Nostalgia is a thing of the past

It started with …no, it was bad enough my using it twice. A third time would be very lame, indeed.

No doubt, there’ll be plenty of News Reviews of 2011 to remind everyone about the momentous events of the year just passed. Hours of airtime that could be employed to entertain people in these troubled times will, instead, be devoted to a seemingly never-ending collective post-mortem of the last twelve months, as if we needed reminding.

Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Syria, Japan, bin Laden, Gaddafi, Berlusconi, Putin, rigged elections, Murdochs, custard pie, Rebekah Brooks, Andy Coulson, phone hacking, Millie Dowler, Tom Watson, Euro crisis, Merkozy, Jimmy Savile, Royal weddings, Prince Philip, the Space Shuttle, Christchurch, Edmundo Ros, Vaclav Havel, Amy Winehouse, Sepp Blatter, Manchester City, Gary Speed; I'm just scratching the surface. 2011 was far from boring.

Closer to home, the pandas arrived, and the Scottish National Party achieved a majority of seats in the Scottish Parliament under a system that was designed to stop that very thing from happening. Opposition party leaders tumbled like skittles and a tide of imperialist rhetoric began to roar in from London. The future is unclear, but if the Scottish people can be made to understand that Independence would mean an end to Tory rule forever, the wind of change would blow faster and stronger than the 8^th of December storm. At least we’d still have an NHS, and a Public Sector workforce that is valued, trusted and rewarded for its devotion and endeavour.

On the football field, there were some wonderful team and individual performances, and the bargain signing of recent times, but the season was characterised by disappointment and underachievement, and the least said about that Wednesday night in May, the better. After battle recommenced in July (yes, July), nerves, injuries and even ego conspired to leave the team 15 points behind the unconvincing leaders by the beginning of November. As the year drew to a close, a slow, patient miracle had crept up behind the complacent and the unsuspecting, resulting in a swing of 17 points. I can’t quite believe it myself.

On TV, the best series yet of the modern era of Doctor Who aired either side of the summer and the much-heralded (and much-feared) digital switchover came and went without incident or tears. Coronation Street rediscovered comedy and Moldovans in pointy hats stole the show, but not the winner’s trophy, at the Eurovision Song Contest.

What about me? Exactly, what about me? I played (after a fashion) in two concerts; I finally figured out how to work Twitter; I resumed blogging (obviously) after a long absence; I bought a BluRay player; I went on strike for the first time in my life. Exciting, huh? I hear Nostradamus will be trending in 2012.

So, this is Christmas, and what have you done?

In all honesty, very little. It started a few weeks ago with an on-line splurge and ended last night with the removal of food from the freezer. Somewhere in between, items were squashed into already over-filled bags, delivery drivers came and went and lists that had been made were checked at least twice before being discarded. The presents were wrapped and placed under the wonky £5 Tesco Christmas tree adorned with decorations that had seen better days 40 years ago. The 19-year-old Christmas lights twinkled long into the night, then it was time for bed. What’s it all for, though?

I use it as an excuse to take an extended break from work, even though there’s only about seven hours of daylight at this time of year. I’m relieved to report that there’s no snow this year. Instead, there are gale-force winds and occasional rain. This is more like it. The last two winters have been extreme, even for Scotland, and although I don’t mind being confined to quarters occasionally, being forced to remain indoors for days on end makes me more miserable than the ‘holiday season’ does in a normal year. I have no idea what the next week will bring in terms of activities and entertainment, but it’ll be better than working.

Later today, I will eat more than I should then regret it; I will relax my ban on alcohol to raise a glass to absent friends, even though certain individuals who are still alive won’t be doing the same for me; I will wish that almost everything about this day could be different. At 7pm, I will take the proverbial phone off the proverbial hook and watch this year’s Christmas Doctor Who episode, the only thing that has made this day bearable for the last six years. I’ll probably watch Coronation Street then choose a funny DVD to finish off. La dolce vita it isn’t, but it helps to dull the pain. There’s nothing else to say.

The evening after the evening before

It started with disappointment and ended with a standing ovation. Life may not be perfect or wonderful or even interesting, and never will be, but if you look carefully, you might just find something to smile about.

I’m not clued up on Glasgow’s entertainment listings, so imagine my dismay when I discovered that there was a Sunday matinee at the King’s Theatre. I’m so used to there never being any theatre on a Sunday, much less two shows, so the pantomime caught me unawares. Had I been a few minutes later getting into town, I may have had a severe problem parking my car. As it was, my now traditional pre-concert trip to Pizza Express in Sauchiehall Street was spoiled by screaming weans and worse; a lack of chocolate fudge cake and vanilla ice-cream. Someone in a shirt and tie tried to fob me off with a number of cupcakes (apparently made at the same time as the big cake), but I was not for budging, so I left a smaller tip than planned and headed back to the car.

Mercifully, there was no problem parking in the Merchant City, so I arrived in plenty of time for the seating rehearsal, which yielded the first warm and fuzzy moment of the evening; a rendition of ‘Fairytale of New York’, somewhat incongruous with respect to the rest of the programme, but a heart-warming and pleasant surprise. The rest of the rehearsal went according to past form, but it was over all too soon, then it was time for a short intermezzo in a local hostelry before returning to face the music.

Here’s the programme:

Choir and orchestra:

Zadok the Priest

Handel (1685 – 1759)

Orchestra:

Symphony No.4; 4th movement

Tchaikovsky (1840 – 1893)

Choir:

Creation’s Hymn

Beethoven (1770 – 1827)

All in the April Evening

Hugh Roberton (1874 – 1952)

Some Enchanted Evening

Richard Rodgers (1902 – 1979)

Choir and strings:

Fairytale of New York

Finer (1955 – ) & MacGowan (1957 – )

Choir and orchestra:

Grand March from Aida

Verdi (1813 – 1901)

I N T E RVAL

Choir:

In dulci jubilo

Pearsall (1797 – 1856)

Orchestra:

Christmas Festival

Anderson (1908 – 1975)

Choir and orchestra:

In the bleak midwinter

Holst (1874 – 1934)

Choir:

Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring

Bach (1685 – 1750)

Choir and orchestra:

Finlandia

Sibelius (1865 – 1957)

ENCORE

Choir and orchestra:

We Wish You a Merry Christmas

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous before, and during, a concert. It’s not just the fear of making mistakes that can be heard by all and sundry. It’s hot under those lights, and I’d prefer to stay upright. Think of the shame if I keeled over in one of the quiet bits! I’m relieved to report that the concert passed without any such incident and a good time appears to have been had by all. What about that standing ovation? I couldn’t believe it. I was as moved as it’s possible for me to get in company, and I couldn’t help but smile at this spontaneous display of approval by what is, after all, a friendly crowd, but we’ve not had one before. I blame the teddy in the front row.

The weather's variable, so are you

It’s Thursday night. Question Time will be on soon. What have I done today to make me feel proud? Nothing, and not just today. I’ve done bugger all for the last week.

I enjoyed my day off on strike, but I’ll not enjoy the effect it will have on my next wage. The ConDems are still refusing to budge on the important issues (to the Unions): pay more, work longer, get less; and today’s debate in Westminster showed that Labour are all in this together with the Government. As for my (hardly unique) personal situation, can I get an answer from any politician on the subject? No. Why do they give them e-mail addresses when they never use them?

The strike, or the thought of losing money (typical Scot), had another effect; I was struck down by a mystery virus, which resulted in my missing the BBC SSO on the Thursday night and Friday’s recital at Kilmardinny Music Circle. It’s just as well I get paid so much that I can afford to throw money down the toilet. Recovery was a slow process, so Saturday and Sunday were written off, too, though I did manage to start Christmas shopping. Isn’t the Internet wonderful? Then winter arrived.

After two days of snow, ice and public transport, I was ready for the knacker’s yard. I had to go to rehearsal on Tuesday togged up for a trip to the Arctic (in 1911) and, although I enjoyed it, I arrived home smarting from the loss of nearly £20 for dinner and a taxi. Wednesday brought brief respite from the haemorrhaging of money and the inclement weather before the mother of all storms hit Glasgow like a bunch of bigoted morons on a day trip to Manchester.

Although I was very much alive in 1968, I don’t remember the great storm. There have been many nights subsequently when I thought my window frames were going to be sucked out of the wall and sent into orbit around the nearest earth-like planet, but few stick in the mind the way Bonfire Night 1996 and Boxing Day 1998 do. I can’t say if it was worse today (I’ve not heard of any church spires being blown down in the centre of Glasgow, for example) but being sandblasted by salty rain is not something I’ve ever experienced. It’s the little things that let us know we’re alive.

So, we’ve had almost everything this week: rain, wind, hail, sleet, snow, ice and sunshine (not necessarily in that order, but sometimes simultaneously) and thunder and/or lightning have been forecast. I don’t recall seeing any fog. There’s still time.

Up the workers!

I’ve never been on strike in my life, not even when that cow Thatcher was in power. I’ve worked for over 32 years and still have a few years to go before I’m meant to retire and take the pension I’ve been paying for since I turned 18, though too many years (months, actually) to be allowed to retire at 60 under the current Government’s proposals. Meanwhile, 30-odd years of pension contributions will be handed to a Private Equity firm to piss away in the direction of its shareholders, all connected to the Tory party.

In the last 18 months, there has been talk of such things as rolling back the EU Working Time Directive, making it easier for employers to sack people, denying workers the right of recourse to an Industrial Tribunal, repealing Health & Safety and Trades Union laws, privatising the NHS and God knows what else. Britain is being frogmarched back in time: not to the 1940s, 30s or 20s, but to the 1800s. That rumbling sound you hear is Victorian social reformers rolling in their graves. This is where we are going, so fasten your seatbelts; we’re in for a bumpy ride.

Perhaps it’s time to have a North African- or Middle-Eastern-style revolution in this country? Who wouldn’t go out onto the streets and honk their car horns or toot on their vuvuzelas when the revolutionaries arrest Thatcher and hang her on live TV, or someone breaks Cameron’s legs when he’s running away then finishes the job before the ambulance turns up? Let’s not spare the LibDems in this political cleansing. It’s a shame there’s no statue of Nick Clegg to be toppled in Sheffield (though Sheffield Forgemasters may be making one for that purpose) and that Danny Alexander is the tosser, not the caber at his local Highland games.

No, sadly, we have to do it all at the ballot box, and with the LibDems having sold their soul (and principles) for the sake of a ride in a Ministerial car, we’ll never see PR at Westminster, leaving the election odds stacked against democracy for another 90-odd years. The Murdoch media and The Mail, The Express and The Telegraph have such an influence on public AND political opinion that Thatcher’s generation of cruel, selfish bastards is continuing to do her work for her, exactly 20 years after she was removed from power. Some of them are on the Labour benches.

Oh, those Russians

I’ve only seen the BBC SSO twice this season. Both concerts have featured Prokofiev piano concertos played by Denis Kozhukhin, and were conducted by tiny Chinese people. I’m going again next week, even though the soloist plays the cello and Andrew Manze is neither tiny nor Chinese. I embrace diversity.

The first half of last Thursday’s concert was enjoyable and intriguing in equal measure. Prokofiev’s Symphony No. 1 (the ‘Classical’) started the ball rolling. It has been a favourite of mine for many years, even before I knew what it was. As I child, I watched a short-lived children’s drama serial called ‘The Flaxton Boys’. I couldn’t tell you anything about it other than that part of the Classical Symphony was used as the theme music. Stravinsky’s ‘Petrushka’ concluded the first half, but the rarely played 1911 version was aired this time to tie in with one of the orchestra’s themes for this season; erm, 1911. Lots of brass, and very loud. Just how I like it. What, though, did Stravinsky think was wrong with it?

It was Prokofiev’s turn again at the start of the second half, his Piano Concerto No. 1, and the concert was wrapped up by another excuse for the orchestra to pump up the volume, Tchaikovsky’s ‘Francesca da Rimini’. Denis Kozhukhin returned afterwards for the Coda: Schoenberg’s ‘Sechs Kleine Klavierstücke’ and György Ligeti’s ‘L’escalier du diable’ from ‘Études pour piano’ (finding all these funny letters is giving me eye strain). OK, one’s an Austrian and one’s Hungarian, but it’s not every day I get to quote Boney M.

The concert was marred by my sitting adjacent to (but over the terrace fence from) an ugly, fat, smelly, bearded bloke who insisted on trying to strike up a conversation with me about the orchestra, other orchestras, various concerts and a nearby guide dog. He also had the irritating habit of breathing in and out through his nose. It took him until the second half to get the hint, following which he proceeded to bore the poor, unsuspecting individual to his left.

As for the other, less illustrious orchestra, the Christmas concert is fast approaching, and practice has ground to a halt. Rehearsals have been, for me, uninspiring, as I have too much other work to do to stop and try to figure out how much of the Tchaikovsky I can attempt, and although Schubert has been unceremoniously given his marching orders, we have two new, allegedly easy pieces to contend with; ‘In The Bleak Midwinter’ by Ralph Vaughan Williams, and ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’. Well, someone does. I can’t stand it.

As I type, Celtic are at home to St. Mirren. This is the second successive home game I have missed due to the inclement weather. It is also the second successive home game in which they have scored two goals early on in the blink of an eye. They nearly made a pig’s ear of it on Wednesday. Who knows what will happen today? After the soaking at the Hibs game a few weeks back, and lacking in any suitable protective clothing, I have had to boycott the fitba’ for the good of my health, physical as well as mental. Normal service will probably be resumed in two weeks time for the visit of Heart of Midlothian (weather permitting), and I’d love to meet whoever it was who had the bright idea to schedule the game with St. Johnstone for Christmas Eve. It was originally meant to kick off at 3pm, but someone must have alerted the authorities to the complete lack of public transport after 4pm that day. It will now (weather permitting) start at 1pm, which is bad enough. Of course, the late December Saturday home game has not featured in my plans in recent years due to illness and poor weather. I may yet find myself indoors again enjoying ‘Nine Lessons and Carols’.

In just over an hour, I have to get ready to brave the elements and drive to Paisley Town Hall again for another concert. It had better be good.

Modern Art* Is Rubbish

(*music)

Is it? When I stagger out of the cold into a modern art gallery (a gallery displaying ‘modern art’ or ‘art installations’) I walk round at high speed, tutting and shaking my head in disbelief. Who could forget the talking mushrooms or talking garden shed in the 'Playing John Cage' exhibition at the Arnolfini in 2005, or the film of a guy dressed as a bear wandering at night round the entrance hall of a deserted airport at Tate Liverpool in 2007 (Mark Wallinger's Turner Prize winner), or the piece of graph paper with dots on it (possibly also in Liverpool)? I have to admit that I liked those metal statues on Crosby beach by Antony Gormley, and there’s been the odd painting or sculpture along the way that I’ve not guffawed at, but most things leave me cold or muttering ‘I just don’t get it’.

The same goes for music. Last week, it was James MacMillan. This week, it was Sally Beamish. Cue the plinky-plonky, the screechy or the downright tuneless (or any combination thereof). I don’t doubt that they’re gifted individuals, and both they and others of that ilk (Sir Peter Maxwell Davies springs to mind) enhance the reputation of Scotland throughout the world (well, anyone who’s not a violent drunk or a sectarian bigot could do that), and they are probably kind to children and animals, but until they can write a decent tune that the Old Greys (of Whistle Test fame) could walk down Buchanan Street (Glasgow or Milngavie) whistling, they are not what I want to listen to. I like Max’s ‘Farewell to Stromness’, though, and that’s a big compliment coming from me.

In June, the BBC SSO gave us ‘Made in Sweden’, a free concert which was recorded for BBC Radio 3’s modern music series ‘Hear and Now’. The second piece featured the young Norwegian trumpeter Tine Thing Helseth (cue comical attempt at pronounciation of her name by presenter Jamie MacDougall) and this was the programme:

Victoria Borisova-Ollas Angelus (c.20') (UK Premiere)
Britta Byström Förvillelser (Delusions)* (c.16') (UK Premiere)
Tobias Broström Transit Underground (c.10') (UK Premiere)
Anders Eliasson Symphony No.4 (UK Premiere) (c.25')

No, I can’t whistle any of the tunes, but I recall liking a couple of them, and promised myself that I’d investigate further. I’ve not done so, as yet, but I’m hoping that this particular blog jogs my memory. Not all music composed in the last few years is inaccessible or impossible to listen to, but some composers seem to love driving people nuts.

Milngavie Music Club’s November recital was given by the Elias Quartet, comprising two French sisters on 1^st Violin and Cello, a Swede on Viola and a Scotsman on 2^nd Violin. They opened with Haydn’s String Quartet in C, Op. 20, No. 2. I’d not heard this piece before, and though it was quite old-fashioned in its style (dating from 1772), it was enjoyable. The other work in the first half was ‘Reed Stanzas’ by the aforementioned Sally Beamish. She wrote about it in the concert programme, but it didn’t help. Even as someone who has attempted to play Scottish fiddle music in the past, this did not leap out at me as something inspired by that tradition (probably more a lament on the pipes, actually, when Donald Grant was playing on his own) and it did suffer from two of the symptoms mentioned above. Beethoven’s String Quartet in B Flat, Op. 130 (from 1826), with the Grosse Fuge, Op 133 as its finale, took up the entire second half. This extravaganza lasted over 50 minutes, and if I’d known I was going to suffer from a dodgy tummy, I’d probably have left at the interval. I felt, as I do with Bach, that I can tolerate most things in small doses, but there is a finite time during which I can sit without distress or an excess of fidgeting. After it was over, it was time for a nocturnal visit to Tesco in a monsoon. What an exciting life!

Lest We Forget

I’ve been watching the Remembrance Sunday service from the Cenotaph for decades, and rarely miss the broadcast. It seems to come round quicker every year, and it’s hard to shake off the spectre of one’s own mortality when two of the Queen’s grandsons, both serving in the military, now regularly take part in the ceremony. It’s not that long ago that the Queen Mother was an ever-present, or Princess Alice, Duchess of Gloucester, or even King Olaf of Norway. 2011 is the first year in which there are no (known) surviving veterans of the Great War, and the majority of combatants of World War II are in their late 80s and 90s. I have not watched the Royal British Legion Festival of Remembrance for such a long time, but I remember, year after year, being moved by the sight of the Chelsea Pensioners marching down the steps into the Royal Albert Hall, and knowing that they had served in the 1914-18 conflict (and possibly even the Boer War, if you consider that I started watching it as a child). My father, grandfathers and great-grandfathers missed both World Wars by accident; too old or too young, and I have yet to find evidence of any significant losses in the their immediate families, avoided more by luck than design.

The relatively recent innovation of the veterans’ march-past shows the decrease in ex-serviceman from the 40s and 50s able to attend such an event and an increase in those from conflicts in Northern Ireland and the Falklands, as well as both Gulf Wars and Afghanistan. A number of organisations associated with those who served in WWII have disbanded due to lack of members and funds, and it is only a matter of a few years before the 1939-45 conflict ceases to be living history in these islands. The wars of conquest and colonialism are rarely, if ever, celebrated or commemorated (what was all that nonsense about Trafalgar Day?), so when will Britain stop marking the Armistice or VE Day, and when will this ceremony be rendered as redundant as the troops this Government is soon going to throw on the scrapheap? Sadly, Britain has been involved in a number of military incursions and adventures since 1945 (most of them under Tony Blair’s term, or am I just being bitter?), and a new tradition has developed in the House of Commons; prior to Prime Minister’s Question Time, the names of the military dead of the previous seven days are read out to Parliament. Why? To remember them? To honour them? To assuage the guilt of people who should never have sent them there in the first place?

Even before I started school, I was aware of a very interesting point. When I used to walk with my gran to shops around a mile away, I would do what every child did; try to avoid walking on the cracks in the pavement, balance on the edge of the pavement like a tightrope walker, step off and on raised sections of the footpath, pretend I was playing hopscotch, etc. There was one area I could not comfortably walk on; some nearby tenements has flagstones arranged in a border below their ground floor window (some dwellings had a little patch of grass, some had concrete slabs), and these were dimpled at intervals along their length. Every time I saw them, I asked my gran why they were like that, and she would tell me that there used to be fencing there, and it was cut down during the war. I didn’t understand until many years later that the metal had been taken away for melting down to make weapons. Britain was unready for war in 1939, and I believe that it may also have been unprepared in 1914, yet we are scaling down our armed forces at a dangerous time.

Greece and Italy are in financial meltdown. Spain and Portugal may be the next to go. All of these countries have a bloody past, and the people have not been shy to take up arms. Imagine a Civil War in Greece, with the danger of it spreading to Turkey or Cyprus. Add to the mix Albania, and the possibility of renewed ethnic tensions in Kosovo, leading to conflict with Serbia or even FYR Macedonia, and the whole tinderbox of the Balkans coming into play. The poorest EU nations, Bulgaria and Romania, lie to the east, and Turkey’s neighbours? Syria, Lebanon, Armenia, Georgia and Iraq with its Kurds in the north? Bloody hell. You know where I’m going with this, don’t you? Apart from in Turkey, can you see the (equally financially-strapped) Yanks getting involved in this (for the right reasons, not for oil or to attack Iran), especially with the Russian bear on permanent standby, and China (and North Korea) unlikely to be on our side? Everyone has a grudge against us, and what have we got to defend ourselves? A threadbare, demoralised military, no aircraft carriers and the Eurofighter! All that money for a Public School education and not one of them appears to have studied the history of Europe.

Back to the Cenotaph: the part played by the military bands, and their influence on me, cannot be ignored or even underestimated. I was inspired to take up the clarinet as a result of my annual exposure to this traditional event (sadly, I have let not only myself down, but all those musicians of the RAF and Royal Marines by being too lazy to learn to play it properly, and was never able to fulfil my ambition of joining the RAF to play in its bands). I may have made the wrong choice, as usual; I still can’t understand why I never took up a brass instrument, as they play the most prominent roles in military music. One of the pieces most associated with the ceremony is ‘Nimrod’ from the Enigma Variations by Sir Edward Elgar, and I was privileged to be in the orchestra for the summer concert in June when this was part of our programme. We will not be playing anything so heartrending in our next concert in four weeks time, which is just as well. I don’t like to have tears welling up in my eyes when I’m trying to read the music.

I'll sleep when I'm dead

It’s been a busy week. Contrary to all the available evidence, I don’t lead a very exciting life. I just go out occasionally, sometimes all in the one week.

It appears that I did the right thing by taking the day off after the BSP gig. My eyes hadn’t un-crossed themselves from all that driving and my head hurt like I’d been drinking all night. One of these days (or nights) I WILL drink all night and I’ll have an excuse for feeling that way. After some grocery shopping around lunchtime, I returned home with the intention of doing something useful, but I fell asleep around three and didn’t wake up until six. What a waste of a day!

I was still grumpy when I went to Tuesday’s rehearsal. The previous week, we looked at the second page (for us clarinettists) of ‘Finlandia’ and the first two sections of ‘Zadok The Priest’, and we were introduced to our special Christmas treat for this year; Leroy Anderson’s ‘A Christmas Festival’, a wacky mishmash of various carols, some played at the same time by different sections of the orchestra. I was so inspired that I actually practised on each of the three following evenings. This time, we looked at the Handel and the Anderson again, but also spent some time on the Triumphal March from Aida, endeavouring to negotiate the announced cuts in the piece. Who knows what will be in or out by the time we get to rehearse with the choir?

I had forgotten that I had a ticket for the theatre on Wednesday, and it was a bitter blow when I realised that I was faced with an additional evening out. I think I’ve seen four plays since the summer, yet another example of feast or famine. This time, it was back to the Citizens Theatre for their production of ‘A Day in the Death of Joe Egg’ by Peter Nichols, which actually premiered in that very theatre in 1967. It must have been quite shocking for its time, and even today, when people are more open about disability, there were cringeworthy moments galore in this black comedy about a married couple trying to cope with caring for their ‘spastic’ daughter (she had a severe form of cerebral palsy). There was a lot of talking to the audience (as if we were a sounding board for everyone’s troubles), which I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much of in a play (plenty of times on TV, though) and the house lights were on when these sequences were happening, which only added to my discomfort. I suppose one is meant to think how one would react and survive in the same circumstances, and I was on the side of the child being institutionalised, or even of euthanasia, rather than being in denial about the gravity of her condition, its effect on everyone’s life and the eventual outcome. I’m a hard, un-sentimental bastard, though. The play was, ultimately, a very thought-provoking piece, and well-acted by Miles Jupp and Sarah Tansey as Josephine’s parents; Joseph Chance and Olivia Darnley as their ‘friends’ Freddie and Pam, and there was a nice cameo in the second half by Miriam Margolyes, whose grandfather was from the Gorbals! The young girl who played Josephine (sadly, it was not announced which of the two in the programme was playing the part that night) gave an outstanding performance.

Thursday came and went without major incident, unless you count my forgetting to record the Celtic v Rennes game (no, I didn’t go, as it’s not on the Season Ticket). A makeshift Celtic side came back from a goal down (yes, another early goal resulting from poor defending) to win 3-1. Both Stokes and Hooper scored, and Samaras was praised by (almost) all and sundry. Miracles will never cease. It was nice to stay in and catch up with some jobs then indulge in my latest diversion; tweeting a load of old rubbish during Question Time.

Last night was the first Friday of the month, and that meant Kilmardinny Music Circle. November’s featured artists were the Sutherland Duo, two posh blonde birds in long black dresses, one on violin and one on piano. The violinist looked like she was on her way to the Ambassador’s reception and the pianist, in velvet, looked like she was the very tall one at a children’s birthday party in Kensington. They arrived at their name, after much deliberation, having discovered that they both had ancestors from Sutherland. Aww, that’s nice. Anyway, what did they play and were they any good at it?

They opened with the Sonata No. 3 in D Major by Jean-Marie Leclair (no, it is not him, Leclerq), the French Barqoue composer, and Harriet Mackenzie explained that her violin dated from the same time as the piece they were playing. They contrasted this with Brahms’ Sonata No. 1 in G Major op 78, written in memory of the deceased son of fellow composer Robert Schumann and his wife Clara (with whom Johannes Brahms was in love).

After the interval, the Spotlight performer was 20-year old Glynn Forest, a 4^th-year student at the RCS (that’s RSAMD for oldies like me), and he gave us a couple of tunes on the marimba; Bach’s Fugue from the Sonata No. 1 for Violin and ‘Rotation’ by someone called E. Sammut. I know I should go and look him/her up on t’Internet, but I’m too lazy. Anyway, it was an unusual and pleasant interlude, and something to think about while the main act bored the arse off people with some horrendous thing by James Macmillan. They followed this with a trio of well-known and much-loved Elgar miniatures; (a rather hurried) ‘Salut d’amour’, ‘Chanson du matin’ and ‘Chanson de nuit’. Finally, they gave a stirring rendition of ‘Zigeunerweisen’ by Sarasate. Harriet told some story about studying in America with someone who liked gypsy music. I couldn’t pay attention because I was trying not to laugh every time she uttered the word (which was quite a lot in just a couple of minutes). It sounded so incongruous coming out of her mouth in those plummy tones that she might as well have been talking about ‘darkies’. I’m easily amused, obviously, and I know I shouldn’t mock, but what else is there to do? All joking aside, I enjoyed the recital.

I’ve been out on other business today, and hopefully I’ll have avoided the plague that appears to have infected a large number of my fellow Glaswegians. I get rather worried when I hear children and young women coughing like old men with consumption. I think it’s going to be a long winter. Whilst waiting for another insipid M&S steak pie to emerge from the oven, I caught the last few minutes of the Middlesbrough v Watford game. Boro won 1-0 (with a disputed Scott McDonald goal) and extended their unbeaten run at the Riverside to 15 games. Yes, under Tony Mowbray! I’m pleased that they’re doing well, but concerned at the attendance. I know it’s Bonfire Night, and it’s a bit cold, and the game is on TV, but surely they can muster up a bigger crowd than that, especially when they’re going great guns in the Championship (third behind leaders Southampton and Big Sam’s West Ham)? Times are tough, and Teeside is suffering probably more than most areas, but are Boro so desperate that they felt the need to e-mail me and ask me to go and see them today?!

If I don’t fall asleep, or have a heart attack when a firework goes off outside my window, I’ll be off to Paisley tomorrow evening for a performance of ‘Carmina Burana’. I have no idea why.

Always, always, always the sea

Guide Me O Though Great Jehovah; Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise; Finlandia and the 3rd movement of the Karelia Suite by Jean Sibelius; The Intermezzo from the English Folk Song Suite and Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus by Ralph Vaughan Williams; The Queen Bee by the Count Basie Orchestra; Carrion by British Sea Power: If I were to have a funeral to which people would come and pay their respects, they’d have to listen to a CD featuring, in an as-yet undecided order, this selection of tunes. How the Brighton-based purveyors of high-church amplified rock music came to be in such exalted company is something for another place and time, but it speaks volumes for them that they are.

As the clock struck midnight at the end of the first day of GMT, and Sunday became Monday, I arrived home after a tiring and stressful 100-mile round trip to Edinburgh where I had gone to see BSP at the Liquid Rooms in Victoria Street. I was compelled to make this pilgrimage, not by warnings that this would be the last tour for some time, but because of the significance of the venue. On Saturday the 9^th of April 2005, the day Prince Charles eventually married Camilla Parker-Bowles, I hopped on a train to our nation’s capital on a damp, spring evening for my first live encounter with a band that the fates and me had conspired to miss on a number of occasions in the previous couple of years. Was last night’s sojourn the final chapter in a five and a half year saga of ups and downs and to and fro and trains and boats and planes (and cars and buses)? I am less sure of the answer, and less secure in my opinions, than I was when I left home just before six o’clock.

I witnessed a mature, sensible, polished, yet jolly performance from a band renowned for its on-stage antics, as much as its music and its passionate, enthusiastic fans. The Liquid Rooms does not lend itself to climbing, jumping, stage diving and other frivolities (I have a vague memory from 2005 of Eamon being trapped at the back of the stage unable to perform his trademark march around the audience with the big drum) and this has an effect on the crowd, which was so subdued that I wondered if they'd all been tranquillised. I didn’t go to the front, to avoid any hearing difficulties but also to avoid the legendary Bill, but it transpired that he had been ejected for urinating against a wall. I presume he couldn’t navigate his way to the toilet. Even one of the staff had no idea where it was!

I arrived too late to see the first support act, Ducks Fly To Moscow, otherwise known as the band’s guitar tech, Malcolm. I also missed most of Electric Soft Parade’s set, but they were sounding better than I have ever heard them. Then it was time.

They opened with Remember Me, not a particularly inspiring rendition, but sometimes it’s a good idea for a band to get its best-known song out of the way before a set of more recent material. Next came We Are Sound, which Scott dedicated to the recently departed Bill. In my belated, initial appraisal of Valhalla Dancehall, this was one of the tracks I resolved to ignore in future and it appears I was more than a tad hasty in arriving at my assessment: having not seen them for over two years, I had not heard any of the album’s songs live and the stage is where this band and its songs can come to life and assume totally new personalities. The immediately recognisable bass introduction to Oh Larsen B was sufficient to warm the cockles of my cold, dead heart, as it brings back wonderful memories of the late-2005 tour.  They followed this with Who's In Control?, which, no matter how many times I hear it, is unlikely to become one of my favourites. Bear from the Zeus EP followed and, again, I had never heard this track live, and it shone in that setting. Neil took centre stage for a trio of songs and opened his mini-set with a complete surprise; Open The Door. I was disappointed not to be treated to Moley and Me or A Lovely Day Tomorrow, as Open The Door is not one of my favourite tracks, but it reminds me so much of one particular gig (New Brighton) and two wonderful people (Deborah and Morgan) that I can’t complain too much about its inclusion. One of the best tracks on Valhalla Dancehall came next, Mongk II, a track ideally suited to a live setting. It was one of my highlights of the evening.

I’ve said it before, in other places, that the ‘easy, easy’ chant annoys me, but last night I came to the conclusion that it distracts (and detracts) from what is one of the best tunes (and lyrics) ever written by Neil and one of the finest tracks ever recorded by BSP, No Lucifer. In another, more enlightened world, this song would have been top of the charts for a long, long time. Next came a song from Open Season, and one that I will always associate with that night in 2005, North Hanging Rock, and this was followed by another one of my non-favourites, Living Is So Easy. It would be ironic if the lyrics weren’t ironic.

Another one I underestimated at the time was Observe The Skies and again my opinion has been changed by hearing it live. This is no bad thing, as it means that I am finally warming to more of what I still believe is a rather incoherent jumble of an album. Their last dip in form occurred, strangely enough, with their second album, the lead single from which was the very Echo and The Bunnymen-like It Ended On An Oily Stage; again, no bad thing, as the Bunnymen were the only band I ever felt similarly about. The (uncharacteristic, and hopefully, temporary) mature, sensible side of the band was obvious during The Spirit Of St. Louis, which was always one of those numbers that provided an excuse for mayhem, both on and off the stage, but not last night. Next came Waving Flags from Do You Like Rock Music and, finally, from the same album, The Great Skua; a flawless performance and a powerful, emotional ending to the set.

After a few minutes, an encore: Apologies To Insect Life, another one of those tunes designed to get the band and audience going; again, not tonight, and finally, Carrion, topped off with All In It.

They think it’s all over. It had better not be.

Nightmare on Kerrydale Street

It was a dark and stormy night afternoon. It was Halloween weekend (no day is ever alone with rampant consumerism). I saw the Pope, some nuns, a couple of Scooby Doos, a (solitary) 118 and what may or may not have been a panda. Hibernian came as Parma Violets. Celtic masqueraded as a football team. I discovered that time travel is not a thing of Science Fiction or Fantasy; it’s reality, and I’ve just gone back two years.

Last Sunday, Aberdeen came to town. In the equivalent fixture last season, in the presence of Henrik Larsson (King of Kings), Chris Sutton and Lubomir Moravcik, Celtic trounced the Dons 9-0. The crowd chanted ‘we want ten’ and it wouldn’t have taken a gargantuan effort to give the people what they wanted, but the job was done. We all went home elated but under no illusion that we would see anything like that again in our lifetimes. The dismal Mark McGhee limped on for another couple of games before being sacked, and so began the Craig Brown era. Under old Werther’s Originals, Aberdeen FC has hardly set the heather on fire. They’ve learned, as all his teams do, to defend to the point of boredom (and put in the occasional nasty tackle), but they haven’t exactly improved since McGhee’s time. They did, however, win the second half of last season’s League Cup semi-final (well, he is 70, isn’t he?). Celtic put something like 21 goals past the Dons’ keeper last season but we have only managed three in two games this term. After going ahead through a goal from Ki, some amateurish defending allowed Aberdeen back into the game. It took a strike from captain for the day, Charlie Mulgrew, scoring his first Celtic goal at Parkhead, to restore our advantage, but at no time did we look like we were safe. There was even a Halloween prequel, and Steven Moffat couldn’t have come up with a scarier scenario; Glenn Loovens being substituted early on by Daniel Majstorovic. We held on, though and at least there was no post-Europa League slip-up. The league leaders drew at home, so the status quo was maintained.

On Wednesday night, in the League Cup Quarter-Final tie at Easter Road, Celtic went behind and (to all accounts) were lucky not to be down by three or four at half-time. A spirited fight-back resulted in a 4-1 win, but it appears to have come at a cost. If Neil Lennon were to take a seat in the Directors’ box, would he be able to see what I, and many others, can see? It’s not just the ever-growing injury list, and a host of off-form or inept players, it’s the jaded look and the tired legs of men who are being expected to do everything twice a week with no help whatsoever. Joe Ledley, 19-year-old Adam Matthews and James Forrest, who only turned 20 in the summer, are being relied upon too much because of a paucity of talent, heart and endeavour in our current match-day squad. Another 19-year old, new signing Victor Wanyama, has put in a couple of good performances, particularly in the Europa League games in which he has featured, and looks like he could be of use, but apart from them and Charlie Mulgrew, few other players have been what I could call ‘first on the team sheet’.

Gary Hooper is starting to resemble Scott McDonald (who is not a first choice for Tony Mowbray’s revitalised Middlesbrough) and Anthony Stokes is half the player he was last season (which means he’s quarter of the player he should be). As I have said before, Ki should never be a regular starter; Kayal, in particular, is missing Scott Brown and I have finally realised what is ailing Mark Wilson: Dennis Hopper has strapped a bomb to him - if he exceeds two miles an hour, one of his knees will explode! Then there’s Kris Commons: mystery injuries, strange Twitter messages - what’s going on? The team is comprised of (mostly) the same players from last season, so why, apart from there never being the same line-up twice, is there no consistency in performance (apart from their inconsistency which, you have to admit, is consistent)? With seven minutes of regulation time left, there came the last act of a desperate man; Samaras on for Hooper, the same Samaras that Neil said could get him the sack. This time, the Greek was far from top of a very long list.

The sickening thing about today is that a team that has lost stupid goals all season keeps a clean sheet (Big Dan take note) but can’t win the game against a poor Hibs side. I could take it if we were losing to, or drawing with, the likes of Manchester City, or the entertaining and cavalier Norwich City, or even Mowbray’s Boro, but we are doing nothing less than making some of the worst excuses for football teams look so much better than they really are. This coming Thursday, Celtic play Rennes in the Europa League, but next Sunday (eek), they’ll go to Fir Park at lunchtime (double eek) to face in-form Motherwell (triple eek?). The omens are not good. If, God forbid, those Swiss clowns get back into what has been, for Celtic, a curse of a tournament, there will be at least two more games for a team that can barely cope with the ones they have to play domestically.

Last season, Celtic came within a whisker (one goal, for or against, actually) of winning the SPL. They had the best defensive record of any senior, professional team in the entire United Kingdom (and Celtic fan Steve Evans’ Crawley Town). This season, they have lost NINE away goals in the league, alone, and have won only 7 out of 12 SPL matches. The buck stops with the manager. Neil Lennon, the Celtic board and the fans must realise that he is one league defeat away from parting company with the club he loves. Celtic have to win EVERY remaining league game, some very handsomely, in order to win the title. Current, and recent, form suggests that this is beyond both the manager and the players. Stranger things have happened, however, and Celtic’s history is full of tales of derring-do in the face of adversity, but it’s hard to ‘keep the faith’ when sitting in the pouring rain watching THAT, like I did today. Prior to the match there was some protest or other against the Scottish Government’s ‘Offensive Behaviour at Football Matches’ legislation, or whatever it’s called. Talk elsewhere is of our city rivals possibly going into administration and the consequent docking of points (trust me, no harsh, meaningful sanction would ever be taken against them). I think that some people are too easily distracted from the problems that are right in front of their faces, week-in and week-out.

Land of my high endeavour

For my fortieth birthday, I climbed aboard a Ryanair jet and headed for Dublin’s fair city. It took about five minutes to get there and half a day to get back. When I come to write my autobiography (what do you mean ‘you mean this isn’t it?’) the return leg of the journey may well take pride of place, as it is still one of the most exciting things that ever happened to me, for all the wrong reasons, but I digress (as usual).

I never used to support the idea of Scottish independence. I’m British, my ancestors were British (even the Irish ones, whether or not they approved) and I’ve been steeped in British (English) history and culture since I was knee-high to the proverbial grasshopper. Scaremongering wasn't going to work on me. I was never frightened of the prospect of living in a poverty-stricken, Third World country at the back of beyond because I was already living in one. By the time the Scottish National Party was making waves in all those General Elections we had in 1974, I’d already lived through one Wilson administration’s devaluing the Pound and most of the last of our colonies telling the Man from the Ministry to shove it.

Over the years, the SNP’s fortunes at the ballot box waxed and waned (relatively speaking), it had leadership troubles and it made up enough slogans to keep Saatchi & Saatchi in business for a generation. It even expelled the very man who one day would lead it to the brink of achieving its ultimate aim. No, I was against Independence because, as a Glaswegian, the idea of an independent Scotland run by Labour was not only anathema, it was the stuff of nightmares.

At that early age, and for many years after, I resolved that I’d move to England should the split occur, but I was too naïve to realise that the political establishment would never allow it to happen (Independence, not my moving to England). The Tories, friends of the landed gentry (and, in some cases, the actual landed gentry) would never sanction it in case the old duffers found themselves relieved of their grouse moors. To this day, post-Thatcher, the lesser-spotted Tories are only elected to national office in Scotland from rural constituencies and posh Edinburgh postcodes. Labour, on the other hand, has almost always required Scottish MPs to give it a majority (or what passes for one in these days of low turnout) to form a Government and get its legislation on to the Statute Book. In return, Scottish Labour MPs are given power and patronage disproportionate to their ability, their grace and favour benefits bestowed in perpetuity. It’s no wonder that the People’s Party, the party of the workers, the downtrodden and the dispossessed, doesn’t want any man to put asunder, especially when that man is Alexander Elliot Anderson Salmond.

The coach trip from the airport and subsequent perambulations revealed what was to me a hitherto unknown wealth of Georgian and Victorian architecture that made Dublin look like any other British city. For the five days I was there, I found it hard to believe I was in a foreign country, even if that country was, is and always will be inextricably linked to its neighbour across the Irish Sea. The currency was different, the accent was different, the attitude of the people was different, but I could almost feel at home. Of course, a trip to the Post Office in O’Connell Street was sufficient to shake me out of that particular dream, but it also made me think ‘what if?’ What if we had faith enough to step out on our own? What if, for once, we took a risk and decided that we wanted more control over our affairs? What if we grew up and became, in the words of an Irish song, a nation once again?

That time is almost upon us. The SNP won an unexpected landslide victory in May’s Scottish elections, defying the very system that was meant to prevent such an occurrence. Their vote in Aberdeenshire, for example, where they won all of the first-past-the-post seats, was so great that they were even awarded a List seat, an unprecedented event that surprised the victor: he can be seen in video footage as one of a huddle of party workers celebrating in a luminous yellow jacket before he realises that he’s the one who has been elected! 

The party has a clear mandate to govern as it promised in its manifesto. With great power comes great responsibility but none of those returned would claim to be superheroes. What they can claim, however, is that they will be honest with the electorate, and I hope they will be. They have said that there will be a referendum in the second half of the parliamentary term (extended, very considerately by Mr. Salmond, to five years to avoid a clash with the UK General Election in 2015). Even for the hard of thinking, that means that we will not encounter this plebiscite, or have to worry about it, much before 2014.

What’s so wrong with keeping promises made in an election manifesto or during a campaign? I know Labour has trouble with that concept: Tuition fees? Top-up tuition fees? Re-nationalising the railways? If I could be bothered to read their election literature, I could probably have filled this entire blog with their broken promises and their surprise packages. The Tory Health bill alone shows that one half of the Coalition is happy to deceive, and as for the LibDems, playing fast and loose with the truth for the sake of a ride in a Ministerial car is becoming the norm. Not one of them can be trusted to do the right thing, so if the SNP adheres to even a fraction of its manifesto commitments, it will be able to command the moral high ground, with only itself for company.

I do not need such a vantage point to see what is afoot at Westminster. A whispering campaign by vested interests to have London call a referendum on ‘its’ terms is well and truly gathering steam. Salmond and others are playing it cool, up to a point, but this patronising, imperialist attitude cannot go unchallenged indefinitely. If I hadn’t felt that patriotic tingling in Ireland’s capital all those years ago, I would now. If there’s one thing sure to get my dander up, it’s people who poke their nose into my business and tell me what I can and can’t do. Bring it on, Alex.

Finally, for now, the death was announced yesterday of bandleader Edmundo Ros, at the age of 100. As a very small child, I remember hearing him presenting a show on the Light Programme (which became Radio 2). I used to stand in front of the wireless with a pen or pencil and conduct the music he played. There’s one 78rpm record by Edmundo in my mother’s collection, and it was a source of great amusement and delight to me in my early teenage years when I finally got a record player but had nothing of my own to play. It was his rendition of ‘Scotland The Brave’.

Down time

I'm bored. I'm the Chairperson of the Bored. I shouldn't be, I've got work to do; reading, writing (this counts, I believe), practising, counting, tidying, relaxing. Did I say 'relaxing'? I'm surprised that word is in my vocabulary. I'm permanently wired (or should that be 'totally wired'?) and the least relaxing time for me is when I know I've got nothing to do.

I listened to an album the other day, 'A Creature I Don't Know' by Laura Marling. How can someone so young sound like she's been alive forever and seen everything and done everything? She's 21! I've not read reviews of it (I heard a track when driving home one night), but I'll wager a few contain the word 'mature'. I'm hearing Joni Mitchell, Jennifer Warnes ('Famous Blue Raincoat' vintage), Joan As Policewoman and someone else I can't recall. She's in good company (apart from the last one, until I find out who she is). I've ignored her (and everyone else; no money for CDs, and no space to store them); unfairly, it seems. What else have I been missing out on?

I went on an impromptu holiday in November 2007. OK, it wasn't a holiday, it was business, music business. After that, I found it difficult to cope with Marc Riley's show being extended to four nights per week, and I've never recovered. I don't mean that I only hear music I might like on his show, but it had become the only place for me (no longer having access to daytime radio) to get exposure to new (and old) bands playing the kind of music I enjoy, as he is a reliable barometer on such matters. I've been forcing myself to tune in recently, and it's beginning to pay dividends, though it is to Hairy Toes herself (Jo Whiley, for non-Mark and Lard types) that I owe thanks for Miss Marling's delightful masterpiece.

I've not really been ignoring Metronomy, having had subliminal images (erm) of them on Marc's show for quite a while. Their CD arrived in the post with the Marling one, and the first half of it is worthy of the Mercury alone. They lost out, as we all know, to the legend that is Polly Jean Harvey. It's all subjective. I've never been a fan of Peej (another M&L-ism, I think) but that doesn't mean that I can't appreciate her artistry. I'd still prefer being locked in a room with Metronomy on a loop, though.

Veronica Falls' album dropped through the letter box today. I've not opened it, yet, and it may have to wait until the weekend. Why hurry? Their predecessors, the Royal We, split up before I could buy anything they released or get to see them, so I'll just play it cool. No point in running for the train after it's pulled out of the station. What's that you say? They're playing in Glasgow on Saturday? Nah. I'm not up to going to gigs anymore. I can turn the volume down on the CD player.

I've no idea what happened to my musical life. It's not just because I'm old or have wonky ears or loved one band too much. I don't want to go back in time, I just want to get back to a place where I can feel. I'll leave you (whoever YOU may be) with these words by Leonard Cohen

'...and if you ever come by here
for Jane or for me...'

Imagine Jennifer Warnes singing it. I do, frequently. It has a strange effect on me, just as it should.

Cleaning out the rooms

If Kim and Aggie walked through my front door (probably not together, as they no longer speak) they’d be appalled. This whole place is a disgrace, and not even the proprietor of a crack den would lower himself to live here. My work/life balance is wrong (call it unbalanced); five days there and two days here, barely enough time to do anything. It’s all about priorities, though. Why do housework when you can waste time blogging, tweeting, watching the telly, going out or, God forbid, sleeping? Why do it when, as Kim or Aggie (probably Kim, though it could have been Aggie) would say, it’s like polishing a turd? It’s not much of a house to come over all house-proud about and not much of a home to get all homely about. It is, however, where all my stuff is.

I reacquainted myself with the vacuum cleaner a couple of hours ago and took it for a walk around my bedroom. It’s now cleaner and a little tidier than when I eventually fell out of bed around noon. There’s still not enough room to swing the proverbial cat (metaphorically; I am NOT related to Cat Bin Lady). Ideally, everything needs to come out and only some of it should go back in, but where would I put everything else? I’ve already got hundreds of books in the attic (I’m not sure this is an exaggeration, actually) and a large cupboard I can barely get a big toe into. I tend to have a bit of a clearout of (ill-fitting) clothes after Christmas (because I’m on holiday at that time) and head for a charity shop or two, but there’s only so much you can discard before you start to chip away at what’s left of your identity.

Earlier, I stayed in bed long enough to try and clean out some other rooms; the nooks and crannies in my mind where the ideas go after I’ve thought of them. I found about a dozen lurking under floor boards and in priest holes and at the back of a large wardrobe (sans lion and witch) and committed them to paper before Alzheimer’s kicked in. Who knows when, if ever, they’ll be developed? After all, it’s taken nearly five and a half years to get started with this!

“What about the weekend?”, you say. Very kind of you to ask, so I shall bore you with it. I had another mad dash to a cash machine on Friday on the way to the first (official) recital in Milngavie Music Club’s new season. I missed the free, extra one a month ago due to a dose of the galloping heebeegeebees, so I was relieved to finally make it to Cairns Church where I was relieved of my subscription and where, instead of the flowers on a stand, two standard lamps (floor lamps, for any young ‘uns reading) are strategically placed near the musicians to help them read their parts in the dark. This month’s performers were the Fidelio Trio, and they treated those assembled to Schumann’s Piano Trio No. 1 in D Minor, something by Scottish composer Alasdair Nicholson (which verged on the plinky-plonky*), Percy Grainger’s ‘Colonial Song’, which I quite liked, and Ravel’s Piano trio, which I also quite liked. For an encore, they played something about meerkats by a South African composer. Well, it was different. I went to Tesco on my way home, but was dismayed to find that they didn’t have any Cornflakes.

I was forced to have toast for breakfast on Saturday. I know I have to rethink my breakfast fare, as neither are very filling and almost always lead to mid-morning snacking or the overpowering desire for a sugar rush at lunchtime, but I hate porridge and don’t have time to ‘cook’ anything more substantial. Yet again, I left home over an hour later than planned and headed for M&S via the local Royal Mail sorting office, where I picked up some top secret documents that may either change my life or confirm what everyone already knows about me (ask me in three months time). After some over-expensive food was purchased and transported back to the car, I went to the Mitchell Library, though not for the seminar on the Spanish Civil War. One of these days, I’ll find out about such events well in advance and buy a ticket.

I read for a while, from a book about understanding what Shakespeare was on about, but couldn’t help checking Twitter or the radio for news from Rugby Park. I needn’t have bothered. Somehow or other, my team decided that they’d like to go in at half-time 3-0 down to the team second bottom of the league. With one or two exceptions, noted below, performances have been poor this season, so far, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who would like to know why. I expected to tune in an hour or so later to hear that the manager had resigned or been fired, but the news was slightly better, a 3-3 draw. This time last season, before the (comparatively minor) slump that cost the league title, they’d lost one game, not three, and didn’t draw until the disastrous last minute shambles against Dundee United on the 20^th of November. They are now ten points adrift of the leaders and sit third in the table. It’s not an impossible position but an embarrassing one when you consider that we have almost the same match-day squad of players, the same guys who played some wonderful football last season, ultimately with very little reward. Questions are being asked, but no answers have been forthcoming up to now. Round 2 of the SPL begins next week against Aberdeen. I shudder to think what the outcome will be.

*Standard musicological term for tuneless crap

Winners and losers

What’s the significance of the 12^th of October? On this day in 1973, we got a colour telly. Not only were we waving a belated goodbye to the black and white era on that Friday afternoon, but we were also bidding our old 405-line set a not-very-fond farewell and replacing it with one that had BBC2! I don’t recall many details about it, other than my being unable to move from it for hours, but I could easily jog my memory by going to the Mitchell Library and asking to see copies of the Radio Times from back in the day. I had never seen ‘The High Chaparral’, ‘Alias Smith and Jones’, snooker or ‘The Old Grey Whistle Test’ (or whatever), so I was like a kid in a sweet shop or, to be more accurate, a TV shop. Gone were the days of my standing and drooling outside electrical retailers, wishing we could afford a new set. Gone also were the days of struggling to get a picture with a broken set-top aerial, as we now had one on the roof!

One final indignity from a few weeks before ‘colour’ saw me standing by the TV, holding the aerial in the air, whilst we tried to follow Scotland’s World Cup qualifying game against Czechoslovakia. We won that game 2-1, and so went through to the finals in Germany in the summer of ’74. Those were the days (relatively speaking), and such achievements are as distant a memory as a 405-line black and white TV that got us through ‘Dad’s Army’, ‘The Forsyte Saga’, ‘The Avengers’, ‘’Til Death Us Do Part’, ‘Steptoe and Son’, ‘Doctor Who’, and countless other great British classics. Losing to the current World and European champions is nothing to be ashamed of. Playing 4-6-0 is, as is selecting players who don’t get a game for their clubs. Things might have been different if the sons of those Czechs hadn’t cheated at Hampden a few weeks back. Fourteen years without a sniff of a major tournament is too long for a country that lives for its football. The countdown to Craig Levein’s departure begins today. He has a maximum of two years to get us at least as far as a play-off, which is the best we can hope for, or he, too, will be history.

Something else that looks like it is about to go the way of the dodo is the National Health Service. When Cameron said that the NHS was safe with the Tories, it appears that he meant it was safe for plundering by private (probably foreign) companies, speculators and asset strippers. Britain’s poor will have to do as their ancestors (from pre-1948) did; check how much money they have in their wallets or piggy banks before going to hospital, getting a prescription or even visiting a GP, or they’ll have to go to the council or churches or charities and beg for money. This isn’t scaremongering; this is recent history, family history and, in some households, living history, unless, of course, you’re Cameron or Osborne or the Peers who today refused to back Lord Owen’s amendment.

In Scotland, we still have an NHS. None of these reforms will see the light of day north of the border (and, hopefully, not in Wales), but they could come back to bite us in the consequentials. Every day, in every way, the Tory-led UK Government shoots itself in the foot. It’s a pity that, for reasons of self-interest, Labour does not support Independence for Scotland. We need a united front against these ideological attacks on the NHS and the Welfare State. In the meantime, let’s just hope that someone in Salmond’s office is keeping a list of words and deeds that, one day, we may use as the key to Independence; not a bitter or bloody separation from like-minded people in England, but the building of a thoughtful and compassionate country where no Tory will ever again hold the reigns of power.

Finally, here’s this week’s rehearsal report. Tuesday night was meant to be Handel night. We should have been getting stuck into ‘Zadok the Priest’ (now, now), but we digressed. Fresh from last week’s triumphant BBC SSO performance of the Tchaikovsky, which over half of our lot attended, we played the entire 4^th movement all the way through (at a much slower tempo, obviously). Having survived that, we tackled bits of ‘Finlandia’ but without any brass present! My abiding memory of the first meeting, my first time ever in a musical ensemble of any description, was how it sounded when deconstructed section by section, and the power of the brass was all too evident. Without it, in a much smaller room, it may be easy on the ear, but I’d rather have it than not. I promise never to criticise brass players again, no matter how much they deafen me, or how often they go to the pub!

Who knows where the time goes?

Blogging is not an efficient use of my time. On second thoughts, TYPING is not an efficient use of my time. I spend far too long correcting typographical errors and not enough time expressing myself. I need a secretary.

I also need a laundry maid. Surveying this room, trying not to dwell on the large, growing heap of dirty clothes, and remembering last week's iron catastrophe, I can't help thinking that my body will be strained and my soul will go hungry for as long as this clutter remains unattended. I just can't get out of bed in the morning. It's cold, it's dark and I don't get enough sleep. I could stop going out, I suppose....

It's easy to take the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra for granted. They're so good that I forget to enthuse about them as often as I should, but just once in a while they turn in a performance that blows my socks off ('Pictures At An Exhibition' a couple of years ago, Janacek's 'Sinfonietta', and so on). If the aforementioned Schubert 8, the 'Unfinished', and Tchaikovsky 4 were the bread, Prokofiev's Piano Concerto No. 3 was the very satisfying filling in a thrilling and delightful musical sandwich that I suspect had everyone in the audience skipping out of the doors of the City Halls at the end of the evening. Those who were able to stay for a while after the concert proper were treated to some of the Orchestra's principals and the young Russian pianist Denis Kozhukhin's rendition of Prokofiev's Overture on Hebrew Themes. My faith in music restored, I skipped off home to watch 'Question Time' and found myself rapidly descending into the torpor I had been in prior to 7:30pm.

I'd have preferred not to get out of bed on the Friday morning, but I had to. I'd have preferred not to go out at night and, this time, I had a choice. I plucked for a recital by pianist James Willshire, the opening concert in Kilmardinny Music Circle's season. I love these little evenings, and find the tall stand with the vase of flowers placed at the side of the stage very endearing. I keep expecting Hinge and Bracket, or even Armstrong & Miller, to enter stage left and give us a song or two. Young James played a couple of things by Scarlatti followed by Schubert's Impromptus (is that the correct plural?), a number of which I had heard before. After the interval, one of the local up-and-coming musicians (who turned out to be the daughter of composer Sally Beamish) treated us to a couple of traditional tunes on the clarsach then Mr. Willshire returned to play short pieces by Scottish composers Rory Boyle and Ronald Stevenson, as well as something by Lizst, which made him (Lizst) sound melodramatic and utterly bonkers, which I suppose he was, or Ken Russell would not have made a film about him.

Saturdays aren't much better than weekdays at the moment, so it's always good to get out and do something interesting like going to the library, eating half one's body weight and seeing the annual production by the Glasgow Light Opera Company. They don't do any opera these days, light or otherwise, as there's not much demand for it, but they're starting to do a very good line in musicals. This year, it was my favourite British musical, 'Me and My Girl'. Last year, it was my favourite American one, 'Calamity Jane'. The company has come a long was since I first saw them doing the latter in 1992, helped (mostly, but sometimes hindered) by an increasing number of young people developing an interest in musicals. I came to love 'Me and My Girl' on a trip to London earlier in the same year, when I think the lead was Les Dennis. I'd rather have seen Bryan Conley, but I was too late for that. It's funny, some would say camp, and very English, and it's a refreshing change from even the best American shows, though not as slick. GLOC is an amateur company, and you have to make allowances for that in terms of the acting and singing, but the enthusiasm of the performers never fails to compensate for any faults the most cynical of critics would find with such a production.

Do three good outings compensate for the mess this place is in? At the moment, yes. Tomorrow, I may not look upon it so favourably.

It's a cat's life

According to Britain's answer to Imelda Marcos, Theresa May, an illegal immigrant was allowed to stay in the country because he had a cat. Last week, it was revealed that the estranged wife of some LibDem MP kidnapped a kitten from a house she claimed to part own. When you add to this the tale of the mad woman who threw a cat in a wheelie bin, our inscrutable furry friends have been in the news for all the wrong reasons. If I had time, I'd trawl the Internet for even sillier cat pictures than one normally finds out there; like this, for example:

I've tried to avoid coverage of the Tory conference, even more than I tried to avoid the LibDem and Labour events over the last two weeks. I figured that if I heard the phrase 'we're all in this together' one more time, I'd throw a heavy object at the telly. This wouldn't be a good idea, as I'd not be able to replace it due to the pay freeze and the upcoming industrial action, only one of which would be happening if this mob had never been born. The cat business almost got me interested. On the BBC News website this evening, we have the headline 'Theresa May in deportation cat flap'. I wonder if she's having kittens about the tomorrow's newspaper reaction, or that of her boss.

In other news, the orchestra had another go at the fourth movement of the Tchaikovsky. Just in case any of us has no idea what it's meant to sound like, the BBC SSO will be playing that symphony and Schubert's 'Unfinished' on Thursday evening.

How far we have come

This blog is about opinions, my opinions. It's not the scene of my acting out any delusions you may think I possess about being a journalist; an arts critic or an expert on football or politics. I can only say that I did or didn't enjoy something, or that I like or dislike something or someone, and, in a limited fashion, I may even say why. It is not dressing those opinions as facts; I leave that sort of thing to other people.

When I can afford the time and/or money, I go out, ostensibly to ‘have fun’, but primarily to convince myself that the world is not the uninspiring, miserable place the daily grind would suggest. I go to concerts (classical and jazz); I go to football (which is, at the moment, uninspiring and depressing); I visit art galleries, museums and castles; I go out bird-watching. The theatre has been somewhat neglected in the past few years, so it is unusual for me to have attended two plays in almost as many weeks. This is an example of what I alluded to earlier; it’s a recounting of my experience, not a review.

I don’t know much about Ena Lamont Stewart, or about the left-wing inspiration behind the plays written and produced by the Glasgow Unity Theatre in the late 1940s. I had, however, seen the title ‘Men Should Weep’ before, associated with the theatre company 7:84. If I cast my mind back to the 80s, and Glasgow’s Mayfest, I’m amazed that I’ve never seen the play, though I do recall seeing 'The Gorbals Story' (not that I recall anything about it).

The play is set in a tenement flat in Glasgow’s East End during the depression of the 1930s. The man of the house, in common with many others, is out of work, and the burden of providing for the family falls on the mother and immediate relatives, with a little help from neighbours, and charity in the form of the local church mission. It’s a slice of gritty, social realism that could almost be treated as nostalgia (even I remember my elders talking in a form of the Glaswegian dialect more akin to auld Scots than the alien language spoken by some of the ‘less-fortunate souls’ who inhabit the poorer areas of the city today), and, in between the undoubted misery, it depicts community spirit and family cohesion (with obvious exceptions like the feckless son and his grasping wife, or the daughter who was the apple of her dad’s eye but grew up and turned to prostitution, or being a ‘kept-woman’, to escape her embarrassing family circumstances) to a degree Cameron and his friends on multi-millionaires row could only dream about for their sham of a ‘Big Society’. I saw a revised version; in the original version, life, and the play itself, were far more harrowing.

The most uplifting aspect was a sign that life was beginning to improve for the Morrison family once John had found regular employment, but it was also sad to think that many of the men of that era only escaped their grinding poverty by joining the armed forces when the war came along, leaving plenty of jobs for anyone else who wanted to work. Living standards eventually increased, the Welfare State became a safety net for some (and a crutch for others, in time) and slowly, over a number of years, the country got back on its feet. Yet I remember visiting a relative in 1970 and having to use a ‘stair-heid lavvy’.

Something went horribly wrong in Glasgow. The money was supposed to be there, but the poverty has never really gone away, we just have poor people in slightly better houses, a thin veneer of respectability. Leaving aside the Scottish Parliament and Government for another time, we still have a Labour council in Glasgow and we have in Westminster, as in the 1930s, a coalition including ‘Liberals’. Then, there was a schism followed by some traitors going off and joining the Tories. Are we on the verge of history repeating, in the same way, in so many ways? I couldn’t help thinking that with welfare reform, rampant unemployment, and the ideological desire to destroy the public sector, the themes and setting of this play could transfer seamlessly to the latter years of this decade or into the next; a terrifying vision of the future.

The strong women were the stars of this, much like they tended to be in Coronation Street of old, and it came as a shock to me that Lorraine McIntosh, in the lead role of Maggie Morrison, is a better actress (albeit in this context) than a singer, bearing in mind that, in a former life, she was the bimbo backing singer in that most superfluous of shit, pointless bands, Deacon Blue. Praise must also go to the woman who played her sister Lily; Julie Wilson Nimmo, better known as Miss Hoolie from Balamory. In between scenes, we were also treated to songs from well-known folk singer Arthur Johnstone, who also had a bit part as a removal man, in this, his first acting role.

As I made my way to the Citizens Theatre for the matinee performance of this National Theatre of Scotland production, I drove close by those who were marching from Glasgow Green to Kelvingrove Park in a protest against the Tory cuts. They were heading in the opposite direction to me. They always used to, but now I am on their side, though yesterday it was only in spirit.

May I just say...

...I love being so spectacularly wrong, especially when it makes me laugh so much.

Predictions in an envelope...

As I start to type this, I am, like everyone else, twelve hours from the end of this series of Doctor Who. It might be fun to try and second guess Steven Moffat, but it's also futile. I'm not clever enough to have predicted how the Pandorica two-parter was going to play out. If I was, I'd not have felt the onset of a headache every time I've thought about it since. I don't expect that anything I'm about to write will be in the same universe, never mind the same ball park, but here goes.

Based on the Sky TV Guide's description of tonight's (last-ever?) Doctor Who Confidential, there appears to be a (major?) plot development concerning River Song. Why do I think this? Well, why would the bulk of it be about River and/or Alex Kingston? Does this mean the end of the character? It shouldn't, as she died the first time we saw her, giving her life for The Doctor, who then 'saved' her in the Library (though, worringly, he did leave her diary for all to see). There is a bit of a pattern here; her saving him, him saving her. Presumably she saves his soul this time, turning him away from arrogance and violence (I'm still thinking that he saves his own body by substituting a, possibly more stable and sophisticated, Flesh avatar). So, if not her leaving then what? Another theory I've had for a while is that she is sent to prison (for killing the best man she's ever known, more of which later), but for her own protection, aranged by The Doctor, which might explain her ability to 'escape often enough, thank you'. She said that she had a promise to live up to. To The Doctor? To the Governor of the prison? To Amy and Rory? It appears to to me that she can look after herself (once she breaks free of Kovarian's control), and it's obvious that she's a risk taker, so escaping from prison would be a challenge she'd relish. Being able to do it at will, though, would have to have been agreed with someone in authority. Stormcage always makes me wonder just who Prisoner Zero was/is, and why it wanted to live in Amy's house.

To cut to the chase, something significant has to happen, or be hinted at, this evening. Who does it concern, particularly if it isn't River? Well, there has to be more to Rory than meets the eye. He says some unexpected, intelligent things, at times, and neither The Doctor nor Amy always pick up on them. He has two sides to his character; Rory the dithering suitor/boyfriend/husband and Rory the Roman, the boy who waited, the Last Centurion. No official confirmation of Arthur Darvill's continued participation in the series has been reported, so will he die (again), instead? Many girls and women will alway think of their dad as the best man they've ever known, and I picked up on that in 'Flesh and Stone', thinking it could mean The Doctor or her father, and no viewer knew it was Rory back then. Arthur has been wonderful as the straight man to Matt's ever-improving comedian, so I'd still love to see Rory reacting to River snogging The Doctor with what one would expect to be his fatherly concern for his errant daughter. I hope he's not out for too long, as both the character and the actor have only served to enhance this wonderful series and cast.

There appears to have been some sort of confirmation that Karen Gillan will be back, which means that she won't be staying in that house (for protection) or any other house, and will be back in the Tardis before too long. I do think, however, that it's not nice in a show written for 8-year olds, even in Science Fiction, to take a child from a young couple and not give them anything in return. So, for Amy, perhaps another baby is on the way? Either due to this, or the possible death of Rory (or loss by other means, cos you're not telling me we've had the real Rory all this time?), she tells The Doctor, he scans her, just to re-assure himself, and there's a happy ending all round (perhaps with some bittersweet connotations to which I have just alluded). She says farewell and then The Doctor takes River to prison in the Tardis, but the scanner is still on and he inadvertantly discovers something that River isn't telling him. It would explain these lines from 'A Good Man Goes To War'; 'Oh look, your cot, not seen that in a long time' (or something like that). Amy lived in the Tardis, and she hadn't seen a cot, so how did River see it (unless future Amy is travelling in the Tardis with another baby)? I'd also like to see 'Picnic at Asgard', perhaps ending with 'I've something to tell you'. Why not?

If Moffat wants any help with pushing River's story along, I'm here. All joking aside, though, the break up of what he himself described as a family will be hard for many of us to take. Moffat has made Russell T's show infinitely better, and has even managed to improve upon last year. This series has to end with something tantalising to bring the punters back next year and what better way, after a series or more riddled with themes like redemption and fatherhood, than to redeem The Doctor with impending fatherhood (with the baby to be raised by Amy and Rory)? Clearly, he won't have a clue how it happened! Cue end titles.

Seriously, Steven, I'm only a phone call away.

You say cutback, we say fightback

Today the Beeb announced that this Saturday's episode of 'Doctor Who Confidential' is to be the last. The cuts are beginning to bite, but the wrong backsides are being bitten. Here is the text of my complaint:

Dear Sir/Madam

It is easy to be flippant about the puerile nature of some of the shows on BBC3, and equally easy to take a pot-shot at the salaries of senior executives in the Corporation, in particular the Director General, but surely, if cuts have to be made, there are, really, much more worthwhile, higher value targets than an interesting, insightful and enjoyable programme such as Confidential? I suspect that this programme has, in its five-year existence, inspired many children and young adults to consider a career in the creative or technical side of the entertainment industry. I know that if I were a few decades younger my passion would be ignited by the unprecedented access to those who work behind the scenes of a highly-imaginative and iconic BRITISH television programme.

Please reconsider this short-sighted decision, not least because you may be putting perfectly innocent and talented people out of a job!

Yours faithfully

Complaining makes one feel good for a few minutes, but we all know that it's a futile exercise when those you are complaing to or about have already made up their minds. At least we were spared the pretence of a 'consultation'.

Just another manic Tuesday

I hate going to work after a day off. I hate it even more after a weekend, a long weekend or a holiday. Needless to say, I was very grumpy this morning, so I decided to take it out on the arrogant Tom Harris MP, one of those vying to lead the Scottish Labour Party following the enforced retirement of the Smug Silver Fox himself, Mr Iain Gray. There's just one problem: there is NO SUCH THING as the Scottish Labour Party. In true 'Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition' style, there are two problems: no such party and the fact that he's an MP (and the next Scottish election is four and a half years away. I wonder which little lost Labour lamb will be sacrificed in order for Harris and his monumental ego to be parachuted into Holyrood). I thought I'd get a wee, sleekit dig in about his comments about Labour being the party of the Public Sector (according to him, it shouldn't be). I noticed that he didn't offer his support to Public Sector workers in their forthcoming struggle, but then he's not John McDonnell. He should be exposed for what he is; a self-obsessed, bumptious Blairite; in other words, a dinosaur.

He's up against that greetin' faced wee troll Johann Lamont (who looks like she's chewing a wasp, except for the fact that the wasp had more sense) and Mr. Ken butter-wouldn't-melt McIntosh (who greets as much as Lamont, only with a posh voice). I've no idea when nominations close, but that line-up makes me yearn for Jack McConnell. The 'Scottish Labour Party' doesn't know what it's missing; Henry McLeish. Nice fellow, even if he's starting to sound as demented as Craig Brown.  I suppose the outcome depends on the eventual runners and riders and just how much support Harris has in West Central Scotland. At this juncture, it seems quite incomprehensible that someone so odious and conceited as he would make friends in Labour's heartlands, but stranger things have happened, like Tom Greatrex. Who could have predicted Gray's elevation to the top job, though as I tweeted to Harris, Gray seems like the Dalai Lama compared to him. One thing's for sure, if Harris does win and eventually finds himself in Holyrood ( he'd have to, as there'd be no point in having a review and talking about autonomy if the 'party' was still run from London) the Scots' Parliament will become a great battleground, the scene of endless, bitter conflict between a smart Alec and Smart Alex. Be careful what you wish for, Labourites.

Work got in the way of trying to poke Ed Miliband in the ribs. When I got home, I sent him a wee message on Twitter, but I know he won't read it (just like Nick Clegg from last week). Apparently, if you work hard and don't make a fuss (interesting, that bit), you deserve your reward. Personally, and for many women of a certain age in the Public Sector, the reward for paying for a pension for three decades or more should be the pension and retirement age stated in your contract of employment. None of us signed up to a pension administered by some fly-by-night asset strippers. Oh, wait a minute, we did. It's called the UK Government, and it even makes members of our Armed Forces redundant.

On a cheerier note, this evening's rehearsal started with the Triumphal March from Aida  (which was more like a diffident stumble) and ended with Finlandia, our rendition of which wouldn't stoke the fires of Nationalism in even the most febrile. Lots more work to be done.