Album Of The Decade: The Sixties

Leading up to the end of the decade I am devoting this blog to discussing the best albums of each of the past five decades. And in time honoured fashion, of course this will mean the best white male rock album of each decade. Because, as we know, white male rock is the only form of music taken seriously for these kind of lists.

So, the 60s. There was the Beatles, of course, who made some classic albums. The Doors, of course, who made some classic albums. And my personal secret band, Spirit, who also made some classic albums.

But the best white male rock album of the 60s just has to be Pink Floyd's The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn.



When I first met Betty I was unaware of the Floyd's early work. When she said she liked the band I imagined going to the Dominion Theatre to see a musical based on The Wall written by somebody extremely unlikely like, say, Ben Elton. Of course I was aware that Roger Waters was largely responsible for the downfall of communism in Eastern Europe. But he wasn't winning me over with his emotional blackmail.

But Betty played me The Piper and I understood everything. Man, what a trip! The Beatles' Penny Lane takes me back to my little comfortable 60s but this album takes me to the sixties. A 60s where middle class white kids were turned on, tuned in and dropped off at psychedelic gigs by their dads. It's a solid gold classic, mate.

What is your favourite white male rock album of the 60s? Pray tell.

Lionel

"We're the only ones who tolerate Lionel. He's such a miserable, horrible man, hasn't got a good word to say about anybody. He pops up on our doorstep at the most inconvenient times. You ask him if he wants a coffee or tea and he says yes please and a sandwich would go down nicely.

Everybody's sent him to Coventry at the bowls club, except for us. It's the same with the dancing club. So when we had our club's Christmas dinner on Wednesday him and Jean were on the same table as us. He treats Jean like shit, always ordering her about to do things. She does everything for him, he's like a big baby who can't do anything for himself.

So we had our meal. Soup with a bread roll and butter, turkey with all the trimmings, Christmas pudding, mince pies, cheese and biscuits. Then they brought some bowls of Roses chocolates round.

Well Maureen offered our Roses to the next table. Their bowl was empty and she thought they hadn't been given any. They had but they'd eaten them all. So they took a couple and handed then back to us.

And you know what Lionel did? He snatched them out of Maureen's hand and said the chocolates were for our table and our table alone and he was going to keep them safe. He held onto them, out of the reach of everybody. He was so angry that Maureen had passed them onto the other table.

So I wasn't having this. I thought I'd make a joke of it and pretended to go for the chocolates. And you know what Lionel did?

He grabbed my hand and squeezed with all his strength. He was furious. He was squeezing so hard I thought he was going to break my thumb. He's a big man.

So that's it. That was like a red rag to a bull. We're not going to socialise with Lionel any more. He's cooked his goose. If he tries to sit on the same table as us in future we're just going to move. And if he turns up at our door we're not going to answer it. He can stick his sandwiches."

An Important Announcement

Things are going to change around here. I've been writing on this blog for fifteen years and never made a penny out of it. I'm following Rupert Murdoch's example and installing a paywall.

From Saturday all you will see when you hit this blog is the following image.




The image will open its mouth and you will have 15 seconds to click on the PayPal icon on the tip of its tongue. You will then be able to securely electronically send me, the author of this blog, one United Kingdom pound for access to the delights therein. I will be making it worth your while by recording an exclusive daily podcast of me reading excerpts from the Old Testament in a very high, silly voice which you can download and play on the portable device of your choice.

Of course if you do not click in time, you will be denied access, the image will shut its mouth and slowly dissolve into the electronic ether. I will be able to tell from my stats just who has decided to not pay me a living wage. And I do not forget.

Snooker Doggy Dog

Last night I came to the realisation that the beautiful game is not football. We had just stopped halfway through watching the French version of Lady Chatterley (or "John Thomas and Lady Whitestockings" as the English subtitles had it) and in my alcoholic haze I was whisked away to the Pukka Pies UK Snooker Championships from Telford. It suddenly all made sense.

Football I can watch if I'm passionately supporting one of the teams. An England containing Terry, Lampard and Gerrard I have nothing but disdain for. And a West Ham team as lame as the current one doesn't really get me jumping out of my seat. But, snooker is something else.

I presume you remember Betty's post on those snooker players of yore who brought an animal sexuality to the game.

I'm afraid today's crop of players are not in the same league. They are young, self-critical, efficient and personality-free. But could you see David Beckham playing in a tournament sponsored by Pukka Pies? Exactly. You cut your clothes according to your cloth.

So I sat there last night for a good fifteen minutes. Transfixed, I was. All that sport-watching machismo had left my body to be replaced by simple appreciation of skillfully maneuvered balls. The players were not important. I willed them both to perform to the best of their abilities. I was in no hurry, not like the old days when a dithering Terry Griffiths would get me shouting expletives with impatience. I was happy for the players to take as long as they liked to create the most pleasing shots.

Last night I found peace with myself. It has taken me by surprise but now I know there is no turning back. I think I will be able to retire with grace and free of stress. Though I may have to be constantly pissed.

National Treasure Island

Morrissey's choices of songs on Desert Island discs were hardly inspiring. New York Dolls, Ramones, Velvet Underground, Nico, Marianne Faithfull, Iggy & The Stooges, Mott The Hoople, Klaus Nomi. Seven-eighths white rock from the 60s and 70s. Even if we take the 70s, there was no prog, no disco, no reggae, no krautrock, no soul, no post-punk. Morrissey knows what he likes and he ploughs a very narrow furrow. This is evident in the whole of his and The Smiths' recorded output, lyrically clever but musically leaden.

Still, I like him and he's a national treasure and all that. Where would we be without Morrissey? Just who from the 80s would we have had posters of on our bedroom walls? Whose name would we have written in our exercise books? Whose name would we have referenced when announcing to our parents we were to become vegetarians? Who would have got us into Oscar Wilde?

Stephen Fry?

There Must Be An Angel

Today Annie Lennox receives the Freedom of the City of London in recognition of her sterling work for the British Red Cross. It will be a star studded tribute evening featuring performances by independent lady singer-songwriters such as Little Boots and La Roux. Independent lady singer-songwriters of the noughties are continuing Annie's tradition of independent lady singer-songwriting and let's hope they continue Annie's tradition of humanitarianism in any spare time they may have between writing, recording and performing their songs.

Previous famous recipients of the award include The Queen, Nelson Mandela, Princess Diana, Luciano Pavarotti, Florence Nightingale and Winston Churchill. I'm sure you'll agree our foremost independent lady singer-songwriter can hold her own in such exalted company.

As Freemen, Annie, The Queen and Nelson Mandela (and presumably the ghosts of the others) currently have the right to:-

1. drive sheep and cattle over London Bridge

2. be hanged by a silken rope if sentenced to death

3. carry a naked sword in public

4. be bundled into a taxi and sent home rather than thrown into a cell if found drunk and incapable by a City of London Police officer

So go on, Annie. Fill your boots, get fucking rat-arsed, swirl that sword round like a wacky child and shoo some sheep and cattle over Dave Stewart's headless body. We will cheer for the death of the hateful 80s as your neck is enclosed in beautiful jacquard silk as you stand there resplendent in your perfectly tailored man's suit.

The Shed

This shed was a refuge. It was here I did my stuff, I created. Music, art and literature. From dawn till dusk I did whatever my instincts told me. An artist must trust his instincts. Must act on them. Must do.

My family left me to my own devices. My wife worked at home, in her upstairs studio. She wrote film and television soundtracks. You may have seen her name. It may have registered. Sarah Malcolm. My sweet Sarah.

My children were gifted, too. Ross was going to be a successful musician. He had a magnificent command of a multitude of instruments. And Lucy's calling was to write. She was a precocious child who wrote her first story at the age of four. Our children were beautiful with full brown eyes and long dark hair.

Last Saturday evening, they all died in an horrific supernatural maelstrom of evil that engulfed the house.

Fortunately for me, I was in the shed at the time.

'Tis The Season

Preparations for the company Christmas do are in full swing. It's going to be a posh version of chicken-in-a-basket (pheasant-on-china?) with a live band (who will attempt anything from the 50s to the noughties) to accompany our noshing and guzzling. We've been asked for dedications for the band to play to fellow staff members.

Of course I'm keeping myself to myself and wouldn't dare suggest Kraftwerk's Pocket Calculator for yours truly or The Fall's Mr Pharmacist for the office cocaine dealer, but I thought it might be fun to make things a little difficult for the singer.

Bill Withers' Lovely Day, for example, or Mojo Pin by Jeff Buckley, or 16 Shells From A Thirty-Ought Six by Tom Waits, or Captain Beefheart's Electricity. Even Rush's Closer To The Heart.

Any other challenges for the vocal chords?

The Harvester (Slight Reflux)

Mrs Edmonds is cooking Noel's favourite meal, salmon steak with buttered new potatoes and tinned Smedley peas. Noel always orders this meal when he goes to his favourite restaurant, The Harvester.

"Sauce, darling?" Mrs Edmonds calls from the kitchen.

"Sorry, darling?" replies Noel.

"Would you like sauce with your salmon?"

For the first time in his long life, Noel is not sure about something. He dithers. Mrs Edmonds begins to get a little irritated.

"I said would you like sauce? I'll have to make it straight away if you want it."

Noel is confused. He really doesn't know. He really doesn't know whether he wants sauce or not.

"For the last time, darling!"

"Yes, darling?"

"Sauce or not?"

"Sauce or not?" Noel repeats, parrot fashion.

"YES! DILL OR NO DILL?"

The Harvester

Betty couldn't make it as she'd sprained her ankle the previous day and was not particularly mobile. This left me, my mum and her husband, and my sister and hers. I cadged a lift as I do not drink and drive.

My brother-in-law asked us what we wanted to drink. I was not quick enough to get the drinks in. I never am. Two of them went to the bar and the rest of us were greeted by the Harvester Greeter. Yes, they had a table for five. We were shown to it.

There were all ages in the restaurant, from babies to old women. Children were running around, in high spirits. There was a lot of chatter. I honed in on a kid who had a "Chelsea F.C." top draped over his chair. And the old woman with the half of lager, her middle aged son with a pint of coke. He must have driven the family there, sacrificing booze for kindness.

I picked up the menu. It wasn't the menu I'd seen online, the pdf I'd downloaded to my desktop. This was the good value "Earlybird" menu to be ordered before 6 p.m. I imagined birds waking up at 5 p.m. saying to themselves, "Bloody hell, I'm up early".

I didn't want to seem a cheapskate so I picked up the main menu, as did the others. I'd already decided on the soup to start and chicken & mash as my main course. Apparently you can't go wrong with chicken & mash no matter what day of the week or time of day it is.

The waitress came to our table. Nobody wanted a starter so I kept schtum about the soup. They were all going to scavenge from the free salad cart and eat their spoils as a starter. This is the Harvester unwritten custom. You do not have a starter, ever. You scavenge from the free salad cart.

I have trouble with raw and vinegary food. So after ordering our main courses the others went up to the cart and I was left nursing my glass of red wine.

They ate their salads. On the table ahead of me the old woman sent her lamb shoulder back to the kitchen. Was it underdone? Not enough gravy? I never did find out. Her son seemed happy enough with his mountain of food and his second pint of coke.

We spoke about what was on telly and about the Christine Bleakley/Frank Lampard affair. Then our main courses arrived. Two well-done sirloin steaks, one with jacket potato, one with chips. One salmon steak with buttered baby potatoes. One gammon steak topped with a fried egg and accompanied by chips. Oh, and my chicken & mash. Everybody had a baby's handful of tinned garden peas. And there was a bowl of onion rings to share.

We got stuck in and we were good girls and boys, eating most of our meat and fish and all of our peas. The leftover steak and salmon was wrapped in a serviette for the dog for later.

"Did you enjoy your meal?" said the waitress.

"Yes, thank you," we said.

"Would you like to see the dessert menu?"

"Yes, please."

I really didn't fancy a dessert. The others did and I watched them demolish profiteroles and all kinds of ice cream. A rather overweight family arrived and my mum said "Oh, well. There goes the rest of the food."

And then it was over. We left the bright Harvester lights, its motorway service station ambience, goodbye to the new arrivals, the old woman with three quarters of a lamb shoulder in her belly, her satiated son grinning into his half-full pint of coke. We said farewell and made a wish that this would not be our last time in such a convivial family atmosphere.

Chanson d'Amour

From what you see in the media, you'd think that "old school" blogging was all about middle class birds shagging. Don't get me wrong, there was all that going on. But there was much, much more.

What you don't hear about are the blogs that described your ordinary working class geezers' experiences of sex. To put it bluntly, it weren't just the literary birds that were putting it about. Of course, the press couldn't give a bollock about the men's point of view as a man's sex life is not deemed newsworthy. But blogs like...

Rock Hard Alan's Blog
Derek From Behind
Long Dong Paul
Dogging Dave

and not forgetting my favourite...

Bit Of Rough Ray (a painter and decorator who described his exploits with a series of posh sorts whose interiors he was seeing to)

...all had merit and were a bloody good read.

They may not have had all those fancy words that got the ladies the book and TV deals but what the geezers lacked in finesse they certainly made up for in enthusiasm.

What are your memories of the old days?

And when they were only half-way up, they were neither up nor down

We're coming up to the time of year when my lovely family enjoy a happy Sunday in the glorious surroundings of a local restaurant. Tomorrow is our local Harvester's turn to experience us in action.

We go to posh places, too though. Remember the time we went here?

Well, I've received a few comments about my cheeky little review since I did it all of three years ago. (My, how the time flies!) Anonymous 1, 2 and 3 aren't really on my wavelength. They mistake my jest for a lack of sophistication. And their defence of a popular local restaurant which doesn't need defending I think illustrates an attitude prevalent amongst those with working class backgrounds who have pissed on their roots and are smugly happy to sneer at those who couldn't give a shit about the social climbing ladder. The ladder is long and the top rungs are off-limits to the likes of the anonymous as they climb as high as they can to breathe the rarest air they can reach. The food on anon's rung is good, of course. But far from the best. The best is as unattainable for them as it is for a single mother on benefits.

Pity.

Anon 1: "I can tell you would not know a first class meal at a resonable price if it bit you on your Burburry cap covered empty heads. Stick to MacDonalds you cheap, moronic, unappreciative egits.

By the way the V******* Restaurant is a fantastic place to eat, we had our company Christmas do there and found the food, wine, surroundings and staff to be excellent."

Anon 2: " "I travel through work a LOT and eat out at restaurants across the country practically every night, through necessity, to the point it's not a treat anymore.

The V******** Restaurant in B********* had always been my favourite - a place for a special occasion - and when I went back with my girlfriend recently I was concerned that it wouldn't be as good as I'd remembered, having been spoilt over the last year.

I'm pleased to say, it was every bit as good as I remembered, one of the best places I've eaten ANYWHERE, and I'm going back there again tomorrow.

The writer of this article doesn't know what they are talking about and needs to stick to Weatherspoons, where a beer and burger meal is very good value for money if you are feeling a bit tight ;)"

Anon 3: "Stick to ordering a pizza for your trailer geoff! I hear dominos are doing buy one get one free! that should keep the family happy!

wouldnt know a good meal if it came upto ya and twated u between the eyes!"


Nice, eh? The last comment on the post is Betty's. Which sums up our attitude to sneering bastards everywhere.

Betty: "Bleeding hell, anyone would think he had dared to criticise Cipriani or some other top notch joint, judging by the pasting he is getting from people who are so refained and poshe, don't you know, that they can't spell twatted or Burberry.

A shame that Chavscum.co.uk isn't still around - your subtle, witty potshots at poor people would have found a welcoming home there."

Sleepwalking

"A Conservative government will give every child the kind of education that is currently only available to the well-off".

Does anybody believe this absolute shit coming from the mouth of the Tories' education spokesman and contact lens wearer of the year 2009, Michael Gove? But they're on a roll and can say what they like. No moronic floating voter is going to care what they say, they'll just say "it's time for a change" as if who runs the country is about as important as what they're wearing this autumn.

"I've had this coat for a good three years now. It's time for a change."

For those under the illusion that the New Conservatives don't have any real policies and that they'll be just the same as that New Labour lot, Johann Hari puts them straight in this post.

Of course they won't read it, though. Because "they're all the same".

19th Century Boy

Well, I've tried iTunes U. Couldn't find anything to get me enthusiastic about learning. Just got bored, really. All it did was prove to me I'm not cut out for study. Study is boring to butterfly minds like mine. Since school I've tried a few things but never with any conviction. A Political Economy degree. Boring. The Association of Accounting Technicians course. Extra boring. Michel Thomas's Spanish course. Sleep-inducing. I am destined not to see anything of worth through. I just wanna be entertained.

But what entertains me?

I've bought this ipod and I might as well use it. So I got the audio book version of Simon Schama's A History Of Britain out of the library. Boring. I downloaded Madame Bovary from LibriVox. Boring. Lord Byron's Don Juan. Boring. I'm like a surly kid.

But LibriVox has thousands of titles. And as they are so easy to download I will not give in. I will find literature in the public domain that I like and I will come out the other end smiling. My life is about to become a journey into the past.

A Depressing Week

We are sat there, listening to the following...

"We were sitting in bed discussing the BNP. We think he's going to get the protest vote. People who have had enough of the main parties. You can't trust them. Enoch Powell was right, my dad was right. There will be rivers of blood. Our people's blood, what with all these knives they've got. We'll soon be in the minority in our own country."

My grandfather fought the Germans, not an ideology. It was his patriotic duty. He loved his country, his England. And he agreed with Powell 100%. A white Britain full of "our" people was what he wanted.

Nick Griffin says his is not a Nazi party. It used to be, but not any more. He supports Israel. Can you imagine a Nazi being on the side of the Jews?

Watching Question Time. Watching a bunch of young, middle class Londoners (not your true working class white ethnically cleansed Eastenders, of course) attack one man and his views. Views which are held by a significant proportion of people in the UK. Labour, Tory, Liberal, too, attacking him. The people with their snouts in the trough. The people a significant proportion of the population are disgusted with, want no more to do with.

The BBC shot themselves in the foot. The "lynching" was wrong. It entrenched attitudes and even gained Griffin sympathy from part-time racists, your UKIP supporters. It converted nobody to the right side. Was I supposed to applaud along with the audience? Shout out, "Go on, David, you tell him!"? Feel smug that my representatives shouted him down? My 80% of the panel, my 95% of the studio audience?

If the BNP are legally obliged to be represented on Question Time, the law is an ass and Free Speech takes precedent over respect for others. But if they have to be, let them discuss the events of the week, let's see how their poisonous minds work in debate. Don't have Griffin on next time. Get another odious man on there. Or maybe one of their odious women. They do have women in the party, don't they? The BNP isn't a one-man show, now is it?

The Digital Age

It's been some time since I gave a shit about the England football team. Apart from puking up at the sight of Terry, Lampard and Gerrard, my international mojo has gone. But Saturday saw a new me. My passion for my own team has gone.

I suppose it had to happen. I'm not a child any more, looking up to my heroes. I'm at least double the age of a large proportion of professional footballers. I'm even older than Billy Bonds was when he hung up his boots for good.

Yes, we lost to Stoke. But I still had the highlights to record on Sky Plus. Highlights? Who was I kidding?

So I phoned Sky. When I first got Sky Sports it was a fiver on top of the Sky Plus subscription of £10. Things have changed over the years.

There's no longer a subscription for Sky Plus. The Sports package costs £18 a month. Eighteen quid! Seven quid a game over the year! Ten lucky wins, ten bore draws and ten depressingly predictable defeats. What have I been doing with my life?

In other news, I have bought an ipod and have started listening to intellectual BBC radio podcasts. The BBC Podcast page has a search function where you type in your interest, "e.g. Moyles". I know he's popular but do people really download his podcasts? Do people actually find the twat funny and engaging? I despair of the youth of today.

I've also downloaded some lectures from itunes U. It's like going to university without having to do any work! I might just start skipping the lectures and go to the virtual student bar and spend my virtual parents' money on virtual beer!

Jamie, The Young Karaoke Contender

You get a bit nervous the first few times but it's nothing really, you're amongst friends. I'm 23 now but I've got an old head on young shoulders. I suppose I'm lucky in that my uncle's an old hand. He's been doing it for 15 years. You can't buy experience. His Neil Diamond is the bollocks. And he was the one who introduced me to the music of Sinatra. He says I have something of the young Frank about me.

None of us drink much really. It ruins your performance. The only time I've really got hammered was on my 21st birthday. I had double vision and couldn't read the words to Hero. A famous song like that, you've got to give it justice.

The pubs we go to vary so much. Mostly they just leave us alone, though there is one where the landlord thinks he's Liam Gallagher. Which means I can't do my Wonderwall when we're there. Still, I've got loads more in my locker. Loads.

Two Drifters, Off To See The World

Andy Williams is the first artist "confirmed" to play next year's Glastonbury.

The luckiest couple in Britain are Mr & Mrs Ormondroyd from Blackburn.



Having come into some money this year, Bert and Hattie bought tickets on the off chance that someone they had heard of would be performing. Let's hope they enjoy the atmosphere and make the Glastonbury Festival a regular destination for years to come.

A Commute Too Far

All Martin wanted was some peace and quiet. A few minutes quiet contemplation.

Sitting opposite him, a middle aged man was crouched over a laptop, tapping lightly on the keys, a look of self-importance on his face.

Martin could handle that.

To his right, a young lad was stretched out, eyes closed, mouth open, listening to what sounded like awful indie for the brain dead.

Martin could handle that.

To his left, a middle aged woman was playing a moronic game on her mobile phone, a gormless fucking look on her face.

Martin could handle that.

Then Martin's mother got on the train. She sat down beside him.

"I'm getting the early train this morning, love. Barbara's not in. She's got an appointment at the hospital. She hasn't told us what for. I'm sure it's nothing. Lovely girl, Barbara."

Martin could handle that.

Martin knew his mother wouldn't push it too far. She knew he liked peace and quiet in the mornings. She would awkwardly shut up now and shyly get out her Daily Mirror. Martin's mother was one of the few Mirror readers on a train full of Metros and Daily Mails.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" he exclaimed.

Martin's mother had pulled out the Mail.

Martin couldn't handle that.

Head Soup

The little plane was full, flying over Africa, on its way to the documentary for Chef Aid.

On board were Jamie Oliver, Marco Pierre White, Jean-Christophe Novelli, Gordon Ramsay, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, Antony Worrall Thompson, The Hairy Bikers, Nigella Lawson, Heston Blumenthal and Brian Turner. Pop star Gary Numan was the pilot.

Suddenly the plane started to splutter and Numan gave an announcement.

"I'm going to have to make an emergency landing."

They all woke up in the middle of the unexplored African jungle, tied up and surrounded by a hostile secret tribe of cannibals!

The tribe's chief was sitting on a throne in front of them.

"You know what I really fancy for dinner?" he said.

"No!" said the rest of the tribe in unison.

"I really fancy a bowl of head soup."

"Us, too!" said the rest of the tribe in unison.

So the tribe's butcher cut off the heads of the chefs, Oliver spitting in his face as he sawed the neck, Ramsay effing and blinding about the sloppy way he was cutting and Fearnley-Whittingstall asking for the recipe.

After four hours on a low heat, the soup was eventually ready. The chief was first to taste it. You could hear a pin drop as the rest of the tribe waited to hear the verdict.

"You have done remarkably well," he said to the tribe's chef. "The seasoning is, as usual, subtle yet piquant. The consistency is absolute perfection. But, I am afraid that this soup is not fit for such an illustrious tribe as ourselves."

"Why, Chief?" said the tribe's chef.

"You can blame me," said the chief. "I should have known. I am versed, after all, in the proverbs of the world. I should have known."

"Why, Chief?" asked the rest of the tribe in unison.

He raised his fists to the sky.

"Too many cooks spoil the broth!"