Sunday morning breakfasts
From the father of the house
Family cat at the ready
To catch a straying mouse
Newspaper, fire lighters
Coal and roaring fires
Power cuts and candles
Politicians all pariahs
Comic books and Roy Race
Spangles and Radio 1
Muffins from the pie shop
Quick before they're gone!
Freezing mornings and icy windows
6 coats on the bed
Fewer cars and lots of buses
With fuel full of lead
Easter eggs with treats inside
Kind faces and generous hearts
Watching sport on the telly
Football, cricket and darts
Wacky Races, Scooby Doo
Morecambe & Wise, Starsky & Hutch
Magic Roundabout, Andy Pandy
A panda called Butch
Long hot summers and outdoor play
Grandma's shop and stew
Stanton Street and bubbling tar
Mojos and a penny chew
Best of all was Christmas Day
Unwrapping presents, an afternoon feast
Childhood happiness never surpassed
Precious memories never cease
Saturday, 18 August 2012
Friday, 17 August 2012
Crap Gang
When I was 10 years old I decided to join a gang. Well, at first there was only one other kid in my gang so we were a 2 strong gang. You may think that doesn't constitute a gang but technically you can have a 2 boy gang. We got ourselves tooled up with packets of Spangles and Sherbert Fountains, then commenced a recruitment campaign amongst our mates.
We eventually became a 5 strong gang and named ourselves "SCRAP". We got this inspiration from the group ABBA by naming it after the first initial of all our first names so, as well as me, there was Sean, Rob, Alan and Phil. There was only really one criteria for joining our gang and that was you had to be soft as shite.
The initiation ceremony for each member took place in our local park. You had to prove that you could eat 4 rounds of meat paste butties in one go without being sick. Once you got past this stage you commanded huge respect and were guaranteed to fit in. We terrorised our local communities with activities like walking through their streets holding a football on the way to the football pitch in the park, walking on cracks in the pavement, stroking cats, talking to each other above a whisper in each others houses and other such roguish behaviour.
On one particular night (well it may have been about 6.30pm as we all had to be in for no later than 8pm) we made a "den" out of some branches and a few loose bricks on some waste ground. As we talked in hushed tones about our next proposed daring deed (playing cricket WITHOUT pads on) we abandoned our den as several other gangs (slightly tougher than ours) had walked past laughing and pointing at us.
Eventually, Sean grew some balls and left the gang after a power struggle one night over who was going to eat the last Custard Cream. This meant we had to change the name of the gang so I had the bright idea of saying "why bother changing the whole name? we can just take Sean out of it". This meant that from then on our gang was called "CRAP".
We continued not getting into trouble and being outrageously polite to our parents for the next year or so then decided to disband our gang. We finished as we had started by all completing our homework on time.
We eventually became a 5 strong gang and named ourselves "SCRAP". We got this inspiration from the group ABBA by naming it after the first initial of all our first names so, as well as me, there was Sean, Rob, Alan and Phil. There was only really one criteria for joining our gang and that was you had to be soft as shite.
The initiation ceremony for each member took place in our local park. You had to prove that you could eat 4 rounds of meat paste butties in one go without being sick. Once you got past this stage you commanded huge respect and were guaranteed to fit in. We terrorised our local communities with activities like walking through their streets holding a football on the way to the football pitch in the park, walking on cracks in the pavement, stroking cats, talking to each other above a whisper in each others houses and other such roguish behaviour.
On one particular night (well it may have been about 6.30pm as we all had to be in for no later than 8pm) we made a "den" out of some branches and a few loose bricks on some waste ground. As we talked in hushed tones about our next proposed daring deed (playing cricket WITHOUT pads on) we abandoned our den as several other gangs (slightly tougher than ours) had walked past laughing and pointing at us.
Eventually, Sean grew some balls and left the gang after a power struggle one night over who was going to eat the last Custard Cream. This meant we had to change the name of the gang so I had the bright idea of saying "why bother changing the whole name? we can just take Sean out of it". This meant that from then on our gang was called "CRAP".
We continued not getting into trouble and being outrageously polite to our parents for the next year or so then decided to disband our gang. We finished as we had started by all completing our homework on time.
Thursday, 16 August 2012
Oasis - 1993, Manchester University
In music terms the early 1990s were, for me, all about alternative rock or what became known as "Grunge". The most groundbreaking band of this era were, in my opinion, The Pixies. They were hugely influential for Nirvana etc. However, my "Nirvana moment" came when I saw Kurt, Krist and Dave performing "Smells Like Teen Spirit" on The Word one Friday night in 1991. I was hooked immediately and, of course, they became the band that opened the floodgates for all the other successful alternative rock bands of the time.
The "Madchester" scene was dying a death with the implosion of The Stone Roses and the time was right for a changing of the guard. I was only ever an onlooker to that scene anyway. I never really got into any of the "baggy" stuff. I was the right age to be taken in by it but it just never felt right for me. The dance fusion element to a lot of it never appealed to me as I was (and still am) an unashamed first and foremost guitar driven rock music fan.
Anyway, by 1993 American alternative rock had blown away most other forms of guitar based music in the UK and was very much in vogue. Nirvana's In Utero had just been released and there was no let up in the explosion of copyist bands achieving success. In the middle of all this I agreed to go and see a jangly guitar band from Burnley called The Milltown Bothers at the Academy 3 on Oxford Road in Manchester (small-ish room in Manchester University). They were never really "Madchester" but their sound was similar to The Charlatans and others. They had released one decent album and it was a cheap ticket on a midweek night so I went along with a couple of others.
We got there very early. After a couple of pints the support band came on. They started playing to a room of no more than 50 people including my 2 associates and I. The lead singer appeared to me to be an Ian Brown(Stone Roses) clone. They were playing what sounded like badly out of tune Happy Mondays throwaways. The assembled few were far from impressed and each song ended with a few muted claps. After about 10 minutes I'd seen/heard enough so retired to the bar area for some respite. 20 minutes or so later the strangled, nasal Mancunian voice of the lead singer mumbled something about The Beatles, then they started playing a version of "I Am The Walrus". There was much discontent among the people around me with remarks such as "This is dreadful" "I've never heard this song slaughtered like this before". I didn't even bother to look at my ticket to see what they were called.
After they shambled off, the audience were pleased to see The Milltown Brothers and they put in a decent performance but it felt like they knew the stuff they were playing was not currently popular and the audience, of now around 200, were polite but never really got into the show. I made my way home thinking it was an average night but I could have done with missing that crap support band.
Around a year later, I was getting my regular Friday night fix of the ground-breaking early 1990s show, The Word, when presenter Terry Christian introduced a band who were, in his words, "City fans but I won't hold that against them". This got my attention and as they started playing I thought they looked familiar from somewhere. After 3 or 4 minutes it dawned on me. "I don't believe it, I think this is that crap band I saw supporting The Milltown Brothers last year" I think I said to no one in particular. At the end Christian gave their name as "Oasis". Well, it's at this point that I will confess I am a concert ticket geek and save all my tickets no matter what the night was like. The following day I rummaged around my concert ticket box (how sad is this? I really DO have a concert ticket box) and found my Milltown Brothers ticket from the previous year. It read "Milltown Brothers" in large letters then underneath in much smaller letters "supported by Oasis". Yes, I wonder whatever happened to them?
Footnote: The Oasis performance I witnessed was prior to Noel Gallagher joining them.
The "Madchester" scene was dying a death with the implosion of The Stone Roses and the time was right for a changing of the guard. I was only ever an onlooker to that scene anyway. I never really got into any of the "baggy" stuff. I was the right age to be taken in by it but it just never felt right for me. The dance fusion element to a lot of it never appealed to me as I was (and still am) an unashamed first and foremost guitar driven rock music fan.
Anyway, by 1993 American alternative rock had blown away most other forms of guitar based music in the UK and was very much in vogue. Nirvana's In Utero had just been released and there was no let up in the explosion of copyist bands achieving success. In the middle of all this I agreed to go and see a jangly guitar band from Burnley called The Milltown Bothers at the Academy 3 on Oxford Road in Manchester (small-ish room in Manchester University). They were never really "Madchester" but their sound was similar to The Charlatans and others. They had released one decent album and it was a cheap ticket on a midweek night so I went along with a couple of others.
We got there very early. After a couple of pints the support band came on. They started playing to a room of no more than 50 people including my 2 associates and I. The lead singer appeared to me to be an Ian Brown(Stone Roses) clone. They were playing what sounded like badly out of tune Happy Mondays throwaways. The assembled few were far from impressed and each song ended with a few muted claps. After about 10 minutes I'd seen/heard enough so retired to the bar area for some respite. 20 minutes or so later the strangled, nasal Mancunian voice of the lead singer mumbled something about The Beatles, then they started playing a version of "I Am The Walrus". There was much discontent among the people around me with remarks such as "This is dreadful" "I've never heard this song slaughtered like this before". I didn't even bother to look at my ticket to see what they were called.
After they shambled off, the audience were pleased to see The Milltown Brothers and they put in a decent performance but it felt like they knew the stuff they were playing was not currently popular and the audience, of now around 200, were polite but never really got into the show. I made my way home thinking it was an average night but I could have done with missing that crap support band.
Around a year later, I was getting my regular Friday night fix of the ground-breaking early 1990s show, The Word, when presenter Terry Christian introduced a band who were, in his words, "City fans but I won't hold that against them". This got my attention and as they started playing I thought they looked familiar from somewhere. After 3 or 4 minutes it dawned on me. "I don't believe it, I think this is that crap band I saw supporting The Milltown Brothers last year" I think I said to no one in particular. At the end Christian gave their name as "Oasis". Well, it's at this point that I will confess I am a concert ticket geek and save all my tickets no matter what the night was like. The following day I rummaged around my concert ticket box (how sad is this? I really DO have a concert ticket box) and found my Milltown Brothers ticket from the previous year. It read "Milltown Brothers" in large letters then underneath in much smaller letters "supported by Oasis". Yes, I wonder whatever happened to them?
Footnote: The Oasis performance I witnessed was prior to Noel Gallagher joining them.
The Psycho Surgeons
In my late teens and throughout my 20s I attended more gigs than I can now remember. My preferred choice of music ranged from Rock through to all kinds of Alternative bands. Most of these were best seen live as their studio work usually didn't do them justice.
Venues attended included Manchester Apollo; International 1 & 2; Academy; Manchester University; Roadhouse; (original) Band on the Wall amongst many others. Less frequently, festivals and football stadiums were also visited for the more mainstream acts such as Pink Floyd; Deep Purple; Ozzy Osbourne; AC/DC etc.
The Witchwood in Ashton under Lyne has always been a favourite. When I first attended this venue in the late 80s it was then a pub called The Gamecock. The pub hosted live bands on a regular basis. It became so popular that it was transformed into a bespoke music venue. The room at the back of the pub was extended and fitted out to accommodate around 200 people. This would become the scene of many joyful nights of rapscallion behaviour.
Around 1987, The Witchwood sometimes had acts on 7 nights a week so, on the advice of a mate, I went along with him on a midweek night to see a band called The Psycho Surgeons. I didn't expect there to be much of an audience so I felt safe donning my recently purchased spectacles. They were classic 80s style i.e massive, and I also treated myself to have them tinted so I looked extra cool(?!)
We arrived there slightly later than planned so it was only around 10 minutes to show time. I couldn't believe what I saw before me. The place was packed and it was an almighty struggle just to get to the bar for a drink. Seemingly, the band had a large cult following that I was previously unaware of. We managed to squeeze in to the bar area and wedged ourselves against the bar itself. The room was clearly overcrowded. As the band came on the audience went nuts. They were a 4 piece band and the drummer, bassist and lead guitarist started the intro to one of their crazed songs. I gripped my pint closely to my chest as the moshing had started already and had even extended to where I was standing.
The lead singer emerged and the delirium in front of me went up another notch. He was dressed in a full surgeons gown complete with mask and hair net (hence the name of the band!). He leapt around the small stage for a few minutes, whilst the band played behind him, then ripped off his mask and hair net to reveal outrageously long hair, then screamed his vocals into the microphone which brought about another crowd surge. I had not seen anything like this live before. It was truly insane. Over the next few songs his gown also came off leaving him bare chested.
Around 4 or 5 songs in, out of nowhere, a huge settee cushion appeared in the audience in front of me. The ceiling was very low at this time in the concert room so the crowd surfers literally had their hands on the ceiling while this cushion was flung around the heads of the crowd ahead. It was hilarious to view so I just laughed along with everyone else. Suddenly, the cushion was hurled in my direction. I saw it too late and it caught me full on the side of the head. This resulted in my expensive specs flinging off my face and into the crowd around me. The audience were packed like sardines and were crowd surfing and moshing like there was no tomorrow. I quickly started pushing and shoving those around me to locate my glasses but knew deep down it was a forlorn hope.
Eventually, the chaos in front of me relented for a minute so I was able to bend down and search the floor. I found the remnants of what were my pride and joy in several smashed, crushed pieces on the floor. I was devastated. My mate was laughing his head off but my sense of humour had exited stage left. The enormity of my situation dawned on me very quickly. Firstly, I could not now see the band and, more importantly, these were my only pair of glasses which meant I could not drive to work the following morning. At this point I lost the plot and told my mate I was going home as my night was ruined. The following day I had to take the day off work to procure an emergency pair of glasses.
I learnt a harsh lesson on this night and never again would I wear glasses so see bands such as these. I have never worn contact lenses either so there have been a lot of bands I have seen as kind of blurry outlines!
Venues attended included Manchester Apollo; International 1 & 2; Academy; Manchester University; Roadhouse; (original) Band on the Wall amongst many others. Less frequently, festivals and football stadiums were also visited for the more mainstream acts such as Pink Floyd; Deep Purple; Ozzy Osbourne; AC/DC etc.
The Witchwood in Ashton under Lyne has always been a favourite. When I first attended this venue in the late 80s it was then a pub called The Gamecock. The pub hosted live bands on a regular basis. It became so popular that it was transformed into a bespoke music venue. The room at the back of the pub was extended and fitted out to accommodate around 200 people. This would become the scene of many joyful nights of rapscallion behaviour.
Around 1987, The Witchwood sometimes had acts on 7 nights a week so, on the advice of a mate, I went along with him on a midweek night to see a band called The Psycho Surgeons. I didn't expect there to be much of an audience so I felt safe donning my recently purchased spectacles. They were classic 80s style i.e massive, and I also treated myself to have them tinted so I looked extra cool(?!)
We arrived there slightly later than planned so it was only around 10 minutes to show time. I couldn't believe what I saw before me. The place was packed and it was an almighty struggle just to get to the bar for a drink. Seemingly, the band had a large cult following that I was previously unaware of. We managed to squeeze in to the bar area and wedged ourselves against the bar itself. The room was clearly overcrowded. As the band came on the audience went nuts. They were a 4 piece band and the drummer, bassist and lead guitarist started the intro to one of their crazed songs. I gripped my pint closely to my chest as the moshing had started already and had even extended to where I was standing.
The lead singer emerged and the delirium in front of me went up another notch. He was dressed in a full surgeons gown complete with mask and hair net (hence the name of the band!). He leapt around the small stage for a few minutes, whilst the band played behind him, then ripped off his mask and hair net to reveal outrageously long hair, then screamed his vocals into the microphone which brought about another crowd surge. I had not seen anything like this live before. It was truly insane. Over the next few songs his gown also came off leaving him bare chested.
Around 4 or 5 songs in, out of nowhere, a huge settee cushion appeared in the audience in front of me. The ceiling was very low at this time in the concert room so the crowd surfers literally had their hands on the ceiling while this cushion was flung around the heads of the crowd ahead. It was hilarious to view so I just laughed along with everyone else. Suddenly, the cushion was hurled in my direction. I saw it too late and it caught me full on the side of the head. This resulted in my expensive specs flinging off my face and into the crowd around me. The audience were packed like sardines and were crowd surfing and moshing like there was no tomorrow. I quickly started pushing and shoving those around me to locate my glasses but knew deep down it was a forlorn hope.
Eventually, the chaos in front of me relented for a minute so I was able to bend down and search the floor. I found the remnants of what were my pride and joy in several smashed, crushed pieces on the floor. I was devastated. My mate was laughing his head off but my sense of humour had exited stage left. The enormity of my situation dawned on me very quickly. Firstly, I could not now see the band and, more importantly, these were my only pair of glasses which meant I could not drive to work the following morning. At this point I lost the plot and told my mate I was going home as my night was ruined. The following day I had to take the day off work to procure an emergency pair of glasses.
I learnt a harsh lesson on this night and never again would I wear glasses so see bands such as these. I have never worn contact lenses either so there have been a lot of bands I have seen as kind of blurry outlines!
Wednesday, 15 August 2012
James Stannage & James H. Reeve
Most "talk" radio has become dull and uninspired. The robotic presenters all appear to read from the same script with all the charisma of a dying slug. In the social media age it's now a procession of "text in with this", "email that" or "Gary Gobshite has tweeted such and such brainless tripe". The modern style of presenting has become lazy. Press a few buttons, or touch a screen and get the listeners to do all the work. The commercial stations are interspersed with mind numbing adverts and on the BBC network the eternal advertising of future predictable, boring drivel.
BBC Radio 4 is one of the few exceptions that does still broadcast programmes which have some value and are worth a listen. BBC Radio 5Live's exception is the World Football Phone-in which is tucked away from 2am-4am every Saturday morning (available later via Podcast). Dotun Adebayo is a very talented presenter and Tim Vickery's contributions are intelligent, knowledgeable and forthright.
TalkSport(TalkShit) is one of the worst offenders. Ex-footballers preaching to the listener about sports they clearly know nothing about. I no longer listen to this station at all and would rather hand wash a pair of underpants found in a skip than sit through half an hour of Alan Brazil telling everyone who he was brown- nosing the night before.
So this brings me on to the legend of talk radio, the incomparable James Stannage. The only other presenter to ever run him close is James H Reeve. Reeve's curmudgeonly, lugubrious style was wonderful to listen to but you always got the impression he genuinely wasn't enjoying having to take calls from your average moron so he seemed to become more and more depressed to the point where it badly affected his shows. James H. appears to have retired from the talk scene now, which is a great loss, but I'm sure his reasons were the right ones for him.
Anyway, I digress, so back to Stannage. I first heard him on the radio back in the 1970s on Manchester's Piccadilly Radio. I shared a bedroom with 4 older brothers and Stannage had a stint as a late night host for a few years. I was only very young and didn't really understand how unique he was for the times. His show was ground breaking for the UK as calling listeners "boring morons" etc had never been heard on the radio before. He was already a legend in our bedroom. He furthered his career in the USA amongst other places then came back to local radio around 1989/1990, this time on Piccadilly Magic as it was then called. I was very excited about this at the time as I had now grown up, of course, and the anticipation of what his show would be like was palpable.
The first year or so saw his delivery slightly more subdued than I had remembered him. He broadcast from 10pm-2am. In the first hour of his show he invited listeners to ring in with their best jokes. This was all a bit hit and miss. The following 3 hours tended to be more serious debate with plenty of time given to some callers that didn't really have that much to say. I carried on listening every night though as this was still more entertaining than any other late night radio programme on at that time. He gradually procured a few regular callers who tended to play devil's advocate, so it started to become more like his show of old again.
Around Christmas 1994 I rang in to talk to him about how the DE-regulation of the bus network under Thatcher many years previously continued to adversely affected services around Greater Manchester. I didn't have a car at that time and was struggling to get to work on the bus. He gave me around 5 minutes on air during which time he accused me of not having a brain for not advertising my plight on the work's noticeboard. I loved every second of it. He gradually became more reckless in his shows and was regularly getting into trouble with the authorities for some of his remarks to callers. This all added to the edginess of his show and by the late 90s his show was unmissable. I remember my opening line to people in work most mornings had become "Did you listen to Stannage last night ?!".
He was taken off the air under more controversy then re-emerged on Key 103, Manchester's "premier" FM radio station. This appeared to be a ploy to attract a younger audience who would be more suited to his style. It definitely worked. I now had people 10 or 15 years my junior asking me if I had listened to Stannage the night before. His shows from this time have now become YouTube hits and for a few years in the early 2000s his shows were the most cutting edge, controversial, unpredictable and at times truly shocking broadcasts on any outlet in this country. There followed some copyists on other stations but no-one could rival Stannage. His insults were legendary and he told moronic callers exactly what needed saying to them; be they chav; scrote; racist etc.
He was eventually taken off air again for overstepping the mark (I heard this broadcast and agreed with his argument but his choice of words were ill-advised) and he has been off mainstream radio ever since. He is still a man-about-town and has had an online show but I believe he still deserves a bigger stage.
This brings me back to my main point. Talk radio now is designed to be dull and bland and the James Stannage's of this world won't be "risked" by faceless suits in the upper echelons of broadcasting. The world of radio is a much poorer place for it. However, even if James Stannage never broadcast again, his status as a truly legendary icon of radio is set in stone.
BBC Radio 4 is one of the few exceptions that does still broadcast programmes which have some value and are worth a listen. BBC Radio 5Live's exception is the World Football Phone-in which is tucked away from 2am-4am every Saturday morning (available later via Podcast). Dotun Adebayo is a very talented presenter and Tim Vickery's contributions are intelligent, knowledgeable and forthright.
TalkSport(TalkShit) is one of the worst offenders. Ex-footballers preaching to the listener about sports they clearly know nothing about. I no longer listen to this station at all and would rather hand wash a pair of underpants found in a skip than sit through half an hour of Alan Brazil telling everyone who he was brown- nosing the night before.
So this brings me on to the legend of talk radio, the incomparable James Stannage. The only other presenter to ever run him close is James H Reeve. Reeve's curmudgeonly, lugubrious style was wonderful to listen to but you always got the impression he genuinely wasn't enjoying having to take calls from your average moron so he seemed to become more and more depressed to the point where it badly affected his shows. James H. appears to have retired from the talk scene now, which is a great loss, but I'm sure his reasons were the right ones for him.
Anyway, I digress, so back to Stannage. I first heard him on the radio back in the 1970s on Manchester's Piccadilly Radio. I shared a bedroom with 4 older brothers and Stannage had a stint as a late night host for a few years. I was only very young and didn't really understand how unique he was for the times. His show was ground breaking for the UK as calling listeners "boring morons" etc had never been heard on the radio before. He was already a legend in our bedroom. He furthered his career in the USA amongst other places then came back to local radio around 1989/1990, this time on Piccadilly Magic as it was then called. I was very excited about this at the time as I had now grown up, of course, and the anticipation of what his show would be like was palpable.
The first year or so saw his delivery slightly more subdued than I had remembered him. He broadcast from 10pm-2am. In the first hour of his show he invited listeners to ring in with their best jokes. This was all a bit hit and miss. The following 3 hours tended to be more serious debate with plenty of time given to some callers that didn't really have that much to say. I carried on listening every night though as this was still more entertaining than any other late night radio programme on at that time. He gradually procured a few regular callers who tended to play devil's advocate, so it started to become more like his show of old again.
Around Christmas 1994 I rang in to talk to him about how the DE-regulation of the bus network under Thatcher many years previously continued to adversely affected services around Greater Manchester. I didn't have a car at that time and was struggling to get to work on the bus. He gave me around 5 minutes on air during which time he accused me of not having a brain for not advertising my plight on the work's noticeboard. I loved every second of it. He gradually became more reckless in his shows and was regularly getting into trouble with the authorities for some of his remarks to callers. This all added to the edginess of his show and by the late 90s his show was unmissable. I remember my opening line to people in work most mornings had become "Did you listen to Stannage last night ?!".
He was taken off the air under more controversy then re-emerged on Key 103, Manchester's "premier" FM radio station. This appeared to be a ploy to attract a younger audience who would be more suited to his style. It definitely worked. I now had people 10 or 15 years my junior asking me if I had listened to Stannage the night before. His shows from this time have now become YouTube hits and for a few years in the early 2000s his shows were the most cutting edge, controversial, unpredictable and at times truly shocking broadcasts on any outlet in this country. There followed some copyists on other stations but no-one could rival Stannage. His insults were legendary and he told moronic callers exactly what needed saying to them; be they chav; scrote; racist etc.
He was eventually taken off air again for overstepping the mark (I heard this broadcast and agreed with his argument but his choice of words were ill-advised) and he has been off mainstream radio ever since. He is still a man-about-town and has had an online show but I believe he still deserves a bigger stage.
This brings me back to my main point. Talk radio now is designed to be dull and bland and the James Stannage's of this world won't be "risked" by faceless suits in the upper echelons of broadcasting. The world of radio is a much poorer place for it. However, even if James Stannage never broadcast again, his status as a truly legendary icon of radio is set in stone.
Living in the 23rd Century with Shobna Gulati
I've listened to other people sharing their dream stories down the years and more often than not they are as entertaining as a dentist's waiting room for the listener. With this in mind, bear with me as I will try and make it as captivating as possible
For those not familiar with the name Shobna Gulati, she is a very talented British born actress of Indian heritage who has worked on TV and in the theatre but last night Shobna and I partied together in the distant future. When I say distant, I mean REALLY distant as I estimated the year to be sometime in the 23rd century.
We may have been a celebrity couple in the 23rd century but the media were still coining their phrases so we were known as "Chribna". The world had evolved to the point where there were no cars, just an intricate network of pathways in the sky that transferred passengers to their destinations by a few clicks on their futuristic wristbands.
We lived together in a sprawling apartment, most of which was taken up by Shobna's clothes and shoes. We had been invited to yet another celebrity party. In the dream she was a bit diva-ish.. Each outfit she was trying on became increasingly inappropriate. There were no 50 Shades of Grey undertones here (why would there be as it would have been a 200 year old film) I was just annoyed that she was inevitably going to be the centre of attention again and her scantily dressed appearance would be available to view on every pubescent teenage boy's 23rd century wristwatch. This made me feel understandably uncomfortable.
We made our way onto the first class Skypath (a 23rd century mode of transport), then arrived at the party in seconds, even though it was at the other end of the country. Shobna got rather "tipsy" as I sipped an "every fruit in the world" organic drink. I could hear all the other women bitching about her enviable figure and many of the male guests were trying to chat her up . After a while I became even more frustrated with her and left her to her own devices.
Later in the evening my brother turned up at the party so I reached into my coat pocket and produced a pack of playing cards whereupon we played Pontoon until the early hours....then I woke up. End of dream
For those not familiar with the name Shobna Gulati, she is a very talented British born actress of Indian heritage who has worked on TV and in the theatre but last night Shobna and I partied together in the distant future. When I say distant, I mean REALLY distant as I estimated the year to be sometime in the 23rd century.
We may have been a celebrity couple in the 23rd century but the media were still coining their phrases so we were known as "Chribna". The world had evolved to the point where there were no cars, just an intricate network of pathways in the sky that transferred passengers to their destinations by a few clicks on their futuristic wristbands.
We lived together in a sprawling apartment, most of which was taken up by Shobna's clothes and shoes. We had been invited to yet another celebrity party. In the dream she was a bit diva-ish.. Each outfit she was trying on became increasingly inappropriate. There were no 50 Shades of Grey undertones here (why would there be as it would have been a 200 year old film) I was just annoyed that she was inevitably going to be the centre of attention again and her scantily dressed appearance would be available to view on every pubescent teenage boy's 23rd century wristwatch. This made me feel understandably uncomfortable.
We made our way onto the first class Skypath (a 23rd century mode of transport), then arrived at the party in seconds, even though it was at the other end of the country. Shobna got rather "tipsy" as I sipped an "every fruit in the world" organic drink. I could hear all the other women bitching about her enviable figure and many of the male guests were trying to chat her up . After a while I became even more frustrated with her and left her to her own devices.
Later in the evening my brother turned up at the party so I reached into my coat pocket and produced a pack of playing cards whereupon we played Pontoon until the early hours....then I woke up. End of dream
Tuesday, 14 August 2012
Mo Farah - Britain's Greatest Distance Runner
Mo Farah first came to my attention during 2010 at the European Athletics Championships. I have never followed athletics particularly closely outside the major events but watched a bit more of these games than I usually would have.
I didn't even see a complete race of his but did catch an interview with him after one race. I was immediately impressed with his humility, honesty and totally natural demeanour. He just came across as a really likeable bloke. From this point on I have followed his career and had already looked into his background some time before his career highlight (so far!) moments of glory in the last few weeks (August 2012)
For those that are unaware of his upbringing he came to Britain with his British born father when he was 8 years old from that most troubled African country of Somalia. He spoke no English on arrival and his preferred sport at this time was football. His turn of speed caught the eye and over time with help and guidance he turned his focus to athletics. His upbringing and early childhood had ingrained in him a trait to be grateful and thankful for a talent that he would not waste and one which he would devote his future to.
His Muslim faith lent itself well to his lifestyle and development in the most demanding of sporting fields that is distance running and his rise to the top of this nation's consciousness was complete on the evening of Saturday 11 August 2012. I grew up in the Coe/Ovett and Daley Thompson era of athletics but never have I willed an athlete over the line with such emotion and enthusiasm as I did in the 5000m on that Saturday evening. It was a truly remarkable sporting moment and re-invented my faith in humanity that it is possible to reach the pinnacle of your chosen sport from the most under-privileged of starts in life. No one of his generation born in this country can truly understand what he has overcome to reach that moment at the end of the 5000m. Obviously, this made it all the more special.
Mo Farah is now 29 years old and it's thought that his next goal is the marathon. If he can stay fit then with his dedication and ongoing commitment it's not beyond the realms of possibility that he could do it all again in that event. Let's hope the impending birth of his twins don't give him too many sleepless nights!
Mo Farah....we salute you !
I didn't even see a complete race of his but did catch an interview with him after one race. I was immediately impressed with his humility, honesty and totally natural demeanour. He just came across as a really likeable bloke. From this point on I have followed his career and had already looked into his background some time before his career highlight (so far!) moments of glory in the last few weeks (August 2012)
For those that are unaware of his upbringing he came to Britain with his British born father when he was 8 years old from that most troubled African country of Somalia. He spoke no English on arrival and his preferred sport at this time was football. His turn of speed caught the eye and over time with help and guidance he turned his focus to athletics. His upbringing and early childhood had ingrained in him a trait to be grateful and thankful for a talent that he would not waste and one which he would devote his future to.
His Muslim faith lent itself well to his lifestyle and development in the most demanding of sporting fields that is distance running and his rise to the top of this nation's consciousness was complete on the evening of Saturday 11 August 2012. I grew up in the Coe/Ovett and Daley Thompson era of athletics but never have I willed an athlete over the line with such emotion and enthusiasm as I did in the 5000m on that Saturday evening. It was a truly remarkable sporting moment and re-invented my faith in humanity that it is possible to reach the pinnacle of your chosen sport from the most under-privileged of starts in life. No one of his generation born in this country can truly understand what he has overcome to reach that moment at the end of the 5000m. Obviously, this made it all the more special.
Mo Farah is now 29 years old and it's thought that his next goal is the marathon. If he can stay fit then with his dedication and ongoing commitment it's not beyond the realms of possibility that he could do it all again in that event. Let's hope the impending birth of his twins don't give him too many sleepless nights!
Mo Farah....we salute you !
Monday, 13 August 2012
National Anthem
We have all heard this dirge many more times than we would normally do over the last few weeks due to the unprecedented success of the British Olympic team (or the name "Team GB" which I personally despise. It sounds made up by some corporate windbags in a meeting where everyone is "going forward" with everything). Many of the British winners have received unfair criticism from sections of the media for not heartily belting out this hopelessly outdated "anthem". The same applies to English footballers who choose not to get involved. Has it ever struck any of the blind "patriots" that some of these sports people may be atheists and/or may not be comfortable about God "saving" some privileged institution that means nothing to them and has played no part in getting them to the pinnacle of their chosen career ?
For the record I don't consider myself atheist and definitely don't want my God wasting their time "saving" monarchs, presidents or any other heads of state. Any country's national anthem which focuses on a hereditary monarchy rather than it's people, who are the lifeblood of the nation, is a deeply unhealthy one.
These Olympic games have gone some way in showing Britain to be a modern, multicultural, innovative nation. The current national anthem reflects none of that. In the 21st century the words to it sound ridiculous and belong to an age when it was perfectly acceptable for monarchs to execute their wives (let's not go down the Diana road on this post!) and persecute their "subjects" at will. It's time for change. There seems little chance of a referendum in this country on the future of the monarchy any time soon but UK "subjects" would be going some way to being dragged into the 21st century if only they would consider a new, progressive, uplifting anthem about it's multicultural nation and it's values etc.
If we can't change the head of state then at least let's change the national anthem.
For the record I don't consider myself atheist and definitely don't want my God wasting their time "saving" monarchs, presidents or any other heads of state. Any country's national anthem which focuses on a hereditary monarchy rather than it's people, who are the lifeblood of the nation, is a deeply unhealthy one.
These Olympic games have gone some way in showing Britain to be a modern, multicultural, innovative nation. The current national anthem reflects none of that. In the 21st century the words to it sound ridiculous and belong to an age when it was perfectly acceptable for monarchs to execute their wives (let's not go down the Diana road on this post!) and persecute their "subjects" at will. It's time for change. There seems little chance of a referendum in this country on the future of the monarchy any time soon but UK "subjects" would be going some way to being dragged into the 21st century if only they would consider a new, progressive, uplifting anthem about it's multicultural nation and it's values etc.
If we can't change the head of state then at least let's change the national anthem.
Monday, 6 August 2012
Prestwich Flash Flood August 2012
It started as an ordinary Sunday afternoon. My wife and I visited Manchester Fort in Cheetham Hill for an hour or so then returned home at around 3pm. The weather was humid and sticky so I poured myself an iced fruit drink then sat down to watch some of the Olympics action.
I decided to watch the Murray v Federer match competing for the gold medal. At a somewhat surprising 2 sets to love lead for Murray, the ubiquitous Clare Balding announced that she didn't want to worry viewers but there were reports of a huge storm in the Midlands area which may reach Wimbledon. This was of no concern to me as Manchester was cloudy but dry.
Midway through the third set the sky outside my window became much darker. At the same time, Ms Balding stated that all was well as the storm was heading North and not to London (that's alright then!). As Murray closed in on victory it started to rain outside and slowly got heavier. By the time Murray won the match the rain had become torrential and was now accompanied by thunder and lightning. It started to look a bit worrying so I went outside to the patio-ed area at the back of the house to make sure the drains were coping with the downpour. After about 5 minutes it was apparent that our 2 drains were holding up well so I switched my attention to the front of the house and the street beyond. Surprisingly a lake had formed in the crossroads about 50 yards to the left of the house. There then followed a series of blinding flashes and simultaneous explosions indicating that this storm was directly overhead. This was followed by a hailstorm which was so intense I couldn't see the opposite side of the street. I stood in the front doorway as it clearly wasn't safe to go any further at this stage.
The sky overhead was almost black and the enormous intensity of the hail and torrential rain carried on for a further 15 minutes or so when I realised the level of water in the street had become uncontrollable. There were still only a couple of people in their doorways at this time. The depth of the water had reached around 3 feet as it was lapping over the garden walls of the houses opposite and was clearly entering the front doors of these properties also. Fortunately for us, our side of the street is slightly raised from the other side and we have 2 steps up to the path to the front door of the house. As the water level reached the second step on our front path I was concerned enough to suggest we should call fire and rescue even though I was sure the houses opposite would have done this already. We were asked by fire and rescue if the water was actually entering our property. We said no but it wasn't far off. They said to call back if it did enter and not before as they were currently inundated with similar calls and were prioritising those whose houses were already flooding. Oh great !
When the storm had first started I thought it was good viewing and wasn't overly concerned but as the water was lapping over the second step to our house I was now very worried. I looked out into the street and could now also see a car stranded in water up to the windscreen with the wipers moving A couple of the neighbours had waded into the water to try to help but it it was almost up to their chests so they waded back again. The houses opposite were obviously now in big trouble as one occupant had just returned home and someone already inside the house couldn't open the door for obvious reasons so he had to climb in through a window. Overhead the storm continued and I noted if it carried on at this intensity for another 10 minutes or so our house was going to be in trouble.
Suddenly a few small areas of blue sky appeared and the rain abated slightly. A few moments later our next door but one neighbours had returned home from shopping and shouted to us through the hedge asking if they could pass through our garden as they would have needed a boat to reach their house from the front. They have 2 small children so I opened the gate to the side of the house (it's a corner house so the side is on another street which had shallower flooding) and they passed though our gardens and next door's garden. We removed the fence panels between us to allow easier access.
As we were replacing the panels, the rain had eased further and, mercifully, the water level had receded back to below the first step on the front path. By this time a large crowd had gathered and the occupant of the car had been released but his car was now clearly a write off. It was also noticeable that during this flash flood the temperature had dropped considerably and the hailstones now completely covering both our gardens were showing no sign of melting. A bewildered frog also suddenly appeared on the front lawn. After another 10 minutes or so the rain eased further and, at the same time, a fire engine finally turned up. This was my cue to return indoors and take a deep breath. The storm itself had lasted for a full hour.
Over the next few hours the clean up operation continued in the street among the fire service and the neighbours worst affected. We had ensured our next door neighbour was OK and had offered assistance to others. It was heart warming to know that in this kind of situation we have neighbours who are decent people. This was my first experience of a "flash flood" and not one I am too eager to repeat..
I decided to watch the Murray v Federer match competing for the gold medal. At a somewhat surprising 2 sets to love lead for Murray, the ubiquitous Clare Balding announced that she didn't want to worry viewers but there were reports of a huge storm in the Midlands area which may reach Wimbledon. This was of no concern to me as Manchester was cloudy but dry.
Midway through the third set the sky outside my window became much darker. At the same time, Ms Balding stated that all was well as the storm was heading North and not to London (that's alright then!). As Murray closed in on victory it started to rain outside and slowly got heavier. By the time Murray won the match the rain had become torrential and was now accompanied by thunder and lightning. It started to look a bit worrying so I went outside to the patio-ed area at the back of the house to make sure the drains were coping with the downpour. After about 5 minutes it was apparent that our 2 drains were holding up well so I switched my attention to the front of the house and the street beyond. Surprisingly a lake had formed in the crossroads about 50 yards to the left of the house. There then followed a series of blinding flashes and simultaneous explosions indicating that this storm was directly overhead. This was followed by a hailstorm which was so intense I couldn't see the opposite side of the street. I stood in the front doorway as it clearly wasn't safe to go any further at this stage.
The sky overhead was almost black and the enormous intensity of the hail and torrential rain carried on for a further 15 minutes or so when I realised the level of water in the street had become uncontrollable. There were still only a couple of people in their doorways at this time. The depth of the water had reached around 3 feet as it was lapping over the garden walls of the houses opposite and was clearly entering the front doors of these properties also. Fortunately for us, our side of the street is slightly raised from the other side and we have 2 steps up to the path to the front door of the house. As the water level reached the second step on our front path I was concerned enough to suggest we should call fire and rescue even though I was sure the houses opposite would have done this already. We were asked by fire and rescue if the water was actually entering our property. We said no but it wasn't far off. They said to call back if it did enter and not before as they were currently inundated with similar calls and were prioritising those whose houses were already flooding. Oh great !
When the storm had first started I thought it was good viewing and wasn't overly concerned but as the water was lapping over the second step to our house I was now very worried. I looked out into the street and could now also see a car stranded in water up to the windscreen with the wipers moving A couple of the neighbours had waded into the water to try to help but it it was almost up to their chests so they waded back again. The houses opposite were obviously now in big trouble as one occupant had just returned home and someone already inside the house couldn't open the door for obvious reasons so he had to climb in through a window. Overhead the storm continued and I noted if it carried on at this intensity for another 10 minutes or so our house was going to be in trouble.
Suddenly a few small areas of blue sky appeared and the rain abated slightly. A few moments later our next door but one neighbours had returned home from shopping and shouted to us through the hedge asking if they could pass through our garden as they would have needed a boat to reach their house from the front. They have 2 small children so I opened the gate to the side of the house (it's a corner house so the side is on another street which had shallower flooding) and they passed though our gardens and next door's garden. We removed the fence panels between us to allow easier access.
As we were replacing the panels, the rain had eased further and, mercifully, the water level had receded back to below the first step on the front path. By this time a large crowd had gathered and the occupant of the car had been released but his car was now clearly a write off. It was also noticeable that during this flash flood the temperature had dropped considerably and the hailstones now completely covering both our gardens were showing no sign of melting. A bewildered frog also suddenly appeared on the front lawn. After another 10 minutes or so the rain eased further and, at the same time, a fire engine finally turned up. This was my cue to return indoors and take a deep breath. The storm itself had lasted for a full hour.
Over the next few hours the clean up operation continued in the street among the fire service and the neighbours worst affected. We had ensured our next door neighbour was OK and had offered assistance to others. It was heart warming to know that in this kind of situation we have neighbours who are decent people. This was my first experience of a "flash flood" and not one I am too eager to repeat..
Monday, 30 July 2012
Tom
On a day in June in a decade of strife
Was born a boy with a tough start to life
He grew up quickly as 2 brothers now here
Then a world war, exploding bombs, spreading fear
Ration books and austerity came into play
A life of daily struggle to keep the wolves at bay
Along came a woman from the Emerald Isle
With a sparkle in his eye, they courted for a while
A red haired Romeo and a Wexford Juliet
They danced and romanced, their love was set
A wedding in church on a late Autumn day
The union sealed the Roman Catholic way
A wife and 8 children with no time to stand still
Working long hours when spare time was nil
A man of moral fibre, his duty to provide
His unfailing family support could never be denied
The kids flew the nest and Grandkids came
Hard labour took it's toll, then he was lame
Time to retire and take a long rest
This was all he asked for, he deserved the best
He was robbed of his wish in the cruellest of ways
No justice for Tom in his final days
His legacy lives on in the generations to come
His memory precious to all, not just some
We miss him so much and loved him so dear
His soul lives on, his spirit always near.
Thomas Neilson
1932-2010
Was born a boy with a tough start to life
He grew up quickly as 2 brothers now here
Then a world war, exploding bombs, spreading fear
Ration books and austerity came into play
A life of daily struggle to keep the wolves at bay
Along came a woman from the Emerald Isle
With a sparkle in his eye, they courted for a while
A red haired Romeo and a Wexford Juliet
They danced and romanced, their love was set
A wedding in church on a late Autumn day
The union sealed the Roman Catholic way
A wife and 8 children with no time to stand still
Working long hours when spare time was nil
A man of moral fibre, his duty to provide
His unfailing family support could never be denied
The kids flew the nest and Grandkids came
Hard labour took it's toll, then he was lame
Time to retire and take a long rest
This was all he asked for, he deserved the best
He was robbed of his wish in the cruellest of ways
No justice for Tom in his final days
His legacy lives on in the generations to come
His memory precious to all, not just some
We miss him so much and loved him so dear
His soul lives on, his spirit always near.
Thomas Neilson
1932-2010
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