Love don't live here anymore

I've moved!

Following complaints from Blogger that the amount of traffic I get is fucking with their bandwith or something. I have decided to amble to pastures new.

I may start to re-post stuff from here to the new site, but I might not. Let's see.

Weekly posts, though. Imagine that. Cor.

Meanwhile: Just thoughts, really

Ta ta 

N
x

A cry for help

Writing is, I'm told, something at which I am quite good. I certainly find it fairly effortless, or have done in the past. And there 's the problem. When I started this blog, I had it in mind that posts would be regular and frequent, and that each one would be a dazzling display of my verbal dexterity, effortlessly entertaining and erudite. I imagine that many of my ilk imagine the same, only to have their aspirations subsequently swallowed by the daily drudge.

The comedian Richard Herring has been writing a daily blog for some years now and often makes reference to it in his bewildering plethora of podcasts. I had hoped for the same, exercising my brain so that the muscle became stronger. This has sadly not been the case, as a cursory scan of my posting history will testify. The advantage that Mr Herring undoubtedly has over me (apart from his talent) is that he is a professional comedian and writer, and I work in an office. His daily life will surely allow him more opportunities for inspiration than my Perrinesque schedule offers me. No input, no output, as Joe Strummer put it.

So I am hereby setting myself a challenge which, I am sure, I will singularly fail to meet. One post a week. I was going to type "one post a day" there, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

And this is where I require your help.

I am so singularly bereft of inspiration at this time that all I can write about is how I can't write about anything.

I need your input, suggestions on topics that I can write about.

Anything.

Give me a topic and I'll write about it. It may be spectacularly ill-informed and barely coherent, but that's the risk you take. We do, after all, live in an uncertain world.

Leave a comment here, message me on Facebook or Twitter. Whatever. Help me extract myself from this mental quagmire. You never know, we might end up enjoying ourselves.

Letter to Ernesto 3

My dear Ernesto

What calamity has befallen you? Your last letter has left me shaken and in need of a large dose of Dr Sproule’s restorative powders! Am I to understand that our business arrangements have suffered a blow from which they may not recover? It is hard to decipher your true meaning when your missives ramble so, and I am concerned that your drinking has entered a new and dangerous phase. Please find enclosed a sum of money, which I implore you to spend on making the necessary travel arrangements to visit me here as soon as you can. We must nip this in the bud, whatever it is.

I sent an urgent telegram to our mutual friend at the Polish embassy and have this morning received his response. He confirms that the final shipment has not yet arrived in Constantinople and certain Latvian parties are making certain Latvian threats. I have no reason to doubt that they will make good on their rather sadistic promises if matters are not resolved to their satisfaction. If we do not act with all care and guile, then our futures do indeed look rather bleak.

In other news, a new vicar has been installed in the parish. His name is Baritone-Lint and he has already endeared himself to many, including myself. His Christian benevolence seemingly knows no bounds, and he has already organised a number of social events to raise money for fallen women and orphans. The orphans, when they arrive from London, will be housed in the larger of our cow sheds, while the good Reverend has agreed that the fallen women may reside at the vicarage. There is a meeting in the big hall later this week to discuss how best to utilise their talents, and I have already come up with some splendid ideas in this regard (see accompanying sketches). I have invited a number of eminent notables (Cabinet Ministers, popular musicians and fellow members of the aristocracy) to Gimlet Mansions to prepare for the meeting, and I must say that the response so far has been most enthusiastic. It should be noted at this juncture, however, that I have been forced to burn some of the letters I have received, due to the levels of enthusiasm and detail contained therein, lest they fall into the hands of certain newspaper proprietors.

And now, sadly, to Agatha. The frightful St Clement, of whom I made mention in my last letter, has vanished, taking not only Agatha’s psoriasis ointment but also her life savings. She is bereft, Ernesto, simply bereft, and will not countenance any intervention on my part. She spends her days consoling herself by playing the trombone in the front parlour and singing excerpts from Porgy and Bess. You will recall that her singing voice is poor and her trombone playing worse, but nothing I can do or say will rouse her from this grief-ridden cacophony. Maybe her spirits will rise when you arrive from Dundee. She always had a soft spot for you, brother mine, and she assures me that it is washed almost daily.

And so, once more, I must take my leave. I am weary, Ernesto. Aunt Daphne arrives early tomorrow morning with Cousin Ralph, and I have not yet finished laying the traps.

I remain, your loving brother,

Frimley

Letter to Ernesto 2

My Dear Ernesto

How cruel the gods can seem, and how their capricious natures thwart our happiness at every turn! Still, the bandages come off tomorrow, and the resultant gooseberry crumble was certainly worth paying Dr Sproule’s exorbitant call-out fees. You may infer from this, brother mine, that my latest venture into the world of catering has not been entirely plain sailing. I have nobody to blame but myself for this, as I was insistent that Agatha took time out from her pursuance of all things thespian in order to help me. This was by no means an easy feat, as she has in the past few weeks fallen under the spell of a frightful imbecile by the name of St Clement. This ghastly wretch has filled Agatha’s head with fanciful notions regarding her theatrical ambitions, and has no doubt made attempts to occupy other parts of her body too. I fear the worst in this regard and urge you to intervene in some manner.

Aunt Daphne sends her regards, and hopes that your expedition into the unmapped interior of Africa is proceeding as well as can be expected. Why she believes you to be on an expedition I cannot fathom, as I have made it clear to her on more than one occasion that you are a resident of Dundee, and have been for some six years. You know how she can be, Ernesto, mere facts are not permitted to distort her perception of the world and it is to be remarked upon how much worse she has become since the death of Uncle Thomas. Mother has become her ally in senility, and together they are indeed a force with which to reckon. Their most recent exploits have seen the complete destruction of the vegetable gardens, allegedly in the pursuit of “the fabled turquoise mole of Stuttgart”.  The bill for the hire of the digging contraptions alone is liable to bankrupt me.

In addition to this wanton destruction, I received a letter this last Tuesday morning advising me that the estate (for which I am legally responsible) is now at war with Lichtenstein and to expect “repercussive admonishments of the most krule (sic) nature”. This letter, as I am sure you have already surmised, is written in a style of handwriting that most resembles the perambulations of a drunken spider with green ink on its feet. Combine this with the use of lavender scented notepaper, and it is clear that the bent minds of Mother and her sister are at work here.

Now to matters pertaining to business. Our mutual friend at the Polish embassy has confirmed that all arrangements are now in place regarding the final shipment. Thank you for your endeavours in this regard; it is clear that your powers of persuasion are not to be underestimated. We may expect some terse communication from our erstwhile colleagues in Latvia, but I am confident that any action on their part will be small beer and easily confined. “Bart” also advises me that generous gifts, acknowledging our part in this enterprise, have already been despatched and yours will shortly be arriving in Dundee for collection. I am delighted to recount that mine arrived this very morn, and is currently upstairs getting undressed.

And so I must take my leave. Certain pressures below the waist prevent me from concentrating on this letter for much longer and my vision is already beginning to blur.

I remain, your loving brother

Frimley

Letter to Ernesto 1

My dear Ernesto

Thank you for your letter of the 13th, and please accept my apologies for the delay in responding. Life here at Gimlet Mansions has been frightfully hectic of late, what with Agatha’s burgeoning theatrical career and the accompanying hoo-hah (of which, more later). Mother’s behaviour continues to be erratic and she is, as I write this, shampooing the lawn in preparation for the visit of Emperor Selassie of Ethiopia. I don’t have the heart to tell her he’s dead, as she has also prepared an extensive buffet lunch for His Imperial Majesty, the cost of which is certain to put a terrible strain on our already meagre finances. In addition, her enthusiasm for motorcycle speedway racing has simply shredded my nerves.

Cousin Ralph popped by yesterday, on his way to purchase eggs, and has asked me to send you his best wishes. It pains me to tell you that his appearance becomes ever more dishevelled by the week, and his excuses more fanciful. He now claims to have a letter from a certain Doctor Sproule, advising of his allergy to any form of grooming implement. I find this utterly preposterous, as I’m sure you do, and would welcome your support in this matter. Perhaps you could send me a letter of admonishment, which I may pass to Ralph in order to dissuade him from continuing down this ruinous path. His beard is frankly insupportable, to say nothing of the aroma emanating from his waistcoat.

And so to Agatha. While her enthusiasm (like her tuberculosis) is contagious, her talents are limited to an almost catatonic degree. Following her last audition, for a Senor Immolatione of Stuttgart, I received a hand-delivered missive from said gentleman imploring me to have dear Agatha sent to a secure institution "to preserve the continued positive effects of the thespian art and to ensure that its good name is not forever sullied in the eyes of the public". Needless to say I have not shared this letter's contents with Agatha, for fear of another psoriatic eruption, but I must find a way of somehow curtailing her activities in this sphere, perhaps with a financial inducement of some kind. Any advice you can offer me in this matter will be greatly appreciated, dear Ernesto, for I am reaching the very end of my wits. 

Work on the south garden continues apace and you will be delighted to know that the refugees have now been removed from the summer house and a commemorative pear orchard planted nearby. The onset of spring seems to revive the entire grounds from its wintry sonambulance and it is as if the whole of nature now delights in the pleasures of rebirth. This change in mood has certainly revived my flagging spirits; so much so that I have recently been able to impregnate one of the itinerant workers after several particularly vigorous couplings. The child is due for birthing in the autumn, and I do hope you will be able to visit so that we may celebrate its arrival in an appropriate manner.

And so, dear Ernesto, I must take my leave. Mrs Funge has just rung the dinner bell, and you know how she hates to be kept waiting (we have only just been able to remove all the blood from the scullery walls following the Lord Frankisham debacle). Do write back soon, as all the fellows at the bridge club are anxious to hear news of your adventures in the high pressure world of worm farms.

I remain, your loving brother

Frimley

101

I'm full of coffee and, having just watched Room 101, felt inspired to make a wee list of things that boil my piss, as a form of catharthis. This is designed, in the words of the great Peter Cook, "to get some things off my chest, and on to other peoples'."

Obviously this is a heavily redacted inventory, but I had to write this quickly as I've got some laundry to sort out:

1. Band competitions. Music is not a competition and musical opinion is always, *always* entirely subjective. Who is the best band in Cambridge? Who cares?
   
   
2. The Conservative Party. Do I really have to explain this one?
   
   
3. Ill-mannered people. Just how do you think that being obnoxious, rude or ignorant makes you a better person or the world a better place?
   
   
4. Celebrities. Hate the word, hate the concept, hate the magazines, hate the TV shows. The concept of celebrity demeans real achievement and needlessly elevates the perceived status of preening self-important performing chimps.
   
   
5. The recorded works of Stereophonics. Although I will grudgingly admit that it's quite an achievement making "beige" a musical genre.
   
   
6. Consumerism. Yes, I buy things, of course I do, but I'm increasingly noticing that people are becoming defined by what they own, not by who or what they are. This makes me twitchy.
   
   
7. Masterchef. Cooking doesn't get any tougher than this. Apparently.
   
   
8. Patriotism. You do realise that your country of birth is an accident and an irrelevance, don't you? You don't? Oh.
   
   
9. Writing “should of” instead of “should have”. Were you forcibly removed from school at the age of six?
   
   
10. Playing on people's fears and insecurities to either make money or exercise control over them. Applies to governments, advertisers, organised religions and psychics/mediums. Well done, all of you. No, really.

Plethora

Greetings

As I write, I'm listening to an Elvis Costello album. Brutal Youth, to be specific.  The thing is, I'm not really listening to it, am I? A significant proportion of my pathetically low attention capacity is currently devoted to writing these words on this here blog thing, meaning that I am not devoting myself to Mr Costello's lyrics (which I'm led to believe are quite good) nor his keen ear for a melody. In fact you could say that I'm doing Elvis a disservice by not focussing on an album which I'm sure took him longer to make than it's going to take me to write this.

And this is the problem (well, one of them, anyway).

When I was just a snot-nosed, scabby-kneed chavvy, music was not as easily accessible as it is now. Now it's everywhere, like swearing, or Stephen Fry. The most obscure (and quite often unlistenable) music is mine to hear, simply via a mechanical manipulation of my digits. The internet has presented a seemingly limitless aural vista for my delectation. Meanwhile, at the age of 7, I had three records that I listened to obsessively, at every opportunity that presented itself. Three. Not significantly less than the average digit count of a Portsmouth native (and I'm not including thumbs in this equation - there are places even evolution fears to tread).

These records were: Rubber Soul by The Beatles, Elvis Is Back! By Elvis Presley and Buddy Holly's 20 Golden Greats. Played again and again and again and again, fish fingers for tea, and again and again. I knew every note, every beat, every second of these records and if I listened to them now I would be mentally transported directly back to the front room of 5 Marie Road, Southampton SO19 0EJ.

The reason I used the word if in the last sentence is that I am struggling to recall the last time I actually sat down and listened to an album (or cd or whatever) in it's entirety, devoting all my attention to it.

Like many of us, I have embraced (to a limited extent) the opportunities provided by digital media and now have more music than I know what to do with. On my hard drive, on spools and spools of CDRs, on the racks of CDs and vinyl that I can see from here. And now, when I listen to music, it is usually on my iPod, on shuffle. Or in the kitchen when cooking dinner. Or in the car, another home-made compilation cd in the stereo. In short, I've stopped listening. Stopped listening properly, anyway.

I can often be heard extolling the virtues of such and such an artist, asking folks if they've heard this album or that album by so-and-so and the wotchamacallits. Luckily, I am rarely asked to go into too much detail about what makes the latest release from Fred Skillbuggy & The Crazed Shitrings quite so exciting, and a good thing too. Because the chances are I've barely played it through once.

We all know that New Year Resolutions are the province of the simple-minded (that's a fact and you can go and look it up if you can be arsed) which is why I don't make them.

However if I did make them (which I don't) then I would pick one album per week and just listen to it, as often as possible, from start to finish, with no other distractions. That way I could get through 52 albums in a year, and then maybe, just maybe, I'd be able to listen to all the music in my possession before I die. That is, as long as I don't ever add any more music to my collection, or die tomorrow.