It was raining very hard in the back garden.
The droplets were swollen and heavy and such was the volume and velocity of the sudden downpour that there appeared to be a continous curtain of water.
In the early evening sunlight, dodging between waves of black thunder cloud the sheen on the cascade was startlingly bright. It resembled an array of vertical gas filled tubes, fluorescent strip lights suspended in the saturated air .
There was the distant rumble and the sheet lightning flash of a rolling storm somewhere out beyond our postcode but the strangest thing was that it was not raining at all just around the house corner on the driveway or out on the street beyond..
A matter of a few feet only.
I verified this by running through to the bay window on the north side of the house.
The light conditions were exactly constant with those out back but it was otherwise perfectly dry and calm.
I was on the exact cusp of a weatherfront.
On the Meteorological Office reports at the end of the news the satellite photos, in real time, give an impression of the phenomena of a weather front but the line of cloud, as depicted, could be as broad as a whole county.
I had not really considered it before but logically there must be a defined position where you could stand with one hand in a rain shower and the other hand perfectly free from precipitation.
Today those exact conditions had been replicated.
There was no wind to deflect the raindrops from the sheer vertical. The cast iron gutters, corroded away at the corner of the kitchen, poured forth with the run off from slate roof, but again and strangely only from the south side slope.
I was now out in the open marvelling at the natural phenomena of that storm.
The north slope of the kitchen roof remained completely pale and dusty in the absence of any cleansing rain.
The downpour intensified for a few brief moments and then, as if on the set of a movie, it stopped abruptly.
In the aftermath of the sudden and concentrated deluge the air was electrically charged, crackling , cool and fresh.
It was a marvellous but humbling experience.
Monday, 1 June 2015
Sunday, 31 May 2015
Scrabble Babble
I like a game of Scrabble.
That is in spite of never, ever having won a game against my wife when we have found ourselves embarking in a tournament whilst on holiday in the UK when adverse weather or a plaque of midges imprisons us in a quaint cottage or log cabin.
The recent update of the Scrabble Dictionary has seen a huge increase in new permissible words.
I have selected a few.
Some of these I have heard in popular culture, in the media or on the street. The rest, well, they have just served to remind me never to play Scrabble with anyone under the age of, say 25, if I have any intention to record that elusive, first ever victory over anyone at all.
BEZZY best friend (18 points)
CAKEAGES charges in a restaurant for serving cake brought in from outside (15 points)
CAKEHOLE mouth (17 points)
DENCH excellent (11 points)
DEVO short for devolution (8 points)
GEOCACHE search for hidden containers using GPS as a recreational activity (16 points)
LOLZ laughs at someone else's or one's own expense (13 points)
LOTSA lots of (5 points)
NEWB newbie (9 points)
OBVS obviously (9 points)
ONESIE one-piece garment combining a top with trousers (6 points)
PODIUMED past tense of podium, finish in the top three places in a sporting competition (14 points)
RIDIC ridiculous (8 points)
SHIZZLE A form of US rap slang (18 points)
SHOOTIE type of shoe that covers the ankle (10 points)
SHOUTOUT public greeting, esp one broadcast via television or radio (11 points)
THANX thank you (15 points)
TUNEAGE music (8 points)
TWERKING type of dance involving rapid hip movement (16 points)
VAPE to inhale nicotine vapour (from an electronic cigarette) (9 points)
WUZ nonstandard spelling of was (15 points)
Technology and Electronic Communications
FACETIME talk with (someone) via the FaceTime application (15 points)
HACKTIVIST person who hacks computer systems for political reasons (22 points)
HASHTAG (on Twitter) word or phrase preceded by a hashmark, used to denote the topic of a post (14 points)
PWN defeat (an opponent) in conclusive and humiliating fashion (8 points)
SEXTING practice of sending sexually explicit text messages (15 points)
SHOWROOMING practice of looking at an item in a shop, using a smartphone to compare its price elsewhere, then
buying it online (20 points)
TWEEP person who uses the Twitter website (10 points)
WARBOT any robot or unmanned vehicle or device designed for and used in warfare (11 points)
WEBAPP an application program that is accessed on the internet (15 points)
Highest Scoring and Useful Words
CAZH casual (18 points)
CHECKBOX small clickable box on a computer screen (28 points)
CINQ number five (15 points)
COQUI type of tree-dwelling frog (16 points)
EMOJI digital icon used in electronic communication (14 points)
IXNAY nix (15 points)
OXAZOLE type of liquid chemical compound (23 points)
OXIC involving oxygen (13 points)
PACZKI round filled doughnut (23 points)
QAMUTIK sled with wooden runners (22 points)
QUINZHEE shelter made from hollowed-out snow (29 points)
That is in spite of never, ever having won a game against my wife when we have found ourselves embarking in a tournament whilst on holiday in the UK when adverse weather or a plaque of midges imprisons us in a quaint cottage or log cabin.
The recent update of the Scrabble Dictionary has seen a huge increase in new permissible words.
I have selected a few.
Some of these I have heard in popular culture, in the media or on the street. The rest, well, they have just served to remind me never to play Scrabble with anyone under the age of, say 25, if I have any intention to record that elusive, first ever victory over anyone at all.
BEZZY best friend (18 points)
CAKEAGES charges in a restaurant for serving cake brought in from outside (15 points)
CAKEHOLE mouth (17 points)
DENCH excellent (11 points)
DEVO short for devolution (8 points)
GEOCACHE search for hidden containers using GPS as a recreational activity (16 points)
LOLZ laughs at someone else's or one's own expense (13 points)
LOTSA lots of (5 points)
NEWB newbie (9 points)
OBVS obviously (9 points)
ONESIE one-piece garment combining a top with trousers (6 points)
PODIUMED past tense of podium, finish in the top three places in a sporting competition (14 points)
RIDIC ridiculous (8 points)
SHIZZLE A form of US rap slang (18 points)
SHOOTIE type of shoe that covers the ankle (10 points)
SHOUTOUT public greeting, esp one broadcast via television or radio (11 points)
THANX thank you (15 points)
TUNEAGE music (8 points)
TWERKING type of dance involving rapid hip movement (16 points)
VAPE to inhale nicotine vapour (from an electronic cigarette) (9 points)
WUZ nonstandard spelling of was (15 points)
Technology and Electronic Communications
FACETIME talk with (someone) via the FaceTime application (15 points)
HACKTIVIST person who hacks computer systems for political reasons (22 points)
HASHTAG (on Twitter) word or phrase preceded by a hashmark, used to denote the topic of a post (14 points)
PWN defeat (an opponent) in conclusive and humiliating fashion (8 points)
SEXTING practice of sending sexually explicit text messages (15 points)
SHOWROOMING practice of looking at an item in a shop, using a smartphone to compare its price elsewhere, then
buying it online (20 points)
TWEEP person who uses the Twitter website (10 points)
WARBOT any robot or unmanned vehicle or device designed for and used in warfare (11 points)
WEBAPP an application program that is accessed on the internet (15 points)
Highest Scoring and Useful Words
CAZH casual (18 points)
CHECKBOX small clickable box on a computer screen (28 points)
CINQ number five (15 points)
COQUI type of tree-dwelling frog (16 points)
EMOJI digital icon used in electronic communication (14 points)
IXNAY nix (15 points)
OXAZOLE type of liquid chemical compound (23 points)
OXIC involving oxygen (13 points)
PACZKI round filled doughnut (23 points)
QAMUTIK sled with wooden runners (22 points)
QUINZHEE shelter made from hollowed-out snow (29 points)
Saturday, 30 May 2015
Stone Walled
It is a conspiracy wrapped up in an irony.
This relates to my experiences of trying to buy a DVD of the 1991 Oliver Stone movie JFK. I saw it at the cinema when it first came out and in the following two point one decades I have endeavoured to acquire a copy to sit in my collection of great films and gracefully gather dust between occasional viewings.
On every visit to the fast diminishing number of High Street retailers of DVD's I have excitedly worked my way through the racks in search of the elusive film. In most there has been no trace whatsoever of a stock of the film. In some a tantalising divider card with JFK adhered in letraset or dymo-tape but empty of a prize.
Famous shop chains have withdrawn from DVD sales because of stiff competition from on-line retailers. WH Smith withdrew from the market and others have just gone to the wall altogether, namely Woolworths, Virgin latterly Zavvy and many small independents. I may have been able to save them from closure with my custom had it not been for the decision of some misguided executive at the distribution company to starve the market of copies of JFK.
It is definitely a conspiracy, possibly not directly targeted at me personally, but nevertheless causing me to think that it is.
Looking at it cynically I am of the opinion that with the 50th anniversary of the assassination of JFK next year the owners of the intellectual rights are building up for a massive exploitative release of every possible connotation of the film. Blu-Ray, interactive 3D as though you are on the grassy knoll, retro-style packaging, special boxed set with Oswald mask , unreleased footage and the usual 'where were you when......' hype.
It undoubtedly promises to be a good fund raising year through tributes and testimonials to JFK as well as the resurrection of controversy, rumour, speculation and hearsay on his private life and peccadillos.
I eventually coped with my thwarted efforts to secure the film by resorting to the epitomy of the freewheeling economy that is E Bay. Plenty of copies were being sold in the United States but not compatible with UK DVD players and my limited understanding of zones, pals and the like did not engender confidence in a speculative purchase.
Home sourced DVD's never seemed to appear in the listings. This can be taken as an indication of the allure of the movie by those who possess a copy and will through loyalty,not part with it, otherwise they would be ten a penny at car boot sales like, for example, films with Jennifer Anniston in them.
I admit that my main motivation to acquire a copy was to watch it again because I did not follow it that well when on the big screen all those years ago and with a degree of confusion arising over who was allied to whom, for what purpose and to what end.
I do recall it was a tremendous cast and that Kevin Costner, playing himself as someone else altogether was actually quite good although his role did rather merge in my mind with his Eliot Ness character in The Untouchables made some 4 years earlier.
I at last, but only recently, secured an original vintage DVD copy of JFK. Then irony upon irony it was shown as the 9pm Saturday feature film just this weekend past. I was livid and demoralised by the whole contrived series of events and the persistence of the conspiracy. My only really comfort is in the knowledge that I had only paid £4.50 including postage for my shelf copy.
This relates to my experiences of trying to buy a DVD of the 1991 Oliver Stone movie JFK. I saw it at the cinema when it first came out and in the following two point one decades I have endeavoured to acquire a copy to sit in my collection of great films and gracefully gather dust between occasional viewings.
On every visit to the fast diminishing number of High Street retailers of DVD's I have excitedly worked my way through the racks in search of the elusive film. In most there has been no trace whatsoever of a stock of the film. In some a tantalising divider card with JFK adhered in letraset or dymo-tape but empty of a prize.
Famous shop chains have withdrawn from DVD sales because of stiff competition from on-line retailers. WH Smith withdrew from the market and others have just gone to the wall altogether, namely Woolworths, Virgin latterly Zavvy and many small independents. I may have been able to save them from closure with my custom had it not been for the decision of some misguided executive at the distribution company to starve the market of copies of JFK.
It is definitely a conspiracy, possibly not directly targeted at me personally, but nevertheless causing me to think that it is.
Looking at it cynically I am of the opinion that with the 50th anniversary of the assassination of JFK next year the owners of the intellectual rights are building up for a massive exploitative release of every possible connotation of the film. Blu-Ray, interactive 3D as though you are on the grassy knoll, retro-style packaging, special boxed set with Oswald mask , unreleased footage and the usual 'where were you when......' hype.
It undoubtedly promises to be a good fund raising year through tributes and testimonials to JFK as well as the resurrection of controversy, rumour, speculation and hearsay on his private life and peccadillos.
I eventually coped with my thwarted efforts to secure the film by resorting to the epitomy of the freewheeling economy that is E Bay. Plenty of copies were being sold in the United States but not compatible with UK DVD players and my limited understanding of zones, pals and the like did not engender confidence in a speculative purchase.
Home sourced DVD's never seemed to appear in the listings. This can be taken as an indication of the allure of the movie by those who possess a copy and will through loyalty,not part with it, otherwise they would be ten a penny at car boot sales like, for example, films with Jennifer Anniston in them.
I admit that my main motivation to acquire a copy was to watch it again because I did not follow it that well when on the big screen all those years ago and with a degree of confusion arising over who was allied to whom, for what purpose and to what end.
I do recall it was a tremendous cast and that Kevin Costner, playing himself as someone else altogether was actually quite good although his role did rather merge in my mind with his Eliot Ness character in The Untouchables made some 4 years earlier.
I at last, but only recently, secured an original vintage DVD copy of JFK. Then irony upon irony it was shown as the 9pm Saturday feature film just this weekend past. I was livid and demoralised by the whole contrived series of events and the persistence of the conspiracy. My only really comfort is in the knowledge that I had only paid £4.50 including postage for my shelf copy.
Friday, 29 May 2015
Rise of the Machines
I liked the report on the news that some chap, either unable or unwilling to pay for a gymnasium membership, undertook to just run up and down his own staircase at home and by doing so shed some considerable weight.
I did belong to a gym about 20 years ago and got caught up in the whole culture of regular exercise making sure that I got in a session on the machines or in the pool at least every other day.
A house move, only about 100 yards across town, but involving a significant hike in mortgage payments meant that something had to be sacrificed and with some reluctance it was my gym family and fitness friends.
In the following two decades my body mass and wellbeing yo-yo'd.
Although I did my best to keep in shape through cycling, walking, fad-dieting and the one beneficial aspect of stress- involuntary weight loss these activities were not really as effective as a good, sweaty workout on a treadmill, rowing machine, free weights and a plough up and down the pool. albeit not in any recognisable fashion.
I have, in the last week, taken up the gym lifestyle again.
This has been possible not through any increase in disposable income but simply through the intense competition between the large number of commercial gyms that from time to time offer an unbelievable and irresistible promotion to attract new members.
In fact, the whole of the Hull based Thomson's signed up as part of a determined initiative to get or keep healthy and hopefully enjoy all of the benefits that go with that.
The etiquette of the gym has changed somewhat since my last experience.
The establishment that we have pledged allegiance to is in a large purpose built industrial style building which is the current trend.
There is piped, hip hop and trance music in the foyer and from the high vaulted ceiling hang a myriad of matt black audio speakers and Tv screens. In the old gym those partaking in exercise did so in almost reverential silence, suppressing sometimes quite obvious pain and strains with true British spirit and denial.
No longer the manual signing in at the counter but careful insertion of index finger into a sensor at the automatic turnstile type entrance. It seems that many members under old systems did allow others to use their membership details and identity to which the profit driven ompanies eventually got wise to and took measures to actively prevent.
The equipment is not just those previously mentioned but some quite high tech and futuristic machines targetting every muscle group individually which is a far cry from having to make do with a medicine ball, skipping rope, dumbell and just hoping for the best.
I was quite self conscious of working out back in the day and did spend a small fortune in a sports shop to look the part but no-one seems that bothered about a dress code nowadays. Anything goes apparently.
The average age appears to be mid twenties which is at least 10 years less than when I first started to attend back in the 1990's. I suppose that the 20 to 30 age group, in having to live with parents, and avoiding outgoings associated with their own ownership of a home can afford to go to the gym as an integral part of their own lifestyle.
I am by quite some way amongst the senior of those toning and pumping up but there is no evidence that they are repulsed by being close to a red faced but enthusiastic oldie in old band tour T shirt, baggy, unflattering trackie bottoms, and last years plimsolls.
I did belong to a gym about 20 years ago and got caught up in the whole culture of regular exercise making sure that I got in a session on the machines or in the pool at least every other day.
A house move, only about 100 yards across town, but involving a significant hike in mortgage payments meant that something had to be sacrificed and with some reluctance it was my gym family and fitness friends.
In the following two decades my body mass and wellbeing yo-yo'd.
Although I did my best to keep in shape through cycling, walking, fad-dieting and the one beneficial aspect of stress- involuntary weight loss these activities were not really as effective as a good, sweaty workout on a treadmill, rowing machine, free weights and a plough up and down the pool. albeit not in any recognisable fashion.
I have, in the last week, taken up the gym lifestyle again.
This has been possible not through any increase in disposable income but simply through the intense competition between the large number of commercial gyms that from time to time offer an unbelievable and irresistible promotion to attract new members.
In fact, the whole of the Hull based Thomson's signed up as part of a determined initiative to get or keep healthy and hopefully enjoy all of the benefits that go with that.
The etiquette of the gym has changed somewhat since my last experience.
The establishment that we have pledged allegiance to is in a large purpose built industrial style building which is the current trend.
There is piped, hip hop and trance music in the foyer and from the high vaulted ceiling hang a myriad of matt black audio speakers and Tv screens. In the old gym those partaking in exercise did so in almost reverential silence, suppressing sometimes quite obvious pain and strains with true British spirit and denial.
No longer the manual signing in at the counter but careful insertion of index finger into a sensor at the automatic turnstile type entrance. It seems that many members under old systems did allow others to use their membership details and identity to which the profit driven ompanies eventually got wise to and took measures to actively prevent.
The equipment is not just those previously mentioned but some quite high tech and futuristic machines targetting every muscle group individually which is a far cry from having to make do with a medicine ball, skipping rope, dumbell and just hoping for the best.
I was quite self conscious of working out back in the day and did spend a small fortune in a sports shop to look the part but no-one seems that bothered about a dress code nowadays. Anything goes apparently.
The average age appears to be mid twenties which is at least 10 years less than when I first started to attend back in the 1990's. I suppose that the 20 to 30 age group, in having to live with parents, and avoiding outgoings associated with their own ownership of a home can afford to go to the gym as an integral part of their own lifestyle.
I am by quite some way amongst the senior of those toning and pumping up but there is no evidence that they are repulsed by being close to a red faced but enthusiastic oldie in old band tour T shirt, baggy, unflattering trackie bottoms, and last years plimsolls.
Thursday, 28 May 2015
Turnip Prize
Art.
It can be a bit baffling, can't it?
What is heralded as the next best thing by the establishment, dealers and collectors may seem to the rest of us, like a bit of old rubbish put into a frame or mounted on a plinth.
Works that have made the big money and headlines have also courted controversy and consternation.
Who is to say, really, what is good art?
What may thrill and mesmerise one person may bore the pants off the next, and so on.
Personally I like a good old fashioned oil painting depicting a landscape, maritime scene or even a portrait of the rugged, expressioned face of an anonymous or long forgotten figure from history or who just caught the eye and imagination of the artist .
In recent years I have enjoyed tracking down the sculptures of Anthony Gormley which has taken the family as far south as Wessex, to the suburbs of Gateshead, Tyne and Wear, Greenwich on the Thames and in my local Sainsbury Homebase where they were, some years ago, selling coat pegs designed by the man himself.
I have also developed a fascination for the works of Peter Howson even to the point of getting sweaty palms and guilt pangs in seriously thinking about buying a small original painting from a gallery in Glasgow whilst on holiday in Scotland. I lost my nerve after realising that the purchase price would take up all of the vacation spending money and a bit more. I was not sure, on reflection, where I would actually display any acquisition as would be the right thing to do without being always on edge in case it got damaged, faded away in sunlight or spoiled by an enthusiastic, regular application of furniture polish.
I settled in the end for a copy of an album sleeve of the Beautiful South "Quench" featuring Howson's graphically striking character in a defensive fighting stance.
Well, it was announced today that the City of Hull, my home town, is to host the Turner Prize for art in 2017, also the year in which Hull celebrates its role as UK City of Culture.
In previous years and locations of the Prize there have been weird and wonderful entries and eventual winners including a stained and dishevelled bed with lots of accompanying garbage and detritus and even formaldehyde preserved creatures of field and sea.
Whatever the actual subjects and interpretations of what passes as art will be met with great expectation and excitement by the citizens of Hull upon the arrival of the prestigious competition in two years time.
I might just wander down and have a look.
It can be a bit baffling, can't it?
What is heralded as the next best thing by the establishment, dealers and collectors may seem to the rest of us, like a bit of old rubbish put into a frame or mounted on a plinth.
Works that have made the big money and headlines have also courted controversy and consternation.
Who is to say, really, what is good art?
What may thrill and mesmerise one person may bore the pants off the next, and so on.
Personally I like a good old fashioned oil painting depicting a landscape, maritime scene or even a portrait of the rugged, expressioned face of an anonymous or long forgotten figure from history or who just caught the eye and imagination of the artist .
In recent years I have enjoyed tracking down the sculptures of Anthony Gormley which has taken the family as far south as Wessex, to the suburbs of Gateshead, Tyne and Wear, Greenwich on the Thames and in my local Sainsbury Homebase where they were, some years ago, selling coat pegs designed by the man himself.
I have also developed a fascination for the works of Peter Howson even to the point of getting sweaty palms and guilt pangs in seriously thinking about buying a small original painting from a gallery in Glasgow whilst on holiday in Scotland. I lost my nerve after realising that the purchase price would take up all of the vacation spending money and a bit more. I was not sure, on reflection, where I would actually display any acquisition as would be the right thing to do without being always on edge in case it got damaged, faded away in sunlight or spoiled by an enthusiastic, regular application of furniture polish.
I settled in the end for a copy of an album sleeve of the Beautiful South "Quench" featuring Howson's graphically striking character in a defensive fighting stance.
Well, it was announced today that the City of Hull, my home town, is to host the Turner Prize for art in 2017, also the year in which Hull celebrates its role as UK City of Culture.
In previous years and locations of the Prize there have been weird and wonderful entries and eventual winners including a stained and dishevelled bed with lots of accompanying garbage and detritus and even formaldehyde preserved creatures of field and sea.
Whatever the actual subjects and interpretations of what passes as art will be met with great expectation and excitement by the citizens of Hull upon the arrival of the prestigious competition in two years time.
I might just wander down and have a look.
Wednesday, 27 May 2015
Rae of Hope
I have Scottish ancestors on my father's side consisting of my Gran from the far northern fishing town of Wick and my Grandfather from similar parts.
Consequently, I have deep rooted genes which dictate that I go all dewy eyed whenever I hear the bagpipes, know by heart the words of Auld Lang Syne, can fashion a passable porridge from scratch and there are distinct ginger tones in an attempted or lazy growth of facial hair. Although of generous intentions I can be quite frugal and tight with money.
As head of my branch of the family I have also tried to perpetuate Scottish type traditions with observance of such rituals as first-footing at New Years and the cooking of Haggis, neeps and tatties on Burns Night.
I am the proud owner of a kilt in which I was wed but have not been able to secure around my middle-aged girth for some years now. It is brought out on special occasions to prove to incredulous friends that indeed I did honour my Scottish heritage and is always well received. In fact many have commented that the Thomson Tartan weave is quite familiar but they are not sure why. I gloss over the fact that the reason for the deja-vu moment is that Vauxhall cars used the pattern for seat covers in their Astra model hatchbacks in the late 1970's and early 1980's.
We have enjoyed many a family vacation in the Old Country regardless of the blood sucking intentions of the midge population.
That moment of approaching and then crossing the border from England to Scotland, in itself a bit of an anti-climax really, has in recent years been celebrated by the playing on the Car CD of a certain evocative and emotional track- that of "Over the Sea" by Jesse Rae.
It first came to public attention in, I think, 1978 or 1979 after a video version was broadcast on the Channel 4 media and music show of The Tube presented by Jools Holland and the late Paula Yates.
In it an armour clad Jesse Rae wields his broadsword on the top of a Highland Peak and then appears in the same attire on top of a New York skyscraper with the ill fated twin towers just visible in the misty distance. The lyrics, in the terminology of a Sociologist, rue the day that proud Scots were forced to leave their homes and make their way in the brave new world.
The theme and sound of the track remains quite unique and many may recall it on the basis of my description although in fact it did not do much in the very competitive pop charts of that time.
For my 40th birthday my wife sought out a supplier of the otherwise elusive 'Over the Sea' recording through an E Bay seller and confirmed the order by phone. The voice on the other end of the line, in a lilting Scots Border region accent, confessed that he did have quite a stock of the things in his garage and that my wife's interest was quite a rarity.
He asked if she would like the CD autographed. You would be understandably suspicious over such an offer of an added bonus from a complete stranger in spite of a favourable seller rating.
My wife envisaged a hasty scrawl of limited authenticity but it turns out that the vendor was Jesse Rae himself.
It is clear that he has fallen on hard times, mainly brought on by one of those disagreements with a bank that usually and in Jesse Rae's case did prompt financial ruin.
His career had promised much and he was courted by big record companies and the prospect of big money but it did not go strictly to plan.
In 1981 he wrote "Inside Out" which was an international sensation and hit for New York soul and disco group Odyssey and still gets airplay even today. It is all too clear that the reaping of royalties for the record was not enough to stave off bankruptcy in 2002. He also co-wrote "This Time" for The Human League.
In more recent years he has made a few live appearances at Festivals and has provided rugby commentaries on Borders Radio.
As with many short lived but nevertheless iconic figures in the oh-so fickle pop music industry there has been a fading into relative obscurity and anonymity apart, that is from the special place that Jesse Rae has in our own family tradition whenever we boldly venture into Scotland and engage with our proud ancestry.
Footnote; Jesse Rae was seen at the recent UK General Election in his full Highland regalia and looked mighty well.
Link to Over the Sea
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dOad0FU9zF8
Consequently, I have deep rooted genes which dictate that I go all dewy eyed whenever I hear the bagpipes, know by heart the words of Auld Lang Syne, can fashion a passable porridge from scratch and there are distinct ginger tones in an attempted or lazy growth of facial hair. Although of generous intentions I can be quite frugal and tight with money.
As head of my branch of the family I have also tried to perpetuate Scottish type traditions with observance of such rituals as first-footing at New Years and the cooking of Haggis, neeps and tatties on Burns Night.
I am the proud owner of a kilt in which I was wed but have not been able to secure around my middle-aged girth for some years now. It is brought out on special occasions to prove to incredulous friends that indeed I did honour my Scottish heritage and is always well received. In fact many have commented that the Thomson Tartan weave is quite familiar but they are not sure why. I gloss over the fact that the reason for the deja-vu moment is that Vauxhall cars used the pattern for seat covers in their Astra model hatchbacks in the late 1970's and early 1980's.
We have enjoyed many a family vacation in the Old Country regardless of the blood sucking intentions of the midge population.
That moment of approaching and then crossing the border from England to Scotland, in itself a bit of an anti-climax really, has in recent years been celebrated by the playing on the Car CD of a certain evocative and emotional track- that of "Over the Sea" by Jesse Rae.
It first came to public attention in, I think, 1978 or 1979 after a video version was broadcast on the Channel 4 media and music show of The Tube presented by Jools Holland and the late Paula Yates.
In it an armour clad Jesse Rae wields his broadsword on the top of a Highland Peak and then appears in the same attire on top of a New York skyscraper with the ill fated twin towers just visible in the misty distance. The lyrics, in the terminology of a Sociologist, rue the day that proud Scots were forced to leave their homes and make their way in the brave new world.
The theme and sound of the track remains quite unique and many may recall it on the basis of my description although in fact it did not do much in the very competitive pop charts of that time.
For my 40th birthday my wife sought out a supplier of the otherwise elusive 'Over the Sea' recording through an E Bay seller and confirmed the order by phone. The voice on the other end of the line, in a lilting Scots Border region accent, confessed that he did have quite a stock of the things in his garage and that my wife's interest was quite a rarity.
He asked if she would like the CD autographed. You would be understandably suspicious over such an offer of an added bonus from a complete stranger in spite of a favourable seller rating.
My wife envisaged a hasty scrawl of limited authenticity but it turns out that the vendor was Jesse Rae himself.
It is clear that he has fallen on hard times, mainly brought on by one of those disagreements with a bank that usually and in Jesse Rae's case did prompt financial ruin.
His career had promised much and he was courted by big record companies and the prospect of big money but it did not go strictly to plan.
In 1981 he wrote "Inside Out" which was an international sensation and hit for New York soul and disco group Odyssey and still gets airplay even today. It is all too clear that the reaping of royalties for the record was not enough to stave off bankruptcy in 2002. He also co-wrote "This Time" for The Human League.
In more recent years he has made a few live appearances at Festivals and has provided rugby commentaries on Borders Radio.
As with many short lived but nevertheless iconic figures in the oh-so fickle pop music industry there has been a fading into relative obscurity and anonymity apart, that is from the special place that Jesse Rae has in our own family tradition whenever we boldly venture into Scotland and engage with our proud ancestry.
Footnote; Jesse Rae was seen at the recent UK General Election in his full Highland regalia and looked mighty well.
Link to Over the Sea
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dOad0FU9zF8
Tuesday, 26 May 2015
14 minutes to Meltdown
According to official Government guidance there is a critical time in any car journey taken by parents and children when everything kicks off and what could be a nice day out deteriorates into a big rumpus. A Survey of motorists has suggested that at precisely two hours and thirty seven minutes any children become agitated and begin to ask that question that crosses successive generations "are we nearly there yet?". Within fourteen minutes of this sign of boredom chances are that arguments start to break out.
I am disappointed and a little bit disillusioned when I see a car full of children but none of them are actually looking out to see or apparently show an interest in where they are on their journey.
It is a case of heads down with hand held video game or slightly raised up but only at the TV screen set in the rear of the front head restraints.
Granted, when I was a nipper the most sophisticated piece of in car entertainment was an I-Spy book, Travel Mastermind, suppressing being sick or squabbling with my brothers and sisters whilst we sat stuck to the black vinyl seats by the back of our bare legs and becoming increasingly hot , frazzled and irritable.
Otherwise, to wile away the miles of a long trip such as to our annual summer holiday in Scotland, Northumberland or Norfolk it was a case of watching the world go by out of the window if you had baggsied a seat to take advantage of it.
In the days before compulsory seat belts for back seat passengers it was easier to stand up behind the driver or front passenger and view from there.
I developed a great interests in the sights on the open road and this persists even today.
There were the landmarks that signalled our imminent arrival at a regular holiday venue.
Crossing the iconic Tyne Bridge in Newcastle meant that in just over an hour the distant turrets and towers of Bamburgh Castle would be in view and in a few more minutes after that we would be running through the loose, hot sand of the dunes onto the vast, wave lapped beach that seemed to stretch to the very edge of the known world, at least that in the perception of a 10 year old.
We would collectively count down the miles to the border with Scotland, always greatly anticipated but never failing to disappoint being marked only by a large blue and white thistle sign rather than a crossing into a strange, mist swirling, mountainous wonderland of lochs, glens and warlike kilt clad pipers.
It appears that Scotland is more of a frame of mind to a 10 year old than a momentous and deeply felt experience, at least for us children of half Scottish origin. My Father, an authentic Scot but born in Croydon was always a bit dewey eyed and emotional when safely reunited with his Kinsfolk for those two weeks of the year, give or take long distance travelling time.
I could be a bit of a nuisance in that I would always announce the obvious landmark or feature even though evidently visible and appreciated by all the occupants of the family car. I recall getting a slap on the leg by my parents, deservedly so in hindsight for my persistent chanting of "it's a dam", "it's a dam", "it's a dam" after seeing a dam somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. It had been signposted for miles but I could not contain my excitement at the thought of seeing it. Not that I really knew what a dam was for. On my return some 30 or so years later I could just not see what all the fuss was about. My own children saw it as a grassy bank holding back an expanse of cold and faintly rusty coloured water. That was all.
I did become quite an expert on geographical phenomena and even more so after really taking to my senior school lessons in that subject. On the journeys to or through the more interesting parts of the British Isles I could easily identify a burial mound as opposed to just a grassy knoll, an ox bow lake rather than a pond, a scree slope from just a pile of loose rocks, granite precipices from chalky downs, a dry valley from a wet one and so on.
The majority of my fond memories have one thing in common. They were all part of the build up to a great family holiday. Conversely, when the fortnight was over and that was almost in the blink of an eye or so it seemed, there were those landmarks that signalled, as Mother always said, that we would soon be "back to normal", ie home life, school and all that went with those sorts of things.
These included flat, boring landscapes only broken by the looming presence of the power station cooling towers or the pit head winding gear near Doncaster. Then there was the reddening skyline above the huge British Steel Works at Scunthorpe as we came to within 10 miles of our home town and soon, on the farther horizon the white painted post windmill at Wrawby.
The drive up the slightly elevated and winding estate road to our house was depressing for those of us still awake even after melting into the plastic of the uncooled car interior.
We children then dopily went to check that our bedrooms had not been ransacked or pillaged by unknown imagined persons. We had no thoughts whatsoever to offer our exhausted parents any help in unloading the car of the detritus of two weeks under canvas or in a small caravan with five kids.
Now that I am a father myself I can appreciate that the anticipation and excitement of travel as felt by children is simply reversed in the grown ups.
Whilst the journey to and arrival at a holiday venue is undoubtedly exciting it does not mean a rest from the chores and responsibilities for adults.
Indeed it invariably means that it is the same work but made harder and more challenging in a different and unfamiliar environment.
The coming into view of the Doncaster wastelands and the intrusive industrial processes that made that part of the country the powerhouse that it was in the 1970's must have been a welcome sight and with it the promise of a slightly easier existence for our parents.
They hid their hopes of a brief respite and return to normality from us at the time and it is only really now that I am able to appreciate that particularly skilful trait of practical and effective parenting. Margaret and Donald, my heroes.
I am disappointed and a little bit disillusioned when I see a car full of children but none of them are actually looking out to see or apparently show an interest in where they are on their journey.
It is a case of heads down with hand held video game or slightly raised up but only at the TV screen set in the rear of the front head restraints.
Granted, when I was a nipper the most sophisticated piece of in car entertainment was an I-Spy book, Travel Mastermind, suppressing being sick or squabbling with my brothers and sisters whilst we sat stuck to the black vinyl seats by the back of our bare legs and becoming increasingly hot , frazzled and irritable.
Otherwise, to wile away the miles of a long trip such as to our annual summer holiday in Scotland, Northumberland or Norfolk it was a case of watching the world go by out of the window if you had baggsied a seat to take advantage of it.
In the days before compulsory seat belts for back seat passengers it was easier to stand up behind the driver or front passenger and view from there.
I developed a great interests in the sights on the open road and this persists even today.
There were the landmarks that signalled our imminent arrival at a regular holiday venue.
Crossing the iconic Tyne Bridge in Newcastle meant that in just over an hour the distant turrets and towers of Bamburgh Castle would be in view and in a few more minutes after that we would be running through the loose, hot sand of the dunes onto the vast, wave lapped beach that seemed to stretch to the very edge of the known world, at least that in the perception of a 10 year old.
We would collectively count down the miles to the border with Scotland, always greatly anticipated but never failing to disappoint being marked only by a large blue and white thistle sign rather than a crossing into a strange, mist swirling, mountainous wonderland of lochs, glens and warlike kilt clad pipers.
It appears that Scotland is more of a frame of mind to a 10 year old than a momentous and deeply felt experience, at least for us children of half Scottish origin. My Father, an authentic Scot but born in Croydon was always a bit dewey eyed and emotional when safely reunited with his Kinsfolk for those two weeks of the year, give or take long distance travelling time.
I could be a bit of a nuisance in that I would always announce the obvious landmark or feature even though evidently visible and appreciated by all the occupants of the family car. I recall getting a slap on the leg by my parents, deservedly so in hindsight for my persistent chanting of "it's a dam", "it's a dam", "it's a dam" after seeing a dam somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. It had been signposted for miles but I could not contain my excitement at the thought of seeing it. Not that I really knew what a dam was for. On my return some 30 or so years later I could just not see what all the fuss was about. My own children saw it as a grassy bank holding back an expanse of cold and faintly rusty coloured water. That was all.
I did become quite an expert on geographical phenomena and even more so after really taking to my senior school lessons in that subject. On the journeys to or through the more interesting parts of the British Isles I could easily identify a burial mound as opposed to just a grassy knoll, an ox bow lake rather than a pond, a scree slope from just a pile of loose rocks, granite precipices from chalky downs, a dry valley from a wet one and so on.
The majority of my fond memories have one thing in common. They were all part of the build up to a great family holiday. Conversely, when the fortnight was over and that was almost in the blink of an eye or so it seemed, there were those landmarks that signalled, as Mother always said, that we would soon be "back to normal", ie home life, school and all that went with those sorts of things.
These included flat, boring landscapes only broken by the looming presence of the power station cooling towers or the pit head winding gear near Doncaster. Then there was the reddening skyline above the huge British Steel Works at Scunthorpe as we came to within 10 miles of our home town and soon, on the farther horizon the white painted post windmill at Wrawby.
The drive up the slightly elevated and winding estate road to our house was depressing for those of us still awake even after melting into the plastic of the uncooled car interior.
We children then dopily went to check that our bedrooms had not been ransacked or pillaged by unknown imagined persons. We had no thoughts whatsoever to offer our exhausted parents any help in unloading the car of the detritus of two weeks under canvas or in a small caravan with five kids.
Now that I am a father myself I can appreciate that the anticipation and excitement of travel as felt by children is simply reversed in the grown ups.
Whilst the journey to and arrival at a holiday venue is undoubtedly exciting it does not mean a rest from the chores and responsibilities for adults.
Indeed it invariably means that it is the same work but made harder and more challenging in a different and unfamiliar environment.
The coming into view of the Doncaster wastelands and the intrusive industrial processes that made that part of the country the powerhouse that it was in the 1970's must have been a welcome sight and with it the promise of a slightly easier existence for our parents.
They hid their hopes of a brief respite and return to normality from us at the time and it is only really now that I am able to appreciate that particularly skilful trait of practical and effective parenting. Margaret and Donald, my heroes.
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