The YouTube generation

You'll be surprised to learn that it's common practice to decamp to one of the local ale houses following any (and all) Chorlton Players' performance(s). So it was that I found myself stood outside on the "porch" of The Bar clutching a pint of Alchemist's on Thursday last.

The evening began in unassuming fashion, but turned rapidly surreal as we watched a woman dressed in a leopard skin outfit drive a disabled cart determinedly across the road towards a waiting taxi. It seemed a dangerous manoeuvre, it being dark, the cart having no lights, and the road outside The Bar - passing as it does over the railway - being effectively on the brow of a hill. Still, she made it alright, and the taxi driver got out to help her into the cab (or so we thought), so we turned back to our drinks and our conversations expecting that to be the end of it.

How wrong we were.

A few minutes later, someone called out "oh my God! Look at her!" Far from alighting the cab and leaving, the woman was now holding up the traffic. Facing the cart the wrong way down our side of the road, she drove it from side to side in a kind of mad, figure-of-eight dance, narrowly missing the headlights of the first car in a queue of about ten that she was preventing from making any progress down the road.

The cab driver decided he didn't want to know, did a U-ey and headed back into Chorlton centre.

That was the start of an interesting half-hour during which this lady, who was clearly inebriated, high, mentally disturbed or a combination of all three, drove maniacally around on the open road, or the pavements, alternately stopping vehicular or pedestrian traffic. When, eventually, a man intervened to try and steer the cart to safety, she beat him around the head, and then got out of the cart and chased him down the road!

So. Not disabled then. No. It wasn't even a real disabled buggy. When it passed us at close range we realised it was a disabled person's shopping trolley, the "Asda" emblem clearly visible on the side. As the nearest Asda is in Hulme she'd done pretty well to navigate the thing from there to here, especially in her... incapacitated... state.

Eventually someone called the police, but they didn't seem especially interested in her or her behaviour. Not the theft of the trolley or the multiple traffic offences she must have committed, or even any kind of breach of the peace (she'd had minor altercations with several bystanders by this point).

But the most surprising and disturbing thing of all, for me, was the reaction of the overwhelming majority of onlookers.

Did they try to help her?
No!
Protect her?
No!
Warn any of the other approaching drivers?
No!
Call the police?
No!

They got out their videophones and recorded the whole thing for YouTube.

Why Aye

Those "cherished" number plates - we keep spotting them. Not as many, probably, as you'd see around Kensington High Street or other such places where the streets are paved with two-pound coins, but enough for the occasional blog post ;o)

Last week, it was the turn of W1 EYE, which we could only interpret as the famous Geordie greeting "why aye!" We tried various online searches to work out how much a plate like that would be worth, but all of them asked, at least, for a declaration that we owned the plate or had the permission of the owner, and in some cases we would have had to sign up and give them an arm, a leg, and our inside leg measurements before they'd let such sensitive information loose. Tch!

Near as we could tell though, with similar but not *quite* so legible plates going for around the £400 mark, is that it would be worth about five hundred. It wasn't on a particularly stand-out motor. Occasionally we see what must be a very valuable plate on a totally mundane car, which looks quite incongruous.

All of this made me wonder: if you had a budget of £50,000, would you spend it all on a snazzy motor with a regular registration, or would you spend £20,000 on a reasonable car and £30,000 on a really unusual plate? Where would your dividing line be?

Years ago, I registered my interest in a cherished plate that was, at the time, unavailable. As far as I can tell it still is, since they've never contacted me to see if I'm still interested. I quite fancied driving around behind D16 GER, but I wouldn't part with more than a couple of hundred quid for it, and I suspect I'd be in a very long queue if it ever came up.

Water, water, everywhere...

Here we go again. A drier spring than usual has led to reservoir levels being 15% down on the average for this time of year, and we're already getting water companies warning of hosepipe bans and giving us advice on how to save water.

Apparently leaving the tap running while you're cleaning your teeth wastes 7 litres. Imagine that! And then imagine the fact that United Utilities (previously Northwest Water) wastes considerably more each day through leaks. And when I say considerably more, I mean orders of magnitude more. I mean 460 million litres. Per day. "Chief Reporter" Dave Guest pointed this out to the water authority stooge on the telly last week and got the same old reply. We have an ongoing programme of leak control in place. Yeah, and you've been saying that for the last ten years to my certain knowledge. After ten years of "ongoing" leak control, you're still losing 460 million litres a day. How bad was it when you started, ferchrissake?

It's a total disgrace that water companies up and down the country are STILL allowed to sit on miles of old, dodgy, perforated piping and yet declare "profits" every year. Profits that come from ordinary households paying over the odds for their water supplies, only to be told to cut their usage in times of drought. Not even drought, actually. It's been raining on and off for weeks. There is no drought. If this is a drought God help us if it ever gets as "bad" as the oft-quoted summer of 1976 when we went 10 weeks without any rain at all.

Let's do the maths together. If you wanted, through the simple expedient of not running your tap while you were cleaning your teeth, to save the water wasted by our local water company in a single day, it would take over 65 million people changing their behaviour to do it. The entire population of the UK. And then what could we all do to save the wastage by Southern Water? And Severn Trent Water? And Thames Water? And Yorkshire Water? There are 20 water companies serving the UK. 20 companies pissing our expensive, treated, potable water out of their pipes and back into the lakes, rivers and streams, and all the while shelling out the money we've paid them to supply our water, to their shareholders, as "profit."

You couldn't make it up.

Comic timing

We've been trying to sort out the pressing of physical CDs for Weird & Wonderful for months. The cover art for the front was, as regular readers will know, put to bed months ago, the photo for the inside front cover was in the bag in March, so what's really been holding us up was the back cover or, more precisely, the permission to use one of the two photos I'd found on t'Internet.

Permission for the first of the two was granted almost as soon as I asked, but the owners of the second were, shall we say, slightly more "legal" about the whole process, requiring a signed contract for limited use to be exchanged (by fax) and taking several months to even decide that approach was acceptable. Still, to give them their due, they did eventually come through and I was able to place an order for 100 CDs a couple of weeks back.

We had wanted them to be available for sale at the hotpot, but it seemed unlikely that hope would materialise, as the original delivery estimate was for June 10 and that didn't take account of international shipping. Sure enough hotpot came and went, with no sign of the discs.

They arrived in this morning's post.

Pimp My Hotpot: Final Night & BBQ 2010

A pretty hectic day for me yesterday, as the final night of the Hotpot show clashed with the annual street barbecue. So it was up with the lark to prepare the usual salads (always such a popular item I'd been asked to make the same three for the third year running), cut the new neighbour's grass (she moves in soon and it was looking like a bit of a jungle out there), and pull the garden chairs out from the depths of the shed.

BBQ started around 3pm and for once - unlike the last two years - the day was glorious. We'd had fabulous weather last weekend and the forecast in the early part of the week suggested we were in for a repeat of last year, missing the good weather by a week and being subjected to a downpour. Instead the bad weather slipped back a day and left us smiling under the sun while chomping on our toasties.

I should give the toasties a special mention this year, as it may well be the last year we enjoy them. Torsten & Keeth are set to emigrate to Portugal by the end of the summer, and their special contribution to every year's barbie will be greatly missed. Someone was supposed to watch the assembly of these delights this year so the tradition could be handed on, but no-one turned up and now they might be lost forever. I think I'll be popping down the road sometime soon with paper and pen. A street barbecue without toasties is unthinkable.

At 6.30pm, in the middle of the first quiz, I had to duck out, change into (one of) my stage costume(s) and drive over to the hall in preparation to open the final show. Even though I knew I had that monologue in my head, I didn't want to be blasé about it, and still repeated it to myself a couple of times before taking the stage. It all went very smoothly (although a slightly smaller audience than last night owing to the good weather) and pretty soon I was changing out of my tux into the black jeans and T I've been wearing all week for Beresford & Wallace's interval set.

On balance I think our performance last night was the best of the three. Not surprising, I guess, as it was the one we'd had most practice for, and I think we both (or all three of us if we include our guest artiste Becky Hodges who played a flute accompaniment to More Than Just Your Face) felt totally comfortable with both the material and the performing of it. But although it may have been technically the best performance I didn't enjoy it quite as much, both on account of knowing it was the last one, and because Nikki, Nat & Blythe weren't there as they'd been the night before. We did have a couple of friends in the audience, but it wasn't the same.

Coming off stage around 9pm I grabbed my other costume and headed back to the street BBQ, where the Chocolate Game had just finished and people were once again sitting around chatting. We had a very short gentle shower which caused us to move the chairs into a quadrangle under the gazebo, where we lit candles and enjoyed a couple of rounds of the Story Game (everyone in turn says a sentence to carry the story on) and Mafia (rules too complicated to relate but can be found here for anyone interested - although we didn't include the Nurse role mentioned there.) before moving inside, when the rain became more persistent, for another round of Mafia and more drinking (!)

Shortly after midnight most of the family had had enough so we left the remaining dozen or so revellers to their fate and wandered over the road. I picked up some more beer and headed off to the after-show party (another barbecue!) at Annie's - luckily only a short walk away. The rain had, mercifully, passed off a couple of hours before, leaving the night fresh and warm, and I spent a pleasant couple of hours munching on more BBQ food, sipping on a couple of ales and chatting with fellow members of cast & crew. It was also the first (and probably only) time I got to enjoy the Aftershow Awards ceremony that is a Chorlton Players tradition. Great fun. When I got home shortly after 3 I was more than ready to crash, even though dawn was already faintly visible over the roofs of the houses.

Pimp My Hotpot: Two Down!

It's frightening how much I'm enjoying this - and last night was the best yet. What made it so special was having family and friends in the audience. As I said to Natalie on the way back to the car - it's a kind of payback for all the wonderful concerts I've been to over the years when she's been performing. I think I'll need a few more outings before we're all square but hey, it's a start.

I managed to join the family table for the latter half of the show before diving back to the green room to join the queue for the curtain call. Luckily myself and one of my fellow compères were the penultimate cast members to take the stage, so my timing was spot on.

If anything this experience has confirmed my long-held opinion that I have absolutely no interest in treading the boards in an acting capacity. Opening the show as compère can't be called "acting" IMO. It's more like doing a presentation (only without any slides) and from day one I've found it no more nerve-racking than any presentation I give as part of my day job.

And the singing is really not that different to the karaoke I've been doing for almost ten years. Except the songs are our own, and we don't have to keep stepping off the stage to "let someone else have a go."

But having mentioned karaoke, I should just add that if it hadn't been for my past experiences, gaining confidence in singing in front of an audience, I would never, ever, have been able to step up on stage and give a performance like I did tonight. A certain person who shall remain anonymous laughed at me when she first learned I'd started singing karaoke. But say what you will, everything happens for a reason, and starting out on that path all those years ago has led me to last night - one of the most fulfilling experiences I've ever had and a buzz that can't be easily explained to anyone who hasn't done it, or matched by much else. Laugh all you like, but if I could change anything at all, I would only want to have started sooner.

Pimp My Hotpot: Opening Night

So, what was it like for you?

In the end, I was nowhere near as nervous as I expected to be, but on reflection that probably has something to do with confidence that I knew my lines, the fact that there were only 2 minutes-worth  rather than a whole play, and that it wasn't *really* acting. Being a compère is more like doing a presentation, which is something I've done dozens of times, to much bigger audiences.

So that part went pretty well. Got a few laughs, even. The worst part was the heat. I picked a really bad night to be wearing a tuxedo and bow tie. Later there was a brief panic when we thought we'd lost the laptop with our music on it, and then I was nearly killed by falling scenery while we set up the mikes for our interval slot. The movable wall, used in the previous sketch, was in a slightly different position than it had been at dress rehearsal. As the half-tab curtains were pulled across the stage they caught it and toppled it over.

Luckily I spotted it out of the corner of my eye in time to move out from under it, but it was a peripheral vision test I could have done without at that particular moment.

As predicted the audience were preoccupied with conversation, and getting on the outside of their food, during most of the first number, but we were pleased that they soon realised we were worth listening too, and by the middle of the second number we had everyone's attention. I don't think the sound of my stomach reacting to the smell of chilli as it wafted onto stage was audible over the singing.

And then, suddenly, it was over. First night was behind us. In the bag. A success, albeit with a pitifully small audience (on account of the good weather, we decided, along with the fact that the local paper let us down and didn't include our press release in last week's edition).

The post-show beers have never tasted so good.

Pimp My Hotpot: Dress Rehearsal

There's many a slip twixt cup and lip, but if last night's dress rehearsal is anything to go by, tonight's 'opening night' show should be a corker. Even when I was singing on a weekly basis I've never felt as comfortable on a stage as I did last night. Admittedly, I was singing my own material, and there wasn't much of an audience to speak of (a few other cast members and the crew), but even so I had a blast. Hopefully my familiarity with the songs and the venue will help overcome any nerves that are bound to crop up when I'm faced with a real, live audience. If the singing accountant can use his nerves to focus his singing, I'm sure I can. He's balder than I.

As far as "the other" part of my involvement goes - the first-act compère - I've developed a delivery style that gives me lots of pauses to let the memory flow. At the outset I thought I'd bitten off more than I could chew, having written a 2-minute (or so) monologue in the style of Leonard Sachs (in his The Good Old Days persona) I ended up packing it with so much polysyllabic alliteration that I thought I'd never be able to memorise it. However, perseverance has paid off and - so far at least - I've been pretty close to word perfect at most rehearsals, and bang on last night.

That's not stopped me from engaging in more practice today though. I'm all too conscious that I could go blank at any moment, so I need those six paragraphs fresh and at the forefront of my mind until Saturday.

I wrote "the other" part of my involvement above, but of course there's one more role that I traditionally perform on dress rehearsal night: the taking of the production photos. This proved physically impossible for those parts of the night where I was in front of the camera, so I was grateful to have a deputy to take over for the ~25 minutes when I was on stage or in the stalls. Most of the photos are available already. The ones of the "Hurly Burly Burlesque Queens" are awaiting vetting by the Queens themselves. When you're dancing it what is essentially underwear, it's only fair to have a veto over what images are made public!

Reality check

The dust has settled after Monday morning's revelation of the UKSC results for 2010, and - with the help of a distant friend from the Pacific Northwest - I've gained some perspective.

Give myself some credit, she wisely wrote: it wasn't so very long ago that I hadn't written a song in my entire life. True, that. And now I've co-written not one but two songs which have received the accolade of being "good songs that almost made the semi-final" in one of the most prestigious songwriting competitions in the world. So yes, maybe that's not so bad after all.

I've been thinking a lot today about the source of my reaction to bad - or should I say "not glowing" - criticism. I've decided it comes from a long way back, from the time when my mother used to tell me "don't be an also-ran, John." Unfortunately her parenting skills only stretched as far as sharing aphorisms like that with me. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, neither a borrower nor a lender be, you know the kind of thing. While she was off congratulating herself on what a good job she was doing bringing me up, I was left to wonder (a) what an also-ran was - I was very young at the time - and (b) how to avoid being one.

What she meant, I soon realised, was that she wanted me to be a winner. What she wasn't able to do much of was give me, or help me find, the skills to become one. I was on my own with that one. And what she clearly was never able to grasp is that there's one thing worse than being an also-ran, and that is to never run at all. Which is what most people do, and, to a very great extent, what she herself has done. At least we *entered* the contest in the first place. We set ourselves up to be measured. We ran the race. And if it wasn't for "also-rans," there wouldn't be a race to win.

So thanks Mum, but I'll take also-ran for now. In fact I'll revel in it. And while we're at it, if I wasn't a borrower I wouldn't have a house to live in, and not checking those gift horses' mouths just gives people free rein (see what I did there?) to dump a load of old tat on you.

I'll let you know when I think of one of those hackneyed old parental phrases that was worth listening to.

UK Songwriting Contest results

The results of the 2010 UK Songwriting Contest were posted early yesterday morning.

We had two songs in the competition - Spin Doctor and More Than Just Your Face - in the "Pop" category. Deciding on the category to enter was almost half the battle, since most of our music straddles the divide between folk and pop, with occasionally a bit of (very) light rock thrown in. Still, we figured Pop was close enough, and any claim to be entirely folk may have been met with derision on the part of the judges.

This did, unfortunately, put us into the fiery pit of hell as far as competition was concerned, as "pop" is probably the most oversubscribed category in the whole thing. This year there were over 5,000 entries in the overall competition, and judges commented that they had all been much stronger entries than in previous years.

So, I guess, on balance, with that level of competition and given that it was our first attempt, we should be fairly pleased with the results. Both our entries received a "Commended Entry" Certificate, and both received scores of 5. The scoring is explained on the UKSC website like this:
"A score of 4 or 5 indicates that this is a good song and it will receive a Commended Entry Certificate. A score of 5 indicates that the song very nearly made the semi finals. All songs with a score of 4 and 5 are considered for the semi finals."....

At the moment I'm still flipping between being happy that we did as well as that (and that we even bothered to enter, which I guess is something), and disappointment that we didn't make the semis. Being able to badge our songs "UKSC Semi-finalist" would have been really something. Commended doesn't have anywhere near that same cachet. But I always was my own worst critic. Some people would put the maximum possible positive spin on this, whereas I'm struggling to see it as anything other than another comment that my work is good, but not quite good enough.

Another American Idol disappears without trace

Exactly as I predicted, last week, Lee Dewyze was crowned American Idol 2010, beating Crystal Bowersox into second place.

For me, this year's AI "season" was notable for two things: the paucity of talent in the "top 12" (despite the judges repeating over and over how this was one of their "strongest years ever" it so clearly wasn't true), and how obvious it was from a long way out that the final would be - not quite a repeat exactly; more an echo - of last year's, with a mediocre but popular guy (last year it was Kris... er... what was his name again?) with a so-so voice winning out over a true, unique artist (Adam Lambert).

I don't think the similarities will end with the final. In the same way that Lambert has gone on to have a multi-platinum first album and a sell-out world tour, I predict Crystal's career will go from strength to strength on the back of "losing" one of the biggest talent shows in the world, whereas Dewyze will soon become as forgotten outside the US as whatsisname.

Why is that? Well anyone who watched the final show shouldn't need telling. Lee failed to really deliver on any one of his three songs - even the one that will become his first single now that he's won - appearing nervous and confused for most of his performances which ended up being as dull as ditchwater. Crystal on the other hand nailed every single one of her songs, received raved reviews from the judges (including a standing ovation from Ellen), and lit up the auditorium with some great performances. Still true to herself after all these months, she was an artist when she entered the competition and an artist she will remain.

So why didn't she win? Because the final is not a singing contest, it's a popularity contest. And most of the votes come from tweenie girls. They didn't get behind Adam Lambert last year (even though, even more than Crystal, he was so far ahead of his rival he may as well have been on a different planet) because he's gay, and they didn't get behind Crystal because she's a woman. Listen back to the opening of the Finale show when Ryan Seacrest asks the audience "who's here for Crystal, and who's here for Lee?" The cheers after each question make it sound like Lee fans outnumbered Crystal fans at least 2 to 1. Crazy, but there you go.

There is another, more Machiavellian, explanation that I've been known to proffer on occasion. It depends whether or not you believe the voting is rigged (or ignored). And that is that the producers long ago worked out that having a strong artist come second, and a weaker one winning, means they make more money. The stronger artist will have a career whether they win or not. The weaker NEEDS to be the winner to have a career at all. Simple, albeit cynical, mathematics. And cynicism or not this is now such a well-established pattern as to be as credible as any other explanation.

I should perhaps add one more thing that this year's Idol is notable for. The last appearance by Simon Cowell. I totally agree with the prediction by another blogger I read this week: that his leaving is certain death for American Idol. It will limp on for one more season, shedding its audience throughout the series as they realise the show has lost its edge without Cowell, and the tenth Idol will be the last.

Tech Rehearsal

Having only previously involved in shows as a kitchen helper (which involves turning up on the night to sell drinks or food), box office assistant (turn up on the night and relieve punters of their money), or production photographer (turn up the night before the night - i.e. dress rehearsal - and take photos while trying not to disturb the performance), I've never attended a Tech Rehearsal before.

The Sunday before show week involves a complete run-through to allow the sound and light technicians to practice their cues, set their levels and adjust their flare. Or something. It's also the first chance the cast have to move about the "real" stage, so props and furniture have to be moved into their optimum positions. All this obviously takes much longer than a regular performance, so Tech is a long-winded affair. Apparently this particular example was unusual, as it featured the total absence of any scripts that had been marked up for sound or light cues.

Hotpot is, I suspect, always a little more difficult in this respect as - being essentially a sketch show - there are many more scripts to contend with. Still... NONE? Not very good that, is it? And that highlights the crux of a long-standing tension - probably true for many am-dram groups all over the world - between the fundamental raison d'être of the group (to put on a show) and the almost equally important principle of having a good time. I mean, that's the "am" in am-dram, isn't it? The fact that having a good time is paramount and may even, for many, overtake the show in its importance.

The slight drawback with this approach - which is fine for most of the year - is that there are a some occasions when it results in even more pressure on a few key individuals essential for any show's success. As often happens, these may be people returning to the desk after many years' absence, grappling with changes in equipment that have occurred during their interregnum, or they may be new to the job altogether. Today we had one of each, and they did a fine job of winging it without any cues whatsoever. Inevitably though, this slowed down what was already a pretty slow process to begin with and in the end it took us two hours to get through a first half that, according to script timings, should only last an hour.

Perhaps the most surprising (not to say incredible) thing is that everything does always come together in time for curtain up on first night. Frayed tempers, worries, last minute-itis, late nights, are all forgotten as the show goes on. Maybe it would be better - more professional - if it all ran like a well-oiled machine, but for some people at least, I think the seemingly more haphazard meanderings of cast and crew in the general direction of first night is all part of the fun.

(At least our bit was OK!)

First BBQ of the season

We drove all ni-i-i-ight to get to you. Well, maybe not ALL night. We got an early pass and set off shortly after 4pm. We were there just after 6. And maybe not to YOU. Unless you're one of those we were barbecuing with on Friday night...

On the available evidence, of two days, we'd chosen by far the better of the bank holiday evenings for dinner al fresco. Perfect fluffy clouds slowly giving way to crystal blue sky as we sat sipping our various beverages on the patio, cordially greeting each new arrival, sharing the latest craic and the pre-dinner nibbles before moving on to the more serious business of burgers, sausages, chicken (piri-piri, honeyed and on the bone), prawns, shashlik and kebabs.  Salad, buns, french stick. Roulade, raspberry tart, chocolate fudge pudding and barbecued bananas with choc chip surprise.

And a 1am finish. Superb.

The expansive hospitality of our guests didn't end there though. Full cooked breakfast and more excellent banter before doing the farewells, a quick dip of the toe in the cold waters of Mummy before high-tailing it off to MacArthur Glen in search of an elusive tea-pot, dinner on the road at the Ol' Mustard Pot and home in time for Eurovision. Just call us masters of timing!

Targeting targets

I listen to the Today programme on a regular basis - with one ear when I'm in the car taking Nikki to work and, after I've dropped her off and I'm on my way back home (or occasionally into the office) with both ears. And occasionally I hear something that makes my metaphorical jaw drop. Today was one such interview - some guy talking about the problems they were having with the process of getting people back to work off long-term sick leave.

They'd been set a target for this, after putting the people through the process, of 50%. That's half the people they interview have to give up their benefits and find a job. But hang on a minute. Surely people are either sick, or they're not? I mean, it's not hard to understand the concept that maybe - just maybe - there are people claim incapacity benefit when they're actually fit for work. But how can you have a TARGET that predetermines how many people that will be? I'd have thought the right approach was to decide in advance exactly HOW sick someone needs to be to qualify for benefit, taking into account what it is that's wrong with them (e.g. people with back trouble might not be able to do building work, but they can sit at a desk, or a till, or other light duties) and then run the process and accept the outcome. There's no place for targets here.

As if that wasn't silly enough, the guy actually went on to say their biggest problem was that they were actually getting 68% of people back to work, and that was TOO MANY! Hahaha. You couldn't make it up. Quite a few people who were forced back to work lodged an appeal, and 70% of the appeals were being successful (so a lot of money being wasted there for one thing, but even more importantly...) but the main problem was that appeals can take up to six months, during which time these poor folk get no benefit (so a lot of personal misery, heartache and pain being caused there then).

No wonder the system's in a mess. Another disaster left behind by the NuLab tossers.

Oil spillage

No, I'm not going to add to the thousands of blogwords written about the accident in the Gulf. We're talking spillage on a much smaller scale here - the oil that's been leaking out of my car since it was about a year old, the sad revelation that you can't even trust the tradespeople you think you can trust, and the unlooked for benefits that can accompany an enforced change of tradesperson.

When I first noticed I was having to top up the oil quite frequently, I mentioned it to my mechanic on my next service visit. I forgot to ask him about it when I picked the car up, and it was a couple of months before it became obvious that it was still using oil. Even so, the loss rate wasn't enough to nudge me into making a special visit to the garage so it was another year before I had the opportunity to mention it to him again. And this time, I remembered to check with him whether he'd fixed it.

"You don't have a leak," he insisted. "Modern engines do burn oil, you just need to keep it topped up."

Being among the 99% of the population who don't understand the first thing about "modern engines" I didn't question this, but carried on adding a pint of oil every 8-10 weeks from that day - probably around the start of 2006 - until earlier this year when the closure of my regular garage forced me to move to another mechanic. Closer, but slightly more expensive.

And it's only about a week ago that it occurred to me I haven't had to top up the oil since. That service was back in February and ordinarily I'd have gone through at least two pints of oil by now. So yesterday, I dipped my stick out of curiosity. The oil level was only one notch below full. In other words, there HAD been a leak after all, my original guy couldn't be arsed to fix it, but the new guy spotted it and put it right without even mentioning it to me, or charging me any extra.

A study in false economy. That first garage may have appeared cheaper, but over the years he cost me around 300 quid in replacement oil that I could easily have avoided.

Google and Pac-Man

Google's "doodles" - the changes to their logo they make every so often to celebrate some national or international event, holiday, or hot news topic - have quickly become legendary. In fact one of the only complaints I have with the iGoogle home page is that we never see any indication that there's a new doodle to enjoy.

Last weekend, two legends collided. It was the 30th anniversary of Pac-Man, widely regarded as "the game that started it all" (even though, being first released in 1980, it trailed Space Invaders by two years), and in celebration Google installed its first fully interactive doodle - a working copy of Pac-Man with the maze spelling out "Google" and whose gameplay faithfully reproduced the original, including ghost behaviours, fruits, and even the original bug that corrupts the screen on the 256th level.

Media coverage suggests that the game didn't start playing unless you pressed the Insert Coin button (which temporarily replaced the usual "I'm Feeling Lucky"), but this certainly wasn't true for me. Maybe it's different on Chrome, but the game started right up after a short delay and I reached instinctively for the arrow keys (I was a huge Pac-Man fan) and began playing immediately. I reached the fifth level, which I was pretty pleased about given that I haven't played for, like, 20 years. Some things never leave you.

But celebrating Pac-Man's 30th birthday, and Google's inventiveness and sense of fun, is only part of the reason for this post. And it's the "sense of fun" angle that I'd like to concentrate on first, because to me that's what it was all about. It was a weekend, Google's doodles are a fine tradition that always raise a smile in our house, and this particular doodle gave Google's users the chance - briefly - to relive a much-loved time in their youth when it was OK to while away a few hours chasing an animated cartoon mouth around a maze.

So it was with a dawning sense of OMG that I read some of the 571 comments posted on the news article I found on the subject. Many of them mirrored my own reaction ("wow" "cool" "brings back memories" etc) but fully half of them were complaints about the noise, about the intrusion into their browser space, about the waste of time and money, and any other possible thing you could think of to complain about and even some that would never occur to most people I know. Incredible.

These comments drew stinging reactions from the supporters of Google's efforts, as you'd expect, with people pointing out variously that Google (and all its services) is free, that doodles are only ever up for a day (or two at most), that all computers are equipped with a "mute" function, and that in the end if they weren't happy, why didn't these people just close their browsers or navigate to another page? But all of that common sense couldn't hide the fact that there are vast numbers of people out there who have utterly lost their sense of humour, of fun, and of celebration. And what's worse, they're not even prepared to sit quietly while those of us who haven't lost those things get on with it.

It gets worse.

Someone who must recently have had a humourectomy has now calculated the world-wide LOSS OF PRODUCTIVITY that the Pac-Man doodle caused. Yep. Five million man hours, apparently, giving a total monetary value - based on a low-to-average U.S. salary - of $120 million. A figure arrived at using some broadly-drawn assumptions on the amount of time usually spent on the Google home page versus the amount of time spent there when the Pac-Man doodle was active.

Oh dear. Oh woe is me. For a few extra seconds, all over the world, people weren't making money. Strike us all down with a bolt of lightning. Good grief. One of the saddest aspects of "this modern world" which has crept up on us during those thirty years since Pac-Man arrived, is that too many people have forgotten there is more to life than making money. Lift your heads up from those desks, people. Take your noses from the grindstone for a few precious minutes and have some fun ffs.

What was that about killing the radio star?

I better keep an eye out for that video, because last night at 6pm for a little over half an hour I, along with my partner-in-crime (well, songwriting) Annie, became a radio star.

We'd been invited in to Chorlton Arts Radio - an Internet-only, temporary radio station set up in an empty shop in the precinct to promote Chorlton Arts Festival - to do a bit of an interview and play a few tracks on Mike Bulfield's "The Festival" programme.

We had no idea before we arrived what form the slot would take, so we'd sat down together on Saturday and come up with a simple schedule of enough tracks and what we wanted to say about them to fill just over 30 minutes. We'd have been quite happy to fill the half-hour ourselves but as it turned out Mike had also prepared a few questions, and did an expert job of dovetailing his questions with what we wanted to say, giving us time to plug the website, and our forthcoming live gig at the Hotpot. During one of our off-air chats while our music was playing he congratulated us on being the most well-prepared interviewees he'd ever worked with.

Sorry if you missed it. No idea if they repeated the show at all (they were a bit short of content at one stage), but the entire radio station will be gone by the end of the week anyway. I'm told we'll have access to a recording of the show in due course, so I'm sure it'll end up being featured on one or more of our websites eventually :o)

Peachy

The Red Pearl cocktail from our recent Celebrity Night proved very popular with the family so I deployed the cocktail shaker again on Saturday night to use up the left over ingredients - peach vodka (not the "proper" kind according to the recipe but a good compromise as it turned out I couldn't find any red pomegranate vodka over here), peach liqueur, cranberry juice and pineapple juice, topped with a splash of champagne.

The result was slightly heavy on the champagne (we had an entire bottle left over) but still very tasty.

Even better, we took a break from gardening on Sunday afternoon to enjoy a glass of peach-flavoured iced tea that Nikki had knocked up with the short measure of peach liqueur left over from cocktail making. This was only a small glimpse of the life we'd *like* to lead in the garden - one of total indolence and relaxation - which is still some years of undergrowth-hacking, deck-building, and shrub-planting in the future!

More Than's ALIVE!

(Just in case you were wondering, the title is intended to be a - rather weak, admittedly - pun on the famous line from Flash Gordon uttered by the inimitable Brian Blessed: Gordon's alive!)

Things are shaping up for our live set at this year's Chorlton Players "hotpot" show. This year it's been badged "Pimp My Hotpot" on account of one of the sketches - a hilarious adult take on The Cat in the Hat written by one of the Players, entitled The Pimp in the Hat. We're rehearsing every Monday and Wednesday, and yesterday our rehearsal was graced by a young lady who has volunteered to play a live flute accompaniment to one of my numbers - More Than Just Your Face. Annie has transcribed the piano intro and the oboe sections for flute and the result, which we heard for the first time last night, sounds totally fab.

Can't wait to sing live with that haunting flute as a backdrop!

Vinyl: Camel

Artist: Camel

Owned on digital media: No

Want to replace: Yes

I've been a huge fan of Camel for many years and as you'll see in later posts have already started replacing my small but perfectly formed collection of their work. 

So it's pure bad luck that I haven't yet happened across a copy of their first album on CD and that it therefore still occupies one of the top slots on my want list. It's lack is somewhat ameliorated by the fact that some of better tracks (Never Let Go and Mystic Queen) appear as bonus tracks on the CDs I *do* have.

The unkindest cut

News of US TV's autumn schedule reached these shores yesterday, bringing with it the now inevitable stories of the "canning" of two series we've been following.

Heroes had its share of problems over four series, but the most recent outing seemed to us to be back on track, having solved the issues with way too many characters and yawnorama powers, and introduced a credible villain with an interesting goal to rival Sylar. We'd started to enjoy it again just in time to see it disappear forever.

FlashForward, on the other hand, has never been anything but intriguing. It didn't have a duff series, or a doldrums period, it has a wealth of subplot, well-drawn characters, and good writing. But it too failed to fire the US public's imagination in sufficient numbers for the network to consider keeping it going.

So these two highlights of our viewing hours join the swelling ranks of good sci-fi that has ended before its time. Firefly, The 4400, Farscape, Stargate: Atlantis, Invasion, Surface. A swift Google is all that's needed to find other similar stories, and forums stuffed with legions of fans bemoaning their loss and asking why. Those last two on my list are another example of series that were paired in our house - we watched them in parallel and we saw them die in parallel, killed off in the same season a few years back. We never even had chance to get into Firefly on broadcast media before it was killed off, discovering it on DVD long after the dust had settled on one of the most inventive,original and widely-missed series ever.

So how long can US TV remain broken like this? Time after time creating and then pissing off multiple fan-bases that stretch all across the world? Would it really be so hard to solve a problem that arises solely from the intersection between the short-termism of the producers and commissioning editors, and the relatively recent attempt by writers to introduce multi-series story arcs (Lost the most obvious example) without being able to fill them with TV compelling enough to command audience figures that will satisfy the networks? At the very least let's have some degree of completion at the end of each series (to hedge our bets against the "rest of the story" never being made) or a commitment to always allow a one-off "special" to be made to tie up any loose ends.

It may be too much to ask that US TV networks wake up to the notion that it may not even be possible to sustain audience figures when there are so many other avenues of entertainment open. Even the most popular UK TV shows have seen audiences dwindle in recent years. If our TV was produced along US lines we'd have seen the end of many of our longest-running shows long before now.

Vinyl: Boston

Artist: Boston

Owned on digital media: No

Want to replace: Yes

My initial decision on replacing this was a "no" but on reflection this is a seminal album comprising almost entirely strong tracks (three of them top 40 hits according to Wikipedia) and although it's not the kind of music I like to listen to very often, there are definitely times when what you need more than anything is a quick blast of More Than A Feeling, or Smokin'. 

Tracks like that would certainly feature on any "drive time" playlist I could assemble, so after careful consideration this goes back on my want list. Just not at the top.

Three Kevins!

This is getting beyond a joke. Kevin and Marina have now been joined by little Neptune, bringing the total complement of fish in the tank to 9. Our original calculations suggested it could hold a maximum of 12, so any more of this spawning business and we'll have to start thinking of ways to reduce the population. That's one problem we didn't expect to have!

They don't half grow quickly too. I reckon Kevin - who from "his" colouring is almost certainly female - is now almost the same size as the first fish we brought home back in November, and he and Marina have become braver over the last day or so and started feeding with the adults. I still find it quite strange to think that our little tank is the only home they've ever known.

Location, Location, Location

It's the 50th anniversary of the first episode of Coronation Street this year, and in celebration a bunch of fans have been arriving all week from all points of the compass.

This could have been a poignant event for us, as it's (obviously) ten years since the celebrations for the 40th anniversary, which we had a large hand in organising, and - whisper it quietly - 5 years since the 45th anniversary, for which we also did some organising but which turned out to be an event on a much smaller scale, but the general mood was upbeat rather than reflective.

We elected this time to be participants rather than organisers. For one thing Corrie fandom doesn't figure so large in our lives any longer, but the main point is we figured we'd done our bit and it was time to hand over the reins to someone else.

So it was nice to spend a relaxed day in the company of friends old and new, and join in with an organised tour of some of the many locations in and around Manchester and Salford which are used for filming. Our host, who as well as leading around 60 such tours each year also travels the world in the company of Corrie stars past and present, interviewing them and giving talks on production, history and trivia, is a wealth of information and a very entertaining tour guide. The rain held off for the most part, we enjoyed lunch near Ashton marketplace and visited some of the more hidden parts of Manchester - like the one pictured above - which we ordinarily wouldn't get to see.

The tour finished at 4pm, but that felt way too early to call it a day, so we whiled away a couple of hours in the Ox (another memory-filled venue) chatting over a few pints, and later five of us repaired to Dimitri's for a delicious Greek meal before heading home. Chalk up another great day!

Book Launch

I was invited to a launch party last night in town, for the debut novel of someone who used to be on the team with me when I wrote for TV Scoop. Although I'd never met the lady in question, she's the kind of person whose online persona makes it easy to think you've known them all your life. Someone with whom you feel an instant rapport that marks them out as "your kind of person."

Which made my quandary even worse. I wanted to go. Not only for the chance to finally meet her, and to avoid appearing rude, but also to offer a crumb of moral support to a fellow writer and maybe even swop rejection stories.

But I didn't want to go. I'm not good at doing small talk with a bunch of people I don’t know, and I can't stand the air-kissing "and what do YOU do?" luvvieness that the dark side of my imagination had already populated the room with before I even walked in. It was clear from the outset that the debutante authoress would be fully occupied with mingling, and wouldn't have a lot of time with anyone in particular, so I fully expected to be left propping up the bar, avoiding eye contact with all those strangers and clutching a pint protectively to my chest while trying to look unobtrusive and wondering how soon I could bail without looking frightfully impolite.

Regular readers may recall another aborted attempt at socialising with strangers when I attended the Alfred Bradley Bursary Awards ceremony at the Beeb last year (crikey, that's almost a year ago!). Well this event proved all too similar, except with marginally fewer luvvies. It did, however, have one redeeming feature which tipped the balance. We were expecting another ex-Scoop writer to be there, and I figured what the heck - at least there'll be one other person there I'll know, who isn't fully occupied with actually running the thing. So I went. He wasn't there. I chugged a pint of lime and soda and left. The end.

Except it's not quite the end, because Lady Authoress spotted me in the middle of my quick getaway and headed me off by the door. I honestly hadn't intended leaving without saying goodbye, but as the last of the lime and soda drained away she'd been engrossed in conversation and I didn't want to interrupt. So then I had chance to feel bad because SHE felt bad that she'd not been able to talk with me for very long. Great! I never could *quite* get the hang of new people. Maybe I should open a small shop in Royston Vasey.

Redeeming features

I couldn't tell you how long I've been a member of YouGov, but I was definitely filling in their little surveys before we moved to this house, so it's more than three-and-a-half years.

 Being the sort of person who likes to share his opinion (*cough* - well, come on, no-one writes a blog if they don't have something to share), I couldn't resist the opportunity to register my thoughts on brands (good and bad), product likes and dislikes, exactly which areas of society I think are going to the dogs, and suchlike.

The fact that most of the surveys accrue points, and these points can be exchanged for financial recompense, was never forefront either in my mind, or in my incentives to register these many-faceted and firmly held opinions. But even so, the knowledge that I would be on the receiving end of a cheque for fifty quid once I'd racked up a tally of 5,000 points was, shall we say, ever-present. Even if progress, at 50 points per survey (except those "prize draw" surveys which offered immediate cash, but only for the lucky few), did verge on the glacial.

Well, even glaciers reach the sea eventually, and today my tally rolled over the 5,000 point mark, and the "redeem your points" button was finally enabled. Suitable spending suggestions for the £50 which will shortly arrive on the mat may be made in the usual way. The proprietor reserves the right to ignore any or all of them, and blow the lot on a romantic meal for two :o)

Farewell to the Bottler

True "statesmanlike" behaviour is seen when the right thing is done without pause, and because it's the right thing to do, not when it's delayed until it is the only option left and comes after a period of unseemly scrabbling to hang on to the reins of power at any cost.

Whenever Gordon Brown said he would do something for the good of the country, you knew that he really meant "for the good of Gordon Brown." Well, now he's gone and good riddance. His party had fired the starting pistol on their race to elect a new leader days before he'd even resigned. A more apt metaphor may be the opening of sluice gates to let flow the pent-up vitriol, repressed indignation and hidden ambition that has been building up ever since his unopposed  "coronation" as leader. Unopposed, yes. But also unelected. And that's how he will now remain.

Traditional remedies

Went to the doc's yesterday and he's signed me off sick for the rest of this week. I'm severely congested, and he's prescribed a course of antibiotics as a precaution against the congestion becoming infected which could be dangerous.

But I was surprised at his other recommendations, which sounded decidedly archaic. To relieve the congestion: steam inhalation. Yep, boil a kettle, pour it into a bowl, stick a towel over your head and breathe deeply. Something I remember both my Mum and my Gran doing when I was a kid, occasionally with the addition of a dollop of Vicks in the water, thereby filling the house with strong menthol vapours.

And for the sore throat? Gargle with salt water. Yuck. I had enough of that as a small boy (I had a lot of sore throats back then), stood at the kitchen sink for hours gargling and spitting, while trying to avoid the gargling turning into gagging.

I'm wondering now if this is a deliberate policy - returning to time-honoured "old wives'" remedies in place of decreasingly effective modern treatments in an effort to curb the ballooning NHS drug budgets.

Celebrity Night

The last street safari night we attended was African Night, back in March 2009, which is a long interval. There has been one other in the interim - Cowboy Night - which by all accounts was a great success but which we had to miss on account of being elsewhere. Can't remember now exactly which else. Two of the neighbours took advantage of our absence to make up a cowboy-style "wanted" poster of us, which we thought was pretty cool.

The latest theme under which we intended to trail from house to house stuffing our faces with good food and various alcoholic beverages was Celebrity Night. We didn't have an awful lot of notice for this, or a really clear idea of what it meant, so with that feeble excuse most of us didn't make much of an effort. In a cop-out reminiscent of our very first safari outing (Mexican Night) I decided to be Jarvis Cocker on account of him normally wearing jeans and a tee, and me normally wearing jeans and a tee. Natalie cradled a bottle of port on one arm, hung onto me with the other arm and thus went as Natalie Port-Man, and Nikki didn't bother adopting a persona at all. Only Blythe gave it any thought and cobbled together a passable impression of Michael Jackson (he's dead you know), which almost saved our credibility in the face of some really good costumes from the rest of the neighbours.

We had Ozzy, Amy, Cheryl (and Ashley), Wally (as in, where's Wally?), Gaga, James Bond, Winnie (Churchill, not the Pooh), Mrs Q and Posh, Brian May and Minnie Mouse.

Celebrity food gave everyone pause. We opted for Sausage Surprise (from EastEnders) and I made a Red Pearl cocktail. We also enjoyed some excellent tapas, pâté & dips, lasagne, a chocolate fountain and an excellent cheeseboard. Most of the others went for some form of sparkling wine as the celebrity drink du jour.

Not such a late night as has been the norm, but all in all another successful safari to add to the archives.

Stags and Dens, and self-determination

It's a fair few years since I went to a stag do (probably not thirty, but not that far off), but as our mates Jamie and Lise are getting hitched immediately prior to setting sail for a new life in Spain, and therefore opportunities to socialise with either or both of them will shortly be severely curtailed, when I learnt that one of the Players was organising a surprise stag do for him at the Frog and Bucket the decision to attend was a no-brainer (even though it clashed with a "girls' weekend").

We were due to meet at the Dry Bar at 7pm, where Jamie would arrive on the pretext of having a quick drink before catching a train for a quiet night watching DVDs at a mate's house, to find around 20 of his friends waiting to drag him off for a completely different sort of night. I'd never been to the Dry Bar so I hopped a taxi. The driver, who gave every appearance of never having heard of the Dry Bar, dropped me off on Oldham Street outside an anonymous building. Armed with the knowledge that said bar was #28 on the street, and noticing the shop opposite was #51, I headed off confidently in the direction of Piccadilly, looking for an even numbered door on my side to give me some new bearings. When I reached #14 I backtracked, counting doorways, and found myself back where I started. Maybe the cabbie was more clued up than I'd imagined.

One friendly face was visible behind the double doors (Hi Bon!) so I grabbed a pint and settled in to await further arrivals. Those of the male members of the Players who could make it drifted in by ones and twos until we received a text message that Jamie was on his way. The ruse worked perfectly, his normally bemused look giving way to total surprise as he rounded to corner to cheers and applause. After another quick lemonade we set off for the Frog and Bucket.

I'm not normally one to criticise (*cough*) so I should probably just say the comedy was appalling. Luckily that's not why we went - at least not for the sort on stage. The craic among the group was way funnier. The first of three acts seemed to think all he had to do was say "nobhead" a few times, interspersed with other colourful language, and we'd all fall about laughing. Halfway through his act I glanced around our group. Almost to a man we were all sat there with our arms folded, staring him down and daring him to make us laugh. I was glad it wasn't just me. He didn't raise a single chuckle during his entire act, even though a group of young ladies on a hen night, or birthday party, seemed to think it all pant-wettingly funny, and literally fell about in their seats screaming and giggling fit to bust. Maybe it was all much funnier if you were pissed. Or an airhead.

The woman who was on second raised the bar a little, but you still wouldn't have been able to limbo under it. Her delivery was good (an Irish accent always helps) but her material weak and predictable at best. I saw her best gag coming several minutes before she finally got to the punchline.

After all that we had great expectations of the "headline act," but he proved to be almost a rerun of the first guy only with more charisma. The compère was funny though. Or at least it seemed funny at the time. Thinking back over what he said (wondering whether to repeat the intercourse here and deciding against it) it wasn't especially funny, but at the time I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks. I've read that most comedy arises when one group of people is made to feel superior to another, and that was certainly true of this situation, as Jamie had the piss ripped mercilessly from him. Maybe the fact that each of us in Jamie's vicinity knew at some gut level we were only a glance away from being subjected to some of the same, which could have given it more of an edge. All in all, it epitomised the phrase: "you had to be there."

Sometime between the first and second act, the Stag Night Organiser came around with a tray of shots. Now I'm not the biggest fan of shots at the best of times, but the truth is, I've been feeling like shit for the last three days and have been off work with it. Sore throat, congestion, cough, splitting headache, fever and a general lack of energy. It was an act of monumental selflessness to attend the stag do in the first place (*cough*) and I certainly didn't intend to make things worse by getting off my face.

So I selected the smallest shot available, and when the toast was made I touched the glass to my lips and set it down on the table, out of sight among the menus. After the second act one of my table-mates (names omitted to protect self-esteem) noticed the unconsumed shot.

TM: Hey! You didn't drink your shot!
Me: I know. I didn't want it in the first place.
TM: Well I didn't want mine, but I drank it.

I looked pityingly at him as he bemoaned his lack of... whatever it was that allowed me to ignore the shot and the herd behaviour that surrounded it.

Sometime later I heard the Organiser ask the bloke next to him to go around and collect fivers from everyone for another round of shots. TM reached into his wallet immediately and produced a crisp fiver.

Bloke: John?
Me: No thanks.
Bloke: (with theatrical inflection) I don't think it's optional!
Me: Isn't it?

I locked eyes with the bloke until he moved away to the next Stagger.

TM: You've done it again! How do you do that? I didn't want another shot...

What made it worse for the guy was the shot, when it arrived, was a double scotch. Only from the smell of it, it had been distilled from kerosene rather than the more usual substrate. But I'm not smug. Well, not very.

Suddenly everyone's a fan of PR

I'm finding the sight of so many ministers tripping over themselves to declare themselves lifelong supporters of electoral reform and proportional representation in the wake of yesterday's poll quite sickening. Realising their only hope of clinging to power lies with a resurrected Lib-Lab pact, and the price of that will be a referendum on PR, they are all busy wooing Nick Clegg.

An extended Today programme on Radio 4 included an interview with Neil Kinnock, who said something along the lines of time being up for a system where a massive Commons majority could be gained for only 40% of the vote. Evan Davis gleefully pointed out that Kinnochio had never been heard to complain about this state of affairs when his own party were the beneficiaries. This prompted the indignant response that Kinnock had been a long-term supporter of electoral reform but "knew he couldn't promote it in those days because the papers would have made a meal of the implicit admission that Labour couldn't win on their own." (I paraphrase).

That single sentence crystallised for me everything that is amiss with politics. What Kinnock was effectively saying is that he couldn't support what he truly believed in because he was afraid of how the media would spin it. Are we supposed to believe him? Or are we led to the conclusion that this is yet another example of him - along with all the rest of them - saying what he thinks we want to hear rather than what he truly believes. One thing is certain. Either he is lying now, or he was lying then. And if he was lying then, why should we trust him now? Trust - or the lack of it - is the single biggest reason for the public's disillusion with politics and politicians. None of them say what they really mean, or mean what they say. No conviction, no leadership, no honesty, no integrity and no long-term thinking which we need to solve long-term problems like transport, education, health and pensions.

No wonder the country can't make up its mind.

Another day, another curry

This month's curry night had a completely different flavour, and this was not only down to a change of venue. We returned to Eastern Revive, which I've only visited once before, having patronised the well-blogged Ayo Gurkhali many times in recent months. I enjoyed a monumental Chicken Tikka Nagpuri, a dish with a robust yet delicate flavour and which left a gentle but satisfying tingle on the lips.

But the real change this time round was in the extended attendee list. One of our "regulars" who actually hardly ever makes managed to carve an evening out of his busy schedule, but perhaps more significantly we enjoyed the company of two "guest" curry lovers neither of whom I've seen for several years. It was really good to catch up with them, chat over their current challenges and successes, and share mine, over a couple of pints and a pleasant meal. I hope now they've broken their duck they'll be back more regularly in the future, as the dynamic of the group was elevated several degrees by their presence and the whole evening, already something I always look forward to, was given an even keener edge with the two new perspectives, tales and opinions.

For many years, and for many reasons too numerous (and some of them too painful) to mention, I built an artificial barrier between my social life and my working life. While many of the guys I now share a monthly curry with developed strong, deep and lasting friendships with colleagues that have in some cases survived several changes of career, I was working when at work, and socialising only with people I didn't work with. Ten years ago I started tearing that barrier down, among others, and bulldozing a road to a better future. Friendships are too important - and good ones too rare - to restrict your chances of finding them, or building them, to any one part of life. They can pop up any time, in any place, and for any reason. Took me way too long to learn that lesson.

Vinyl: Love Songs

Artist: The Beatles
Owned on digital media: No
Want to replace: No

No idea how much "they" will be asking for THIS album (compared to the Red Album, for instance), but frankly I don't care. I'm not that much of a Beatles fan if I'm honest. There's nothing quite like not hearing something for ten years to make you realise whether or not you've missed listening to it, and this lot I haven't. Checked out the track list on Wikipedia and there's some of their good stuff on there (surprising number of duplicates with the contents of the Red/Blue Albums) but also some not-so-good. All in all this is something I'm happy to catch occasionally on the radio, not something I'm overly keen to own.

Kevin Watch

Since discovering the presence of young Kevin in our aquarium the other day, things have been a bit fraught. I'm the first to admit I know nothing about the habits of very small cherry barbs, but he does seem to spend an awful lot of his time... missing. Or hiding.

Maybe it's because he's such a small nipper he instinctively knows he needs to keep out of the way of the Big Fish in case they take a fancy to a passing morsel. These fish are known for eating their young, although I think he's past the stage where any of them would be able to take a chunk out of him. Anyway, it's not been unusual for a day or two to pass without a sighting, which leads to elevated levels of anxiety from "mum & dad" as we peer into the tank hoping for a glimpse.

This level of concern for little Kev was raised to unprecedented heights during our week away in the Lakes, since we'd left the fish to more-or-less fend for themselves with nothing more than a dissolving "vacation" food block for company. Would the block dissolve? Would they recognise it as food? Would their increased hunger lead them to focus even more keenly on their defenceless offspring? Returning from our hols yesterday morning we examined the tank closely for any sign of young life. There was none. Unable to concentrate properly on the evening's telly our attentions were continually drawn back to the glowing tube, but he never showed.

Until this morning, when the weekly partial water change must have flushed him out from his usual hiding place and suddenly there he was, racing around the tank in pursuit of small bits of detritus thrown up by the pouring water. And... what's this? Looks like he's got a little brother or sister too!! Almost half the size Kevin is now, and as far as we can remember smaller than he was the first time we spotted him. We've called "her" Marina. If this keeps up we'll be needing a second tank!

Book Review: Fatal Revenant

Way back in October 2008 I reported finding the first two books of Stephen Donaldson's Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant. I read book 1 on our Lakes week last October and since then I've been waiting for a chance to pick up book 2. This week has provided that chance and I've been devouring Fatal Revenant's 856 pages since Sunday morning.

I don't want to give too much away, but I will say I found this every bit as riveting as the first book. It's true that you have to be prepared to do battle with Donaldson's style when he's writing about the Land. The constant repetition of his heroes' fear, anguish, trepidation, suffering, loss and uncertainty which was such a signature feature of the first two trilogies is here once again, in spades, and it can get very wearing.

But overwhelmingly, this is a monumental success. Not only does Donaldson pick up the threads of every story, race and being that has gone before, and weave them into a narrative that fits as comfortably as an old cardigan, but he then skilfully embroiders that cardigan with a host of new characters, races and situations that are so cleverly explained and so thoroughly well thought-out that you can't tell the embroidery was never part of the original cardigan.

Moreover Donaldson's skill as a story teller, already epic at the time he wrote the first Chronicles, has achieved a hitherto undreamt of level of mastery. The complexity of this tale, as Linden Avery confronts a host of opponents some of whom endure bitter rivalries of their own and hence can occasionally appear to be her allies, others who are virtually their own hero and foe simultaneously, and continues to journey with a rare admixture of characters each of whom has a mystery to solve or at least one hidden aspect, is breathtaking. One of the most satisfying and rewarding reads I can remember for many years.

I can't really get the hang of this blogging lark

I always seem to be two weeks behind with this. I watched Steve Davis finish his first round match against Mark King in the 2010 World Snooker championships last week and wanted to put something in writing about how impressed I'd been, not just with his performance - still managing to win matches at this level at the age of 52 and on his 30th appearance at the Crucible; still committed enough to put in the hours of practice he must need to counteract the loss of visual acuity and muscle tone that the ticking clock must bring - but with the reaction of the crowd. The standing ovations as he entered the arena were really very moving. The entire audience recognising his achievements not only on the table but as an ambassador for snooker in particular and sportsmanship in general, in a way I can't imagine them doing for any other player.

But despite starting that post last week, I never got around to finishing it. A few days passed, Steve won his second round match and made it to the quarters. A fantastic achievement that energised the whole competition. There were reports of people stopping him in the street to congratulate him, and somehow the lights over the baize seemed to shine brighter and the balls on the table were more colourful in the reflected glory of his success.

The dream stopped at the quarter finals, where he was beaten by the guy who would eventually go on to win - Australian Neil Robertson. Throughout all that drama I either couldn't summon up the enthusiasm to put finger to keyboard, or I was in the Lakes, away from the computer.

You may have spotted that I couldn't possibly have known that Neil Robertson won on the date this post was made. It didn't happen until the Bank Holiday Monday after we returned from the Lakes. I'm writing this up on the 7th of May, and that's what I mean by being two weeks behind. This has turned (or has always been) more of a retrospective record of events than a blog, and it's beginning to do my head in.

Trouble is, whenever I enjoy a spurt (of writing activity I mean) and catch up, this will inevitably be followed by a period where there's nothing to write about, or a total dearth of enthusiasm. Back the pendulum swings and I'm two weeks behind again. >sigh< I guess there are more important things to worry about :-\

Someone's idea of hell

...is another's heaven.

We're spending a week in the Lakes this week. Same place we stayed last time (and the time before) only it's just us this time so we've rented the cottage rather than the entire farmhouse.

Whenever we come away with mates we do tag along on the walks. The less physically demanding ones at least. All of them have been great fun, wonderful views, sights you wouldn't see unless you were walking, and we always get back from a walk feeling glad that we've done it. But left to our own devices we're considerably less energised. Yesterday afternoon we went for a walk on the beach at Seascale, but that'll be the one and only walk of the week and it doesn't really qualify as "a walk" - there and back again and no longer than an hour.

Still, this was never intended to be a walking holiday. It's a chance to get away from work, the computers and pretty much the rest of the world, and please ourselves. To spend hours over coffee at the start of each day, just reading a book. Which is something we always struggle to find time for in "normal life." And then, since this is the final week of the World Snooker Championship, to spend most of the rest of the day watching the BBC's excellent coverage.

Like I said, we know that would be the very definition of hell for a lot of people. But we're loving every minute of it.

Chocolate heaven since... er... 1657

One of the unique, clever and impeccably thoughtful gifts I received from Nikki last Christmas (her gifts always fall into at least two of those categories and more often than not all three. I don't know how she does it) was a voucher for a two-person "taste experience." A choice of any one of about two dozen venues dotted around the UK where we could turn up together and be treated to something foodie.

Options included cheese tasting, wine tasting and gourmet dining, but the only one with the combined benefits of most attractive nosh and proximity was the Famous 1657 Chocolate House at Kendal.

Normally of course this wouldn't tick the proximity box but as we set off this morning for a week in the Lakes Kendal was only a tiny diversion on the way to Wasdale. We arrived with plenty of time to spare. After a short riverside walk to kill that time we climbed the worn stone steps (which presumably have been trodden every day since 1657) and, not really knowing what to expect, crossed the threshold.

The current proprietor greeted us, ushered us to our reserved table in the window and introduced our own personal serving wench. She then ran through the details of exactly what our taste experience would entail.

We began with a mug of hot chocolate from a bewildering choice of flavours (we both selected the spicy "Aztec" option) accompanied by a slice of chocolate cake from an even larger list. Most of these are made in-house from traditional recipes developed by the original owner, although a small number (three on our menu for today, as far as I remember) are bought-in from local cake shops to swell the variety on offer.

Both were delicious.

After a short pause and a glass of water to refresh the palate, the wench returned bearing a plate of cut fruit and four small pots of pure melted chocolate - one each of dark and milk - in which to dip the fruit.

Heaven on a plate, and surprisingly filling. Once the fruit had been consumed we climbed the tiny spiral staircase to a comfy lounge to watch a short film on the growing, harvesting and production of the cocoa bean, after which we were invited into the emporium's basement shop to select 100g each from their handmade chocolate selection.

All told we were there just over an hour, and left well sated with our 100g bags (it worked out at 7-8 choccies each) tucked away for later. What a brilliant Christmas treat. Thanks babe!

Cleaning cars

I don't clean my car.

It's always been a kind of "grudge purchase" - or grudge activity I suppose - with me. I never saw the point of washing something that was going to get dirty again more or less immediately. It's not like a freshly-laundered shirt, where you can avoid dropping your dinner down it. At least for a day or so. Usually. No, with a car, you can't avoid the rain, the mud, the fumes, the dust and - most recently - the volcanic ash. Cars get dirty no matter how "careful" you are.

So I don't bother. Unless it's a special occasion. Like the arrival of the outlaws. Which means it might get a wash once a year, if it's lucky. I drive past one of those "best hand job in Manchester" places every day after dropping Nikki at work, but I even begrudge the six quid it would cost me for the minor detour (it's right there on the main road, so only a swerve or two will do it) to let someone else wash it for me.

Don't get me wrong, I understand the attraction of owning and driving a gleaming polished machine. I just can't be arsed.

But I had to smile at the guy I saw pull in there this morning in his soft-top Merc. I mean, to my mind, the damn thing was ALREADY CLEAN.

A bolt of lightning

Storm the Charts has been on hiatus since Thursday night. The first two rounds of the first week of polling had completed amid accusations of vote rigging, and some pretty heated sniping between rival bands. Despite claims that they "managed to rally the fans at the last minute" it looked pretty suss for two bands in the same poll to have both quintupled their votes in round two compared with the support they drew in the first round.

So the organiser has decided to pull the plug temporarily while he works on a way to make things fairer and less prone to multiple votes. This will undoubtedly not go down well with some factions, but will hopefully be greeted warmly and with encouragement by the majority, who apart from their obvious personal desire to find fame and fortune through their music, mostly also have the altruistic and selfless aim to promote indie music in general in the face of the suits.

Maybe I'll be a musician

I've always wanted to play a musical instrument. You'll notice I said play, rather than learn. A deliberate choice of words, because it's the learning that's always put me off. Not having the time for it, partly, but also knowing myself well enough to admit, reluctantly, that I almost certainly wouldn't have the patience or determination for it either.

Recent musical activities in the shape of Beresford & Wallace have rekindled my interest in playing, and by a strange coincidence Natalie's keyboard has been lying on the study floor gathering dust for more than a year, silently nagging me to plug it in and run my fingers along its smooth white loveliness. With occasional smooth black loveliness thrown in, in the usual way of keyboards.

We popped in to Waterstones over Easter weekend for an OS map or two in preparation for our forthcoming jaunt to the Lakes, and while Nikki was trying to find the holiday reading she was after, my browsing led me to a book entitled Learn to Play Keyboards (with a free CD!). I was tempted. Skimming the first few pages was enough to convince me to buy it.

But owning the means to learn - a keyboard, a computer, and a book of lessons - and actually doing the learning are still quite widely separate things. Nevertheless the actual learning took a step closer yesterday when Annie called around to fix me up with a new soundcard and a music editing suite. In a trice the keyboard was connected up and working, and I was having a play with my very own soundbank. Yes flutes, oboes, grand pianos, church organs and many more are all now mine for the trying.

Lesson 1...

Small fry

I haven't blogged much about our fish recently (let's be honest, I haven't blogged much about anything recently), but they've been doing fine. I'm being so diligent about doing their water tests once a week, and water changes at the same time, that I hardly recognise myself. If those poor creatures who lived in my cold water aquarium during the mid-eighties could see me, they'd stare in awe at the reformed character who does more than clean the tank once every six months.

Anyway that was then, and this is now, and I'm pleased to say our six cherry barbs have settled in very well and aren't exhibiting any of the shyness that barbs are renowned for. They all huddle at the front of the tank every time anyone walks into the room, expecting to be fed, and beyond that they pretty much look after themselves and don't do anything more remarkable than chase each other about a bit from time to time.

Until last night, when I happened to glance over while we were watching TV, and spotted a small piece of floating debris near the top of the tank. The filter usually does a pretty good job of removing anything like this, so I was surprised to see it, and even more surprised when I noticed it was moving. Against the current. Swimming, even. Scarcely able to believe my eyes I rushed over to the tank for a closer look. A tiny fish! Our barbs have spawned!

The little guy is barely half a centimetre long, but appears to be a strong swimmer. He (or she - we won't be able to tell for a few months) keeps his distance from the adults. A sensible strategy, because they tend to eat their fry when nobody's looking. He's done pretty well to survive this long under his own steam, because we've done nothing special to promote breeding in the tank, and not provided any of the recommended feeding material (like "infusoria" - whatever that is) for fry, but the fact that he's grown big enough to be seen free swimming without a black background means he must already be a few weeks old.

Which also means he's somehow managed to survive a filter change. I'll have to be even more careful from now on. We've called him Kevin. Well, you know, "Stephen" was a bit too obvious.

Anticipation

There's a definite warmth to the air this afternoon. A suggestion of incipient summer. A cursory check of the weekend weather forecast suggests it will hold nice all day Saturday and most of Sunday, so maybe we'll get our asses in gear and start the serious gardening of 2010, after last weekend's brief sojourn outside to complete The First Cut of the Year, and trim back the rampant hedge which had once again spent the winter encroaching on the path.

It's been a quiet week mainly, apart from Wednesday when I hauled myself off to the Spread to attend auditions for this year's Chorlton Players "hotpot." Normally a sketch show, this year they're having a vaudeville theme, so I thought I'd chuck my name into the hat for the position of MC.

In the seven or eight years we've been helping out with the Players I've never felt the urge to tread the boards, but I do have a track record (well, to be accurate, one previous outing) as MC in the style of Leonard Sachs, so I thought "why not?"

We're also up for singing a couple of tracks off Weird & Wonderful during the show, which should be a laugh. If I can stop shaking, that is.

The absentee landlord

Three and a half years we've lived in this house, and in all that time we haven't had a single leaflet through our door from the incumbent MP. Regular news of what the Lib Dems are doing to brighten up the neighbourhood, revamp the parks, improve safety and discourage yobbishness in the parish, but from our high profile Labour MP? Nothing. Not a sausage.

Well, it's been a day or so since Gordo let slip the news about the election (which everyone had been predicting since before Christmas) and what's this I see on my doormat? A red-top leaflet prominently featuring a photograph of a smiling Gerald, a few pathetic sentences about his recent good deeds, and a plea for my vote.

Ha!

I made up my mind many, many years ago that it would take more than election-time canvassing to secure my loyalties. I don't know where Gerald has been since the last election but there's not been a single sighting in this neck of the woods since we moved in. Too late, mate. Way too late.

PS: PVR clock display on powering down after tonight's telly? 23:33. Nice.

22:22

I've been meaning to post on this for a while, but tonight brought further impetus to the subject as the PVR went into standby and switched over from displaying the channel to telling the time.

22:22

If I was a statistician, or even moderately masterful at mathematics, I could probably (see what I did there?) work out the chances of one of these "significant" time patterns being visible for any given time you glance at a clock. But that would take all the magic out of it.

Fact is, it feels like it happens to me more often than simple statistics would suggest. I regularly get up in the night (no prizes for guessing why) to greet the bedroom clock showing what I'd call a notable time. 1:01. 2:34. A little while ago - the events that originally prompted me to write on the subject - I woke one morning at 1:11, the following morning at 2:22 and the day after that at 4:44. Don't ask me where 3:33 went. I felt like I'd skipped a day.