I Am The Passenger

Passenger. That's a word that's rarely uttered by the cattle-crushing-carriers that currently hold the mantle of national rail companies; no, to them we are "customers" and therefore are treated as such ie given poor service and offered a token refund when something goes wrong(should the stringent criteria for reclaiming the paltry payment actually be met beyond all reasonable doubt) whereas what actually matters is getting to where you are meant to going; ie your intended passage.

So step forward and take a bow GNER. I'm not saying they run the most timely service (they don't - read on), or that they have the most reliable trains (yet more hollow laughter is starting to bubble up here) but what they do have is their corporate heads screwed on the right way since they refer to us humble travellers as passengers - and what's more when things went "slightly" tits up on my recent epic travel from London to Whitby, they knew what was important which was getting four passengers to their "final" destination. Even if not by actual train-type thing.

Late running at Northallerton meant that the connection from London to Darlington - Middlesbrough-Whitby failed at the "arrive Darlington in time to get Middlesbrough to Whitby train" - now in my experience of rail delays, the standard response is a neo-Gallic shrug and the guidance to "wait for the next". Not so GNER - annoucement on the train that passengers for intending to go to Whitby should make themselves known to station staff at Darlington. I'm sure that this wasn't just so you could be assessed for Gothness - rather more that it was to inform the huddle of would-be Whitby Wanders that usually GNER would have got us a cab to catch the train at Middlesbrough but today was rather more special. Yes, your prize is a cab from Middlesbrough to Whitby. Methinks that they have had to use this ploy a few times in the past (hence comment about not being the most timely) but seeing as I've never even had a mumbled apology from other operators when minor delays have buggered up an onward journey, I was suitable impressed. I would continue to be a passenger but in a cab.

As the cab isn't a train it has the flexibility of being able to drop people directly home - and therefore I got a free tour of the Dales as well as being taken around some of the steepest, sheep raddled tracks I've been down for a while. Ever in fact. The one business traveller in the cab was getting slightly twitchy at the added detours but even he was momentarily gobsmacked when the late sun sunk to the line of the heathers/bracken/plant like red stuff in the horizon and light my world up in a blaze of orange. My camera was in the boot.

I was rather sorry to leave the chatty cabbie - and yes, I took up his recommendations of just where to drink in Whitby - it was again energising to be in the company of someone who was clearly passionate about his local surroundings and was as good an ambassador for tourism as you'd fine - but this was no "have a nice day" glibness, this was genuine "I am proud to show you my world" enthusiasm.

In fact the whole weekend was great - even if there were delays coming back - but no need for a cab this time, just the opportunity to smoke more CICS on a platform at York - stress, what stress

So although my journey took longer, it was more enjoyable than a three change strategy and the fact that was no stressing on the part of the train company dithering about what they are meant to do helped. GNER - thank you for remembering that passengers are more important than customers when it comes to getting where you need to go - afterall, if we were true customers, we'd have a choice.

Gig Heaven

Although I'm not doing the gigs in any magnitude compared to some I could think of (not so much Going Deaf for a Fortnight more Tinitus for Two or Three Days) I'm fast drawing up a wish list of things I'd rather not experience at gigs should the gods of gigging be smiling benevolently down on me.

Stupid People Blowing Bubbles into my (overpriced) Beer

Two very stupid (and short) girlies decided that what the crowd at the Kaiser Chiefs gig in Brixton really wanted was to have a stream of soapy bubbles blown around to create atmosphere during the change over between sets with the consequence that soapy bubbles were pinging against beer glasses. This is not a nursery, this is not an outdoor wide open space - this is the Brixton Academy and you soppy twats are blowing soap bombs right at me & my beer. A few grumbled "for fucks sake" and an exaggerated fending off of bubbles got the point across. The cheeky mares then decided that they'd try the "oooh I'm a short girlie, could you just let me squeeze through in front of you" to a couple of gullible looking blokes. It almost worked, Bloke One was all for it, but Bloke Two (shorter...) was having none of it and a distinct "fuck off and get here earlier next time" was uttered.

which leads to.....

Overpriced Beer

£3.15 for a can of warm Guinnesss poured badly into a warm plastic beaker doesn't represent value for money or even a remotely enjoyable experience. This was the offering recent at Carling Academy Islington for The Fall and only warm, flat Carling could have actually been worse. I know there is a mark-up needed but £3.15! For a can - taking the piss rather than getting so methinks. If someone jolts your arm, that's a good 50p a slop which neatly leads me to.....

Gig-Going Injuries

I smirked at the advice issued prior to V2005 re the dangers of going to gigs, or as the Daily Mail would probably have put it "Music: It Could Seriously Damage Your Health" which was along the lines of be aware that lots of drinking, hot sun and standing in one position for 8 hours may be a tadge edgy or that you may wish to consider doing a warm up prior to frotting about like a looney. Surely the biggest risk at a gig would be the risk of slightly bruised tootsies....Let me enlightened you and introduce the concept of "Gig Goers Groin".

The 20 minutes of bliss that was Misty's as part of the In The City Evening was almost spoilt when amidst a bit of aimless jigging around, I manage to slide in a slop of spilt beer (some buggers lost a £1 worth if the same price tariff was in place as for The Fall) and narrowly avoided doing the half splits - my apologies to the woman whose arm I grabbed to prevent myself executing a move I last managed at school gymnastics when I was 9. The burning agony was only partly abated by the fact that the set wasn't finished or else I'd have collapsed in a heap but the horrors of Gig Goers Groin needs exposure. Or maybe not.

Inaccurate Gig timings provided by Venues

If you are the host of a gig then bloody well know a) who is playing and b) what time they bloody well are due on when someone rings your information line. I went to see the truly excellent Mountain Goats at Bush Hall (fantastic venue - naff organisation skills) and had rung to check line up and rough on-stage times "well, there's someone on at 8 - but I don't know who it is, then 9 there is a girl and then the MGs are on at 10pm". Fantastic - beer time aplently. Wrong - they were due on at 9.30, I turned up just before 10 and luckily they had just gone on but I was consigned to the back of the room - but as the gig was so good it almost didn't matter - but it would have been good to get there a bit before the band. Information is meant to be helpful, not aspirational.

But at least the music has been good and I'm not really auditioning for a role in the new season of Grumpy Old Woman.

Well FCUKed

The psuedo irony of the French Connection FCUK branding gets right on my tits (well not literally as I don't own any of their t-shirts but you get the drift) and I find it somewhat distasteful to see young kids with the branding on - afterall if they'd shouted out "fuck it" to their parents they'd have been lamped, but hohoho it's fine for wear a t-shirt that portrays the same sentiment.

I can actually remember when French Connection was held up as a sophisticated label, reknowned for sleek styling etc and not as some sort of "I Read the Sun" identity tag for those lacking the ackers for fake Burberry.

So it was great whoops of delight that a link was found between a band I'm quite getting to like, IST, and slating FCUK. The link being that one of the lines from a song is "Your Boyfriend is a Cnut" and the rather enterprising KingCnut clothing line kindly did a t-shirt for them to commemorate the lyrics. Well cool.

But this isn't the end of the link, KingCnut have have a long running and vitriolic clash with those Fcukers at French Connection who were claiming that he'd stolen the idea for Cnut & Wnaker brandings from them - funny I thought that your average dyslexic would have been able to come up with a similar idea for free - and of course Cnut is now the "correct" spelling for the old King Canute from old, my the teaching profession must have welcomed that decision....

It's a fascinating story since it also highlights the number of brands that FCUK have had to pull when they were threaten with legal action - particularly like the Goodyear one. As KingCnut puts it, companies that are that possessive over trademarks (and nothing wrong in that) should apply the same criteria to their competitors marks. I was particulary impressed by the fact that KingC had taken it upon himself to contact the companies whose marks were being infringed as a "public spirited act" Standing up to bullies by getting a bigger bully involved is a sound strategy. Go Dave.

And if you go to the site - hunt out the anti-FCUK poem by Claire Whitefield - it says it all. An extract to give you a flavour of the sentiment:

"So may be once it was daring
To have badly spelt swearing
Emblazoned across your chest
But lads, looking like a sex pest
Is far from the best way
To communicate with a potential date
So when you start to flirt in a t-shirt
That says Am I your fantasy FCUK?
you'll understand why the smart women just look at you and turn away
.Because what good is an illiterate suitor
Who can't spell fuck, never mind Kama Sutra

So to King Cnut, IST and the rest - don't let the fcukers get you down!

Underneath the Arches

Sunday evenings usually have the stiffling claustrophobia of a tedious family Christmas - nothing to do, the thought of the daily grind kicking in for Monday morning and the usual drudgery which has stayed with me since I was a kid, to whit "getting my bag ready for Monday" - although nowdays I rarely have problems finding my hockey pads and history homework.

But not this Sunday, oh no because despite it being yucky weather and decidly hibernating weather at that, I decided to haul carcass to the Red Gate Gallery Camberwell to see a line up including Jason Anderson, Tiger Saw and yay Kimya Dawson (a twice-featured artist on SrokaSounds).

Just a quick divert on to the traffic front - I can highly recommend the Liverpool Street + No.35 bus combination as the ideal way to get to Red Gate Gallery since the advertised Thameslink service stops mid afternoon. Train & bus combo fantastic.

The venue is a converted railway arch workshop, with a bar area and installation space for exhibitions - be warned it is tucked right away but look for the iron-wroughters sign and the er um red gate and you'll find it. It's a great venue and I reckon there was about 100ish people there in total and it was just right. The staff were fantastic, very polite and ready to chat on and, unlike the bigger rip-off venues I've attended recently (Carling Academy), there was well chilled cans of Stella @ £2, spirits and mixers and even mulled wine and ported-brandy if you wanted it.

Oh, and no tall bastards standing in the way.

A scattering of deck chairs was the seating or there was the floor. No stage as such, merely a clearing, which meant that the performers trolled around with the rest of us and chilled. The night was in aid of studentsinmind and was an undaunting sort of thing to do on your own.

Emmy the Great was a surprise guest to kick off with and I'm still grinning at the line about "having a typhoon in my aorta" and it's always great to hear accompaniment by the xylophone - she's appearing at Islington Academy on Thursday so maybe I'll be grinning even more by Friday.

Next was Doubtful Guest from Bath - and it was at this point the sound went slightly loopy meaning that they sounded ringers for Murder by Death (which is good) but possibly not the desired effect. When they were sounding like them, they were pretty cool in a folk-jazz-rock (sure there is a proper word for it) type of way and I'll be looking out for the promised further London gigs as they were seriously fun and enjoyed playing to the crowd. Truly ace. The sound man was starting to look a bit more relaxed....

...which was a mistake. The exceptionally musically moody Duke Garwood was next and to be frank, the vocal sound was crocked - guitar fantastic, vocals a bit like a hamster with a kazoo. He manfully completed his set and the sound guy was trying to blend into the wall at this point. It didn't help that some arseholes in the crowd was bordering on heckling because of it. Haven't they heard of being polite? Would like to have heard the set but the guitar was good enough for me.

And then a man with presence came on. Tiger Saw, in the solo form of Dylan Metrano, was pure delight. He had worked out that the sound was a bit fragile so used the inner power of a good voice instead. He talked to the crowd, got them involved and executed a perfect set. "The Tiger & Tailor", "Postcards & Letters" and "For Molly" all were pretty slick and was enough to make me surrender the potential late night snack money for a contribution towards a cd of the entire Tiger Saw band (as there are usually more than just him). A cheer to you sir.

Jason Anderson is just the person you'd want anywhere. From ensuring the crowd were "close" to him, to a bit of bouncing around sing-along and some good old ballads with a modern twist - it was all there. oh and plus energy. The man oozes energy and fun and he was right, tonight there was no "us and them, just us and the music". Energy levels raised, humour high and lots of happy people meant a successful set. It was like having your own personal upper in the form of bloke with guitar and grin. Fantastic - it was even enough to make me shrug of the nagging thought that public transport finishes earlier on a Sunday.....

And then Kimya Dawson finished drawing up the personal t-shirts (damn, more money would have been good) and took to the stage amidst sheer adoration from the crowd. She went through a chronologically written set, included both tracks I'd used for podcasts (Viva la persistence and The Beer) and was thoroughly entertaining - even getting a fit of the giggles mid song. No lip synching here then. She is an excellent songwriter, fantastic performer and someone with a very distinct voice. And above all passion. Just what a Sunday night should be like.

Fearing the hell that would be night-bus rather than turning into a pumpkin, I was able to peg it back to Liverpool Street in time to get one of the last trains and so not have to shell out a fortune on a cab. So in all for the price of a travel card and £7 quid (plus beer money of course) I had a great time.

Big gigs - you can stick 'em. Give me a railway arch and a bunch of people who care about what they are doing and I'm blissfully happy.

Fluid Structure

I'm beginning to get the creep of disorder raising it's scaly head. I lurch from being hyper organised and rigidly structured in every aspect of my life to some sort of chaos magnet with every increasing circles of disorder creeping in.

Examples are, and I'm aware that when I describe the "ordered me" that I'm describing characteristics that are text book "stay away from this control freak" type behaviours and would have me running a mile if I noticed them in others, tins in the food cupboard being stored alphabetically (and yes, I can hear the "hohoho how do you catalogue alphabetti spaghetti" from here), clothes being hung up in colour sequence from dark to light- less of a challenge when 75% of my clothes are black, cds filed in alphabetical order & sub divided by genre - after I've done the "mine & yours" segmentation of course, I'm not into ordering other people's lives and all book marks on the computer lumped into six or seven categories and regularly reviewed and plates, mugs etc put away in their correct place.

If you ever watch "Sleeping with the Enemy" you'll know why I'm not entirely comfortable with this side of my nature.

Contrast with the happy-slacker side of my nature that is currently prevalent (and is taking over) and I doubt that many people would recognise the organised me under it all. Clothes are now happily jumbled up with the heavy black shirts getting cosy with the bright pink jumper, the black combats establishing nodding acquaintance with the odd frilly skirt and wodge of black ankle length skirts having the time of their lives by being next to the hibernating summer wear. My wardrobe is a happy place. No more segregation of the brights and dims, it's all shoved in anyhow. Bugger ironing anything.

And the food store, well I'm taking it as a success that frozen stuff gets put in the freezer and as for plates etc, you can take pot luck as to whether there is a knife in the knife drawer since I tend just to throw all the cutlery in en masse. Let there be sporks! The presence of an empty beer bottle and two mismatching coffee mugs on the shelf is reassuring.

CDs are now in a listening stack, if you are lucky the content of the case will the be same as the title but I'd not pin my pension on it for all cases. By a process of neglect, I've identified those cds that are likely to become charity shop casualties pretty soon. Maybe neglect is the best way to be organised?

The one thing that I have to reclaim is getting my playlists, bookmarks and pc filing back in order - however much of a uncontrol freak I'm turning into, for the things that really matter (like my music and browsing time) they've got to be structured so I'm intending to spend some serious time housekeeping the virtual home - ie my pc. I've already enjoyed rereading the "Cooking for Engineers" website that I'd bookmarked - just now need to find a place to file it.

Maybe it's a sign that at long last, I'm starting to transform into a less uptight, frantic person - blimey that's going to take some getting used to.

I Wanna Be A Hippie

I've been searching for a download of Technohead's "I Wanna Be A Hippie (and I wanna get stoned" for ages and am still unfulfilled on this - however a piece of animation to rival the JCB song is available from those fab people at Brainwashed and if pogoing sheep are your bag - then whip over there and view it. It's made my day!

The reason I want the song - it reminds me of a mad aerobics teacher I used to have (in those days when bouncing around was the preferred activity of choice before drinking & smoking) and the vindicative cow played the real fast mix to which we had to do grapevine stepping and star jumps. Bloody hell you'd need to be high to do that - in fact I'd need to be seriously blotted to even contemplate it now.

All together now "I wanna be a hippie and I wanna get stoned on mara-marijuna"

Day Tripper

The subject of holidays came up over a goodbye lunch with a colleague - he'd recently come back from Lisbon and was rapidly turning me shades of green with describing how stunning it all was. Musuems, stunning architecture, cheap alcohol, friendly people, did I mention cheap wine. And then there was the inevitable "so are you having a holiday this year".

Mindful that it is now November and I'm not exactly built for wintersports (I'm short and have bad balance) - it isn't exactly likely. Although I am going to Whitby in a few weeks for a murder event but now that the days are drawing in, the prospect (of whitby) of cold, rain, darkness and a bloody lengthy train journey is appealing less and less.

I think I'm suffering holiday envy, first the Lisbon guy, then my friend currently living it up in Las Vegas, I'm surrounded by people and their holidays. The idea of a week off doing nothing much tends to freak me out slightly and as much as I love my own company, I think that I could even bore myself by day 3. And then there's the horror of coming back to either a mountain of work or the "guess what - I'm your new line manager" scenario - although currently at work if you are too long in the lav you run the same risk - meaning that any chilling out achieved by not being at work lasts approximately 1 minute after you hit the email and in my case, usually a day before that.

Logical conclusion to draw therefore is that taking holidays is a baaad thing. I end up feeling somewhat inadequate that I can't seem to get my life together enough to actually want to pack up my bags, head to the travel agents and demand to be put on the first plane out of here - even more irritating is the knowledge that I've got a stack of leave gathering virtual dust - pretty soon I'll have a compost of leave. What is point of being rich in leave but poor in time.

So why do I feel that the one thing I really want is to be anywhere but where I am right now?