Blog

Hard.

It's possible to love with passion for so long that you forget what it was that captivated you in the first place but you're unable to stop loving because the passion has acquired an impetus all its own that hurtles you onwards into spaces that only exist because the things in which you used to believe have disintegrated, leaving a gap that needs to be filled. The loved object becomes entirely irrelevant, other than in the theoretical sense of fuelling a distraction, of helping you forget - indeed, when all is said and done, of keeping you alive.

And no, you never or seldom get anything meaningful or encouraging back from the loved object, which if it had a personality and/or a will would probably actively despise you.

Even that would be better than being ignored.

When Mike and Jimmy suddenly showed up unannounced at the start of the summer school holidays it felt as if we had been invaded by aliens. Jimmy had been a near neighbour in Liverpool, while his friend Mike was from the infamous Scotland Road, and spoke with machine gun rapidity in an almost impenetrable accent. Both in their early twenties, they had decided to take a working holiday in Australia before resigning themselves to lives of grim predictability and routine, interspersed with brief occasional moments of forgetfulness.

My mum, who was only a little older than them herself, and who alone of the four of us was seriously missing England, was unequivocally delighted by their arrival, and insisted that they remain with us for several days.

Neither Mike nor Jimmy had much time for kids, although Mike did occasionally make an effort. “Betyerdedpleezdtheblueswuntheleagueehwack?” he would say, punching me playfully on the arm, aware that I, like him, was, at least ostensibly, an Evertonian.

In truth, however, although Dad had informed me of Everton’s championship success, it was not something that had made all that much of an impression on me. Nevertheless, I agreed politely that, yeah, it was great.

Jimmy, by contrast, seldom if ever addressed me directly, making me feel as if I was either invisible, or else some kind of common, but not particularly useful, household item, such as an egg separator. Instead, he spent most of his waking time in the kitchen with Mum, both of them smoking incessantly, drinking endless cups of tea, and laughing uproariously at shared reminiscences. Sometimes Gwen, Margaret or Maureen would show up, and my mum would revel in the role of interpreter. I especially enjoyed it when Maureen came; she would often bring a stack of 45s, which Mum would play on her recently purchased pride and joy, a new, deluxe, state of the art, Radio-Rentals radiogramme. To this day, I cannot listen to Elvis Presley, Frank Ifield, Johnny Cash, Chubby Checker, Helen Shapiro, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly or Eddie Cochran without recalling that intimate, somehow almost surreal kitchen scene: Barbara and I on the floor, playing with Lego or toy farm animals or model cars, and the adults at the table, swathed in cigarette smoke, and laughter, and the all too brief shared illusion that life was, after all, worthwhile.

After Mike and Jimmy had departed, I asked my mum, “Why’d they have such long hair? It looks sissy.”

“Because of the beetles,” she replied, but it would be a while before this apparent non-sequitur resolved itself into the seeds of a lifelong salve.

Elvis Presley
Chubby Checker
Chuck Berry
Johnny Cash
Frank Ifield
Eddie Cochran
Helen Shapiro
Buddy Holly

I'm in favour of the reintroduction of the death penalty for:

* anyone who listens to the likes of Radiohead, Take That, Coldplay, Robbie Williams, U2, Muse or Boyzone, not simply because it's the 'done thing', but because they actually like them

* spammers

* people who whistle while walking along the street

* annoying, talentless little chancers like, but not including, Mika

* anyone who accepts a job he/she doesn't really need, and which could be done equally well by someone without a job

* the bloke who always stands next to me in record shops, sniffing uncontrollably

* anybody who has the same tastes today as they did 30 years ago

* anybody who has the same tastes today as they did 20 years ago

* anybody who has the same tastes today as they did 10 years ago

* anybody who has the same tastes today as they did last week

* men with moustaches, but no beards

* women with beards, but no moustaches

* every politician incapable of passing a lie detector test

* irritating old farts who whinge incessantly about stuff they don't like

Radiohead
Take That
Coldplay
Robbie Williams
U2
Muse
Boyzone
Mika

If, like me, you believe that popularity exists in inverse proportion to talent, then, based on total all time tracks scrobbled on last.fm, Hansom Pilot are 278,594 times better than Coldplay, and 387,440 times better than Radiohead.

Which seems more than a bit generous to Coldplay and Radiohead, if you ask me.......Hansom PilotRadiohead

For some reason, perhaps because 'post punk' is supposedly so much en vogue these days, I've been listening to a fair amount of late seventies and early eighties stuff recently - Gang of Four, Public Image Ltd., the Cure, and, most tellingly and frequently, Dolly Mixture. (Is there a more unfairly overlooked band?)

It's strange, because the late seventies and early eighties seem so long ago, much longer ago than the sixties. In fact, I sometimes wonder if they really happened, maybe in part because, in certain lights and under the influence of certain (entirely legal) substances, I'd genuinely like to believe they didn't.

Ah, but if they didn't, there'd be no Dolly Mixture, and life without Dolly Mixture would scarcely be worth believing in anyway.

Dolly Mixture