Don’t worry if you’re struggling. There’s probably less than half a dozen people alive on this planet who know the answer; which is of course, Hangovers. Not the physical phenomenon that we all know and love, result of bashing the grape more than somewhat and characterised by headache, dehydration, upset stomach, double vision, death (or close to) depending on how many extra one has attemped to tie on. In fact at one time in my life I am sorry to say, what had become my ‘default setting’ such that occasionally; maybe on a Tuesday or Wednesday I would wake up in my bed and not some wretched, deserted London Transport terminal like Cockfosters, Upminster, Dagenham, Barnet Church etc. and stumble about, blinking in the sunshine, unaccustomed to the levelness of the floor and the agreeable volume at which I found everything. Fit, in fact as a fiddle. Which brings me back to Hangovers.

The next time you are walking around Bloomsbury, which I realise for some of you for reasons of geography, is going to be less likely than it is for others, do yourself a favour. Head north through Tavistock Square, pass the British Medical Association, then between The New Ambassadors and the County Hotel, Stick your nose into Woburn Walk. As if you’ve stepped into a timewarp you are transported from the noise, grime and traffic on Upper Woburn Place to the most wonderful parade of Georgian shops.

This hidden gem was the brainchild of architect Thomas Cubitt, also resposible for, among other things, the East front of Buckingham Palace and was built as London’s first pedestrianised street. The houses themselves are three storeys with stucco fronts , while the shop facades were designed with great skill (it says here) The window stood in the centre, flanked by doorways, each of which were of four panels with rectangular fanlight above.  Each window was divided by very delicate glazing bars into twenty-four panes, four panes high, and curved at each side. Between each pair of doors was a wrought-iron scraper and the rainwater downpipes, with moulded heads, were neatly arranged in alternate recesses between the houses. Number 5 was occupied from 1895-1919 by William Butler Yeats. While from 1982 -1987 it was occupied along with number 3, by Hangovers, the Wine Store.

Aky and self outside Hangovers, summer 1984

Antique shop opposite Hangovers

So there’s the first link. The others I’ll come to presently.

There are so many Hangovers stories. They criss-cross, overlap and are so tightly packed that it is almost impossible to tease them out into one single narrative. So they have been left to mature these last few years and what I am going to attempt to do for you is to slice off some of the tasty titbits such as Stage Door Martin and the Waterloo Bridge incident, The SAS Captain, and The Flower Seller, amongst others.

But all in good time.

© Andy Daly 2012

Pic Credits: West End Notes, London Town, Flickriver 2 , 192.com, Flickriver 2

It stood, and in fact still does, so my sources tell me, on the Westgate Road, which follows the line of Hadrian’s wall (more or less) out of that fair city, whereupon the wall continues across the country to the Solway Firth.

Graingerville. No number. Just Graingerville.

You know how buildings by the shapes of their windows, shutters, doors and so forth can like cars, suggest a sort of ‘human’ face? Personality even? Well Graingerville did this. It looked like Ronnie Kray.

I became acquainted with it during one bitter cold winter some time back when The Human League were riding high in the charts with ‘Don’t You Want Me Baby’, and I wore someone else’s coat.

Full of malicious intent, it stood some way back off the main road, next door but one to the Chinese Chippy.

I didn’t live there. No, I lived in a much smaller house, if just as cold. It really was a wicked winter and thanks to someone who shall remain nameless, our cosy West End semi was left uninhabited over Christmas with water on and of all things, a dripping bath tap. Now I don’t know whether you have ever seen a bath-sized, bath-shaped block of ice before. Great comic potential I daresay, especially when thinking of a suitable drink to put it into, but not such a laugh if bust pipes and a potentially frozen backboiler mean you’ve no heat to defrost it. Add to that the ‘Ice Palace’ trim down the drainpipe and around the front door and you’ll understand why that particular January you could barely move for monkeys looking for welders.

Anyway, back to Graingerville. I’ve got to say, it must have been a classy joint in its day. Built for Richard Grainger, presumably of Grainger Market/Street fame, circa 1839 of dressed (ashlar) Sandstone with a Welsh slate roof; it had steps up to the front door, a basement, two stories, two sitting rooms and an attic. You could almost imagine it in its heyday. Home to a well-to-do Edwardian family: servants downstairs, stiff upper lips upstairs. Unfortunately, during the brief spell I knew it, it was in the hands of some very unscrupulous landlords, whose treatment of their tenants, students at Newcastle Polytechnic, was nothing short of diabolical. I’ll give you two examples.

The tenants had complained about the state of the gas fires. They were old, far from adequate, and clearly had not been serviced in many a year – in fact, I swear the feet of the fire in the attic had ‘SPQR’ and ‘Romanus fecit’ stamped on them. The gas pressure was so feeble that as the occupants in turn ignited their fires, the flame on the first-lit diminished to such an extent that there remained just the faintest of flickers. The landlords told them that it was all in hand and to worry not. Shortly, new British Gas pipework would mean more gas than they knew what to do with. Well, this was laid to rest and exposed as A Big Old Lie by a simple call to British Gas. It soon became clear that the renewal of so many miles of ancient pipework would be the owners’ responsibility and set them back a considerable amount of cash money. So there was a snowball’s chance in Hell of that happening.

Then there was the story of The Lock. This was the straw which broke the camel’s back as far as Graingerville and the tenants were concerned. One day the front door lock fell off. The door was rotten and over the years the cylinder lock – there wasn’t a separate mortice lock -  had been subject to a fair amount of punishment, and one day it simply fell out. The landlords refused to replace it, The tenants dug their heels in and refused to pay the rent, whereupon the landlords began the strong-arm tactics: calling around unannounced, making threats and generally being thoroughly disagreeable about it all. Indeed, any attempt to get them to deal with the raft of problems with the house was met with hostility. Even the gadge who came to fix the ceiling in the lower of the two sitting rooms, filling and painting while water dripped from the rose onto his nose never came back.

In fact, I am staggered to discover that it is a Grade Two listed building; status granted in 1976 – five years before the period I refer to. All I can say is that English Heritage would have got their knickers in a twist more than somewhat had they known what was happening at Graingerville. To whit and to boot, here is the full story of this episode in the life of Graingerville.

It comes along about 11 bells one night and I am returning from a night on ‘the Toon’, accompanying some of the residents of Graingerville and their partners. It being an audaciously cold winter (have I mentioned that?) I am invited in by same for a cup of hot something to keep me going on the remainder of my walk home. Whoops! Mind how you go on the ice up the path. Now what’s this? As we walk up to the house, the unlocked front door is ajar. Stepping inside,we are greeted by the sight of about half a dozen people sitting in the hall eating their chips and gravy from the Chinese next door. I admit to being a bit nonplussed, but the residents are quite used to it as it is an apparently frequent occurence and not so strange if you think about it for the hall is furnished with seats in the manner of a waiting room. It being such a cold snap, the take-away customers, rather than eat in the street, seek out the shelter and comfort (If not warmth) of Graingerville’s hall. So we bid them Good Evening and Bon Appetite and go up to one of two sitting rooms, where I am more than a little bemused to find myself walking ankle-deep in what appears to be grass. I don’t wish to come across as rude or conservative in my taste for floor coverings, so let it lie. In the same way, I try not to bat an eyelid as I am served a coffee in what seems to be a tupperware sandwich box. The reason for this, I discover later is that all the crockery and cutlery is frozen in one big heap in the kitchen sink – and has been since before Christmas, it now being Jan. 18^th

Well, after losing all sensation in my fingertips and fearing the onset of frostbite, I make my way back to our cosy semi with the novelty ice-cube. Once in bed I fall into a restless sleep in which I find myself back in Graingerville, taking a nightmarish tour of the darkened house.

It begins in the basement which appears semi-flooded. There is no light save that given off by my unseen guide and the torch he carries.  I can see shapes cut by odd pieces of furniture … and a supermarket trolley. We go up the stairs into the hall, as mentioned. Now in the dead of night, dark and still. To our right two rooms, in the front as the torchlight flickers I make out a bed, and strangely, all around the outside of the room including the bay window: seats; like out in the hall, again reminiscent of a waiting room. Anxious flashes of the torch belonging to my silent guide signal me to retreat and enter the room at the back. As soon as I enter, the hairs go up on the back of my neck higher than Don King’s on a bad hair day. I notice another bed and the sound of cascading water, seemingly down the back of the building. But what sort of a place is this? Of course, the penny drops. If it is nothing more than an ancient doctor’s surgery and waiting rooms. Again my guide motions me to move. So we climb the  staircase into the ‘grass sitting room’. While I find it trickier terrain to cross than previously, in the dark, I do notice it has grown splendidly and am wondering what they use for fertilizer, when I am elbowed into an adjoining room, which seems to be a kitchen of sorts. At least it has a sink in it. And inside, frozen together all manner of things: plates, cups, rubber glove, potato peeler…There is an urgency about my guide now, we run up the pitch black stairs, by-passing the upper sitting room, which I take a glance into. I’m not sure, but this seems to be carpeted with snow, so one way or another I figure the Welsh slate roof is in need of some attention. We pass another bedroom, and finally burst into the attic. As I spot another figure in the darkened room, my guide at last speaks: ‘Are you fucking ready then? Let’s go’ And with that, we depart the building.

I never see the inside of Graingerville again from that day to this, but it seems the tenants do what is called a ‘moonlight flit’ meaning they depart said accommodation in the middle of the night, owing a month’s rent and what with all the rush forgetting to leave a forwarding address. Not only that, but they find a supermarket trolley which comes in very handy indeed for carrying all the lightbulbs, light fittings, cutlery, odd items of furniture etc. such as they are likely to need in their new joints.

And the grass sitting room? Well the carpet is damp for so long and the landlords do nothing about it, that one day one of the tenants’ partners slings a handful of mustard seeds onto the floor just to see what will happen. In fact someone tells me that same year he wins a gold medal at the Benwell and Elswick Summer Fete in the jams, chutneys, marmalades and mustards tent, but I am inclined to take that with a pinch of salt.

© 2012 Andy Daly

Dedicated to the former tenants of Graingerville wherever you may be.

(With apologies to Damon Runyon)

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Syndey Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 13,000 times in 2011. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 5 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Not recommended

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• Science Technicians (as above, pro rata)

Meeting Suky

Once upon a time, before the invention of colour, I found myself in an English lesson. It wasn’t any old English lesson, oh no. It was my first English lesson at my new middle school: the monument to knowledge, learning and betterment of the Human Soul that was St. Wilfred’s Catholic Comprehensive Co- Educational Middle School, Rochdale. As I recall, a largely grim place which bore more than a passing resemblance to that which features in Ken Loach’s iconic 1969 film ‘Kes’. His version of the Barry Hines story ‘Kestrel for a Knave’.  Honestly if you want a fairly accurate picture of what life was like in a run of the mill secondary school in the industrial North of England: all its banalities, injustices, absurdities and gallows humour, you need look no further than Casper’s school. In particular, the masterpiece that is the PE lesson and the Headmaster’s Office sequence (Go on have a look. For those of you who have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, click below  for a vintage piece of social commentary in film) I can remember numerous lessons – not just PE, which were as surreal and farcical.

However, its significance was in more than just the marking of another new phase in my life. I admit, I suppose the fact that this notable lesson was being taught  by a professional wrestler was something that doesn’t happen every day. (‘Taught’ insomuch as he gave us the books, set the task, remained with us the whole lesson and repeatedly told us to ‘Shut Up’) Mr. Green as I recall; though I daresay that wasn’t his ‘ring name’ I reckon it was something like ‘Hard Lard Harris the Burnley Bomber’ or ‘Greedy Guts Green: the Grappling Greaser’. He had shoulder-length lank, dark hair and great sideburns like strips of airport runway tarmac that very nearly met under his chin and a huge paunch on top of which you could comfortably park a decent sized family car. Either monicker would have been suitably in keeping with his hirsute style, far from athletic frame and the kind of bizarre, yet strangely compelling spectacle that was British ‘Professional’ wrestling in the 1970s (Maybe it still is: I haven’t watched it for years. I’ve assumed that it’s been killed off by its bastard offspring, WWF or whatever it’s called.)

No. Despite being an interesting footnote to my education in English, the lesson’s significance did not lie with Hard Lard, Greedy Guts or plain Mr.Green nor indeed, how he chose to earn his pocket money.

It was significant because this was the first time I met Suky.

Suky was (and probably still is) Edmund Giddins, loveable rogue, tearaway and ne’r do well of Castleton near Rochdale. Not that I ever – not once, called him ‘Edmund’ or  ‘Nez’,’ Ed’or ‘Giddy’ In fact I can recall times where I had trouble remembering exactly what his real name was. And don’t ask me about ‘Suky’ I’ve no bloody idea where that comes from. He was always just ‘Suky’

We were pals straight away and every chance we got to sit together, we did. Suky was alright. Not least because he was PNE. That means he was a supporter of Preston North End. Living in Rochdale, that took some bottle, particularly as he was so passionate about them. It wasn’t something he hid: quite the opposite. He tattooed the back of his hands during another English lesson. I remember watching him do it, ‘convict style’ with a compass and a fountain pen ink cartridge. ‘PNE’ across his knuckles. I admired this aspect of his character. The only other PNE supporter in Rochdale was my Dad, who although he didn’t tattoo their name across his knuckles, was passionate in his own way when he talked wistfully of his times at Deepdale watching the great Tom Finney.

Suky had eight brothers: Frank, John, Robert, Chris (who I was to get to know some years later, in of all places, Newcastle upon Tyne, where he was doing teacher training) Anthony or ‘Ants’ as he was known, Michael, Richard, Patrick and three sisters: Anne, Shiela and Pauline. Chris and ‘Ants’ were the only ones I knew. My Best Mate Aky lived nearby and bunked off with ‘The Giddins’ – or at least Suky, Chris and ‘Ants’ - closest to him in age, on a fairly regular basis.

And ‘The Giddins’ is how they were known. A collective entity. Mad on Bowie, Velvets, Lou Reed, Roxy. Not so mad on school, authority, being told what to do. There were times when they bunked so much, people thought they were on part time timetables. Suky wasn’t a bad lad. He was bright but lazy, enjoyed having a laugh, was fearless – every time some hairbrained scheme or other was hatched requiring only (surprise surprise!) someone daft enough or with the bottle – or both –  to front it, Suky was there. He was always in trouble: increasingly so as he got older; but nothing major, nothing nasty. He gave the impression he just didn’t care – and he didn’t about a lot of things: but he never would have hurt anyone.

Two memorable lessons (for all the wrong reasons)

Both incidents take place at the Bishop Henshaw Memorial R C High School, Shaw Road, Rochdale. Don’t look for it, it’s no longer there. It is now St. Cuthbert’s. Although I attended for two years: 4^th and 5^th year (Years 10 and 11 in today’s money) I’ve no idea who Bishop Henshaw was or what he did. All I know is that he sounds a lot ‘funkier’ than bloody Cuthbert. You get the feeling that The ‘Bish’ had been around the block a few times, knew a few faces, could handle himself, perhaps even had a season ticket at Old Trafford. As for Cuthbert? Well, to paraphrase the great Paddy MacAloon, it’s soft name, it sounds like a pocketful of rain.

Anyway, it just so happens that me and Suky are sitting together, funnily enough, in our first Geography lesson at our new high school, the aforementioned Bishop Henshaw – or ‘Benshaws’ as it was known. Despite it being our very first lesson our teacher was absent (not a good sign) and so we were being looked after by the Head of Department, the hilarious Mr. Broadgland (as He and everyone else seemed to think. I didn’t: I thought he was an arsehole) He was playing the ‘introductions’ game. Go round the room one table at a time and get everyone to say who they are, which school they have come from, why they have chosen Geography and who they fancy for the 3:30 at Chepstow. Anyway, he finally casts his piggy little eyes in our direction. I am dreading this, but he starts with Suky – “Now, don’t tell me … You’re a Giddins aren’t you?”

“Yes Sir” says Suky

“Aaaahhhh. See? I can smell ‘em a mile off” Chortled Mr Broadgland to himself.

“Yeah, but at least I don’t smell of shit like you, you cunt” said Suky under his breath, smarting (as I did on his behalf too) at the uncalled for verbal assault by Broadgland.

“What’s that lad?”

“Oh I was just saying I hoped I’d be able to sit nearer the front Sir”

“Pleased to hear it Giddins, my lad, pleased to hear it. Next week”

“Fuck you, you knob” muttered Suky

“Sorry? …. “

“I said just the job  …”

Outrageous isn’t it? What a thing to say. And from a supposedly respected teacher too.

Thity five years later I can still see Suky colour up, bite his lip, breath quicken and blink rate increase  as his eyes begin to prick and sting …. As though it were yesterday.

The second episode is –  surprise, surprise! Another Geography lesson, six months down the line. It turns out that our Geography teacher, second in command in Broadgland’s little empire, is ‘up the duff’ or ‘with child’ so not only have we not seen her since we started at the school, we’ve had cover teacher after cover teacher after supply after cover teacher and its a load of crap and we’re all sick of Broadgland’s photocopied sheets. In fact, we never do see her,ever, because after giving birth, she decides to give up teaching to be a full time Mum! Excellent! Another year of photocopies we’ve actually already done and cover teachers,supply teachers, cover teachers …

… Like this one. Dr. Joy. Bastard. He was a Physics teacher of bad hair and humour. The kids had written ‘Jump for …’ in front of the nameplate on his door! Today, he had our lesson. The inevitable photocopies came round, we said we’d already done them. He said we hadn’t, we said WE HAD: TWICE, he said there must be a good reason for us doing them again and not only that, but we would do them in SILENCE! (Shouted) – This is a trick I used to use when I became a teacher, myself a few years later. Lull yor class into a false sense of security, with a gentle calm voice … then make them all jump when for no apparent reason, YOU SHOUT THE LAST BIT OF YOUR SENTENCE OUT AS LOUD AS YOU CAN! Great fun. However, I would like to think I was a bit fairer and more discriminating in its use than old bastard Joy.

Anyway, there’s no chance me and Suky are going to pass up the opportunity of a good natter – probably about music, which by this time, we were both heavily into. Joy obviously knew we were talking, he kept looking up and giving us the ‘I know you two are talking, and so I’m going to keep doing this till I catch the pair of you’ look. Well me and Suky are quite adept thank you very much at holding surruptitious conversations. I mean, we’d had lots of chance to practice. But what this sneaky bastard does is quietly slip out of his seat, work his way around the room, coming up behind as we chunter away. He’s brought with him ‘Scrote’s Elementary Physics’ a sizeable hardbacked tome, which he brings down with full force, on first my noggin, then Suky’s. To add Hainault to West Ferry, he  gives us a post lesson ‘stern talking to’ and asks us each do an essay for the following morning on ‘Truth’ ‘Why it’s important not to lie’ or some bobbins like that. Bastard! ….  Anyway, I thought as he sent us away, We didn’t tell any lies: we were talking; you caught us.Then you hit us over the head with the fucking Domesday Book.

I saw Suky the following morning.“Essay? “ He looked unconcerned. “Nah, he can stick it up his arse. I’m not writing any essays. He won’t bloody check “ He didn’t, Joy never bloody did and so began the begining of the end for me and Suky. My Dad was Head of the Sixth Form at the school, and I didn’t want tales of my misdemeanors finding their way back and embarrassing him. So my earnest, crappy little ‘essay’ was dutifully handed in at the staffroom door. To be quoted out and guffawed over inside for the rest of break I imagine. Either that or it went straight into the bin. (As kids, staffrooms seemed to suggest a fiercely guarded garden of delights. When I became a teacher, I discovered that all that was fiercely guarded were the few minutes calm in a sea of lunacy …there was no garden of delights. Not even, despite the many plant pots and yoghurt containers anything remotely green and living – except in the fridge -  the squalor! …) Suky and I spent less and less time in each others’ company, we just went in different ways. Nothing was ever said, but I suppose in Suky’s eyes I had capitulated. Never had the bottle when put to the test.

I never mentioned the ‘Joy incident’ at home, until fairly recently (in my ‘40s for God’s sake!) – before my Mum’s death. She was horrified at the nature of the physical intervention. As I would be. If a member of staff had done the same as Joy, or indeed, spoken to my lads like Broadgland. I would have demanded a personal explanation and justification. Then waited behind the bike sheds till they both left for home, and given them  … Only joking!”

The Tale of suky and the fireproof curtains

Now then, in a grim, colourless and unstimulating environment, Science labs were an Alladin’s cave of wonders just crying out to be stolen, broken, fucked about with, and used for entirely the wrong purpose: the more life-threatening the better.

Example: In the third year (Year 9, if you can’t do your sums) somebody in their wisdom had allocated our form one of the labs as base or Form room. What? hadn’t they heard about one of its more illustrious members John ‘Firestarter’ Siemaszko? For a short while in the second year, I kicked around with Siemaszko. We used to knock for him in the mornings on the way to school. At a time when all but the most die-hard Skin and Suedeheads were wearing awful feather cuts and just bad ‘Lad’s Long Hair’, Siemaszko had it razored to the bone. He looked as hard as nails. I don’t remember much else about him, except his ‘Warm Up’ act. On arrival at school, we would enter the lab which was unlocked and unsupervised, then John would go round opening all the gas taps and bringing them to life with his Zippo lighter. It was a fair sight I can tell you … but nice and cosy!

Not so, the corridors and stairwells where we had to ‘line up’ for Science lessons, which could only be described as chaos trying to organise Bedlam. At the end of each corridor hung Siemaszko’s mortal enemies – the fire extinguishers. It was considered highly amusing, around this time to read out to those around you for their health and safety, the instructions for operational use of these vital pieces of equipment:

Remove from the wall

Keep upright

Aim at the base of the fire

Strike knob

At which point, some unfortunate of the male persuasion and not party to what was coming next, would be the recipient of a barrage of  thumps into the goolies which would serve to make his eyeballs spin, like washing machine drums in different directions, stream stinging tears and be enough to raise the pitch of his voice by two octaves.

Little did we know that today, the fire extinguishers were about to be used in anger for the first time! Well, they were when they actually found two that worked. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Our repective teachers came, finally to collect us. Suky was in the other class. They had the student teacher, Miss Corrr Phwoaarr-Wahey for Biology. I think she was a mixture of Spanish/Irish, Next door we had Mr. Viscsak for Physics, who despite his generally good nature, wealth of teaching experience and distinguished war  record, (albeit for the ‘Other Side’) half of us cretins would have gladly seen replaced  by Human Reproduction with  Miss Corrr Phwoaarr-Wahey. Things finally got off the ground after the usual suspects, drifting in like latecomers to a James Blunt concert had given their lame excuses:’ I had to go and see Miss..’ I left my book at home and had to go down to reception to ..’ All dealt with, in our class, curtly and without fuss, it has be said: unlike many other lessons. Just for once, I thought, it would be great if they told the truth ‘Sorry we’re late Sir, but it was ten to, then we realised Ged had no more smokes for dinner time; and you know what Ged’s like without his nicotine, and the only shop that’ll sell single ‘quickburns’* is Pricewize up here (motions vaguely with left arm) Anyroad, we legged it – well walked it – y’know I’m really feeling it after that football match against Oulder Hill last night They’re a right bunch of dirty bastards. Anyway, where was I? (Class in unison:) ‘You were just about to cross the road at the end of Holstein Avenue’ ‘Oh yeah! So …..’

On second thoughts maybe not.

But what’s this? I feel sure I hear a faint scream: coming from where? Lots of subdued shouts, calls and a couple of bouts of hysterical laughter. Like many school Science departments,  the rooms were collected around a central resource space and connecting doors. The noise was coming from the next room – and getting louder!

One of Suky’s classmates takes up the story:

‘Well, Suky was late and ‘cos he wasn’t here last week, he wasn’t on Miss’s class list or seating plan. She said, he must be in the wrong class then, so they had a bit of an argument about it, so Suky said ‘Right then, I’m off!’ I think she realised she had made a mistake then. He didn’t have the task sheet either, because he didn’t have his book so, she made him sit on one of the big stools at the workbench by the windows. She began giving people stuff to hand out for the lesson like Bunsen Burners and stuff. It all got a bit chaotic really. I think she forgot about him … (Important Learning Point all trainee teachers) Then I noticed Suky was looking at the curtains. Those really dark, heavy, smelly things’

‘Fireproof’

‘Huuuuhh?’

‘Fireproof, flame retardant. I think they have to have them in case of fire.’

‘Well, they had a case of fire today, and they were fucking useless’

Indeed. For in his boredom (Remember Important Learning Point all trainee teachers) Suky had decided to appoint himself Chief Fire Officer for the day: and number one on his (brief) list of checks he had to perform was over the effectiveness of the flame retardancy of the curtains. ‘There is a relatively simple technique in doing this’, Suky said to himself, much in the manner of a voice-over in a TV documentary,’ which requires a little bit of ingenuity’ (In a flash he lifts the Bunsen Burner off Miss’s desk) ‘and of course, a rogue flame from which the fire can begin to progress in a random pattern’. Siemaszko, who had been watching Suky intently was at his side in a second, Zippo in hand, ready to go. All Suky had to do was open the gas tap and torch the nearest curtain at the same time, the rest of the class, sensing something was ‘afoot’ began to sidle over to Suky’s side of the room, eyes on the curtains.

They weren’t disappointed as much to their glee: minimal contact between flame and fabric, and they went up like the Hindenberg. At that same moment, one of the white-coated Science technicians burst through our connecting door, into our classroom, from where, she amost bounced up to Mr. Viscsak and began whispering frantically. She seemed to be casting doubt on Miss Corrr Phwoaarr-Wahey’s ability to control the situation. In fact, Miss Corr.etc.. was already over the other side of the school, briefly stopping off  in the staffroom, to collect her bag, throw back the quarter bottle of vodka she had tucked away inside, before making for the bus stop.  A loud “Ooooooooohhhhhh!” from next door.  It seems like another curtain had gone up. It was like bloody Bonfire Night!

We weren’t aware of it at the time, but it transpires that poor old Suky is in double trouble. For as we strain our necks to watch the flaming tatters of the ‘fire- proof’ curtains peel away and fall with a kind of ghostly grace, they do so onto neatly stacked piles of unmarked Science exam papers! Arkward.

“Now that’s enough!” Said Mr. Viscsak, Who with face set to ‘Grim Determination’ strode purposefully next door to sort out the whole flaming mess. We followed, however, the connecting doors were not constructed with the role of ‘Firewatchers’ Portal’ or their use, simultaneously, by dozens of hysterical children in mind and so jammed. For 45 minutes no-one could get either in or out via the connecting doors.

*Benson and Hedges Sovereign. Sold in packs of 10 which some shops would split

Epilogue

Later that same afternoon, Suky – under his real name Edmund Giddins  – was tried by Headmaster, Mr. O’Riordan and found guilty on one count of arson.  His defence that he wanted to check and confirm that the curtains met minimum BS standards was found to be untenable. viz: If a physical test results in complete destruction of the original, fittings and associated items, it rather defeats the object. Now, here’s an instance of when a school’s discipline policy can look pretty half-baked. Suky was sent home the afternoon of his misdemeanor, to come back again the following morning, to then be taken out of his lessons all day, returned to his science classroom at the end of the school and held there for an hour’s detention.  That was just for starters. I think the Science department wanted its pound of flesh for those damaged exam scripts; although, in fact, they weren’t as bad as first thought.

With a clarity that is admirable, Suky said “This is bollocks”, went home that afternoon never to return!

Let me explain. All this nonsense took place about four weeks before the end of the summer term of Suky’s  third year. the summer holidays followed, then … new school! …. Bishop Henshaw! Suky confided in My Best Mate Aky. What was he going to do? They were going to crucify him at school. Aky put his thinking cap on. Master-tactician and strategist even at the age of 13, Aky considered the whole picture. There was a fair chance, he reasoned, that if Suky ’laid low’ till the end of term, then a new start in a new school? who knows? It was a calculated risk. But one that Suky was prepared to take. My Best Mate Aky concerned that Suky’s immediate future and peace of mind rested on his ‘long shot’ agreed to accompany him- they weren’t doing much at St. Joseph’s anyway. So the two of them bunked off the whole of the following month. (Important Learning Point all trainee teachers: Never under-estimate how smart your ‘clientele’ may be)

And what do you think? It bloody well worked! Suky ‘re-surfaced’ anew at Bishop Henshaw, having escaped the wrath of Headmaster O’ Riordan and St. Wilfred’s Science department. Now you can see why idiot Broadgland’s stupid remarks struck a raw nerve.

So there you go. That’s the story of Suky and the unsafe safety curtains. I last saw Suky in 1977, When I moved away from Rochdale. We exchanged a couple of E Mails in that ‘first flush’ of Freinds Re-United excitement (You know, before in the majority of cases, you realised there were good reasons why you hadn’t kept in touch.) The last known sighting was December  2008. My mate Greg met him selling Christmas Trees.

I reckon he would have made a good christmas tree salesman. In fact, I think Suky would have made a good anything  – if he wanted to. 

And now, especially for my Dad … There was a lot of arson about in school in those days.

Postscript

Since publication (Sounds grand doesn’t it?) A couple of juicy Suky-related nuggets have surfaced:

What was brother ‘Ants’ excluded from Bishop Henshaw for? Answer: Swailing!

Apparently, the Garden Centre Suky sold Cristmas trees from suffered damage not long afterwards from …. fire!

This is obviously an embroidered account of events, as I remember them. The ‘core’ of these events and the things said are however re-told as faithfully as possible. Whilst some of the names have been changed, Those of Edmund and family have not. It is not my wish to cause any offence, and should the Giddins family decide they would rather not be so publicly exposed (I wouldn’t worry too much, there are only about 20 readers) I will, of course remove post.

© Andy Daly  2010

It is the night before Christmas and I am in the ‘Bullring’ Birmingham’s famous shopping centre and snow is falling. I last saw the ‘Old’ Bullring in about 1979. It was, let’s face it not only an eyesore, but an earsore, armsore and legsore it was so bad. Not so today. It is very tidy (in fact bang tidy) neat and very busy.

I am still pondering this transformation in the gents toilets, whilst drying my hands. I am using one of these new-fangled blown air hand driers. Similar to the Dyson airblade, it looks like an open letterbox in the wall. It is pretty pathetic. A vision passed before my eyes of the facia of this thing being removed to reveal two wheezing old men blowing through it from behind. This nightmarish thought was soon banished by an awareness that someone was standing behind me…

I turned and looked. Who was he? Not Bob Marley as we’ve summised, (too white, too alive) Joe Cocker? (too young)  Justin Bieber? (too old)

‘Alright’ he said in a gravelly West Midlands accent (as opposed to a gravelly hill interchange) while he moved to use the hand dryer. Of course! It was only Noddy Holder! The owner of the best pair of lungs this side of the Mississippi Delta and singer of the best Christmas song ever. The band was Slade and the record, the evergreen ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’ a hit for the band first time round, Christmas 1973.

If you didn’t know, and although you probably really couldn’t give a shit, I’m going to tell you anyway; the story is that this seasonal ditty which has etched its way into our national consciousness, along with Turkey, Santa Claus and Dickens’ ‘Christmas Carol’ was in fact recorded over a blistering hot week in New York, late summer of that year. Apparently, Lennon (that’s John, Liverpool, musician not Aaron, Spurs, winger) was in the next studio recording ‘Mind Games’ at the time.

The song was a hotch-potch of snippets that Noddy and Jim Lee had lying around. They were given the final touch, it is reported when (I love this …) Noddy “After an evening out drinking, worked through the night at his mother’s house in Walsall to write the lyrics, which he completed in one draft.” You see? a genuine slice of British Popular Culture crafted in a Walsall two-up two- down after a night on the ale. Bowie, meantime, earnestly doing his Willliam Burroughs’ ‘cut-ups’ must have been wondering where he went wrong.

What to say? I can’t be seen as a fawning fan: No, no, no that won’t do. What about a ‘cooler’ approach? Drop in a ‘blokey’ comment which might initiate a conversation.

That’s it! I figured.

Of all the things I could have said or asked him – such as ‘What was it really like to work with Dave Hill?’

‘Why the Mirror Hat, Nod? and how did you keep it on?’

Failing that, ‘Ere Noddy, you know when Don Powell lost his memory, were there ever things you told him that hadn’t happened, just for a laugh?’

No, of all the things … What do I venture forth with?

‘These hand driers are about as much use as a chocolate teapot’

He looked at me and snorted a snort which was somewhere half way between ‘Yeah’ and ‘What the **** are you talking about?’ – I’m still analysing it.….and made his way out.

Of course what I should have done was wish him a ‘Merry Christmas’, for he knows how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim and Dave Hill observed, God Bless Us, Every One!

Have a Happy Christmas

With apologies to Charles Dickens.  ‘A Christmas Carol’ a contrived piece of seasonal nonsense from ‘Sitting Comfortably?’

Here’s wishing all our readers a peaceful, happy, healthy 2012.

Andy

©Andy Daly

“You’ll have to get me on the mobile. It’s not a good phone – so don’t get your expectations too high.” I told my Dad.
The phone’s knackered you see. Has been since thursday when it began to issue strange-sounding beeps and bleeps.

Or … to be perfectly accurate about it the phone is fine. What is actually knackered, as the twelve year old engineer that Virgin Media sent round on Monday morning, still apparently hungover, patiently explained to me is:

“Your cable from the cabinet to here. It’s damaged.”

I was confused … but the wiring for the phone doesn’t go anywhere near the cabinet I thought, looking around the room; it comes in through the wall in the front room, and immediately to the phone’s  base unit (It’s cordless)

For the uninitiated, a ‘Cabinet’ is a secure (at least in theory) piece of street furniture, which allows Virgin Media and their technicians, as well as those of other service providers, access to the cabling, junctions and switching for that particular street or area. Occasionally … No, thinking about it … often you see these green or grey cabinets open (left so by sloppy engineers, or prized open by the local hoodlums – who knows?) Funnily enough the one nearest us is currently in such a state; multi-coloured spaghetti and great dizzy Afros of intricate wiring billow happily from the inside.

The cabinet up the road

So. Diagnosis: Damage to  the service supply cable between ‘the Cabinet,’and our property

The Year 9 engineer gave us an estimate of waiting time for repair – about a month! What? I was astonished. I explained  about the Parkinson’s and how it leaves me immobile numerous times, daily and that therefore, when fingers are too affected to use a mobile phone in emergency, I rely on a push-button pendant I wear around my neck, which links to a receiver and via an organisation known as ‘Careline’ allows you to raise the alarm in an emergency. It then organises appropriate help as the situation demands (For instance, they may at the user’s request phone their partner at work, asking them to go home as aid is required. Or another example, more serious. The user has a fall, leaving them injured and unable to reach medication, phone or front door. They alert ‘Careline’ who in turn call their partner, as well as additional contacts (also keyholders who could effect an entry should the partner be held up for any reason) and  the emergency services should they br required.

Of course you never think you are going to need it … Till you do … And of course ‘Careline’  naturally, needs a telephone line.

Anyway, back to Monday morning and ‘The Boy Wonder’ has an idea. He will book a date for the repair to be done, but suggests phoning Virgin Media later in the day to put my case in order to hopefully gain an earlier slot. Rinky dinky, sounds like a Plan.

And off he goes in his gaudy Virgin Media Ice Cream van, the cushions tucked under his seat and wooden blocks tied to his boot soles allowing him to see (just) over the dashboard and operate the pedals.

Of course Tinchy bloody Stryder, doesn’t get back to me to confirm a date does he? Why? why? did I trust him? Why didn’t I see out my original plan? Tie and gag him then bung him under the stairs. Hold him to ransom: full line repair and compensation for inconvenience being the only things sufficient to secure his release. It would have been all done and dusted by now.

Bloody hell. here we go:

‘Weclome to Virgin Media. We now have 5 options for you. If you want to Top Up with a voucher: Press 1 … If you want to Top Up with a credit or debit card already registered with us: Press 2 … If you are moving house or need to alter your account details: Press 3 … If you have lost, forgotten or need a new PIN number: Press 4 … If you want to be fucked about with, forced to listen to ‘Phantom of the Opera’ and after ten minutes find yourself back at the main menu – where you started and no wiser: Press 5 …’

‘Ahhh…..’

‘… or press zero to speak to a customer service advisor … ‘

Now that’s more like it. I’ve been here before and I’m no fool. Zero it is. Ten minutes later I find myself back at the main menu, having been fucked about with, forced to listen to ‘Phantom of the Opera’ and no wiser:

My condition does make it difficult to make myself understood sometimes, but I found that on this occasion (and subsequently) the call centre operatives, useless. Impatient, yet Anyway, the outcome of the call was the telephone assistant was able to move the engineer’s visit date a little further forward to November 14th: still three weeks away, although she did say she would put us on the waiting list should there be any cancellations. After a second call some days later an engineer visit date was brought forward to 1st November. Progress at last!

Now, here’s a first! You are cordially invited to finish the story yourself according to one of three scenarios:

1) The second engineer  arrives and to my dismay performs the same battery of tests as his colleague, before announcing his diagnosis: Damage to service supply cable between ‘the Cabinet’ and our property. This nonsense goes on for weeks until out of the blue the cable is repaired and I am sent a wet apology by somebody in ‘Complaints’. I take the matter up  with s current Consumer Affairs programme

2) It transpires it has all along been an elaborate ploy by Virgin Media to test the ‘Brand Loyalty’ of randomly selected customers. We triumph in the South Eastern regional competition, and meet Scotland and the Borders in the Grand Final, which we also convincingly win. Our prize is a fortnight in The Bahamas.

3) Our evidence is enough to put the gang behind bars for a long, long time, and we all live happily ever after.

Virgin Media workman apparently having a piss into an open cabinet while his mate gets on with the job

© Andy Daly

So glorious in his beauty and thy choice

damned by the lethal binding of this bastard spectre

who with bitter pills and twisted smile

beat hard him down, marr’d and wasted.

But not able to end him, left him maimed.

And all the while your melancholy beauty fills the skies,

shines in those tremulous eyes which with mounting refrain ask to the end

Who is to make amends for all that has been, all that is,

and all that which is still to come?

Alas! for this grey shadow, who watches as you slumber

in a divine peace,

breath: soft and slow,

shoulders: rising and falling.

who dare’st not move for fear of waking

or that she feel his tear on her cheek.

As dawn approaches, a soft air fans the light upon them

and in it a glimmer of a world that used to be

Three happy voices who embrace and cling to thee

So tightly

that nothing and no-one could ever have the strength to put asunder

But for this grey shadow

whose time now it is to leave,

for as the world is waking up, so your cheek begins to brighten in the gloom

Fast! his lips pass so close they could almost kiss.

But no.

The bitter raking of his eyes seals it and he is gone.

For of one thing he is sure, were these heavy tears to begin to fall

they would never, ever end.

But rest assured, He will return, maintain his vigil

and love you the best he can.

For this grey shadow was once a man.

© Andy Daly 2011 (Apart from the bits I nicked from Tennyson)

Key words:

Idiot, Reckless, Speed, Thrill, Gradient, Air, High Side, Thump!, River, Brakes, Service, Repair, Hip, Bruising, Shit for brains.

(See also ‘Going Over The High Side’)

© Andy Daly 2011

… And ‘Hey Presto!’ There you have the secret of the Rubik’s Cube in under 20 seconds. Easy isn’t it when you know how? Now then.

 I went to see Todd Rundgren. last week. Not everybody’s cup of tea I know, but for me, his complete understanding of the dynamics of a three minute pop song (‘Hello it’s Me’, ‘I saw the light’), plus his skill as a musician and producer (his production credits read like a ’Who’s Who’ of the last 30 years of popular music, albeit a copy with a few pages missing here and there but pretty impressive nevertheless: Patti Smith, Cheap Trick, Psychedelic Furs, XTC, Grand Funk Railroad, New York Dolls, Hall & Oates to name a few.) mean he’s safely up there in my Top Five. In fact, probably Top Three. Yep. When Todd’s firing on all cylinders he is a sight to be seen/ sound to be heard. And as if that weren’t sufficient, he seems to possess a God-given ability ’get a lot out of a little’; as in the case (if I may I be so bold) of Meatloaf.

Ah yes - it’s all coming back to you now isn’t it? 1977. ‘Bat Out Of Hell’ the surprise multi-million seller sung by a rotund half-wit and written by a ’never-gonna-git-me-a-girl-dork’. None of the majors would touch it with a bargepole. In fact, nobody would touch it  with anything. Until Todd says: ‘I get it. Yeah, I’ll do it’  He steps up to the plate, and the rest is history. ‘The hardest thing was getting Meat to sing in tune’, he remembers (sort of ) fondly. However, tonight, the Steinman phenomenon and the Fat One  are put to bed early. ’Ya want Meatloaf, ya gotta pay to get out!‘ Todd good-naturedly warns the crowd.

Indeed Rundgren’s longevity coupled with a consistency of interesting and credible output, even now, as he nears his mid sixties, suggest he’s doing something right.

In fact, Rundgren is more resolute and singular now than ever in satisfying his eclectic interests: playing and recording exactly what he wants, confounding critics and fans alike as he first jumps this way, and then that. For example, in the last six or so years, he has recorded and toured ‘Liars’ a well-crafted thematic collection of songs, written on a laptop using a ‘softstudio’, played a number of acoustic dates  (51 or thereabouts) sharing the billing with Joe Jackson and Ethel, string quartet, done a fairly extensive stint on the road with The (‘Who’s going to drive you home’) Cars, recorded a ‘Rock’ album ‘Arena’ on which he allowed himself to focus on his guitar playing (which he had come under fire for from some quarters of his audience for neglecting – not that for a minute I am suggesting that is why he did it) He also took the opportunity to use the tunes to give ‘a nod’ in the direction of a number of innovative, creative players whose work has happened to strike a chord with him over the years. (Ho, ho.)

The last year, he revived, and toured in its entirety his ground-breaking 1973 oddity “A Wizard A True Star.” It is an eclectic (that word again) and ideosyncratic stream of consciousness, sequenced as a continuous medley and featuring a ‘varied range’ of songs set in dazzling arrangements with innovative production; Rundgren experimenting with and exploiting virtually every studio effect and technique then available. Although it featured predominantly original material, it also included a version of “Never Never Land”, and a medley of soul classics* sadly packaged in one of the worst covers ever.

‘AWATS’ Awful, awful cover!

At the time, Todd was making his money producing, and was thus able to make the record he wanted to make rather than the one the record company wanted.

‘My attitude was substantially different than what it is for most artists, because I was making a fine living as a producer and therefore didn’t feel that I was constrained to be especially commercial in my own music.’ - So the ‘hits’ were kind of accidental then?  ’I continued to make records on my own but that was only because I had musical ideas I wanted to express and get out of my brain. I accidentally had hit records, and more or less got drawn back into being an artist.’ … So yes, they were.

 On tour here in the UK in 2008, his promoter  mentioned that the album had been cited by a number of new bands such as Daft Punk and Hot Chip and the like, as an influence, and suggested a one off performance.

On last year’s visit to London, Todd combined ’AWATS’ (as it is known by those in the know) with a ‘support’ live set of songs from his most recent project, the album ‘T. R’s Johnson’; the reworking of some of the songs of influential Delta Bluesman Robert Johnson (1911-1938). Johnson’s legacy, one of the most powerful bodies of music to emerge from a blues figure resounds down to us through the years of the second half of the twentieth century through that of artists such as Muddy Waters, Elmore James, Junior Parker, John Hammond Jr, the Stones, John Mayall, Cream,  Clapton, Johnny Winter, Paul Butterfield, Bonnie Raitt, Fleetwood Mac, ZZ Top, Led Zeppelin, Cassandra Wilson and many more. So what was Todd’s take?

Apparently, just as  he completed ‘Arena’, and was looking for distribution, the people he agreed a deal with had an additional project they wanted him to take on. They had recently acquired the catalogue for Robert Johnson, but they had no recorded masters even though the songs had been covered by many artists. They wanted to have versions to offer for sync licensing, master licensing, that sort of thing. So Todd agreed to do it.

 ’Towards the end of my high school years I became fascinated with the blues. My first paying gig as a guitar player was in a blues band, so it was not that unusual a challenge, I suppose. That’s why I considered taking it on …  I  knew that I wasn’t going to do literal versions of Robert Johnson songs like, for example, Eric Clapton did. I decided instead to tribute the bands that influenced me when I was first becoming a guitar player. And many of those bands were playing Robert Johnson songs, for instance Cream’s version of “Crossroads” and things like that. That became part of the standard guitarist lexicon at that point. So I decided I would make a record in the style of a 60′s Blues Breakers or Yardbirds, English-style, white blues record’. Sounds reasonable enough for me; and to be honest, I thought those bleating about wanting the ‘hits’ during his ‘Support Set’ at the Appolo, (and apparently too on the last night of the current tour at Ronnie Scotts) instead of  ’this stuff we don’t know’ were being downright rude. I could tell you exactly what Johnson tunes they played at Hammersmith, as I have in my possession  – somewhere – Rundgren’s personal set list, annotated with little instructions: particularly copious I seem to recall over one tricky introduction, which in the event they screwed up any way. Personally I’d pay good potatoes to go and listen to him sing the phone book. But then I am,  a little sad to say, a fan.

Rundgren is a musician who has been a particular favourite of mine since the late ’70s. He is an enigma. For instance, has written and recorded some sublime music (‘Verb to Love’) but also has some shockers in the closet. At times, he appears to be one of the few musicians around who has a clear vision of how popular music and the buying/selling of it and the relationship between artist and listener will be shaped and subtly shift balance in the future; yet on other occasions prone (embarrassingly often on record) to talking what can only be described as bollocks. AND he is guilty of a whole string of serious crimes against Taste during his unfortunate ‘prog rock’ era. But then again, it is quite common for him not only to produce his own recordings, but Todd cocks up the two part guitar harmony in the solo ‘I saw the light’ (Again)  play all the instruments as well. Russ,  my ‘Minder’ asked about Todd and drugs. Initially, like Zappa, he disapproved, but in the ’70′s began to experiment with marijuana, LSD and the little-known stimulant, Ritalin, now of course known as the ADHD ‘wonder drug’. Which explains a lot!

Funnily enough it was Alan (“Alright  Pop Pickers?!”) ‘Fluff’ Freeman who proved to be the link. To digress a little; before Punk, like thousands of other ‘lost souls’ I used to listen to the mainly turgid shite that he played on his Saturday afternoon Radio One ‘Prog Rock’ show, bless him.

‘Fluff’ On The Needle

I say ‘lost souls’ because, at the younger end of his audience, I think many,  like me, listened almost out of duty. There  wasn’t anything else. We were just waiting … That’s why when Punk came along, we were off! Barclay James Harvest, Tangerine Dream  and Yes? Nah! I wanted to listen to The Damned, The Buzzcocks, Slaughter and the Dogs and the Pistols. Neverleless, Freeman’s show along with (it almost goes without saying) John Peel was a pivotal factor in engaging with non-chart music of the era.

It’s wonderful broadcasting isn’t it, Looking back? I met ‘Fluff’ once. Charming bloke. Wasn’t sure about his handbag though…Where was I? Well, anyway ‘Fluff’ had a jingle he used to play which I couldn’t get out of my head.  Of course, Sod’s Law the excerpt above does not include the one I am referring to and I have not been able to find it elsewhere. It was a snippet of a song.  It was clearly live: you could tell by the ambience, and which featured what sounded like the chorus to a song sung acapella,  the audience joining in whilst clapping a slow heavy rhythm along to it. It fascinated me. As well as sounding ‘live’ it sounded ‘alive’ like real people at a real gig.

It took me a while. None of my mates were into Rundgren, so none of them recognised it, but eventually I did track it down. It appeared to be “One More Victory” on a live album, “Another Live”. So on the strength of ‘Fluff’s few snatched seconds, I bought it, second  hand mail order from Cob Records in Wales, and that was it. I still have it. If you are able to stomach the bizarre  band photos which seem to depict a group of cross-dressing Mafiosi and Rundgren’s occasional self-indulgences, is a great record. One which for me, sits comfortably alongside other favourites from the same period: “The Modern Dance” Pere Ubu, “Natty Dread”,  The Wailers,  “Never Mind The Bollocks”, The Pistols and “The Mormon Tabernacle Choir Sings Songs of Christmas”

Todd. He’s our flawed genius. I say ‘our’, because shortly after arrival at the Jazz Cafe (with wheelchair, stick, medication and faithful ‘minder’ Russ,  all 6′ 2″ of him) at about the same spot we saw Bobby Womack from a few weeks ago, we are immediately engaged by the couple next to us, in conversation about ‘Our Hero’: When did we first see him? Best gig? Favourite Song? Favourite Album? (Russ: Never, none, none, none. Should have been wearing white really …) I have found this typical, people want to talk about him, and do so with a familiarity that gives the impression he is a Mate or member of the family. His successes are joyously acclaimed, his indulgences soon forgiven.

And so, to Monday night, when Todd hits the stage, he is as relaxed as I have ever seen him. He performs a set of songs, unofficially billed as a ‘Greatest Hits’ tour with material collated from virtually areas all of his career  from ‘Something Anything’ to ‘TR’s Johnson’. A collection that Rundgren felt, were the band to accept requests (“which we don’t”) his audience would have selected. And he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. The band ( Prairie Prince: Drums, Kasim Sulton: Bass, Jesse Gress: guitar and -it sounded like John Forensic to me! - Keyboards) long time associates of Rundgren were relaxed too, but not so much that they lacked punch. Set list went something like this:

Real Man
Love of the Common Man
Buffalo Grass
Kind-Hearted Woman
Determination
Lucky Guy
Can We Still be Friends
Espresso (All Jacked Up)
Love is the Answer
Difference
Lost Horizon
Flaw
Soul Brother
I’m So Proud/Ooh, Baby Baby/La La Means I Love You/I Want You
Hawking
I Saw the Light
Courage
Couldn’t I Just Tell You

Encores

Hello It’s Me
A Dream Goes On Forever

(Give or take)

I think my highlight of the night had to be the version of ‘Hawking’ for which I had wormed and weedled my way (to the immense irritation of many of my fellow concert-goers, especially those holding pints) to the front. ’Fuck it’ I thought, ‘If I can survive an hour and a half in at the old Rainbow in a Clash or Bad Manners moshpit, disabled or not, I think I’ll be able to look after myself here should the need arise, thankyouverymuch, Mr. Grumpy who keeps giving me dirty looks.

It was well worth it. Electrifying, it got the hairs up on the back of my neck. I stayed for ‘I saw the light’ to see Todd cock up the solo for the second time live. Then went back to rejoin Base Camp.

What can I say? Had I been asked what would make a perfect evening with Todd Rundgren, this would have been it: performer in good – even high spirits, voice intact, intimate venue, great band, a fine collection of songs. The only things missing, which would have put the ‘Gold Seal’ on it for me: a rendition of ‘The Verb To Love’ and the stamina to wait around long enough after close of play to meet the main man.

Next time …

© Andy Daly  2011

Video credits: Steven Budd /Pic Credits: Thierry Allaouchiche

*The album was also notable for its extended running time—over 55 minutes in length, compared to around 40–45 minutes for a typical pop-rock LP of the period. (I didn’t know this. Did you know this?) This reflected Rundgren’s skills as a mastering engineer, since this extended running time took the album close to the practical maximum for an LP—Due to the inherent physical limitations of the vinyl LP medium on records with running times over 45 minutes there is an unfavorable trade-off between duration and the audio quality and volume.

A post prompted by ‘Sitting Comfortably?’s recent series on recurring dreams which involved forced DIY of a particularly ‘Flat-Pack’ nature and their interpretation. It is intended to provide succour and support for those in ‘Flat-Pack Hell’, wherever that happens to be: deep in their subconscious, or all over the living room floor.

Swedish Exports

So, guess what? Me and an old friend had a whale of  a time last weekend … At our local branch of IEKA. Yep! You heard correct: I did say IEKA. Sweden’s greatest export (After Björn, Benny, Agnetha and Anne-Frid* of course) That unlovely and irritating Nordic hemorrhoid (which in case you’ve ever been curious are a damn sight easier to get than they are to spell)  which sits aside the marginally unlovlier A 406. The capital’s inner orbital route.

Not one of my favourite parts of town

That’s the ‘top bit’ – if your Geography’s failing you – The North Circular: or simply ‘That Fucking Road’ as it is more commonly known. It wends it miserable way through  North West London, blighting the lives of those unfortunate enough to live near it, who, at our present location, just happen to be the inhabitants of Neasden. And of course the poor sods who have to attempt to journey along its carbon-encrusted, crumbling and winding fucking lanes, its lights and never, never, never-ending road works with their inevitable lane closures.

You could say that it is not one of my favourite parts of town. In fact, I will do almost anything to avoid filtering round from Hanger Lane, or down through Wembley/Stanmore or anywhere which leads in the general direction of ‘You Know What’.

‘You Know What’. Otherwise known as IEKA.

A successful visit to IEKA.

There are a pitifully small number of occasions on which we can have said to have had a successful visit to IEKA. In other words avoided an interminable traffic jam, there, back – or both, been able to walk through the store without fear for our safety, found what we wanted, been able to pay for it, then fit it onto/into the car and make it home without further incident. These pathetic ‘successes’ have been achieved either as the result of an early morning snap-decision to ‘up and out’ while everyone is still in bed and beat the crowds  -  or even better, to go when the England football team play a major game such as a World Cup quarter-final, for instance.

Just look at it. Like a malevolent Lego set. It stands (casually, lazily. Not straight-backed and disciplined like Marine Commando John Lewis) A sharp – eyed sentinel, jealously guarding its ‘reputation’ and more importantly its market share; topped off with all the charm of a devious, wicked paedophile: enticing the unwary and vulnerable into its veritable ‘Garden of Delights’.

Seductive furnishing, fabrics and practical knickknacks

The sad fact of course though is that there is no answer to its seductive furnishing, fabrics and practical knickknacks. Not at such prices. There really isn’t anywhere else you can get that sexy, contemporary tin opener for less than the price of a pint and a game of pool. Or that sofa-bed which you’ve been searching for (but without  breaking the bank) for when your Dad comes to stay. I dread  the words: ‘Shall we go to IEKA? We could do with something with which we can create a bit of space’ It’s  a bit like hearing ‘I’ve been thinking, Pet. I really do think its time we got rid of that surplus old testicle of yours. We’ve never needed it … and besides, it takes up so much room.’ In addition, it  will fit so snugly into that alcove’  (the sofa-bed) – and incidentally push Dad’s Sciatica into a new and chronic phase.

Reassuring

And look at this: both products, tin opener and sofa-bed are packaged in reassuring, environmentally – friendly corrugated card. And both carry the individual designer’s name: Bengt Bangersson and Soren Ulafsson respectively. (However, the chances of you getting hold of Bengt or Soren should their product fail to come up to your expectations are … well … remote to say the least.)

Funny Names

And they do give them some funny names don’t they? the products? The sofa-bed is called a ‘Lycksel’ which I can’t help thinking is rather rude – if not a physical impossibility.

Try it yourself

Rant over and done with and out of my system – this is where Jimmy and I got our laughs.’Rude, Suggestive and Silly IEKA names’. It’s not big, it’s not clever and it’s not original, but it made us giggle for a while. I am sure that many of you will have not only played  but come up with far better examples of your own.

Here are some of ours. Try it yourself: in the store or just flicking through the catalogue at home. Lycka till !

New  for 2011/12

Recktum – Is space a problem? Try these attractive stacking storage boxes. You’ll wonder how you ever did without.

Nob. A carefully positioned Nob can do wonders for even the most featureless room. Try the Nob range of table lamps.

Wince. IEKA’s range of giftware. Second to none.

Don’t buy till you’ve tried Bile, IEKA’s exclusive space age cooking utensils.

Tossä. You won’t be able to resist Anders Liefshite’s dynamic new tablewear.

Robust, hardwearing – you need a strong, sturdy Skrötum – especially with the likes of these rascals climbing all over it all the time! Skrötum is a fully interchangeable system of shelving for walls, doors and … wherever you want!

Chuff: An elegant soap dispenser.

Pubik: Scatter cushions.

Gag: a complete range of bedding – sheets, pillows, duvets. You name it!

Ulsså: make your mark with these ready-made curtains.

The ‘Must-Have’ wardrobe for 2011/12 is Stroke. You’ll probably have one too as you attempt to self-assemble this box of shite. Designer Stig Holmqvist makes a feature of using a completely different number of screws and nails on each construction – Individual! Or as we say in Sweden, ‘Förlorare!’**

* ABBA: For those of you who have been hibernating for the last 50 years.

** ‘Loser!

Postscript to ‘How to hang your Skrötum’

A few IEKA facts:

Founded in 1943 by 17-year-old Ingvar Kamprad in Sweden.

It is the World’ largest retailer of furniture.

The company name is an acronym comprising Ingvar’s initials, the farm where he grew up (Elmtaryd), and his home parish, Agunnaryd.

IEKA products are identified by single word names. Most of the names are Swedish in origin, based on a special naming system developed by IEKA.

• Upholstered furniture, coffee tables, rattan furniture, bookshelves, media storage, doorknobs: Swedish placenames
• Beds, wardrobes, hall furniture: Norwegian place names
• Dining tables and chairs: Finnish place names
• Bookcase ranges: Occupations
• Bathroom articles: Scandinavian lakes, rivers and bays
• Kitchens: grammatical terms, sometimes also other names
• Chairs, desks: men’s names
• Fabrics, curtains: women’s names
• Garden furniture: Swedish islands
• Carpets: Danish place names
• Lighting: terms from music, chemistry, meteorology, measures, weights, seasons, months, days, boats, nautical terms
• Bedlinen, bed covers, pillows/cushions: flowers, plants, precious stones
• Children’s items: mammals, birds, adjectives
• Curtain accessories: mathematical and geometrical terms
• Kitchen utensils: foreign words, spices, herbs, fish, mushrooms, fruits or berries, functional descriptions
• Boxes, wall decoration, pictures and frames, clocks: colloquial expressions, also Swedish place names

So now you know!

© Andy Daly 2011  The views expressed are not necessarily those of the author