Oscar, you've got a lot to answer for.

Why do we get so upset when the movie, actor, actress, director, screenwriter we like, don’t win?


Why do we get upset when we hear that Robert Redford is quoted as saying that the reason he didn’t even get nominated for what just might be his career best performance as an actor in All Is Lost, was quite simply due to the lack of cinema screening his film?


How come we get upset when Tom Hanks didn’t get nominated for Best Actor for his performance in Captain Philips because pundits speculate that the Oscar committee don’t want him to win a 3rd Oscar?


How can 6000 odd people (the odd refers to the ‘6000’ and not to, ‘people.’) pick the best movie of the year when they’re clearly biased? Is the reality that it is truly impossible to select the best movie of the year?


Surely audiences, with their feet, reflect a better choice for a potential movie of the year.


If this is the case should the category not be changed from best picture to most popular picture of the year?


Why doesn’t Stephen Fry, flawless at the Baftas, get to compere, the Oscars?


Why do the Sags, Golden Globes, Writers Guild and Directors Guild insist on having different lists for their award ceremonies if they are truly seeking the best performances of the year?


Now that there are so many award ceremonies are we due an award ceremony to nominate and pick the best award ceremony?
Is it a coincidence that the word ceremony ends in mon(e)y?


The answer to all of the above is: I don’t know.


We all have an opinion and it’s important to have an opinion and it might even me more important that we have different opinions. But in this case does it really matter, because it’s all part of this business we call show business.


It’s award season in movie capital of the USA and so all the film companies release their main contenders just prior to this time of the year intent in trying to ensure Harvey Weinstein doesn’t win a clutch of the awards this year again.


I can also tell you that at the exact same time of the year the weather (not to mention the breakfasts) are much better in Santa Monica than they are in either Ramelton or Camden Town so that where Catherine and I go to soak up a bit of the lack of the cold and a lot of the celluloid entertainment.


For what it worth this year this (in my opinion) is the best of the batch movies and (according to my personal opinion) I’ve listed them in the order I’d like to see them for a 2nd time.


Gravity


Captain Philips


Philomena


All Is Lost


The Invisible Woman


The Book Thief


Fruitvale Station


August: Ostage County


Nebraska


The Armstrong Lie




Who would I like to see win the Oscars?


Movie: Philomena


Director: Alfonso Cuaron (Gravity)


Screenplay: Spike Jonze (Her)


Actor: Bruce Dern


Support Actor: Bradley Cooper


Actress: Sandra Bullock


Support Actress: Jennifer Lawrence


Animated Movie: Frozen


Original Score: Thomas Newman (Saving Mr Banks)


This leads me to: Hints to cinema chains (including ones in the UK) on how to make more money.


a) Save your budget on self-adverts. We don’t want or need to see them. They’re boring - especially if you go to the cinema a lot - totally unnecessary and a complete waste of money.


b) Spend more money locally marketing your movies. It’s very important you make sure you let people know where the movie is on and the times. This really helps a lot. And do it on the street as well as on the web.


c) Have smaller bags of chocolates/sweets/popcorn on sale at your concessions stand in the long run you’ll sell a lot more. d) Always ensure you have Ben and Gerry’s Chunky Monkey on sale.


e) (exclusively for the UK) drop the adverts you’ll be able to fit in more screenings and do enjoy better box office returns.


f) Try and pause, even just for an extra 10 seconds the credit page at the end of each trailer so we can see who’s involved.


So that’s it for now.


Sorry for the delay between the blogs this time but I’ve been busy proof reading the new novel – THE LONESOME HEART IS ANGRY (Published May 1st) and writing the third Starrett mystery HELLO DARKNESS MY OLD FIEND.


More about both next time.


Cheers


pc

Apart from sitting on the instrument how does one produce Mandolin Wind?

In January 1971 I made my way by tube, bus and shanks’ mare from the wilds of Wimbledon in South London to Willesden in the London Borough of Brent.

I rarely ventured north of the river in those days.

So the reason for my pioneering adventure into the wasteland of North West London?

To interview a gentleman by the name of Rod Stewart for Thursday Magazine a weekly Belfast music paper I was the “London Correspondent” for in those days.

Rod Stewart was the lead singer with the Faces (nee The Small Faces.) He and his good mate Ronnie Wood joined their favourite band’s line up when Steve Marriot defected to help form the supergroup, Humble Pie, with Peter Frampton, “the face of ‘68”. The Faces recorded for Warner Bros. However Rod had also been signed to Phonogram as a solo artist, which was quite unuusal in those days. Mind you these days it's equally unusual to even have one record deal. 

The Faces were certainly the most fun band on the circuit and Rod’s first solo album - An Old Raincoat Won’t Ever Let You Down - had been very well received as was his second album, Gasoline Alley. Both were excellent albums, favourably reviewed, although neither release troubled the charts.

My journey to Willesden was to visit Rod in Morgan Studios where he was busy working on what would become his third solo album, Every Picture Tells a Story. My previous two attempts to interview Rod had been rescheduled by the ever helpful and patient Carole in the Warner Bros press office. Perhaps she felt if she set up the interview in the studio during the recording he would have nowhere left to hide.

Anyway third time lucky; Rod was there, it was a late night session and everyone seemed to be in great form, perhaps re-creating the party atmosphere Rod and The Faces were famous for.

This would have been one of the first times I would have been in a recording studio. I was totally, as in totally, blown away by the sound of music through the amazing speakers cabinets. I remember thinking that if I (somehow) managed to get those speakers into my bedsit I’d have absolutely no room for any other furniture whatsoever. The magnificent speakers completely transformed the audio experience into another dimension altogether.

The song they were working on while I was present was Maggie May and they were overdubbing the incredible mandolin playing of Ray Jackson, a musician from Lindisfarne. Lindisfarne were a new Tyneside band whose main songwriter Alan Hull, was one of the best emerging UK songwriters of the early seventies.

I seem to remember that Ray Jackson was stick thin and had a massive thatch and beard like Roy Wood (but vividly cooper coloured) and he “nailed it” to quote someone who’d been twiddling knobs on the colossal control desk, “and quite quickly at that.” Then there was a little frivolity, partying if you will, in the recording room while the engineer set up the next track they were going to work on with Ray Jackson.

Rod and I retired to one of the studio’s outer rooms to commence our long delayed interview.  I don’t remember much about the interview apart from the fact that Rod was very together, preoccupied with his hair, down to earth, earnest about his career and extremely easy to talk to.

By the time we returned to the control booth again it appeared that work had ground to a halt and an eerie silence had fallen over the proceedings. Apparently in our absence one of the musicians, while distracted by the partying, had accidently sat upon Ray Jackson’s mandolin and completely demolished it.

The Geordie was being very good about it, putting on a brave face; claiming it was neither a great nor an expensive instrument. He had several in reserve as they were always being broken while he was on the road with Lindisfarne. He even went to the trouble of demonstrating  just how poorly the said instruments were made by pulling the skeleton to pieces and removing bits of yellowing foam cum sponge padding which had been stuffed into the sound holes in order to help with the  acoustics of the pick-up he had added.  

I left them waiting for a new mandolin to be delivered to the studio. They clearly found one because the finished album contained Ray Jackson’s fine picking on the classic Mandolin Wind.

Anyway that album, Every Picture Tells A Story, was released six months later in July 1971.

Maggie May was co-written by Rod Stewart and Martin Quittenton. Quittenton also played acoustic guitar on the sessions; he was a member of the band Steamhammer. The other musicians on the track were: Ray Jackson on Mandolin; Mickey Waller on Drums; Pete Sears on keyboards; Sam Mitchell on slide guitar and of course Rod Stewart on vocals.

In hindsight it’s easy to say that Maggie May was the perfect vehicle for Rod Stewart’s unique story-telling voice. It’s very easy to say it in fact because it’s true, but the aforementioned Maggie May had a very shaky start. It very nearly didn’t have a start at all. The record company didn’t like the track. In fact they soooo didn’t like it they didn’t even want it on the album. They claimed it, “lacked a melody.” They relented only when Rod advised them he didn’t have any other material. The record company confirmed further how little they thought of the track when they deemed it fit to qualify only as the B side of a single with Reason To Believe (a Tim Hardin Song) gaining the A side honours.

But then a DJ in the USA flipped the single and started to play Maggie May. The song received phenomenal reaction from the radio audience and went on to become the A side and not only that but the number one single in both the USA and the UK. And not only that; the single and the album hit the top spot in the charts in the USA and UK simultaneously. An achievement usually only enjoyed by artists such as The Beatles and Simon & Garfunkel.

Mr Stewart was off on his mega career and few have had a better start than he did with his back to back classic (first) three albums.

Then this week just over 40 years later he returned to the acoustic feel of those early albums and the No 1 spot in the UK charts with his new album Time.

And now this time we have a few Top 10s – all Beatle related.  (Guess who has a new Beatle book out? Please see front page web site)

 

The Top 10 Beatle Tracks

01. Here Comes The Sun

02. Something

03. In My Life

04. Across The Universe

05. While My Guitar Gently Weeps

06. Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band

07. I Should Have Known Better

08. If I Fell

09. Hey Jude

10. A Day in The Life

 

Top 10 Beatles Singles.

01. Something

02. Help

03. Hey Jude

04. I Want To Hold Your Hand

05. She Loves You

05. Day Tripper

07. Please Please Me

08. We Can Work It Out

09. Strawberry Fields Forever

10. Can’t Buy Me Love

 

The Top 10 Beatles B Sides

01. She’s A Woman

02. Penny Lane

03. I’m Down

04. This Boy

05. Old Brown Shoe

06. Come Together

07. Don’t Let Me Down

08. Things We Said Today

09. Rain

10. Revolution

 

The Top 10 Beatles.

01. George Harrison

02. John Lennon

03. Ringo Starr

04. Paul McCartney

05. Billy Preston

06. Jeff Lyne

07. Eric Clapton

08. Graham Nash

09. Brian Wilson

10. George Martin

This time as well as working on my new book, THE LONESOME HEART IS ANGRY,

I’ve Seen:

I Give It A Year

Bullet To The Head

Die Hard 3

To The Wonder

Butterfly Dream

Diminished Capacity

Extract

Open Road

Robot and Frank?

Friends With Kids

Side Effects

Good Vibrations – Jodi Whitaker stole the honours with her great screen presence and class performance. The other major star was of course Teenage Kicks!

Oblivion

Olympus Has Fallen

The Place Beyond The Pines

Into The Storm

The Look of Love

Ironman III – definitely does what it says on the poster!

Love Is All You Need

Star Trek – Darkness

I’m So Excited

Mud - excellent

Beware of Mr Baker – painfully honest.

Hangover III

And read.

A Prince Among Stones Prince - Rubert Loewenstein

Seven Deadly Sins - David Walsh

The Soundtrack Of My Life - Clive Davies – a brilliant and revealing insight into the workings of a record company.

Talking To Strangers: The Adventures of a Life- Insurance Salesman – Peter Rosengard – some very interesting tales.

 

And heard

Loudon Wainwright III at Basingstoke Anvil and London Royal Festval Hall. Two great concerts and he gave us an amazing taster of a work in progress theatre show he is working on based upon some of his father’s writings for Time Life magazine.

Eric Clapton @ The Royal Albert Hall - on something like his 180th appearance on this particular stage he's so comfortable it felt like we were all in his living room enjoying a beautiful concert.  

And listened to:

Someday Never Comes by Dawes and John Fogerty from John Fogerty’s collaborations album, Wrote a Song for Everyone. If this track is anything to go by I’d love to hear a Dawes (my current favourite non-Asgard artist, especially live) CD produced by Mr Fogerty. This and the next track - Who’ll Stop the Rain with John Fogerty and Bob Seeger - are definitely guaranteed to send you back to the CCR catalogue.

An Old Raincoat Won’t Ever Let You Down;  Gasoline Alley; Every Picture Tells a Story And (hardly surprisingly)Time, all by Rod Stewart.

I’m Alive by Jackson Browne - the perfect companion for the writing room.  

 

Until the next time.

Cheers

pc

 

 

 

Playing a Game of Snooker is a lot Like Writing (or Solving) a Murder Mystery

For some time now I’ve been toying with the idea that writing a murder mystery – such as I’m currently doing with Down On Cyprus Avenue, the first of what I hope will be a new series set in modern day Belfast and featuring McCusker who had a brief cameo in an early DI Christy Kennedy Mystery, called I’ve Heard The Banshee Sing – is a lot like playing a game of snooker.  

Now that thought - playing a game of snooker is a lot like writing or solving a murder mystery - could in fact, be the entire piece, because from there we could go off and think about it and draw our own comparisons and conclusions.

But… the longer version…

In snooker you have two players and a referee, or a judge if you will.

In the murder investigation you also have two opponents; your detective and your prime suspect (who hopefully will turn out to be the murderer). You also have the judge; the law of the land.

As much as you may practice your potting in advance, it will never help you win a particular game because each and every game is different. In order to have at least a chance of winning a game of snooker you have to be able to react to the ever-developing, ever-changing puzzle the game throws up for you.  You hit the first ball, you open up the game in a unique form; your opponent takes their first shot and off you go reacting to each other’s play and the set of individual circumstances each pot (or miss) reveals. Once again the comparisons with writing (or solving) a murder mystery are obvious.

In a game of snooker we have our set of balls: 15 red balls- each worth 1 point; one yellow ball (2 points); green (3 points); brown (4 points): blue (5 points); pink (6 points) and black (7 points).

The red balls in the snooker game are like the clues in the mystery. Just like the red balls in snooker we will keep returning to the clues in the case until, near the end, we will start to dismiss (or pocket) them one by one for the final time.

Then we have the colour balls. In the snooker game and they can be considered to be the suspects in our case. Again we will keep returning to them throughout our game/mystery until one by one they are all dismissed (pocketed) and we have concluded our game or resolved our case.

If we assume that our detective is the white ball then our prime suspect must be the black ball. Talking of which, I think it’s interesting to remember that in the early western movies the good guys always wore the white cowboy hats while the baddies were always, but always, decked out, head to toe, in black.

The ever important snooker cue is the detective’s logic and sharpness of mind. The better the cue and the cueing action the better the chances are of winning the game or solving the mystery.

The cue rest and the various sized cue extensions are like the detective’s team or assistants if you will. I’m referring to the Detective Constables, the Detective Sergeant, the forensic departments etc., etc.

The referee is, as we have inferred, comparable to the judge or the law of the land.

The table is like the detective’s patch (and office) and it’s vitally important that both the snooker player and the detective intimately know the ins, outs, not to mention, imperfections of their table or patch. For instance if the cushion at one position of the snooker table is not true then the ball will not react the way it is expected to. Should the detective not be picking up on the truth as he or she goes about their investigation, then, just like the stray ball described above, our detective will be off on a wild goose chase.

The break in the snooker game is exactly like the run the detective longs for in solving the case. Should the detective have the experience and sharp eyes for clues and he manages to solve the case immediately then that is equivalent to achieving the extremely difficult, and much desired, maximum break.

A snooker occurs in the game/mystery when the prime suspect (the snooker opponent) puts the ball beyond the natural line, whereby it becomes impossible to get a clear shot with the target ball (clue) due to the strength of a good alibi, or, in the case of the snooker game, a first class snooker.

A trick shot occurs when the detective grows a wee bit too confident and sets up an Agatha Christie style trap for his or her prime suspect; a trap which could potentially solve the case or go a long way to winning the game of snooker outright.

One of the main similarities between snooker and murder mysteries would have to be the way in which both the game and the case develop uniquely depending entirely on the natural progression of the game or the amassing of the clues and questioning of suspects. So, as we’ve already mentioned, the snooker players and the detective and prime suspect all depend on their ability to be able to react to each other and the unfolding game/case before them.

And yes snooker players can and do practise as much as they want ahead of a case and detectives can do their research, try for clearness and sharpness of mind and gather their wits about them, but the bottom line is neither snooker player nor detective can ever plan out a case or a snooker game entirely in advance, because once the initial break takes place then both sides are acting and reacting to their opponents.

A bit like real life; well I suppose you’d really have to say it’s a lot like real life.

 

 

This time I’ve seen:

 

Bruce Springsteen & The East Street Band at the Honda Centre, Anaheim.  Now this man really knows how to put on an incredible, exciting, marathon live show. It’s not vital that you see Bruce Springsteen perform in front of an American audience but it does help to understand the degree of his sustained success. He is so audience conscious it’s unbelievable. He spends the entire concert eyeballing every single member of the audience. You get the impression that he knows every member of his audience on a first name basis. This is how it should be: first class sound and lights with an incredible band and artist not just performing the songs but living them as well.

David Lindley at McCabes, Santa Monica – a national treasure, the man who can get a tune out of any stringed instrument playing in the perfect location – the world famous guitar shop.  

Jackson Browne at Keller Auditorium, Portland with an amazing new combo singing his heart out. Perfect set-list, perfect concert. 

 

And read:

 

Michael Connolly – The Black Box. I’m a big fan of Michael Connelly I’ve loved all 24 of his books so far and this one is easily up there with his best.

 

John Grisham – The Racketeer. A great yarn and it’s going to make a great movie.

 

Rod Stewart – Rod. I was expecting (hoping for) a lot more background stuff from the An Old Raincoat Will Never Let You Down days.

 

Magnus Flyte – City of Dark Magic.

 

Greg Smith – Why I Left Goldman Sachs.

 

Sjowall & Wahloo – Roseanna & The Man Who Went Up In Smoke. By far the best police procedural books I have read since the Colin Dexter Morse stories.

 

Dick Wolf – The Intercept – Clint Eastwood could turn this into a brilliant film.

 

Stephen Hunter - The Third Bullet – loved it.

 

Tommy Mottola – Hitmaker: The Man and His Music – an interesting account of what happened at Black Rock.

 

And watched:

 

Luck the TV series.

 

The Firm TV series.

 

Felicity TV series 1, 2, 3 & 4. – absolute gems one and all

 

House – the 8^th and final TV series – please see next blog.

 

The House of Cards (US Version) Excellent five-star production from NetFlix. I wonder will the big American TV stations - CBS, NBC, ABC, Fox, XYZ etc – rue this day as much as the ever dwindling number of major Record Companies rued the day file sharing was first introduced to the internet.

 

Lincoln – a master class in directing – from Stephen Spielberg - and acting - from Daniel Day Lewis, Tommy Lee Jones and James Spader. Daniel Day Lewis’ performance is just an absolute joy to witness.

 

Silver Lining Playbook – might be my favourite movie of the year. This film is so good I went to see it twice and enjoyed it even more the second time. There’s genuine on-screen chemistry between the two leads.

 

Argo – very enjoyable.

 

Life of Pi – looks amazing.

 

People Like Us – I loved it.

 

Savages

 

Anna Karenina – not for me.

 

A Royal Affair – big surprise, unlike Anna K they got this one spot on.

 

Cloud Atlas – brave.

 

The Sessions – brave and successful.

 

Late Quartet – a different kind of rock and roll.

 

Addicted To Fame – very sad.

 

End of the Watch – compulsive viewing and disturbing.

 

Jack Reacher – effectively does what it says on the tin.

 

Playing for Keeps – would have been a perfect vehicle for George Clooney in the ER days.

 

Hitchcock – Anthony Hopkins just doesn’t make bad movies!

 

The Quartet – shows, perhaps just a wee bit too effectively, where we’re all heading.

 

Hyde Park and Hudson – loved it especially the performances from Bill Murray and Laura Linney.

 

Flying Lessons.

 

Led Zeppelin Celebration. A fine testament to the band’s legacy; amazing sound, perfect performances from one and all and brilliantly captured on film, in fact, if anything, better than being at the gig - the ultimate celebration.

 

Django Unchained – mixed reaction from my party (of 4) but I loved it and thought it was very funny in a spaghetti Western kind of way.  

 

West of Memphis – documentary of the year and they weren’t scared to name the name. I find it equally disturbing that a) these crimes are so casually committed and b) that the real offenders always seem to get away with it at the expense of other people’s liberty and c) that local politics get in the way of justice. Same as it always was.

 

Impossible – brilliant and a true story.

 

The Hobbit – equally brilliant but (hopefully) not a true story.

 

Words.

 

The Guilt Trip.

 

A Dark Truth.

 

The Last Stand - again you get what you pay for and not a vampire in sight.

 

The Fitzgerald Family Christmas – Edward Burns taps back into very rich, multi layered stories of second generation Irish American family life.

 

Save The Date – another slice of American family life this time with the focus on two sisters – a wonderful rewarding film.

 

Price Check.

 

Stand Up Guys – well worth the ticket price if only for the Pacino, Arkin and Walken performances.

 

Trouble With the Curve – there’s never ever any trouble with a Clint Eastwood movie!

 

Parental Guidance.

 

Arbitrage.

 

Breaking Dawn Part 2 – it would appear even vampires need a family life and long to live happily ever after with their loved ones. It’s just that when happily ever after means forever and a day it’s quite a difficult concept.

 

The Promised Land – another must-see movie from Matt Damon

 

The Gangster Squad – a great yarn.

 

This is 40.

 

Parker.

 

Broken City – worked well for me

 

Movie 43

 

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

 

The Paperboy.

 

The Top Ten (in a particular order) Breakfasts while on the way to the movies in Santa Monica.

 

Seventeenth Street Café & Bakery

50s Diner (on Lincoln)

M Street Market *

Cora’s

Shutters On The Beach

Geoffrey’s^

Ye Olde Kings Head (ead (Th(English Pub)

Blue Daisy Café

The Omelette Parlour

The Farm Shop, 26^th Street.

 

*Special Mention for best Hash Browns.

^ Technically not in Santa Monica (more Malibu) but on the circuit and well worth the trip because of the view. Famous because certain movie stars (allegedly) used to dine there with their mistresses while staying at the nearby hotel.

 

And finally, this blog’s official top ten:

The Top 10 Beatle Albums

01. Abbey Road

02. Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band

03. Revolver

04. Rubber Soul

05. The Beatles (The White Album)

06. A Hard Day’s Night

07. Magical Mystery Tour (US)

08. With The Beatles

09. Help

10. Beatles For Sale (if only for Mr Moonlight)

              

Until the next time,

 

Cheers

 

pc

PC's Famous Cure for the Common Cold (and Flu)!

Before I let you into my big secret, my really big secret, perhaps we should first discuss the issue.

So, they can put a man on the moon; they’ve managed to successfully transplant hearts, lungs, kidneys, eyes… well everything really as proven with Billy Bob. On top of which they’ve even managed to not only clone a sheep but also give her a name, Dolly, as well. You’d have to imagine that they cloned quite a few smaller animals along the way on their development process, would you? But humans? I wouldn’t have thought so but on second thoughts it’s always dangerous looking too closely into the mirror.

Anyway, as I was saying, they have achieved all of the above and yet they still haven’t managed to discover a cure for the common cold (or flu)!

I mean, come on… can you really believe such a thing?

No, of course we can’t.

Somewhere out there, there must be large warehouses stocked to the ceilings with boxes of MFC (magic flu cures) and lots of other great ideas/inventions and they’re all going to stay out of our reach, just so we can all serve the name of commerce.

But let’s get back to our flu and cold cure. Just visit any of your local chemists and check the shelves positively laden down with their stash of their winter cold and flu remedies and you’ll realise exactly the commerce at stake which is ultimately depending on no successful cures being discovered.

Personally whenever I visit a chemist and try to discover the name of their best remedy I’m usually advised by a shop assistant - how on earth do they manage to avoid the flu so successfully, particularly after a non-stop stream of flu victims? - that the treatments are all pretty much as good as each other. “Perhaps you should try our own in-house brand?” seems to becoming the popular retort. I discovered 127 OTC (Over The Counter) brands of medication claiming to help tackle all our winter ailments. I imagine when we do get down to it they’re all pretty much created from the same basic ingredients; namely: Paracetamol, caffeine and Phenylephrine, with the caffeine dropped from the “Night” comforters.

It used to be when a new brand hit the market they would be launched and promoted as being capable of working wonders and they’d immediately become the brand everyone was desperate for. For some reason or other all new bands seem to enjoy a certain degree of immediate success. I suppose that could be due to SWT (sugared water theory) where once you feel your ailment is being treated you automatically start to feel better.  With Contact 400 for instance I could actually feel myself feeling better as the numerous (well at least 400 we have to assume) little particles of wonderments worked their way into my ailing system and reciprocated their magic as delayed-action time-bombs continued to be effective long after the time of the initial administration. That was of course until the time arrived for the next dose. You’d have to think thought that if any of the cures were totally 100% effective then sales would suffer. They just needed to be effective enough to give you some respite but, at the same time, not being so effective that you didn’t long for more comfort.

Since then every autumn had given birth to the latest in an ever growing line of miracle cures.

One alternate route to the above 127 OTCs is the evergreen herbal choice. There are clearly a growing number of NDTYSs (no damage to your system) remedies. Let’s see there Enchinacea (a root extract); aconite which works on the principle that if you can drop a couple of these white micro tablets just as the cold or flu starts to raise its ugly head in its gestation period then the resultant increase in body temperature and energy might just beat the little germs into submission. However this seems to me to be similar to saying that if you have a good goal-keeper then you’ll be able to beat Manchester United, which, as we know, just isn’t true. Then there are the expensive Wellness tablets which are billed as: a Herbal Defense Complex. It’s recommended that you take these particular capsules of goodness when you’re feeling good the theory being they’ll build up your defence. Some swear by the Wellness approach, it’s just I’m not exactly sure which swear words they use.    

If you’re like me you’ll start off with the herbal route and when that doesn’t help and desperation clicks in you’ll switch to one (if not several) of the 127 OTCs when you’re happy to pump every legal chemical at your disposal into your system to try and rid your body of the dreaded winter nuisance.      

Some people are still actually even committed to the power of positive thinking.

One old fashioned approach I’m aware of is a hot whiskey mixed with sugar and several cloves. It is recommended you stir the solution furiously and drink it at as hot a temperature as you can bear to. Apparently this approach helps sweat the germs out of you. It has also been discovered that a few of the above drinks will temporarily numb you from your flu, however when you wake up you just might discover you’ve not one, but two ailments to deal with

People already infected with flu do unwittingly help spread the germs via door-handles, sinks, door-bells and knockers, shower and bath taps, railings, bannisters and other common hand-assistants. These germs spread a lot quicker and more effectively than we’ll realise. Just sneeze into an open newspaper and see first-hand from the pebble-dashed pattern just how effective their harvest of germs are; even if you have the manners to raise your hand to your mouth the little buggers still manager to get everywhere.

So what should/can we do to avoid and heal the feared flu and cold?

Well we should wash our hands a lot. We should be cautious about what we touch in public places; mainly toilets, stairwells, lifts, escalators, restaurant tables and chairs, trains and train stations, aeroplanes and airports etc etc., Other forms of protections? I do wonder how far away we are from wearing the face masks, currently popular about the streets and public transportation systems in Tokyo.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you groan, “but what exactly is your cure PC?”

How do you get rid of a cold so common no-one has bothered finding a cure for?

Okay, I’ll tell you.

My magic cure is TIME!

The best cure for the common cold and flu is TIME. The secret to the revolutionary cure is to take the time you need; to allow your body the time it takes to naturally fight off the flue or cold and make your body better again.

And you know what? If you don’t subject your body to various OTCs and cures and leave it to its own devices then my theory is your body, the wonderful creation that is the human body, will fight off all those wee flu bugs all the more quickly.

Of course you can help your body during this process by resting; eating good food; drinking a lot of water and inhaling from a bowl steaming hot water, with a few drops of eucalyptus, while under a towel.

Of course if none of the above works within the statutory three days we recommend you visit your GP asap.

This time while suffering from flu and undergoing my TIME cure...

 

I read:

Neil Young   I feel he’s saving a lot for Volume Two.

Pete Townsend - Who I Am.  A classic book against which all future 1960s pop autobiographies will be judged. A major achievement.   

And saw:

Manchester United at Chelsea (3 – 2) - the Red and Yellow cards tell the story.

The Imposter – a classic!

Barbara - excellent!

Ruby Sparks – loved it, strongly recommended.

Skyfall – all the chasing along the roof tops seems (to me) to be set in the same location as Taken 2.

Taken 2 – (see above) Liam outbonds Bond!

Liberal Arts - enjoyable in a good way.

The Good Wife 3^rd Series - by far the best series yet.

Boardwalk 2nd Series – loving it.

Rookie Blue 2^nd Series

Hatfield & McCoys (mini-series) knowing the end didn’t ruin the journey.

Blue Blood 2^nd series... it's getting better all the time…

 

… talking of which…

 

Top Ten Best Covers of Beatle Songs:

 

01. Golden Slumbers     Jackson Browne & Jennifer Warnes

02. Blackbird                 Crosby, Stills & Nash

03. With A Little Help From My Friends  - Joe Cocker

04. While My Guitar Gently Weeps – Eric Clapton (Concert for George)

05. Ticket to Ride           The Carpenters

06. Day Tripper              Otis Redding

07. Here Comes The Sun – Richie Havens

08. Eleanor Rigby          Ray Charles

09. Something               Frank Sinatra

10. Got To Get You Into My Life – Cliff Bennett & The Rebel Rousers                     

I really wanted to include the song Isn’t it a Pity, a life affirming version by Billy Preston from the truly spiritually uplifting Concert for George DVD but then I remembered that although it was written by George during the Beatle years it didn’t see the (recorded) light of day until his majestic All Things Must Pass album, but both the song and the entire concert footage are well worth checking out. In my humble opinion it is by far the best live concert footage DVD ever released.

So until the next time,

 

Cheers

 

pc 

Just Like Arthur Brown Predicted...

…or, another way of putting it: why would you ever need to start your record collection on three separate occasions?

But let’s start at the beginning…

Let’s see now, this would have been in the scorching hot summer of 1976 where it was so hot we were building body high pyramids from used Fanta and Coke cans in our small office in Dryden Chambers just off Oxford Street. Dryden Chambers was a Victorian apartment block, one unit of which then served as Asgard’s offices, where, allegedly, some long passed member of royalty housed a mistress or two. All by-the-by of course but at that time I was living in a two floor apartment (flat as it was then, although it wasn’t really a ‘flat’ because it was on two floors) in Dulwich in South London and had two members (and their girlfriends) from Fruupp, the band I was managing at the time, crashing with me.   

Now as I remember it one member of the band, liked to sit in on Fruupp’s gig free nights, sip from a can of larger, chain smoke and eat (very daintily it has to be said) from a non-stop supply of potato crisps and whisper sweet nothings to his girlfriend; but more about all of that later.

On one such night I retired to my wee room in the eaves of the roof space before the rest of them and it was so hot I had great difficulty falling asleep.  39,333 sheep later I eventually dozed off only to be woken up in the early hours by this noise on the roof above me.

My first thought was, “Wow, the hot weather has broken at last, and if the noise on the roof is anything to go by it’s absolutely bucketing down.”

I tried to get back to sleep secure in the thought that now with the weather breaking at least it would start to get cooler and sleep would come easier and deeper. However if anything it actually felt warmer, a lot warmer.

The noise on the roof grew louder and louder to the point that I started to think that the rafters must surely buckle under the incessant pressure. Eventually the rain on the roof sounded so heavy and potentially dangerous that I had to get up and take a look. I was thinking that I couldn’t remember ever hearing so heavy a rain fall before. I opened the curtains, slid up the window and stuck my head out.

Aided by the street lights, the first thing I noticed was that the footpath and street were still bone dry.  Yet I could still hear the rain beating down incessantly on the slates just above me. 

I looked to my right and saw a shower of violent flames.

I thought: Shit the next door’s house is on fire, and I turned, immediately jumped into to a pair of trousers and quickly opened my bedroom door, which led straight into the lounge.        

For my troubles I was welcomed with a wave of livid flames which would have been a lot more destructive to my person if I hadn’t already closed the bedroom window, thereby avoiding a backdraft. I slammed the door shut as quickly as I could, realising immediately, from the smell, that I had singed my eyebrows, although for some strange reason or other my moustache remained intact.

I ran to the window, opened it wide but quickly closed it again as my survival instincts kicked in and I sealed the bottom of my bedroom door using a towel I dampened with a full bottle of orangeade.

I returned to the window, opened it again, stuck my head out and considered my options.

In the circumstances I was surprised at how clear my mind was and as I went through various routes of escape I could hear the ever growing feverous flames wreaking havoc on most of my worldly processions (my vinyl collection and my book collection) proudly and carefully stacked on shelves in the room the other side of my bedroom door.

I reasoned, quite logically I felt, that if I jumped the three floors to the ground I would most likely break both my legs, maybe even do myself a lot more damage but there was at least a chance I would survive. Climbing, or trying to climb, up onto the eaves of the roof above me could result in a 50/50 chance of not reaching it but by such a point I’d already too far committed to be able to safely return to my room, On top of which even if I did make it onto the roof so furious were the flames I’d probably be burned alive.

I took great comfort from the fact that at no point thus far had my short life flashed through my mind. I’d often read that’s what happens to you just before you die but I often considered 100% proof of such a theory somewhat flawed.

“Help.” I shouted.

Well when I say, ‘I shouted,’ I really mean that I said it quite feebly, I mean it sounded very wimpish and more of a question than a request in that did I really need help?

“Help!!”

This time I didn’t shout, I screamed no doubt now spurred on by the sound of the mass destruction taking place a few feet away in my sitting room.

“Help, somebody help me, yeah.” I screamed, realising I’d inadvertently quoted Stevie Winwood.

Then I thought that the word, ‘Help’ just might sound too desperate; might just scare off potential rescuers in the quiet suburbia of Dulwich in the south-east of London.

“Hello?” I shouted, trying a new tact. “Is anyone there? Hello?”

A short time later – it could have been two seconds, could have been thirty seconds I didn’t know really – someone ran out of a house just across the road.

The thing that amazed me about living in London in the mid-seventies was just how much everyone kept to themselves. I’d been in that accommodation for at least a year at that point and I hadn’t a clue who my next door neighbours were, let alone who the people from as far away as the other side of the road were. Whereas back in Magherafelt in Northern Ireland, where I’d spent all of my pre-London seventeen years, everyone knew everything about everyone including, but not limited to, their shoe size and the size of their weekly wage packet.

The man on the street below me seemed more distressed than I felt I was. I suppose it was a bit like the situation where the look of shock and horror on relatives’ faces when you come around after an accident, can be more damaging to you than the accident itself.

“What can I do? What can I…”

“Do you have a ladder?” I shouted down through the increasing volume of the crackling flames.

“No!”

“Can you bang on a few doors to see who has?” I shouted, trying to kick start him into action.

“Right?”

“Oh,” I screamed after him as an afterthought, “could you please ring my doorbell to make sure my flatmates are awake?”

Which he did and he also banged loudly on the door, just in case the electricity was off, I assumed. 

As I’ve already mentioned one of the weird things throughout all of this for me was that I was still going through my logical thought process. I started to think if the man on the ground did manage to find a ladder would it be long enough to reach up to my window ledge. Then, if the ladder wasn’t long enough was he going to go and knock on some more doors and find a longer one.

Someone else ran out onto the street.

“I rang the fire brigade,” she called up. “Don’t worry you’ll be okay?”

I was talking great comfort in her words until she continued with: 

“Why don’t you jump?”

“No thanks,” I replied as if she’d just invited me over for a cup of tea. “I think I can afford to wait a wee bit longer,” I continued just in case she felt I was being a bit ungrateful.

The cavalry - with my best friend Vince McCusker playing the part of Randolph Scott - arrived at this point.

Well that is to say Vince’s head, with no other cavalry in sight popped out of the bay window below me. Vince was the lead guitarist and main writer for Fruupp the Belfast band I was managing at the time and he was living in the room below my room.

His eyes displayed the panic missing from his voice, “Jeez man, don’t worry, we’ll get you down.”

“The flames from the living room are just about to burst into my bedroom,” I shouted, hoping I was fully betraying my state of terror.

His head disappeared.

Okay, I thought, perhaps the panic was too evident in my voice and I scared him off.

I heard his window slide shut but before I gave up on him I heard the bottom section slide open. He then proceeded to climb out onto his window sill, stood up as he supported himself with one arm in the closed section of his window frame. (*1)

“Okay Paul,” he started, his voice now sounding very serious, “what I need you to do is to come out of your window feet first, face to the window.”

“But I’ll never be able to climb in over the top of your window.”

“No you won’t but if you lower yourself down as far as you can, keeping grip of your window ledge at all times, then I’ll get in a position directly below you and I’ll tell you when to let go and then you’ll slide down over the top of the roof of my slated bay window (*2) and as you’re sliding past my window I’ll catch you and pull you in.”

Right, sounds like a good idea. NOT!

I strained in vain to hear the sounds of the proper cavalry, the fire brigade, coming to my rescue but all I could hear was the fire starting to devour the door to my bedroom. Smoke was billowing in through my scorched towel.

“Come on Paul,” Vince pleaded, “we gotta do it, you’ll be okay.”

          I consciously forced myself not to be receptive to any flashing images of my youth. I thought of my mum and my dad though.

I went through all my alternatives: broken legs; broken neck; broken back; burned alive; waiting for the bright red fire brigade with its huge ladders

Then I thought, ‘It just doesn’t matter what I want to do, I just can’t do what he’s asking me to do.’ I felt it was just physically impossible for me to even attempt Vince’s suggested great escape.

As I was thinking this I found myself, in spite of myself, putting my feet out through the window. I then turned around so that my legs were on the outside and my torso was on the inside stomach resting on the ledge of my window, with my head and hands reaching for the floor of my bedroom.

At this point the flames had very sneakily started to break into my room. A quick flash here and a quick flash there, just like an advance party checking that everything was set up okay for them and would be receptive to a full break-through.

I gingerly pushed the remainder of my body out of the window gripping the window ledge with all my might as if my life depended on it, and depend upon it my life did.

So far, so good, as my father has a habit of saying when asked how things were going. Yes, so far, so good for me as well.

By now my knees had reached and were temporarily resting in the rain guttering and so I knew the lower part of my legs and my feet were now visible to Vince.

At this point, and I kid you not, I wanted Vince to be, not Randolph Scott, but Burt Lancaster, as the trapeze catcher (for Tony Curtis) in Trapeze the movie where Mr Lancaster apparently did all his own stunts.

“Okay man, let go,” Vince pleaded.

I tried and tried and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t hear the sound of a fire engine in the distance. I did hear some shouts of encouragement from the gathering crowd in the street.

I twisted my head to the left and then to the right and I still couldn’t see anyone arriving with a ladder, long or short.

The flames were now flowing freely in my room just inches above my head.

“Come on Paul,” Vince encouraged confidently.

“Okay, I’m letting go.”

I thought it would take ages for me to let go of the wooden window frame, if indeed I ever did, but I felt my fingers involuntarily releasing their vice like grip and my body started to slide slowly over the slates until my waist reached the rain guttering.

I came to a halt.

The flames were now streaming furiously out my window above me hungry for fresh oxygen.       

“Push yourself Paul,” Vince coaxed calmly, as I felt his free arm loosely around my ankles. “Come on man, you can do it.”

The palms of my hand were resting on the slate top of Vince’s bay window and with a mind of their own they pushed but slipped back up over the slates as they tried desperately to get a grip.

Slowly, very slowly, my body started to move again, to slide down in the general direction of Vince, and more worryingly, in the particular direction of the hard pathway two and a half floors below.

I felt one of the brackets supporting the guttering cut into my chest, tearing the skin as I slid over it.

Surprisingly it hurt not even a little. Once my head reached the guttering I clawed furiously at it if only to save the skin on my face from also been ripped open.

“Come on Paul, I’ve got you, you’ve got to let go.”

“Okay!”

And I did.

For about one and one half seconds I was in free fall and then I felt Vince’s arm catch me under my arms and he pulled and tugged at me aggressively until we both fell head first through his window and into his room.

I passed out.

I came to some minutes later as I was being whisked out of the burning building. One of the neighbours from across the road kindly brought us into their house for tea and sympathy and dressed the wound on my chest. I seem to remember they even put us up for the rest of the night.

The next day I walked around my flat seeing and smelling the exact extent of the damage a fire and three fire brigades can do. I looked out the window and got the shivers as I realised just how much Vince risked his own life in order to save mine.

The fire officer advised us that a cigarette had slipped down between the cushions of a sofa in the living room and a few hours later the house was ablaze.

I’d lost a collection of LPs (including all the Beatles’ albums purchased on release day) and books, all of my clothes and a roof to sleep under but I remember walking around for the next few weeks ecstatic, if still slightly in a daze, but thankful, very thankful to the bravery of Vince McCusker, that I was able to walk around at all, if you know what I mean.

I’ve lost a book and LP collection twice, once in the above fire and one a few years later when my flat was raided and absolutely everything was stolen. What really hurts though is not the actual loss of your records but every now and again you’ll remember a favourite album and you’ll be as keen as a junkie for a fix of that particular music and you’ll search through your new collection-in-the-works and you’ll discover you won’t have re-bought it yet and that’ll make you want to listen to it all the more. Quite likely though those are also the occasions when you’ll be forced to remember what happened to your previous precious copies. Just last week in fact I tried unsuccessfully to put my hands on Little Willie Ramble the classic Demick & Armstrong album.  

*1.  These actual details I didn’t discover until sometime later but I felt it was better to include them at this point.

*2. Vince didn’t actually use the words, ‘top of the roof of my slated bay window’ because it was right there between us separating me from safety, but I felt it helped the narrative here.

 

And now time for a new feature: A top 10 for each blog and this edition’s top 10 is:

 

My All Time Top Ten Irish Groups.

01.  Them.

02.  Taste

03.  The Undertones

04.  The Interns

05.  The Hothouse Flowers

06.  The Gentry

07.  Cheese

08.  Grannies Intentions

09.  Skid Row

10.  Blues by Five

 

 

This time I’ve seen:

The Titanic Exhibition at the Titanic Centre, Belfast. Extremely well put together, informative, exciting, moving, powerful. It’s a major credit to the team who created the exhibition; it’s up there with anything I have seen on my travels. The iconic centre is most certainly a crowd pleaser and a top of the list of ‘must-visit’ on trips to Belfast. Now when’s anyone going to get around to doing the same with the Maritime Centre the home of Them; the best ever Irish group. (see Top 10 above)

 

And seen and heard:

The Waterboys at the Iveagh Gardens, Dublin.  An amazing concert at the perfect outdoor venue. It’s really incredible when the audience and band join together in celebration of a body of work. The feelgood factor during the Waterboys’ performance in the gardens was truly sky high. The Waterboys are one of the few acts who have successfully sussed that indoor and outdoor shows are entirely different.

 

And listened to:

Dexy’s – One Day I’m Going to soar. Great album, beautiful engaging string arrangements and Kevin is not just back on form, he’s on the form of his life; easily worthy of an Olympic Gold.

Abraxas  -  Santana. The best thing about McDaid’s Wine bar in Ramelton is not just the craic provided by the legendary host and raconteur, Mr James McDaid, but also that he has an amazing sound system and every now and then he’ll surprise you with a classic album like this. I hadn’t heard Abraxas for ages and I couldn’t believe how incredible it still sounds!

 

And read:

Live by Night by Denis Lehanne – he’s just like a jazz musician playing pop music – effortlessly brilliant.

The Vanishing Point by Val McDermid - more twists than a Curly Wurly.  

Stella Days by Michael Doorley.  It took me ages to track this down and I eventually found a great copy with a first edition book but (I assume) a second edition jacket, because it’s got a movie announcement star plonked on the front and post-release reviews on the rear  (all these things matter to book collectors.) Anyway loved the book and still trying to find out where the movie’s is playing. I’m a major fan of the work of Martin Sheen and that’s how I first heard of the book.

The Man Who Wrote the Teddy Bear’s Picnic by JJ Kennedy. It really should have been named after one (anyone) of his father’s other 47 classic hits. For instance Red Sails in the Sunset – a brilliant song and a wonderful title for such a book. Jimmy Kennedy is still one of Ulster’s all-time great songwriters.  Personally speaking I would have loved a bit more insight into his wonderful craftsman-like approach to songwriting. Hopefully someone will get around to such a volume one day soon.

I Am The Secret Footballer – who could it be other than Phil Neville? Of course  there are a few little spoilers to this theory in the book but they could be red herrings! However on the other hand I always remember the Evening Standard had this thing where when someone really famous did something noteworthy like bite of the head of a chicken they would run a front-page headline: “Ozzie bites head off a chicken!” But should it have been a minor celebrity who performed the dastardly deed then the banner would run: “Soap Star bites the head off a chicken.” The point being that Ozzie sells papers but the minor celebrity won’t, so if they hide the story behind “Soap Star” then people will buy the paper to see who said ckicken biting soap star is. Unfortunately the periosn who parted with their hard earned cash will always be disappointed by the lack of status of the revealed soap star. I wonder if someone applied this theory to this book title in that “Secret Footballer” will generate more attention than the name of the footballer would have done.    

The Lost Library by A.M. Dean.  The perfect summer read, a chunky book and great entertainment altogether.

 

And watched:

Eli Stone Series I & II - writing-wise they really hit their stride in series II

The Good Mother – great TV Drama.

The Good Cop – incredible promising start to a series.

 

And was heartened by:

the incredible, unselfish, unrewarded work the Ramelton Tidy Town gang continue to do.

 

And missed:

Ben And Jerry’s fabulous Chunk Monkey Ice Cream.

 

Until the next time,

 

Cheers

 

pc