I’m not an Idlewild fan. I’ve never been an Idlewild fan. However, I have noticed that Roddy Woomble has been experimenting with folk. Last summer, he released ‘My Secret Is My Silence’, an album that included contributions from rising star Karine Polwart, Barnsley’s famous folk babe, Kate Rusby, and her (may or may not be any longer) husband John McCusker, the diminutive Scottish fiddle genius who also produced the album. With form like that, it was no surprise that he came up with the idea of uniting some of Scotland’s musical talent with some of the leading lights of the Scottish literary world, and so ‘Ballads Of The Book’ was born. Released earlier this year on Chemikal Underground to great acclaim in Scotland and further afield, the natural progression for this project was live performance of the songs, and what better arena than the all-day jamboree that is the Triptych Sunday closing event at the Tramway.
Not all the musicians and authors were able to attend, but Triptych and Chemikal Underground still managed to push the boat out, putting on a programme over three arenas; the Electric Stage, the Acoustic Stage and a room featuring readings from some of the authors. Sadly, the latter only had a capacity of 50, and I never seemed to get there on time to see anything. I wasn’t too disappointed though, as I was able to see how the art exhibition by Jenny Soep was progressing. This was yet another interesting aspect of the day as a whole, as the artist could usually be seen in front of the stage painting the musicians as they performed.
Mystifyingly, Norman Blake only played two songs; his contribution to the album and a track he claimed was by a Californian band called the Cabin Boys. However, this was fortuitous, as it allowed those interested to scurry along to T4 to see a performance by Burnt Island, the band featuring the writer Rodge Glass (who collaborated with Vashti Bunyan on the album). This turned out to be a duo, as the drummer had had an accident and was unable to play. I was impressed with what I heard, and resolved to check them out at the earliest available opportunity. They were the highlight of the day for me, and not just musically. I couldn’t help thinking that this was what Turin Brakes could have been if they had had a sense of humour, e.g., Rodge Glass asked for less vocal or guitar in his monitor and his compatriot asked for a little less irony in his!
Next, it was back to T1 for Foxface, a band featuring a drummer in a fox facemask (shades of Gabriel-era Genesis), which he had to remove when he wanted to play his banjo or his accordion. Yes, at the same time as he played the drums (think about it). I’d seen yet another enjoyable set, and the band left the stage with the promise of their first album, sometime at the end of the summer, they think! I’m sure we’ll all hear about it when it is released.
In order to avoid the dull as ditchwater Trashcan Sinatras, I went to check out Mike Heron, but I lasted about 5 minutes. It appears that he barely survived the 60s. What else was there to do but spot celebrities (I saw Stuart Murdoch at the bar), check out the price of food (quite reasonable, but very scarce) and see who was DJ-ing? Upstairs, Roddy Woomble and the bass player out of Sons And Daughters were in control of the decks, whilst downstairs, King Creosote was holding court.
It was soon time for Alasdair Roberts. I was surprised by his 45-minute set, and not least because he turned out to be quite a cheery chappy. Also, he only sang two songs with the word death in them! He seemed quite reluctant to perform his ‘Ballads Of The Book’ contribution, ‘The Leaving’, something he had in common with almost everyone I saw. They all appeared to be anxious not to make a mess of things. He needn’t have worried, because he didn’t put a foot wrong.
I decided not to watch Emma Pollock, as I’d seen her support Camera Obscura only 8 days before. I also decided not to wait for hot food, so had shortbread and hot chocolate, instead, and then went out into the Hidden Gardens to consume my meagre rations. On re-entering the building, I found the more miserable one out of Arab Strap delighting the audience with the extended version of ‘Come Back’ by the Mighty Wah!
After another walkabout, I took a seat upstairs to watch King Creosote. The fact that he was playing the Electric stage spoke volumes. I miss his accordion. I miss his folky tendencies. Normality was restored at 9pm when James Yorkston took to the stage in T4. It was good to see that at least one member of the Fence Collective had not deserted his acoustic roots. I had to chuckle, though, when I remembered a comment he made at a gig I attended in 2004. He alluded to the fact that a certain famous Glasgow band didn’t mean much to him beyond the fact that their success was bankrolling his next three albums. He was, of course, referring to his label mates Franz Ferdinand. I had to laugh because Robert Hardy and Alex Kapranos were standing in front of me!
After that, I decided that I’d had my money’s worth and had had a very enjoyable day (which would have been utterly unbearable without the smoking ban) so, on my way out of the building, I popped back into T1 and caught the end of Sons And Daughters’ set. They don’t do much for me, and didn’t last night, apart from try to blind me with a very bright light. It was late. I was tired. Other people were leaving. I didn’t have to feel guilty about wimping out 90 minutes before the end of an 8-hour day, and I didn’t have to worry that I’d appear rude by leaving before the headline act. I’m not an Idlewild fan. I’ve never been an Idlewild fan.
Monday, April 30, 2007
They seek him here, they seek him there
Today, I went for a walk in Elder Park. I try to go there once a week, just to be close to nature, you understand. My gran used to take me there when I was very young, though I have no idea why, as I didn't live anywhere near it. I was born just over mile from it, though, and have worked close by for the best part of quarter of a century. It's not the nicest park you'll ever see, but it's all there is; a little oasis in a desert of deprivation.
It was cold, but bright and sunny and, as I turned the corner from Govan Road, I saw a number of people wearing rosettes and carrying leaflets. It is only three days to the election, after all. I walked past them, and along side them, more than once in the short stroll past Linthouse St. Kenneth's church. I even walked past the candidate. At no time did he, his workers or the token Muslim and token African who accompanied them, offer me a leaflet or suggest that I should vote for that party. I guess that I didn't look like a Govanite (in spite of my heritage) or didn't look like I would vote Labour. What a relief.
Sadly, I didn't have a camera, not to take photos of the ducks in the park, but to capture the moment for posterity. If any Govanites chance upon this blog, they may wish to see the guy they have elected to the Scottish parliament for two successive terms, as he spends most of his time in court earning big bucks. Having said that, perhaps some of the natives already know him from his day job. Anyway, just for the record, here is a photo of Gordon Jackson QC MSP.
Here's hoping he has plenty of time to devote to his legal work after Thurday.
It was cold, but bright and sunny and, as I turned the corner from Govan Road, I saw a number of people wearing rosettes and carrying leaflets. It is only three days to the election, after all. I walked past them, and along side them, more than once in the short stroll past Linthouse St. Kenneth's church. I even walked past the candidate. At no time did he, his workers or the token Muslim and token African who accompanied them, offer me a leaflet or suggest that I should vote for that party. I guess that I didn't look like a Govanite (in spite of my heritage) or didn't look like I would vote Labour. What a relief.
Sadly, I didn't have a camera, not to take photos of the ducks in the park, but to capture the moment for posterity. If any Govanites chance upon this blog, they may wish to see the guy they have elected to the Scottish parliament for two successive terms, as he spends most of his time in court earning big bucks. Having said that, perhaps some of the natives already know him from his day job. Anyway, just for the record, here is a photo of Gordon Jackson QC MSP.
Here's hoping he has plenty of time to devote to his legal work after Thurday.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
The price of everything and the value of nothing
I'm sitting here listening to 'Hunky Dory' by Dave Bowie out of the Dave Bowie Band. I bought it for £5 in the HMV 'sale' (though, to be accurate, it cost me nothing, as it was purchased using one of their Gift Cards). It was one of the cheapest albums in their 'sale', and one of the few in the entire emporium that interested me. I refuse to pay more than a fiver in that shop now, as I know that Fopp and various on-line retailers do not rip off people the way the little dog does, though £5 is still a lot more than the LP would have cost way back in 1971. I can hear you saying "why buy it in there at all?". Well, as I said, I had a gift card, totally unsolicited and unexpected, and I need to get rid of it somehow.
Anyway, I chose this album, not because of the classic singles 'Changes', 'Oh! You Pretty Things' and 'Life On Mars?', which I have on one of Bowie's singles collections, but because it's the album that features as its last track 'The Bewlay Brothers', a song I heard for the first time a couple of years ago sung by Guy Garvey from Elbow on Marc Riley's Rocket Science, and I've wanted to hear the original ever since. The album also includes 'Andy Warhol' and 'Song For Bob Dylan', plus the song that inspired the name of one of Brighton's more hideous pop bands, 'Kooks'; another track I heard for the first time on Marc Riley's show, and written about the unfortunately named Zowie Bowie, son of David and Angie. The lad changed his name to Joe Bowie at one point, but now prefers to be known as Duncan Jones, which is handy, as it's his real name!
It's easy to listen to old albums by legends such as Bowie through a rose-coloured digital hearing aid and feel overawed, especially when he is one of those artists that no one is meant to criticise (apart from Tin Machine) and even more especially when one was too young to appreciate such a work of genius when it was first released. However, I am not so easily swayed by the opinions of others, and have always sought out good music on my own recommendation or stumbled upon such gems by accident. That's the way it should be. The NME and Zane Lowe need not apply for the post of Master of My Music.
As a footnote, Killers fans may want to listen to 'Queen Bitch' before playing 'Mr. Brightside'.
Anyway, I chose this album, not because of the classic singles 'Changes', 'Oh! You Pretty Things' and 'Life On Mars?', which I have on one of Bowie's singles collections, but because it's the album that features as its last track 'The Bewlay Brothers', a song I heard for the first time a couple of years ago sung by Guy Garvey from Elbow on Marc Riley's Rocket Science, and I've wanted to hear the original ever since. The album also includes 'Andy Warhol' and 'Song For Bob Dylan', plus the song that inspired the name of one of Brighton's more hideous pop bands, 'Kooks'; another track I heard for the first time on Marc Riley's show, and written about the unfortunately named Zowie Bowie, son of David and Angie. The lad changed his name to Joe Bowie at one point, but now prefers to be known as Duncan Jones, which is handy, as it's his real name!
It's easy to listen to old albums by legends such as Bowie through a rose-coloured digital hearing aid and feel overawed, especially when he is one of those artists that no one is meant to criticise (apart from Tin Machine) and even more especially when one was too young to appreciate such a work of genius when it was first released. However, I am not so easily swayed by the opinions of others, and have always sought out good music on my own recommendation or stumbled upon such gems by accident. That's the way it should be. The NME and Zane Lowe need not apply for the post of Master of My Music.
As a footnote, Killers fans may want to listen to 'Queen Bitch' before playing 'Mr. Brightside'.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
The land that time forgot
I keep forgetting my password!
I'll be back here soon, I promise. Not that anyone's actually reading it...
I'll be back here soon, I promise. Not that anyone's actually reading it...
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Shave the whales
Bliar has been off on his travels again. This time, he's been off around Europe trying to save the world. Well, he's telling us all that we have to save the planet (we have to do it, not him or his party), that big blob between Venus and Mars. Nice idea, Tony. Tell everyone (after Al Gore's been telling everyone for over 20 years) that the earth is dying, and scare them so shitless that they'll forget about the illegal and immoral war in Iraq and all the lives that have been ruined at home and abroad as a result of his policy of saying "yes, master" every time Bush says jump (only, disagree with him once in a while to make it look like you're your own man).
Now, Tony is a proven liar, so do you believe him on all this climate change crap? Would you believe Prudence Brown? I'd not trust either of them (or anyone else in the Labour party) as far as I would throw them, nor would I piss on them if they were on fire. Bliar and Brown have not only brought this country to the brink of bankruptcy with their frequent and expensive military incursions (of course, not one penny goes on extra personnel or equipment, and many of our soldiers have died due to inadequate materiel, and the fact that that the Yanks, whose wars these are, lest we forget, are not there to take the bullets and bombs instead), they've fooled the population into thinking we have a booming economy. That'd be why Marks and Spencer no longer has any clothes made in the UK and financial institutions are outsourcing customer service operations to the Indian sub-continent. No, the two crooks who have been allowed to run this country into the ground for the last nine and a half years suddenly care about the planet because they now see it as a way to raise taxes to pay for more wars and more bribes, more bureaucracy and more obfuscation. Last night, some back-bench Labour MPs forgot they had a conscience, or forgot where the House Of Commons was, and Teflon Tony escaped, yet again, the kicking he's due. Here's hoping the Labour gravy train comes off the rails before the Yanks are stupid enough to put another Republican in the White House.
So, now they're playing into the hands of the hippies and the crusties and the namby-pamby, left wing, one-armed, black, lesbian vegetarian brigade who sit around, or up, trees in their multi-coloured crocheted cardigans eating mung bean soup and telling us how we're not doing right by the planet, before they roll a spliff and fuck up their own tiny minds. Soon, normal, freedom-loving individuals like you and me will be confined to quarters, too scared or too poor to venture out even to look at the wonders of nature, never mind walk round the corner to the local Asian-run mini-market for our pot noodles and multipack of Pepsi. What the hell are we going to do? Well, here's a plan. Feel free to use it and call it your own:
1. Don't fly. Only the rich should be able to fly, and only BA should be able to operate an airline.
2. Get rid of your car and travel to work by public transport. You will, of course, have to have a long list of excuses for your boss as you will never be on time.
3. Don't buy anything that comes pre-packaged. Take bags, boxes, jars and any other vessels to the shops (on the bus!) to collect your shopping. You may, in the short-term, find that most retailers will refuse to sell unpacked goods, in which case, buy them in the packaging, decant them into your chosen vessel and hand the packaging back to the retailer for disposal. Soon, he'll have to pay to have his rubbish taken away, as will you and I. Erm, hold on a mo, isn't that what Council Tax is for????
4. Don't ever go on holiday, including a walking holiday. Even the slightest movement could make the earth unstable, and will damge soil. Any form of travel, including a bicycle, which uses valuable air in its tyres, is harmful to the environment.
5. Due to the high risks involved in working (fuel for motorised transport, communicable diseases, the ability and right to purchase pre-packaged goods, the liability to pay ever-increasing taxes), it would be advisable to quit your job. This way, you will not be able to afford transport, food (packaged, unpackaged, processed, organic, etc.) holidays and any other potentially dangerous activity or commodity.
6. Wrap yourself in bio-degradable material. Curl up into a ball and die.
Hope this helps.
Now, Tony is a proven liar, so do you believe him on all this climate change crap? Would you believe Prudence Brown? I'd not trust either of them (or anyone else in the Labour party) as far as I would throw them, nor would I piss on them if they were on fire. Bliar and Brown have not only brought this country to the brink of bankruptcy with their frequent and expensive military incursions (of course, not one penny goes on extra personnel or equipment, and many of our soldiers have died due to inadequate materiel, and the fact that that the Yanks, whose wars these are, lest we forget, are not there to take the bullets and bombs instead), they've fooled the population into thinking we have a booming economy. That'd be why Marks and Spencer no longer has any clothes made in the UK and financial institutions are outsourcing customer service operations to the Indian sub-continent. No, the two crooks who have been allowed to run this country into the ground for the last nine and a half years suddenly care about the planet because they now see it as a way to raise taxes to pay for more wars and more bribes, more bureaucracy and more obfuscation. Last night, some back-bench Labour MPs forgot they had a conscience, or forgot where the House Of Commons was, and Teflon Tony escaped, yet again, the kicking he's due. Here's hoping the Labour gravy train comes off the rails before the Yanks are stupid enough to put another Republican in the White House.
So, now they're playing into the hands of the hippies and the crusties and the namby-pamby, left wing, one-armed, black, lesbian vegetarian brigade who sit around, or up, trees in their multi-coloured crocheted cardigans eating mung bean soup and telling us how we're not doing right by the planet, before they roll a spliff and fuck up their own tiny minds. Soon, normal, freedom-loving individuals like you and me will be confined to quarters, too scared or too poor to venture out even to look at the wonders of nature, never mind walk round the corner to the local Asian-run mini-market for our pot noodles and multipack of Pepsi. What the hell are we going to do? Well, here's a plan. Feel free to use it and call it your own:
1. Don't fly. Only the rich should be able to fly, and only BA should be able to operate an airline.
2. Get rid of your car and travel to work by public transport. You will, of course, have to have a long list of excuses for your boss as you will never be on time.
3. Don't buy anything that comes pre-packaged. Take bags, boxes, jars and any other vessels to the shops (on the bus!) to collect your shopping. You may, in the short-term, find that most retailers will refuse to sell unpacked goods, in which case, buy them in the packaging, decant them into your chosen vessel and hand the packaging back to the retailer for disposal. Soon, he'll have to pay to have his rubbish taken away, as will you and I. Erm, hold on a mo, isn't that what Council Tax is for????
4. Don't ever go on holiday, including a walking holiday. Even the slightest movement could make the earth unstable, and will damge soil. Any form of travel, including a bicycle, which uses valuable air in its tyres, is harmful to the environment.
5. Due to the high risks involved in working (fuel for motorised transport, communicable diseases, the ability and right to purchase pre-packaged goods, the liability to pay ever-increasing taxes), it would be advisable to quit your job. This way, you will not be able to afford transport, food (packaged, unpackaged, processed, organic, etc.) holidays and any other potentially dangerous activity or commodity.
6. Wrap yourself in bio-degradable material. Curl up into a ball and die.
Hope this helps.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Sunday, July 02, 2006
The morning after the night (and afternoon) before
So England are out of the World Cup. Ian Wright Wright Wright struggles to hold back the tears in the studio as Gary Lineker ends the show with a sigh. The bods at the Beeb, who only hours before had lovingly crafted a trailer to run on the radio with the optimistic (or arrogant) ending statement "All of England's games are now on the BBC", are, no doubt, hurriedly recording a new one.
Where did it all go wrong? A succession of lacklustre performances pointed to only one, inevitable outcome. When a team that includes some of the highest-paid sportsmen on the planet can't wipe the floor with Paraguay, Trinidad & Tobago and Ecuador (whose combined GDP is probably less than the annual profits of any one of Manchester United, Chelsea or Arsenal), you know something is wrong. There are some talented individuals in the squad, but no sense of a team playing together, and certainly no sense of direction and leadership from a coach who had become a laughing stock before he became the "star" of Alistair McGowan's Big Impression.
We Scots are used to everything from shame and embarrassment at the hands of nations who have only just discovered the "beautiful game" to being being stoic and brave when defeated by the acknowledged masters of the art, but the media puts England on a pedestal and builds up the myth of the team as an invincible force deserving of every honour and plaudit imaginable. We've seen them go out on penalties countless times before, and we've seen them lose to the "hand of God". Now we've seen them go out with a whimper, sent homeward tae think again.
So, who was to blame? Certainly not David Beckham, who left the field injured (then burst into tears) or Steven Gerrard, whose soft, girly penalty would have been unnecessary had the team done the business in regulation time. Was it Wayne Rooney, the wunderkind who, luckily for him and Manchester United (spit), has evolved one baby step beyond the neanderthal (this is, after all, the chap who has stated his affection for Glasgow Rangers), a fact that allows him, when he's not having a hissy fit, to control the ball, pass, shoot and score like any millionaire brat should be able to do for his paycheck? Could be. Was it really necessary to perform the Nutcracker Suite on Cravalho in front of the likes of that smug bastard Christiano "I didn't try to influence the referee" Ronaldo? No, probably not. What, apart from the afforementioned knuckle-dragging gene, possesses a "world-class" footballer not of Latin American descent to do such a thing? Frustration? Who is he frustrated at? Probably Sven, who made an error of judgement in not taking enough strikers (mind you, this is the guy who persistently ignored both Chris Sutton and Alan Thompson), and made a bigger error of judgement in taking an injured Rooney to Germany in the first place. Too much pressure is placed on players to return from injury and perform at the highest level. Sven, who will return home to clear out his desk tomorrow, obviously wanted to get a bit of glory before he went, so needed his best players; Rooney, Owen, Gary Neville.....
My favourite moment from the match: An English player (Carragher?) makes contact with a Portugese player, palm of hand on back, and the Portugal man goes down clutching his face! A real slapstick comedy performance, pushing Peter Crouch's lamentable attempts at running, tackling and ball control into second place. At least Thierry Henry found his va va voom and sent those other smug, cheating gets Brazil out of the competition. Here's hoping France have peaked at the right time and can give Portugal what they deserve on Wednesday. Meanwhile, I'm passing up the opportunity to see Midlake at King Tut's in favour of my beloved Italy against Germany. I've not been following football lately, but I believe that the Azurri have not lost under Marcello Lippi. Germany are doing well under Jurgen Klinsmann. This could be a classic or, like Argentina v Holland, the most damp of all damp squibs, but I guess I'll find out on Tuesday night. Today, a week before the final, football isn't coming home, but England are, and the chickens are coming home to roost for Rooney. The BBC is reporting that FIFA are to investigate him for violent conduct. Here's hoping they have the balls to teach him a lesson.
Where did it all go wrong? A succession of lacklustre performances pointed to only one, inevitable outcome. When a team that includes some of the highest-paid sportsmen on the planet can't wipe the floor with Paraguay, Trinidad & Tobago and Ecuador (whose combined GDP is probably less than the annual profits of any one of Manchester United, Chelsea or Arsenal), you know something is wrong. There are some talented individuals in the squad, but no sense of a team playing together, and certainly no sense of direction and leadership from a coach who had become a laughing stock before he became the "star" of Alistair McGowan's Big Impression.
We Scots are used to everything from shame and embarrassment at the hands of nations who have only just discovered the "beautiful game" to being being stoic and brave when defeated by the acknowledged masters of the art, but the media puts England on a pedestal and builds up the myth of the team as an invincible force deserving of every honour and plaudit imaginable. We've seen them go out on penalties countless times before, and we've seen them lose to the "hand of God". Now we've seen them go out with a whimper, sent homeward tae think again.
So, who was to blame? Certainly not David Beckham, who left the field injured (then burst into tears) or Steven Gerrard, whose soft, girly penalty would have been unnecessary had the team done the business in regulation time. Was it Wayne Rooney, the wunderkind who, luckily for him and Manchester United (spit), has evolved one baby step beyond the neanderthal (this is, after all, the chap who has stated his affection for Glasgow Rangers), a fact that allows him, when he's not having a hissy fit, to control the ball, pass, shoot and score like any millionaire brat should be able to do for his paycheck? Could be. Was it really necessary to perform the Nutcracker Suite on Cravalho in front of the likes of that smug bastard Christiano "I didn't try to influence the referee" Ronaldo? No, probably not. What, apart from the afforementioned knuckle-dragging gene, possesses a "world-class" footballer not of Latin American descent to do such a thing? Frustration? Who is he frustrated at? Probably Sven, who made an error of judgement in not taking enough strikers (mind you, this is the guy who persistently ignored both Chris Sutton and Alan Thompson), and made a bigger error of judgement in taking an injured Rooney to Germany in the first place. Too much pressure is placed on players to return from injury and perform at the highest level. Sven, who will return home to clear out his desk tomorrow, obviously wanted to get a bit of glory before he went, so needed his best players; Rooney, Owen, Gary Neville.....
My favourite moment from the match: An English player (Carragher?) makes contact with a Portugese player, palm of hand on back, and the Portugal man goes down clutching his face! A real slapstick comedy performance, pushing Peter Crouch's lamentable attempts at running, tackling and ball control into second place. At least Thierry Henry found his va va voom and sent those other smug, cheating gets Brazil out of the competition. Here's hoping France have peaked at the right time and can give Portugal what they deserve on Wednesday. Meanwhile, I'm passing up the opportunity to see Midlake at King Tut's in favour of my beloved Italy against Germany. I've not been following football lately, but I believe that the Azurri have not lost under Marcello Lippi. Germany are doing well under Jurgen Klinsmann. This could be a classic or, like Argentina v Holland, the most damp of all damp squibs, but I guess I'll find out on Tuesday night. Today, a week before the final, football isn't coming home, but England are, and the chickens are coming home to roost for Rooney. The BBC is reporting that FIFA are to investigate him for violent conduct. Here's hoping they have the balls to teach him a lesson.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
...and so it begins.
I'm going on a little adventure in September. In keeping with tradition, it's a non-adventurous adventure, seldom deviating from towns and cities that have a Marks and Spencer food hall or a Pizza Hut. The purpose of the trip (or, to be more accurate, 3 trips) is attendance at a few of the dates on the forthcoming tour by my current favourite band. Financial constraints mean that I cannot attend all of them, and I am a little upset that I will have to miss one in particular due to the extra cost and logistics involved in coming home again (some 500 miles) for one day, so that I can pick up my car for another couple of days away in a totally different part of the country!
This morning, I booked a flight from Cardiff to Glasgow, the final leg of the journey. The flight cost "nothing", but the taxes, etc. brought the cost up to £15. In spite of wishing to minimise the cost of the entire two and a half weeks of fun and frolic, I can justify this apparent extravagance by telling myself that it would be better to be home by tea time on the Saturday, able to tidy up and make a start on the laundry, and wake up fresh on the Sunday ready for what the world will be preparing to throw at me, rather than staggering, bleary-eyed, from a restless overnight coach trip to the bus stop, travelling home and wasting the rest of the day asleep. I learned this painful lesson a few weeks ago after I returned from a weekend in Brighton. Proud though I was of paying not much more than £5 for a 970 mile round trip, I squandered a perfectly good day off and almost suffered a DVT.
Of course, it's all academic. I can't afford to pay for accomodation or for transport for any more of the connections at the moment. I have still to decide on one more gig and I hope that, by the time I have explored all the possible transport options, the small amount of tickets available will all have been sold, thus relieving me of the burden of travelling out of London, where I hope to remain for 4 nights. It's all still up in the air, as I hope to be in the middle of September.
This morning, I booked a flight from Cardiff to Glasgow, the final leg of the journey. The flight cost "nothing", but the taxes, etc. brought the cost up to £15. In spite of wishing to minimise the cost of the entire two and a half weeks of fun and frolic, I can justify this apparent extravagance by telling myself that it would be better to be home by tea time on the Saturday, able to tidy up and make a start on the laundry, and wake up fresh on the Sunday ready for what the world will be preparing to throw at me, rather than staggering, bleary-eyed, from a restless overnight coach trip to the bus stop, travelling home and wasting the rest of the day asleep. I learned this painful lesson a few weeks ago after I returned from a weekend in Brighton. Proud though I was of paying not much more than £5 for a 970 mile round trip, I squandered a perfectly good day off and almost suffered a DVT.
Of course, it's all academic. I can't afford to pay for accomodation or for transport for any more of the connections at the moment. I have still to decide on one more gig and I hope that, by the time I have explored all the possible transport options, the small amount of tickets available will all have been sold, thus relieving me of the burden of travelling out of London, where I hope to remain for 4 nights. It's all still up in the air, as I hope to be in the middle of September.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Hello world!
Welcome to my new blog. I'll pop by every so often to let y'all know what's happening in my exciting life. What's that you say? You couldn't care less? That doesn't seem to stop anyone else, does it? I've had a quick look round the neighbourhood. I've seen blogs about music, blogs about travel, blogs about animals, blogs about illness, blogs whining about Bush (and why not?) and a large number of blogs in foreign languages. Everyone's doing it, from the young to the old, from the smart to the not-so-clever, and so on. I may as well join in (I'm somewhat entrenched in the "not-so-clever" camp).
Well, that's all for now. Y'all come back now, y'hear!
Well, that's all for now. Y'all come back now, y'hear!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)