Love it when a plan comes together

Yesterday my travel buddy Em gave me two tickets to see Gogol Bordello at their one and only gig in Canada this year. It just happens to be in Vancouver, a couple of days after we are due to arrive and a few days before my birthday, and the venue is only 500m from our hotel.

Oh, it's just all so wonderful.

Years ago (1989?) I was travelling round Northern Italy with my boyfriend and we found ourselves being driven around Milan late at night in a raging storm in the teeny-tiniest little car, that doesn't have a red doors and a plastic yellow roof and that you push along with your feet, by an Italian soldier who was trying to outrun the military police and get us to the railway station for the midnight departure to somewhere.

Cowardice being the better part of valour, we ran like fuck when he slowed to walking pace and opened the doors, and got on the first train we saw. It was absolutely packed to the ceiling with a Dark Side of Pink Floyd fans who were on their way to Venice to see them perform on a big floating pier in front of St Mark's square. We changed our plans and went along for the ride. A lighter in the air affair, but one to remember with great pleasure.

Does anyone remember Archaos? They toured and then camped out on Clapham Common in the early 1990s for a couple of summers and juggled flaming chainsaws while doing wheelies on the wall of death on motorcycles. The first time I went to see them I came out in a daze, it was like a 3D virtual Mad Max circus, but real. You just don't get entertainment like that anymore, outside Moss Side.

Any favourite nights out...?

Seventh Heaven

Jenny lists 7 songs she's currently listening too, here are mine -

Santa Marinello by Gogol Bordello: New York/Hungarian Gypsy Punk, Clash, Pixies, Pogues type combo who are so much fun on disc, I can't wait to see them live.

Ickythump by the White Stripes: My fave tune this year so far, bit prog rocky

the whole of Takk by Sigur Ros: Not listened to this for ages and then plopped it on one day and fell in love again. It's practically one extended track anyway.

Life During Wartime by Talking Heads: Takes me back to being a student and going to see the concert film at a late night showing in a small independent cinema. and dancing, in a cool fashion, in the aisles. They were so entertaining, intelligent, a bit dark but danceable and singalong.

Tom Traubert's Blues by Tom Waits: I have a different favourite Tom Waits song (does that need an apostrophe or not?) every month. Something in the lyrics or his voice or the music or the mood will catch me and that'll be my new fave for a while.

The Cowboy Song by Tom Hanks (from Joe Versus the Volcano film): Not much to write home about as a song, just makes me happy.

Open Heart Zoo by Martin Grech: He was about 17 when he recorded this and yes I did hear it on the TV commercial and go looking for it, but I'm glad I did because the rest of the cd was a real find. noisy and intense, but rewarding.

None of these would make my poptastic top 40 fave song list, but you don't want to eat cherries every day!!

Water of Life

So with nothing left to look forward to, ever, how about a wee dram to take away the pain?


Whisky's always been my drink of choice, but initially with coke or lemonade and ice. The first time I went into a London pub I asked for a whisky and coke and the barman sneered back,

'what sort do you want?'
'well, what've you got?'
'Bells, Paddy, Famous Grouse'
'Bells'd be great, thanks'
'that's not whisky it's Bells'

I puzzled over this for ages, (almost as long as I puzzled over 'a blind man walking past a fishmonger's says "Hi Girls"', and why it was funny. Well it was funny to a group of teenaged boys in the 80s) the day I realised I blushed so hard it made my hair curl (at the whisky remark, not the fish joke).

Oban has a distillery in the centre of town, on the main street. It's been there since 1794 and is either the oldest town based distillery or the only one, I tend to glaze at the interesting historical fact bits. It's between the white building and the short building next to the yellow building on the photo in the post below below. Around 8.15amish, it lets out a big sweet whisky vapour cloud which drifts up Jacob's Ladder and filters through the fir trees to McCaig's Tower (the colosseum on the top of the hill).

A couple of years ago Andrew Jefford, author of Peat Smoke and Spirit, visited our bookshop for an evening of readings from the book and whisky-tasting and general bonhomie. That was when, for the first time, I really appreciated the difference between Bells and coke and a good, solid Bowmore with a dash of room temperature water, a frisky Talisker or a smoke soaked Lagavulin.

Bowmore distillery on Islay.

But, even though I live in whisky world I'm finding it difficult to buy some specific bottles for a friend. There's a whisky supermarket chain called The Whisky Shop, but its range is limited in a way its prices are not. A fantastic local deli, The Kitchen Garden, has a good selection and can order even more, and each distillery has its own retail outlet. But it's striking how few places specialist places there are. I wonder if it's the same with cigar shops in Havana, chocolate in Hoogstraten or record stores in, what's the name of that place where they make the best music in the world? It's on the tip of my tongue, erm, erm, oh yeh, that's it, Manchester.

Can't wait 'til midnight

I wonder if the Mail on Sunday will be giving away free copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows this weekend?

PS: More free copies here, when you buy books!

Home Sweet Home

I live here. Just off the right edge of the photo. When I first arrived in town to have a look around, I hated it on sight. I thought it was shabby and tired and barren. I was bitten 6 times by midges, it was three hours by train from the nearest city, it was misty and rainy and I decided within 50 yards of the train station to get the next train back to civilisation.

Luckily for me the next train anywhere was six hours later, so I took a walk up and down the length of the high street, bought a newspaper and a sandwich and went to have a look behind the railway station for a sheltered place to sit down.

Behind the station is the ferry terminal for boats to the Western Isles / Inner and Outer Hebrides and there was plenty of time for a round trip to the Isle of Mull. Forty-five minutes by boat, one hour on the coach to Tobermory (Mull's capital) at the other end and time for a hot cup of tea and a nice sit down before coming back with half an hour to spare for going to the loo before the train home.

A dull, tiresome, wet day. All in six hours on the train, an hour by taxi, an hour and a half on a boat, two hours on a coach just to decide that I wasn't going to apply for the job and move out here.

But, on the boat on the way back I went out onto the deck in the dirty muggy rain and watched the scenery roll by. Just off Kerrera Island I caught sight of two dolphins playing in the water, the sun came out and a rainbow appeared, the smell of warming earth wafted over the water and I just changed my mind. Moved here a month later and can't believe I ever wanted to be anywhere else.

Decent days and nights

George Melly died last week and I was a little bit sad because I liked him. Am not a huge jazz or blues fan, but I do enjoy it live from time to time. And he had such a wonderful joyous fuckit way about him.

In '92ish, between Christmas and New Year sitting in the Clapham South Pitcher and Piano sipping Sol with lime in the top and slightly jaded Yah and Hoo, we decided to go into town and try something different. We ended up standing outside the 100 Club on Oxford Street debating whether to spend £12 a head (plus dinner) for George Melly downstairs, or £6 for the Salsa club above. We were cheapskates.

A couple of hot, sweaty loin-bumping and grinding hours later my boyfriend tapped me on the shoulder and whispered to get everyone together with fresh drinks and quietly nip behind the long black velvet curtains covering the fire escape. Girls first, followed a few minutes later by the guys we walked down the stairs, past the loos and under the next fire escape sign into the 100 Club proper. Be nonchalant. Nonchalant. OK Chris.

Just as we'd all met up at the bar, the party of 8 at the table front and left of the stage, made for the exit, coats and bags in hand. Two or three minutes later, George came on and wowed us with his Jellyroll Loving. While we were a chillin' and 'laxin' and noddydoggy in appreciation and picking at the chips left by the 'clean-looking' People Who Left, in swept Chaka Khan and settled at the table right next to ours.

George invited her to sing, and she did and it was good (well, he couldn't not really - her aura was huge and blocking the eyeline of even those on the far far other side of the room).

Once up, though, he couldn't get her to sit down again and he must have thanked her a good half dozen times before she finally got the hint and fucked off HIS stage. Chaka had a persistent lesbian admirer / proto stalker who ordered up mucho Champagne and all but flung herself onto the table legs akimbo, so we made out we were with The Chak (as if!) until the Lady moved away. Chaka said thanks and gave us all her champagne and left, though not before just one more song 'for my fans'. Bless her little cotton socks.

More George, more drink, more chips, more music, taxi home, more drink, more music. Aaahhh. Perfect post-Christmas, pre-New Year night out had by all. And every time I hear his name I think really happily of that night and those friends and living there then.

Goodnight Goodtime George.

Two Degrees of Separation

My friend Emma's father works with someone whose wife is seriously ill and was being treated by two doctors who have been arrested for the London / Glasgow car-bombs.

My friend Marie works with someone whose Grandfather was in the same class at school as Hitler.

Holding hands in love around the world

Apologies to any teenagers, or parents of children or people who used to be younger, but I hate teenagers, children and young people. Well, children aren't that bad, except they take such a long time to get to 30.

Facebook: The social networking site – which until last September was restricted to students - saw its unique user base soar to 26.6 million users as of May 2007, up a hefty 89 percent year over year and more than double the 14 million users the site claimed prior to the lifting of all registration restraints, according to a new report issued by comScore. And perhaps most surprisingly, close to 40 percent of Facebook’s audience, or 10.4 million uniques is now 35 and over. That’s nearly 3 million more users than the 7.8 million 18-24 years olds that frequent the site.

Ha!

Work experience boy (14): I like mostly old stuff, Led Zeppelin, I don't know if you've heard of them - to,

Me: No, I was born old yesterday

Me: That was rude - to,

Saturday girl (16): All my friends at school speak to each other like that. I think it must be an age thing - to,

Me: No I know old people who are rude too. Oh, maybe you're right, you're not properly grown up yet are you, not socially mature

Me: I'm coming to your school to sit a supervised exam while you're doing your Highers - to,

Saturday boy (17): Don't worry, Angus and I'll look after you - to,

Me: (Insert grateful response here) Why will I need looking after? - to,

Sb (17): Aren't you bothered about being older than everyone else? - to,

Me: Why would I be bothered? Why would you assume that the opinions of children would interest me in the slightest? It's not like you're important in the bigger scheme of things

I hate their optimism and plans and world revolves around me-ness. I love being older now and wouldn't go back beyond 30 for anything. You don't know shit, babies. Why do they assume they are the default setting for the present and the future?

Like what men do. Men? Men? Big Swinging Dicks and Masters of the Universe everyone of them. In their own heads and trousers. Oh look at me I'm a man therefore I'm the boss of you. I'm the default setting for "a person". How many times when people say 'and other people' do they mean 'not men'. There are no other people except men, except women.

Women, what's that moaning all about? Always fucking moaning about something. Younger women, see above, and stop being so vain and fragile, yes people do like you for the way you look and then you'll hit 40 and the invisible conveyor belt under your feet will stop and fling you off the end onto the scrap-heap. All middle-aged women are boring, self-righteous, neurotic and patronising, especially mothers. Mothers, like young people and men assume they're the default setting and childlessness is naturally, pitifully or willfully wrong.

Get a whicker shopping basket and die.

Arthur

In the 1930s my grandfather played piano for passage to America. Six weeks by ship and a long, winding motorbike road trip later, he found himself living with the Coca Cola family in Atlanta. I don't know how. His history was a bit mysterious. Somthing to do with the Earl of Stafford. Something to do with a grocery shop. Something to do with nothing really factually substantial.

There are some wonderful photos of him sitting out in the gardens of the house surrounded by Southern beauties in white cotton lacy summer dresses, picnicing and laughing and looking to all the world as though he'd been born to the life.

But, after just a few years he came home. Then, things I do know - Rented a council house in Manchester, took a quiet job in accounts for a small local business, played piano in Clubs (and for Ken Dodd, no less), took the Morning Star and drove a functional Trabant-looking half van half car for the rest of his life. He was lovely. Modest, unassuming, gentle.

I wish he was here now, he died about 15 years ago. I miss him because now I'm old and unselfish enough to want to know him for the person he was. Not just the grandfather who'd slip me a few quid with every goodbye kiss or who was there to be proud of me or to maintain a full complement of family for me.

He was asked to stay with the family and join the business, but came back because he couldn't live with the social and racial inequities he saw. He could have looked the other way, could have lived the American Dream, and then some. I want to know what made him turn his back on personal gain and become such a satisfied, content person. What are all the things I didn't know about him, who was he? On the other hand, why didn't he do more to improve the world if he felt so strongly that it was full of wrongs? Not that he had a duty to do so, but why didn't he?

I haven't got a photo with me at this house, although there's one in particular I'd love to post. When I find it I'll stick it up. He's standing in the Cheddar Gorge in front of his big black motorcycle wearing an ankle length black leather riding coat. Hands on hips, shoulders back, in his little round tortoise-shell glasses and hair slick-combed back, looking every inch the 1930s intellectual superhero. Who took that photo?