This week on Uborka, we have all been asked to contribute songs to a forthcoming Official Uborka Mix CD. After a surprisingly brief period of consideration, I have chosen this criminally undervalued single from 1980. You can read about it (and listen to it) here.
Continue reading “Magazine – A Song From Under The Floorboards.”
A former-colleague-turned-good-pal of mine (yes; the one does occasionally convert into the other) has been on a teaching sabbatical in Chile for the past three months. Given our impending holiday, it only seemed polite to drop her an e-mail.
Passing your way (kind of…)Hiya,
Well, I guess you’ll be coming to the end of your time in Chile by now – and here’s me with my first proper e-mail. God, I’m crap…!
Hope it’s all been a blast – I imagine you’ll be travelling around the place by now, so maybe you’ll be picking this up at some tiny Internet cafe in a tin shack in some obscure one-horse town in the depths of the Andes. (If the Andes can be said to have “depths”, that is. Geography was never my strong point.)
As the title of this e-mail suggests, K & I will indeed be passing your way very soon. Although I use the term in its most comparative sense: we’ll actually be holidaying in Peru from this Saturday (July 17) for two and a half weeks. Well, Peru is almost Chile, innit? Well, same continent at least!
Anyway, we can hardly wait… to stock up on ponchos (they’re back!), to immerse ourselves in the beautiful, timeless of sounds of the pan-pipe, to feast on succulent llama burgers, and to get blasted (*) on coca leaf tea (“good for altitude sickness”).
[snip]
What I certainly hadn’t expected was this reply:
Hola !Well then, I’ve just hopped on in an obsure wee place and the keyboard is an absolute mare… [snip]
I am in Peru at the moment and for the next 2 weeks. I am doing the Inca Trail tomorrow for 4 days, and will be in Cusco on Saturday 17th, moving on swiftly to Ariquipe on Sunday I think for some kulture and some canyon exploring, so my god if you are about I’ll check my mail on Saturday.
[snip]
So. Can you guess where we’re staying on Sunday and Monday?
That’s right. Ariquipe.
Let me recap. In the entire continent of South America, I know precisely ONE person. (Unless we count that guy from… no, perhaps we won’t.) And that same person is going to be in the SAME town as us on the SAME night, in just three days’ time.
My life never fails to astonish me.
See you on Sunday, Fi!
Oh, great timing.
On Saturday morning, we fly to Peru for two and a half weeks. You can therefore picture the flurry of preparatory activities, as we feverishly draw up To Do lists, and audit our entire wardrobes for suitable all-weather clothing.
I wasn’t therefore best pleased to discover, just four days ago, that my presence would be required in Paris this week. Don’t they know I’ve got T-shirts to iron? But needs must, and I am nothing if not 101% committed to maintaining optimal levels of client satisfaction, hem hem.
I’ll be flying out to manky old Charles De Gaulle this afternoon, and flying back in to dynamic, thrusting Nottingham East Midlands tomorrow evening. (I guess that’s what they call a “flying visit”.) We then leave for London on Friday afternoon, in readiness for a Saturday morning flight from Heathrow to Lima, via Miami.
Naturally, this means that blogging will be taking something of a back seat this week. You know how it is.
(Although fear not: I’ll be writing up that Magic Band/Wreckless Eric gig before I go, even if it kills me.)
While I’m away, there may be guest blogging; I have a notional team in mind, but still need to get the invites mailed out. As none of these people know that I’m about to invite them, it does all rather depend on the uptake.
Up and away, then. The dizzy glamour of the departure lounge beckons.
K has just returned from the hairdressers.
In recent days, the Tufts had actually begun to settle down, their combined length and weight having morphed the ‘do into a comparatively less offensive latter-day Mullet. “Business on top; party round the back.”
But now… they’re back. Tuftier than ever. Like the snakes in Medusa’s hair, one glance could turn a man to… OK, inapposite metaphor.
This means WAR, you know. Where are me fookin’ fags?
See also… Tufts and chuffs.
(image via leftlion.co.uk)
Sad news. Frank Robinson – better known to the citizens of Nottingham as Xylophone Man – passed away on Sunday, at the Queen’s Medical Centre.
Full story – BBC.
Full story – Nottingham Evening Post.
2003 interview.
Tribute page.
Most importantly of all: Nixon of Popdizzy (who has written his own tribute) has started an online petition, calling on Nottingham City Council to erect a statue in Frank’s honour, and calling on Nottingham Express Transit to name a tram after him.
You can sign and view the petition here. If you’re “local”, then please tell everyone. Thank you.
(Update: As of Friday afternoon, the petition has collected 1215 signatures.)
Tonight, K is going to do something which he hasn’t done for 18 years, but which I do quite regularly.
What do you suppose this might be?
Answer.
As several of you have already guessed, last night saw K attend his first rock gig since 1986: The Magic Band, supported by Wreckless Eric, at Nottingham’s Rescue Rooms.
The reason for the 18-year gap: K feels highly uncomfortable in crowded situations where there is no ready escape route. A mild form of claustrophobia, I guess. This discomfort increases sharply in situations where collective hysteria is liable to hold sway: clapping, stamping, cheering, whooping, dancing, that sort of caper. As someone who places a high value upon his sense of individuality, these orchestrated mass responses are anathema to him, causing him to feel as if he is being submerged beneath a tidal wave.
This wasn’t always the case. All through the mid-to-late 1970s, K was an ardent gig-goer. As a student in Leicester, he went to see practically every band that came to town, ending up at the De Montfort Hall on a more or less weekly basis. Until one fateful night in 1980 when Madness came to town, and the familiar venue filled up not with the usual bunch of affable stoners, but with a new breed of aggressively beered-up boot-boys. Heavy duty vibes, man. Gazing around the venue in dismay, alarm – and, above all, a new sense of alienation, a switch flicked that night, and K’s gig-going came to an abrupt halt.
The last stand-up rock gig we attended together was James – at the Old Vic, back when they were still a quirky little indie band on Factory Records, with off-kilter tunes and arty leanings, who were being championed by the likes of Morrissey. That evening’s small cluster of earnest, chin-stroking cognoscenti caused him no problems.
Shortly afterwards, I dragged him off to the Royal Concert Hall to see The Smiths. With The Queen Is Dead in the shops and Panic in the singles charts, the band were absolutely at the top of their game; it was a time when everything they did seemed Important, Definitive, imbued with Significance and Relevance. Consequently, the atmosphere inside the venue was one of the most emotionally charged that I have ever witnessed. Indie’s answer to A Hard Day’s Night, if you like.
As the band came on to a squall of screams, the whole crowd surged to their feet – even where we were, up in the circle. The two girls next to us became quite beside themselves with excitement, repeatedly squealing and clutching each other whenever the spotlight fell on their beloved Johnny Marr.
I glanced sideways at K. His face was set in stone: a stern, tense mask of barely concealed disgust. Leaning towards me, he indignantly hissed in my ear.
“If only those PRATS at the front hadn’t decided to stand up, we could ALL have had a PERFECTLY GOOD VIEW…”
Talk about missing the point.
Half a dozen songs or so later, he leaned over again.
“The Smiths are brilliant – brilliant – but I have to go. Enjoy the rest of the show.”
And that was that. For eighteen years.
With the arguable exception of that 1992 k.d.lang concert – also in the Royal Concert Hall, as it happens. Anticipating a relaxing evening of smoothly delivered, exquisitely sung torch songs with country overtones, we certainly weren’t expecting the lesbian version of A Hard Day’s Night. My God, but those dykes screamed the place down. As well they might; k.d. had only just come out as the world’s first openly lesbian pop star, and she was looking hot. For K, this was enough to induce a fully-fledged, text-book-perfect panic attack, shortly before the end of the show. His worst ever, by some distance. We met him afterwards in the lobby, still shaking slightly, having been taken suddenly and violently ill in the loos. Never again, he vowed. Never again.
But then, we hadn’t reckoned on Captain Beefheart’s Magic Band reforming after over 20 years, and playing a handful of small club dates. (Minus Beefheart himself of course, whose retirement from the music business remains total.) For you have to understand this: although his albums may not get played too often these days, Captain Beefheart remains K’s favourite rock artist of all time. As far as K is concerned, Beefheart is rock’s one true, unassailable genius, with a talent to match his two favourite composers: Bach and Reich.
And God, don’t the rest of us ever know it.
At seemingly every late night “all back to ours” session during the 1990s – of which there were many – there would inevitably come a point in the proceedings where K would solemnly rise to his feet, shuffle/stagger over to the CD cabinet, and pull out his cherished copy of Trout Mask Replica.
“We must ALL LISTEN to Captain Beefheart”, he would announce to the room, steadfastly ignoring any quiet groans of protest from those of us who knew all too well what was about to come.
“The man is a GENIUS”, he would slurringly declare, in an authoritative tone of voice which brooked no argument.
“I know what you’re all thinking”, he would parry, as Beefheart’s uncompromisingly raw, scratchy, rasping, yowling, melody-free, free-form/avant-garde dislocated blues filled the room.
“You have to give it TIME, that’s all. Hang on, I’ll just turn it up a notch…”
At this point, one of two things would happen. Either someone would gently steer K away from the hi-fi and back onto the sofa, allowing me to put Maxwell back on (or Erykah Badu, or Björk, or Portishead, or one of the early Cafe Del Mar compilations) – or else everyone would suddenly comment on the lateness of the hour, and start ringing for taxis.
But usually the latter. Not that I was complaining; as far as I was concerned, Trout Mask Replica served perfectly as Chucking Out Time music. I don’t think we ever got more than four or tracks in. In fact, I’m not even sure that I’ve ever made it through to the end of the album. Ever.
For here’s the irony. Normally, I am the one pushing our sonic envelope, threatening to send K spare with my thrashy guitar bands and my thumping dance beats. (Most of the time, we agree to meet in the middle with world music, classic soul, acoustic singer-songwriters, jazz, or downtempo electronica.) With Beefheart, however, the tables are well and truly turned. I’ve just never got him. Structurally baffling. Emotionally obtuse. Irritatingly one-dimensional.
Horrible, tuneless racket. Call that music? They’re just pulling notes out of a hat…
Nevertheless – faced with the novel prospect of K attending a stand-up gig in a crowded, sweaty venue, all other considerations paled into insignificance. Would he be OK? Would he be able to make it through to the end of the set without bolting for the door? If nothing else, he needed a strong support group: myself, Dymbel and Buni. We’d be there for him. We’d help him pull through.
To be continued.
Note: The Magic Band will be performing live on tonight’s John Peel show on Radio 1. The performance will start at around 10:15 p.m, and will last between 45 and 60 minutes. Without wishing to pre-empt the rest of the story, I strongly urge you to catch it.
K and I have been experimenting with new hairdos. (At our age! I know!)
First of all, K decided to grow his hair over his collar, in a sort of fanned-and-feathered arrangement which he refers to as his “tufts”. I think this was originally inspired by a TV advert featuring the racing driver Jenson Button, looking spruce, dapper and tufted, with “K’s type” practically written all over him. A simple case of wanting to resemble the person you fancy, basically. It’s a common enough occurrence.
However. To carry off the “tufted” look properly, you do need a certain hair type. Thin and wispy, like freshly spun gossamer in the early morning light. Not thick and clumpy, like pampas grass in some dreary suburban front garden.
And there’s the rub. After careful, elaborate zhooshing, K’s tufts tend to remain intact for perhaps twenty minutes at best – before degrading back to their natural, clump-like state. Worst of all, they have a habit of curling up at the sides – so that when viewed from the front, the effect is worryingly reminiscent of Heidi.
It’s not an attractive look. Particularly when, like me, you have a bit of a Thing about shaved hair round the back of the neck anyway. But, apparently, it’s trendy. Which, apparently, makes everything perfectly OK.
(Particularly when, unlike me, you have a bit of a Thing about men with longer hair anyway. Current case in point: Stuart from Big Brother 5, the object of much prolonged drooling on a near-nightly basis.)
“At least my haircut isn’t stuck in the Eighties”, he sniped, quoting our mutual hairdresser verbatim.
That did it. For my next appointment, I requested one of those pre-cut “consulations”, of the sort which we habitually skip because, yes, I have had exactly the same haircut since 1989, and a very nice haircut it is too, thank you for asking, and it has always served me very well, actually actually I think you’ll find, and I could produce many glowing testimonials to that effect, and, you know what, I don’t recall ever receiving any complaints.
“I’d like to grow it a bit on top”, I explained.
“Because,” I continued, swivelling my chair round to look my hairdresser straight in the eyes, “I’d hate to be stuck in the 1980s.”
Pause.
“Oh… he told you?” As a gratifyingly sheepish look passed over my hairdresser’s face, I basked in my brief moment of triumph.
Since then, my new ‘do has been coming along nicely. Indeed, every time I wash it, it seems to fall in an excitingly different way. (Today, for example, it has formed a pleasingly severe side parting; think Franz Ferdinand meets the 1940s.) And, well, what do you know? Simply everyone has been paying it compliments.
“Such an improvement”.
“A whole new you.”
“The best it has ever looked.”
Meaning that, in reality, no-one really thought that much of my late-80s “classic” cut in the first place? Well, why didn’t you say? After all, I’m not getting any younger…
Which just leaves the vexed question of K and his godawful pigtailed clumps.
Readers: I’ve tried everything. Sweet, logical reason. Gentle, patient hints. Detailed technical arguments. Scorn, mockery, exasperated ridicule. The “mutton dressed as lamb” line. Public humiliation. Outright hostility. Pantomimed revulsion.
Nothing gets through to him. When he wants to be, my beloved can be a contrary, stubborn bleeder. Enjoying – no, relishing – the challenge.
Or maybe just biding his time. Playing his favourite kind of game. The long game. Me, I’ve never been much of a tactician. K, on the other hand, can be a master of the art.
A week or so ago, sitting up late in front of the telly with a glass of wine too many, I inadvisedly lit up. (Sometimes, I get it into my head that I’ll be able to slip the odd fag or two past him, without attracting any comment. Fat chance. I never learn.)
“Tell you what”, he began, in what I should have spotted as dangerously dulcet tones. “I’ll cut you a deal.”
“What sort of deal?” I enquired, calmly chuffing away.
“I’ll go and get my tufts hacked off… but when I do… you’ll have to stop smoking.”
I didn’t hesistate for a second. Yes! Victory! The tufts are gone!
Only too late – fatally too late – did I fully appreciate the brilliance of this tactical masterstroke. God, he’s good. It’s on occasions like these that I am afforded a small insight into just what makes my boyfriend such a business whizz.
These days, I’m chuffing on borrowed time. As we fly to Peru two weeks tomorrow, K is delaying his pre-holiday haircut for as long as he can. As far as I’m concerned, he can take all the time he likes.
In fact… you know what? Maybe I’ve been a bit too hasty with my judgement. Maybe those tufts aren’t so bad after all. Yes, I’m sure I could learn to live with them.
See also… Naked Blog: Independence Day.
Welcome back to what will henceforth be (hopefully) a stable, uninterrupted service, here at troubled HYPHEN diva dot com. Now with added hyphen. Which I can’t help think it should have had all along.
(The RSS feed is here, by the way.)
Warmest thanks to Sasha for inviting me to squat at her place for the past week; I have enjoyed it immensely. If you didn’t manage to track me down at Sashinka, then the guest posts start here, and continue upwards. These include:
So, you know, a quiet week.
Right then – it’s back to trawling through the site for broken links, and other similarly enthralling chores. (Although actually, after all the recent excitements, I’m finding the comparative banality of site maintenance strangely soothing.)
Don’t you go forgetting that hyphen, now!
I tried, I really tried.
But.
We had just finished watching the so-so Michael Douglas thriller on Sky. As I needed to check the progress of the match before heading out to meet A in the pub, I successfully negotiated a lightening-quick flick over to BBC1, in the few available seconds before Big Brother.
Only to witness, at that precise moment, Portugal’s extra time goal.
“Oh my God!” we shrieked.
“That’s it then”, I authoritatively declared, still labouring under the delusion that extra time operated on a sudden-death principle. “England are out of Euro 2004”.
And texted A in the sports bar:
I'll get my coat. 😦
And finally looked up again, and realised that the game was still going. A-hum.
“I feel like we’ve jinxed the match”, I wailed.
“Better watch the rest of it, then.”
Within seconds, the last two effete footie-phobes in town had metamorphosed into standard issue Come On Englanders. Why, I could hear our very vocal chords hardening over, even as our vocabulary contracted into guttural monosyllabics.
Shoe-horned into the collective consciousness. Helplessly abased before the Higher Power of Speuuurght.
As Engerland equalised, some deep-seated Pavlovian impulse caused us to rise up off the sofa as one, making those tight little fist-stabs as we did so.
“It’s going to penalties!”
I text A again:
Cheadling hell! 🙂
He texts back:
My heart!
We’re not built for this.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Striding into town to make it to the Roberts for last orders, deftly weaving my way through the shell-shocked crowds spilling out of the sports bars, I am struck by the weird, subdued atmosphere that prevails. It’s so… quiet. Everywhere I look, lads are perched on the edge of the pavement; or stretched flat out on it; or slumped against walls, absently texting. Directing my own video-montage, I start mentally overdubbing the soundtrack.
Snatches of conversation:
“I wanna see Sweden f***ing smash them in the semis. No, even better; I wanna see them get to the f***ing finals, think they’re gonna f***ing win, then…”
“Can’t believe they just played that Britney Spears song at the end. Like that’s gonna cheer us up…”
“Yeah but, you gotta admit, it takes a lot of guts to come back and equalise like that, right at the end…”
I give K a quick call, just to bear witness.
“Honestly, you’d think Princess Diana had just died.”
Even in the Roberts, the queens are all a-twitter. At the bar, I tell the story of how my Nokia – the gayest mobile in the whole world, like, ever – had changed footie to ennui. People start checking their own.
“No, it just comes up with foothe.”
“Darling! Ennui simply isn’t in my lexicon!”
As the beers kick in, a sort of refractory queeniness has begun to steal over us. A necessary corrective process, no doubt. Excitedly, A starts to tell me all about his new bit-of-rough builder friend.
“Darling! Lucky you! How rough exactly?”
“Well, just before Euro 2004, the police called round to his house and confiscated his passport. I think he must be on some sort of List.”
“Darling! The sex must be fabulous! But does he know that you’re a native Portuguese speaker? He doesn’t? Oh, I don’t think you should tell him. At least, not unless you’re up for some extremely adventurous role play…”
In the late bar over the road, the mutual healing continues until stupid o’clock. Even the regular Thursday night trannies are bitching about that silly Swiss hem-hem of a ref. As ever, the more slurred and messy everyone gets, the more fulsomely articulate I become. (Why is this?)
It’s the landlord’s last night, so the final rounds of drinks are on the house. The wiry little skinhead in the corner has hitched his T-shirt up, his beltless waistband down, and is distractedly stroking the area in between, over and over and over again; the effect is quite mesmerising. Pints are sloshed onto the carpet, nonchalantly; arses are grabbed, inappropriately; no-one can understand a word that anyone else is saying, but no-one seems to care.
Good grief. We’re not even like this over Eurovision.
As you were, sisters. As you were.
For some tormented souls, the term “Summer Music” will conjure up lurid notions of daft Europop in naff discos; for others, the grim sceptre of Bangin Eye-Beef-A Choons may be raised. But for me, “Summer Music” has always meanst sinuous, sultry, low-slung grooves, wafting through an open window on a hot, dark, sticky night. As such, it has long been one of my very favourite musical aesthetics.
On one such night earlier in the week, I stayed up past my bedtime in order to compile my submission to the Summer Burn 2004 project, as hosted by the guys at FunJunkie.
(Simple, effective concept. Burn a summer-themed CD; send it to two random participants as selected by the organisers; receive CDs of new music from two other random particpants; hey presto, everyone’s a winner.)
Inevitably, since I seem to be congenitally unable to do anything by halves, this ended up being a 2CD compilation. Here’s the track listing. For maximum effect, do not play until after nightfall.
CD ONE.
1. sparkle city – shuggie otis
2. back to the world – curtis mayfield
3. voz d’amor – cesaria evora
4. it’s alright now – eddie harris
5. reasons – minnie ripperton
6. strawberry letter 23 – shuggie otis
7. upside down – carol cool
8. clean up woman – betty wright
9. express yourself – charles wright & the watts 103rd street rhythm band
10. give me your love – sisters love
11. turned on to you – eighties ladies
12. be thankful for what you’ve got – one blood
13. ain’t no time fa nothing – the futures
14. moonshadow – labelle
15. easy money – dee dee sharpe gamble
16. light my fire – shirley bassey
CD TWO.
1. want ads – the honey cone
2. expressway to your heart – margo thunder
3. how can you live without love – jean terrell
4. you got the love – rufus with chaka khan
5. a toda cuba le gusta – afro-cuban all stars
6. he venido a decirte – omara portuondo
7. who is he and what is he to you – bill withers
8. no letting go – wayne wonder
9. my sensitivity (gets in the way) – luther vandross
10. star – earth wind & fire
11. what are we gonna do about it – mercy mercy
12. annie mae – natalie cole
13. disposable society – esther phillips
14. primavera – mariza
15. solid air – john martyn
16. chelsea morning – joni mitchell
17. l-o-v-e (love) – al green
18. make me believe in you – patti jo
19. cucurrucucú paloma – caetano veloso
1. phoenix – holding on together
2. caetano veloso – soy loco por ti, america
3. youssou n’dour – cheikh ibra fall
4. kelis – trick me
5. kanye west/syleena johnson – all fall down
6. style council – long hot summer
7. jc chasez – all day long i dream about sex
8. emma – crickets sing for anamaria
9. prince – illusion, coma, pimp & circumstance
10. ojos de brujo – tiempo de soleá
11. harpers bizarre – witchi tai to
12. faithless – i want more
13. magazine – a song from under the floorboards
14. girls aloud – the show
15. esther phillips – disposable society
16. usha uthup & chorus – one two cha cha cha
17. company b – fascinated
18. one blood – be thankful for what you got
19. scissor sisters – laura
20. ce’cile – hot like we
What’s currently Number One in your personal chart?
…and because I enjoyed reading them over at Stuart’s and Elsie’s. I luvva bitta Meta, I do.
1. Do you try to look hot when you go to the grocery store just in case someone recognizes you from your blog?
(“hot…grocery store…recognizes…” You’re from o’er the pond, aren’t you? Oh, I can always tell. It’s a gift. )
I certainly do try to make myself look reasonably attractive and presentable whenever I leave the house, for whatever purpose; in this respect, I am my mother’s son. The only exceptions are hiking and gigging, when I dress for practicality and comfort alone.
(Ironically, the only time that a stranger recognised me from the blog was just after a gig. I dare say that I looked extremely hot by then; just not in the way that the question implied.)
2. Are the photos you post Photoshopped or otherwise altered?
Like so many pieces of functionally rich software (Access, Flash, Movable Type), the thought of Photoshop scares me so much that I don’t even own a copy. This state of denial can last for years. Irfanview serves my needs perfectly adequately, thank you.
I have a copy of Paint Shop Pro at work, but am stuck at the stage where super-imposing text onto an image (see doctored Beatles pic below) feels like the last word in daring creativity. De-gaussing? Raster layers? The mere sight of such terms is enough to bring me out in hives.
I can, however, crop for England. It’s an overlooked skill. I should add it to my CV.
3. Do you like it when creeps or dorks email you?
My pathetic need for self-validation is so great that any unsolicited e-mail from readers is welcome, irrespective of creepiness or dorkitude. Yes, even the one which called me a “vaseline-arsed fairy”. Hey, at least I provoked a reaction.
4. Do you lie in your blog?
Sometimes, I wish I had the nerve (it could be such fun!) – but I am burdened by having a major, major beef with dishonesty in all its forms. The ensuing guilt would simply be too much to bear.
The nearest I have come to lying on the blog was when I invented a fictional guest contributor, for the purpose of telling true stories which I didn’t fancy putting my name to. Despite filtering these stories through a fictional persona, the ensuing results were, paradoxically, amongst the most honest pieces of writing I have produced.
A couple of years ago, I toyed for ages with the concept of blogging a piece of fiction as if it were fact, building up a story over several days, and only ‘fessing up afterwards. I had a cracking good story all lined up, and came very close to writing it. In the final analysis, it felt like too much of a betrayal of trust, and so I shelved the idea.
5. Are you passive-aggressive in your blog?
Passive-aggressive: what a ghastly pop-psychology concept that is. In real life: I suppose that I have my moments. As for the blog: exactly how can one be passive-aggressive on a blog? Does not compute. This question perplexes and annoys me. I shall move on.
6. Do you ever threaten to quit writing so people will tell you not to stop?
Good God, no. As manipulative, attention-seeking strategies go, it is too crass, too obvious, too transparent. I can do much better than that.
7. Are you in therapy? If not, should you be? If so, is it helping?
Not in therapy; never have been. I do sometimes wonder if it might be beneficial, but cynicism and inertia always prevail. I also suffer from the narcissistic delusion that my hang-ups are so uniquely complex that no therapist could possibly know how to deal with me. (Of course, I also acknowledge that this is probably one of the most common syndromes of all.)
8. Do you delete mean comments? Do you fake nice ones?
The only mean comment I have ever deleted was at the subsequent request of the commenter. I have also deleted a comment which threatened to compromise someone else’s privacy. Other than that, I adopt a fairly laissez-faire attitude. So far, I’ve been pretty lucky.
The concept of faking nice comments has never occurred to me before. There have been a couple of occasions where I have been polite through gritted teeth, though.
9. Have you ever rubbed one out while reading a blog? How about after?
I can honestly say that I have never been sexually stimulated by anything I have read on a blog, ever.
Well, maybe the occasional photo, slightly. But the question referred to “reading”, not viewing. Besides, any ensuing stimulation stopped several yards short of, ahem, “rubbing one out”.
(Is that a new expression? Now that I have banished the image of pencil erasers from my mind, I must concede that it has a certain graphic potency.)
10. If your readers knew you in person, would they like you more or like you less?
That’s hardly for me to say, is it? To dwell on such matters is fatal.
11. Do you have a job?
“Job” is certainly the mot juste in my case. As opposed to the spurious dignity inherent in the word “career”. Let’s not fool ourselves.
12. If someone offered you a decent salary to blog full-time without restrictions, would you do it?
In the blink of an eye. (It sort of happened for a while, didn’t it?)
13. Which blogger do you want to meet in real life?
There are so many. However, the first person that springs to mind is Anna.
14. Which bloggers have you made out with?
One. However, this was several years before blogs were invented. We didn’t need no fancy computers to cop off with in them days! We made our own entertainment!
15. Do you usually act like you have more money or less money than you really have?
I think I give a fairly accurate representation of this, wouldn’t you say? Occasionally, I worry about how this might be perceived. But I have to say that it is only a minor, tangential worry.
16. Does your family read your blog?
My sister keeps up with it on a regular basis, particularly on the brief occasions when she is back in the country. As she is now. (Hiya, sis! See you on Sunday!)
I believe that my cousin dips into it from time to time.
My mother doesn’t own a computer, and has no desire to do so.
After many years of prolonged nagging from the rest of us, my aunt and uncle have finally gone online, and are probably going through their Honeymoon Period as I speak. My archives have been duly checked for Googlability.
17. How old is your blog?
It blends the noisy attention-seeking of a seven year-old, the self-questioning angst of a sixteen year-old, and the cocky swagger of a nineteen year-old.
Let’s see, then. 7 + 16 + 19 = 42. Ooh, coincidence!
18. Do you get more than 1000 page views per day? Do you care?
This has happened six times in the past month, although my usual figure hovers somewhere between 600 and 900.
Although it would be disingenuous of me to pretend that it wasn’t a source of some satisfaction, I have also been knocking around long enough to take this sort of thing with a hefty pinch of salt. All those pop-culture references get me a lot of Googlers; my traffic spikes always occur for bizarre and unpredictable reasons; my above-average number of references to other blogs generates a certain level of interest; and I’m a frequent updater, so people come back and check more often. Oh, and I’ve got all sorts of sub-pages beneath the main page, including two and a half years of weekly archives and separate pages for everything in the 40 In 40 Days Project. Plus there are all the Google image searches, which count for a hefty slice of traffic, and…
Hmmm.
19. Do you have another secret blog in which you write about being depressed, slutty, or a liar?
I’ve often thought about doing this, but know full well that it would only end in tears. I’m absolutely crap at keeping secrets.
20. Have you ever given another blogger money for his/her writing?
No, but I rewarded my first set of guest bloggers with home-made mix CDs. So much more civilised!
21. Do you report the money you earn from your blog on your taxes?
I don’t think that the Inland Revenue would be overly troubled by the meagre income generated by my merchandising boutique. Meanwhile, my Amazon referrals have not yet been sufficient to convert into real earnings.
22. Is blogging narcissistic?
Yes, of course. But at its best, it’s also much more than that.
23. Do you feel guilty when you don’t post for a long time?
Tragically, I do. And then I feel guilty for feeling guilty.
24. Do you like John Mayer?
Now, you see, this is why I rarely bother with questionnaires like these. Because there’s always at least one supremely irrelevant question near the end, isn’t there?
Being only dimly aware of the fellow, it would be presumptious of me to venture an opinion. However, based on what little I know of him, I strongly suspect that he is Not My Sort Of Thing At All.
Sorry, John. Nothing personal. Keep on keeping on, and all that.
25. Do you have enemies?
None that I am aware of. I’ve had the odd fractious ding-dong along the way, but have always managed to reach a suitable resolution in due course. Long may this continue.
26. Are you lonely?
Hardly. My voices are all the company I need.
(It’s the penultimate question. I feel I’ve earnt the right to some measure of bleak flippancy.)
27. Why bother?
Because the benefits outweigh the botherations, many times over.
Guesting on Naked Blog, Jonny Billericay describes the obligatory round of cheery morning greetings that every self-respecting village dweller must enter into when staggering, bleary of eye and fuzzy of brain, down to the shop for the morning newspaper. In our village (and maybe in most others), there is also a secondary, vaguely class-based convention to observe.
If you don’t speak with a local accent, then the correct form of greeting is a clearly enunciated “Good Morninggg!“, delivered in a sing-song intonation, with plenty of reverb on the final “ng”.
If you actually know the person you are greeting (that is to say, you have been formally introduced and have exchanged at least a few sentences of conversation with each other), then this may be shortened to “Mooor-ning!” – delivered with just the merest hint of hey-ho-here-we-go-again world-weariness.
If you do have a local accent, then the correct greeting is a simple, unaffected, I’m-just-a-straightforward-son-of-the-soil, no-frills-and-flounces-here-thank-you-very-much, “Ullo“.
And of course: if you live in the city, than do not, under any circumstances, attempt any of the above. They’ll only think you’re weird. Sometimes, back in Nottingham during the week, I have to make a conscious effort of will to remember this.
Over the weekend, I somehow ended up spending three and a half gruelling hours raking the churchyard. Try as I might, I have no recollection of volunteering my services. I can only suppose that it must have been very late, and that I must have been particularly well oiled. This suggests commendable (and characteristic) shrewdness on the part of the person who enlisted me.
However, of one thing I am quite certain: I would never knowingly have volunteered for anything which started at 9:30 on a Saturday morning. (I was about to say “at the ungodly hour of”, before realising that it was quite the opposite. God thrives on Bright And Early Starts.)
Let me make something quite clear: I am, by nature, a self-confessed Effete Drawing Room Fop. Extended periods of physical exertion are anathema to me; for I have no wish to be brought face to face with my wide range of incompetencies. Show me a hoe, and I will automatically hold it upside down. Put me in charge of a lawnmower, and I will squeal with terror as it charges away with me. Hand me a rake, and I will deploy it in such a way that my entire body will hum with pain for days afterwards – as evidenced by my current pitiful physical condition.
The worst of the pain is centered around my lower back, and – thanks to a brief but debilitating attempt to wield a pair of shears – both of my wrists. “They’ve never exactly been my strong point”, I quipped, somewhat daringly, over lunch in the pub with the rest of the morning’s conscripts – carefully curling my delivery with the requisite degrees of irony. With gags like these, you walk a tightrope.
Dragging my rake directly over the top of the village’s former chief supplier of heterosexual pornography (we ate lunch together only three years ago), I was surprised – cheered, even – to feel not even the slightest of shudders. In a village, you can readily attain an easy familiarity with the cycles of birth and death.
Later that afternoon, hobbling round the cottage like an elderly arthritic, I caught sight of the bulls in the field opposite, and mused benignly upon the gastronomic pleasures that lie ahead. At times like these, one feels so deliciously elemental, my dears.
Please join me over at Uborka, where I am taking orders for the regular Friday afternoon cocktail hour. This week, we will be toasting the engagement of Blogland’s Cutest Couple, Like, Ever:Stuart (from the Isle of Wight) and Krissa (from the island of Manhattan). Hands across the ocean, and all that.
Quickly, now – I need your orders in the next three hours (it’s currently 14:00 UK time). Oh, and there will be Rare & Endangered Species canapés to boot. Yum!
One Two Cha Cha Cha – Usha Uthup & Chorus. (1981)
There has been quite a buzz going round recently about a mysterious 7-inch single by the Bollywood Freaks, called Don’t Stop ’til you Get to Bollywood. (Indeed, an MP3 of the track turned up on Fluxblog not so long ago.)
For those that haven’t heard it, this is a hugely enjoyable Bollywood/disco cover version of Michael Jackson’s Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough – although in actual fact, it’s an only slightly re-tweaked bootleg mix of a genuine Bollywood soundtrack song: Chhupke Kaun Aya, as recorded in the early 1980s by Usha Uthup.
(Coincidentally, this original version has just been re-issued on Tom Middleton’s highly recommended double mix CD, The Trip.)
However, the real jewel in Usha Uthup’s crown is her TOTALLY and UTTERLY barmy masterpiece One Two Cha Cha Cha, as featured on the soundtrack of the Bollywood movie Shalimar in about 1981. (It also incorporates elements of a well-known disco classic – but I won’t spoil the surprise.)
You can purchase One Two Cha Cha Cha on a splendid compilation CD called In Flight Entertainment Vol.2, which is a pot-pourri of all manner of similarly kitsch delights.
This is a bit of a treat, actually. Take it away, Usha!
Guest Weeks. Dontchajustluvvem?
I know I do. Over at Uborka, I’m having a high old time, and enjoying the challenge of coming up with postings that will, at least to some degree, fit into Pete and Karen’s house style.
(Incidentally, to fully understand my third Uborka posting (Recipes of Yesteryear), you will need to be familiar with the second posting, including the comments. Meanwhile, the fourth posting (YAHNET Acronyms) is something of a world exclusive, which will hopefully be of particular interest to Internet historians. Overseas readers may struggle with this one, I’m sorry to say.)
In the meantime, Peter has been assembling his cast for the first ever Naked Blog Guest Week, which kicks off on Monday June 7th. I can scarcely wait.
Today, upon reading some marvellous news in one of my favourite blogs, I had a sudden realisation. Namely, that of the five contributors to my inaugural Guest Week in March 2003:
I am beyond thrilled. Just call me Richard Park.
There only remains one thing for me to say: YOO-HOO! COO-EEE! OVER HERE!
Zed asked:
If you could live anywhere else in the world, which country would it be?
At the risk of coming across as a depressingly myopic Little Englander, my immediate answer is: nowhere. Horizon-broadening be damned; for all its glaring faults and myriad irritations, I like it here.
However, given the somewhat improbable choice between transportation or death (or serious maiming at the very least), I suppose I would have to plump for San Francisco.
I am, of course, well aware that San Francisco isn’t actually a separate country in its own right (much as many of its citizens might like it to be – although, come to think of it, that must be part of its appeal), but it is the one and only place which I have visited, and thought: yes, I could quite cheerfully unpack my bags here, and never leave.
What a blessed relief it is that Zed omitted to append the increasingly ubiquitous “…and why?” to her question. For I’m not sure that I can meaningfully translate SF’s appeal into words. There was just something in the air over there. Particularly one sunny afternoon on Russian Hill…
Zed asked:
Would you like to take up journalism as a full-time job?
Ah, pipe dreams. Well, it would depend heavily on the type of journalism.
Give me a cosy little opinion column in the second section of a “broadsheet” (can we still say that?) and I would merrily churn away at my copy until the cows came home. Give me some Cultural Artifact to dissect (gig, play, film, album, restaurant, exhibition) and I would bash out my pithy aperçus with gusto to spare.
However, give me anything in which competition was involved – scoping out a hot new story, fighting for an exclusive, pitching my wares/whoring my ass to every editor in town, schmoozing and charming and networking with anybody who might be “useful” – in short, situations in which the actual writing part of the gig would amount to no more than a fraction of the whole – and I fear I might flounder miserably. You may laugh, but self-promotion doesn’t come easily to me. No, seriously, it doesn’t.
My second guest posting on Uborka will most likely have you either slavering at the chops, or shrinking back from the screen in pale-faced distaste. Chacun à son gout, as they say in France.
troubled diva 