Gertsamtkunstwerk

links for 2007-10-21

• Still the best Siegmund around...in a Walkure that RULED
  Review from 'mostly opera'
  (tags: wagner placi)
• Opera, Gardening, Politics, Cats.... - DIE WALKUERE, Rpyal Opera House, 19 October 2007
  (tags: wagner placi)
• boulezian: Die Walküre, Royal Opera, 19 October 2007
  I said the blogosphere would be out in force...
  (tags: wagner placi)

Hunkentenor Stalking Part 1

I like that word so much...

You would not believe the emails that were going around this week...

Anyway, I just found myself on Floral Street on Friday, and blimey, there was Mandy. And then, I thought, Anne Marie has texted me to say what she's wearing - okay that will be her over there. So the three of us stood on Floral Street. Like one does  on a sunny autumn's day in the middle of a Friday afternoon...But we were far from alone. Lots of familiar faces and also unfamiliar faces. Hello Unfamiliar Faces! Hello Familiar Faces! And especially hello Mandy and Anne Marie. This was the first time I had met Anne Marie after months of correspondence via blog. And, Anne Marie, yes, he did notice you!

Needless to say, I didn't even notice that Plácido was walking up the other side of Floral Street, but thankfully, Anne Marie noticed him. And so did a lot of other people, too. He was surrounded by quite a group of admirers as he walked to the Stage Door. He must know there's going to be a welcome party for him; if I were him, I would go in another entrance, avoid us. But he's nice like that.

I had been pretty excited all afternoon day week year...and suddenly, there he was, just feet away from me. Did I swoon? Inwardly, of course, I did, but on the outside I was coolcalmcollected just gazing adoringly at him. This man I admire so much, this man I hero worship, was there, in front of my eyes. A superstar, and yet so approachable. (There were a couple of women walking along Floral Street as a cut-through from Covent Garden to Bow Street, and they said 'who's that' so someone said and suddenly they're all "ooh, ooh' excited...)

I didn't get to speak to him, just listened as he answered questions that other people were asking. I think he must have been feeling the cold because he only had two buttons of his shirt unfastened; yet I still found myself drawn to gazing at his chest hair. And into his eyes.

He said that he would be at the Stage Door after Act II; also that he would be returning to Washington straight afterwards. Somebody helpfully told him that would be to conduct Don Giovanni. I expect he knew already.

I did manage to take one - one - photo but it's pretty rubbish...well, it's of his back view. Sigh So a very big thank you to Anne Marie who emailed me these photos - including one of me with Plácido...well, sort of (that's me in the pink cardigan, gazing intently)

Then there was the opera...I will write a full and reflective review tomorrow, I promise. and I want to stress that my hunkentenor stalking was secondary to the actual performance of Die Walküre; just that the stalking (Part 1) came first.

Rugby - pah...

I don't think anybody believed that England would get to the Final. It has been nice for a week to dream and hope against all logic and expectation that we might even win it ugly. The record books say we didn't and that's okay. South Africa were the better team throughout the tournament, and during the match. I'm sure people are debating the try that never was, and will until cows come home, but the result is what it is. Well done South Africa!, who've got a much much better National Anthem than England's so-called National (but not really) anthem.

Update Nah, I don't like being sporting and a fair loser and all that. We wuz robbed. Aussie Television Match Official was biased against us - biased, I say. You Saffir Boys were lucky.

There, I feel a lot more quintessentially English now.

Gerald Finley in Recital at Wigmore Hall

This is where I was on Thursday evening, a recital I had looked forward to since I had booked one of the last remaining tickets back in July. A recital with piano; pianist was Julius Drake

When I sat down and looked at the programme I realised that the whole of the first half was going to be of Russian songs. It crossed my mind that it was the second week running that I would be hearing an extended Russian Programme from a world-class baritone, but didn't think any more of it.

I did come to the conclusion that an hour of mainly unfamiliar Russian songs is really quite hard work for me as an audience member. Don't misunderstand me, I adore Gerald, I love his voice, and as far as I could tell, he performed them excellently. I followed the text with my eyes while I listened to the music and I was surprised at how many words I recognised. I thought at this rate I'll end up learning Russian by osmosis like I am learning German. Not sure which is more useless - Wagnerian German or Tchaikovskian Russian. And I certainly felt that he was expressing musically and vocally what the words were saying.

I came to the conclusion that whilst I enjoy piano recitals, I prefer soloists singing with orchestra. I do like the piano as an instrument to listen to - I don't suppose there's anybody with half a musical brain who actively dislikes the piano as an instrument - and with as excellent a pianist as Julius Drake, there is no lack of variety and colour in the piano accompaniment. But, still, a piano lacks the variety of an orchestra. Also, when a singer performs solo (or with another singer) in a concert, the programme is infused with variety when the singer(s) takes a breather and the orchestra is allowed to shine. That breather is something I don't think I have ever encountered at a recital with piano. Of course, I appreciate that most of the songs on the programme were specifically written with piano accompaniment, so my observations are without substance.

I did enjoy the Tchaikovsky songs, but the Musorgsky got to be a bit much for me.

I much more enjoyed the second half. Particularly the Ives songs, from the CD that I acquired the day - nearly two years ago - I heard Gerald sing them at this same venue. I was excited to read that in due course there will be another CD of Ives songs.

I was not sure what to think of the Rorem songs before I heard them. To be honest Ned Rorem, as a composer, is barely even a name to me, and I was cautious of what a set of songs set to prose excerpts from Walt Whitman diaries, with music written in the 1960s, would actually sound like. I can confirm that I really like them. If 'like' is the right word. They were very gruesome - Whitman's graphic accounts, as a war diarist of carnage and slaughter in the American Civil War. Rorem, a Quaker and pacifist, selected them to set to music in 1969, at the Vietnam War. I found these songs to be a very powerful anti-war message. I don't suppose any singer accidentally chooses such songs for a public recital that is being recorded onto CD for the Wigmore Live label. I believe Gerald to be a highly intelligent man and I feel sure that therefore the powerful anti-war message must have been a specific choice.

I was not so taken with the Barber songs but they wouldn't stop me buying the CD. Some of them were based on texts by James Joyce.

The encores were fun, including Memories: (A) Very Pleasant (B) Rather Sad, which is one of my favourites on the CD, and also a show stopping finale of The Green Eyed Dragon.

I thought it was a thoroughly excellent recital. Gerald is just fabulous. I love his voice, it is distinctive and special. He is so musical, such an intelligent interpreter. He is an instinctive and thoughtful actor. Vocal acting, facially, a little bit of play acting when called for. It takes something to be able to sing songs about the slaughter of war and a dragon with thirteen tails in the same programme and portray each with appropriate meaning, and not make the juxtaposition seem incongruous. I can't wait until the next time I see him, which will be in March in Eugene Onegin.

For those of you not otherwise occupied a week on Sunday, I would suggest you go to the Royal College of Music's 125th Birthday. As well as Gerald, the line up includes Sarah Connolly, Liz Watts, Janis Kelly, Andrew Kennedy, Anna Leese, Catherine Wyn-Rogers, Anna Grevelius, Alfie Boe, Andrew Staples, Graeme Broadbent, and James Rutherford.

No photos, unfortunately. I had my camera in my bag and I put my bag on the floor; as it happened there was an empty seat next to me. On the other side of that seat was an extremely ill-mannered woman called Belinda who immediately put her jacket on top of my bag. I told Jimmy later, he said that's what people do when they want to nick your bag. I doubted that was so in this case (I know a bit more about who she is than I am prepared to write here) but she was she one of these ghastly prematurely-aged hags from Surrey or somesuch place who think that everybody else exists for her convenience. And I just wanted to get out my camera. Actually, no one else was taking photos except the official one, so I would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

Tonight...

I shall be getting very drunk and shouting as fifteen rugger buggers hunker down in my living room. I predict we will get a thrashing to nothing by the Springboks, but for now, it's time to dream...

Go Johnny Go Once more into the breach bring me my bow of burning gold etc

Grüsse mir Walhall, grüsse mir Wotan, grüsse mir Wälse

I'm out of here, off to do some Hunkentenor Stalking.

Wondering if Oyster Cards are valid on Mythical Winged Horses or whether I shall have to rely upon London Transport. Decisions, decisions...

If I remember (no guarantees) I might send the occasional txt to Twitter

I've just read that Lisa Gasteen is out of the performance, replaced by Susan Bullock.

Ban fireworks!

I know what you're thinking; how weird to have got so far into October without Gert calling for a firework ban.

It has been suspiciously quiet up until now. Up until Saturday, anyway, when there were  very loud bangs in close proximity to my house. I simply turned up the rugby and steeled myself.

Yesterday evening I was walking up my road when I encountered Jimmy's brother sitting outside the pub nearest to my house - about eight doors down. He invited me to join him, so I did. I had not been sitting there for long when a mighty kerfuffle broke out. A gang of about a dozen teenagers and children throwing fireworks at traffic, practically outside my house,  and then running away. There were a dozen people outside the pub, half a dozen more walking by, and there was unanimity - it's not acceptable, something must be done about it. I am extremely sceptical that anything other than an outright ban will have any effect. It's against the law for people under 18 to possess - let alone buy - fireworks. It's against the law to throw fireworks in a public place. Last year I phoned the police to report 'youths' - probably the same Gang, throwing fireworks onto the South Circular, in the rush hour (at a spot where the speed limit is 40 mph). The thicko on Switch said 'if any police are passing, I'll get them to have a word'. So endangering life is worth 'a word'.

I asked whether Arsehole down the road is still selling them to children; interestingly he's not selling them this year. Obviously confining his criminal and anti-social behaviour to handling stolen credit cards and sexually propositioning under-age girls. Allegedly. The only place that is selling them, reportedly, is Lidl on Acre Lane.

This evening, about an hour ago, I was coming home on the bus. The bus turned onto the South Circular and suddenly, the bangs of fireworks. Teenagers running randomly onto the busy three lane dual carriageway. I get off the bus and immediately I am a nervous wreck. The smell of gunpowder is bad enough, but the bangs and flashes are very scary.

By the time I have crossed the road I am a nervous wreck. And I am not by nature a nervous person. I get some comfort by a police car arriving on a blue light and pausing outside the Youth Club (and whatever good that might have done once upon a time is entirely negated by it being a gathering place for every undesirable between 10 and 20 in the neighbourhood). It drives off and turns into my road, before driving onto the Estate opposite. I sneak past the aggressive looking group of teenagers 'hanging  around' outside the shops and get home. At which point the bangs get louder and more frequent. Then I hear screams of pain from the end of Gert Boulevard. Real pain. Coming immediately after a bang at close proximity, I know that yet another person has been hit by a firework.

I hope it's not one of my neighbours or an innocent passer-by maybe walking home from Tesco. I hope it's one of the firework-throwing scrotes. I hope it's nasty. I hope that maybe they've lost an eye, or their eardrum has burst. Or their ugly little face is scarred for the rest of their short and brutal life. Unforgiving I am. There's been more sirens, even a helicopter circling (for what reason who knows - being near the junction of two main roads there's often a circling helicopter, some people saying being relatively close to the prison doesn't help).

And it's the noise the noise the noise the NOISE. That in itself would be bad enough. It's almost enough to make one a recluse but why on earth let those little pieces of shit ruin my life -  the offspring of big pieces of shit who don't give a toss that their precious progeny are out causing mayhem on a school night. If you happen to see me out after dark between now and about the middle of November, and I'm behaving like a big wet nancy, you know why. I can't even go to the big fridge in the shed without jumping. In my own back garden.

I know there are still people who think that fireworks are wholesome fun, but I have yet to find one persuasive argument as to why they should be sold to any private unlicensed individual. I'm all for organised displays and I think licences should be cheap and non-onerous for anyone who can provide recent proof of a clean-ish Criminal Record. But even organised displays run by responsible adults cause accidents. So why anyone thinks selling them to children, idiots and criminals is acceptable defeats me.

And I will repeat my one good reason why public sale of fireworks, to children, or those buying them on behalf of children are extremely bad news

That was me, four years ago, 60 hours after being hit with a firework. The burns were superficial, the scars are barely visible in most lights. The psychological effects remain. I also believe that this was the onset of my CFS.

Two years ago I selected a variety of news stories from around the country (and further afield, too).  It still shocks me to read it even without clicking the links.

Last week in Puerto Rico

Some photos...

Anna Netrebko sings the famous aria 'Puppet on a String'

Having confessed in an interview that she would be in love with Plácido if he was younger, Anna realises that it's only the x-ray of the voice in the attic that is getting older

Dalilah Netrebko realises that getting Sansom Schrott to cut his hair means he can barely lift an empty water bottle. And there's a better tenor on stage. And she's no mezzo

Erwin explains how he came to have his locks shorn - Just Like That. Anna never wants to hear one of his bad jokes again

Okay, I can't do comedy captions. You have a try. More photos on Yahoo.

More coverage of the concert:

¡Noche de inmortales!

Una noche apasionada bajo la dirección de Plácido Domingo

Interview: Erwin Schrott abrazado al realismo en la época

My blogging my Ring countdown is failing dismally, but trust me, I have been far too busy flying my winged horse through the night sky. Three days to go...I may appear calm, but inside I'm fluttering with excitement

Blimey

England in the World Cup Final!

Who would have believed it!!!

Fair weather fan, me :-)

Legendary Leather Trousers in Concert at The Barbican

It is unfortunate when one knows that one's abiding memory of a performance will be the costume. Especially unfortunate if this is not an opera (or play) with special costumes but merely a concert. Triply unfortunate when it happens to have been one of the world's current best singers singing an interesting and intelligently planned concert. Quadruply unfortunate when he was in fine vocal form and in command of the stage, his stage charisma shining through and holding the audience in the palm of his hand.

Much excitement prior to last night's Barbican performance by Dmitri Hvorostovsky. And surprise the concert had got a preview in the Metro although it doesn't seem to be available online. I say intelligently planned because it was an excellent showcase of quite  a mixture of Russian music, starting with sacred, moving onto opera, then folk and finally Soviet popular song. As well as Dmitri, we were treated to the Moscow Chamber Orchestra and The Style of 5 Folk Ensemble under Constantine Oberlin and  the Moscow Academy of Choral Art Choir.

 

We started with the choir, directed by Victor Popov singing a cappella, then they were joined by Dimitri. There were four sacred works, all of which I enjoyed tremendously, enjoying a sound very different from the English Choral Sound.  There was a pause as the furniture was re-arranged and the orchestra arrived. We went up to the interval with Opera: Gryaznoy's Aria from The Tsar's Bride, the peasants' Chorus Vi mne pisali (You wrote a letter) from Evgeny Onegin, and Budem pit iveselitsya (We'll drink and be merry) and Yeletsky's aria from Queen of Spades. Whisper it quietly but this is my personal highlight of Queen of Spades and Dmitri was wonderful, an excellent climax to the first half, which had been exceptional anyway, regardless of the trousers.

The programme of the second half was less to my liking, and normally, I would have been indifferent to the content, folk songs and potentially cheesy pop songs - for the latter he used a microphone, which I suppose was appropriate and didn't stop his lustrous baritone from shining through. He seemed to be enjoying that tremendously, and I certainly did, even though that was mainly because of his voice.

There is no doubting that Dmitri has star quality. The concert hall was sold out and although obviously there were plenty of Russian people there, there were plenty more non-Russian. He does good concert, totally professional, there to entertain and deliver money's worth. His is one of those voices I could happily listen to endlessly - in the right repertoire (my mistake was that the first couple of times I heard him was in Rigoletto and Ballo and they were nothing special), a lyric baritone yet with plenty of dark colour when necessary, and some decent head voice.  He has an innate musicality, it is difficult to identify any flaws in the technique or the tone, and it all seems so effortless. He cuts a fine figure on stage. A handsome man, who knows his own worth and strides the stage with a supreme confidence.

Afterwards he was doing a signing. As usual I was towards the end of the queue, and as usual I didn't actually have the CD to be signed. I think he was probably a bit fed up and tired by the time he got to me and my friend. I asked if I could take a photo, and although he said, he asked me to take it from the side. Out of politeness I won't publish those photos. They're perfectly fine, although a bit fuzzy because I wasn't using flash.

Silverfin has also written a review which is more intelligent about the music and also mentions the thigh stroking. He was stroking his thigh. And his behind...

Juan Diego Florez at Cadogan Hall

  I really must revise my opinion about JDF. It's like, every time I see him, I always qualify my review by saying, I'm not sure that his sort of voice is really in line with my 'ideal' tenor voice. And then I say, I'd like him more in different repertory, because he sings a lot of Rossini, and I can take or leave Rossini.

But each time I hear Juanito, I keep coming away completely satisfied with his performance. Doesn't mean that I am suddenly going to become a 'tenor -di -grazie -singing -Rossini' freak, but I will happily listen to Juan Diego Florez singing Rossini far more than I would listen to many other singers in my preferred repertory. And, anyway, in the second half he went into Donizetti, Bellini,  Verdi and Wagner. I'm joking about the Wagner...Programme below the fold.

I do not think that he was in the best of vocal condition. There was once or twice when I felt that there was strain on certain notes. I was close enough that I could see his face quite clearly and he seemed to be wincing a few times. And despite incessant demanding applause from the audience, he did not sing Ah mes amis as an encore, although he must have known that was what we wanted and he seemed apologetic in saying that he would repeat the end part of Cessa di più resistere.

I much preferred the second half of the concert to the first, but that is largely because of my indifference to Rossini and my love of Donizetti and Verdi (I'm not overly familiar with Bellini but this concert is another step in making me realise I want to learn more). When I was listening, I could intellectualise about the brilliance of JDF's voice,  especially in executing the florid runs, whereas in the second half I was moved by the beauty of the music as well, of course, by his voice. Of the pieces on the main programme, my favourite was the 'Linda' aria but overall I liked Una furtiva lagrima the best. The woman next to me, clearly a very keen fan, said that she played six versions back to back and his was the best. I wasn't going to stand there arguing, but I did remember that I intended at one point to carry out my own competitive face-off between the numerous different versions I have on disc. I like dhis Verdi, and would certainly want to hear him as the Duca di Mantova, but I feel that he doesn'thave great enough low enough notes (as yet) and I would be happy to hear him in lots more Donizetti and Bellini - and having watched his Barbiere on the TV on Friday, I would actually go to Rossini if he was in it.

A thoroughly enjoyable evening. He is exceptional in concert; there are few singers who give such a polished performance. He doesn't do a lot of interaction with the audience, although he did speak twice during the encores, and during the long instrumental passage in Granada he implored the conductor (with facial expression) to let him have a go soon. He doesn't need to play act because, although quite a reserved and undemonstrative person, as far as I can tell, he is expressive in the way he actually sings. Any pub singer can ham it up on stage but only the greats can express meaning through voice alone, with just a bit of added extra body language that comes from within. I find his diction excellent. Without following the libretto in the programme I was able to follow with ease what he was singing. I suppose, because of being such a light tenor and because of his rep, he will never be my joint second favourite singer, but each time I hear him, I like him more and more. One of the current greats of the opera world, without a doubt. A very special singer.

I'm sorry that I couldn't get better photos but I was harassed by the camera police - and I wasn't even using flash. I feel sort of guilty about that, because I was one of the first bloggers in London habitually to publish illicit photos. Where I led, others followed, and now it's like the ushers are tasked to patrol. Maybe I'm paranoid, but I almost feel as though I am being singled out.  And yet, Juan saw my camera and smiled in a relaxed friendly way.

I can't understand why so many people left before the end. I will always accept that people have trains to catch. I was once at a concert next to someone who was in London for the day on business and decided to take in the concert even though he knew that he would have to leave early to catch the last train back to Leeds. But this concert finished at 10 pm, and I doubt that anybody will miss their last train as a result. Maybe they will have an hour's wait, but I would far rather sit miserably on a station than miss the encores of a concert - if I wasn't enjoying it all, I'd have been gone at the interval. Overheard on the way out some boring sod objecting to him singing 'Granada'. One cr**so**r song, in the encores, is hardly operatic sacrilege, especially as it's a song that very few people can actually sing well.

It seems that my alter ego was also there

Quick catch up on things that matter but don't feature as much in my blog as they do in my head

Gordon Brown has seen sense and ruled out a ridiculous and unnecessary Autumn Election.

England beat Australia in the World Cup Quarter Final. Who'd have thought that would happen? Somehow, though,I think we are doomed against France.

United beat Wigan 4-0, which just goes to show that we are capable of winning by scores of other than 1-0, and not merely against Miserable Chelsea.

I rather like that new Jennifer Saunders comedy show, and that one with Peter Serefonowicz (sp?). Neither of them are as good as the IT Crowd, though. I am probably in a small minority in liking Saxondale. Not so much for the belly laughs - there aren't many - but for the portrayal of characters who seem very real to me.

Michael Wood on India and Michael Palin on Western Europe are preserved on the Sky+ for when Jimmy and I are properly together again and we can watch them together. If the Sky+ crashes, I'm sure they'll be repeated or released on DVD, so I'm not going to the effort of backing them up onto DVD. What would be good though, is an effortless way of backing up the Sky+ onto an external hard drive. The whole Sky system is predicated on the assumption that every user is an idiot, in their refusal to give out potentially useful information where they can avoid it.

Weather's turned out nice for the time of year, hasn't it?

Wondering why the news media are not covering the Cuban rail crash in the same hysterical detail they usually cover minor calamities in the USA. News Values or absence of English speaking eye-witnesses. You decide.

The shoe thing

It all started to come back. Not only did I blog the thing, but I raised it in discussion at work. Someone suggested that I went to Jimmy Choos, because someone else does, and they're really comfortable or something. Well, at those prices, they ought to be. Then I got thinking, I can't go splurging on new shoes and skirts, Jimmy's going to start thinking that I've taken up with another man.

In the evening I went up to Sloane Square and suddenly felt peckish, so I ambled onto Kings Road. I paused outside a shoe shop. I looked in the window. I walked in. I tried on some shoes on display. I felt a rush of blood. I panicked and ran out the shop, relieved I had resisted. Because, you know, I could have ended up blowing a small fortune.

I thought, who in their right mind would buy shoes on Kings Road Chelsea. It's a stupid stupid thing to do. Then I remembered all the previous occasions I had bought shoes on Kings Road Chelsea, and then I began to remember the shoes.

Now, I want to make it clear, I wore just about every pair of shoes I ever bought. I used to enjoy shoes. Shoes and nail varnish have always been my thing, not compulsively or continuously, but definitely a thing. I had red shoes and brown shoes and blue shoes and pink shoes, as well as black shoes and cream shoes. Then two things happened almost simultaneously. I became aware of a media thing promoting the idea of collecting shoes as a viable alternative to having an actual personality. And shoes became horrid. I remember traipsing round in despair, unable to find shoes that were neither adolescently chavvy nor grossly frumpy. I kept seeing shoes that were over-priced plastic, especially designed to cripple - typical designed by men, used by women scenario, the late 20th century Western equivalent of binding a woman's feet. Really quite sick, actually. and shoes for years have either been boringly elegant or offensively ugly things.

But a new dawn has broken and I have fallen in love with a shop. A shop that is very soon going to receive a significant boost to its turnover. where's it been all my life? How have I managed to miss it. I'm purring, like, there's at least four styles just on that first page that I want, now. And they come in different colours, too. I am in lurve.

Waiting at the bus stop to go home the woman in front of me looked wonderful. a simple charcoal grey jersey knot dress, smooth plain black tights and gorgeous boots. I was looking at her for so long that I realised a bloke was staring at me, possibly thinking that maybe I fancied this woman...I didn't even notice her face. It was the boots, the ensemble.

Although one has to careful with these jersey dresses. I saw a woman today, early twenties in a loud purple one, and she was a plump girl. A plump girl with poor deportment, and I did so want to rush over to her and say in some tactful non-demeaning way, 'it really isn't you, love'. Instead I made a mental note that it really isn't me!

I don't think Jimmy is particularly aware of my secret past as a shoe-buyer, although he did express surprise at finding the orange trainers, the red boots...I was a reformed addict and now I need to binge again...

I'm turning into someone girlie...

Flicking through the internet, I have developed an uncontrollable urge to splurge.

I need to buy clothes.

That's a value-laden statement. Of course, I don't need to buy clothes. I have plenty of clothes that fit and are in good condition. But however much I pretend that I eschew consumerism and vanity, I do like clothes. What I really hate is shopping. I kept meaning to buy some new summer clothes, but never did, because summer never really happened. Which, wonderfully, leaves me with more justification for spending more money on more non-summer clothes.

I have developed an irresistable urge to buy skirts. And high heels.

Skirts are wonderful.

I like short skirts and woolly tights. Short skirts and woolly tights appear to be in. There is a god! I have been distressed by them being 'out' for the past few years. But they're back!

And long skirts are also still in. I love long skirts. But I have come to the conclusion that I really ought to be wearing long skirts with heels. Because heels are so me, right...

What's even more alarming is that I want an evening dress. I have no specific event coming up that requires an evening dress. Evening dresses are the biggest waste of money, because not only do you get very few wears per pound for the dress itself, it is also heavy on the accesories. How often does one actually get to wear an evening dress? There are events, but when you realise that every New Years Eve you end up with pictures of yourself in the same bloody dress it gets tedious.

Somewhere like the Royal Opera House is a great place for anything goes clothes wise. Evening dress or jeans, doesn't matter. And is obviously a good place to pose and preene in evening dress. Well, I say that, because people do. Then I think, well, actually, no, it's a really crap place to get dresed up for, because most of the time you're there, the lights are off, so it's pretty stupid to have paid a fortune for a dress that you're gonna wear throughout an evening of darkness.

And then there's practicalities. Going out in Central London, the most sensible way of getting there and back is bus and/or Tube. I often go to venues straight from work, tearing myself away from my desk only reluctantly at the last minute (yeah, right...). It would be obviously inappropriate to wear an evening dress throughout the working day, so I would need extra time for changing. Then hobble in crippling heels to Millbank to catch the bus to the Strand to hobble on crippling heels through the Piazza to emerge with the sorest of feet to hobble down to Leicester Square or Charing Cross (because Covent Garden station is closed for access). Not practical, not feasible. So that means taxis, an unnecessary price to pay, cash and carbon, for the privilege of wearing heels with an evening dress.

I am never entirely clear on the etiquette of frequency of wearing an evening dress. It must be really difficult for celebrities who always get photographed, but, suppose I were to wear the same evening dress every time I went to, say The Royal Opera House, plus at New Year, at what point would it become 'oh god there's that woman who always wears that same bloody dress.'

I really need to learn to walk in heels. (Where 'need' means 'it's a passing fancy...')

Where am I?

During October, I intend to attend concerts or recitals by Juan Diego Florez, Dmitri Hvorostovsky and Gerald Finley. I also intend to attend the Cycle 2 Die Walküre and all of Cycle 3 of the Ring of the Nibelung (the spelling of which I have just had to lookup!).

If you see me say hello - if you wish! I think I tend to immediately turn all shy and diffident at that point, but I get over it. Or if you fancy meeting properly, email me.

I hope I shall not be trudging the streets of Brixton Hill nor a key marginal, or even sitting in an office somewhere telephone canvassing, because I do not, repeat do not, want an election on 8 November,which, incidentally, is the day after the NAO Alumni 'Do' which I also intend to attend.

All with the caveat of 'health permitting', of course. As ever.

Homer of Seville

Online Videos by Veoh.com

Thanks to White Rabbit

Snap Election?

If I were Gordon Brown, which obviously I'm not, because if I were Gordon Brown I wouldn't be blogging my thoughts about whether or not to call a snap general election this autumn, but I were Gordon Brown I wouldn't call a General Election.

It is only two and a half years since the last General Election, and although Parliaments rarely last their full five terms - the 1992-97 Parliament went almost to the limit, but that was Major's desperation at staring humiliating defeat in the face - there is a general perception that four years is about right. It was necessary for Wilson to call quick elections in 1966 and 1974 in order to increase a slim majority and turn a minority government into a majority, respectively. The current Parliamentary majority is big.

The Tories tried to make it out as a constitutional necessity that there be an Election after Brown took over, which is total rot, and to do so would undermine Parliamentary Democracy - we vote for a Local Representative, often/usually on the basis of Party label and we expect the Leader of the biggest party to form a government, as First Among Equals. We do not vote directly for the Head of Government.

I have a perception that Elections tend to bore people. Not always, especially not when the result is in doubt, but I do strongly fell that people in general do not care for unnecessary elections.

Autumn Elections are not good news. They are not good news for activists - I do not feel comfortable leafleting in the dark, or the cold, rainy, windy days that are typical of later October and November. Fewer people will open their doors when canvassed. And people are less likely to leave their warm hearths to go to a Polling Station on a dark autumn night than in May or June. There has only been one Autumn General Election in my life-time, that of 74 which was necessitated by political deadlock. It followed an equally unsuitable February one when Ted Heath - Who Rules Britain? and the electorate said "Not you mate!".

I can see the attraction for going early, with opinion polls looking good, the "Brown Bounce" matching the "Cameron Decline". But if I were Gordon Brown - which I'm not - I would not be able to sleep with fear that I blow it and become the shortest serving PM in history, except for George Canning who died in office.

There is always the fear of - like Jim Callaghan - leaving it too late. All the experts predict an economic downturn in the next couple of years. And even if the reasons for economic changes are clearly to do with global factors outside the control of any one particular government, the electorate tend to hold the Government responsible, which I don't regard as a bad thing in itself.

None of the know-it-all pundits in the papers I have read have mentioned the Olympics. An autumn 2007 election would lead (probably) to a Spring/Summer 2012 Election. If I were Gordon Brown, which I am not, I would have some trepidation at holding an election at a time when, probably, all the infrastructure projects will be struggling to complete on time, way above budget, and the criticisms of the whole endeavour will be at their shrillest and loudest. A successful Olympiad will create an Election-winning Feel Good Factor - perhaps - but I wouldn't wish to risk holding out until the last minute in order to reap the Olympic benefits.

But Gordon Brown hasn't asked my advice, even though he knows where to find me should he want it! And if he does call a snap Autumn election, I shall be blogging "Vote Labour". But I don't know who will be the Labour candidate where I live (sadly, our wonderful MP since 1992, Keith Hill, will be standing down after years of tireless service to the constituency of Streatham including Brixton Hill, Clapham Park and parts of Balham)

September 87 Part 4

I was pretty busy yesterday. I dumped my photos to be printed, then I walked along to the pub. There were people waiting outside, for the doors were shut, despite it being gone half eleven. I rang the bell and Harold - landlord came to the door. He shooed the hoping customers away and let me in. Until one o'clock, I was washing new, lined glasses and loading the old ones into the boxes, then I went downstairs to help colleagues in the Cellar Bar. There were new pumps and a new till. The pumps were brilliant - we barely spilled a drop, I even managed to pull decent pints of Toby on a consistent basis. The tills are great too. they're a bit slow at the moment while we dither around the keyboard, but I'm sure they're going to be a lot quicker when we get used to them.

I was supposed to be on again at eight o'clock, so I arrived soon after half past seven, surprised to see the doors shut! So I rang the doorbell, and P. answered the door. "Been washing glasses?" I asked cheerfully.

"Are you working?" she asked curiously. she had spent the last two hours reading a paper, and brewing up for the beer pump fitting. P2 and Mike arrived, so we played I-Spy. We managed to open at about eight o'clock, and things didn't go too badly.

Parklife

 I made a vow to play and blog all my records by the time I reach forty. Frankly I don't believe I am going to achieve this challenging target but I'm not going to give up just because I am staring failure in the face. Sadly, this means that I really have to play all items in my record collection, and reveal to the world that I actually spent money on garbage.

Blur. There was a week once when the marketing brain-washers devised a rivalry between Blur and Oasis. Sadly, that was for Oasis's third album which was dire. But there again, Blur's Parklife is perhaps even more dire. The songs are not songs. The vocals are obnoxiously annoying. The best thing that can be said about this album is that it makes Oasis's third album look reasonable, and I give thanks for Pulp, who are just a Different Class (even though I tend to think of their lead singer as Jarvis Tosser).

Fedora

Another in my occasional alphabetical reviews of DVDs etc.

Written by Umberto Giordano who also wrote Andrea Chenier, I started this exercise thinking that Fedora is a worthy but forgettable barely second-rate work. Prior to last weekend, I had heard it once live, at Opera Holland Park and once when I first acquired the DVD.  Click image for details

There is another commercial version available which I do not currently own   but I will...!

In addition I have a 'private' recording from Liceu Barcelona from 1988 with Renata Scotto as Fedora, which is basically the same production as the New York Met, but with different costumes and the sets refurbished.  This has been converted to DVD from an obviously well-played VHS, and my gratitude to the person who did this is unbounded; however, commercial DVDs are better quality.

On the whole my comments are about the New York version, except where indicated. It would be nice to have a commercial DVD of the Barcelona one because I think Plácido is in better voice and hunkier, although I wouldn't exactly say he is unlikeable in the New York one!

Platinum Collection

 Basically, "Blondie's Greatest Hits and lots of mediocre fillers"

Sorry, but that is a fact. I have liked Blondie for almost thirty years now, and I think they are as ace as when I first encountered them in Junior 3. Amusingly, I put this CD on 'Random' and the first track that came on was Denis, which I think was the first song of theirs that I was aware of.

Thirty years on, their sound is as fresh as it was then. We won't see their likes again. Although, checking their site, Blondie and Deborah Harry are still touring. I really ought to catch them sometime. She was no spring chicken when they burst on the UK pop scene way back when, and I think she is still as cool now as she was then. I suspect that as a pre-teen I had a bit of a girlie-crush on her. I remember when she appeared on programmes such as Swap Shop she came over as pleasant and down-to-earth, a great contrast with the 'attitude' in the songs. Such a shame, then, that the hagiography in the CD liner notes is so full of pretentious tosh.

In my view, Debbie Harry is a cultural icon, beyond famous. And yet, I wouldn't recognise her if I saw her in the street. I firmly believe that I am far from alone in this. I suppose it is a symptom of my boredom at the media-driven cult of celebrity. I would far rather read about Debbie than many of the so-called, plastic, transitory so-called 'celebrities' (most of whom won't endure 30 years - or longer, if you include the pre-commercial success era) that dominate the mass media. although, on the other hand, I wouldn't want to think that I was invading the privacy of someone who has always seemed to handle the fame well

If the truth be told, I think a double CD of 47 tracks is overkill. Inevitably, some of the songs are better than others, and, on the whole, the 'singles' are better than the non-singles. That having been said, I could have sat down and ranked my preferences for Blondie singles on the basis of how much I liked them when they were charting, but that would not necessarily accord with my current views. For example, I wasn't that keen on Dreaming back then, but listening to it today, I am struck by the subtle complexities of the harmonies.

I have never really accepted the label of 'Punk' as applied to Blondie. For example, Sunday Girl is fundamentally poppy. But not banal pop. Pop with a hard edge to the music, and even though the melody, lyrics and, at times, her voice, are really quite girly, at other times it is as hard as steel. By chance, and unconnected to me alphabetically playing my CD collection, this song came on my mp3 player and suddenly I was bopping merrily down Millbank and Horseferry Road, a big smile on my face.

Heart of Glass is obviously a classic pop song. As soon as it begins I want to get on the dance floor. This is the sort of incessant dance beat I like, created by humans and in sympathy with human heartbeat and aspiration. And a nice tune. I also expect that the words are good, too. Although I have to admit I do play 'misheard lyrics' a lot with Blondie. My early exposure to them was over Medium Wave radio - a small batter operated transistor - which does not aid clarity - and even though I am playing a CD on a reasonably good hi-fi set up, and the internet gives me access to the real lyrics, I want to carry on mishearing 'you're teeth are in the desert'.

If my feelings about Debbie had been anything stronger than 'Girlie Crush', I think In the Flesh would have got me going. It's slinky and sensual, tantalising close to steamy and sexual.

Picture This is wonderful! The rapidly descending scales on the guitar, the raucous middle-section. The words are wonderful when sung by a woman - they'd be freaky if sung by a man. And there is something specific and indescribable in the overall tone which is immensely evocative to me of a very particular time and place. Hanging on the Telephone is wild and fun.

I think I appreciate Atomic much more than I did back then. It is really quite a sophisticated piece of music, notwithstanding the steady disco beat. So many different elements, such as the repeating almost strident guitar riff combined with a legato vocal line. As the song progresses it gets more intimate and sensual. I can imagine myself shimmering away on an empty dance floor in a crowded venue wrapped up in my own physicality oblivious to the strangers who may or may not be watching. Of course, in RL, I wouldn't. A change of key intensifies the progress to the almost-erotic. I wonder how it would sound without the passé disco beat.

I also find Call Me to be deeply sensual.

The Tide is High is truly lovely. There is something going on in it,something to do with the key, I think, which gives it an air of melancholy which provides a perfect ironic contrast with the optimistic but ultimately hopeless lyrics.

If i was a total music anorak, I suspect what I ought to do is compile my own 'highlights' version of this album, culling about half the content, the fillers, and I would then have a supremely excellent album of timeless songs. But I am not a music anorak. And, if necessary, I have a fast forward button

Gardar Cortes at the Barbican

The first question to answer is 'why?'. Simply because I won free tickets in a competition. A competition I found about in  one of my Katherine Jenkins Google Alerts. I have recently developed a habit of entering competitions; one never knows what might come up! And, naturally, I invited Mrs Senzatalento to come along with me.

I know it is important to do one's homework before attending any performance and this was no exception.  I was excited to read about his dream to sing Otello at the Royal Opera House and I certainly listened to the excerpt of him singing the seminal A-ha work, Hunting High and Low. And, you know, I'm a sucker for tenors who are easy on the eye. I had previously heard him on the TV singing something or other prior to the West Ham - Chelsea match at the end of last season. Like West Ham, he is Icelandic.

The concert was billed as Gardar Cortes Plus Special Guests. Naturally, over dinner we speculated as to the identity of the Special Guests and hoped and hoped that perhaps La Warbling Barbie would be there. We were desperately disappointed, but were delighted at the opportunity to hear for the first time Opera star Sigrún Hjálmtrsdóttir aka Diddú, best known as lead singer of pop group Spilverk Jóanna and also star of the Icelandic Opera.

The conductor was Gardar Cortes Senior. The Programme is below the fold (GC indicating our tenor, D our soprano, and O, The National Symphony Orchestra)

Every piece was sung with microphones. I can see the purpose of using microphones for the pop numbers, but anybody who needs microphones  for operatic arias and duets at the Barbican  really shouldn't be on the stage there. I have been to a chamber concert where the Balcony was closed; considering that the hall was barely half full, perhaps that would have been wise this evening.

The less said about the soprano the better. Sometimes, if one can't say anything good, it's probably best to say nothing at all. My usual get-out for being critical is that I have paid my money, that isn't even the case here. Bear in mind that this was not a promoted by Barbican concert, but seems to have been a private hiring and promotion; nevertheless it makes it possible to add "Appeared at London's Barbican" to the résumé.

Bluntly, she was unremittingly bad. Frequently, I kept reminding myself that it takes guts to stand up there and belt (I couldn't do it). I kept reminding myself that it takes a certain basic level of skill to learn the words and the tune and perform them simultaneously, with a reasonable degree of accuracy. But frankly, that it isn't enough. Countless millions of amateurs do that; if it's at your local church or a birthday party you are gracious in your applause. But one has higher standards in one of the world's leading concert venues. Perhaps if she had been less ambitious and stuck to simple songs, she might have been more bearable. But why stick to simple songs when you can slaughter Casta Diva?

Casta Diva is an exemplar of bel canto ie 'beautiful singing'. This wasn't even Can Belto, more like Can't Bellow. No understanding of the long phrasing and the overall arch of the piece. No grasp of legato. The unaccompanied section was disastrous, wildly off pitch, real car-crash singing. At no time did she give the impression of understanding the slightest bit about what she was singing, nor understanding the composer's intent, or the music. Dynamics varied between ff and fff. One phrase demonstrated an ability to diminuendo and crescendo - obviously delivered as a 'showstopper'. Ugh. 

Each aria was delivered as if learnt mechanically bar-by-bar and as Mrs Senzatalento commented, even the gestures were delivered as if they had been taught to her phrase by phrase. I think she would be booed off stage if ever accidentally engaged by any of England's third tier opera companies. I resigned myself to a combination of cringing and hysterical silent giggling.

In contrast Cortes was positively genius. Nevertheless, I did find myself pining to be at an Andrea Bocelli concert! Undoubtedly an extremely good-looking man. However, if one is to build a career on good looks, it's best to go into modelling. Or, if that career is crooning, possibly, some on-stage charisma might not come amiss. He stood there in exactly the same position for every song or aria. Barely moving, unwilling or unable to engage with the audience, unable to reach out beyond the stage.

On the plus side, it was clear that he can sing in tune, and in there is a voice of some quality, without wobble, bleat or beat.  Someone told me he was 27 years old, and I thought 'promising provincial'. However, I read that he is 33. Although I recognise that singers develop at different speeds, I can't help feeling that by age he should be beyond 'promising'. I will also say that his performance of 'Mattinata' was something special, of which I have no criticism whatsoever.

As for the rest, I found it just a bit boring. Apparently he is releasing Hunting High and Low as a single, and I really can't understand why. Admittedly, I was never the world's greatest A-ha fan, but it really is an insipid song. And he adds nothing to it, and his crooning is considerably less interesting than Morten Harket's. Granada was a mess: I don't know why so many singers have a desire to sing this, usually badly. Just because top tenors such as Domingo, Carreras, Florez make it sound simple doesn't mean that it is. As for Nessun Dorma, the orchestra gave it full welly and demonstrated Puccini's genius in manipulating an audience with his rousing orchestration building to a climatical climax.

Overall, his performance was generic, not unpleasant. And he had a better range of volumes (also including f) than his soprano. Shame that he couldn't manage a subtle mf nor any colouring. And it seemed that all the singing was coming entirely from the throat, without any use of diaphragm. The man is clearly inherently musical, and will doubtlessly sell endless CDs on account of his indisputable good looks (no, I can't understand that one either). But with such a proliferation of excellent lyrical tenors as we have currently, he's competing in a crowded field with an inadequate arsenal.  I suspect he would not be unwelcome at a third tier opera company, although it's difficult to tell with the mikes, which I think tended to hide the fact that there might just be a modicum of beauty in the natural voice.

Almost as entertaining, perhaps more so, was the audience. A great number were Icelandic, and some more appeared to be members of the Classic ForMorons cult, and they were unremarkable, ordinary people wanting to enjoy themselves, and who can argue with that desire.

But there were all sorts of people who I gathered were connected with the launch of the single. I was not sure whether they were with the record company or marketing company, or whether they were just liggers unable to make it onto a star guest list. We had an amusing conversation at the interval with two women, who thought the first half 'incredible'. One of them had heard Pavarotti sing Barber of Seville at the Met seven or eight years ago,  which I considered literally 'incredible'. Mrs S. in all sweet innocence asked whether they thought he was as good as Pavarotti. They were adamant that Cortes will 'grow into his voice'. At the end of the concert, we encountered them again, but they were incoherent with the effects of whichever controlled substance they were taking. There was evidence of much substance abuse, especially with the hysterical giggling in the Ladies loo. I can't see the purpose of combining drugs and music. How can you possibly experience the psychotropic effect of music when the mind and sensation are already gone?

We had some fun in the basement bar, where we paused to sip water and ended up watching the ghastly fashion show of these tarts and hags. Maybe they weren't tarts, technically, but the Primark posh frocks teamed with shoes that someone had told them were fashionable (five inch heels). The cheap bleach jobs, the inappropriate mixing of black dresses with dirty off-white shoes, the unfortunate exposure of unsightly leg-flesh with fake-tan, the collagen lips, the overdone make-up, the vacant expressions, haunted soulless eyes and embodiment of slow silent misery. Of course, I got the up-and-down dismissive looks, which amuse me, because I am supremely confident of and relaxed in my body and feel no need to wear a uniform and mask to boost my self-esteem.

We were quietly watching the parade when some woman with a clipboard approached us and spoke to Mrs Senzatalento, wondering if we had won tickets in a competition. Before we knew it we were being ushered to a backstage area to meet Gardar Cortes and be filmed (perhaps we are now stars of Icelandic TV). I felt very awkward because I do not like to meet performers and then be dismissive or critical of their performance. I think it's rude (obviously, I don't mean occasions when I meet a favourite after a performance I have felt was less than their very best). We had our couple of minutes with him. I stuck to the truth, that I enjoyed the concert and thanked him. In that brief time he gave a clear impression of being pleasant, well-mannered and courteous, although, again, I noticed a distinct absence of charisma. And he autographed my programme. We didn't have our cameras, although I did take a photo of him and Mrs S with her phone.

Update: It seems that unbeknownst to us, in the first half we were sitting very close to John the Moderator of the Katherine Jenkins Bulletin Board (we descended to the three-quarters empty circle for the second half)  who took some rather splendid pictures

Metroplitan opera opening night red carpet

Just some pictures picked up round the internet from Monday night

And just for the sheer heck of it, here's one of La Trebs

September 87 Part 3

Well, what can I say. How can I sum up today? I think that I wrote yesterday that I was planning to go to the Cliff. And, go to the Cliff I did. Mind you, I took a bit of time getting there. I got off the Buzy Bee in Ashton Village to change my money at the Bank. I caught another one and caught the train at Sale Station. Because I was going the The Cliff, I got off at Old Trafford.

I caught the 54 round through Ordsall and Pendleton, that oh so familiar route, and getting off on Cromwell Road Bridge. I toddled down Lower Broughton Road, with that oh so familiar feeling of excitement mixed with nerves, plus the feeling that I'm completely daft, and it's about time I grew out of it, yet knowing that the place has so much magnetism that it will be an awful long time before I do grow out of it.

When I got there I had a good look wound: it didn't take long to realise that the lads might well be at Littleton Road. I checked with Billy W, he said yes they were; they'd be back at about twelve. that wasn't long to go, so I sat on the wall and waited, and sure enough, soon they arrived, all of them in about five cars. when I first see them, I just feast my eyes and calm my nerves. I was able to say hello to Gary Walsh, but decided to leave the rest until they came out. One young lad having been standing by the door went running over to his mates exclaiming "I've spoken to Jesper Olsen." I joined the crowd outside the door. Brian McClair was the first player out. He seemed to get away very quickly - I do hope it's because he had another engagement rather than the fact that he's just eager to get away. He looked very delicious and trendy - his shoes were the give-away: lovely black suede nicely pointed shoes, and snow-washed jeans. He seemed quiet, but he might have been in a hurry, or he might be unused to the Cliff ritual. I'll give him until Christmas until I judge him.

Paul McGrath was the next one out. He is so lovely he is. he is just absolutely really friendly and whenever he sees me, he always asks me how I am. He is definitely, as well as being the best player at Manchester United, the most friendly, and judging from what I've gathered on brief meetings, the Manchester United player with the most pleasant personality.

I can't remember the order in which the lads came out after that, so I will go through them in alphabetical order I've omitted a few players who were only really fringe players and never properly made it

Arthur Albiston came out very early and didn't seem prepared to hang around. Much as I admire Arthur as a player and much as I respect the fact that he's been at United half his life. I wonder why he always seems so irritated at the fans. I wonder if he's always been like that , or has fifteen years of seeing fans, undoubtedly every day, rather made him sick of us all.

Viv Anderson didn't seem keen on hanging around either, in fact he was rushing out so quickly that I had to take a few rapid steps back to take his photograph.

Clayton Blackmore came out very late, indeed it was after two o'clock - I waited that long especially for him. He was almost in his car by the time I grabbed him. I can't for the life of me remember what he was wearing, but he looked absolutely gorgeous, really tanned. I managed to get a kiss out of him.

I missed Peter Davenport because I was too busy with Brian McClair. I'm not sure if I'm annoyed or not. Peter, I have found, is a really good laugh, but perhaps if he was in a hurry he might not have had time for the jokes.

Mike Duxbury is not the most sweet-tempered person, but I managed to get a photo. To be honest, I can't think of anything to say to him, cos he's a boring sod.

Colin Gibson didn't appear to be there, mind you I saw him last week in Altrincham. I had just come out of M&S wearing my Reds on Tour t-shirt when I saw a man smiling at me. I looked a bit closer - it was Colin Gibson. that was the second time I've seen him in almost the same spot - when I was in Upper Sixth I once saw him going into Mothercare with wife and children.

Billy Garton came out at the same time as Clayton. I chased him to his car, a red Cabriolet, because I thought he was going to drive off before I could grab him. I took his photo.

Graeme Hogg was there, looking absolutely lovely. He's not perfectly good looking, in the way that Clayt is, but he's highly attractive. He was looking very tanned, and as (nearly) always he was dressed smartly yet casually. He had a deep turquoise top tucked into his jeans. He always dresses in a way that makes me think he is pernickity I told him he had better not be going to City because I know a lot of people would be upset. He seemed very dismissive of that; then somebody asked him whether it was true he had failed a medical for City. He said it was crap. To be honest, I think out of all the United players, he's the one I'd most like to get to know - I get a feeling that he's quite deep.

Kevin Moran is a nice bloke, the oldest player at the club. I think if I could think of anything to say I could have a really decent chat with him, but I couldn't think of anything to say to him. Besides that, he came out reasonably early, when there were still quite a lot of people about, so I couldn't really detain him to talk about nothing.

Remi Moses came out pretty late. I got quite a lot of words out of him. I said it was great to see him back in the team; he said it was about time too. I asked him how it was going; he said it was going great. Although he said a fair amount, it was still more than easy to see that he's still fundamentally very shy. Mind you, it's nice to see such a skilled player who's far from being big-headed.

Jesper Olsen seems to be getting more accustomed to the habits of The Cliff. His first season he was dreadful - I called him Elusive Olsen, but now, he's prepared to walk a few yards into the group of assembled fans and even exchanged a few words.

Bryan Robson came out pretty late. Not as late as Clayt, but still late. Prior to him emerging from the building, he had walked up and down the stairs a few times in just his shirt and underpants. Well, me and these girls, Michelle, five days older than me, and her fourteen year old sister Debbie from Benchill and Debbie's friend Lindsey from Brooklands, well we were going wild just seeing him. Then he came out, and he was in a really good mood. Debbie asked him to sign his autograph once to Debbie and once to nobody. So he said, "That's a funny name" really witty like. As I say, he just seemed to be in a good mood; he waved to us as he left, mind you, there was only me and these three girls, plus one bloke and one lad.

Gordon Strachan only paused long enough for me to take a photo. Shame really, because he's a nice bloke. Perhaps he was in a hurry. He can be a good laugh, too. I tell you he's one of the best buys that Ron Atkinson made - three years ago I predicted he'll be one of the favourites of the fans - and that was after only one game. After three years, I don't argue with that - he's an ace player.

I had a bit of a chat with Gary Walsh. He seems a good sight more confident than when I last met him. I was telling him that he was the first Manchester United player to be younger than me, and he was trying to make out he was twenty one going on twenty two. He's got a really pleasant. He's bloody tall - I had to crane my neck to talk to him. Mind you he's only 6'1½" according tot he Handbook - perhaps he seemed taller because he was in footy boots.

Norman Whiteside was obviously in a silly mood, although he didn't seem to want to linger. However, I asked him if I could take a photo and he pulled a really silly smile, more of a grin really. What I noticed both this time and the two times I was there at Easter that Norm no longer seems to mind the . When I went in 84/5 he seemed to object to people adoring him, but he's grown up a bit since then.

All in all it was a very good day. I had a really exciting and enjoyable.

I returned to Old Trafford and caught a train into town. I bought a dressing gown from M&S. If it lasts as long as my old one, I will be well pleased it lasted until 1995, when I decided to replace it on moving house

Homer of Seville

White Rabbit has kindly drawn my attention to this picture

I have this feeling there is something missing, but I can't quite work out what...

This episode airs this Sunday in the USA.

The Simpsons Archive is quite helpful in identifying when various episodes are shown in various other countries, for example the UK listing. The Episode number to search for is: JABF18

September 1987 Part 2

Part 1 was published some time ago

I've got a day off tomorrow! It will be my first day off for a fortnight, and if I wake up in time I am going to go to The Cliff. Mind you, knowing me, I probably won't, or knowing my luck, if I do go, They won't be there.

I'm well made up in some ways. I got a pay slip on Thursday, for my first week's work, and my statement this morning (my quarterly statement was sent here!) confirmed that it had indeed gone in. This week I will receive the large amount from the week that I worked loads.

I'm also made up in another way. C laid me off on Friday. While I've enjoyed working for her, and I think I've definitely learnt a lot, I don't feel bitter that I've finished. In fact, the three times I went last week, I didn't look forward to it, and couldn't wait for the three hours to finish. I don't like the idea of getting up so early in the morning - I think the pub job means that ideally my body clock wants to follow its own pattern, which doesn't include getting out of bed at half past eight. financially speaking, I might miss the money from cleaning, but if it means that I can do more at the pub, and I do it better, I can't complain.

Because I got paid on Thursday, I did a bit of shopping in Altrincham on Friday. I bought a denim jacket from Western Jeans. It only cost £20. At that price I couldn't resist it - and it's dead trendy. I had been looking for a black one, this one is grey - it will go better with my blue jeans than a black one would (bizarrely, Jimmy recently discovered this jacket at the back of the cupboard-under-the stairs. It happens to have male buttons, and it fits him, so it's now his!).

The only thing that's annoyed me since I last wrote this was in regards to footy. Firstly, despite trying to swap with everyone I could think of, I had to work Saturday lunchtime, which of course meant I couldn't go to Old Trafford in the afternoon. And then to add insult to injury, I get home to learn that the wallies were drawing two-two with Newcastle, and that was the final score. Yes, Newcastle United, the team we really slaughter at home usually. Mirandinha scored for Newcastle, and needless to say, grabbed all the headlines, while really, it should have been Brian McClair - apparently he had three good chances, and although he DID score, it was only from the spot (Jesper Olsen had scored the first).

I worked again in the evening, it was alright really, I enjoyed it, and I have to admit, there is more to life than Manchester United. Mind you it still hurts to have missed that game, but to make sure I don't miss the Spurs game, I've booked that Saturday lunchtime off - and I'm DETERMINED to go.

Sunday was alright. The lunchtime session is a nice one, just long enough and busy enough. then the evening was good. I caught the bus into Altrincham, and the train to Sale. It was a Pacer, the Chester trains are always Pacers on Sundays. Having done that, I was able to avoid going to Church, which was great.

The evening session was good fun. Ken the bloke from Tesco was desperately trying to get me to go out with him. Roth, who I don't like - I find him one of the most vulgar men I have ever met - was most offended that I refused to go out with him. Well, if there's one thing I do retain, it's my dignity! However, other men, well. there I was just doing my work, behind the bar, as one does, when I noticed C - H&J's son - I've noticed him before; probably the most I've noticed him for prior to last night is the fact that he is the father of the twelve week old baby. But I just l looked at him last night, and thought. Wow, that guy oozes sex appeal. Nothing I couldn't handle, indeed he disappeared after half an hour. Nothing to lose sleep about. Indeed today he was in the bar when we were clearing away and I was conscious of the fact that he'd turned me on last night rather than the fact that he is completely and utterly sexy.

Five weeks to go

And I am so excited.

Until Die Walküre, that is. Rheingold, of course, precedes that, and believe you me, I am excited about Rheingold, but I am shaking with nerves at my excitement for Die Walküre.

I don't know how this is quite going to work, but I intend doing a sort of count-down to The Ring. Probably not every day, but intermittently. I suppose I could do serious study of the scores and the influencing mythology, but, it's not really my style.

So far, I have my horned helmet and breastplate lined up ready to be polished, my rams fed and waiting to pull my chariot. My sword is embedded in my ash tree in my kitchen and as we write, I am simultaneously gouging out my eye in return for ruling the world.

It's so exciting!!!!!!!

But you know, hero worship is a double-edged sword, although, hopefully, not by the name of Nothung.

Last week, oh I should have blogged this, bad me, I fired up my trusty laptop and tuned into the internet which was broadcasting a tribute concert to the late Beverly Sills live from the Lincoln Center in New York's downtown Manhattan - Photojournal

Included in the programme was Plácido singing Ombra mai fu. I suddenly realised that I hate hearing him sing live on the radio or internet. Not live in person of course, but live on the internet, because I get a) so nervous and b) so critical.

(You know how it is with some obsessed fangirls - and boys - that they honestly truly believe that their idol is utterly perfect and completely beyond criticism. I'm not like that, I can't be like that - actually I think it diminishes credibility. For me it's almost like - I've earned the right to criticise - you may disagree, and that's okay, it's just the way I kind of feel)

So there I am listening to him singing Ombra mai fu and thinking, hmm, I'm not sure about that note there, gosh, he's got a deep voice, blimey that's a high note, well above a High C. At the end I was thinking, yeah,that was nice, I've heard him better. You know, that's me being critical.

And then all over the internet is praise - one commentator wrote "...he also floated the prettiest little high F you've ever heard..." High F? That high. And, like, ordinary people who attended, not known as fans of his, were fulsome in praise.

In preparation for my mounting excitement five weeks today, I bring you a nice YouTube I stumbled upon earlier, presumably from the concert at the Alamo a few weeks ago. Paloma Querida.

Nothing to do with Wagner, of course, but what the heck...Just a shame it gets truncated prematurely.

Feet of clay?

Review: Rudolf Nureyev by Julie Kavanagh

The review is not a pleasant read, heaven only knows what the book is like.

I find it disappointing when posthumously biographies are written to reveal that a genius is a terribly flawed human being. I think we all know that no one is perfect, and that having superhuman skills is not equivalent to being a super human. I'm not much of a ballet fan, and I have no regrets at not having seen Nureyev live. From I see on the TV he was something special, and I don't think an exposé of his personality and of his private life can change my feelings about his dancing.

And yet, simply in writing this blog post, in reading the review, I am proving my insatiable thirst for salacious gossip. the more scandalous the behaviour, the more interesting the read.

Very stupid idea

Controls urged on teenage drivers

I can understand - and to some extent sympathise - the concern over murderous driving. But a reaction to a few recent headlines doesn't really disguise the fact that thousands of people die every year at the hands of dangerous drivers of all ages.

Banning teenagers (which I suspect would translate to under-21s) from carrying passengers after dark will destroy any attempts to popularise 'designated drivers', will place a lot more teenagers at risk from attacks from predators and violent passers-by. Also, nightfall comes very early at some times of years, so presumably this will rule out car-pools to and from work, school and college, nannies/au pairs/older siblings and young parents on the school run, and be against the interests of teenagers with constructive evening activities such as drama, sport, church etc.

I wonder if the efforts of the police would be better spent enforcing a ban on all teenagers or targeting any drivers that show any signs of disregard for other road users - thunderous cRap music, lack of indicators when turning, children without seat belts (let alone booster seats). I understand that the mobile phone ban is honoured more in the breech than the observance.

Of course it is a problem, but no problem has ever been solved by knee-jerk reactions.

Marcel Marceau RIP

French mime artist Marceau dies

Words alone cannot express one's regret at his passing nor one's respect for his career.