w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

David Bowie: "No sound and vision"

No, the former leader of the Conservative Party has not prematurely passed away.

A ‘news item’ on ground-breaking GMTV this morning involved a professor of something trying to explain about Irritable Desk Syndrome?

Now if you were up to your proverbials in a cold, wet trench, cleaning out sewer pipes, or laying on your back in a massive pasteurising machine, scraping off calcium deposits, or haunched over in a department shop, trying to dig hardened chewing gum off the floor, you might have an unpleasant job. (Yes, I’ve done all three).

But sat at a desk in an ambient-temperatured office and a free drinks machine almost within reach of your work station, I’d argue that you have little to really get irritable about?

The city smells fresh and crisp today. Almost sweet.

I've now completed almost a month in the new role. Payslips were handed out yesterday and they were a bit surprised that there wasn't one for me? Truth is, Payroll got so fed up trying to trace where I was working, month by month, that they elected to post them to my home instead. I could take the regular role change as a compliment. Equally, the Army calls it "posting", whereby they get rid of unwanted personnel by having them drafted to other barracks. Flip a mental coin then.

This'll be my last weekend with a company car on the drive, so I might have to take it for a little 'run' at some point - just to check everything's working before handing back, y'understand.

Enjoy your leave. Don't forget to call into Uborka before going home tonight - Friday's cocktails are always delicious.

One of our Burmese cats has, how shall I put this delicately, unfeasibly large lugs.

The feline equivalent of the FA Cup.

If you scrunch them for a minute (she loves it – no cruelty involved) the resultant headshake almost helicopters her off the ground.

Hours of fun for both parties.

Clearly, I'm bored.

Strange combination of events behind today’s main post.

As far as I know, I have no fear of flying. I’m not great at heights, but feel comfortable enough in planes for journeys to be enjoyable.

Today’s music mix during the commute contained an unusual coincidence of references to flight. As well as Annie Lennox, there was Lynyrd Skynyrd singing “Freebird”.

Then reading Zed’s post reminded me of last night’s special. I seem to dream regularly about air crashes, but viewing them from the ground, not in one. They’re always different, but on this theme.

Yesterday’s involved a very small plane dropping very slowly onto the roof of my house, which I could see right into and through. Everyone made it out of the house but I don’t know the pilot’s fate.

Maybe it’s some sort of sub-conscious thing, from being stopped at Gatwick Station, with jumbos dropping in very close overhead at frighteningly short intervals?

Heat

My sartorial trade-mark is wearing short-sleeved shirts throughout the year, because I feel cooler that way. When everyone else is wearing jackets etc., I’m bare-armed – must be a faulty thermostat.

Shuffling over London Bridge this morning though, even I had to privately admit that it were parky. Yet there was a guy wearing a bright pink shirt, no jacket or coat, jauntily strolling across the river. It made me feel cold just to watch.

I like the idea that not everything is as it appears on the surface, that you have to ‘pick away’ at something to discover what really lies beneath.

One of the books I’m enjoying picking over at the moment is by Hugh Cornwell, ex-Stranglers’ front man and is a great insight into the workings of a band in the 70’s and 80’s. “Song by Song” literally strips away the veneer which is all that the average fan sees/hears.

In the book he mentions about palimpsests and the fact that there is often something (deliberately?) hidden below what you initially see. Da Vinci apparently painted over his own works - whether he was short of canvas or just couldn’t be bothered to go and get a new blank, who knows. How many masterpieces are concealed behind a magnolia wash?

So are our blogs canvasses on which we can paint a certain picture, portraying images of ourselves which may or may not be accurate or true-to-life? “Belle de Jour” has allegedly been ‘outed’ and the conspiracy theories say that it was all done to show how false Blogworld is, and how easily manipulated. Was it ever intended to be anything other than a diversion? Maybe naively, I believe that most blogs are basically close to the truth, with careful omissions leaving a cold trail for anyone trying to get dangerously closer to the author.

I just enjoy blogging and sharing the talents of those on my blogroll and elsewhere – nowt wrong with that, imho.

Today’s lyric reminded me of the guy who used to be my best mate, when we were at college. He was the only child of an upper middle class family and had the time and money to indulge himself unchecked – so he quickly entered the world of drugs.

Now over 35 years ago, hard drugs were incredibly easy to obtain. Tabs of acid were so cheap, people fed them to their pets at parties, for amusement. Reefers were openly smoked in front of the less-worldly teachers who, unbelievably today, believed the response that they were ‘herbal’. My mate would sit for hours in a self-induced catatonic state, tripping out and presumably enjoying his own private, small-e ecstasy, while the rest of us had fun.

He was eventually caught, not exactly dealing, but obtaining for mates and got a six-month stretch for a first offence in an Open prison. I guess it was the wake up call he needed, but after giving him his first decent meal and some alcohol when he got out, I never saw him again, so who knows how he eventually turned out?

A friend’s son is apparently going through a similar experience and we asked our lad what the current take on drugs was. “Just about everyone takes something” was his immediate response “and the only advice is to not mix stuff”. So you don’t take E and drink booze, etc.

I guess it’s a shame that with so much on offer in this life (regardless of your financial situation) much of the world seems to be hiding behind some sort of chemical curtain.
I’m certainly not without vice – although red wine is allegedly good for you, the quantities I drink probably isn’t – but I confess I never felt the need to experiment. I just seemed to be able to have a great time without pills. Natural serotonin, I ‘spose.

Despite my iffy misgivings (great tautology there, Mr.D.) I just had to buy The Stranglers’ new album, “Norfolk Coast”. One of the clipped plaudits on the jewel case (allegedly) from something called “Uncut” says “Their best album in years”. Considering it’s their first in eight years, Uncut are really on the ball.

I blogged elsewhere about a recent Stranglers gig and my dismay at the aggravating gyrations of the current front-man, Baz Warne, but without the visual distraction, he does have a decent voice, worthy of the band’s lead vocalist.

The album is a tad too short, imho, at a fraction over 40 minutes, but is well worth a run out if you’re into the darker side of music.

I’ve mixed and matched the lyrics from “Sanfte Kuss” for today’s lyric. You’ll have to buy (or blag) the album to hear the English translation.

Part of the retail therapy in the recent jaunt into London involved buying some new CDs from the excellent range in Virgin's Megastore in Tottenham Court Road - two for me and one for Mrs.D. (if you can call an Elton John "Triple best of" an album?)
Still, we're going to see him at one of his "audiences in the park" gigs soon, so I'd better bite my lip (as opposed to my pillow, for those who remember a certain Liberal politician called Thorp).

So one of my two was a "Best of The Skids" and sadly I've been unable to find very much about them during a quick websearch, so rather than ramble on here, I'll just pepper the post with some decent articles and bio's.

The first three months of the year are a seemingly-endless segue of birthdays, anniversaries and yet more birthdays. Coming right after the Xmas excesses, it’s a veritable drain on the finances. But everyone seems to have enjoyed their relevant day(s).

The progeny bought Mrs.D. two tickets to see “We will rock you” at the Dominion. So we duly trogged up there for some retail therapy and respite from the d.i.y., which is still not finished and will drag on over several weekends (bit like me, then).

But the show was superb and with Ben Elton providing the humour behind the story, there were several ‘adult’ jokes which went over the heads of the younger audience, in true pantomime fashion. You don’t need to be a die-hard Queen fan to enjoy the show, but a working knowledge of the lyrics is necessary to get the best out of it.

Mig Ayesa is Galileo Figaro (or Shagalo Gigolo as his leading actress Scaramouche (played by the superb Hannah Jane Fox) corrupts it into. They head an excellent cast, with the redoubtable Nigel Planer also on top form. Go see.

Prior to the show, we were wandering around Tottenham Court Road and dodged into the Virgin Megastore for a Costa’s Coffee and general warm-up. Down in the basement they have an Aladdin’s Cave of musical instruments, many of which can be freely played by the customers.

It was very entertaining, watching two guys thrash virtual drum kits, their sticks bouncing soundlessly off of rubber cymbals and tom-toms, while the percussion was evidently being relayed back through their headphones.

Mum, I want one.

Leicester - 8:Tourists - 3
Of course, it’s possible that all parties were willing participants, but if these ambassadors of manhood are guilty of inflicting themselves on those women, I’d prefer that they didn’t have the balls to do it again.

So is castration (chemical or otherwise) a greater infringement of civil liberty than physical assault? I’ve gutted fish on a heaving deck, so I’m a dab hand with a sharp blade. You know how to contact me…

In other (happier) news

No.1 Son is 21 today.

Celebrations (his choice) will comprise champagne and Chinese takeaway. We raised him to eschew convention, so if our catering combination converts to a pavement pizza later during the evening, we only have ourselves to blame.

This is the last day of my first week back in The City and I’ve enjoyed it immensely. Gerry’s song was clearly written about Liverpool, but any major city or town has a certain buzz about it, which I hadn’t realised I’d missed.

But now I’m off for a week of d.i.y. so if your screen looks a little dusty because of the sanding down, I’ll be round with the Mr. Sheen in due course.

Peering out and up at a colourless, overcast sky, I’d rather be apricating right now.

Then when the heat gets too much, you slide into the sea to recce the area with a mask and snorkel, looking for a site to dive. Then back to your patch on the beach, grab a light snack, kit up and descend into warm, blue water.

Are you with me there?

Although I am a godless atheist, I do have an unwavering belief, summed up by today's lyric. An unshakeable faith, to see through the bad times with.

"I'll come running to tie your shoe" - Brian Eno: "I'll come running", from the album "Here come the warm jets" doesn't suggest a slavish devotion to me, more a selfless willingness to co-operate and help along.

"I'll protect you from The Hooded Claw; keep the vampires from your door" - Frankie Goes To Hollywood: "The Power Of Love" is not a control-freaky, over-shadowing grip on another's life.

31 years after saying "I do", Mrs.D. woke up next to me again, this morning, so I guess we have something in common to have lasted this long.

If it all imploded tomorrow, I'd have to say it's been an amazing run - and lots of fun along the way.

Firmly in the new London location, complete with massively-oversized monitor, which looks decidely out-of-place against the little flat-screen jobbies everyone else has. Still, always was an odd kid...