Everyone else seems to be talking about the UK's first Olympiad since 1948, so one more comment will make little difference to the cacophony. It won't be long before the world's media, junketing politicians and hospitality-soaking businessfolks descend upon us, along with - well, maybe - a few sports enthusiasts.
If your teeth are now grinding in frustation, as you fretfully wish that you were to be among the attending hordes, console yourself with the reminder that the very best vantage point from which to view any Olympic event is one's own armchair.
Having said that, let me really annoy any of you who yearned to attend but were unlucky in the ticket lottery. I may have only minimal interest in most of the imminent goings-on, but that didn't stop me putting in my application. Consequently, I am now awaiting the arrival of my allocated tickets for the Ladies' Football Final and subsequent doling out of gongs. In addition, when the spectacle of the Closing Ceremony enthralls the global audience, look carefully among the spectators within the stadium and you may well see me, as I have forked out a paltry £20.12 apiece for a pair of seats.
Envy me my good fortune. Scowl at my lack of appreciation of it. Be very jealous and very irritated.
If it's any consolation, this is England and it will all be taking place during the very height of summer, so it will probably rain.
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
Tuesday, 9 August 2011
London's burning
Shock, horror. Nobody learns from history.
OK, let's go through it again, one more time. This is not rocket science...
If a Labour prime minister upsets conservatives, an informal but organised opposition writes stern letters to The Times.
If a Conservative prime minister upsets socialists, an informal but organised opposition riots in the streets, burning down buildings and attacking the police.
Toxteth, Brixton, Marsh Farm, now London and beyond.
It was ever thus.
OK, let's go through it again, one more time. This is not rocket science...
If a Labour prime minister upsets conservatives, an informal but organised opposition writes stern letters to The Times.
If a Conservative prime minister upsets socialists, an informal but organised opposition riots in the streets, burning down buildings and attacking the police.
Toxteth, Brixton, Marsh Farm, now London and beyond.
It was ever thus.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
I'm not dead
I've just been quiet.
Since my last ramblings, we've had Christmas, New Year, Easter, assorted birthdays, anniversaries and so forth. Something significant must have happened in my life, surely?
Er, no, not that I can bring to mind.
I've lost a pound or ten during recent weeks, with consequent fall in blood pressure, if anyone's interested. And, as of 10:28 this morning, BST, I've managed a whole seven days without smoking.
That's it.
Whaddya want, excitement?
Since my last ramblings, we've had Christmas, New Year, Easter, assorted birthdays, anniversaries and so forth. Something significant must have happened in my life, surely?
Er, no, not that I can bring to mind.
I've lost a pound or ten during recent weeks, with consequent fall in blood pressure, if anyone's interested. And, as of 10:28 this morning, BST, I've managed a whole seven days without smoking.
That's it.
Whaddya want, excitement?
Friday, 22 October 2010
I wish that I could do that
I gather from news published by the BBC that Mr. Wayne Rooney, a professional football player, has signed a new and more lucrative contract with his employer, Manchester United Football Club. For the uninitiated, this comes swiftly in the wake of his highly publicised insistance that he wished to leave the club, accompanied by equally public and unequivocal criticism of how his employer conducts its business.
It was only for the briefest of moments that I mused upon this, before the reluctant recognition that my own talents in a different sphere are hardly of a similar magnitude to Mr. Rooney's footballing skills. That being so, I shall not be trying a similar ploy in the hope of realising a salary increase.
My forbearance does not arise solely from my lack of bargaining power, but also takes account of the difficulty of implementing an equivalent strategy. Any such attempt upon my part would be doomed to failure, due to my inability to think of any area in which criticism could reasonably be levelled at my employer.
It was only for the briefest of moments that I mused upon this, before the reluctant recognition that my own talents in a different sphere are hardly of a similar magnitude to Mr. Rooney's footballing skills. That being so, I shall not be trying a similar ploy in the hope of realising a salary increase.
My forbearance does not arise solely from my lack of bargaining power, but also takes account of the difficulty of implementing an equivalent strategy. Any such attempt upon my part would be doomed to failure, due to my inability to think of any area in which criticism could reasonably be levelled at my employer.
Thursday, 9 September 2010
We used to have books
Ah, the wonders of the Internet...
Yestere'en, I was blinking at the unexpected sight of a former colleague presenting a television documentary on food. Today, although our last contact was almost two decades ago, I could map his activities during the interim with some confidence. It helps, of course, that he has become a noted academic, author and columnist. Still...
Gosh. How did we ever find out anything in the olden days?
Yestere'en, I was blinking at the unexpected sight of a former colleague presenting a television documentary on food. Today, although our last contact was almost two decades ago, I could map his activities during the interim with some confidence. It helps, of course, that he has become a noted academic, author and columnist. Still...
Gosh. How did we ever find out anything in the olden days?
Thursday, 12 August 2010
You should have been there
A glance at the profile here might reveal that I like music. Lots. I like music a lot and I like lots of music. That's classical, blues, military bands, folk, rock, jazz, cajun, rockabilly, punk, pop, rock 'n' roll, skiffle, big bands, doo-wop, country...
Country. Oh, buddy, as I found they say in West Virginia. I do like country music. (And, let's not forget, I also like western music.) Some of the newer stuff ain't too bad, and I do confess to Garth, the Mavericks and a few others featuring in the collection, although I've never been convinced that they belong on the same shelf as Cash, Haggard and such folks. In fact, the more that I think about it... That's country, my ass.
That phrase is borrowed, shamelessly, from a song I was loudly singing last night. Luckily, around 300 other people were obliterating my own horrible efforts with much more harmonious renditions. Together, we were making a joyful noise unto Dale Watson, in a tiny Kilburn venue called The Luminaire. I didn't know, as I continue to wait with diminishing patience for kneehole surgery, that I am capable of standing on one spot for upwards of two and a half hours. Today, the knee is making its displeasure felt, even more stridently than it was throughout the show. Were the event to be replicated tonight, I would not only happily repeat the uncomfortable standing, but would cheerfully limp the 30-mile round-trip to The Luminaire to do so.
The Doggone Honkabilly Band opened the proceedings with a couple of their own tunes and a whole bunch of generally boisterous covers taking in Cash, Monroe and Hanks I and III. They were about as good as a British country combo could be. That's as good, of course, as a born-and-bred Texan would be singing Mad Dogs and Englishmen. However good it sounds, deep inside you know that it's just not quite right and while you might pay to see it, you'd check your change. After the Honkabillies, a brief interval, and out walked Mr. Watson and his buddies.
I've been one among a crowd of many thousands for such varying legends as Queen and Luciano Pavarotti. I've seen Topol playing Tevye and Opera North performing The Flying Dutchman in large city theatres. I've sat in smaller halls to enjoy performers from Dr. Feelgood to Glen Campbell. I've squeezed into tiny rooms to give attention to relative unknowns from Harvey Andrews to Jake Thackray. I couldn't contemplate trying to remember the hundreds of semi-pro performers I've heard in pubs. As I lay on the settee during the early hours of this morning, waiting for the Tramadol Hydrochloride to kick in and allow me some sleep, I contemplated. I pondered. I reminisced and I compared.
Last night, Dale Watson probably delivered the most enjoyable concert I've ever attended.
Not just because I was standing front and centre, within arm's length of the singer, throughout. Not just because his third song was the Bob Wills classic Faded Love, sung at my request. Not just because he brilliantly performed, at a guess, fifty or more songs during a long show, a goodly proportion of these in response to requests from the crowd. Not just because he not only has a great voice but could also comfortably assume the lead guitar duties in almost any band, of any type. Not just because he has more charisma, personality, warmth and intelligence than the combined offerings of any three entries in the current hit parade. Not just because of his frequently expressed, clearly sincere and humble, gratitude to the folks who buy his music and attend his performances. Not just because his colleagues, on stand-up bass, drums, pedal steel and fiddle, gave uniformly outstanding performances, occasionally straying into virtuoso territory. Not just because of his - and their - impressive capacity for tequila and beer. Not just because he lingered post-show, graciously greeting anyone who wanted to talk to him and happily posing for endless photographs with, and signing autographs for, his public. Not just because, chatting afterwards, we found that we share common views on Tom T. Hall.
No, it was probably the most enjoyable concert ever because, well... I wouldn't know where to start.
So, Dale Watson and your band, thank you.
Thank you, Bob Harris, for drawing the show to my attention.
Thank you, Margaret, for ignoring my pessimistic presumptions, for checking The Luminaire as late as the day before the gig, finding that tickets hadn't yet sold out and for buying me what may well have been, albeit a month prematurely, the best birthday present ever.
Country. Oh, buddy, as I found they say in West Virginia. I do like country music. (And, let's not forget, I also like western music.) Some of the newer stuff ain't too bad, and I do confess to Garth, the Mavericks and a few others featuring in the collection, although I've never been convinced that they belong on the same shelf as Cash, Haggard and such folks. In fact, the more that I think about it... That's country, my ass.
That phrase is borrowed, shamelessly, from a song I was loudly singing last night. Luckily, around 300 other people were obliterating my own horrible efforts with much more harmonious renditions. Together, we were making a joyful noise unto Dale Watson, in a tiny Kilburn venue called The Luminaire. I didn't know, as I continue to wait with diminishing patience for kneehole surgery, that I am capable of standing on one spot for upwards of two and a half hours. Today, the knee is making its displeasure felt, even more stridently than it was throughout the show. Were the event to be replicated tonight, I would not only happily repeat the uncomfortable standing, but would cheerfully limp the 30-mile round-trip to The Luminaire to do so.
The Doggone Honkabilly Band opened the proceedings with a couple of their own tunes and a whole bunch of generally boisterous covers taking in Cash, Monroe and Hanks I and III. They were about as good as a British country combo could be. That's as good, of course, as a born-and-bred Texan would be singing Mad Dogs and Englishmen. However good it sounds, deep inside you know that it's just not quite right and while you might pay to see it, you'd check your change. After the Honkabillies, a brief interval, and out walked Mr. Watson and his buddies.
I've been one among a crowd of many thousands for such varying legends as Queen and Luciano Pavarotti. I've seen Topol playing Tevye and Opera North performing The Flying Dutchman in large city theatres. I've sat in smaller halls to enjoy performers from Dr. Feelgood to Glen Campbell. I've squeezed into tiny rooms to give attention to relative unknowns from Harvey Andrews to Jake Thackray. I couldn't contemplate trying to remember the hundreds of semi-pro performers I've heard in pubs. As I lay on the settee during the early hours of this morning, waiting for the Tramadol Hydrochloride to kick in and allow me some sleep, I contemplated. I pondered. I reminisced and I compared.
Last night, Dale Watson probably delivered the most enjoyable concert I've ever attended.
Not just because I was standing front and centre, within arm's length of the singer, throughout. Not just because his third song was the Bob Wills classic Faded Love, sung at my request. Not just because he brilliantly performed, at a guess, fifty or more songs during a long show, a goodly proportion of these in response to requests from the crowd. Not just because he not only has a great voice but could also comfortably assume the lead guitar duties in almost any band, of any type. Not just because he has more charisma, personality, warmth and intelligence than the combined offerings of any three entries in the current hit parade. Not just because of his frequently expressed, clearly sincere and humble, gratitude to the folks who buy his music and attend his performances. Not just because his colleagues, on stand-up bass, drums, pedal steel and fiddle, gave uniformly outstanding performances, occasionally straying into virtuoso territory. Not just because of his - and their - impressive capacity for tequila and beer. Not just because he lingered post-show, graciously greeting anyone who wanted to talk to him and happily posing for endless photographs with, and signing autographs for, his public. Not just because, chatting afterwards, we found that we share common views on Tom T. Hall.
No, it was probably the most enjoyable concert ever because, well... I wouldn't know where to start.
So, Dale Watson and your band, thank you.
Thank you, Bob Harris, for drawing the show to my attention.
Thank you, Margaret, for ignoring my pessimistic presumptions, for checking The Luminaire as late as the day before the gig, finding that tickets hadn't yet sold out and for buying me what may well have been, albeit a month prematurely, the best birthday present ever.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Living legend
Yesterday, I was ruefully musing on only having found out about this evening's Dale Watson performance too late to do anything about it.
Today, I am recovering from the shock that the fewer-than-300 tickets hadn't sold out within hours of Bob Harris using BBC national radio to plug Mr. Watson's only 2010 show in the UK.
Tomorrow, I expect to be a little tired and deafer than usual, but starry-eyed and grinning.
Today, I am recovering from the shock that the fewer-than-300 tickets hadn't sold out within hours of Bob Harris using BBC national radio to plug Mr. Watson's only 2010 show in the UK.
Tomorrow, I expect to be a little tired and deafer than usual, but starry-eyed and grinning.
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