Kangaroo Court

I've been suspended from Twitter for the second time in two days. This time, I decided to challenge it. That would explain why I've not been allowed back on!

I've not been doing much recently. Well, nothing I can tell you about. My life, such as it is, is not very exciting. I just seem to spend all my spare time ranting at politicians on Twitter and posting cat pictures on Facebook. With the football and concert seasons ended, I'm in that limbo called Summer. We have had some sun this year, honestly, and I've had one or two symptoms of hay fever, so it must be that season between Spring and Autumn. I'm due to go on holiday, too, in a couple of weeks. I've boughg a silly hat and some new t-shirts, so here's hoping I get to wear them.

Another sign that summer is here is that Wimbledon has happened, and what a tournament it turned out to be. Most of the big names went out in the first week, either through defeat or injury, leaving the World No.1 and No.2 to come through their respective halves of the draw. If you haven't heard already, 'Britain' won, for the first time since the 1930s. What I mean is that a British male tennis player won for the first time in 77 years. What's more, he's Scottish. Cue Mr. and Mrs. Salmond waving a saltire behind Caneron's head. Priceless. Well done, Andy Murray.

It was only a winter's tale

I’m Technical middle class, so says the BBC class survey. I suppose what that means is that I can sit typing on my laptop as my iPad plays last Saturday’s Jazz Record Requests whilst my Freeview HD recorder records Coronation Street. I suppose it also means that I can disappear to another city for the day to have lunch and spend ludicrous amounts of money on frivolous items like a silent violin and a reversible hat. That’s how I spent my Good Friday, and it WAS good.

I’ve not had much leave from work since the start of the year; a half-day here and there, but only one of them memorable. It’s almost an annual event, going to a BBC SSO Afternoon Performance, but I’d never gone while deaf in one ear. It was a funny old afternoon, and not in a good way. The Spring Equinox had come and gone, yet Glasgow was still in the grip of freezing temperatures. My mad dash to the City Halls had tired me out, and it was all I could do to stay upright in my seat. Cold, tired and deaf, I headed home instead of attending the monthly meeting of the Astronomical Society of Glasgow. I can’t remember what the talk was about, but that’s for the best. I hate to think that my getting very old all of a sudden had caused me to miss something interesting.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was supposed to have gone to a concert by the RSNO on the Saturday, and gone to learn to play a couple of fiddle tunes on the Sunday night, but I really wasn’t in the mood. To make matters worse, I should have gone on the Wednesday night to the Philosophical Society to see Lord Rees, the Astronomer Royal. What a wimp! A four-day weekend was on the horizon, and I had to conserve my energy for all the fun I was bound to have.

Edinburgh was cold, but brighter than at the New Year, when I had last visited. I started off at a musical instrument shop then I headed for Blackwell’s book shop, where I bought a book about learning Gaelic. On the bus back to Princes Street, I got talking to an elderly lady who was originally from County Monaghan. She had apologised to me for coughing, reassuring me that she did not have the cold. How nice to meet someone who cared. After this, I had lunch, the traditional steak pie, then did some more shopping, before getting back on the train home. I had taken the iPad with me on its first outing, but hadn’t encountered a train with WiFi all day!

Saturday was filled with domestic chores, before the resumption of Doctor Who finally got me to stop working. All that exertion meant that I couldn’t get out of bed on Sunday for ages, and when I did, I had to go to a football match. On my return I made a casserole, and some soup with the leftover vegetables (all best consumed within a day of creation, trust me). I was so tired I could barely move.

On Monday, I went to Kelvingrove Park to try out my new lens, and it appeared to work. After that, I headed up to Byres Road for pizza in Little Italy, and topped lunch off with an obscene amount of ice-cream in Nardinis. The food had gone to my head, because half an hour later, I was on the top deck of an open-top city tour bus. By the time my feet touched the ground again some two and a half hours later I was frozen solid. It took all night to thaw out.

On Tuesday evening, on the way to the orchestra, I tried to eat in O’Neil’s, but its kitchen was closed because of a new menu. A feeble excuse, I thought, so I went across the road to Blackfriars, and had steak in a peppercorn sauce. Not bad, actually, but I never touched the salad. And so to today, Friday, and the delayed arrival of British Sea Power’s latest album, Machineries of Joy. After the disaster that was Valhalla Dancehall, I didn’t hold out much hope for their latest offering however, on first listen, it’s not too bad.

Back to Edinburgh tomorrow, this time for some Shakespeare; The Winter’s Tale. How appropriate!

The luck of the Irish

Top of the mornin’ to ya. Isn’t that what the Irish say? It’s St. Patrick’s Day, or as it seems to have become, Paddy’s Day. As I’ve probably said somewhere else on this blog, I’m not Irish, so I’m not celebrating it. I don’t even celebrate St. Andrew’s Day on 30 November, but if I were to be given paid leave from work, I’d take it. The closest Monday to Paddy’s Day is a holiday in Ireland, which is probably a good idea. There will be a few sore heads tomorrow, and I’d not begrudge anyone in austerity-hit Ireland the chance of a party. We need a revolution, however, and a bloody one, at that.

In a few weeks time, the NHS in England will, effectively, cease to exist, changes will be made throughout the UK to benefits and the ignominious ‘bedroom tax’ will come into law. The Liberal Democrats maintain that they are a moderating influence on the Tories, so Christ knows what would be visited on the poor, the old, the sick, the unemployed and the otherwise disadvantaged without them. Well, the United Kingdom, or what could be left of it, will find out in 2015. We in Scotland have an opportunity to make a better nation and I, for one, will never forgive anyone who doesn’t take that chance in 2014.

While I still have a job and some money I can indulge in some of my hobbies and on Sunday 10 March, I plucked up the courage to go along to Curlers’ Bar in Byres Road for the GFW Very Slow Session. My enthusiasm can be measured by the fact that it had been snowing heavily! My ability, however, didn’t match that enthusiasm, and I struggled through all of the sets. If practice makes perfect, I will have to do a lot of practicing.

On Monday, I went to Stow College for the Ukulele class and returned to my car to find a parking ticket on my windscreen. It was my fault. That street never used to have restrictions after 6pm, so I didn't think to look for a huge sign that I didn’t see in the street with no lights. What pissed me off was that those bloodsucking bastards were out putting tickets on cars at 9pm on a Monday in an obscure street that was far from busy. I will take more care in future, and will also never pay to park in this city again. This could mean that I may have to return home instead of attending an event. 

I’ve been at home in the evenings ever since. I was meant to be at concerts last night and tonight, but I’ve been sitting out in the cold at football matches and it’s too much effort to come home and change into more respectable clothing. I’ve obviously got so much money that I can throw away tickets worth £18.50.

Here, there and everywhere

Ok, so where the hell have I been? Well, I’m not going to tell you. What I will say is this; here are a few developments since I last addressed you, my dear readers:

Tough on crime, tough on the causes of crime

Some bastard robot deposited a load of shite on one of my posts. I’m afraid I will now have to verify all comments. The keen-eyed among you will know that this won’t be an onerous task. I have also added the dreaded Captcha, I hope. Sorry. The minority have always got to spoil it for the majority.

Chaos theory

 

It appears that I am out every night at the moment. Well, I’m obviously in tonight writing this rubbish. It’s been a fairly hectic ten weeks or so, starting with the Celtic Connections festival in the second half of January. That cost me over £200, and I had lots of other concerts to attend over that period, too. February seemed to fly in, but there was plenty to go to then too. Sorry if I’m being vague, but my phone crashed and I lost, among other things, my diary. I have no idea what I did before the 9^th of February.

Your life as you know it is over

I now have reading glasses. I am officially old. I am also letting myself in for sitting on spectacles, as I have more pairs than sense.

It’s fun to stay at the YMCA

During Celtic Connections, I attended two workshops: I saw The Big Slow Session, led by the wonderful Nigel Gatherer, as an opportunity to let my fiddle out of its case for the first time since June last year. I felt that I didn’t do too badly, as Nigel led us through two tunes I’d never played before (West Kilbride and Little Diamond) in the company of fiddles, mandolins, guitars, keyboards, bohdrans, whistles, and probably many, many more. It’s made me want to play again, and it’s my intention to sign up in the summer for the Glasgow Fiddle Workshop. I didn’t start back in January because I had already booked some events for Wednesdays, and unlike in the olden days of the GFW, I’d lose money by missing the classes.

Not content with an afternoon of playing, I also attended a workshop in the morning with the equally wonderful Finlay Allison, where I learned to strum along to YMCA on the ukulele. Classes are on a Monday, so I had no excuse for not going along, and since then, I’ve been to four classes, and I’m having a whale of a time. We’re stuck in C Major at the moment, learning lots of pop and country songs, but perhaps after Easter, we’ll move to D or A to play some Scottish traditional music. I find that it’s great therapy, and for two hours on a Monday, I can escape from all the troubles of the world, except sore fingers. I’ve already identified that I need a better instrument, as the action on this one could be lower, and geared machine heads would help it to stay in tune longer. Fun, eh? I’ll slap anyone who mentions G***** F*****, though. 

What's next?

As a result of this, I took my fiddle two weeks ago to one of Finlay’s classes to learn to play tunes in pub sessions. I hope to do that tomorrow night.

and finally

I’m still playing clarinet in an orchestra, but I don’t know for how much longer.

Right, that’s enough for now.

Out with the old, in with the new

What have I been up to since I was last here? Well, in between all sorts of other business in town on the Thursday morning, I had visited John Lewis and some shoe shops, but no sensible bargains had been unearthed (perhaps because I was two hours late?). On Friday, I travelled from the M&S Outlet in the East, where I got the elusive pair of dark blue jeans, west to their so-called flagship store in Braehead in search of that nice grey cardigan I had spotted in the sale in Argyle St. Success! On Saturday morning in town, I finally got a pair of black shoes, so the shopping quest had come to an end.  Just as well; I had all but run out of money.

I don’t actually remember Sunday. I didn’t go out, at least I don’t think I did. Monday, or Hogmanay, was more memorable. After an errand in town, I went for a walk by the River Clyde for about two hours. I had had a mad idea to cross the various bridges between Kings Bridge, at Glasgow Green, and the Millennium Bridge, at Pacific Quay. Due to sore feet and a cold wind, and a detour into the park itself to attempt to identify a large number of birds which I had seen moving between trees, I only made it as far as the Tradeston Bridge, known colloquially as the Squiggly Bridge, around a mile and a half to the west. It would have been a perfect afternoon if those birds had been Waxwings, but they were (only) Song Thrush (and possibly Fieldfare and Redwing). They led me a merry dance in the saturated ground between the trees, and I must have looked like an idiot wandering around looking up at them; an idiot that never takes binoculars out on a walk.

Ne’erday, as they call it here, was a time for reflection and the deep sadness I have recently come to know as my permanent companion. I needed to keep busy, so what better way than to spend eight hours trying to tidy away vast quantities of rubbish that I had allowed to build up since last Easter. Ok, it wasn’t all rubbish, but most of it should have been thrown out or shredded months ago. At the end of this thankless task, I was so tired that I had little energy left to be anything beyond melancholy.

That brings me to my review of 2012. If I look back at my words from a year ago today, I am amused to see that I still had a sense of humour. In three hundred and sixty-six days (or fewer) the poles appear to have been realigned. Yin-yang? Symmetry? Fucking waste of time and energy. Let’s take a look at how the rest of the year went:

Lose weight: This depends on the next resolution. (20/80)

Believe it or not, I succeeded in losing some weight, but only accidentally, due to illness. Must try harder.

Eat less: I don’t eat much, but what I do eat is wrong. Constant comfort eating of industrial quantities of biscuits and cakes is not a good idea. (50/50)

I’d say that I ate more, much more, and of the wrong things. Try again in 2013?

Go to the gym: There are other ways to get exercise, but paying gym membership and not going is, in these austere times, downright stupid. Would I have gone over the holidays had the place been open? Now, there’s another question. (50/50).

I have not set foot inside the gym in the last year. I don’t really count the three months between January and April, as I was ill (as I said before), but I’ve been too lazy the rest of the time. It has been open this Christmas holiday (except on Public Holidays), but I’ve not attended. Try again next year.

Drink less: Less than the quantity I drink already? I probably drink less in an entire year than the average Glaswegian drinks in an hour on a Friday night. Anyway, I might need to develop an alcohol addiction if I’m off the biscuits. (No chance)

I may have consumed a few more units this year. Literally. Oh, dear. 

Work harder: In work? I think not. (No chance)

Hah, no. 10/10

Write more: Of this? Probably. What do you mean ‘this doesn’t count’? (50/50)

I did, until I gave up on life. Pity. I thought I was getting good at it.

Read more: This might help with a number of the above (particularly the number 6). (20/80)

Mmm. Anyone want to give me about £400 so I can get my dyslexia diagnosed once and for all?

Travel more: Money, time and the ability to slip off the chains; three things I rarely have at the same time. I had a mad idea earlier about visiting places beginning with the letter ‘B’. Does that mean I can’t go back to Llandudno? (40/60)

Now here’s a funny thing; I DID travel more. I went on EIGHT trips, and vistited quite a number of places, and some of those places begin with the letter ‘B’. Where did I go, I hear you say?

• Edinburgh Zoo, where I saw the Pandas, and some other animals, obviously.
• London, where I visited the Churchill War Rooms, at last, and saw some pelicans in the park
• Brighton, where I ate ice-cream on a deceptively cold day; went round and round on a big wheel; went on an electric railway; visited the Royal Pavilion, at last; saw a wonderful play called Anne Boleyn, and saw British Sea Power play all of their almost perfect first album.
• London, again, where I went to the Science Museum, and had to leave early during a concert at Cadogan Hall by the National Youth Brass Band of Great Britain because their conductor was talking too much and the show was in danger of overrunning!
• Morecambe, where I ate a snack on a beautiful evening by the bay as a biting wind threatened to cut me in two and, a couple of days later, I headed to the RSPB reserve at Leighton Moss, near Carnforth.
• Lytham St. Anne’s, where I saw the remains of their pier, and an absolutely enormous beach, neither of which I had seen in 2002, as it had been raining heavily. I also saw a statue in memory of Les Dawson. Kickers, knackers, knockers, indeed.
• Blackpool, where I discovered that, if you want to park along the front, it will cost you £7 for the day, in coins, and that the new trams are nice, if lacking in charm. On the return journey to Morecambe that Sunday night, I nearly came off the road when I was startled by a male Sparrowhawk which had just flown over the car.
• Pitlochry, where I attended performances of Rope and The 39 Steps on consecutive nights at the Festival Theatre, I rediscovered my disdain for Scottish (hotel) hospitality and saw an Oystercatcher on the roof of a building.
• Blairgowrie, where I realised that I should be more careful where I stay on Saturday nights, as a four-hour disco directly under my room is not conducive to a good night’s sleep, and that the Red Squirrels at Loch of the Lowes nature reserve are alone worth the subscription to the Scottish Wildlife Trust. I also saw another Oystercatcher nesting on a roof.
• Birnam and Dunkeld, where I bought a scarf, watched a cat wash itself in the grounds of the Cathedral, and made a promise (to myself, of course) to go back for a weekend in 2013.
• Crieff, where I had roast lamb for lunch, and discovered that, in common with other Perthshire towns and villages at the Jubilee Weekend, an SNP-held constituency does not guarantee the presence of a Saltire.
• RSPB Loch Leven, where I saw Swallows sitting on fences, for a change, and saw huge black clouds that were going to scupper any chances of my seeing the Transit of Venus the next morning.
• London, again, where I returned to the Science Museum to see the Alan Turning exhibition then almost lost my jacket and money in the Universe of Sound exhibit, before seeing an amazing 3D film about repairing the Space Shuttle. Later that evening, I saw the John Wilson Orchestra and a stellar cast perform My Fair Lady at the BBC Proms in the Royal Albert Hall. On Sunday, I went shopping in Oxford Street, before going to a lunchtime concert at Wigmore Hall, then west to Acton for some jazz, then back to Oxford Street then back to Wigmore Hall. Phew. No wonder I slept for most of the coach journey home.
• The Falkirk Wheel and the Bo’ness and Kinneil Railway, the former for the first time since it had opened ten years previously!
• Clydebank, where I went up the Titan Crane, at last.
• Llandudno and Conwy as usual, plus Chester and a trip on the Blaenau Ffestiniog Railway to Porthmadog for lunch on my 50^th birthday
• Edinburgh, where I attended a gig at the Jazz Festival on my way back from Wales to Glasgow
• Edinburgh, again, on two consecutive Saturday evenings, once for the Janacek opera The Makropulos Case, and once for a concert by the LSO.
• London, yet again, where I went to, in no particular order, the Victoria and Albert Museum; the Science Museum, for a last look at Universe of Sound; The National Theatre, to see George Bernard Shaw’s The Doctor’s Dilemma; the wibbly-wobbly Millennium Bridge, at last; the Imperial War Museum; up and round and round on a big twirly thing on the South Bank; The National Gallery; The Royal Albert Hall, again, for John Wilson’s Broadway Prom; the Natural History Museum. I flew back from London City Airport. Most convenient.
• Stratford-Upon-Avon, where I saw Twelfth Night (minus the first 19 minutes), The Tempest and The Comedy of Errors, which could describe my journeys there and back.
• Lytham St, Anne’s, again, where I got rained on,  and ripped off in a B&B with ideas above its station
• Blackpool, again, where I really got rained on, but not before I’d gone on the log flume and the twirly thing I’d been too scared to try in April. I also went to watch dancers in the Tower Ballroom, and saw the Circus. Ten years after my first trip to the Illuminations, I had returned for their 100^th. On my way home, I went to Martin Mere, where I joined the WWT, and was nearly savaged by two Australian Shelducks.

That was the end of that. Back to the resolutions:

Be nice to people: In the last five years, I seem to have mastered the art of being nice to people I don’t even like. Even though I don’t mean it, I hope they appreciate the effort. (50/50)

Even the ones I am (very) nice to don’t give a fuck and treat me like shite. Lesson: people are bastards. Keep away.

Use Twitter less: Well, that’s a new one. I signed up for it a couple of years ago, but it took me until September 2011 to figure out how to use it. It’s great for sending rude messages to politicians or compliments to artistic types. The 140-character limit is a bummer, though. No, I’ll give it while longer before I pass judgement on it. (10/90)

I use it more. I like it.

Go out more: This means gigs, doesn’t it? It’s not as if I go anywhere else. Well, this is a difficult one. I’ve got a bit of a hearing problem (pardon?), due to going to gigs in the past; I want to punch anyone who talks at a gig; I’ve not been up late for years; I don’t want to meet anyone I know; I can’t handle the amount of laundry; too expensive, and so on. Enough excuses? I could be here all night at this rate. (20/80)

I did.

Count to ten.

I didn’t.

Anything else about 2012?

• Celtic won the league, and by the end of the year, the club still in four tournaments, including in the last 16 of the Champions League. The standout games were the home victories against Barcelona and Spartak Moscow. What an achievement!
• I played in two more concerts, but am close to giving up playing in the orchestra, as it doesn’t suit my temperament.
• I got a new car. There was nothing wrong with the old one, but I lost my heart to my new Fiesta.
• Amy Pond and Rory Williams ‘died’ in Manhattan, and have been replaced by the mysterious and feisty Clara Oswin Oswald. I am really looking forward to the next eight episodes.
• The Mayan end-of-the-world prediction didn’t come true. Sadly.

What’s coming up this year? Well, with any luck, I will be able to wear most of my recent purchases in the latter half of January, as I have around twenty events in the diary between 17 January and 3 February, inclusive. Most are concerts, and most of the concerts are part of the 20^th Anniversary of Glasgow’s world-renowned folk and roots festival, Celtic Connections. I am trying to attend as many gigs as possible around all the other concerts (and other events) during that period to make up for my non-attendance over the last few years. Apart from that, it’ll be the usual quota of concerts and football matches, with the occasional trip away, all on my own, and all empty, hollow and meaningless. Out with the old and in with the new. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. Here we go again.

Sales of the century

At the end of last month, I bought a shirt and a cardigan. A few days later, I bought another cardigan. Not long after that, I bought two coats. Two of those purchases were at full price; the second cardigan and one of the coats. I have, as yet, not worn that full-price coat, one I had coveted for ages. Yes, my bum looks big in it, as does my belly, but it is nice. I’d just be happy if I could go somewhere that I could wear it. Not long after this, I bought another cardigan. I’ve not worn it, yet.

Prior to Christmas, I thought I’d get a bag to go with the coat I’ve not worn yet. The coat is grey, so I wanted a black bag. In the interim, I acquired yet another reduced-price cardigan, and grey jeans when I wanted dark blue! No, I’ve not worn them, either. I got a bag, eventually, and slightly cheaper than its original price (but more expensive than any other bag I had ever bought), but if I’ve got a coat and a bag, I need to have shoes. The bag is leather, yet I bought a pair of suede ankle boots, just because they were cheap. A few days later, I bought another two coats, one of brown suede and the other blue corduroy. The latter had been on my radar for ages, but never in my size (or never in blue) so I had to have it before it was too late. Sadly, it is even better than the grey one from November, and I have no idea if I will ever go anywhere that I can show it off. I needed a bag to go with that, too, and I found one. Luckily, Christmas came, and the shops were shut.

Well, today is Boxing Day, and that means one thing. Yes, back to the shops. I started off in M&S in Argyle Street, at the back end of the ground floor. I left that area of the shop with a half-price pair of black Chelsea boots, and before I’d left the shop, I got a casual jacket I had liked for weeks but had not wanted to pay funny money for. Next stop, Debenhams, and a lovely little green velvet blazer I couldn’t afford in July and never saw again no matter how many branches I had visited. There was only one in the shop this morning, and it was in my size. It was fate. On my way to the bus stop, I popped into Frasers’ to laugh at people paying hundreds of pounds for handbags then I took the bus up to Sauchiehall Street. First stop here was also M&S, and I left with a smart pair of trousers and yet another bag, but the spending spree came to a juddering halt when I discovered that John Lewis was closed! Oh, no! I’ll have to go back tomorrow.

My clothes collection is limited both by the size of my wardrobe, and the depth of my bank balance, and I have never been interested in fashion. I am also old, and the wrong shape and size. If these impediments weren’t present, I could keep the British economy going single-handedly, but I don’t need to. There are plenty of other women out there who are happy to help. Our brains really are wired that way. We’re all nuts, but nowhere near as nuts as those parents who are happy to send their kids out to the sales to queue up outside Abercrombie and Fitch (whatever the hell that is) to get clothes that make them look like every other teenager in that queue, and like Americans. No thanks.

and a Merry Christmas to you, too

Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas. Peace on earth and goodwill to all men. ‘Tis the season to be jolly. Fa la la la la, fa la la la. You know, I was just thinking as much as I struggled to get out of various queues in various shops the other day. Christmas means different things to different people; to me, ‘tis the season to over-indulge; the season to be acquisitive; the season to be sad, lonely and suicidal. What about those lucky enough to have family and friends?

Men and women of all religions and none give gifts to those they care about, and sometime those they don’t care about. Men and women of all religions and none receive gifts in the spirit in which they were given, then try to find some way to use them to impress the gift giver or find some place to hide them away until they are forgotten by the gift giver. Families get into debt to buy the latest doll or computer games console or fashion item. They erect ridiculously large trees and adorn their houses and gardens with enough lights and illuminated Santa Clauses on ladders to power a medium-sized town for a year (probably). They must keep up with the Joneses, and their kids must not be embarrassed in the company of friends and school chums. I know how that feels, but is that what Christmas is all about?

Men and women of various Christian denominations observe it as their religion dictates. There’s usually some altercation in or around one of the ‘holy’ sites in Jerusalem; remember when the Israelis weren’t going to let Yasser Arafat go to some service or other? Today, or more accurately, yesterday, the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Westminster (England’s most senior Catholic, not the UK’s most senior) Archbishop Vincent Nichols, one presumes a single, unattached, celibate man, chose Christmas as a time to attack plans for ‘gay marriage’. Peace on earth and goodwill to all men (i.e. mankind)? I’m not gay (or owt; still remembering Mark and Lard at Christmas, eh?), but if marriage is such a wonderful institution, why doesn’t the Roman Catholic Church allow its predatory priests to marry? It would keep a lot of them out of trouble. Every year, someone (an evangelical Christian) sends me a Christmas card that I never open. A little label on the envelope reads ‘Jesus is the reason for the season’. If there really was a God, I’m sure that, in his omnipotence, he’d have ensured that his ‘son’ was named ‘Jeason’, for the sake of alliteration. If Jesus IS the reason for the season, this season of goodwill to all mankind, then perhaps his followers could exhibit some of that goodwill? Nah, not bloody likely.

So, what have I got planned for the day? I will eat some turkey and trimmings (and everything else), I will drink all the wine in the house (sadly, only one bottle) and I will watch Doctor Who, then I’ll rest before going into town for the sales tomorrow morning. That’s been a normal Christmas day for me for the last few years No presents. No people I care about. No Christmas joy. Later today, I’ll raise a glass to absent friends, though if they were real friends, they’d not be absent. Yes, that’s what Christmas is all about; one massive reality check and the shattering of all illusions.

An open letter to the only one that matters

What’s the saying, there’s no fool like an old fool?  It’s true.

Nearly three months ago, I sat at this keyboard with tears streaming down my face trying to write something so vague that Joe Public wouldn’t understand it, yet so obviously cathartic that I’d feel purged afterwards. It didn’t work. It hasn’t worked. I’m still here, and still crying. In the interim, I’ve stumbled through every day, struggled to keep my chin off the floor and wondered what to do next. Well, you know what I did. I handled it badly; at times spiteful, at times sarcastic, at times lost and confused and weak and pathetic. Perhaps I’ve never shown you the best of me because there is no ‘best’, no good, nothing at all; or maybe I’ve never learned how to show it? Even now, I know that I’m a better person than I was before we met, and that’s because of you. Maybe that’s why I’m disappointed; I wanted to keep getting better. Maybe it’s because there’s no one to be a better person for.

I had so many stories to tell you, not of heroic deeds or success or thrilling adventures, just simple things, but I know that at least one would have blown your socks off. I regret that I made it impossible for me to be able to tell you. I wanted us to have some adventures, some shared experiences; things that, years from now, in a coffee shop or when telling your children how we met, we could have started off with ‘remember when we…?’. I wanted to share part of my life with you, because we shared some interests, and some viewpoints, and because I couldn’t think of anyone better. The first time I saw you, I knew there was something, and it took me all those years to work out what it was: I wanted you in my life. I still do.

The last time I saw you, I asked you a question, admittedly in a rather cack-handed fashion. It had taken me two months to ask and, although I knew I didn’t have the right to ask, or to hear the answer, it was something that I felt that I needed to know. I did try to give you ‘headspace’, and even a month after finally asking you the same question in plain English, I’ve never pressurised you for an answer. I’ve never even raised the subject again. I think I know what the answer is, and it doesn’t matter. It’s that you still haven’t replied, almost four weeks later, and I’m left wondering if you have any respect for me. I think I asked the wrong question.

On our next meeting after that evening in August, I felt a distance between us that I’d not noticed before, and that made me nervous. A week later, it was more obvious. I blame myself for that, and I’m sorry. Maybe I was looking for fault where there was none, so that if you went away, it wouldn't affect me as much. The last time I saw you it was better, up until the point that you said something that took the legs from under me, and since then I’ve never been sure if it was a mistimed tackle or there was intent. That was the question I should have asked, but maybe the answer to that one, had it come, would have been more unpalatable, I don’t know. All I know is that I am here, and you are there, and the gulf appears to be too big to cross, not least because I blew that billion kilowatt dam to kingdom come last night. I did that because I’ve become too afraid to see you again, scared that I can’t make things right.

For the foreseeable future, there’ll be the same old routine: football matches and concerts, TV and radio, books I’ve got to read. There’ll be work, paid and unpaid. Night will follow day, just as it’s always done, but there’ll be no you, no light in my life. You made the sun shine. You made the birds sing. You made the bells ring for me. Of course, all these things happened every day, for everyone else, but I never noticed, or cared, or was never privy to them. When you’re around, I’m dazzled, and I can’t hear myself think for all these bloody birds and bells, but I don’t want it any other way. I’ve no idea if that’s love, and I don’t care. I'm too selfish to love anyone. I just don’t like that it’s now in the past tense and I don’t like the idea of a future, my future, without you in it somewhere. What am I going to do now?

Indian Summer

What a lovely couple of days. I’m not talking about my life; I’m referring to the weather. The wasps have been in hiding since the monsoon season (re)started, so when the sun finally put his hat back on, they must have thought that they’d won the lottery, Any day now, they will go utterly bonkers and start flying into traffic lights. It’s true. I saw them do that very thing six years ago. I don’t care what happens to them as long as they go away. Something that will go away, as soon as it arrived, is our Indian summer. I can’t believe how nice it’s been, however I can believe that I wasn’t able to take advantage of it. Having been away for the last two weekends, and never having fully recovered from the previous six trips away, I’ve left myself with a backlog of housework, paperwork, too much work, and I don’t know how long it will take to get back to the way things were before Easter. The concert season has started, and there’s plenty of football. I’ll not be at home much in the evenings or at weekends for the foreseeable future. It’s going to be slow progress.

I could do with being at home to watch the massive number of programmes on my Sky+ box. My dish will be being removed in the near future because of renovation to the outside of the building and won’t be going back on the wall. I'll have to use the communal dish, instead. I’m tempted to cancel my subscription and go for a Freeview +HD box, as I rarely watch anything on the satellite channels. The greater proportion of my subscription goes on Sky Sports, and only then to watch (if I remember) those Celtic away games that make it on to the TV which, to be fair, are most of them. I also watch some English Premier League games. For one month’s subs to Sky, I can take out a subscription to Celtic TV, and see the entire game on the Internet the next day or later. Would I be able to find the time to watch a match for which I already know the score? I doubt it. There are other things I could do with my time. There are other things I could with my money. Freeview + HD seems the favoured option, for now.

I’m also behind with my other blogs. I guess I’ve been having too good a time.

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible

I’ve been away, and even when I’ve been here, I’ve not been here. Although I’m here just now, I’m not actually here, and won’t be here again for a while. Stay tuned. Please.

The day today

It's not like me to be topical, but here's a few words about this evening's rehearsal, the first of the new term. The Christmas concert we work towards is in conjunction with a choir, so we never find out for ages what choral pieces we may have to accompany, or what cheesy festive tune we'll be doing for an encore. We do, however, get an idea of the pieces we will play on our own (the choir do unaccompanied pieces, too).

So far, we have Malcolm Arnold's wonderful but fiendishly difficult 'Four Scottish Dances',  some of the 'Nutcracker Suite' by Tchaikovsky (probably not the fruit and nutcase bit), the theme from 'The Big Country' and the first movement of Dvorak's Symphony No. 9 (i.e., not the Hovis bit). There may be more, there may be less. Who knows?

In other news, I returned home to hear that Scotland had drawn 1-1 with the mighty FYR Macedonia in their 'must-win' second qualifying game; disaster for Scotland, but hopefully the end of Craig Levein's short, boring and embarassing tenure as boss.

This was the yang to Andy Murray's Grand Slam ying. After what seemed like an eternity (and I don't mean the match), he finally won something; the US Open, although I wasn't able to stay up for the 5-hour roller-coaster ride I imagine it was. He's been British since he won the Gold at the Olympics, and this latest triumph cements his place in the hearts of those 50 million who didn't like him until his tearful speech after defeat to Federer at Wimbledon. He's British until he loses again.

Don't be sad it's over. Be glad it happened.

As the great summer of sport, and culture, comes to an end, I wonder what London will do for an encore. I wonder how people will feel when all the Olympic direction signs are peeled off walls in Underground stations, and the paint is burned off the roads in the Olympic lanes. I wonder what the streets will be like without volunteers handing out maps. I wonder how many busy London workers and residents, or tourists, will notice, or care. The flame which once burned brightly has been extinguished, and normality will be restored, in a matter of days for some, weeks or months for others. I know if I went back, I’d not notice unless I remembered to look. I wonder how many people will truly remember, long after the little hints of the games have gone, and long after BBC’s and Channel 4’s inevitable programmes over the Christmas holidays. The athletes, however, will never forget.

I’ve seen very little of the Paralympic Games, and a lot less of the (able-bodied) Olympics than normal. I grudged my taxes being diverted to a competition staged mainly in London, when money needed to be spent on sport in Scotland. I know that the same proportion won’t travel in the opposite direction for Glasgow’s Commonwealth Games in 2014, and I know that, mercifully, London politicians won’t be so quick to jump on the bandwagon to try to ingratiate themselves with competitors to impress the voting public. The nations of the UK compete separately, so Unionists will have a hard time trying to make capital of a Scot draped in the Union Flag. Scotland’s medal haul at the London games was itself sufficiently impressive to provoke debate, but we can’t be sure how Scotland will fare when pitted against its larger neighbour to the south, much less countries like Jamaica.

It remains to be seen if Glasgow can create such an aura around the Commonwealth Games that it will make fans of the sports involved forget about London, but that’s like comparing East Stirlingshire with Manchester City. Instead, Glasgow should look back ten years to the Manchester games. Not only did that event, won by the city after many attempts to net a major tournament of any kind, increase the profile of athletes who competed in London this time, and Athens and Beijing before that, but it sparked a phenomenal regeneration in a city that had left its glory days behind, last century but one. Manchester is, for the most part, now a vibrant, modern city capable of competing with London on any stage, though it’s not without its problems. Glasgow must shake off its other image; that of a city blighted by decades of corruption and lack of ambition. It must stop taking then squandering the money (and the perks for the Councillors) from the events such as the Champions League final, the UEFA Cup final, the Garden Festival, City of Culture, City of Architecture and Design and so on, and start building for the future.

Exactly 50 years after the last tram journey, the city is almost impossible to get around thanks, in no small part, to Glasgow City Council’s relationship with First Buses, who have an effective monopoly in a supposedly deregulated bus environment. The lack of a decent Underground system (and the farce over its upgrading, or not, for the Games) and suburban railway network, as well as the criminal under-use of the Clyde for business, residents, transport and tourism will be exposed again when the Games begin. A half-hour stroll from the National Theatre to Westminster Bridge two weeks ago made me wonder why Glasgow has, for over a generation, failed to regenerate its waterfront for the use of its people. Any Londoners visiting in 2014 will, no doubt, be wondering the same thing.

It’s not true to say that there are no more heroes anymore. Any one person interested in one or more sport couldn’t fail to be impressed or inspired by not just our athletes but also a great many of those from around the world. Everyone who managed to see in the flesh or on television any Olympic or Paralympic event in the last couple of months will have at least one good memory. For me, it’s Katherine Grainger finally winning Gold. Thousands of medals were won, records, and even hearts were broken, and somewhat ironically, for an event that took place in what is, at the moment, my own country, I never even got to see her dream eventually come true, as I was nowhere near a TV. It may prove to be easier with the time difference to be in front of the telly for Rio 2016, when people will have new heroes to look up to.

All over Twitter tonight, the phrase being quoted is one from Dr. Seuss; ‘Don’t be sad it’s over, be glad it happened’; ideal for the end of an event that captured the imagination of even some of the most cynical. There’s none more cynical than me, and not just when it comes to the Olympics. Life has a nasty habit of kicking me in the teeth, and I wonder if I’ll find myself having to say that phrase to myself in the very near future or, like our athletes, will I have to wait until the excitement has died down and emotions aren’t so new and raw, whenever that will be? Like our athletes with London 2012, it's something I'm not likely to forget,.

The days grow short when you reach September

That’s two-thirds of the year gone already. In a week from now, it will have been quarter of a year since I last washed my car. It’s dark around 8 in the evening and not light until around 7 in the morning. The days grow short when you reach September, and the nights are fair drawing in. What is there to do around here in the hours between work and sleep?

• One can sit in a concert hall, theatre or other venue and be entertained by people much more talented than one’s self. The season for concerts and plays is upon us, and I report on such things on my blog, Best Seat In The House
• One can attend football matches featuring one’s favourite team(s), and I report on that on my blog, Sent To The Stands
• One can still find time to go away for the day or the weekend, and I report on that (sometimes) on my blog, True Adventures
• Once can stay in and watch TV or listen to the radio, and I do that right here.

Tonight, at 19:20 BST, the waiting was over. My world has been somewhat topsy-turvy since Saturday 1 October 2011, and I hope that some stability can be achieved now that Doctor Who is back for a short run. ‘Asylum of the Daleks’ was a fairly good episode, featuring the surprise appearance of a character of which we are destined to see more (how???), but lacking the outrageous humour of Steven Moffat’s previous ‘openers’. It had an epic, big-screen look to it, with some wonderful camera work by Nick Hurran, who had directed ‘The Girl Who Waited’, and really should have lasted ninety minutes. For anyone perturbed by the Dalek voice, this episode must have been a nightmare.

The world of politics has been rather quiet, with the summer recesses both in Holyrood and Westminster, but that doesn’t stop the sniping over the Independence referendum or the Tories’ relentless march towards a society cleansed of all the poor, sick and disabled, even when the Paralympics are taking place in London. One of the sponsors of this event is ATOS, who have hit the headlines many times in the last two years however, in the last couple of weeks, they have passed fit for work a man in a coma, and also got an honourable mention the other day when the story broke of a lady they had previously passed fit for work having died of cancer. Many competitors in the GB team for the Paralympics (not called TeamGB, but ParalympicsGB) covered up the ATOS logo when they appeared at the opening ceremony, and so they should.

Finally, as if my life wasn’t complicated enough, I have finally decided to complete my English Literature degree (*) with the Open University. I sort of started in 2004, and have stumbled along ever since, adding a few credit points as I have gone along, and now I need 240 credits (or four modules at 60 credits each) in order to complete the qualification. This will take me four years; four years in which I have to pass each of the four modules and not drop out of one and repeat it later, as the modules I have already passed will cease to be counted after 2017. I think I can do it. After all, I’m only aiming for a ‘Desmond’ (a 2:2), as I already have a First Class Honours degree, from that same, venerable institution. What do you mean I should tell the world about it? Well, I’m sure that the associated trials and tribulations will adequately fill the hole left by the departure of travel, football and the performing arts to their own blogs. I will, however, need to create a new blog all about the novels, plays and poems themselves.

Did you know that it's been a year (52 weeks) since I resumed (and continued) blogging? Well, it has, and it all began (resumed) here. It's been fun, hasn't it?

*Yes, I’m the one with the reading problems, so how the hell am I ever going to be able to read works of literature in order to write about them? Stay tuned.

Nothing to see here. Move along, now.

Is there anything worse than summer? Well, probably winter, but you know what I mean. Apart from holidays and festivals, there’s nothing happening. There’s nothing to watch on TV, though a major sporting event helps fill any empty schedule. There are no concerts or plays to take in, unless you either live in, or are willing to keep travelling to, our nation’s capital. The Edinburgh International Festival, the Fringe, the Book Festival and a whole host of other festivals could keep me occupied 24/7 for a month, if I had a regular income that didn’t have to come from a 9-5 job. I manage to get to the occasional concert every year or two, but don’t feel like I have either the patience or the time to go trawling round pubs, decommissioned telephone boxes, disused public toilets or wigwams trying to uncover the next Eddie Izzard or Jeremy Hardy. It’s not just patience, or time or money I need. I could have had a couple of hours there on each of the last two Saturdays, but I’m just not interested. Some of you would think I’m not making the most of my life, that I lack courage and imagination, but what sort of life is it when you’d rather walk up and down the street eating a cold pie from nearby Tesco rather than go into a crowded restaurant or bar for a meal before a concert? What’s the point of humiliating myself? Mind you, I do that on a regular basis. This life is becoming steadily more unpleasant. Is there anything worse than that?

How strange the change from major to minor

Some things, keepsakes, you take with you on your journey through life; a teddy bear, a photograph, the ticket from your first concert, a present from a long-dead grandparent, a card or letter from your first boyfriend; long-cherished memories. I’ve travelled this road with nothing tangible, just thoughts and feelings, and Frank and Ella for company.

There was one song I loved to sing along to when I was quite young, around 3 or 4 years old; ‘High Hopes’, written by Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen, and sung by Frank Sinatra, featured in a film called ‘A Hole in the Head’. I can’t say that I’ve ever seen the movie, or would want to, but the song was on a 78rpm record in my mother’s collection, and I was forever asking her to play it. It was one of those songs with a motto; nothing is impossible.

Next time you’re found, with your chin on the ground
There a lot to be learned, so look around

Just what makes that little old ant
Think he'll move that rubber tree plant
Anyone knows an ant, cant
Move a rubber tree plant

But he's got high hopes, he's got high hopes
He’s got high apple pie, in the sky hopes

So any time your getting’ low
’stead of lettin’ go
Just remember that ant
Oops there goes another rubber tree plant

When troubles call, and your back’s to the wall
There a lot to be learned, that wall could fall

Once there was a silly old ram
Thought he'd punch a hole in a dam
No one could make that ram, scram
He kept buttin’ that dam

Cause he had high hopes, he had high hopes
He had high apple pie, in the sky hopes

So any time your feelin’ bad
’stead of feelin’ sad
Just remember that ram
Oops there goes a billion kilowatt dam

All problems just a toy balloon
They'll be busted soon
They're just bound to go pop
Oops there goes another problem ker-plop

I’ve never had a positive outlook. It comes from bitter experience. I’ve never found that I could move a rubber tree plant or punch a hole in a billion kilowatt dam. I’ve never had the strength or the guile, or someone else to do it for me. The immovable is object is just that. The unbreakable is just that. The impossible is just that. Immovable. Unbreakable. Impossible.

The song that my mother always wanted to hear was ‘Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye’ written by Cole Porter and sung by Ella Fitzgerald. The first lady of popular song, like Sinatra, has been, from that early age, an ever-present, towering figure in my musical life, my consciousness, my heart, my soul. Ella and Frank speak to me today in the way they always have. They sing to me my songs of joy. They are my port in every storm. They are immortal. They stand firm when everything around me falls apart.

Ella’s song didn’t mean anything to me back then, or for a long time after. How could it? The tune, the arrangement, those warm tones were all it needed to make it a classic, but the lyrics can only have meaning attributed to them if you’ve lived and loved and lost.

Everytime we say goodbye, I die a little,
Everytime we say goodbye, I wonder why a little,
Why the Gods above me, who must be in the know.
Think so little of me, they allow you to go.
When you're near, there's such an air of spring about it,
I can hear a lark somewhere, begin to sing about it,
There's no love song finer, but how strange the change from major to minor,
Everytime we say goodbye.

I’ve never really lived, or loved, but I always find myself having to say goodbye. Without going into detail, I was out the other night with someone I’d not seen in ages. I say ages, but two and a half months feels like an eternity when you miss someone you love. I say miss someone, but we barely know each other. I say love, but I’m too selfish and self-centered and scared to love anyone. Although I should be pleased and excited, and concerned, for someone who may be on the verge of leaving to go on a great adventure (and I am, truly, all of those things), I’m falling apart because of what it means for me, only for me. A good night watched over by the spectre of something I always thought would happen, but just not so soon. The positive, anything’s possible, punching a hole in that billion kilowatt dam balloon is burst by the cold steely pin-prick of unyielding, pitiless reality. There’ll be time enough for Whitney Houston to wail ‘I will always love you’ but for now, Frank’s high hopes are brought crashing to the ground, and how strange the change from major to minor.

Operation catch-up

It’s a bit tidier round here, but the work’s not yet done. I’ve been distracted; by the Olympics, by the heavy rain and thunderstorms, by the Internet. I’ve started bringing my blogs up-to-date:

I’ve written three posts on football on Sent To The Stands and one post on July’s concerts in Best Seat In The House

Just four or five of the travel blog entries to sort out and everything will be ship-shape. The writing in a ‘journal’ or a 'diary' loses its impact if not written at the time. First impressions are contaminated by subsequent encounters or the passage of time or a poor memory, or combinations thereof, but I have photographs to help me remember at least some of it.

Those participating in the Olympics, and those lucky enough to have obtained tickets, will remember the last eight days for a very long time. Great Britain and Northern Ireland, or teamGB as it is known, has exceeded expectations, so far, in terms of its medal haul. There are over twenty TV channels showing wall-to-wall coverage of as many of the sports in these games as its possible to broadcast, and I’m not near a TV or streaming media all the time, so I’ve missed most of it, including some triumphs for GB. As I type, Great Britain is third in the medals table with 16 Gold, 11 Silver and 10 Bronze. No one is expecting significant additions to those totals, as we are currently relatively poor in track and field, but where there’s life, there’s hope.

This good feeling is only temporary, though, and doesn’t mask the current Government’s victimisation of the poor, the sick, the old and the underprivileged by its systematic dismantling of the Welfare State. Politicians are queuing up to stand alongside our sporting heroes. They’re happy to live vicariously through others and bask in their glory, whilst at the same time, cutting funding for grass roots sport, selling off school playing fields, taking money from local authorities which then cut community facilities and coaching, and so on. They should be ashamed of themselves, but they won’t be.

Congratulations to all those who have won, those who came close, those who lost and all those who didn’t manage to compete. There’s something in me that runs and jumps and swims and cycles, that goes higher and faster, but it’s not my body. All I can do is watch, and admire.

Operation Tidy-Up

I don’t normally go on my summer holidays from Saturday to Saturday. I tend to take two weeks off and go from Wednesday to Wednesday, giving me plenty of time to have a rest before I go and tackle the washing, ironing and tidying after I come back. This year, due to a combination of my good fortune in obtaining a ticket for the John Wilson Orchestra’s (and a stellar cast’s) performance of ‘My Fair Lady’ at the Proms and an unfortunately-timed 50^th birthday, I was forced to take my annual break in Llandudno during the last full week of July, and so I returned home just after midnight on Saturday, i.e. 21 hours ago. I’m knackered, and it may take me until my next trip away at the end of August to sort everything out. What do you mean ‘it doesn’t take 14 hours to drive from North Wales to Glasgow’? I know that, but I had to stop off in Edinburgh on the way (OK, not exactly on the way).

My exploits away from home are being detailed (or will be detailed, when I get around to writing them up) in my other blogs, as is my taking in the match between Glasgow City Ladies FC and Forfar Farmington FC this afternoon. Earlier this year, I decided to have a blog devoted to my travels outside of Glasgow postal districts and, if you take a wee look, you can see that I have been hard at work keeping the world informed of my experiences (not), as I was being a little over-ambitious in thinking that I could do it all from my mobile phone! As well as this, I decided to start a footie blog following the recent upheaval in Scottish football, Now, I think it might be time for a concert blog. You can catch up with all the fun here:

True Adventures (travel blog)

Sent To The Stands (football blog)

Best Seat In The House (concert blog)

I bet you’re hoping that I’m going to shut this blog down. Well, you’re wrong. It’s sub-heading isn’t ‘Irreverent and irrelevant opinions on everything and nothing’ for, er, nothing. As I said, I’ve been on holiday. Sadly, both for me and for you, dear reader (s), I have missed the much-praised Olympic opening ceremony, as well as a great deal of the action, so far. I have missed that piece of slime, Tony Blair, trying to get back into politics and I have missed some super-rich, dodgy-dealing, Mormon arsehole coming over here and tell us we can’t run a piss-up in a brewery, amongst other things. However, it’s the summer, the silly season, and I’m sure I’ll have lots to tell you about before it's over. Don’t you worry your pretty, little head (s).

Plans are put in motion

As holidays go, this one could be better. Nearly two days before Friday the 13^th, my last day at work for a fortnight, I came down with a ‘flu-like illness’ and spent those two days as high as a kite on over-the-counter flu remedies and painkillers. By the time I got on the coach to London on the Friday night, I looked and felt like death (barely) warmed up, so you can imagine how the weekend went.

I arrived home just after 8am on the Monday. I had some breakfast followed by a soothing bath, then headed for bed. Apart from a rude awakening caused by the Radio 3 repeat of Prom 1, I had slept from 9am until just after 3pm. When I got out of bed, my head and feet aching from the weekends’ exertions, I staggered around for a while, gathering items for the washing machine. My recollection of the rest of the day is hazy, to say the least. I know I watched Coronation Street and tidied away some items from my case, but that is all.

I surprised myself on Tuesday morning by doing some of the ironing and some more of the tidying and by making a decision. I threw my camera in a bag and headed for the Falkirk Wheel. 

It’s some 25 minutes from home, and was opened in 2002, but this was my first visit. I wasn’t disappointed.

A boat trip on the last few metres of the Forth and Clyde Canal to where it joins the Union Canal, made possible by the world’s only rotating boat lift, was just the tonic for my ailing body, and gave me the impetus to head a few miles along the road to Bo’ness, for a trip on a steam train.

As promised, Wednesday brought rain, so it was just as well that I had not planned to do anything beyond shopping, banking and eating ice-cream in Nardini’s in Byres Road. With all tasks accomplished, I headed home to do absolutely nothing. I was feeling tired again, the bug having not left my system. I found it difficult to stay up, so I went to bed around 10.

Thursday was the most frustrating day of the week. The rain had stopped, and none was forecast for the rest of the day, but I was too tired to leave the house early. My head and limbs were sore and my nose had started to run. I went into town for a mad, two-hour dash round the shops, but came home immediately afterwards. I didn’t have the energy to do anything, so sat in my chair for few hours until common sense kicked in and I started to pack for my trip to Wales. When I went to bed, the job was only half done.

As if I didn’t have a list of jobs the length of my arm for Friday, I got out of bed for breakfast only to discover that everything in the (mercifully small) freezer had defrosted because the door wasn’t shutting properly. It took over two hours to clear up the mess and get myself ready to go out. That is, out to the shops to buy what I’d planned to buy and everything needed to replace what had been ruined. When I came back, I emptied the car somewhat frantically, before heading for the local driving range to take out my frustration on a hundred golf balls. I hadn’t swung a club for almost a year, so I was worse than normal. I seemed to get into the swing of things (every pun intended) near the end, so I may reactivate that particular hobby after the holidays.

My last port of call for the first half of the holiday was Clydebank, and the Titan Crane in the former John Brown’s shipyard. 

The crane has been a summer visitor attraction for five years but, yet again, this was only my first visit. The waterfront at Clydebank is undergoing a regeneration, with the College having moved to that part of town a few years back and new flats nearby, but there is still a lot of vacant ground, enough to suggest that the recession has halted, hopefully temporarily, plans to bring the area back to life. I had another thought, one much less positive: we seem to have given up. We’ve given up on ever being able to make anything ever again.

 

Tomorrow, I head for Llandudno for the tenth successive summer. I, too, have given up: given up on originality; given up on a sense of adventure; given up on hope for the future; given up on being able to live ever again.

2012: Plans are put in motion to redevelop this life.

Milestones

I’m not inclined to say much when the weather’s like this. Apparently, we’re at the mercy of the six-mile high jet stream, and most of the UK has had the biblical rain to prove it. It’s been a funny old week and a bit here, and I really don’t function in unbearable heat and humidity; I’m tired, grumpy and forever having to un-stick my clothes from my skin. It’s just as well I live in, and very rarely leave, the west of Scotland, where this weather is uncharacteristic. It’s also just as well I’m not going out in Glasgow for some considerable time.

Saturday the 30^th of June saw my final concert of this season, though a summer jazz festival doesn’t really count as part of any season other than the summer festival one. For want of something to do to maintain my record of having attended something at every Glasgow Jazz Festival since its inception (actually, my memory is so bad that I can no longer be sure that this is true), I attended this year’s performance by the Strathclyde Youth Jazz Orchestra (SYJO), and this is what I mean when I say that my memory is so bad. I was writing this blog in my head as I sat in the Old Fruitmarket. Six days later, and that piece of journalistic magnificence has all but vanished from my Swiss-cheese brain. Lucky for me, and you, I took notes. Sadly, I’m having trouble reading them!

They opened with a version of Duke Ellington’s ‘Take the A Train’, spoiled by the lead trumpet, who, while note-perfect, struggled for the entire gig to keep in time with everyone else in the band. They followed this with a Dizzy Gillespie piece, ‘Tanga’, which was a new one on me, or was it? I’ve just been looking at a version of it on YouTube, and it’s possible that Dizzy and his United Nations orchestra (featuring a young Arturo Sandoval on trumpet) could have played this at their gig in Glasgow on July 7 1990 (the night the Three Tenors concert was taking place in Italy, prior to the World Cup). Who knows? Anyway, the trumpeter who was having so much trouble in the first number played flugel horn in this one, but there was no improvement. The tenor solo was good though, and this was a feature for Allan Glen, a former member of the band. He was one of many guests in the ensemble, conducted by Stewart Forbes, which consisted of four trumpets, six trombones, six saxophones, piano, bass and drums. This is the second incarnation of the band, which is now based at Strathclyde University. Previously, it was, I believe, funded by the old Strathclyde Regional Council, created for the first festival in 1987, and was for many years under the direction of Bobby Wishart.

Back to last Saturday. The first vocal feature of the day went to the sharp-dressed presenter of the Jazz House on BBC Radio Scotland, Stephen Duffy, and he gave us his rendition of guest trombonist Adrian Drover’s arrangement of ‘The Best Is Yet To Come’. Drover has been a fixture on the jazz scene in Scotland from his days with the BBC Scottish Radio Orchestra, and had once been a member of Maynard Ferguson’s band. The second number was Duffy’s own arrangement which brought together Neal Hefti’s ‘Li’l Darlin’’ and the Gershwins’ ‘Our Love Is Here To Stay’. Duffy has a wonderful voice, and an understanding of, and empathy with, this music which is second to none for someone of his age. Perhaps that’s due to the fact that he seems to have been doing it forever. I saw him perform with Bill Fanning’s band in the Glasgow Society of Musicians when he was about 15 or 16 years old, and everyone was in awe of this precocious teenager who not only knew the songs and how to sing them, but had written big band arrangements to accompany them. That was back in the late 80s. He’s a young 41 now.
 

The band was back in the spotlight again in arrangement of Oliver Nelson’s ‘Stolen Moments’. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Nelson’s own arrangement, and this spoiled it somewhat for me. I seem to recall that my first exposure to this piece was a recording by pianist Ahmad Jamal, played on Humphrey Lyttelton’s much-missed Monday night show on Radio 2 and, lo, here it is on YouTube. Next up, Lee Morgan’s ‘The Sidewinder’, which I seem to recall was my highlight of the day. Time, once more, for vocals.

SYJO is about to start recruiting for next term, as Stewart Forbes said about a dozen times, and, every so often, it unearths some gems. Today was no exception. He introduced a young lady by the name of Deborah Bismanah (apologies for the spelling), who was singing with the band for the first time. If the song, ‘Georgia’, was somewhat unimaginative, the performance suggested that she might just go on to become a big star. If she has a fraction of the success and respect Stephen Duffy has had, she won’t have had too bad a career. Speaking of Mr. Duffy, he returned for his final spot; Nelson Riddle’s arrangement of ‘Don’t Be That Way’, which was recorded by Ella Fitzgerald, and a Barry Forgie transcription (arranger unknown) of a song Tony Bennett recorded with the Buddy Rich band, ‘There’ll Be Some Changes Made’. Finally, the band returned to Duke Ellington, with an arrangement (again, unknown) of ‘Things Ain’t What They Used To Be’, and this was followed by ‘All Blues’ by Miles Davis. Stewart Forbes announced that they were out of time, and that was my Glasgow Jazz Festival over for another year. Somewhat disappointingly, they never played ‘Milestones’.

SYJO made their big debut in that first festival in 1987, and I’ve seen quite a few line-ups along the way. That was the year I saw Benny Carter, the man who made one of the first jazz LPs I ever bought, and, thanks to the festival, I’ve also seen Oscar Peterson, Gerry Mulligan, Stan Getz, Sonny Rollins, Jackie McLean, Dizzy Gillespie, Phil Woods, Maynard Ferguson, Chic Corea, Nat Adderley, George Shearing, Stan Tracy, Gary Burton, Wynton Marsalis and, I suspect, a few others. I’ve missed dozens and dozens more. Almost all the legends of jazz in its many forms are no longer with us, but as long as there are people willing to play the music and people willing to put on gigs and people interested enough to go to those gigs, jazz will survive. To live in the hearts of those we leave behind is not to die.

There's no such thing as a free lunch

No, but there’s a free weekend of concerts by the BBC SSO every June, and there’s always something to enjoy. This weekend was no exception, so let me tell you all about it.

It’s always difficult to park in the Merchant City, more so if you don’t have the change to use the machine in the High Street car park. I arrived in the area late, as it was, but too late to go round the block twice and along Bell Street and back up High Street again, and that’s where I found myself with fewer than ten minutes to go until the start of the concert. At this point, the rain had abated.

Thanks to my tardiness, I had to sit upstairs, four seats from the aisle. I was also too late for a little comfort break, so by the time the 2012 ‘Listen Here!’ curator, BBC SSO Artist-in-Association Matthias Pintscher, turned to face the orchestra, I was already in distress.  The fire alarm in work had sounded for thirty minutes only four hours earlier, and my ears had barely recovered when the almighty mess that is the Second Movement (’Putnam’s Camp, Redding, Connecticut’) from Charles Ives’ ‘3 Places in New England’ had me almost weeping with agony into my sleeve. I am not familiar with Ives’ work, but at least I know that I’ll have to listen at home with one hand on the volume control. To complete Part I, American violinist Jennifer Koh gave us a fine performance of Bartok’s second Violin Concerto, but I was still to be convinced that I’d made the correct decision in leaving the house. By the time Part II, and Dvorak’s Symphony No. 9, was over, I was relieved, in more ways than one, and resolved to remain in the hall for Part III.

Scott Mitchell, the well-known RCS accompanist and chamber music coach, delved into the realms of the plinky-plonky with John Cage’s ‘Seven Haiku’ which, thankfully, only lasted three minutes. A typical theatrical SSO performance then followed, with trombones, horns and flutes sprinkled around the Choir Stalls and Balcony for Charles Ives’ ‘The Unanswered Question’, before Scott Mitchell returned to play Robert Schumann’s ‘Kinderszenen, Op. 15’ and this, like the Dvorak, was one of the rare truly beautiful moments in the evening. The wandering minstrels returned to delight us with Giovanni Gabrielli’s ‘Sonata pian e forte’, which isn’t what you think (the former means one choir, the latter the two reunited), before the marathon session ended with a small orchestra playing Aaron Copeland’s ‘Appalachian Spring’ (which features the clarinet in the Shaker melody ‘Simple Gifts’, of course). That was that, at nearly 11pm!

One of the many things I love about the BBC SSO is the chance to participate in an event along with the orchestra. Last year, it was the orchestra and massed choir, conducted by the delightfully enthusiastic Andrew Manze, performing ‘Pirates of Penzance’. This year, it was the efficient German Matthias Pintscher's take on Ralph Vaughan Williams’ Concerto Grosso’ for string orchestra. Now, what on earth could this poor excuse for a clarinettist find to do in a string orchestra? Well, it’s not such a quantum leap when you consider that, as a former member of the Glasgow Fiddle Workshop, I’ve got a violin; not that I would know what to do with a violin and a violin part. Once I had stuffed tissue paper in my shoes to dry up the rain that had settled there, it was time to take my seat. I tried, I really did but, like my desk partner, who was about 9, I was floundering from the start, in spite of the fact that all my notes were on open strings. However, I enjoyed it, and fulfilled another ambition along the way. The bucket list hasn’t got much left for me to do.

I had a wee snooze after I got home, so I had to rush to get to the Saturday evening concert, too. This time, it was easier to park, and easier to get a seat, though the audience turned out to be larger than anyone expected. This was the ‘modern’ night, entitled ‘New German Mythmakers’. A touch of the plinky-plonky, again, with the opener; Aribert Reimann’s 1993 work, ‘Neun Stȕcke fȕr Orchester’. This was followed by Hans Werner Henze’s 1993 composition ‘Sinfonia No. 8. This jarred less than the first piece, and even though I’m not able to hum or whistle any of it, it wasn’t bad, for a modern piece, and I’ll need to look out for the episode of BBC Radio 3’s ‘Hear and Now’ that will feature it. After the interval, American cellist Joshua Roman was the featured soloist in Matthias Pintscher’s ‘Reflections on Narcissus’ from 2005, which was actually worth hearing again, especially the movement were Roman appeared to play harmonics the whole time. This wasn’t the last of the 28-year old virtuoso, as he gave a recital after the concert in which he played J.S. Bach’s ‘Suite No. 3 for Solo Cello’.

Finally, this afternoon’s concert, and the lighter side of the orchestra, in a programme entitled ‘Around the World in 80 Minutes’. Conducted and presented by Stephen Bell (presumably to avoid a repeat of the high jinks of last year, when Jamie MacDougall and Billy Differ had the audience fighting back the tears with their double-entendre double-act), this was billed as a family-friendly concert, and there was a whole host of bored children sprinkled throughout the auditorium. Beginning with Malcolm Arnold’s ‘Scottish Dance No. 1’, the SSO took a trip around the world from Scotland to Norway (Grieg), Paris (Cole Porter), Spain (Albeniz), Germany (Mendelssohn), Austria (Johann Strauss II), Italy (a Neapolitan miscellany arranged by Gordon Langford) and the Czech Republic (Dvorak). That was just the first half. After the interval, Russia (Tchaikovsky), China (Tan Dun), Australia (Grainger), Mexico (Sydney Torch arrangement), Canada (Bob Fanon), USA (Copeland) and finally back to the UK with ‘Great Songs of Great Britain’ arranged by Bob Farnon, the Canadian who made Guernsey his home. And that was that, all over for another year, and there’s only one more event to attend in Glasgow before the summer, proper. More about that next weekend.