Where the hell have you been?

I've been here the whole time, doing my impersonation of a church mouse and now, having eaten all the cheese, I've come back to the keyboard. Briefly. Thanks to Her Majesty, I've got an extra day off, so I thought I'd squander it by having an unplanned holiday, like you do. So, all that's left to say is I'm going outside now. I may be some time. If I can be arsed, you'll find me on my other blog. Over there somewhere. O the wanderlust is on me....

Normal service has been resumed

It’s been a while. I’ve got no excuse. It’s not as if I’ve been out every night. I guess I’m more tired than I realise. It all started to go wrong last Thursday night and, one week later, I’m still out of sorts.

Let’s get the obituaries out of the way, first. As I type, BBC4 is showing ‘Top of The Pops 77’. She’s not on this particular edition, but 1977 was the year that Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’ was blaring out of every radio and at every school disco. Georgio Moroder’s hypnotic backing track provided the ideal accompaniment to Ms. Summer’s voice and catapulted her into the mainstream. Eh? Yes, the mainstream. Don’t you remember her more saucy records? She went on to have a successful career, with many hits in the UK. My favourite is ‘Dinner With Gershwin’, which came much later, and her duet with Barbra Streisand, ‘Enough Is Enough’, is worthy of mention, but she’ll always be remembered, fondly, by those of a certain age, for ‘I Feel Love’.

Both this week’s and last week’s rehearsals went reasonably well. Brahms and Kabalevsky are beginning to sound good enough to fool the audience into thinking that some of us can actually play, but it appears that ‘The Great Gate of Kiev’ from ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’ shall not let us pass. With only 23 days to go, why am I blogging?

Last Wednesday, I went back to the RCS for ‘The Duchess of Malfi’ and on Thursday, I was at the Citizens Theatre for ‘King Lear’ (where it was almost hours before there was a comfort break). I’m not qualified to talk about these plays (or ‘Measure for Measure’ from the previous week), but the high body count was noticeable. Perhaps I’ll return to the subject of Renaissance drama in the Autumn, when I’ll be having a much closer examination of ‘The Duchess of Malfi’, in an effort to ‘do’ English Literature?

I had a normal Friday, re-acquainting myself with the washing machine, and Saturday was spent engaged in shopping and banking duties. Sunday brought rain and a party. The SPL trophy was presented to the 2011-2012 champions, but not before a jazz band, a juggler, a unicyclist, the Elvis Cleaning Company and the Thai Tims entertained the crowd, and Gary Hooper scored five goals to send the Jambos back to Edinburgh with their tails between their legs.

Monday found me in the City Halls for the Merchant Voices Summer Concert. Apart from the audience clapping between movements, it went well. Accompanied by the St. James Orchestra, they treated us to, among other things, Faure’s ‘Requiem’ and a rendition of ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ that had me wiping the tears from my tired, old eyes. I think I might go and see their next concert (ahem).

To round off, some words about the BBC SSO ‘Afternoon Performance’ at the City Halls. It really isn’t that long since the name ‘Stravinsky’ would give me the heebeegeebees. The second piece after the interval, the plinky-plonky ‘Movements for Piano and Orchestra’, could only serve to reinforce that prejudice or misconception. The rest of the programme, however, was a delight, and well worth taking a half a day of leave from the cultural backwater that is my day job.

Opening with what we would call ‘Song of the Volga Boatmen’, the SSO, and guest soloist (where appropriate), Steven Osborne, treated us to quite a few interesting works by this versatile composer; ‘Concerto in D for String Orchestra’, ‘Capriccio for Piano and Orchestra’, an orchestration of Chopin’s ‘Grande Valse Brillante’ and the ‘Concerto for Piano and Wind Instruments’. Perhaps it’s time I confronted my fears?

Suspicious mind

Is ‘Runnicles Weekend’ the BBC SSO’s answer to the RSNO’s ‘Au Revoir Stephane’? That little thought popped into my head as I sat in the City Halls waiting for the closing concert of the weekend to begin. I’m very cruel, I know, but it certainly put ‘Scotland’s Maestro’ in the spotlight at a time when the MD of the RSNO is waving a long goodbye to Scotland.

The first half lasted around 15 minutes, and featured Principal Cellist Martin Storey in the beautiful, haunting ‘Mariel’ by the Argentinian-born composer Osvaldo Golijov. The second half was given over to Bruckner’s Seventh Symphony, an epic and loud piece needing five horns, four trumpets, four trombones and four Wagner Tubas. What’s a Wagner Tuba? It’s a tenor-bass horn (in other words, a big tenor horn). I bet you’re thinking that I hated the whole thing. Well, I didn’t. I actually enjoyed it.

Earlier, I took a drive out to the RSPB reserve at Lochwinnoch. I created a bit of controversy when I said that I might have seen a Wood Warbler. If I were to believe the experts, I saw a Willow Warbler (wearing a yellow scarf or bib). Apart from the usual suspects, I also saw a Blackcap.

Back to work tomorrow, but it doesn’t stop; one rehearsal and two plays still to go before I can stay at home and be miserable, instead of going out and being miserable.

A night at the opera

This going out thing is getting tedious. No sooner have I tidied away the debris from the night before than I have to do it all over again. It’s just as well that tomorrow is a holiday. It might allow me to catch up on serious things like washing, ironing and blogging. I’m spending far too much time thinking about where I’m going and not about where I’ve been or where I am, though the latter does not bear thinking about.

For a bit of variety, I decided to go out in the afternoon, and return in the early evening. To achieve this, I went to the Theatre Royal to see, for the third time, the much-revived, 1980 Anthony Besch production of Puccini's 'Tosca'. I saw it in 1992, and possibly in 2002. My last opera memory, which may not necessarily be the last opera I attended, was Verdi’s ‘Aida’, set during the Seven Day War between Israel and Egypt! As I type, I’m having a terrible dose of déjà vu. I remember slagging it off somewhere else on the Internet, perhaps on my old web site, or perhaps it was in an e-mail to someone with whom I no longer correspond (which is most people I have ever met). I guess it must have been after the lavish production of Verdi’s ‘La Traviata’, which was about this time ten years ago; a night more memorable for the state of my health rather than the entertainment on show. Anyway, I can’t tell when I last attended an opera.

It may just be the result of fatigue on the sixth day of this marathon session, or it may be that I no longer see opera as an enjoyable art form, but I was quite bored and wanted to go home. My experience wasn’t enhanced by the number of people seated in the Balcony who coughed loudly, with no intent to muffle, all the way through the performance, just as they would if they were watching a DVD in their front room. I also had difficulty seeing past the rather large head of the young gentleman in the seat in front. Perhaps I should splash out on a more expensive seat, next time?

Musically, it’s a better work than ‘La Boheme’, but I don’t find Puccini’s music as interesting, or as stirring, as that of Verdi. Irrespective of my taste, it was well-played by the wonderful Orchestra of Scottish Opera, conducted by Francesco Corti. It's an ensemble which, sadly, is still having to watch its back for fear of those who would erase it from history, presumably having never heard it play.

Jose Ferrero, as Mario Cavaradossi, took until the second act to get going, and was still somewhat unconvincing in the role at the end. Susannah Glanville was an equally uninspiring Tosca, and from where I was sitting, she looked like Keeley Hawes for two acts and Michelle of the Resistance for the third and final act. Yet again, I failed to bring my opera glasses! Both leads looked very young, so may improve with age, something I felt that Floria Tosca should have had on her side. Ms Glanville looked far too young, or was it too thin? Robert Poulton stole the show as Scarpia, the evil Chief of Police, and he was booed and hissed as the cast took their bows. Honourable mention must go to David Morrison as the Sacristan.

I think I may have been having a bad day, so was never going to be as receptive to the performers and the performances as I should have been. One thing that would have helped, I think, would have been better supertitles; a great deal of the libretto was without translation. Enough complaints! Time for bed. Runnicles and Bruckner tomorrow, and I’ll need a good rest for that

Not getting it is the new getting it

Stravinsky’s ‘The Rite of Spring’; a work that led to fisticuffs on its first performance, and something I’ve always had trouble listening to. One night last summer, I was forced to pump up the volume on my stereo in order to give a little hint to the Clampitts downstairs that whatever social event they were having in their so-called garden, it was quite unacceptable at half-past midnight. I’d hoped that ‘The Rite’ would chase them off, but they were impervious to it, and not just because they were a bunch of (not recovering) alcoholics.

As far as I know, not a single punch was thrown at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall last night, though if I had been Deneve, I’d have had very strong words with whoever was responsible for maintaining the hearing-aid loop, which was whistling like crazy throughout the concert. Last night may just have been the night when I stopped fearing this piece and started to believe that I could actually enjoy it. The augmented orchestra helped, although the BBC SSO appears to be able to achieve that kind of noise with just a couple of extra brass players. Following the lead of both Bill Chandler and Deneve, himself, I decided to concentrate on the complicated rhythms of the work, instead of looking for a memorable tune, and this appears to be the key to cracking the code of ‘The Rite’.

Prior to the concert, Associate Leader, William Chandler, who hasn’t aged much in the 20 years since he joined the orchestra, gave a very entertaining and informative talk on the evening’s programme. He waxed lyrical about Debussy’s impressionist style and told of the row that accompanied the commissioning of Samuel Barber’s Violin Concerto, before relating the tale of the fight that broke out at the premiere of ‘The Rite’ in Paris. Chandler also alluded to the fact that the evening would see the penultimate appearance of Stephane Deneve as Musical Director, and the Maestro himself later remarked on his love for the word, and its bittersweet meaning last night.

What can I say about Deneve? Unfortunately, I have to start with my shame and embarrassment at my only ever having attended one concert of his prior to last night. He has been a breath of fresh air, and I doubt that there are many conductors with a personality and enthusiasm to match his (Runnicles take note). From the moment he walks on to the stage, with that mop of curly hair trailing behind his beaming face, he exudes joy. With his little speeches before the concert and his gestures to the players and the audience and the end, his obvious rapport with, and love of, both the music and the Glasgow crowd is clear to see, and he will be sadly missed. He is inimitable, that is clear, and no one should expect to see his like again here for a long, long time. I fear that, if his successor can’t engage with the audience in a similar way, the RSNO may revert back to its staid, boring old self, and all his work will have been for nought. We will see him again. He is destined to become the new Jȁrvi, returning once a year to grace us with his charm.

What of the concert, itself? Opening with Debussy’s prelude to the afternoon of a faun (later, I promise), with Katherine Bryan providing the famous flute solo, Deneve had the audience eating out of his hand long before the virtuoso, Canadian violinist James Ehnes gave us his take on Barber’s concerto, and, not content with one encore, the Caprice No. 24 by Paganini, he gave us a second, the Third Movement of J.S. Bach’s Third Sonata for Violin, and all this as Deneve sat with the basses. After this, came the interval. After that, ‘The Rite of Spring’. It was over all too soon.

Earlier in the day, I went to the Gallery of Modern Art for more from the Glasgow International Festival of Visual Arts. I saw a pile of sawdust, some plastic bags and sellotape put together (what else can I say?) by Karla Black

I saw, amongst other things, items by David Shrigley and the Turner Prize winner Martin Boyce, then I went to an exhibition of photographs by Alan Dimmick, whose father I worked with many years ago. All of the photos were of arty types from Glasgow, almost all of whom I had never heard of, including the woman who was wearing a t-shirt with the words ‘Not getting it is the new getting it’. All this modern art, and I still wasn’t getting it. If I had thought that the sawdust was bad, I was unprepared for what I saw at the Centre for Contemporary Arts. Sadly, the CCA, unlike GOMA, does not allow the taking of photographs, not that there was much to snap.

First up, a projector on a pile of rubble and a little picture on the wall near the floor. Next, an actual table tennis table, and anyone could play. This was, apparently, ‘Ping Pong Club – Cultural Situations’ by Julius Koller. At the end of that space, Walter Sickert’s painting of Jack the Ripper’s bedroom. In the room next door, pencil drawings, at least one of which wasn’t suitable for the kids wandering around the place, and a video loop of a guy tumbling down (up, actually, as it was backwards) stairs near Woodlands Terrace. This appears to have been ‘This sort of thing shouldn’t happen round here’ by Rob Kennedy. Back to the room with the table tennis; three large TVs sat side-by-side, and the same video showing on all three, again, by Rob Kennedy, entitled ‘Have faith or pandemonium’. There was also a film in the cinema, but I have no idea what it was called. Finally, I went upstairs to the Intermedia Gallery, where I was greeted by a large ghetto-blaster and two video monitors on the floor. This appeared to be something about videos of training shoes on YouTube, by someone called Charlotte Prodger. I left, unimpressed.

When faced with such things, it might help to remember that someone created them; someone put their heart and soul into them, whatever they are. Not getting it is the new getting it? That’s not really the problem, is it? People are being ‘paid’ for this; they are being lauded for this; they expect that unsuspecting members of the general public (i.e., not just their pretentious, arty pals) will spend time looking at whatever the hell is in front of them. Arty farty nonsense? Art for art’s sake? Pretentious for the sake of it? I have no idea, but, at a time like this, I feel the need to appropriate a phrase from an e-mail I received recently: ‘if this is art, then art is easy’.

As they day drew to a close, the ‘supermoon’ became the focus of attention (though it turns out that it may have been at its most super at 4am!). I was forced to resurrect my 30-year old Canon AE1, with 75-300mm zoom and a 2x tele-converter, and I just happened to have a roll of film sitting on a shelf. Sadly, this camera is very clunky, and my cable release appears to jam every so often, so I have no idea what, if anything, I took pictures of, but this is what I got with my IXUS230 compact. It just looks like any other moon (and, according to Pete Lawrence, no more special than the last supermoon).

I'll stir-fry you in my wok

Trust ClassicFM to capture the zeitgeist. There I was, driving along Cathedral Street, when what comes on the radio but the ‘Romance’ from Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 20 in D Minor K466. You know the one; do-do de do de-do de do de do, etc. ‘What’s the problem with that?’, I hear you say. Well, I was on my way home from the City Halls after a Scottish Chamber Orchestra concert which featured this piece, played the American pianist, Jonathan Biss (who happens to be the grandson of the woman for whom Samuel Barber wrote his Cello Concerto).  The orchestra, under the baton of young Czech conductor Jakub Hrusa, began with Dvorak’s Czech Suite, Op. 39, the reason why I was attending the concert in the first place, and finished with Beethoven’s Symphony No.2, a work with which I am barely familiar. This was my first (and last) SCO concert of this season, and I suspect I will have missed more inspiring programmes. It was a good concert, but nothing spectacular. The SCO doesn’t have whatever the BBC SSO has, but my ears are always glad of it.

It wasn’t all music. Earlier in the day, I stopped off at Glasgow Green for a look at Jeremy Deller’s Stonehenge bouncy castle

When I arrived, people of all ages and many nationalities were sampling its delights, but I was more interested in the neighbours

I found the rules rather restrictive, and more than a little disturbing

I don’t even wander round my own house without shoes on; padding about in a public place in my socks is near the top of my list of life’s icky experiences. My fears were realised when I accidentally stood in a puddle, but I just had to put it to the back of my mind and enjoy the work as best as I could. We’re meant to learn something from art, aren’t we? Well, I realised that I can’t lift both feet off the ‘ground’ at the same time, so I couldn’t jump like everyone else seemed to be able to do. I tried trotting around it, a bit like Miranda Hart probably would, and I did a comedy fall; again, much like Miranda might. This allowed me to take a photo lying down. 

Soon, it was time to retrieve my shoes and head home, but not before I went to see the horses again.

A quick walk along to the restored Doulton Fountain opposite the People’s Palace convinced me that I should come back another day, when the light was more suitable for photographs. The museum and the fountain will still be there, but Deller’s installation will be long gone; proof, if proof were needed, of the ephemeral nature of modern art.

Finally, the sad news broke yesterday of the death of Adam Yauch of the Beastie Boys, at the age of 47. I was never a big fan, but, through seeing some of their clever and funny videos on MTV over the years, I grew quite fond of a few of their tracks, not least Sabotage and Intergalactic. Enjoy.

A funny thing happened on the way to the forum

I should have been at the theatre, watching David Hayman in ‘King Lear’ (yes, more Shakespeare I can’t comprehend), but my conscience got the better of me and I found myself at Celtic Park for what turned out to be Mark Wilson’s last game. It was also Thai Tims Thursday, and the charming boys and girls from the Good Child Foundation, accompanied by their bum-wiggling tiger mascot (a bit like Hoopy the Huddle Hound with a personality) entertained the crowd before kick-off.

Celtic didn’t play as well as they could have, and not least because there had been seven changes to the team, but there were some good performances, particularly from the unlucky Mo Bangura, who was making his first appearance since last year (I think), and very nearly scored his first Celtic goal. The starting line up was Zaluska, M. Wilson (captain), Rogne, K. Wilson, Izaguirre, McGeoch, Wanyama, Ledley, Commons, Bangura and Stokes (who got the only goal of the game). Gary Hooper replaced Dylan McGeoch, Mark Wilson was replaced by Cha, and Kris Commons, who appears to be getting back to his best, made way for debutant Rabiu Ibrahim, who is small, strong and very, very quick. Hopefully, we’ll see more of him next season.

Apparently, six players will be leaving, and they’ve been told. We now know that Mark Wilson is one. He has been a consistent performer in his time at the club, a good servant, and a Celtic man, but has had an awful time with injuries since he joined in 2006. Last season, he became a regular in Lennon’s team, after having been neglected by Tony Mowbray. He even played at centre-half, when required, scored some goals, was booked for celebrating, captained the team and came out of his shell. He endeared himself to the sceptics in the Celtic support who never seem to appreciate loyalty, hard work and a steadying influence in the team. I did, and I’ll miss him.

So what happened to ‘King Lear’? I’m going next Thursday, instead (not anywhere near as good a seat, though). That’ll give me time to read it, not that I think it will help. It also means that I’ll be out 10 nights in a row, and 11 out of 12 nights. What can I say?

There's no remedy

Day two of nine, and I’m flagging already. By the time Thursday May 10^th is upon us, I will have been out 10 times in 11 nights. I think this is unprecedented, even for me. To be honest, if I had the money, I’d be out every night, but I think it would be cheaper, in the long run, if I just moved to somewhere that I could close the door behind me when I come home from work and just relax. However, I’m stuck here for now or for as long as I can bear it.

On Sunday night, I travelled out to Paisley for a concert by the St. James Orchestra. They opened with Beethoven’s overture ‘Egmont’, which we rehearsed for a while a few years ago. I love the ending; it’s loud and a bit crazy, and I was able to play some notes I’d not previously managed. As a result, it has a special place in my heart, but it wasn’t until Sunday that I realised that, apart from the Horns, there’s no brass it. To close the first half, guest soloist Philip Higham played Elgar’s Cello Concerto. Good memories here, too, as we played the Fourth Movement in our Summer Concert last year, with BBC SSO Principal Cellist Martin Storey doing the honours. The second half was taken up by Borodin’s 2^nd Symphony, a work I had never heard before. So, an enjoyable concert, and well worth the money.

We’re motoring along nicely towards our summer concert on the 9^th of June. ‘Colas Breugnon’ by Kabalevsky probably wouldn’t be half as bad if it wasn’t so fast, but it’s Russian, so I wouldn’t expect an easy time. The beginning of the Fourth Movement of Brahms’ Symphony No.1 is taken at a snail’s pace, which, frankly, makes it just as difficult. The transposed part for Holst’s ‘A Somerset Rhapsody’ is in at least three hellish keys. I could always ask for the ‘A’ part, but I really should be learning the scales for these keys, as that might just make me a better player. Finally, another crack at bits of ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’, or whatever that preposition should be.

Tonight, it was the Chandler Studio Theatre in the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland (the educational institution formerly known as the RSAMD), and a production of ‘Measure for Measure’. I wished I’d read it before I saw it, as I didn’t understand a great deal of it. I may come back and edit this once I’ve had some sleep (and it will all make sense), but I fear another night of the Bard will render me senseless.

Whilst pacing the corridors looking at the student noticeboards, I chanced upon a leaflet produced by the mental health charity ‘Mind’ entitled ‘Understanding Depression', which listed a whole host of symptoms, five or more of which mean that it’s likely one is suffering from the condition:

• Being restless and agitated
• Waking up early, having difficulty sleeping or sleeping more
• Feeling tired and lacking energy; doing less and less
• Not eating properly and losing or putting on weight
• Crying a lot
• Difficulty remembering things
• Feeling low-spirited for much of the time, every day
• Being unusually irritable or impatient
• Getting no pleasure out of life or what you usually enjoy
• Losing interest in your sex life (I'd have to have one, first)
• Finding it hard to concentrate or make decisions
• Blaming yourself and feeling unnecessarily guilty about things
• Lacking self-confidence and self-esteem
• Being preoccupied with negative thoughts
• Feeling numb, empty and despairing
• Feeling helpless
• Distancing yourself from others
• Taking a bleak, pessimistic view of the future
• Experiencing a sense of unreality
• Thinking about suicide

Five or more? That’s 20 out of about 25, so I’m fucked. Choices? I can pull myself together. I can do various activities. I can be drugged out of my skull for the rest of my life. I can do none of these things. I know what causes it. There are three things: two are long-term but not permanent (though there is no sense of the end); the third is permanent. I know what’s wrong and there’s no remedy.

If I had a million dollars

My seat is always empty on days like these. It’s almost 30 years since I attended an ‘Old Firm’ match, and there’s a strong possibility that I may never again get the chance to avoid a game between Celtic (1888) and Rangers (1872), and guess what? I’ll not lose any sleep over it.

Rangers, as we know it, could go out of business any day now. Even if someone submits a bid to buy the club’s assets and its owner’s shares, can he afford to take on the club’s current and potential (tax) debts? I’m no accountant, but a large number of my fellow Celtic fans have learned a phenomenal amount about accounting and law through following the saga of our oldest rivals. What I am, is a football fan, hence my support for Celtic, and not Rangers.

As a football fan, I have tried to be objective, and I have tried to think how I would feel if the (football) boot were on the other foot. I might be devastated. I might be apathetic. I might be judgemental, like I was when we almost went out of business in the 90s, before Brian Dempsey and the Bunnet saved the club from extinction. My objectivity went out the window last week when Alistair McCoist, the cheeky chappy off the telly, opened his mouth and let his belly rumble. As a result, members of a secret SFA panel (which wasn’t a secret to Rangers, apparently) were threatened, and Raith Rovers had to get the polis in to stop its stadium being burned down. I got that last bit off the Internet, so it may not be strictly true, but what I, and everyone else, heard last week would have got Neil Lennon clapped in irons and sent to the Tower of London had he uttered it.

Rangers’ management, past and present, has a habit of shooting its mouth off in the media. If anyone tells me that Ally didn’t know what he was saying, then they are more deluded than anyone who believes anything David Murray, Craig Whyte or Duff and Phelps have ever said. McCoist, and his predecessor, Smith, have always known exactly what they were saying, and when and where to say it. What little sympathy the Rangers manager had has surely vanished. Hasn’t it?

The accountants of all the remaining SPL clubs are probably the ones who are losing most sleep at the prospect of being denied the revenue two visits from Rangers would yield. However, has Dundee United been paid what it is owed by Rangers for a cup-tie and a league game? Has Heart of Midlothian been paid for Lee Wallace? This is what it all comes down to: just how much are all the other clubs willing to let Rangers get away with.

If I was rich, I’d buy them, but the Newco would look totally different from the club it replaced. I’d allow them to play at Ibrox. I’d keep the name, well, I’d used the name; Rangers United or Rangers Athletic or something. I’d get them involved in the community, with children of all creeds and colours and, speaking of colours, I’d give them a makeover. No more the red, white and blue to match the Union flag. What about sky-blue, like Coventry, or a nice all-white ensemble? I’d get rid of the songs, too, and any hint of Orangeism. Yes, keep a club in Govan, but neuter it beyond all recognition, cleanse it of its sins.

Even if their worst nightmare (the 'Big Tax Case') doesn't materialise, it could take a lot more than a million dollars to save them. Any advance on 100 million? You can count me out, though. If I had money like that, I could think of many things I'd rather spend it on. Let them die.

In case you were wondering, we won 3-0.

Though April showers may come your way

April: the story so far:

Sunday 1^st

Glasgow City Council decided to try again and resurface my street. Unfortunately, they forgot to tell the company that they were hiring the machinery from. They also forgot to tell First Buses to put the buses back on, so I had to sit and watch TV as Celtic beat St. Johnstone at home to go within one point of clinching the title.

Wednesday 4^th

I was still packing about ten minutes before I had to leave home and catch a bus into town to take the overnight coach to London (see True Adventures for details).

Saturday 7^th

In the midst of Wednesday's packing panic, I forgot to set the Sky+ box to record the Kilmarnock-Celtic game. Just to spite me, Celtic scored 6 goals without reply and played some wonderful football to win the league before the SPL split. Apparently.

Sunday 8^th

Got home just after 8am and went for the Three Bs; breakfast, bath, bed. When I got up around 3:30, with my legs like tree trunks (fucking Megabus), I discovered that there had a been a domestic in my absence.

Monday 9^th

Washing, shopping, more washing.

Friday 13^th

Unlucky for some, particularly me, as I had to go to work. Had to rush home and pack for my next trip out.

Saturday 14^th

Loaded up the car and headed for Lancashire for more True Adventures.

Monday 16^th

Flooded the bathroom after I left the tap running whilst I went to tidy the stuff I’d  removed from the car.

Tuesday 17^th

Washing, shopping and more washing (again) followed by the first rehearsal of the new term. Humourless and selfish fellow clarinettist (a rare beast) left me without a part for the new piece we were working on; the ‘Grande Valse Brillante’ by Chopin, arranged by Stravinsky (there just had to be a twist to it). Further news emerged about the shambles that was the application process in March.

Thursday 19^th

Attended the final concert of the BBC SSO’s 2011-12 season, and what a way to finish. I was sitting in the back row of the Balcony, and had an unobstructed view of the stage. The concert opened with soloist Jennifer Pike playing the ‘Sonata For Unaccompanied Violin, BWV1001’ by J.S. Bach, then the orchestra chipped in with Vaughan Williams’ Symphony No. 4. This tired out the audience so much that it began to disperse for the interval however, we still had ‘The Lark Ascending’ to come. Embarrassed, people sat down again as Jennifer Pike returned. It is so easy to drift away during this piece. Not only does this do a great disservice to the soloist but it also tends to reinforce the description of RVW’s output as ‘cowpat music’. However, it’s not his fault, or that of the players and conductors involved. The blame can be laid firmly at the door of Classic FM and its obsession with charts and over-playing certain pieces, and this fucking ‘Hall of Fame’ shit.

The second half of the concert was given over to the 5^th Symphony and here I was on more familiar ground, as I have heard this symphony more than all of his others put together. It was a triumphal end to the Thursday Night Series, and must have left the capacity crowd wanting more. I am curious to discover how Manze, the BBC SSO and the City Halls will cope with ‘A Sea Symphony’ and how long we will have to wait to see it performed.

Friday 20^th

I became the owner of a Kindle, and proceeded to download some free books from the Amazon website, including a version of ‘The Duchess of Malfi’, which I am going to see in a couple of weeks time.

Saturday 21^st

Went for a haircut, followed by much running around all over the place, and another M&S ‘collect by car’ cock-up. I despair sometime, I really do. Spent the afternoon trying to recover from a very (self-induced) stressful morning.

My first RSNO concert of this season (better late than never) turned out to be a gem. In front of an almost packed Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, and conducted by the legendary Neeme Jȁrvi, the orchestra delighted the audience with ‘Where the Wild Thyme Blows’ by obscure Scottish composer John Blackwood McEwen (1868-1948), Beethoven’s 2^nd Piano Concerto (soloist Christian Blackshaw) and a magnificent performance of Sibelius’ 1^st Symphony. The second half was well worth the ticket price alone, and it was followed by one of the most joyful encores I have had the pleasure of hearing; the March from ‘Boccaccio’ by Franz von Suppe. I can’t imagine my next RSNO concert will have such a happy ending.

Sunday 22^nd

Slow day, and noisy, too, as the workmen turned up to fix the road (again). Celtic won 3-0 at Motherwell, and young Tony Watt had a dream debut, scoring two of them.

Here’s hoping that the rest of the month is like the end of March; tropical temperatures and a distinct lack of hailstones.

Plan your next getaway now

Travel is meant to broaden the mind, and getting away from home and work for the first time since the summer is meant to lift the spirits and blow away the cobwebs after a long, cold, dark winter. I went away for a few days last week; a trip I hoped would be the first of many over the next year or so, but which may, in fact, be the beginning of the end. I’ve not even had the chance to finish writing about it on the other blog, True Adventures. Through no fault of my own, I’m about to find myself trapped at home for the foreseeable future, the prospect of which is leading me to think that there won’t be a future beyond this short-term (?) hell. Tomorrow is another day, another day like this one; it’s not what I want.

I danced with a gnat

Has anything happened since my last pronouncement? You’d think not, but I’ve had so much trouble finding the time (or the energy) to write something, and almost as much trouble trying to give this post a title, that it would make you think something has happened. Well, take a seat and I’ll tell you all about it.

A few weeks ago, I took my car for its MOT and service. After dropping it off, I encountered a salesman and we got talking about a car I had had my eye on. Now, I wasn’t planning on changing my car until next year (you can see where this is going, can’t you?) but, by the time I’d left the building (about two hours later), I’d had a test drive and signed the papers to swap my almost 5-year-old Ka for a shiny new Fiesta. The Ka had never caused me any serious problems, unlike its two predecessors, so I was reluctant to part with it, but I felt that the brakes and suspension were not as they used to be, and that holding on to the car could result in some hefty bills. I also felt that the tiny Ka had outlived its usefulness, as it’s not much good for anything other than a runabout. Ironically, it passed its MOT and my financial fears were groundless but, by then, it wasn’t mine to worry about, and I just had to be patient until my new baby was delivered.

The excitement must have been too much for me, as my condition worsened and I was confined to quarters for a few days, barely able to punch my way out of the proverbial wet paper bag, let alone empty the car boot of the junk that had been living in it for most of its life. I managed it, though, and when the call came on the Monday to tell me that I could collect the new car on the Tuesday evening, I was over the moon, Brian. I took the afternoon off and popped home for a rest, a bite to eat, a quick change and my clarinet before taking my old car for its last journey. I was brave; I didn’t cry and I felt more weird than emotional as I said goodbye to it, but after I'd driven round the block four times in the new one, I’d forgotten what the old one was like. How heartless!

After a somewhat surreal end to the orchestra term, as I coughed and spluttered my way through one last rehearsal, I had intended to take the car for a run down to the Woodhall Roundabout in Port Glasgow, and back, as I had done with the Ka and its predecessor (Rusty), but for some unknown reason, I couldn’t get on the motorway at Stow College. Reluctantly, I headed home and wished the next few hours away until I could be in its company again, and it wasn’t long before I was fumbling my way through rush-hour traffic to get to work. Even now, I still walk away from it like I can’t believe it’s mine. Aww. Having said that, I’ve not seen it since Thursday morning, as it’s parked around the corner. It’s a long story.

I’ve not done a great deal since, apart from attend an organ recital at Renfield St. Stephen’s Church last Saturday and finish March with two days off work. For the first of them, I decided that it would be prudent to spend some time stocking up on provisions prior to our street being closed off for resurfacing on Saturday and Sunday, then take the car to a jet wash to restore it to showroom condition. With the BP station at Canniesburn Toll out of action until May, I headed for Milngavie, but I hadn't bargained for a queue of idiots panic-buying petrol. I’ve not known a Scot to take any notice of a Tory in well over 30 years, yet petrol stations throughout the land were running out of fuel (and putting prices up) due to demand caused by Cameron and Maude talking shite about a tanker drivers’ strike that was over a week away, at least. Forecourt constipation resulted in my heading for Asda to purchase a wash mitt and some car shampoo, and when I returned home, I filled my trusty bucket with water and washed the car myself!

After my early morning exertions, I attended the BBC SSO’s latest ‘Afternoon Performance’; a  (their words, not mine) ‘mostly Russian’ programme conducted by Stefan Blunier, a rather jolly Swiss chap.  The concert opened with ‘The Passing of Beatrice’ by William Wallace (a Victorian composer from Greenock and not, as one old lady behind me pointed out, ‘the one from Elderslie’) and this was followed by Tchaikovsky’s ‘Variations on a Rococo Theme’, played in fine style (and in a shirt with rather interesting sleeves) by the Dutch cellist Pieter Wispelwey. The interval arrived too soon. I could have listened to the soloist all day, but I was relieved to get out, as I was flagging and needed a break. I still had all my faculties, though, unlike the silly old fool I found in my seat when I returned. Her who got confused over William Wallace said to me ‘I didn’t know what to say’. I’d have started with ‘someone else is sitting there’. I stopped short of suggesting that the interloper try on my jacket!

The second half of the concert was totally Russian; ‘Eight Russian Folk Songs’ (including ‘I danced with a gnat’) by Anatol Lyadov and Shostakovich’s Symphony No.1, which couldn’t have been written by anyone else, including an older Shostakovich, I suspect. The BBC SSO, as expected, turned the volume up to 11 and turned in a magnificent performance that I am convinced only they are capable of. Even with Runnicles at the helm, this orchestra, while worthy of being world-renowned, is our little secret, one of the very few things that today’s Glasgow can be proud of, and one of the few things I’m proud to say belongs to Glasgow.

Speaking of Glasgow, I don’t get out of the place as often as I would like but, as I am careering towards 50, perhaps I should? I’ve decided to embark on a farewell world tour, visiting places I am familiar with, places I’ve not been to for years and one or two new places. With that in mind, I have set up another blog for trips outside of the Greater Glasgow area. One or two people may not be surprised by its title,  'True Adventures’.

If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...

Dear Blog readers, all ZERO of you, it is with great sadness (well, not really) that I have to report that I'm not long for this world. I'd like to think I'm exaggerating, but that's not how it feels. It's been a long time since I've been ill for the best part of two months, but here I am, sick as a parrot, Brian.

It's at times like these that I wonder what I'm leaving behind. It doesn't take an age to work out that, apart from some worthless material possessions, I won't be leaving anything. No one will even notice that I'm gone and, when the time comes, the 'life flashing in front of your eyes' moment will be a blank frame (or even the Blue Screen of Death). There's not been a single achievement to be proud of, and I've not got a single friend to give a heartwarming, nostalgic eulogy at my funeral.

Who wants my green vinyl 12" single version of 'Snot Rap' by Kenny Everett?

Venceremos

I like a good rant. There’s nothing that gives me more satisfaction than venting off about something that annoys me. I could go on at length about every injustice, insult or injury visited on my fellow man by the powers that be, but after a while, steam ceases to come out of my ears. God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world, or at least the few square miles of the world in which I exist. However, if I were to get angry every time this (Westminster) Government went into reverse Robin Hood mode, I’d be in grave danger of suffering a stroke or a cardiac arrest. Each attack on working people or the less fortunate in society by an elite group of multi-millionaires should be highlighted by the SNP as another reason why the Scottish people should vote for Independence, and they should promise that this new independent nation should adopt a simple moral code based on the principles of social justice.

Personally, I don’t get along with people. My relations with individuals always end on a sour note, but this is no reason to wish to see every citizen of this country deprived of opportunity, hope or dignity. Imagine a post-industrial town, decimated in the days of Thatcher; a community brought to its knees by poverty and despair and now facing a third consecutive generation of unemployment. Imagine a rural or island community trying to cope with very few jobs, poor transport links, ever-increasing fuel costs and an exodus of its young people. Can someone tell me how low the salaries of public sector workers have to go in these areas before this Government is satisfied? How much joblessness, how much crime, how many suicides before their bloodlust is satiated?

What is the solution, and what will be the resolution? Is it time for civil unrest, for revolution? Would I be the last one standing at the barricades? Would I take up arms and fight to save this society, which, in truth, has done me no favours? I’d like to think I wouldn’t have to. I’d like to think that brave, principled men would rush to fill the ranks before it became my time to be conscripted. I'm the political equivalent of an armchair football manager; I prefer to fight from my keyboard, usually anonymously. I’m a coward; I don’t like the sight of my own blood, never mind that of anyone else, but I’ve been thinking.

I’m sure that statistics will show that most men who have died in battle were from the lower classes. If you’re a General, you’re not likely to be suffering from trench foot and dodging stray ordnance; you’d be in a chateau, miles from the front, sipping sherry and having your handlebar moustache waxed by your batman, whilst the sons of miners and farmers lie in a thousand pieces in a bloody, muddy field. Who cares? There’s more where they came from, isn’t that right? Cannon fodder, plucked from a deep pool of the worthless and the underprivileged. I’ve been thinking; that’s where I come in.

I see it now: The outskirts of the Capital; smouldering shells of buildings, utilities cut off, food stocks running low, ammunition almost spent; a rag-tag assembly of the tired and tousled, huddled together for warmth, writing last letters to lovers or friends, as I, forever the outsider, sit, legs outstretched, surveying the scene from the periphery, writing a history that may never be read. But more than expected were up for the fight, and, eventually, good triumphed over evil. Many lives were lost, all given so that others might have a future. Digging around in the rubble, someone found my notebook and, inside, a letter, the one where I told someone the whole truth. There was nothing to identify either the writer or the intended recipient, so it was put on display in a museum, accredited to ‘an anonymous hero of the revolution’. I think I’d like that, but I'd be happier if I got to stay at home whilst others took up arms and rid these islands of every one of the Tory scum and their LibDem whores.

On St. Patrick’s Day, it’s appropriate to remember the words (possibly mistakenly) attributed to the Irish philosopher and statesman Edmund Burke: ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing’. If good men do something, evil won’t triumph, and we will win.

Music therapy

I’m not enjoying life at the moment. That doesn’t mean I’m ready to go right now, and certainly not when plans are being hatched for an escape attempt or two. I’d like to choose the time and manner of my own death, primarily because I’ve never been able to have what I want in life, but also because I’d like to have a little clean-up operation: removing any incriminating evidence and almost every trace that I ever existed (like Tom Quinn would do in 'Spooks'). Imagine my disappointment, then, when I had a close call on Tuesday morning. A fragment of toast went down the wrong way and got stuck, acting as a one-way valve and making it difficult for me to breathe. One of the major disadvantages of being alone is that no one is available to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre, so perhaps I should be commended for discovering a novel way to cough that resulted in the offending morsel being dislodged before it was too late? Sadly, to quote a former colleague, it appears that I had ‘scraped my oesophagus’ in the process, and I have been coughing ever since.

This minor mishap did not deter me from attending rehearsal later that day, but it may have contributed to my being disillusioned with my progress and questioning my usefulness to the orchestra; this after it had been announced that Monday the Twelfth would be the day to re-apply for next term. Ever since, I have been unable to work up any enthusiasm for returning, and it will take a miracle for me to change my mind.

Thursday brought the return of Andrew Manze to the City Halls to conduct the BBC SSO in a concert billed as ‘Manze and the Best of British’. The programme featured works by Purcell, Britten and Vaughan Williams. Manze had himself orchestrated four of the five Purcell pieces, with the 'Chacony in G Minor' having been arranged by Benjamin Britten. It was refreshing to hear this composer at all, never mind programmed with 20^th Century works, but this is one of the things Manze excels at (and the reason why I was puzzled when he was appointed Associate Guest Conductor).

The German cellist Alban Gerhardt, the one who performed that awful piece by Unsuk Chin with the SSO at the Proms in 2009, played Britten’s 'Symphony for Cello and Orchestra', written in 1963, and revised in 1964. I wish I’d been around then (I know I was, but I was incapable); I’d have written to Britten and suggested that he revise it a few more times until he put a tune in it. Oh well, it gave me an opportunity to examine the ceiling in the City Halls, and I found a few defects. Gerhardt’s post-concert Coda consisted of Britten’s 'Suite No. 1 for Solo Cello'. I think it was one of the longest Codas I have ever experienced, or did it just feel like that?

Apart from the bit of the 1st Movement that was used as the theme to the 1970s drama ‘A Family at War’, Vaughan Williams’ 6^th Symphony is not easy to listen to. None of his symphonies are (particularly tonight, as the Vaughan Williams box set is unreachable). There was a section that reminded me of Shostakovich’s String Quartet No. 8 (played last week by the Edinburgh Quartet); the part that’s meant to depict bombs dropping on Dresden. Perhaps VW was trying to capture the effect of bombs dropping on London during the Blitz? As usual, the SSO put their heart and soul into it, and turned the volume up to 11, but I couldn’t warm to it at all. Perhaps I just prefer his ‘cowpat’ music?

Finally, here I am, having returned home from Cairns Church after the last in this season’s recitals at Milngavie Music Club. Tonight, a true star, and an event much anticipated from the moment it was announced a year ago; Joanna McGregor (sans weird hair, I’m glad to say). The new piano was given one hell of a christening as Joanna made her way through a blues and gospel-tinged set followed by six pieces by Astor Piazolla in the first half, and Bach’s 'Goldberg Variations' in the second half. The evening ended with an encore; her rendition of Debussy’s ‘La Fille Aux Cheveux De Lin’ from Book 1 of his Preludes. Next year's programme doesn't look half as interesting.

So, does it help? Does music make it all go away? Does wanting to kill some ill-mannered woman who plonks herself in the seat in front of me in Cairns Church at the start of the second half without so much as a ‘can you still see if I sit here?’ or wanting to ask that old fool who sits in Z5 in the City Halls why he goes to concerts when all he does is sleep (and snore) through the music make me feel better? Does someone telling me that they’d miss me if I didn’t come back to the orchestra make me change my mind about quitting? Music might be therapy for some, but there are times when I’d be better off without it. No, I’m not enjoying life right now.

Things are so bad, I can't even come up with a good title

The first four days of March are almost gone and I’ve not yet blogged this month. Am I ill? Well, now you (or I) come to mention it, yes. I ache all over, and I’m still a bit wibbly wobbly. Not everything can be put down to the long-running ear problem. I may or may not have strained something in the neck/shoulder area lifting a heavy bag of shopping out of the car. I may or may not have been sitting for nearly an hour in the same position and restricted the blood supply to my right foot. I may or may not have a virus, sapping what little energy I have. Everything else can be put down to the long-running ear problem.

It’s been a funny weekend. The last Kilmardinny Music Circle recital for this season took place on Friday night. The Edinburgh Quartet played pieces by Haydn, Shostakovich, Macmillan and Beethoven. It was quite well-attended, and was a pleasant way to pass an evening. Afterwards, I headed for Mugdock Country Park with the intention of looking at Jupiter, Venus and Mars, but it had clouded over in the two hours I was in Kilmardinny House. I’d not have seen much, anyway. I can barely stand still, never mind hold a pair of 10x50 binoculars steady enough to see planets and their moons. The most notable feature of this detour turned out to be the craters all over the road. I was lucky to get the car back to civilisation in one piece.

I don’t remember Saturday. Before you say anything, I wasn’t under the influence. I was tired after running round town on errands, and the day seemed to disappear in a flash, much like Celtic’s winning run. Due to the absence of a number of players who hadn’t returned from International duty, and the injured Scott Brown, Mikel Lustig and Andre Blackman made their debuts, and Charlie Mulgrew was in centre-midfield. Sadly for Blackman, one of his legs got in the way of a shot from an Aberdeen player and the ball was deflected past Fraser Forster. This cancelled out a well-worked Anthony Stokes goal. Here’s hoping this isn’t the start of a downward spiral.

Today, after an excess of ironing, I lost the will to live, and sat around staring at the telly all afternoon. I’ve no idea what was on, but that didn’t matter. I snapped out of my trance in time to travel to Paisley to take part in an open rehearsal with the St. James Orchestra, as part of the Weaving Musical Threads festival. We played the theme to ‘Chariots of Fire’, Johann Strauss’ 'Radetsky March' and Souza’s 'Liberty Bell’. Unfortunately, it only lasted for an hour. I returned home and took my telescope out to take advantage of the clear sky, which, typically, had started to cloud over. I eventually managed to see more detail on the moon than I had previously (sorry, no photos), but had no luck with Jupiter, Venus, Mars and anything else I could see with the naked eye. I’m not giving up, yet, but I’m thinking about it.

It's only a day away

Tomorrow. What is the point of tomorrow? This isn't another question from my (as yet unwritten) tome 'Cod Philosophy for Beginners'. It's something I've always wanted to find out. No, really, tell me? Why the hell do we need an extra day? OK, it's some sort of con to do with the earth not going round the sun in exactly 365 days, and screwing up calendars, but what I want to know is 'do I get paid?', 'does it count towards my pension?' and 'can't I get reimbursed for having to put up with an extra day every four years when I find 365 too many?'  I suspect that no one will ever answer those questions to my satisfaction, so I'll just have to bear this extra burden with my customary good humour. Needless to say, I shall not be proposing to anyone.

You'll never walk alone

Liverpool FC has just won their first trophy since 2006. Their fans are like ours; passionate and emotional, and accustomed to lean times. Cardiff City, the underdogs from a lower division, were worthy opponents, but no one likes to see a game decided on penalties. Football, like life, can only have one winner. There are a number of former Celtic players managing in England: Kenny Dalglish at Liverpool, Paul Lambert at Norwich, David Moyes at Everton, Malky Mackay at Cardiff, Tony Mowbray at Middlesbrough, Paulo DiCanio at Swindon and poor Steve Kean at Blackburn. It’s possible that, one day, Neil Lennon will ply his trade down there, but not until he has achieved all he can in the SPL.

Had our rivals not been docked ten points, we would still be ten points ahead. We have won twenty successive domestic games, eighteen of those in the league, and not lost a goal away from home in the SPL since the beginning of November. Records are there to be broken, and on the day that this run comes to an end, we can all breathe a sigh of relief, safe in the knowledge that everyone is human again and normality has been restored, but how I wish that all of time could be like this.

One wet Wednesday evening and one wet Saturday afternoon; two wins and two more hairpins on the long and winding road to success negotiated with ease. OK, I’m lying. Negotiated with confidence, that’s what I mean to say. How robust is that confidence, though? So used to winning nowadays, how would they cope if they went three-nil down? I hope I don’t get an answer to those questions any time soon.

Finally, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, Charlie Mulgrew proved, yet again, what an asset he is to this team. Unfortunately, due to modern technology being rubbish, I am unable to link to decent video footage of his goal on Wednesday, and that of Victor Wanyama’s effort against Hearts in December, for the purpose of saying whose was the best. I’ll just need to wait for the DVD.

Altruistic abstinence (or self-denial is not a river in Egypt)

It's Lent tomorrow, apparently. I don't follow all this superstitious, religious crap, but people seem to give up all sorts of things, don't they? I'm not sure what is the purpose of it all. It's not as if you get money at the end of it, though someone did mention chocolate. What would I give up, if I were one of them (not one of them, I mean one of them)?:

Alcohol: Is this year's Eurovision Song Contest taking place during Lent?
Social Networking: Does that include blogging, e-mails and text messages?
Chocolate: Wasn't that one of the New Year resolutions?
Masturbation: I can't see what I'm typing.
Sex: Gave that up years ago. How long is Lent?
Chocolate: See the last two.

That'll be that then.

Everything comes to he who waits

Credit where credit is due; isn’t that what they say? It’s been a long time coming, but Craig Levein has finally seen sense and included Kirkintilloch’s answer to Shunsuke Nakamura in the Scotland squad. OK, so it’s a friendly in Slovenia, and he may not even get off the bench, but it’s a start.

Since the derby game at Ibrox in January 2011, he has barely put a foot wrong, whether playing left-back, centre-half or left-midfield. Unfortunately, when he does put a foot wrong, you notice, but, thankfully, his defensive misdemeanours have been few and far between. Almost always my candidate for Man of the Match, he has displayed levels of consistency and commitment no one ever expected from a man they all thought would be a mere squad player, but Neil Lennon’s first signing as Celtic manager, having struggled with injury in the first part of season 2010-11, appears to have made himself indispensable to his boss and to the team.

In these days of (now cheap) foreign imports, it’s pleasing to see a player come through the club’s youth system and make it into the first team. However, this particular player has had to take a rather circuitous route, after being discarded by Gordon Strachan. This may or may not have been a good managerial decision but it has certainly done the player the world of good: mature, professional, hard-working and determined are just some of the many terms that can be used to describe him now, and he has, on a number of occasions this season, been trusted with the captain’s armband and taken to the task admirably. It’s been a dramatic turnaround and this latest accolade is richly deserved. If he makes it on to the field next Wednesday, I’m sure I won’t be the only one applauding the rise and rise of Charlie Mulgrew.