Vingt et un

My 21st birthday was a relatively mild affair.  I spent the day getting mashed in and out of the pubs of the delightful suburb of Broomhill. The day is chiefly remembered by pub quiz bores as the occasion on which the Grand National was declared void and by my friends for their beloved Blades getting tonked in an FA Cup semi final by their deadly rivals Sheffield Wednesday.  The revels ended at about 9.30pm when I fell asleep face down on a table in the Duke of York.

Not being much of a sports fan the high point for me was the record fair I attended earlier that day at the Leadmill.  It was my birthday so I was probably pretty lavish but the only record I can recall buying was a Francoise Hardy album, Francoise Hardy in English.  I bought it because I'd heard this song on the radio.

Francoise Hardy All Over The World

Possible test match special theme tune

Dashing ahead slightly, I'm posting this because I've been listening to it rather a lot over the last couple of weeks.  Probably a big reason behind this around the world thing is that I'm on a massive African music jag at the minute.  The Afro-Beat Airways compilation that features this track was delivered yesterday. I highly recommend it.  I got mine from Sounds of the Universe, and I think I bought their last copy. Today's post, representing the letter G, is brought to you from Ghana.

Apagya Show Band Ma Nserew Me

International musical alphabet pt1

To inject some life into the blog, on account of it becoming a bit moribund, I thought about doing one of these questionnaires. But I was slightly horrified at the amount of information the answers provided. Far better, I thought, to remain a shadowy persona, a fleeting impression of whom might be gleaned from my musings on beetles, pop music, haggis etc.

So I didn't bother with the questionnaire and you can't force these things so, despite the fact that blog worthy stuff is going on in my life, I reconciled myself to waiting until inspiration struck (it saddens me that I couldn't find the words to blog about the trolley bus exhibition at Fulwell Bus Depot back in May).

Anyway, the other day it occurred to me that the last two albums I'd listened to were by musicians from Argentina and Zambia respectively, and that gave me the only slightly desperate idea to do a round the world thingy about records. Alphabetically around the world in twenty six records.

I picked my countries from the first list I found on the internet, only to find that it's not very accurate  - for D I was all set to have Dhekelia on the grounds that I'd never heard of it and it looks a bit science fiction. But it turns out it's just a British military base on Cyprus, so that's no good.

I think I'll probably hop about a bit rather than do it in strict alphabetical order, as there are bound to be hold ups seeking suitable tracks from various territories. For a start I know I want to use a particular track from Peru for P, but I've lost the link and all I've got to go on is that it sounds like an old woman chanting, shaking some shells and someone hitting two bits of wood together.

And there's the matter of X. Not sure what I'm going to do about that one. Still, we live (as always), in turbulent times and perhaps a suitably initialled breakaway republic will pop up in due course.

So, A.  As usual I've no idea how I got on to this track (I do remember though that it was while I was watching a film called Perfume. God, that was a weird film, unrelentingly weird. I never really got used to what I was seeing).  Juana Molina gives us A for Argentina. I don't throw dinner parties myself, but I imagine she could be the next big thing in dinner party music. For all I know she already is. Or was.

Juana Molina La Verdad

Rip off corner

Snuffling about the internet I discovered this.  Nice sleeve eh?  Listen here (scroll down a bit).  Anyway, ignore the I am the Resurrection drum beat and wait for the guitar.  Released in 1991 and diabolically ripped off to great chart effect six years later.

Lighthouse spotter's badge

I was off this weekend on a short break to Camber Sands, organised by my wife and a couple of her friends. On these jaunts I expect nothing more than salubrious digs, a decent meal out somewhere and a catch up in the pub with my wife's friends' husbands.

However, any trip to the coast will always have me scrabbling for my copy of Lighthouses of England & Wales and I was pleased to see that Dungeness was a distinct possibility.  All that stood between me and it was whether or not I could sway "the gang" into visiting a desolate headland that was also the home of a nuclear power station.  It didn't seem likely and crazy golf at Hastings was very much on the cards, until it started raining cats and dogs.

So, Dungeness. What a weird place, tons of beached boats and rickety little shacks, some kind of military type stuff (on the way my wife shouted out, "A tank!" but I wasn't quick enough to spot it) and a whopping great nuclear power station.  For the lighthouse spotter Dungeness offers exceptional value, with two and a half lighthouses situated there.

Only the old lighthouse is accessible and I zoomed to the top of that (stopping to take some snaps of some pretty, colour lens things). At the top I went through a little hatch onto an outside parapet, the view from which was staggering: the sprawling settlement of Dungeness, the miniature railway carriages (looking a bit like a centipede from this height) and off in the distance the white cliffs of Dover (I think).  The weather had turned lovely and you can sometimes see France from the top of the lighthouse, I didn't notice if you could or not.  I was slightly nervous to be honest and when the breeze got a bit frisky I was back through the hatch.

Back on the ground floor I got chatting to the custodian of the lighthouse and bought a lovely little cruet set, more as a token of support of their efforts in keeping the place going than anything else (I rarely add salt to food and I don't think I've ever added pepper to anything).  Old Dungeness is one of the tallest lighthouses in the country apparently and I read later that they do a certificate for reaching the top. Tragically I was not made aware of this at the time.

I love the whole Victorian-ness of lighthouses but while I was there I thought I ought to check out the new lighthouse (built 1961). You can't go in this one but I had a good squint and was quite taken with it, it's a bit Chris Foss I think.

Also on the list were the acoustic mirrors at nearby Greatstone* which longstanding readers might remember once featured as this blog's header picture.  Sadly I couldn't find out if there were any guided tours on, time was limited and my fellow holiday makers were in any case unwilling to wade through waist deep water and indulge in a little minor trespassing to check out, in their words, "giant lumps of old concrete".

The day before I'd nipped into Rye to pick up some groceries and chanced upon the excellent Grammar School Records shop, possibly the most impressive looking exterior of any record shop I've seen. I was a bit doubtful though when I went in, a surfeit of Alan Parsons Project-type record shop I thought.  But very quickly I found an immaculate copy of the Tom Tom Club's first album, which I snapped up straight away.  (Incidentally, Tina Weymouth's comment, that despite being young and hip in Seventies New York, she'd been shocked by the antics of the Happy Mondays in the Bahamas, used to be one of those things that made me feel proud to be British.  Sullied now though by Shaun Ryder's support for the Tories.)

Anyway, I rate Wordy Rappinghood higher than other early rap, far funnier and more fluent than anything I've heard by the Sugarhill Gang and it knocks Blondie's Rapture into a cocked hat.

* A distinct lack of ancient megalithic monuments, another of my holiday favourites, in the area.

My two cents

I read today that Matt Groening has said that The Simpsons' hometown of Springfield is in Oregon, though there is some skepticism in the media as he has, in the past, made claims for other states. Anyway, you'll be glad to know I have my own (concise) theory. Once upon a time, whiling away the hours, I was scrutinising an atlas. And, yeah, there in Illinois I saw there was a Springfield quite near a Shelbyville.

My cat's blacker than your cat

I've been meaning to post this for ages and now, prompted by Davy H's recent post, here it is. A firm turntable favourite in the Saturday night run up back in the days when Saturday nights were guaranteed to involve stonedness, mellowness and grooviness. Just looking at the sleeve makes me happy.

John Lee Hooker One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer

The track that fell to Earth

Checking out the Those Shocking Shaking Days compilation I went over to Now Again's website and my eye was caught by this sleeve. Like all good vinyl junkies I always judge a record by its cover and, like a pretty flower, this one did its job and drew me in. It looks like a Hendrix sleeve and I thought it was just an abstract splurge at first, but having seen a photo of Dimlite I'm fairly certain it's a portrait of him.

Also, it's on 10" vinyl. I always like 10" records, even though they're a bugger to find in your collection. And finally, it's called My Human Wears Acedia Shreds, which is just about the most intriguing title I've ever heard in my life. Here you are: Acedia. That threw me a bit. I think I expected it to be some kind of plant (possibly influenced by acacia, I wonder if he meant acacia?).

Anyway, the music. I read somewhere that it's hip hop.

Dimlite Kitty Cradle Fog

Cunts are still

Feeling like a hefty chill I bought a load of newspapers yesterday, one of which was The Times. I stopped reading The Times a while back when it became unbearably right wing, the final straw being a Peter Brooke's cartoon in which Alistair Darling was depicted with red eyebrows, as in like he was a communist.

As I say, I thought a big pile of broadsheets would be just the thing for a nice relaxing afternoon, I was even going to read some of them in the bath. But the whole plan came undone and I was consumed with rage when I read Giles Coren's Opinion piece, the most part of which was taken up with an attack on that graduate who's taken umbrage at being forced to work at Poundstretcher for zero pay. Previously she'd been working for nothing at a local museum but according to Giles she's got no right to expect to occupy herself with work that she finds fulfilling. According to the article, after Giles graduated he knuckled down and got a rubbish job in a clothes shop, he didn't enjoy it but apparently it taught him the value of hard slog, something that would serve him well when it came to applying for the job of restaurant critic.

Other than an awareness that Giles is the son of Alan Coren I had no idea about any other details of his life, but a comment he made about the girl attending a second rate university prompted me to check out his wikipedia entry. And what do you know - Westminster School followed by Oxford. So now, as well as being outraged by his price of everything value of nothing crassness, it's a bit of a class war thing as well.

How far up his own arse is this guy's head? For him to lecture someone on benefits with his vast experience of hardship and struggle. For that's what got him his job at The Times. It's neither here nor there that he attended one of the most expensive schools in the country, not surprisingly afterwards getting into one of the top colleges in the country. And then a coveted position in the world of journalism - absolutely nothing to do at all with the fact that his dad was a famous journalist. What a cunt.

Anyway, I've learned my lesson - never buy The Times again.

Bum

Today, for the first time ever, I was accosted by a roving camera crew (from ITV I think they said). "At last" I thought, "an opportunity to speak out on some crucial issue". The question? Which celebrity bum did I most rate, and why? I admit I was flummoxed. After a couple of seconds' thought I apologised for not really being au fait with celebrity bums and stalked off.

I had thought of saying Pippa Middleton's, but that's only because hers is the only bottom I've heard any mention of in the media. In the end I didn't as, while I was sure it was very nice, I couldn't honestly recall if it was really my kind of bottom or not. I checked when I got back in, it isn't - not big enough. Further research on the matter revealed what my answer, had I been paying more attention, should have been: Christina Hendricks.

Happy New Year.