Paradox on the Buses

I'm perversely tempted to take part in the indefatigable Jon (Birmingham: It's Not Shit) Bounds' demented-yet-delightful bus-based social experiment, 11-11-11:

On the 11th of November let’s create a modern ritual, a post-millennial cultural cult.

Eleven hours on the eleven bus — join us.

The rules:

• Get on the 11C at 11am (or as near as dammit) on 11/11.
• Get off the 11C at 10pm — 11 hours later — (or as near as dammit) on 11/11.
• You can get on and off the bus as many times as you like (don’t spend more than an hour off bus).
• Document your journey; photos, film, writing, cross-stitch, knitting, amigurumi, poetry, blog, twitter, however you like.
• Meet up with others as mad as you, if you want.

I'm up for a bit of that. I quite like the idea of donating some bandwidth-by-proxy to such a bold, civic-minded endeavour, particularly when it’s a public transport-based collective metamedia travelogue. It'd make me feel like a walking, talking, head-on collision between Bill Bryson, Marshall McLuhan and, perhaps, Reg Varney.

More importantly, though, it'd give me plenty of potentially juicy things to write about on here. Not only is the Number 11 the longest urban bus route in Europe, but every time I've been on it I've witnessed something odd, weird or mad as a bungee-jumping bishop in a ballgown. They don’t call it an "Out-Patient Ward on Wheels" for nothing.

All this talk of buses reminds me of several things.

For the sake of clarity, brevity and sanity, however, I’ll narrow it down to one. Long ago and far away (which, by my calendar, makes it approximately August 1996) I witnessed a Hofstadter Strange Loop in action on the Number 45. Being a part-time philosopher and half-arsed science geek - which I define as someone who read about CERN and the Large Hadron Collider before Dan Brown wrote about it in Angels and Demons (which, of course, I don’t plan to read) - I had a basic grasp what a Hofstadter Strange Loop was. For the sake of clarity, brevity and charity, however, I’ll just say that a Hofstadter Strange Loop is a sort of elaborate definition of a paradox. You can find a proper definition on Wikipedia, but for me its best summed up by the art of MC Escher or that memorable line from the 80s video classic The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension:

“Wherever you go, there you are…”

Indeed. Anyway, while I had a reasonably firm grasp of what a Hofstadter Strange Loop was, I never knew what one looked like. I certainly didn’t expect it to resemble a grumpy old fart with a tartan shopping trolley.

Cut to: one sunny Saturday afternoon in 1996. There I was, sitting on the lower deck of a number 45, heading home from somewhere I can't remember and reading a book I can’t recall when the bus got itself stuck in a traffic jam along the Pershore Road. It was a particularly vicious and stubbornly viscous strain of traffic jam, even by the standards of the Pershore Road. I didn't mind, though: it was a pretty good book.

Sitting in front of me was a grumpy old man with a Tartan shopping trolley who spoke in a Birmingham accent that was so strong that you could be forgiven for thinking it was a bad parody of a Birmingham accent. I couldn't be forgiven for thinking this, of course, as I've written so many bad parodies over the years' that I wouldn't get away with it. A fairer description would be to say that the old man spoke in that rarest strain of the Brummie accent, the raw, unrefined, undiluted Brummie accent that these days only exists amongst scattered pockets of traditionalists and in certain parts of the BBC Radio WM schedule.

As the traffic jam slowly eased its way into a terminal case of entropic paralysis, the man and his trolley huffed, puffed and fumed with increasing bile and volume. I tried to ignore them, but it wasn't easy. These things rarely are.

Eventually he stood up and marched over to the bus driver: "Ooroyt, mucka – what’s gooin’on with the traffic, then?" he asked. “It’s a bloody disgrace, that’s what it is – a bloody disgrace!”

The driver explained that some Reclaim the Streets protesters were exercising their democratic right to park their derrieres on the tarmac up ahead.

The old man seemed to explode with rage. Innocent bystanders were maimed by shards of herbal cough drops. The shopping trolley spewed its contents out in sympathy. “Bloody protesters?” he roared, “bloody protesters? You mean to say we’re stuck here on accounta bunch a BLOODY PROTESTERS?” He was disgusted. He was outraged. He was possibly vitriolic with fury. You could feel his vile, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

“I’m sick of these bloody bastard protesters”, he continued, now addressing the entire lower deck of the bus. “Bunch of arf-soaked, scruffy, workshy bastards with nothing better to do, the lot of ‘em. If they’re not out saving the whale or banning the bomb or getting there knickers in a twist they’re holding things up for the rest of us.”

"That sort of thing should be against the law," he said. "People shouldn't be allowed to protest."

I looked up from my book, but decided to say nothing.

The Plastic Beer Skiff Snake

Over the years I've seen many jaw-droppingly odd things happen at gigs. I went to an Eric Clapton concert in 1988 where the person standing directly in front of me spent the night yelling "JESUS! FORGIVE ME! SAVE US FROM OUR SINS!" at Old Mano Lenta. I can only assume he once saw the famous image of the brick wall with the 'Clapton is God' graffiti and took it all a bit too literally.

The fact he bore an uncannily resemblance to Rasputin The Mad Monk didn't help matters. The yelling guy, that is, not Clapton. Clapton looked nothing like Rasputin The Mad Monk, at least not in 1988.

I went to a Flaming Lips gig in Birmingham in 2003 that was brought to a standstill after someone dancing on stage collapsed from heat exhaustion. In and of itself, that may strike you as unfortunate but not particularly odd. What puts the odd meter to the red line and nudges the event into the Realm of the Mentalated was the fact that the collapsee was dressed as a giant panda. Yes, that's right, a giant panda. As the music stopped and the band's effortlessly charismatic frontman Wayne Coyne made reassuring noises to the audience, paramedics had to be called to the stage to administer first aid to someone who was Dressed. As. A. Giant. Panda.

Maybe it's just me, then.

The most recent example took place at the thoroughly awesome Foo Fighters Wembley Stadium gig the other week. Now, I haven't been to a stadium concert for a l-o-n-g time. The last one was - Jesus Christ on a Pogo-stick! - The Rolling Stones at Maine Road in 1990, so maybe this sort of thing is now de rigeur and as commonplace as Mexican Waves and overpriced drinks. But somehow I doubt it.

Behold, The Plastic Beer Skiff Snake. It's a snake. It's made of plastic beer skiffs. It was an impromptu collaborative effort that involved hundreds of people.

Look upon it's length, ye mighty, and despair:

Jaws 5: The Pool Shark

I’ve been thinking a lot about the film Jaws recently, particularly since Roy Scheider’s recent death one hundred and one days ago.

Brother Younger is an even bigger Jaws fan than me. I once bought him a meticulous and ridiculously detailed model-slash-diorama depicting that unforgettable scene from the film where Gran Blanco Sharko attacks our heroes’ boat - The Orca - and chomps down the southern hemisphere of Robert Shaw. The model currently resides in his otherwise tastefully decorated bathroom, perched on top of the low-level cistern of his eau de khazi. It truly is a thing of ferocious and atavistic beauty that evokes a primal sense of awe and terror amongst all those who behold it. This, of course, can be a somewhat off-putting sight when you’re trying to take a piss.

Impressive though it may be, this cistern-mounted scene of savagery pales into insignificance when compared to Rob’s other major item of Jaws-related memorabilia. My brother, you see, owns a three-and-a-half foot long, replica rubber shark. Or, to be more precise, a three-and-a-half foot long, inflatable Official Jaws’ Merchandise replica rubber shark that contains within its latex guts a most foul and terrible secret…

For thirteen long years it has lived in the garage of our family home, fully-inflated and hanging from the rafters by a piece of string. Along the side of its Great White rubber body is a grisly inscription etched in blood red ink:

JAWS - 20TH ANNIVERSARY

WISH ME A HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

I still don’t know where Rob got it from. I assume it was some merchandising gimmick from some shop promoting some long-forgotten VHS re-release of the film. Where he got it from is of little concern. How he managed to get it from wherever the Hell he got it from is of little concern. How it ended up full of air and hanging from the rafters of my parents’ garage is what really matters.

In 1995 there was a pool table in my parents’ garage and the place had become a popular late-night, après pub-slash-club rendezvous for Los Bros Lennon and our slender entourage of friends. On one such night my brother and our mutual pal, Phil Walsh, were somewhat the worse for wear. They’d spent most of the day stumbling from one salubrious venue to another whilst guzzling down copious amounts of industrial-strength booze and annoying civilians.

After returning home on a bus that conveniently went via an off-licence and an Indian Takeaway, they retired to Le Garage and were drinking some beer, eating some curry and about to play some pool when they noticed that something was wrong. Something wasn’t right. Something was missing.

There was no billiard lamp above the pool table.

This shouldn’t have been a problem, of course. There had never been a billiard lamp above the pool table, below the pool table or anywhere else in the garage, for that matter. To a pair of booze-soaked, curry-addled minds, however, a minor irrelevancy like this can take on a magnitude all of its own. Things rapidly escalated. In the time it takes to eat a chicken pakora and wash it down with a mouthful of Tenants Super, the Billiard Lamp issue evolved from a minor hindrance to a major crisis. Something had to be done.

Unfortunately, they soon discovered that billiard lamp manufacturers don’t offer a late-night delivery service or even answer the phone. A compromise solution had to be found. It was now an article of faith: without something – anything - hanging over the pool table then their evening would become an unmitigated disaster.

And that’s when they remembered the three-and-a-half foot long, inflatable, Official Jaws’ Merchandise, replica rubber shark.

Under the circumstances it made perfect sense. Who needs a billiard lamp when you’ve got - quite literally - a Pool Shark? They soon set to work on what, under the circumstances, must have seemed like a major feat of civil engineering. The two of them promptly divided up the necessary tasks: Rob dealt with string acquisition, placement logistics and rafter climbing, while the job of inflating the shark was left to Phil, possibly for phonetic reasons.

While Rob proceeded with relative ease and efficiency, Phil soon encountered problems. Despite the fact they were in a well-stocked domestic garage he couldn’t find a pump. He searched high and low for any type of inflation apparatus – a foot pump, a bicycle pump or even a session of BodyPump - but to no avail. Out of desperation, he resorted to doing things the old fashioned way. He filled the three-and-a-half foot long, inflatable, Official Jaws’ Merchandise, replica rubber shark with his own breath.

Breath that was far from Listermint fresh.

Anyhow, the work was completed, games of pool were played and eventually the night came to an end. The next day Rob & Phil nursed a pair of gargantuan hangovers and proudly inspected their handiwork. As the rubber shark hung from the garage rafters, they must have laughed and joked about how Phil’s booze-soaked and vindaloo-addled breath had been encased in rubber like a noxious Blue Peter time capsule.

That was then.

Days, weeks and even years go by. Pages fall from a calendar to denote the passage of time. And now - thirteen years later – that same rubber shark still hangs from the same rafter in my parents’ garage. While it gathers layers of dust and grime and maintains its silent vigil, I’m sure it has seen much change. Of course, none of us will really know what an inflatable rubber shark feels about the Death of Diana, The War on Terror or the career of Russell Brand. Sharks aren’t known for sharing their opinions, especially inflatable rubber ones. But, I’d like to think that it maybe chuckled to itself when the Dot-Com Bubble burst. After all - as hot-air filled entities go - he’s made of stronger stuff.

He never deflated.

That’s right: the rubber shark that hangs from the rafters of my parents’ garage still contains 1995 vintage Phil Walsh breath. Now, I’m no expert on these things. I can’t say what happens to booze-soaked and curry-addled breath that’s encased in rubber for 13 years. I’d like to be optimistic and believe that the booze and curry particles interact in such a way that noxious emissions are neutralised over time. I’d like to believe that, but part of me fears otherwise.

What if Phil’s Breath of Fire has fermented over time? What if it marinates? Could this three-and-a-half foot long, inflatable rubber shark that hangs from my parents’ garage contain a smell so foul and deadly that it could endanger lives and melt your face?

One thing’s for certain: I don’t plan to be anywhere near it when it bursts.

The Breeders, Birmingham Academy, 13th April 2008

So here I am, and there I was - enjoying a sticky-floored Sunday evening at Birmingham's bijou Academy 2. I was there to see The Breeders and it was all thanks to my friend - macaroon chomping Friend-of-Garfield Jez Higgins - who generously gave me the ticket that he bought just seconds before he realised the gig clashed with his Wedding Anniversary. These things happen, and lucky for me they do. Thanks for the ticket, Jez and Nat. Hope you had a Happy Anniversary.

I got to the venue fairly late as I'd spent most of the day recovering from the previous night, which happened to be my Mum's 70th Birthday Party. I'll write about that some other time, assuming my dangerous dance moves don't end up on YouTube first.

Anyhow, the dramatis personae for the evening were my friends Sal, Dave, Pete & Steve. When I arrived at The Academy, Sal - who'd travelled all the way up from Bristol - was nowhere to be found while Dave (who works at the venue) was, um, working at the venue. I caught up with Pete and Steve shortly after catching the tail-end of Jim Noir, the support act. Jim Noir seemed like fun, or at least their tail-end did. I can't comment about their top-side, let alone their midsection.

Anyhow, we were all there to see The Breeders - and mighty fine they were, too.
The Deal twins, Kim and Kelley, were on top form. Bookending the stage with the rest of the band in between, they provided a steady stream of betwixt-song banter and oblique sisterly in-jokes that entertained the huddled masses no end. With delicate ferocity they blasted through tracks from their new album, Mountain Battles, as well as enough vintage material to keep decrepit old farts like me happy and content. The new stuff was well received, their classics like Cannonball really lit up the crowd, but for me the highlight was their sublime cover of The Beatles' Happiness is a Warm Gun. I'm not a big fan of Beatles' covers, but this was an exceptional exception.

All in all, then, a good gig by a band I'd always wanted to see live. To some in the crowd, though, it was more than just that. To alt-rock fans of a certain age - and, let's be honest, I'm talking specifically about my age here - there's something quite special about Kim Deal. Sure, as the effortlessly hip frontwoman of The Breeders for 18-odd years she's earned her rock and roll stripes. As the bass guitarist, backing singer and sometimes co-songwriter with the seminal band Pixies, however, she's long since been elevated to the status of living goddamn legend. I got the impression that a few hardliners had only turned up at the gig to get a quick fix of idol worship to tie them over until the next Pixies reunion. It was a bit like Beatlemaniacs at a 'Wings' concert, I suppose.

Of course, that sort of stuff can sometimes get embarrassing.

Somewhere between the tail-end of Jim Noir and the front-end of The Breeders I was catching up with Pete and Steve and looking out for Sal. We were nattering away about nothing untoward when a tall, 30-something, intense-looking chap in a Ramones T-shirt muscled-in on the small talk and - with an edge of inappropriate urgency - blurted out to Pete: "I like your Parka, mate."

"Um, thanks," said Pete, suddenly aware of his parka.

"Yeah," said Ramones T-shirt man (let's call him 'Joey'). "I love parkas I do. F*****g brilliant, they are, The King of Coats. I hope you pull some fit bird in a Lambretta tonight. Some fit bird (Right?) who drives her Lambretta into the Acadamy (Right?) and f*****g pulls you 'cos of your Parka, (Right?)."

"Ummm, right..." said Pete.

Joey was speaking in that unmistakable, uninterruptable tempo that's commonly associated with those with a penchant for industrial-strength Colombian Marching Powder. He was, I'd decided, a victim of substances beyond his control. Being stone cold sober I wasn't equipped to deal with this and decided to exuent stage left at the first opportunity. 'Joey' must have been reading my mind, because just at these thoughts were crystallising in my cranium he jabbed a gnarly finger at me and said:

"Your jacket's shit, man."

Before I had a chance to defend the reputation of the Levi Strauss Company or say something witty, clever and self-effacing like "I prefer to think of it as à la merde...", our new gig-pest pal-apparent immediately launched into a high-tempo verbal rampage that went something like this:

"The Pixies, man, they changed my life. They changed my f*****g life. When I first heard the Pixies, man, I was listening to them with this mate from Leeds (he's into dance now - he only listens to Dance now, but he was well into the Pixies back in the day - he's a DJ in Leeds) and the Pixies, man, they sounded like nothing else we'd ever heard. Seriously, man, like nothing else. I couldn't listen to any other music, man, not after listening to the Pixies. That's how much they changed my life."

There was a contemplative pause that lasted for about a beat.

"I got Title TK when it came out," he continued. "I haven't listened to it yet. It's still in the cellophane wrapper. I'm afraid of listening to it. I don't want it to ruin the memories..."'

Title TK' was an album by The Breeders. It was released six years' ago.

The monologue continued for quite some time, lurching in many directions but never straying too far from the key anchor words of "Pixies", "Changed" and "Life". While all this was going on, I was desperately trying to make my excuses and leg it. After all, I had a legitimate excuse: I had to find my good friend Sal. She was a stranger to Birmingham and I didn't know whether she was a gig-MIA or at an NIA-gig. But every time I started to say "Must dash - I've got to go and find my friend from Bristol" Joey trampled the words to death before my very ears. This happened on numerous occasions and I never made it past the first adverb.

"You were talking about gigs at Camden Palace, weren't you, right?" said Joey, after we specifically did not talk about gigs at Camden Palace. "I've been to Camden Palace," he continued. "London's really mad, innit? I've got this anecdote about Camden Palace: I was going to a gig at Camden Palace (can't remember who it was - I was really f*****g wasted) and I'd never been there before and I got off at Camden Tube Station and I didn't know where I was going so I asked this taxi driver 'Where's Camden Palace?' and he said 'Cor Blimey, stone the crows, mate - that's about a mile and a half away' and I said 'Mile-and-a-half? That's how far I walk to the corner shop every day!"

And that, it seemed, was his anecdote.

He told us many things. He told us that he wasn't from Stoke but people from Stoke have told him you can't get grass in Stoke. He told us about a t-shirt he was going to make especially for the Breeders' gig: "I made a t-shirt (Right?). I made this f*****g t-shirt. F*****g hilarious it is. Wait 'til you see it. Shit - I forgot to bring it. I meant to bring it tonight. I made it for tonight. It reads: 'What's the Deal, Kim and Kelley?' Geddit? Deal... Kim Deal? Geddit? 'Kim and Kelley'? D'ya geddit? Geddit? Geddit? Geddit? Geddit? Geddit?"

We got it.

"But, man," he sighed, "I love the Pixies." Something had suddenly changed in Joey's voice. His tempo had slowed down. Uh oh, I thought. This can only mean trouble.

"Yeah, the Pixies really changed my life. And Kim changed my life, too. There will always be a special place in my heart for that woman." There was a pause. Joey took a deep breath. You could just tell that this is the moment was what his whole, weird monologue of wrong was building up to. There was a tangible sense the was going wrap things up by saying something profound, something that would give us an insight into this odd, tortured soul.

Then, at the top of his voice, he bellowed: "I've thought about Kim Deal whilst wanking myself silly more than any other woman on this planet."

My jaw dropped. Others' did, too. Despite being a packed venue, the place seemed to suddenly go very, very quiet. All eyes were fixed on Joey, and then all eyes were fixed on us. Accusing looks that seemed to say: "We hope you're proud of yourselves! You must have put this poor, easily-led simpleton up to it, you shower of shites!."

At this exact point my friend Dave - who works at the venue - walked by and shot me one of those unmistakable is-he-with-you? looks. I responded with my unmistakable don't-be-so-f*****g-ridiculous look.

I think it might have got lost in translation. I need to work on my don't-be-so-f*****g-ridiculous look.

The sound of a pin dropping...

Okay, for the last couple of weeks I've been as quiet as Marcel Marceau and prolific as Peter Gabriel. I have reasons for this. I always have reasons.

The main one is that Clare, her wonderful 4 year-old daughter Lily, Kiki the family Kat and your's truly are moving to a stylish newbuild apartment this weekend. Or maybe it's a flat. I'm not affiliated with the Royal Institute of Chartered Surveyors so can't tell the difference between the two. I've got a hunch that 'flat' and 'apartment' are pretty much interchangeable. The latter is probably a rebranding of the former designed to appease those aspirational types we all know and love. In any case, it certainly sounds a lot more wanky.

This move is a Big Deal for me. It's also a Big Deal for Clare, Lily and quite possibly Kiki too, of course, but this is a blog and - by definition - I'm permitted to exercise a certain level of self-absorption. I'm not normally like this, you understand.

The apartment (or flat) is in Kings Norton. Or Kings Heath. I'm not quite sure about that, either. The postcode is B30 - which reliable sources inform me is a Kings Norton postcode - but it's only a five minute walk away from my one-time, Kings Heath-based bachelor-pad flateau. If I'm moving into a new, unchartered part of Brum it certainly doesn't feel that way, but that may have something to do with the fact I'll be using the same fish and chip shop.

Part of me rather likes the idea of living in Kings Norton, but it's not due to any postcode snobbery or aspirational bullshit. For one thing, living in an area I technically haven't lived in before adds another notch to my Birmingham postal-district bedpost (I've been 'round the block a few times - just check the voter's register...). More importantly, though, the word itself - 'Kings Norton' - resonates with me because it reminds me of Norton I, the first and only Emperor of the United States of America.

Joshua Norton, in case you don't know, was a failed English businessman who ended up homeless and destitute in mid-19th Century San Francisco. In 1859 he proclaimed himself 'Emperor of the United States' (later adding 'Protector of Mexico' to his illustrious title), and for the rest of his life the people of San Francisco treated him as such. He issued proclamations, arbitrated disputes and even issued his own currency. When he died in 1880 as many as 30,000 people lined San Francisco's streets to pay tribute. Needless to say, he's one of my favourite historical figures.

By contrast, the word 'Kings Heath' now makes me think of dead movie stars.

Because I'm Fickle

Well whaddaya know: I've changed my mind already.

Since watching Rocky Balboa last week with Clare I've decided that it deserves a place in my Top 10 Films of 2007. Yes, I saw it during the last week of January 2008, but it was released in 2007. My list. My rules. Don't argue, Clare.

It's either at number 9 or number 10. I haven't quite decided yet. Tell you what: I'll be decisive and make it Number 10. That knocks Beowulf off the list. Sorry, Beowulf. Empty your desk and hand your security pass in at reception. You know the drill.

Rocky Balboa resonated with me in all manner of ways. For one thing, well, you know... it was a fecking Rocky film, fer Chrissakes. Do I really need to elaborate on that? Alright, I will. As a kid I'd get so pumped up after watching a Rocky film that, next morning - without fail and without exception - I'd always go for a vigorous early-morning run in Birmingham's Perry Barr Park. Now, I've never been much of a jogger - I'm just not the type - but after watching a Rocky film I would, betwixt dusk and High Noon, mutate into a hardcore fitness fanatic.

Maybe I should have watched those Rocky films more often.

Or maybe it's just as well I didn't. After all, I didn't just imitate the Italian Stallion's hardcore physical regime but copied his bizarre eating habits, too. These were the days before Edwina Currie and her salmonella scares: gulping down a pint glass full of raw eggs didn't seem quite as breathtakingly stupid as it does now. It just seemed stupid.

Perry Barr Park was the ideal venue for these pre-pubescent, post-Rocky flick runs. As you entered the park from Aldridge Road there was a path lined with park benches, ideal for leaping over systematically a la the Rocky II training montage (which, of course, I did). At the other end of the park was a steep grassy slope that led to the bright yellow perimeter fence of Alexander Stadium. As I punched the air and whistled Bill Conti's theme tune, I felt like Rocky running up those famous steps of Philadelphia's National History Museum, except for the fact there weren't any steps. And it was covered in grass.

But it wasn't just these somewhat embarrassing memories that made Rocky Balboa chime with me. I've always loved stories about ageing heroes who come out of retirement to kick some serious arse. This isn't just about me being a decrepit old fart, you understand. It's always been the case. I've always loved movies like Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch and Ride The High Country, Richard Lester's Robin and Marian, Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven, Don Siegal's John Wayne swansong The Shootist and, yes, Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan. Despite becoming somewhat disillusioned with Frank Miller over the years, one of my favourite comics is still 1986s Batman: The Dark Knight Returns. That, in case you don't know, is a story about an ageing bat-themed vigilante who comes out of retirement to kick some serious arse.

These are all stories about old-timers who get one last shot at being a hero or finding redemption, and they've all resonated with me throughout my life. With Rocky Balboa, Sylvester Stallone has crafted a worthy addition to this honourable genre. In fact, I've just decided to move it up to number 9 on my Top 10.

Just don't expect me to jump over any park benches in the morning.

Stung

Last Tuesday night I went to see The Police by accident.

Not that police – The Police. As in Sting, Andy Summers & Stewart Copeland. As in Roxanne, So Lonely and Every Breath You Take. That Police.

It’s time for a confession. I bought the tickets so I could sell them on Ebay. That’s right, I became the scourge of true music lovers up and down the land. By one selfish act I violated Rock’s Heritage and almost put it’s Future into jeopardy. I believe the popular term for this activity is “bedroom touting” – which makes it sound a Hell of a lot more risque than it actually was. Does this make me a bad person? It probably does. For my crimes I probably should be whacked across the back of the head repeatedly with a rolled up copy of Uncut Magazine. It’s too bad, then, that my first attempt at wanton larceny backfired so monumentally.

Here’s why I did it: I’m saving up to re-engage with the property market and saw this as an opportunity to make a fast buck off the backs of some high-income bracket rock tourists with more money than sense. Plus, having paid over-the-odds prices for sold-out gigs in the past I thought it was time for some pay back. In short, I saw myself as a sort of latter-day Robin Hood, albeit one who frequents an independent record store located amongst the low-rent backtrees of Sherwood Forest.

Needless to say, it didn’t work out quite as planned. Having bought two of the most ridiculously expensive tickets I’ve ever paid good money for [and I’m including a Tom Waits gig in Paris, here], extra dates were announced and my tickets suddenly nosedived in value. Such is life.

In the end I bit the bullet and decided to go. After all, as a young ‘un, I was actually a big fan of The Police. I had all their albums and everything. Granted, over time I came to think of Sting as – well, you know – a bit preposterous and everything. I think a lot of people did. Maybe it was just a fashionable opinion to have. In his defence, though, I’ll never forget seeing him perform at Glastonbury in ’97. It was Sunday afternoon and some unruly members of the audience took it upon themselves to hurl plastic bottles at the bleached one, bottles which may or may not have contained their own urine. It certainly looked like that from where I was standing, though I wasn’t close enough to test it with litmus paper. In any case, as Sting was warbling away about being “an alien, I’m an illegal alien” I could see this huge volley of yellow health hazards hurtling towards him. I suppose “Message in a Bottle” would have been more apt. In any case, I tried to turn away and avert my gaze, but couldn’t. There’s something undeniably compelling about seeing an international rock star pelted with piss. And then, just as these hideous Molotov colostomy cocktails were about make contact, Sting gracefully sidestepped each and every one of them without missing a single beat. It was like watching someone dance between raindrops: maybe it was something he learned from doing all that Tantric Yoga. I remember thinking: “What a pro.”

Anyway, back to last Tuesday. I invited my mum along as she’d never been to a full-on Rock concert before and I thought it would make a change from Andy Williams or Tony Bennett. And, besides, she’s my Mum and you have to spoil ‘em every now and then. It started off pretty well – it opened with the aforementioned “Message in a Bottle” followed by a blistering rendition of “Synchronicity II”, one of my favourite Police tracks – but as the evening progressed I felt a growing sense of unease. I couldn’t help but think of how much the night had cost me. With the money these seats cost I could go to between six or even eight gigs at the Birmingham Academy, twenty or more gigs at the Hare and Hounds in Kings Heath or possibly arrange a hostile take-over of the Jug of Ale in Moseley.

As the band played their classic hit ‘So Lonely’ I muttered something under my breath as I heard the line: “Just take a seat they’re always free.” As I saw people leaving the venue before the encore because they were sensible and wanted to avoid the rush, I seethed. There they were – in their Blue Harbour jeans and tucked-in, generic-slogan t-shirts heading off to their gas-guzzling, military-surplus SUVs – prematurely vacating the most expensive seats in the house. These were just the sort of high-income bracket rock tourists I wanted to fleece!

For a brief instant I looked at the empty bottle by my feet and roughly calculated the trajectory between me and them. But my mum was there, and she was enjoying herself. I couldn’t ruin the night for her. Besides, she’d have only whacked me across the back of the head with a rolled up copy of Uncut Magazine….

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Oh, dear...

I stole this thoroughly appalling joke from my workpal Kuz and shamelessly used it on Saturday evening. Couldn't resist, really.

At the barbecue I turned to my friend Jonathan and said: "You live in the country so you might know more about these things than a city boy like me. A bloke in the pub said I can have eight legs of venison for fifty quid. Is that two deer?"

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Destiny Ties My Shoelaces Together

By way of a PS to my previous post...Spent last night at a housewarming where I caught up with some old and dear friends I haven't seen enough of lately. So it goes. Jude & Jonathan - the housewarmers - live in a picturesque wee village somewhere in Lincolnshire, or possibly South Yorkshire.

I can't be any more specific as, um, I got lost on the way there.

"Like a poor marksman you just keep missing the exit..."

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Stamp out Size-ism

Glasgow was fun - emotionally draining, but fun. But then it would be, wouldn't it?
I just have to share something that my brother Rob told me:

He knows this guy called Lawrence, a big, bald, 6'5" 65 year-old who bears more than a passing resemblence to Lawrence Tierney's mob boss character from Reservoir Dogs [the one that Tim Roth's Mr Orange memorably compared to 'The Thing' from 'The Fantastic Four'].

Anyhow, as Lawrence was out driving one day he was involved in a minor collision with a Nissan Sunny. It wasn't his fault, but these things happen. As Lawrence calmly inspected his dented bumper, the other driver climbed out, stormed up to him and furiously snarled: "I'm not happy!"

Lawrence was somewhat bemused by this seething vision of apoplectic rage. This may have had something to do with the fact the other driver was a weedy, nebbish-looking chap in jam jar glasses who had clearly been short-changed in the height department. In fact, compared to Lawrence, he was positively Corbettesque in stature.

As big Lawrence towered over him, the furious little man stabbed the air with his forefinger and - in the clipped, escalating tones of a exasperated neighbourhood busybody - repeated his mantra of indignation: "I'm not happy. I am not happy. I. Am. Not. HAPPY."

To which Lawrence replied: "So which one are you, then?"

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