younger and a classic about an old friend, John Corner.

21:12…. Jamie sent me a text and after a bout of soul searching in remembrance of the game, we agreed that at least we still had each other…. I wiped down the surfaces in the kitchen, listening to Moonglow, my projected funeral music…. (NB see below), with a fistful of kitchen roll in my pocket… Imaginary cymbals to lead the march into the church grounds…. Jamie called it the best day of his life…. Christmas time, having been out for a few pints with the lads after work…. I wanted him to belong to something other than me and him and us…. It would be good for him I had hoped. My boy. Another possible story?

The lowering light ticked the day off, onward and forward to the clocks as they rehearsed going backwards.

8.00am…. a loud knock at the door, I thought it was the police…. the man from BT had arrived to sort out the phone line. He had a brew and went down to the green box, poking around with a live looking screwdriver. He went on to the exchange and rang to give an overview of the damage…. cable to…. and a junction to…. and have you had a new service provider…. half of the wiring is missing. At last. It was on…. Hurrah…. Only thing left was to call AOL and tune in to Bombay time to get it sorted. I was so happy that I did the Customer Questionnaire with them…. and Janet did the same, by way of sorting out the lap top later that night. It had been a long 10 days. Totally ravaging my scheduled blog post.

Theresa May rumbled on about the Human Rights Act being an obstacle to due process…. I watched the students in a hubbubble of life as they poured into the grounds of Yale College. Freshers week…. thoughts of Cartrefle and Handbridge…. Atacana telescope…. Seeing back as far as when almost nothing was happening…. A panoply of distant star life…. dragging the Aurora Borealis as far south as Alabama…. Patrick Moore, what a guy…. what a glockenspiel player…. I wondered if he could play Moonglow…. Somewhere in Chile…. Some idle talk on the radio about the Speed of Light being innaccurate.

A radio review of the life of John ‘Motty’ Motson trailed away behind the noise of the dryer. Unusually, the match between Accrington and Tranmere was called off mid-game due to serious injury. I could almost sense his measured voice become commentary…. he said the three most important things to remember where…. roughly where play was…. the score of course…. and how long is left to play. Good advice.

News comes of the death of Graham Dilley, firmly fixed in the memory of my own time…. Headingly ’81…. brave warrior…. news too of Bert Jansch and soon after of Steve Jobs, already ill for some time and fronting his life with impressive dignity.

Cameron tries to talk growth in the face gloom and fear as another Peer is described as ‘…. nothing but a conman….’.  More mumblings about Pakistani cricketers, about Sarah Palin realising she is a reactionary lightweight and choosing not to stand for the presidential race, as well as the voice-overs from The Simpsons, being dumbed down to usurpers so as to save money…. Eat my shorts. At £145 pounds the proposed cost of the TV License is still great value at less than 50p a day…. for the BBC…. I would always be happy to pay more.

The Rooney family are at it again…. accused of match fixing…. you won’t get a bet on for the rugby this weekend…. maybe a little Quantitive Easing is overdue in the greed stakes…. 

Friday Night Club and some conversation about Rural Participatory Practice. You have got to give it to Gareth, he certainly knows his stuff. Andy and Tracy B came to visit with his tales to the lads in ‘The Hand’ about his music lessons…. laugh….. what a great ruse to fool his mates…. Gareth and I discussed the value of putting your CDs in the freezer to give them a crisper sound…. We chew through the jobs issues in Caia Dark…. I was playing ‘Real Life’ by Magazine and remembered when Al McCullough went to audition for the drummers job…. Thoughts of Toddy and another reminder to myself to make some contact…. Kelly’s Heroes…. Hugh Cornwall signing a card for Shelley….

We got proper looked after by Lana and Kayleigh and had plenty of laughing gear for the weekend and more.

I drift through Saturday and Sunday in a welcome, settled foggy blur, that as always helps keep the day away. I love doing nothing…. I am a master at it. I lean in to the music again, sat at my computer and thinking of Roddy Doyle, his words making me smile as they mirror my actions.

I remember the sea, off the warm Venezuelan coast, almost a year ago already…. I was a June baby…. well, if you approximate my conception…. maybe the 16th…. it’s possible…. A Bloomsday boy….

Jon Arne has been in touch about the visit in November. I sense the sadness still in the lives of his loved ones. Amazingly, a houseplant that he and Gunnhild had bought for us during their last visit, 3/4 years ago now, had flowered again, with a visible flash of red to show itself off with.

Jan is baking again and Kian has come to play his version of helping…. he is good at the whisking but better at spoon licking…. I tell him to have the hedge-hog flavour if he wants crisps…. he is disbelieving…. We talk about Macca’s wives as news comes of 19 deaths in Cairo…. No footfall increase there…. nearly 7 billion bodies on the planet…. wow…. memories of wine mouth…. those were the days…. Paul and Nancy do the deed on the anniversary of Johns 71st…. I e-mail Rob who is working through his current bout of tolerance…. Umbilical Red.

It was Jamies birthday. I sent him a text from work and arranged to ring later. He is off for a few days…. idle talk of Hoddles resurgence…. maybe he is meeting up with Jamie for a bit off peer mentoring….. against a background of the endgame in Sirte…. Kelvin McKenzie sullies the radiowaves for a while with his putrid garbage, while the problems for the Blackberry users continue…. I rang but Jamie didn’t pick up so I left a message.

I was on duty again at work…. two referrals to do, one prison release for a quick assessment, a few prescriptions and a couple of calls. I wander over for the car and wait for Jan listening to the Radio 4 news about shadow banking…. dredging the last of the North Sea barrels.

Liam Fox resigns over the Adam Werritty affair…. one V sign away from the truth…. Peter Allen again, nosing in the respective troughs…. good man.

Father Andrew, Rob and Kev, as well as the usual regulars showed up for the Friday Night Club…. Andy and Kev had never met and I was as surprised as anyone could be…. Bog introduced his anamorphic distortions and between cups of tea he propounded his ideas…. I sang through the melodies I had written for Rob for his instrumental, Winter. He seemed to like it and we laughed at his cool, Fleet Fox image…. I had been hoping for an early night as we were off for a days Guinness to Liverpool in the morning…. but no chance. It’s 3.30am when I fall into bed.

The day in Liverpool was superb. We have had a number of jaunts in recent years with various friends and loved ones. With Alan and Audrey, together with Kim and Andy we have had some real crackers.

We met up at ‘The Wheatsheaf’ in EP, our local and the home of past glories, now thankfully a Weatherspoons. We have left the car with the folks on a promise to return sometime near to midnight. The number of other, closed and boarded up establishments that have fared worse is a matter of sadness. After a full breakfast we take the train from Overpool to James Street, steering clear of the early football traffic in town and heading for some early refreshment in ‘The Pumphouse’ in the Albert Dock. The sun is warm and the air is still, with barely a breeze from The Mersey and the seemingly endless early Autumn days are full of life; shadows and light. We catch up with each other over a few cask, together with a mix of halves of Guinness and lager and limes. We pass through ‘The Crocodile Bar’ somewhat quickly in deference to the company. Three Blues, stuck in a quagmire of red shirts. On to the ‘White Star’ for the late kick off against Chelski. Even the doughnuts that we buy in Matthew Street can’t shake our disappointment at the result. We grab a burger at McDonalds, thanks to a triage arrangement that helps manage the queue and sit outside ‘The Beehive’ before heading up to the ‘Hanover Hotel’, an old favourite that never fails to please. It is busy in the way that hotel bars always are and we adjourn to ‘The Central’ and in turn ‘The Midland’, before heading for the last train.

We are full of the laughter and happiness that friends can bring with them. Together with the memories that they continue to leave us with.

We get talking to a young lad on the train, Sean, who must have been about 15. He is a diamond and we talk through our madness before he gets off at Spital.

We say our goodbyes as the rest of the crew grab a taxi and we head to see the folks, where we sit up talking and laughing and reminiscing until about 4.00am and ease our way into my old bedroom, full of the ghosts who finally tuck us safely to sleep.

We head for some lunch to toast a belated birthday to Dad and after a misfire at the ‘Hooton Arms’ head for ‘The Chimneys’. I have been past it hundreds of times and wish now that I had ventured through its doors sooner. Chicken, both Hunters and Shropshire Blue Cheese, Gammon for Dad and Beef and Ale pie for Mum…. it really hit the spot. Washed down with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon with sweets and coffee to taste it is magnificent.

We say our goodbyes after dropping them off and strike out for the border to Wild Wales.

We get back in time for a chilled evening before heading back to work. There are armed police in Tan Y Dre, dealing with a domestic but they are just out of sight from behind the blinds in the front window…. the back plate of a Police car has been set on fire with lighter gas by a couple of bystanders…. cheeky bastards have got some front these days. Edwina is on the radio, trying to defend herself against her indifference to poverty…. I soothed myself with a recent purchase, an architecture book about Liverpool buildings. I am instantly sucked in to a world that I will never know but equally, that I have known all my life. The ongoing Hillsborough enquiry reveals news that cabinet papers are to be released. A pyrrhic victory for now. 

News that Immigration numbers are to fall coincides, as these things do, with the unveiling of a new statue to Martin Luther King. Protests continue in cities all over the world about the austerity measures, the bankers and Capitalism generally.

Wales dared to dream…. better luck next time boyos.

Dale Farm and the Miners deaths in Swansea fuel the the news…. Peter Hain demands more emergency provision for face workers. There is an unusual perspective doing the rounds that Vincent Van Gogh  may have been shot by someone other than himself. The Palestinians and Israel prepare to swap prisoners…. 1,000 to 1, pretty good odds…. Fox allows that some inappropriate blurring may have taken place…. the Booker nominees are dreading being seen as too readable.

They are kicking the statues in Sirte…. Gaddafi is dead…. murdered in the street…. Cameron describes it as great day for the Libyan People.

I had been to see Doctor O in Occupational Health as a 12 month follow up to being back at work full time. He was a decent man and kindly excused my lateness. I had mixed up the time and instead of standing outside consuming cigarettes I should have been at my appointment. All’s well. In his words, stopping smoking is a no brainer…. 50% reduction in associated risks within 12 months. I determined to stop, maybe next Monday…. maybe. I thought of Alan Carrs’ book on stopping smoking. Chapter 11 – The good things about smoking – The page was blank.

My external hard drive, containing all of my music folders takes a tumble courtesy of a snagged lead and a clumsy shoe. I am gutted, I can’t get it to work…. I try it again but nothing, not a bar. Just a worrying beep. Saturday I spend at home chuckling to myself as Clint swears at the FIFA game on the TV…. Gaddafi is in a freezer in a supermarket like some ghoulish variation of a fairground attraction.

I try to have a tidy up of the papers, I make a better fist of throwing them out than Oliver Letwin does…. they are in a neat pile by my side at my end of the kitchen table. I am idly absorbing the click and whirr of the news…. the protesters at St. Pauls are making their so far peaceful mark and the Health and Social Care Bill gets tucked up for bed with some rubbish about choosing your own consultants.

Kian comes baking again as news breaks of the earthquake in Turkey. Poor souls, with no bed to call their own and the dead being pulled from between the slabs of prefabricated concrete.

They are calling it the Official Liberation of Libya…. an Arab Spring full of wretched grief…. a terrible beauty of its own.

Stephen Nolan questions the protesters around St. Pauls Cathedral, enquiring as to what they are complaining about…. playing the devil again. A fireman, Cockney Charlie, describes his anger, “… People are sick and tired of top down politics…”.

Heavy rain falling over Wicklow and Dublin, drenching the fields and turning the roads into rivers. I think of McGuinness and Michael D and the recent Presidential elections. He is very small apparently.

I am sitting at the kitchen table, two days into a tobacco free life, with every synapse screaming at me for nicotine. The binmen were the first to get a tongue lashing, just this morning. Lazy bastards leave more mess than they take with them. And they couldn’t take the newspapers because the bag contained the wrong type of cardboard. They wouldn’t have made it down the path in the old days when they had to lug a big stainless steel bin around. Idle fuckers. Janet rings to remind me to take the peppered steaks out of the freezer. She is working late. There is enough bits left in the various boxes for me to make a funny fag and I suck the fumes deep into my lungs. Smoking is a beautiful curse all the same.

The Eurozone is at deadlock with the Italian lads fighting in parliament as they fail to reach any austerity agreements. Greece is almost in ruins…. and the French and the Germans bide their time, waiting for each other at every turn in the road. The referendum vote identifies 80 or more dissenters and Cameron is cornered. Too many to punish and too few to really matter.

Bring on the bitterness.

Joel calls down for the first time in a while. We have bypassed each other here and there these last few weeks, through work or life or anything else that seems to get in the way. We mull through his recent promotion and then throw around our thoughts on the often thankless task of managing a team of dispirate individuals. I direct him towards some Group Work principles. Wiki has a decent page but try also http://www.infed.org/groupwork/

We make some plans for trying to meet up in November, to finish off some ideas for new tunes. Old tunes actually, a few cover songs if we can manage it.

I watch a little TV. Joanna, fronting a piece about Crete mentions the ‘wine dark sea’. I am reminded of Joyce who described it as the ‘scrotum tightening sea’. The news spits an item about Tevez, fined four weeks wages….£800,000. I make a quick calculation based on net allowances for my own paid employment. It would take me approximately 32 years to earn that. Obscene. I put my headphones on and play a little Pete Townshend. ‘I’m the One’ hits the spot and I take to my bed.

The resignation comes from St Pauls. Poor Giles. A raw deal over the politics of people and the visibility of the tentage in the grounds of the cathedral. This is one to run and run I think to myself.

I head to the Warfarin clinic and ease through the afternoon before Friday Night Club. It is quieter than usual in respect and memory of Cath, our neighbour who has passed away. I saw her daughters outside the doors as I got to the hospital, talking into their mobiles with tears staining their red faces in the afternoon sun. Amanda called, along with The Bogster of course, as well as Jordan and a surprise visit from Bryn. Lana and the kids, along with Elika and Tash readied themselves for a fancy dress party to celebrate Halloween. They would have been quicker on brooms as they managed to get themselves lost as usual. Amazing. We sat and talked above the noise of the soaps and finally the radio. Thank heavens. James called, Cath’s son. It was the first time I had known him to be in the house. Lovely lad, lovely family, always polite and courteous and would never pass you. God Bless.

I put myself through the usual pain by watching my beloved Blues, up from my bed in time for the midday kick off.

Ah well.

Janet has opened an account with Bet 365 and we huddle around the scores hoping for the right results. Jamie and Clint usually go to town on Saturday morning and put the bets on for her. She has put a tenner in the kitty but the two lines on the virtual coupon come to nothing. She quietly blames me. She will be betting on the outsiders at Wincanton on a rainy Tuesday afternoon next.

News arrives of the death of Jimmy Saville, disturbing our memories of guys and gals and clunk click and how Jim could fix it for everyone.

Joey is coming to stay, while Joel and Tina have a well earned night off and head for the cinema. Kian stays to keep him company but the little fella denies any thoughts of sleep to himself, preferring tunnels and lollipops and conkers.

Kev and Tracy arrive with bags of Indian delectables from the ASDA and we set the oven controls to heart of the sun. With a few glasses of wine we are at our best with the banter. We reminisce about Jimmy Saville and Kev concocts a glorious story about Saturday night TV with Brucie hosting a joint rolling sketch for the Generation Game, with Howard Marks as referee. I swear I was crying with the laughter. We toast the proposed Easter nuptials and I allow myself a huge relapse on the smoking front between trick and treaters knocking on the door. Bryn calls again and we share the last of the drink before heading to bed just after 1.00am.

We’ve got big plans that don’t include you.

With the clocks about to go back, we borrow an extra hour of the life we are due and wake up on Sunday time, hoping for it to go by a little more slowly than usual.

More ‘graves’ are found in Libya and no-one knows who the ‘rebels’ are any more. British succession makes the news again and one of the old guard from Saudi shuffles away to make way for an older brother. Another member of the Bletchley Park crew passes on, that’s three this year for me to know of…. details of Thatchers Peerage expenses fill my casual gaze at the Sundays…. as Martin and myself were saying about work only last week, between mouthfuls of soup and sandwiches; ‘ …. I’ll keep turning up until they start turning me away ‘.

I remember to call the folks. We had missed the visit of Kev and Rita, coming across the sea from Stavanger, Norway. Not to worry, we will meet again soon hopefully. We chat through the sketchy details…. Mums leg is still bad after a couple of falls on the pushbike…. Dad has got a touch of CPOD. He doesn’t seem unduly worried as they have sorted out his dodgy Asthma diagnosis on the back of it. He has got a new inhaler and is feeling brand new. He has nearly finished the Guralnick biography of Elvis and like me was enthralled by the madness of it all. Ten pages or so left for bedtime. We will catch up next week when we go to visit Jon Arne and his band of Vikings on their trip over to Liverpool. We will stay in EP and try to catch Jamie, Snez and Chloe for a bite to eat sometime on the Sunday. Belated birthdays. Janet is in constant touch with the girls about Christmas shopping.

I realise I have missed a call from Pete S and remind myself to ring him back.

There is talk of Cancun next year with the Reilly – Freemans. Bring it on.

Gareth arrives full of talk of Dylan and the never ending tour that he has been on, but that he continually questions actually exists. We talk of the leap of faith that we have both felt with our respective art. His Bobness has been there for me always. Like ballast, balancing my rock and roll sway. Good man.

China is looking at Europe inquisitively. Quantas strike a deal. North East America is covered in 80cm of snow. Christ, not a good sign for us.

Graham joins Giles in the list of casualties for Christopher Wrens gaff, following the first Sunday service for a week or so. Vain attempts to see off the smell of violent protest. It’s coming…. you can’t deny dialogue…. eventually. 

Welcome Back…. October 31st…. The day when the population of Planet Earth clocked up 7 Billion members…. When UNESCO allowed Palestine full membership despite the disagreements with the US and Israel…. Last day of the Month…. the official date for NATO to withdraw their services in Libya. After 26,000 sorties…. 14,000 strikes…. 5,900 targets hit and still no data yet on the extent of the casualties.

They wouldn’t have dared in Iran or Syria or North Korea or Saudi or….

NB. The version I would like is by the Benny Goodman Quartet with Victor Feldman on vibes. At 3m 25s it is as fine a piece of music as I have ever known, running ‘Monks Mood’ by Theolonius himself, a close, rare second in the variables.