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.