Gertsamtkunstwerk

Kirsty MacColl and the Pogues

By happy coincidence, my CD Of Galore, The Best of Kirsty MacColl, and my taped-off-vinyl of Rum, Sodomy and the Lash get to be played in close proximity.

Kirsty MacColl is in that great league of artists that I would surely have bought Albums if I had had the money. So the production of a Greatest Hits was fortuitous. There's not a bad song on it. I remember precisely where I was when I heard of her death - in the front seat of a 45 bus outside my then office on Walworth Road, on the phone to Jimmy. I let out a cry of anguish.

One of the greatest song titles of all time, "There's a Guy Works Down The Chip Shop Swears He's Elvis" , gets me on my feet rockin' and a reelin' to the clangy piano. Energy energy energy.

I love They Don't Know , which was capably covered by Tracey Ullmann, but Kirsty's original is better. Then there is Don't Come the Cowboy with Me, Sunny Jim, which is possibly the weakest track on the album, but if you could see Jimmy right now, out in the garden in a plaid shirt and jeans, you would find it funny.

This album demonstrates not only that Kirsty was a great songwriter, but also she was a not inconsiderable coverer of great tracks by greats eg You Just Haven't Earned It Yet Baby (Morrissey and Marr - the epitome of great songtitle writers), and New England (Billy Bragg). Not to mention the Perfect Day duet with Evan Dando, a man with a haunting voice, singing a haunting song. I was so annoyed when this became popular due to a)Trainspotting and b) that great BBC trailer-cum-charidee fundraiser that had thirty zillion artists singing it. There was also the Harry Enfield version, with all his various characters singing. Still, I think Kirsty and Evan are the match of Lou Reed.

And the song that links the two artists in the title - Fairytale of New York. This is on my list of Twenty Two top songs of all time. (My father was also inordinately fond of it). There is an irony that Shane McGowan still lives whilst Kirsty doesn't - a Dead Pool a few years back saw most of us sharing out The Queen Mum, Pope, Thatcher, Reagan etc. One friend insisted he would win with Shane McGowan. Still he goes on...

This is a song I would love to do at a karaoke (if I did karaoke), if I could find someone to be my Shane. Or maybe I could be Shane and find someone to be my Kirsty. But then I would miss out on the opportunity to sing

You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
And thank God it's our last

I'm surprised Mike Read didn't ban it from Radio One.

Rum, Sodomy and the Lash contains a plethora of songs that I am convinced are genuine Irish folksongs and, (say it quietly), are much much better than Irish folk songs.

The album opens with the immortal line

McCormack and Richard Tauber are singing by the bed...

Immortal, because John McCormack is a running joke in our family. My Uncle Noel, thirty-plus years dead was a an obsessive John McCormack fan, to the extent that my cousins used to flee the house on the (frequent) occasions that his records were played. My father had a liking, too, although not to the point of obsession. He was not to my taste - indeed, I couldn't bear to listen to him singing. Mind you, the discography is interesting eg Cylinder Recordings 1904-1906. And look at the variable speeds. I bet I am the only person of my age (and you, now that I've told you) that knows that 78s didn't all play at anything like 78rpm....

Fairly recently, my mother offloaded all the John McCormack 78s to a dealer somewhere. My cousin was outraged - she's become all nostalgic for them, despite a traumatic teenage spent fleeing the house.

Back to the Pogues. I spent very many hours travelling between Manchester and Nottingham with this album playing in my head. I must express my gratitude to Dave, Mike and Andrew, whose attempts to de-mainstream my musical tastes never proceded much beyond Billy Bragg and the Pogues. But what a jolly good job they did with these two.

I remember venturing into the City of Salford (quite a risk for a nice Sale girl). My mission was the Manchester United training ground, The Cliff. I remember walking down Lower Broughton Road with 'Dirty Old Town' playing in my ears, and getting excited because I was actually listening to it in Salford. It was, of course, written by Ewan MacColl, Kirsty's father - another great favourite of my father's.

And the greatest track on this album is "And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda". A brief history here about this moving song, and news story about the State Funeral given to Australia's last Gallipoli veteran. I wonder if Britain will be brave enough to give a State Funeral when our last World War One veteran dies?

Hmm, I'm sure I promised you loads of proof of me being an Eighties Pop Tart. I bet you think I'm a folky at heart. Maybe I am...

Sir William of Bragg

A true and sadly under-rated National Treasure. I am currently playing through his music I have on tape - the CDs will come at some other time, probably in about 2006.

The first tape was recorded off my dear friend Andrew T when we were at Uni. At about the same time that I saw Billy opening the Red Wedge concert, three days before the '87 election. It consists of Life's A Riot and Brewing Up, with some additional odds and sods

When I took this tape out of its case, I decided that I would play one track before all the rest. Fortuitously, and showing great foresight on my part, the tape was positioned at exactly the right place to play the anthemic Between The Wars, which, incidentally, is one of my Top Twenty-Two. Belting song for belting out in the crowd. I recall that wonderful feeling at Mayday in Finsbury Park in 1997, when I was with Anna and Tilly, wife and daughter of Andrew (who had gone down the front - we stayed back because Tilly was just a few weeks old). Some of the dreams I held in May 1997 have been dashed, but many many more remain. So, the skies are still dark with bombers, but I'll give my consent
To any government
That does not deny a man a living wage

I was a miner I was a docker I was a railway man Between the wars I raised a family In times of austerity With sweat at the foundry Between the wars

I paid the union and as times got harder
I looked to the government to help the working man
And they brought prosperity down at the armoury
We're arming for peace, me boys
Between the wars

I kept the faith and I kept voting
Not for the iron fist but for the helping hand
For theirs is a land with a wall around it
And mine is a faith in my fellow man
Theirs is a land of hope and glory
Mine is the green field and the factory floor
Theirs are the skies all dark with bombers
And mine is the peace we know
Between the wars

Call up the craftsmen
Bring me the draftsmen
Build me a path from cradle to grave
And I'll give my consent
To any government
That does not deny a man a living wage

Go find the young men never to fight again
Bring up the banners from the days gone by
Sweet moderation
Heart of this nation
Desert us not, we are
Between the wars

If there is one artist who, above all, provides the soundtrack to my life, it has to be Billy. Not great music, but compelling. Not a pleasant voice, and that East London accent is not to my taste. And yet, and yet - possibly the greatest poet (Morrissey notwithstanding) of a generation. Not least in his wonderful play on words eg The Milkman of Human Kindness. Or a pinpoint analysis of the degeneracy of the tabloid press:

Where they offer you a feature
On stockings and suspenders
Next to a call for stiffer penalties for sex offenders

A great political balladeer, he is at his superb best when singing melancholy personal ditties, with that soulful voice and tuneful guitar.

In fact, I suggest that if you are not au fait with the work of Billy, you click any two or three of these songs and acknowledge the genius.

The second BB tape I have (taped off vinyl) is Talking With The Taxman About Poetry. All songs v.v. good (hmm, somehow, you just can't imagine that vacuous Bridget Jones listening to Billy...); highlights for me 'Ideology' - great words, fab guitar riff; There Is A Power In A Union; Wishing the Days Away; and the Home Front.

Another two years until I reckon I'll get round to playing Billy again? This All The Records By forty project sucks...

A few questions

Stolen from Mad Bull

1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, find line 4. Write down what it says.

A more accurate expression of how the Western impact is perceived by those who oppose it was given by Khomeini, when he spoke of the United States as 'the Great Satan'. Satan is not an imperialist; he is a tempter.

From The Middle East by Bernard Lewis.

2. Stretch your left arm as far as you can. What do you touch first?

Computer screen

3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?

Jonny Wilkinson on Parky. Or a DVD.

4. Without looking, guess what time it is.1355

5. Now look at the clock. What is the actual time?

1404

Not bad
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?

Peer Gynt by Grieg and Jimmy bundling garden waste into sacks.

7. When last did you step outside? What were you doing?

A few minutes ago, to give Jimmy a cup of coffee and to play fencing, him with a big stick, me with a teaspoon. I won.

8. Before you came to this website, what did you look at?

Lots of Co

9. What are you wearing?

Brown jeans and deep salmon rugby shirt. Navy blue slippers embroidered with teddy bear. I don't know what's happened to me but these trousers used to be snug, now I can fit an entire brass band down them. You're not supposed to accidentally lose weight at my age.

10. Did you dream last night?

Being very pissed on all the port I didn't fling over the living room, I slept the sleep of the pissed all night.

11. When last did you laugh?

Out in the garden when fencing with the teaspoon.

12. What is on the walls of the room you are in?

Wall paper painted over with a wash-effect maroon colour. Photos - in front of me, my father, my nephew when newborn, and my nephew and niece climbing on me in Mother's garden. Over my left shoulder a frame containing twelve photos of Uni friends. Over my right shoulder a frame containing eleven photos of me and another one containing thirteen photos of friends and rellies. Behind me an entire chimney breast that could do with adornment.

13. Seen anything weird lately?

No.

14. What do you think of this quiz.

Gives scope for describing domestic minutiae

15. What is the last film you saw?

See entry below (it was Carmen).

16. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first?

Shoes. Or Creme Eggs. Or a proper hi-fi to replace the famously knackered midi-system. A piano. Something luxurious for Jimmy

17. Tell me something about you that I don't know.

When I was at secondary school I used to tell whopping lies about leading an interesting life. In reality I led the world's most boring life.

18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?

Education for all

19. Do you like to dance?

I love to dance although I'm rubbish. My best dancing is done in private "Dance Like Nobody's Watching." I love to dance in the lapping waves at water's edge. I love the entire concept of "Take Me Dancing Naked In The Rain".

But no one dances like my niece who just doesn't stop. I actually think she was born dancing. Certainly, the first time I held her in my arms when she was just a few days old she was wriggling along in time to Prince's 1999.

20. George Bush: is he a power crazy nutcase or some one who is finally doing something that has needed to be done for years?

He is a power crazy nutcase, and also, a liar! (I have left Mad Bull's answer here - nothing more to be said.)

21. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?

Santuzza or Tarsicia

22. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?

James. Or Edward.

23. Would you ever consider living abroad?

Unlikely. I could probably tolerate New York (once they repeal the ridiculous smoking laws) but it's so like London, it probably isn't really abroad at all.

Best Album in the World...Ever

This post was started before both discs of Volume 3 got irretrievably stuck in the soon-to-be-scrapped midi system.

Four different volumes, confusingly not volumed. Eight discs in all. Aptly named. The cream of early-mid 90s rock, with some classics from earlier eras thrown in for good measure. Three or four years ago these were pretty constantly on the CD changer.

Some compilation albums work because, taken in the round, they provide a canvas of pleasure. Others work because they have such a high proportion of really classic tracks. These albums, or, at least, the first three are special becaue they manage to combine both elements. I'm tempted to namecheck tracks such as Ash's Angel Interceptor and Happy Mondays' Kinky Afro, or really really adrenaline-forcing tracks like Pulp's Common People but however good they sound on a compilation album they sound even better on their artist album, but won't because I shall just name the tracks that make me go "Ooh! wow! Yay oh yay!"

Life of Riley - Lightning Seeds
It's Oh So Quiet - Bjork
Little Britain - Dreadzone
Hope Street - The Levellers
Yes - McAlmont/Butler (really wooo!)
Zombie - the Cranberries (seriously woo ee ay yo!)
15 Years - The Levellers
High and Dry - Radiohead
Every Day Is Like Sunday - Morrissey. One of my top twenty two of all time pop songs. I have always thought that this (along with Chris de Burgh's line 'Nothing Quite Like An Out of Season Holiday Town in the Rain') was written about Morecambe, the most god-forsaken seaside town I have ever visited. Sadly, I now think - hope - Morecambe will be remembered for more than two obscure late Eighties pop songs.

Vin-da-loo - Fat Les. Oh what fun we had explaining to two American friends, Megan and Phil, why an England football song should be called Vindaloo. I think we came up with "because it's difficult to get anything to rhyme with chicken tikka masala."

Brimful of Asha - Corner Shop

Gert Cottage Film Festival

There's not a lot else to do on a changeable double BH weekend with nowt on telly.

Friday evening found the intrepid filmsters in the heart of London's Leicester Square. J. was allowed to choose the film without a G. veto. (Think Blue Moons, Preston Guilds, Oberemmagau Passion Plays).

The film chosen was Open Range. I resolutely adopted an open mind, and felt that if it was truly awful, I could at least listen to Micahel Gambon's voice. Or daydream. Or fall asleep.

Actually, I enjoyed it. I'm not going to go on about greatness, Oscar nommies or whatever, but it was a good old-fashioned Western, the sort my Grandad would have thoroughly enjoyed. There was some fabulous Albertan scenery, some reasonably good acting, and one or two Western cliches, and it finished with a humdinger of a shoot-out, although quite why they couldn't have lit the aromatherapy candles and sat down over a cup of camomile tea with a trained mediator is beyond me.

Once at home we watched Godfather 2. Either you love or hate the Godfather films. Me, I'm indifferent. I recognise them as good stories, excellent acting, all that, but get me in a General Knowledge Quiz and I would star blank-faced at you. To my eternal shame, I always get Al Pacino and Robert de Niro mixed up.

Saturday afternoon was Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Damn fine adventure movie. But more than adventure - actually, if you switch on the brain, it is also intellectually stimulating. And great scenery.

Then we had Carmen. Great music, great singing, great acting, great scenery, and opening with a gloriously gory bullfight.

So, two great films and watching Jonny Wilkinson on Parkinson combined to make Saturday afternoon/evening a veritable festival of Beautiful Men.

We also watched Parsifal The Search for the Grail

I drank large quantities of Port and also managed to send a glass of same flying all across the floor. Fortunately, I have 'wipe-clean' laminate floor and not a pale-coloured carpet. And my very own Beautiful Man wiped it up for me.

This afternoon/evening we are going to choose between some or all of Cabaret, Belle du Jour or Oklahoma. Or maybe something completely different.

Beckham watching

So, apparently, it's unfeminist to slag off Victoria Beckham. Supposedly, we're a load of witches if we dare suggest that David's philandering is all Victoria's fault? The Observer | Comment | Posh versus the coven

Well, all very interesting. However, there is another possible interpretation. When somebody so cynically uses their marriage as a commodity, a means to publicity, and a way to get money (from us, the consumers), I think we're allowed a little smirk of schadenfreude She held them up to be the perfect married couple, the implication being that nobody is as good as them.

Who can resist a gloat of triumphalism when you hear that that couple you used to be friendly with until they declared they only socialise with couples - or try to create an artifice of coupledom with you and a mutual gay male male friend - have split up?

Age showing, again

As unmoved by the tenth anniversary of Kurt Cobain's death as I was by the event itself. Although not quite like some friends who said "Kurt who?"

The only Nirvana fan I knew at the time is now 24, although possibly my brother and his friends, now 29 had a passing interest (they were more into the Madchester bands, and REM, and Saw Doctors).

So the analogy between KC's death and that of JFK for thirty-somethings is the fact that both events failed to make any impression.

Besides, what is the connection between the cold-blooded murder of a democratically elected president who symbolised hope and progress (despite whatever faults have subsequently been uncovered) and the solipsistic drug-enduced suicide of a modestly talented, moderately successful musician, who would be quite forgotten now if he were still alive?

Lady Macbeth of Mtensk

Against my better judgement, I'm going to see this in a few days Warming the spirit in a kind of Siberia.

Well, it's a relatively cheap ticket, and if I really hate it, I can chalk it up to experience - it was only last week I declared that I don't like Shostakovich.

Can't switch off

Letters flood in over NHS TV set row

I was in St George's a few years back. I was fairly ill. Clue, I was in hospital...

The ward was arranged with alcoves containing six beds. One of the blokes in my alcove have a TV on constantly, loud. It drove me spare, and when I complained to the nurse she just shrugged. The ward was clearly badly managed anyway - the idea of mixing genders in the alcoves made a lot of people very uncomfortable. I'm sure if I had arrranged for a CD player to be brought in and had played it loud I would have been told to turn it off.

Just before my sister had my nephew, she was admitted to hospital with the chronic condition which subsequently led to her retirement. She was ill. She shared a four bed room with one other woman who had just given birth. This woman's entire extended family visited for extended periods, crowding the room, and making it noisy and very hot. My sister complained, because the ward rules were 'only three visitors per bed'. Her complaint was ignored amidst murmurs of 'cultural sensitivity'.

When my nephew was born I came on a flying visit to inspect, and at 1 minute past four, the end of visiting time (how ridiculous, anyway), I was asked to leave. My sister pointed out that other rules seemed to be broken, and some 'cultural sensitivity' would have realised that I had travelled up from London specially.

/moan

Interview with God

Steven Patrick Morrissey says 'Somebody has to be me'

His new single is 'Irish Blood, English Heart'. Still continuing to speak to and for me.

What a genius.

(Am I showing my age?)

The not-so-fat slags

There are two women in Britain who make Victoria Beckham look the soul of discretion, refinement and good taste, and the Currant Bun brings them to youJordan and Titmus.

Now I put on my feminist hat. I notice Abi Titmuss is described as a 'slapper'. Katie Price escapes that but I promise that you really have to have a look at the outfit she is wearing.

Newspapers like the Sun, and conversations up-and-down the country have very clear views on women like these two. These are quite different from views on Pat Cash, who 'may or may not' have slept with David Beckham's Rebecca, but he had so many he can't remember. The subtext is 'ooh, Pat, you're such a lad', whereas Jordan, Abi, Rebecca and the rest are slappers.

I don't suppose that societal attitudes will ever change. Subconsciously, we judge 'it *okay* for Alpha Males to put it about, but not for women. Intellectually I baulk at the double-standards; however, I am as guilty as the next person. To me, they are slappers.

When it boils down to it what anybody does in the privacy of their own bedroom, or carpark, is their business, and I'm not going to pass judgement. Until they start talking about it. I'm fortunate in never having worked with anyone who talks at length about their sex life. People I know have had colleagues like that, and it is truly cringeworthy. You don't get a lot of it on blogs; at least not on the ones I read. The TD guest month was an exception. That worked, worked incredibly well. Otherwise, other than the odd oblique reference people don't blog their sex lives. Thankfully.

Last night we did it. This was the twenty-seventh time this year. It started with me doing [deleted] then he rolled over and did [deleted]. Eventually, we [deleted]. I stopped halfway through for a cigarette, then he did [deleted]. It lasted x minutes. We have marked in our diaries to do it again on Saturday afternoon. This time it will be on the kitchen table.

How utterly, utterly tedious.

Easter Music

The post next but one below was supposed to be about a couple of CDs I found when putting away a few dozen that had been lying around. Easter Hymn and Alleluia - Sacred Music, both of which are, sadly, discontinued.

Although as CDs they date from the mid-90s, they predominantly feature recordings from the 60s and 70s - perhaps they were cheap, which was important to me in my constantly cash-strapped 20s.

The first one opens with Mascagni's Easter Hymn - Regina coeli - from Cavelleria Rusticana, a tune I fell in love with in my teens. For years it has reminded me of Verdi's Va Pensiero (chorus of Hebrew Slaves) from Nabucco, although may I venture to say that I actually prefer it. It has only just occurred to me that it must have been inspired by Va Pensiero. Cav was written in 1880; Nabucco considerably earlier; significantly it was the rallying anthem for Italian Unification, which had occurred in 1870. I decided as a teenager that if had children, my first daughter would be called Santuzza.

Joan Sutherland singing Casta Diva from Bellini's Norma is breath catchingly exquisite; and Kiri Te Kanawa sings Ave Maria from Otello gorgeously (better than I heard Renee Fleming sing live the other week? I don't know). Of course, if I had listened to this other than every other Easter, I might have realised a few years earlier how wonderful Wagner is. Especially the Pilgrims' chorus from Tannhauser. Ho hum.

On the second CD, I note that one of the singers is called Sieglinde Wagner. A bit of googling reveals that she died a couple of months ago and she was no relation to Richard Wagner. Therefore, her parents' choice of name must enter the list of names that signify utter parental cruelty - Sieglinde is one of the main characters in the valkyrie.. What would have happened if she hadn't turned out to be a singer?

One of the highlights is from Haydn's Creation. I know it as The Heavens Are Telling, but, as this is in German, it is "Die Himmel erzahlen die Ehre Gottes". When I was at school we used to have a Speech Night at the Free Trade Hall - oh the stories I could tell...! One of the highlights was the music; people used to join the choir especially as a way to survive Speech Night. The orchestra and each of Junior and Senior Choirs performed, then followed the musical high-spot of the entire school year - joint orchestra and choir. I recall this with enormous joy. It was the last time I was in the choir for the joint - every year subsequently I was orchestra. This was also the last time I sang soprano, because I was becoming a contralto. Which was unfortunate, because sopranos get the melody and contraltos have to be musically gifted and guess the harmony. I am currently baritone, heading for bass-baritone (I jest, slightly...). I don't think I know the Creation as well as I ought to. Actually, not at all...

Just listening through, I pondered on the role of compilations in a record collection. I know someone who has absolutely no compilations. I can't help thinking that his approach to collecting music is too organised and dry, whereas the plethora of compilations in my collection suggest an impulsive ill thought-out approach. I look at a lot of compilations now with a sense of depression. Not because they contain bad music, but because they all seem to comprise pretty much the same tracks. But these two CDs, containing nearly fifty pieces between them, have only about ten compilation standards.

I think the beauty of well-thought out compilations is that they introduce you to music that you wouldn't normally know; they give an opportunity to listen to the very best by third or fourth division composers who do not merit a whole CD; and they demonstrate how different can be the interpretations of the standards. The challenge is to identify the best version in your collection of a particular song. I think the Mozart Ave Verum Corpus here may be the best I own.

Easter

I am not especially religious but I do recognise Easter as the liturgically most important event of the year. I haven't been to Good Friday Mass for years. Despite my resentment in being forced to go, I also resented it when the priest in his (lack of) wisdom, decided to do the shortened version of the Gospel reading. It's so typical of the Catholic Church that you *have* to go to Mass, and then the objective is to gallop through as quickly as possible, with the standard liturgy being recited at meaningless speed, only half of hymn verses sung, and the hierarchy proposing a shortened version of the Gospel. (And what of Saturday evening Mass being allowed as an alternative to Sunday obligation? I mean, please, what utter hypocrisy...).

I have this memory of during the Gospel, the words 'Father into your hands I commend my spirit,' and with that he breathed His last breath. Yet in my Sunday Missal ("Souvenir of Confirmation 23rd May 1979" in my father's elegant handwriting) the text is

and bowing his head he gave up the spirit

The linked text is, to me, Christianity in a nutshell. Take or leave the rest. (Except Love God and Love your Neighbour as yourself).

For my confirmation my Aunt who was a nun (perhaps by then an ex-nun, I forget) gave me a slim volumes of Psalms with colour photographs of their setting.

Nothing quite beats my First Communion present, "The Gospel of Jesus - Text of the four gospels arranged into one continuous narrative", with every page containing at least one map and approximately 100 full page colour photos, also of "The Holy Land".

Despite all this, I am still implacably opposed to the tyranny of organised religion...

All the records before forty...

Just a reminder that I am set on playing my entire music collection before 6 February 2008. I would be progressing well if it wasn't for distractions. Distractions such as overwhelming desire to play something out of my carefully designed sequence. Or the need to play certain records twice. Yesterday it was Billy Bragg (I have a post currently in draft). Or The Essential Music of America, which is out of print.

As a teenager I declared that all the decent classical music of the Twentieth Century was written by Americans. Of course, that is pretty much tosh. But still, there's some jolly good music on this. I have long been sort-of a fan of Aaron Copland. Sort-of as in, I have quite a few of his works, although I know very little about him, and I often forget how much I really like his stuff. This is a two-CD set, with plenty of Copland, Gershwin and Bernstein. I have played the first disc twice. The highlight has to be Bernstein's Symphonic Dances from West Side Story. West Side Story is truly a masterpiece, anyway, but what I like about this is the amazing contrast between the dissonant syncopation of the early section with the haunting lyricism of  'Somewhere'. (So now I shall have to play my West Side Story highlights completely out of sequence...)

And I do love the marches of Sousa - on this compilation we have Stars and Stripes Forever and Washington Post. At Primary School Mr Unsworth used to have us walking into assembly to Stars and Stripes Forever (when he wasn't subversively playing us the theme from Monty Python).

I also love Moross's theme from The Big Country. Although I have never seen the film and haven't a clue what it's about, the music suggests to me extraordinarily open countryside. Prairies, perhaps, although I have never seen a prairie in my life. I am actually on a horse at this precise moment sweeping through the long grass of the prairie, the wind in my hair, and freedom...

Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue is an all-time classic. My friend Mike declared that he would have it played at his funeral. So I was kind of disappointed when he had George Michael instead.  Although I really don't like Jazz, I do like the way Gershwin uses the jazz idiom to create sublime music, that sounds fresh and modern eighty years after it was written. I especially love the brass con sordino, and the rhythm that just for a moment makes me think that I can dance other than as an Eighties Pop Tart.

The second disc, which isn't as good as the first, finishes with three traditional songs from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir - down by the Riverside, When the Saints, and Battle Hymn of the Republic. These are best listened to in dim lights, but are just fab anytime - fantastic harmonies and syncopations.

I went on a night-time of Washington DC - going from memorial to memorial. I particularly like the Lincoln Memorial - although I haven't been to the FDR, which, reportedly, is the only one of the memorials with proper disabled access (ought to have, really...!) - it wasn't built on my first visit, and it didn't cross our minds on our second visit.

Anyway,  the coach driver played an equally haunting version of Battle Hymn of the Republic, which was particularly evocative as we were driving away from the Lincoln Memorial. I was the expert on American Political history, much to the puzzlement of my many American companions. I kept shtum that I had just completed a Politics degree under an America-obsessed Prof.

The Gettysburg address, one of the greatest pieces of writing in the English language, is remarkable for its brevity. And supreme irony:

The world will little note nor long remember what we say here

The only known photo of Abraham Lincoln

Craving sex with footballers

The Mirror prints rumours about a woman whose ambition is to shag the entire Real Madrid team, and Rebecca loved sleeping with sportsmen, as long as they were famous..

Despite the risk of a telling off from Gordon and Blue Witch, I'm really fascinated, and puzzled, by this.

It strikes me as terribly adolescent. I recall the schooldays when one of my classmates was seeing one of the Altrincham Aces ice-hockey stars; also a couple of people that people knew as friends of friends whatever were married to Manchester United players. Someone's Mum worked with the wife of one of Echo and The Bunnymen (I think) at Warrington DHSS.

Of course there is a fascination with celebrities, especially the glamorous/beautiful ones. I suspect that many of us have at least one celebrity that if - however unlikely - the opportunity arose, we would be sorely tempted, and, depending on our personal moral code, may even accept.

But there is, surely, a world of difference between having fantasies about one or two specific celebrities, whom we admire for what they do, (my fiance likes Paula Ratcliffe - but he'd never be able to catch her!), and relentlessly pursuing minor celebs just because they are footballers, or whatever.

I am fascinated by the motivation. Is sex with a celebrity better than with a mere mortal? I would hazard a guess that it depends. I find the incessant search for the next casual screw soul destroying. I'm not sure how their can be any respect when the terms of engagement are so cynical - both parties are using each other. I will admit to a few one-night stands and short flings in my long-lost youth. But what they all had in common was that I'd already had a laugh with the blokes involved, and had already judged them to be reasonably good company. I don't recall ever setting out to ensnare a particular type of man.

And even if I - by glorious luck - had the opportunity to end up in bed with one of my pin-up heroes, I think I would want more than sex anyway. I'd like the opportunity to find out a bit what they were like as people, what makes them tick, and, you know, enjoy their company.

I can't help thinking that the pursuit of celebrities because they are A Celebrity (not Joe-Blogg-specific-celebrity) is tantamount to prostitution, perhaps worse than prostitution because most prostitutes are motivated by the need to support a drug habit or clinch a book deal. Do these women suffer a pathological self-esteem deficit? Because, if they do, there a hundred better ways to learn to love oneself.

Chav alert

19-month old Romeo Beckham has a gold stud in his ear.

Classy.

I actually feel quite strongly against small kids getting their ears pierced. I had mine done at 14. Which was my decision, and all my parents said was 'have it done at the local chemist' and asked my sister to go with me.

I don't think it should be done until the child is at least eight. And even then, only if they ask for it.

Incidentally, the Sun says

Victoria Beckham is one of the most hated women in Britain � simply because she is married to England soccer hero David.

No, Victoria is disliked because she is a talentless has-been (the Spice Girls were good in their day, but she was the one that didn't sing), and people are irritated by her attempts to use David's position to generate publicity for her so-called career. Time and again, she has talked about aspects of their private life in a cynical publicity bid - starting with 'Golden Balls' and going downhill from there. I simply have no sympathy for people like her - or the Royal family - when they bleat about Press intrusion. There are loads of celebrities who don't court the publicity and don't then get the snidey coverage.

It doesn't take much intelligence (although, perhaps more than the collective Beckham quotient) to understand that once you have sold your soul to the devil, you can't buy it back.

English Music, Scottish Orchestra

It's nice that we let the colonials come to our capital to play our music...

It was all right, but nothing special. Bit of Elgar, bit of Vaughan Williams. Elgar cello concerto was played by Ralph Kirshbaum. At the end, the woman next-door-but-one to me said to her companion, on my immediate left "Bring back Jacqueline du Pre" I felt like tapping her on the shoulder and saying "You know she carped it a good while back," but didn't. A bit uncharitable in her judgement, but the performance failed to move me.

I haven't a clue what makes a good conductor or a bad conductor, other than an instinct. That instinct told me that tonight's conductor, Joseph Swenson, was really nothing special. And I mean, really.

The music was okay, but I did feel a little bit like I was applauding out of good manners, rather than enthusiasm. Which was a shame, because the music as written - Elgar's Introduction and Allegro for Strings, and Cello Concerto in E minor, and Vaughan Williams' Symphony in D major (no. 5) are very pleasant, lyrical pieces. I just think they could have been performed with a bit more feeling.

Or maybe it was just me; maybe everyone else really enjoyed it. Maybe it's my fault that the music didn't speak to me. I suspect I wasn't alone, though.

Still, I'd far rather spend an evening hearing pleasant tunes being played in a mediocre fashion than sitting at home staring at walls.

Layers of Beckham

Again the newspapers are full of them. On any scale and in any context, it does not matter and, of course, I don't give a shit.

Still, it's fascinating, innit?

Is it true? Who knows? Only two people. However, would the NotW print a whole nine pages without them being carefully scrutinised by libel lawyers?

Is it any of our business? Of course not. It's an unwarranted intrusion into the private lives of people. But, there again, there is the Princess Diana defence - Live by the sword, Die by the sword. Or, if you frequently use the media to project a positive - or superior - image of yourself, don't moan when they turn the tables.

Water cooler conversation - certainly in my world; conversations overheard in shops and on public transport, as well as around the office. Test of genuine- as opposed to manufactured by manipulative telly - celebrity.

It's so terribly, and ghastlily English, isn't it, to find a little extramarital activity fascinating. David's now living in Spain, perhaps he has adopted Latin mores (although, a conversation on these lines some months ago provoked a friend to comment 'Just because French Presidents are permitted to have mistresses doesn't mean there are hordes of French women saying, with a Gallic shrug, *Ah, je suis Francaise, I don't care that my husband has de meestress*'

Still, it's natural, innit. It goes back to Neanderthal times. Colleague says "Are you saying that men find it impossible to be monogamous?" No-o-o-o, but... Woman in queue in Sainburys says, primly, "He's breaking his marriage vows. That's all I'm saying on the subject." Somneone wondered whether it threatens his status as England captain. I jolly well hope not. We have a trophy to win in Portugal in the summer.

Is it an affair, anyway (let's assume for the purpose of argument, the story is true. I don't know)? Three nights. That's a fling, surely. Barely one up from a one-night stand. Intellectually, to me, that doesn't count. (Emotionally is another matter). Maybe it's better to assume that such mistakes will happen, as arguments will happen, as the loo seat will be left up.

And today of course, we have the denouncement of the 'lying cow'. Bisexual (shock! horror!). Promiscuous. Charlie-sniffer. And the artifical contrived photos of the Beckhams (TM) frolicking in the snow.

Testing, testing 123

Eejit that I am, I realised halfway to work that I forgot to take my medication this morning. The Vitamins are probably liveable without. What will happen when I have to survive the entire day without Happy Pills? Considering I'm going out straight from work. GP says I'll be on them for months. I actually suspect that I'm marginally manic-depressive. Apparently it's very fashionable at the moment for otherwise perfectly functional *normal* people to be diagnosed as having minor bipolar disorder (I read it in a newspaper, can't remember where...). I used to think it was just mood swings. It's not that I even do mood swings, more like a see-saw, or one of those fab things you get where you hang on a rope that propels down another rope and you go 'wheeeeeeeeee' - a bit like abseiling for beginners.

I'm calm. Really calm. Honest.

1515 update Becoming dangerously hyper. There has been considerable over-exaggerated squawking and much dancing round the lift lobby. Not a pretty sight.

1530Having just realised that I playing the music that makes me want to take my clothes off, I managed to send an almost full mug of tea flying over my desk. At which I cackled scarily. It's going downhill, isn't it...?

Telly tomorrow

I highly and deeply recommend,  assuming you are based in or near the UK and have access to the Performance Channel - on Sky 202 despite what the website says, Otello.

You have four opportunities to watch it - 1010, 1510, & 2015 on Monday and 0215 on Tuesday.

Performance Channel provides a little background; for  more info on the opera, the Official Verdi site is useful. Some contemporary reviews.

If you watch it, and don't like it, do leave a comment to say why...!

Me, cynical

So, I'm reading in the News Of the Screws all about David Beckham's affair with his personal assistant. Somehow, it just doesn't seem quite logical.

Right, so two people are alone together in a hotel room - so how does the NotW get to know, verbatim, what was said.

When we confronted Rebecca�who speaks perfect English�about her relationship, she said: "I am afraid I have no comment for you. Please leave me alone."

Yet,

The family friend said: "Rebecca is heartbroken this story has come out but she knew it would eventually. Too many people have seen her texts and they've got into the wrong hands.

Right, okay, if I was having an affair with a celebrity, I would be exceptionally choosy whom I shared that info with, if anyone.

As for letting 'too many' people see my text messages, well, there are ways of preventing. Sure, at last week's Manch blogmeet, Lyle took my phone, and my exciting text messages could have been accessed by bloggers. But they amount to 'r u ok' from brother-in-law (wondering whether whether his daughter was coming home from the ballet), 'release the bear' from sister (I had found her teddy bear and she thought I was going to seek revenge and 'do u want to txt me when abt hlf hr away and ill set off' from b-in-l, who was picking me up at Wigan North Western on the Friday.

If I had received any intimate txts, I don't think I would leave them on my phone...

On, On, On!

Arsenal 0-1 Man Utd

Up for the Cup!

Woot! Yay! Huzzah!

I have just experienced the most ghastly fifteen minutes of this year. It was those fifteen minutes leading up to the final whistle. It was worse than the World Cup Final.

It simply isn't enjoyable. It is horrible. I feel sick to my stomach. Petrified, scared. Oh my god, we're one-up against the Arse, time is running out, so near, and anything can happen. I am swearing at Motty on the Box, I ban Jimmy from talking, there are more f**ks in my speech than a good Cheshire girl should know.

Then the tradition, dig out the records, Come On You Reds, and Glory glory Man United (which I have on a 7" vinyl single purchased in 1983, but, also fortunately have on my Football Crazy compilation CD, but not on 'the best footie albums in the world...ever' or 'all new the best footie albums in the world...ever!'

Millwall, Sunderland - bring 'em on!

First time in the FA Cup Final this century, first time since I've been going out with Jimmy.

I am so Excited!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I quite like Chas & Dave's We're Off To Wembley Cos We Beat The Arsenal, first verse and chorus anyway....

Ooh, I hope the United boys do another cheesy single, to add my rather impressive collection. In 1994 we won the Double and got the number one single! I might even watch TOTP.

AndI have The Bunny Boiler and Bear on Board in the National.

The Genius of Mozart/Thank you, BBC

I watched the BBC2 documentary and also the performance of the Juipiter Symphony - I missed the talk through because I received a phone call from the future  New Zealand.

I think we can all agree that the Mozart presentations have been, well, patchy. However, I think a big huzzah should go out to the BBC for making and broadcasting them. And in tonight's programme Charles Hazlewood really communicated his passion.  A few days ago I saw an article called "The Mozart Myth Debunked".  I didn't bother reading it; no doubt it was some clever academic with is head up his arse trying to demonstrate that Mozart was, in fact, rubbish.

However, the wisdom of very many clever musicians, plus millions and millions of ordinary people who love music seem to come to that magical conclusion that Mozart was an absolute genius, who seems, uniquely, (I exclude even Beethoven) to speak directly to everybody. CH may have hit the nail on the head by saying how he incorporated his life experience into his music - there is no joy without sorrow, no love without grief.

His life story is fascinating: we touched on it at O-Level Music, then there was the vastly entertaining, if not necessarily accurate Amadeus. The story of four children dying in infancy - I tend to think that people in the olden days, just as in developing countries, are inured to such pain. That's ignorance, and arrogance, on my part.  He himself dying - younger than I am now - in poverty.

No one makes me think of spiritual matters, of God, of the afterlife, and Eternity in the way Mozart does.  Forget the dodgy and irrelevant parts of the Bible, forget the ridiculous pre-occupations of the corrupt hierarchy down the centuries. Concentrate on that spiritual and personal relationship with God; Mozart is the key to understanding spirituality.

Some people are vindicated or feel remorse in old age. I like to think that there is a possibility of awareness after death. And that somehow, somewhere, however metaphysically, Mozart knows the great esteem in which he is held.

For someone reason, I got it into my head the other day that he only wrote a few symphonies and operas, the odd piano concerto, and the Requiem. Which is rubbish. Tonight's programme included the Clarinet Quintet, which is one of those pieces that makes me wriggle with bliss, and that demonstrates the paucity of the words gorgeous, beautiful.  They also played an excerpt from his Mass in C minor, with its haunting Kyrie. I dug a CD out from the rack - Mass, C. Hmm, not what they played on the telly. Oh, wait, I'm playing the C major 'Coronation'  Mass (which has the best ever Agnus Dei), when I should be playing the Grosse Messe. So even my partial record collection contains three Mozart Masses.

Eine Kleine Nachtmusic, bought on a cheap tape of an ancient (mono) recording that Daddy and I went halves on in Woolworths in Brixham in 1984. CH demonstrated that you dismiss it as trivial at your peril. I had never articulated that it contains some very sad music, although my instinct has always recognised it.

So thank you BBC for a courageous bit of programming - and I so loved pressing the red button.

Also thank you BBC for the prompt response to the email I got around to sending today:

The good, the brilliant and the ghastly

Tonight to the Royal Festival Hall for the Philharmonia Orchestra under Christoph von Dohnanyi.

The concert ended with Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. I'm not even going to attempt to describe the music, when EM Forster said

It will be generally admitted that Beethoven's Fifth Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever penetrated into the ear of man...Gusts of splendour, gods and demigods contending with vast swords, colour and fragrance broadcast on the fields of battle, magnificent victory, magnificent death!

Unfortunately, my tape of it is going fast-and-slow at the same time - evidence of overplay in my youth - which is why it is in a basket in the fireplace rather than on the shelves (don't ask...). However, nice Mr Amazon has been contacted...

I always feel slightly anxious when a really familiar piece begins, and I wonder what is this conductor/orchestra going to make of it. Fortuntaely, they were truly splendid, and I spent most of the symphony with a smile on my face, a smile of unadulterated bliss. But it was way too short, the minutes seemed to pass as seconds. In the fourth movement - you know, in that really famous bit, when the strings fall and the brass rises in an imperial fashion, I felt an almost irresistable urge to throw my clothes off and dance. You may be relieved to know that I didn't.

The only percussion Beethoven used in this was timpani, yet he used them magnificently, as musical instruments forming an integral part of the tune and the orchestra. Soemtimes I wonder if it makes me a bit of Phillistine that some of the music I love the most is some of the most popular in the canon, but then I think, I am only reflecting the judgements of great musicians and of people far more knowledgable than myself.

The question has to be asked "Does anybody actually like Shostakovich?" His Symphony No 1 bored me rigid. Sure, it had a fine array of percussion - timpani, snare drum, bass drum, gong, glockenspiel - but they were just there for effect. Each movement seemed to last a lifetime, and I noticed around me much fidgeting and shuffling. The applause at the end was polite rather than enthusiastic.

The middle piece was Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor, the main reason I booked this concert. I deceided a couple of months back that Mendelssohn is a seriously underrated composer in my mind. Of course, when the soloist Vadim Repin, all the way from Siberia, played the first few notes, I realised that i actually know every note of this concerto. I have it on a tape by Nigel Kennedy, coupled with the Bruch. I think I was seduced into buying the tape at a young age because Nigel Kennedy was a hot celebrity. I grew to love both pieces.

In conclusion, I enjoyed the evening, even though it confirmed to me that I really don't like Shostakovich.