Let Me Hear Your Body Talk, Your Body Talk...

Yesterday, finally, I got to see a physiotherapist. She confirmed what I hoped - apart from a few twinges and the odd ache, I'm well on my way back to full strength. The physio gave me a few exercises to help improve my wrist strength, using a simple hand weight... "or," she added, having looked my my weedy little arms, "if you don't have one - use a can of beans or something."

Believe it or not, I do actually own a hand weight. Many years ago in the dim and distant gloom of my 20s, I became concerned about the extreme skinniness of my arms. Though my leg muscles are reasonably well-developed due to the amount of walking I do, my biceps are virtually non-existent. So I bought a weight and set about pumping a very limited amount of iron in the hope of being able to create my own Popeye flex. After a few weeks, I lost interest. What did it really matter? Who was I trying to impress? Could I really be bothered? So the weight was stuffed in the bottom of a cupboard never to be used again...

Until now... Lou Ferringo, look out!



In other news, I was saddened to hear about the death of actor Andy Hallett, who played The Host, Krevlornswath of the Deathwok Clan, or "Lorne" in Buffy spin-off Angel. He was one of my favourite characters, bringing humour, heart, and music to the show. Hallett was only 33 when he died yesterday of heart disease. Tragic news. Here's to Lorne!

The Book With No Name

Anyone who reads The Book With No Name ends up dead. With a premise like that, I had to give it a go. Seeing it described as "Tarantino meets The Da Vinci Code" I was a little less excited (especially after Stewart Lee's biting deconstruction of Dan Brown). In the end though, The Book With No Name proved a guilty pleasure. The Tarantino comparison is apt, not just for the multi-character mosaic plot structure, but also the mad genre mash-up of psycho crime bosses, kung fu monks, spooky cops, vampires, and hitmen dressed as Elvis.

The story is one big, preposterous MacGuffin chase scene - though not for the eponymous (or anti-eponymous) book as you might expect, but instead for a mysterious blue gem with the power to cause a permanent eclipse. The 'everyone who reads it dies' hook comes a distant second to all that nonsense, but the anonymous author ties it all together... just.

Yes, anonymous author. That's yet another gimmick used to market The Book With No Name, but again it works in the context of the story... and also when you take into account that this was originally self-published on the internet, to such acclaim that it was quickly snapped up by a real publisher. That's the dream of many amateur internet writers made reality - though it must be galling to achieve your moment in the sun and STILL not find your name popping up in the Amazon search engine. No wonder the author's obsessed with permanent eclipse.

So there's a lot to like about The Book With No Name. Yes, it's trashy, but knowingly so - it has no absolutely pretensions to literature, it just gets on with the job of telling a ridiculously rip-roaring yarn. Sometimes (though only sometimes), that's all you want.

The Return Of The Gig-Going Kid

During my broken armed exile, I missed three gigs. One of the drawbacks (and there aren't many) to living out in the sticks is how much you rely on your car - and when you can't drive, you're stuck. That said, I'm not sure I'd have wanted to risk facing any pogo-jumping, push-shoving, crowd surfers with my arm feeling delicate... even at last night's Starsailor performance, I had to hold it away from the over-excitement of revellers from time to time - and Starsailor fans are hardly hardcore moshers.

The gigs I missed then were Half Man Half Biscuit, Glasvegas, and The Killers. At least I got my money back for the tickets... even made an indecent profit on the Killers tickets, which I'm normally opposed to - but given the circumstances...

Anyway, I'm back on the circuit at last. With the first gig of the year finally under my belt. I do like Starsailor, though not as much as my mate Dave does - he's seen them six times in the last couple of years. They're a solid indie band who specialise in widescreen yearning romanticism, and the main thing they have in their favour is lead singer James Walsh's massive rockstar singing voice. I specify 'singing' because the weird thing about Walsh is that when he speaks - when he chats with the audience between songs for example - he sounds like a strangled duck. Or that Ashley character who used to be in Coronation Street. Or David Beckham. I don't understand how someone can talk like that in normal conversation, and then suddenly turn on these enormous, roof-shaking vocals whenever the music starts. But however he does it, it works, turning what might otherwise be everyday indie anthems into emotional windtunnels. That's the main reason I reckon Starsailor work better as a live band than on record... not to say that they haven't produced some very nice records, but live those songs just... well, they come alive.

That said, the new Starsailor album is definitely a grower, and may even be their strongest to date. Walsh certainly believes it to be so, championing Neon Sky as "the best song we've ever written" while boasting to the audience that last night's venue (The Ritz, Manchester) was too small for them, and that they hoped to be back soon at the much bigger Apollo (personally, I hate the Apollo - I can never understand why bands want to play there) or even the MEN Arena. Wishful thinking perhaps for a band four albums in with little airplay on their side, but if ever Starsailor have deserved their own Elbow moment, this must be it. I'd like to see them get a shot at the big time, if only because - for all last night's bravado - Walsh seems like a genuinely decent bloke who loves, really loves, what he does. And his acoustic Dancing Queen was possibly the best Abba cover I've ever heard.

Here's their new single, Tell Me It's Not Over. It does remind me ever-so-slightly of one of the biggest hits of the 90s in the chorus, though it's very different in delivery - and if you're gonna steal... even subconsciously... do it from the greats.

There Will Be Blood

Yesterday, the pain.

Now for the last twenty years, I've been trotting along to the dentists every six months for my regular check-up, and pretty much every time it's been the same story. Quick inspection, scale and polish, thanks very much, no problem, see you in six months.

Then my old dentist retired. And I got a new dentist.

Now a trip to the dentist has become a prolonged exercise in agony. Yesterday I was in there 40 minutes while this Larry-Olivier-In-Marathon-Man wannabe hacked away at the tartar with her scaler, and blood did flow...

Apparently I have weak gums. Due to tartar build up between my teeth. Due to never having flossed.

The question is - if this is such a problem all of a sudden, why didn't my old dentist ever mention it? There are two possibilities...

1) My old dentist was slack. (But he was a very nice man.)

2) My new dentist is a sadist.

I'm tending towards a combination of the two. I have had bloody gums from time to time lately, so there obviously is a problem, which very possibly my old dentist couldn't be bothered with (and he NEVER told me to floss). Then again, the relish with which my new dentist tucks in with the scaler reminds me of the clip below... and for the first time in my life, I'm dreading going back there.

But it made me think... what sort of person decides they want to become a dentist? I can just about understand why people become doctors (though being a hypochondriac, I couldn't imagine anything worse) - but a mouth-driller? Day after day after day of bleeding gums, fillings, and halitosis? No amount of money could make me want to get into that game. I dunno, maybe there's some hidden appeal I'm not aware of...

Dog & Duck

The highlight of our weekend in Staithes?

No, it wasn't the doggers we found "at it" in a layby on the main road from Whitby to Staithes, right next to the public footpath entrance to a nature reserve, at half past one on a Saturday afternoon.

Actually, we called them doggers, although I'm not sure that's the correct terminology. It was just a couple shagging in a car (and not a young, nor particularly beauteous or sexy couple either, if Louise's description is to be believed - she got a much better look than me... NOT THAT SHE WAS LOOKING). If I'm to understand contemporary sexual mores correctly, dogging itself isn't actually people shagging in cars... it's people watching people shagging in cars, and... erm, showing appreciation for it. Is that right? It's all very sordid if you ask me. Still, you don't expect it at half past one on a Saturday afternoon in a place where families are enjoying the scenery, do you? I mean, call me a prude... or call me one of those annoying people who still uses catchphrases from Friends ten years later... but "Get a room!" Being British of course, we just hurried on by, trying not to look (or complain), and then spent the rest of our walk grumbling about the decline of Western civilization.

(As an aside, the other day we had to write an ad for The Dog Inn Pub. Now other than the tautology of having both the words Inn and Pub in the same name... Dog Inn!? Really?)


No, the highlight of our holiday wasn't the dogs... it was the ducks.

Directly outside our cottage was a little beck that ran down to the harbour. Two kinds of birdlife lived there: angry, squawking seagulls... and loads of extra-cheeky ducks.



I've always liked ducks, having grown up on a farm I've found them to be the funniest domestic fowl. Chickens are too stupid, and geese - for all I've grown to love them - too vicious. Wild ducks can be just as funny - particularly those that live in areas where they're often fed by the public. They develop a brazen sense of entitlement that just makes me smile.



This is Whitey. The first time we fed the ducks of Staithes, we considered Whitey the most brazen of the lot.



He truly was Dareduck. The Duck Without Fear. Matt Murduck. He even went so far as to stand on Louise's foot, to get closer to the bread.





But the next morning, Whitey was beaten at his own game... by this little lady, who couldn't even wait for us to bring the bread outside; she had to knock on the window (while her boyfriends camped out on the doorstep) until we fed her.





Given this, and my love of ducks, I had only a fowl sneer for the people in the neighbouring cottage who, passing while I stood feeding the ducks in my pyjamas (no, I didn't have ducks in my pyjamas), remarked - oh so wittily - "send 'em next door, we've got some orange sauce!".

Ho. Ho ho. Ho ho ho.

Scumbags.

Still, ducks. Gotta love 'em.




(Apologies to those of you disappointed that the first half of this post wasn't illustrated like the second half. I'm sure there are other websites that cater for you.)

Wednesday Week

My Week In Music feature reaches Wednesday, certainly not as popular with songwriters as Monday or even Tuesday. It's the day annoying DJs describe as "hump day"; as in the 'hump in the middle of the week'. Slim pickings sift out the following gems...

Simon & Garfunkel's Wednesday Morning, 3am. Wonderful harmonies as always.

Oh, what have I done?
Why have I done it?
I've committed a crime,
I've broken the law.
For twenty-five dollars
And pieces of silver,
I held up and robbed
A hard liquor store.

A guilty conscience will always keep you awake at nights, lads.

Roadside Poppies are a jangly pop band from Cambridge and Copenhagen. You can listen to their song Wednesday on their myspace page. It's all about how they "never eat Shredded Wheat on Wednesday". Personally, I don't eat it any other day either. Yuck.

Billy Bragg skipped Tuesday, but just squeaks in today with a b-side from the I Keep Faith single, Ash Wednesday. It's a pretty track, with Billy singing a deep baritone and playing a mean harmonica. Obviously I can't find it anywhere online, but I did find Billy singing another famous song that begins Wednesday Morning at 5 o'clock. A bunch of Scousers of wrote it, but they hardly need me to promote them.

Which brings us to Wednesday Week. Two different songs with the same title, from the same era. First up is Elvis Costello, who'd win the prize this Wednesday week if I could find any trace of a video online. It's only a b-side though, from the days of Armed Forces, a tale of pursuing a lover only to lose interest once the chase is up.

Oh what a letdown when the battle was finally won
One little breakdown and then it was over and done
I wish I had your confidence
It's love and not coincidence
Do you say these words to everyone ?
You're fantastic, you're terrific
Your excellence is almost scientific
You took the words out of my mouth
You put the tongue into my cheek
But I'd better lose my memory by Wednesday Week

Winning by youtube default then are the Undertones, at their least sarcastic and most 60s-sounding. Was Feargal Sharkey ever really this young?



Go on then, what Wednesday songs have I missed?

Sunset Over Staithes

What a glorious weekend!

Staithes is an old fishing village a few miles up the coast from Whitby. We stayed in an oldy-worldy fisherman's cottage right on the harbour front. (You can see it below, it's the white house with the blue door.)



Outside that door was a single track leading to the lifeboat station, and a duck-bustling beck streaming out into the sea.



Peaceful, relaxing, picturesque.



The weather (particularly on Saturday) was warm and sunny - I wore a T-shirt as we took a long clifftop walk and the North Sea was bluer than I've ever seen it.



More later.

"It's Pick On The Middle-Aged Square Guy Day"

On Sunday the 19th of March, in the year of 1972, an innocent little baby entered this crazy, mixed up world.

37 years later, he's still here. Though maybe not so innocent anymore.

And to celebrate, he's being whisked away by his loved one to a secret location (except it's not very secret as Louise is crap at keeping secrets) for a few days.

Anyay, I was going to post a cool birthday song, but instead I decided on this. There's a general rule that Stevie Wonder In The 70s = classic; and Stevie Wonder In The 80s = Coma Daughter*. This is from the cusp, and if you believe the new millennium didn't begin till 2001, then 1980 is still the 70s...



*If you don't get the reference, watch this. Hell, watch it anyway. It's my birthday, I order you. "That's a COSSSBY sweater!"

Everything's Tuesday

Second day of the week, second week of my Week In Music series. Tuesday isn't as popular with songwriters as Monday, yet it does well when it comes to naming bands.

Aimee Mann has been a favourite of mine since her first solo album in 1993. Prior to that she was lead singer in the group 'Til Tuesday. The songwriting was strong, though many tracks were awfully overproduced (hey, it was the 80s - what wasn't?). Despite the peroxide, Aimee's voice still stands out on tracks like (Believed You Were) Lucky. Definitely an artist who's improved with age.

I first heard The Real Tuesday Weld when their track Bathtime In Clerkenwell was featured in a Lucozade advert. Luckily I didn't dismiss them for taking the evil marketing dollar, and when I saw them playing support (for who, I can't remember) sometime later, I was persuaded to investigate them further. They've got a real retro sound going on (they describe it as 'antique beat', and who am I to argue?). The video to The Ugly & The Beautiful illustrates this well, though it does take a while to get going.

OK, enough of the bands... what of the actual Tuesday songs?

As mentioned yesterday, one of my favourite bands that hardly anybody's heard of is Spearmint. Check yesterday's post for more of them and their lead singer Shirley Lee.

Tuesday Morning is from the band's last album, Paris In A Bottle, which according to songwriter Shirley was "about being in your late twenties and not having a clue what you are doing with your life". (Hey, I can go ten years better than that, Shirl.) It's a wonderful 'Day In The Life' song which goes like this:

Tuesday morning
Five o’clock
Pulls back the curtains
Runs a bath

Puts on the coffee
Radio 4
Too much sugar
Double locks the door

Walks to the café
John says hello
Pulls up the shutters
She won’t let it show

Breaks in the morning
Out the back door
Same conversation
As the day before, and the day before…

Lunch in the gardens
Sitting alone
Murakami
She won’t let it show

Home in the evening
Unlocks the door
The eight of clubs falls
From her bag to the floor…

I love the perfectly placed 'Murakami', though I don't get the eight of clubs at all.

It's not at all cool to listen to Counting Crows, which only makes me like them more. On A Tuesday In Amsterdam, Long Ago is from last year's Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings.

Keith Richards wrote Ruby Tuesday, about a legendary Stones groupie... or maybe about his ex-girlfriend Linda Keith... or maybe, oh, who knows, man?

After leaving Motown, Holland Dozier Holland set up their own record label, Invictus. One of the first acts they signed was Chairmen Of The Board and... ah, why don't I let Music Mike give Everything's Tuesday the intro it deserves...



Have I missed out your favourite Tuesday song? Do let me know...

Shirley Lee

As a sneak preview of tomorrow's Week In Music Part 2 post, here's a new song from one of the artists featured therein... sort of.

Spearmint is a band I've long had a major crush on. For almost fifteen years now, they've been making wonderfully touching observational geek-pop songs like We're Going Out, The Flaming Lips, Goldmine, Psycho Magnet, and Northern Soul tribute Sweeping The Nation.

Lead singer Shirley Lee has recently released his eponymous debut solo album. The rest of Spearmint are still playing on it, but for a couple of reasons Shirley decided this one needed to be his. Firstly, he thought perhaps a solo album would get a little more press attention than just another Spearmint album... and secondly, it contains some of his most personal songs to date.

A perfect example is the song below, The Reservoir, which deals with Shirley's late father. Listen, read the lyrics, and try not to get all teary-eyed like I did (especially when you get to the answering machine message)...

Never knew you loved Jacques Tati
Never knew you did impressions
Of John Wayne and Jacques Tati
I knew you had a temper
Which you passed on to me

When I was a boy
Yorkshire Sunday mornings
We'd drive out
And walk round the reservoir
And I'd talk to you and
You'd listen to me
And no matter what
You'd always support me

The last time I saw you, you were so ill
I said that my music might just turn out well
And you laughed at me as if to say
"Firstly, you're a fool; and secondly, that would be lovely"

The side of a hill in the Belgian rain
A view over town in the Belgian sunshine
That's where you lie now for almost four years
I've been missing you so for almost four years
Wish I could see you again just one final time
Walk round the reservoir with you
One last Sunday morning
Tell you what's been happening in my life
And tell you my plans and
You'd give me that smile because somehow
Then there would be hope
There would be hope...

But most of all I'd like to see
Your impression of Jacques Tati

The album Shirley Lee is available to buy here, where you can also download the free single 'The Smack Of Pavement In Your Face'. I'm sure Shirley will appreciate your support. And his dad would be proud too.

(And yes, he's a boy named Shirley. John Wayne fans, after hearing the song above, will understand why.)


Music and lyrics copyright Shirley Lee 2009; removable on request.

Watchmen

I don't have the emotional attachment to the source material of Watchmen that I do to many (predominantly Marvel) superhero films, so I can't get as worked up about it - in either a positive or negative fashion - as many in the geek community have.

As a movie, I enjoyed large parts of it. It was unnecessarily slow in places, and needlessly graphic in others. Yet it remained mostly faithful to the original comics, particularly in the way it lifted direction, sets, lighting, and mood (though not, sadly, costumes) from the individual panels Dave Gibbons drew (under tight instruction from Alan Moore). There were some truly stunning visuals. The actors, for the most part, did an excellent job of bringing the rather complex characters to life. Patrick Wilson's Night Owl and Jackie Earle Haley's Rorschach were particularly strong, though I can't help thinking Malin Akerman let the side down as Silk Spectre; she seemed to be reading the dialogue, not living it.

And yet... I can't help but end up agreeing with Alan Moore. As I've said before, I'm not the biggest Moore fan: I respect his many contributions to the comic book medium rather than adoring them. If anything, it's because his work always put brain before heart. You'd be hard-pressed to find a more cerebral comic book writer, but warmth isn't really his forte. (To its credit, the film maintains a similar tone throughout.) That said, I understand now - more than ever - why he had no wish to see Watchmen adapted to film, and why he refused to have anything to do with it. Because some stories just don't translate well from one medium to another. In my own writing, I've often found that certain ideas naturally suggest a particular medium - whether it be prose, play, TV script, or comic - and no matter how I might try to crowbar them from one medium to another, they just won't go. Watchmen was conceived and written as a comic because that is the only medium it can truly work in - indeed, it's a celebration of everything that makes comics special. Just as some novels and plays don't translate well to film, neither does this comic. Still, most of those involved have given it their best shot, showing love and devotion to the source material for which they're to be commended. A valiant effort.

Bloody Students

While I've missed getting out and about during my broken-arm-inspired exile, I can't say I've missed the odd pleasures of Bradford City Centre.

Walking through town this afternoon, I passed a young man of the studenty persuasion wearing a tiny blue waistcoat... and nothing else (on his top half - don't get too excited, girls). Virtually bare-chested in March. Yes, the max temp today is a balmy 11 degrees... but it's not even officially Spring yet!

Now I don't want to sound like my dad (actually, as previously discussed, I don't mind sounding like my dad at all - it's something I aspire to), but... kids these days, no shame, he'll catch his bloody death, etc. etc.

Three other possibilities occurred: 1) Student poverty; 2) Fashion Statement; 3) Knobhead.

Any thoughts?

Books Written For Girls

"He likes to read books written for girls," sang Camera Obscura, "he prides himself on being a man of the world". Not so I, I just needed a title for another post about books, and as two of my three choices this week have female authors - and the third a female narrator - why not?



A review copy of the above came to me from Faber & Faber, as a result of my librarything membership. "Reminiscent of the movie Little Miss Sunshine," read one of the blurbs, which was enough for me to give it a go.

Having been dumped by her boyfriend, Hattie returns home to Canada from Paris and finds herself having to take charge of her sister Min's two children (Logan and Thebes) when Min is committed to a psychiatric hospital. Although she loves her sister's kids, Hattie has no interest in being their surrogate mother, and so begins a road trip across North America to find their estranged father, Cherkis. To say that you can guess from the outset how this quest is going to turn out is an understatement - only it's really not the destination that matters but the fun to be had along the way.

In the Flying Troutmans, Miriam Toews introduces us to some hugely endearing characters; including two smart and precocious (yet seldom annoying) children and (no surprises here either) the biggest kid of them all, Hattie herself. The author has a wonderful ear for quirky and entertaining dialogue (an indie film a la LMS seems a must), particularly when it comes to sibling bickering.

Hey, she said, are you in a fight club?

You mean like the movie? he said.

Yeah, whatever, she said.

You mean like that movie Fight Club? he said.

Yeah, or you know, a variation on the theme, she said.

A variation on the theme of the movie Fight Club? he said.

Yeah! Like some local chapter, she said. You know? Starring Brad Pitt? Are you?

Am I a member of a local chapter that is a variation on the theme of the movie Fight Club starring Brad Pitt? he said.

I suggested to Thebes that she stop talking to Logan, and write a story.

I did start to wonder though... just how common a name is Logan in Canada? I thought it was only Wolverine.



Touching From A Distance is the book that inspired the Joy Division biopic Control, written by Ian Curtis's widow Deborah. Back when I reviewed the movie, I remarked how surprised I was not to sympathise more with Samantha Morton's portrayal of Deborah Curtis, particularly as the story is told from her perspective. To me, the film failed to make me care about Deborah's character, which seemed odd considering just how much her late husband apparently put her through as a result of his depression, mood swings, affairs, and emotional cruelty.

That's the main reason I was interesting in reading the book (other than that Dave gave me a copy), to try and get more of an understanding of Deborah Curtis herself. And yet, once again, I failed to sympathise. There's no doubt that she found herself trapped in a destructive relationship, and that she was largely the victim of this story, and yet it was rare I felt any empathy for her, even reading her own words. It's not as though I'm a big Joy Division fan, loyal to the image of a hero; it's not even that I feel she brought it on herself or stayed in the relationship longer than was healthy. Who am I to judge? She obviously loved Ian despite everything he put her through. And yet... I just couldn't warm to her. The book didn't even have the flashes of (largely Rob Gretton or Peter Hook-related) humour that lifted the film. It was an interesting read, yet cold and grey... much like Joy Division themselves. Perhaps that's the point.



Another book that's been less successfully translated into film is Guy Burt's After The Hole (renamed as The Hole around the time of the Thora Birch-starring flick). I first read this back in the early 90's and considered it both gripping and shocking. It's one of those books I've re-read over the years, though not for a long while as it's also a book I lent to a friend never to see again. Recently I tracked down a new copy on eBay, though sadly not one with the original cover above, rather the far less impressive movie cover and title (it's got bloody Keira Knightley on it for one thing!).

Burt's debut tells the story of a group of sixth-formers who take part in 'an experiment in real life' when they volunteer to be locked in a windowless cellar for three days over the school holidays by their mysterious 'friend' Martyn. Taking along enough provisions to last their stay, their fear begins to grow when Martyn doesn't return to let them out at the pre-arranged time... nor the next day... nor the next...

It's a slow burn book in which the sinister, frightening atmosphere creeps up on you before an ingenious plan is drafted by the narrator, Liz, to ensure the captive party's release. Continually flashing forward to a time 'after the hole' in which Liz is writing her memoirs of her experience, the narrative continually hints at a happy resolution.

And then comes the epilogue. Talk about having the rug pulled out from under your feet. I remember the first time I read it - what a punch in the gut! It's the sort of twist that makes you want to read the whole book again immediately to try and spot the clues; and amazingly it works just as well second time (or third and fourth), even when you know what's coming. If After The Hole doesn't give you nightmares... what the hell's wrong with you?

Guy Burt has written two other novels, Sophie and The Dandelion Clock (also known as A Clock With No Hands). Both were excellent, though neither could quite compete with the horror of The Hole. He's apparently writing for TV now (including Wire In The Blood and Stephen Fry's Kingdom), a new novel is long overdue.

Good Arms vs. Bad Arms

So the pot is off.

Yesterday I returned to the hospital to have the smelly cast removed and expose my left arm to the air for the first time in five weeks. Using a small yet still rather scary circular saw, the nurse cut through the pot (I felt the blade touching my skin, yet thankfully it only tickled). Then she tied the cast back on with bowed bandages and sent me for x-rays.

Back with the consultant, he gave me the good news that my bone is healing OK (though the splinter is still visible on x-ray) and that I no longer need to have it in plaster. However, I do have to take care while the bone continues to heal over the next few weeks (I'm scheduled for another x-ray mid-April to make sure everything is OK) and I'm now waiting for the physiotherapy department to contact me so that I can begin the exercises I need to start using the arm properly again.

It feels very stiff now that the pot is off, and I can't move either my wrist or my my elbow to maximum extent as the muscles in each have seized up through lack of use. The area of the break itself feels like a small bruise when you touch the skin, but there's no real pain. My main concern was when I could start driving again, and the doctor said that depending on how well I respond to the physio, I could hopefully be back behind the wheel in two weeks. (I'd hoped for sooner as we're going away for a weekend break over my birthday weekend and I'd wanted to drive for that. We'll see.)

Returning home, the first thing I did was soak my arm to get rid of all the dead skin that's accumulated. Before, I looked like a lizard shedding its scales (or the Singing Detective); after, skinny and puckered like chicken flesh ready for basting. The best thing though - that damned itch finally got scratched!

Monday's Still The Weekend To Me

Following on from last week's A Year In Song post - and with thanks to Brother Tobias for the suggestion - I decided to tackle days of the week. However, when I came to tap the days into my music player, I found far too many excellent songs for one post... so I'm going to aim to do a post a week for the next seven. We start, naturally, with Monday.

Let's get the obvious songs out of the way first... I feel no need to link to any of the following as I'm sure you're all familiar with excellent Monday songs from the following: The Boomtown Rats (I loved Geldof when he was trying so hard to be an Irish Bruce Springsteen), The Bangles, New Order, The Carpenters, Fats Domino and The Mamas & The Papas.

Digging deeper, I come across Arab Strap's final album, Monday At The Hug & Pint. Sadly there's no title track, so I'm going to cheat and offer you The Shy Retirer, because it's one of Aidan and Malcolm's finest.

I want to fall in love tonight and form the perfect, unbreakable bond.
You could be my teenage Jenny Agutter swimming naked in a pond.

Next on youtube I found a young Mark Radcliffe introducing "the thinking hermaphrodite's sex symbol", Jarvis Cocker - and Pulp - with Monday Morning, from Different Class, the album that convinced Jarv he didn't actually want to be a pop star.

Why live in the world when you can live in your head?

Another artist who only got better once he stopped trying to be a pop star is Stephen Duffy, who went on to show his true colours as a terribly English, almost pastoral, singer songwriter - a cross between Ray Davies and Nick Drake. With The Lilac Time he wrote so many great songs about girls who wave at trains and how things were so much better yesterday. Bank Holiday Monday starts out a typically evocative piece, then tries to escape:

Wystan Hugh Auden
John Winston Ono Lennon
Left Middle England
Where they suffocate everything

They got away and so could you
What else is there to do?
Why wait in for something
That's not as good as you?

Duffy himself now lives in Cornwall. I bet he gets royally wound up by all the bloody tourists every Bank Holiday Monday.

There's no law that I include a Billy Bragg song in every post, but with so many great tracks to go at, it's no surprise he turns up frequently. Sadly no video for St. Monday from the England: Half English album, but some great lyrics - including this inspired rhyme:

Nobody can say what the matter is
I’m trying to recharge my batteries

...and the chorus, which gave this post its title:

I'm a hard worker - I ain't working on a Monday - 'cos Monday's still the weekend to me

I was pleased to find Big Runga's gorgeous She Left On A Monday on youtube - someone's even made an unofficial video for it too. Unlike Shed Seven, who got dumped at the end of the week, Bic's heroine leaves at the start, "in your herringbone overcoat that you don't expect to get back".

"Go to her, foolish man," Bic advises, "what's the use in having pride if you don't have her?"

Monday was a popular day in my music player, but those were the highlights...

Except for this. My favourite Monday song? Possibly. Whatever happened to Rialto?



What's your favourite Monday song?

Gran Torino

Clint Eastwood is five months younger than my dad. And in many ways, he reminds me very much of my old man. No, Hirst Senior hasn't ever taken a .44 Magnum ("the most powerful handgun in the world; it'd blow your head clean off") to any delinquent punks and asked them to make his day (sadly), but both men have similar codes of honour and respect, things that seem positively old-fashioned nowadays. They even look slightly similar, more so as they grow older. (My brother, by comparison, looks like Kurt Russell. Sadly, I'm the non-movie star of the family.) Obviously though, my dad is way cooler than Clint.

As a result of this connection, the announcement that Gran Torino was to be Clint's last film as an actor made me extra sad. (At least he'll still direct - and is currently working on his Nelson Mandela biopic with a well-cast Morgan Freeman.) From my early teens (and maybe even before), The Man With No Name has been part of my cultural landscape. I was once given the job of hosting and linking a performance of short plays in high school, and did so by mimicking a number of popular characters of the day (with no doubt terrible impersonations; though the audience was kind) including Dirty Harry (plus Harry Enfield's 'Loadsamoney' and Rod Serling... I can't remember the others, though Shatner was probably among them). Clint Eastwood is an icon, a star who lifts the quality of any picture - even ones with dodgy scripts or premises. I truly believe there's no such thing as a bad Clint Eastwood movie, which is one more reason to mourn his retirement from acting.

Still, if he must, Gran Torino is a fine way to bow out. A knowing return to the tough guy roles that made him famous, it's wonderful to see the Eastwood sneer in action one last time; and for the most part he's picked a part that gives longtime fans exactly what they want. There are times when the script is a little heavy-handed (do we really need our hero to observe out loud that he has more in common with his Chinese neighbours than his own estranged children?) but there are more than enough true Clint moments to make up for that. Better still, the movie manages to be both funny and touching - in places achingly sad. It's an amazing performance from Eastwood, and a unique one. I doubt this film would have worked with any other actor.

Well, no, I take that back. My dad could have pulled it off. Particularly the scene where Clint struggled to lift a heavy freezer up the steps from his basement rather than admitting he needed help... or in his showdown with the baby-faced pastor Father Janovich, "I think you're an overeducated 27-year-old virgin who likes to hold the hands of superstitious old ladies and promise them everlasting life". Seeing that, I couldn't help but remember the time I had to drive my dad into hospital after he almost cut off his thumb with a circular saw... Sitting in a wheelchair, white as a sheet and on the verge of passing out from blood loss, he still found the energy to express horror at the junior doctor who arrived to stitch him up. "But he's just a BOY!" he cried. Clint would have been proud.

Wrapped Up In Books

As today is World Book Day, it seemed the perfect opportunity to review another one of these pointless 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die lists and see how I scored.

112. Not too bad, I suppose.

As is usually the case with this kind of nonsense, I found myself getting more and more wound up as the list proceeded. Many of the books I had read, I hadn't liked at all. Or else I'd given up on them halfway through. Or at the very least, I'd found them to be extremely overrated (Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, Jeffrey Eugenides's Middlesex, Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything Is Illuminated).

There are some very odd choices and omissions too. Good to see Chuck Palahniuk get a mention - but for Choke, not Fight Club? They seem to have selected every Haruki Murakami novel except the ones I've read (no mention of his most famous work, Norwegian Wood). Iain Banks does well, but Complicity is hardly one of his best. Only one mention for David Mitchell? Talk Of The Town by Ardal O'Hanlan? Really? You mean, Father Dougal? Only one Stephen King? Nothing by Ray Bradbury yet three by John Wyndham? Etc. Etc.

Of course it's all subjective, and I'm sure if I were to compile a similar list myself it'd be equally contentious.

Don't worry, I'm not going to do it.

Not yet, anyway...

Not On The Rug, Man! That Rug Really Tied The Room Together!

I'm currently reading a book on Modern Manners (of which more when I finish it). The gist is that a large percentage of the people you meet in everyday life are rude as fuck. Sorry, but there's really no other way to put it.

I've actually found that while my arm has been in a sling, most strangers have gone out of their way to be considerate and helpful. A driver in Bradford even stopped to allow me across the road today - which is frankly unheard of in Bradford (unless it's a lure to get you to step out and then run you down). The only place I've encountered people who make no provisions whatsoever for my one-armed state is in Tesco, but I reckon evil soul-sucking corporate monsters cause most of us to turn our darker sides to the world.

Over at Quit Your Day Job today, Lee is bemoaning some rather ill-mannered behaviour on public transport... which reminded me of something that happened to my friend 'I' last week. ('I' is one of the few people I know in the real world who actually reads this blog on occasion, hence the initial. I'm sure he won't mind my revealing his tale of woe here)

'I' lives in one of the posher parts of our green and pleasant region. In fact, the village he calls home is an official National Heritage site. And yet... the other day he got off the train and started walking up the concourse ramp to exit the station (along with many other passengers) only to see a man up ahead... look, I'll put this in as genteel a fashion as possible (just in case the earlier 'fuck' hasn't scared you away)... weeing against the wall. The man in question had some kind of vicious attack dog on a lead at his side, but it wasn't the dog doing its business in public: it was the owner. Not only that, but the man made no attempt whatsoever to hide his leaky manbits from public view... in fact, he turned towards the approaching crowd and continued his shameless micturition with a grin. In full flow, and fully exposed, he didn't even pull Fido away from 'I' and the other passengers, who had to slide past single-file to avoid both savage dog and splashing log.

Which is pretty much the end of the story. Draw your own conclusions, write your own punchline. I'm going back to reading about manners...

A Year In Song

I was looking for a theme to tie together another random bunch of songs from my mediaplayer when I glanced at the calendar and noticed it was the end of February (well, it was when I started this post). I started to wonder if there was a February song in my collection... which led me to wonder if I had a song for every month of the year. Some months were easier than others...

January - Pilot

The month that offered me fewest options was the first. It was this or Barbara Dickson singing January, February... both classic slices of 70s cheese, but only one of them was to be found on my pc. I suspect this came from a 70s compilation I bought in a desperate search for The Night Chicago Died by Paper Lace. Which in my defence, I only wanted because Jack Black sang it (sort of) in High Fidelity. Honest.

The Fourteenth Of February - Billy Bragg

Unfortunately there's no video to link to, but this is one of Billy's sweetest songs, as he tries to recall the day he met his wife...

I know the date, I know the place where in happened
Yet in my mind the scene I recall is imagined
As we grow old I'm sure
There will be moments that we will not forget
But I would
Remember something of the moment that we met

March Into The Sea - Modest Mouse

There weren't any songs in my files that specifically mentioned the month of my birth, so I had to go with the military-walking definition instead. Other options were Prefab Sprout's Wedding March, and Love On The March by Belle & Sebastian.

I really liked the Modest Mouse album Good News For People Who Love Bad News, but the follow-up, We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank - featuring Johnny Marr on guitar - impressed me less. This is the opening track, and one of the better ones, but I'd still rather direct you to the amazing Float On... only that doesn't feature the word 'March', does it?

April Skies - The Jesus & Mary Chain

Loads of choice for April, including offerings from The Magnetic Fields, Ella Fitzgerald, My Life Story, Prince, Okkervil River and Simon & Garfunkel. But it's always great to hear a bit of J&MC.

May Queen - Black Box Recorder

Plenty of maybe's, not to mention Rod's Maggie May (and Blur's rather flat cover)... along with Suzanne Vega's classic response song I'll Never Be Your Maggie May... but the Black Box Recorder combo of Luke Haines, John Moore, and the divine Sarah Nixey is irresistible. No audio can be found online, but here are the opening lyrics (imagine them sung by a wicked angel) to whet your appetite.

Meet me in the playground after school
When everybody has gone home
Promise not to breathe a word of this
Don't even look at me till we're alone

Or tongues will start to wag
Stories will go round
They'll talk behind our backs
We'll never relive it down

Write my name in blood across your shirt (May Queen)
Prove to me that I'm the only one (May Queen)
And cross your heart and hope to die (May Queen)
May God strike you dead if it's a lie (May Queen)

Rainy Day In June - The Kinks

What a songwriter Ray Davies is. This is a particularly evocative example.

Runner-up is Ooberman's Summer Nights In June, an equally evocative piece, but all I could find were the lyrics.

Summer nights in June
Before an autumn all too soon
For a while, the summer stars
Yellow street lights like ancient fires

Foxes on the move
Around the bins, I've heard a few
And in the air, the summer scent
The ancient wonder almost spent

I also came across this on youtube, with the same title as the Kinks song, by the country singer Alan Jackson, featuring an unoffical video filmed in Sheffield. Well, I liked it.

4th Of July, Asbury Park - Bruce Springsteen

It could only have been Sandy, one of my favourite early Springsteen songs. This live version features the late, great Danny Federici on squeezebox.

I Dreamed I Saw Saint Augustine - Thea Gilmore

No August songs at all in my mediaplayer, the closest I came were two featuring the word Augustine. (The other came from Patrick Wolf.) Sadly, this wonderful track from Thea Gilmore's Songs In The Gutter album can't be heard anywhere ont'internet... but I can offer you a free, exclusive Thea Gilmore download. Well, I can if I can collect 5 email addresses from Thea fans or interested parties - and submit them to Thea's website. If you'd like a free cover version from the wonderful Ms. Gilmore, let me know and I'll add you to her mailing list so we all get the song.

September Morn - Neil Diamond

If I wanted to be cool, I could have given you September Gurls by Big Star or Felt's September Lady. If I wanted to be popular, I could have offered When September Ends by Green Day (especially as I have a version here featuring Elvis Costello). But I don't want to be either of those things, I just want to get me some Neil Diamond lovin' (in a strictly platonic, two blokes thumping each other on the shoulder kind of way). Besides, I know this'll make Penelope's day (if she's kept reading this far).

October Swimmer - JJ72



I almost went with October by the Divine Comedy, until I remembered that it was a U2 cover, which obviously immediately disqualified it. (My favourite 4-word review of the new U2 single appeared in the Guardian a couple of weeks ago. "Get on your bike.")

Then I saw this, from the tragically underrated JJ72, one of their best - and a complete video too. He still sings like a girl though.

November Spawned A Monster - Morrissey

So obvious, I almost went with the wonderful Mr. November by The National just to dumbfound you all. Or November Rain (all 9 minutes 12 seconds of it) just to piss you all off. (The video is utterly ridiculous... but then, so is the Moz vid. That's hardly appropriate desert wear, darling.)

December 1963 (Oh What A Night) - Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons

Not the very best Frankie Valli song (that would be The Night)... but damned close.



Well, that was my musical calendar... how would you have done?