Takes me back to the place that I know

A few days away with the Number One Son and his betrothed had been on the calendar for ages but still it managed to creep up on me unawares. I love it when long weekends do that. Despite the weather not always being clement and the fact we were a man down for the first night, we still had a fine old time. Though we will be back in the Spring when the weather gods will, hopefully, get their shit together and all squad members will be 110% fighting fit. Natalie had never been to Whitby before so we showed her the sights, including: the slots, The Abbey, The Black Horse and the Passage to India. The top photo is her and James walking down the one hundred and ninety nine Abbey Steps. And the photo below is one Natalie took of us on the beach at Sandsend (thereby recreating a shot of the Medds taken in, roughly, the same spot in 2014).

The final day of our trip became quite emotionally charged when we bumped into a friend we'd not seen in eight years: it transpired that Adele has not been enjoying the best of health lately and has a number of serious operations lined up. As always in these situations I didn't really know what to say. I hope I said the right things but all I really wanted to do was hug her tightly. So that's what I did. Here's the last picture I took of her when she came to visit us not long after we'd moved back to Nottingham in 2017. I hope everything works out, Adele. J x.

The Incredible Shrinking Man

Who's got a tape measure?

I know I'm six foot tall. I've been six foot since I turned 16. It says six foot on my passport. Just because the nurse at my local GP surgery recently clocked me in at 5'-11" does not mean I'm 5'-11". No way Pedro. If you look carefully at the above photograph (taken on Saturday at James and Janni's wedding party) I'm kinda leaning in - and down - at the same time. James is not a seven foot giant - he is a mere 6'-4". Just to set the record straight. And, to set it straight even further, dad is not taller than me. He must be standing on a book, or something. Must be.

I'm glad I got that out of the way.

A big thank you to my friend Adele who texted me earlier this evening and put a smile on my face. I'd sent her the photo and she replied back:

"Nice pic of the 3 Amigos, looking very trim xx"

(Can I be Steve Martin, can I?)

Blue Eyed Soul

Blue Eyed Soul was a lazy catch all phrase that some music hack coined back in the sixties to describe anyone with white skin having the audacity to sing rhythm and blues or soul music.
And everyone from Rod Stewart to Adele, via Paul Young and Mick Hucknall, has subsequently been burdened with the tag. It should be redundant now, but you will still see a rake of compilation albums bearing the name, and flyers too for various club nights; as the duty roster included the likes of George Michael and Spandau Ballet, you'd know to leave your parka on the coat hook and your scooter in the garage. Northern Soul it is not.

One of the names (well, two to be precise) constantly mentioned when Blue Eyed Soul gets a name-check is Hall & Oates. Their take on all things soulful was never anything less than luxurious. It all sounded so effortless. And frighteningly good, too: Kiss on My List was just about as good as it got.

Here's a version Daryl Hall did as part of his Daryl's House series - a couple of octaves lower and a tad slower, I think it shades the original.

Grass Man

My friend Adele feels the same way about gardening as I do: there's only one thing worse than gardening, and that's people talking about gardening.

However, a garden without grass is one thing, but a world without grass is unthinkable. Say hello to the Grass Man.

Whilst Adele was with us this weekend we went to see Dodgy in a little club in town. As usual they were on fine form. Unusually, however, they were without Matthew their drummer. He was moonlighting.

But they did play this. Obviously.

Dodgy: Grassman

Fall

The ability to put one foot in front of the other is a skill, seemingly, some of my friends are fast losing (not that I can talk). I heard today that Vaughan suffered the ignominy of tripping over a discarded water bottle and, before you could say Evian, was being admitted to Lincoln County Hospital with mild concussion. He was discharged when he was able to count backwards from ten and promised doctors he'd look where he was going next time. Man up Vaughan.

This follows a very nasty fall my friend Adele had last week. Drink may have been taken and, yes, 'Liverpool Sandals' may or may not have played their part too, but Adele was also was rushed into hospital after she went arse over apex and smashed her face into the pavement. Ouch. Get well soon Adele x.

Neil Finn - Fall at Your Feet

Hello from the other side

To the best of my knowledge Gary Sparrow does not own a sonic screwdriver. And, I think it's safe to say, he wouldn't know a flux capacitor if he fell over one. But, and here's the thing, none of the above credentials (or lack thereof) make him any less of a time traveller than The Doctor or, indeed, Marty McFly. In fact, what makes Gary Sparrow so good at time travel (and by good I really mean rubbish) is that he comes at the whole concept of space time continuum with absolutely no knowledge of how it works. It just does.

Well, it did until seventeen years ago. That was when the BBC parted company with the hapless, but very likeable, two timing star of Goodnight Sweetheart - the Corporation's gentle wartime/time travel small screen rom com - leaving him stranded in 1945 with no way of ever returning home: home being 1999.

However, that all changed last week. Fast forward to 1962 and Sparrow decides to hot foot it to the hospital on the day of his birth (yes, his *birth day*) and hang about outside the delivery ward. And, faster than you can say 'ration book' finds himself fast forwarded to 2016 and a world he has absolutely no comprehension of (I know how he feels some days).

All the usual gags are telegraphed well in advance - phone shop speak, hipsters, coffee shop saturation, overtly gay couples holding hands in the street - you know the sort of thing that tells us that the world has moved on. But, as a one off, it sort of worked - for the most part. The writing was just as strong, and the familiar characters were all rolled out looking, in the main, recognisable from just before the turn of the Milleneum - with the exception of his best mate, Ron, who, clearly, is still carrying out the world's longest paper round.

Finally, we witnessed Sparrow's stock in trade (always the show's highlight for me) of passing off pop hits of the future as his own compositions and playing them on the pub's piano, decades before they were written. And, in this one off special, it was special: Gary, just back from 2016, where he'd just met the seventeen year old daughter he never knew he had, sat down at the Joanna, on his birthday, and played Adele's Hello From the Other Side. Timeless.

You've got a friend

Tapestry (with cat)

Tapestry (without cat)

Reading David Hepworth's riveting 1971 on the train to the Harrogate Literary Festival yeterday (to see David Hepworth and Mark Ellen speaking together), I was struck in an early chapter by just how pivotal Carole King's Tapestry album was to the history of rock music. Prior to 1971 precious few albums recorded by women had ever gone to the # 1 slot on Billboard - Janis Joplin and Bobbie Gentry being the notable exceptions, muscling their way in to what was a very testosterone fuelled environment. At its peak Tapestry was selling an eye watering 150,000 copies a week: every week for pretty much most of that year (it's now sold north of 25 million). And it soon became the bedrock of many a playlist on America's fledgling FM radio stations, where it hit the sweet spot - for men and women alike. It really did, and still does, sound like she was singing her intimate songs to you and to you alone. Especially 'You've Got a Friend'.

Often covered but never bettered - even when she gave the song to her good friend James Taylor who recorded it within days of King and with many of the same musicians.

Sold

© RobTownsend

Local photographer and exponent of anthropomorphism Rob Townsend is currently exhibiting his latest portfolio of stunning snaps taken hither and thither, thither and thon. Last night's opening night saw the ever modest Townsend pressing the flesh whilst at the same time pretending not to be waiting desperately for his first sale of the evening. He didn't have to wait long: ten minutes in and Adele put him out of his misery. 'Vieux Nice' (above) was the first of many green dots that started appearing in the bottom right hand corner of Rob's delightful images.

Fade to grey

Getting divorced and moving house: they say these are up there in the Top 5 most stressful things you can do. Yep, I’ll go along with that. A good friend of mine is currently going through a divorce (to be followed by the inevitable house move) and she recently told me it was so stressful she’s recently found two grey hairs on her head that weren’t there before; not having the best of memories I can’t remember how much grey I had when I parted company with the first Mrs. Medd (my hair probably looked as if I’d just painted a ceiling), but as this photograph taken yesterday shows – I think it’s too late for the Grecian 2000 now.

Older? Yep. Wiser? Probably not

The card from The Number One Son

The cake

The baker

It had to happen. You can't stay in your early fifties forever. I was born on a Wednesday, so I really am trying not to be full of woe. Being surrounded by family helps; that and having my birthday cake delivered, personally, earlier this morning by the baker. A few beers and a curry later and I'm sure the idea of reaching my Britvic birthday will sink in. Life must go on.

No excuses

in the games room: hours of endless fun c/o the freaky deaky Dutch

Last night's Boxing Day celebrations at Medd Towers will live long in the memory. A veritable feast was laid on for this invite only event, straddling, as it does, Christmas Day and my birthday; all washed down with (among other concoctions) several Black & Tans and a rather nice Port (poured direct from the freezer, for reasons nobody can quite remember). The entertainment included a few rounds of Sjoelbakken - a spectacular game from The Netherlands that has been played in Medds' residences up and down the UK for at least three generations.

The lovely Adele came bearing gifts: I was presented with a beautiful note book - it's got lines and perforations and everything. And in the bottom right hand corner of each page sits an outline drawing of an acoustic guitar. Now I have absolutely no excuse for not using the opportunity of a few days' down time to write a new song. Have I?

Can we just go back to the start?

Anyone who watched Cold Feet first time around will remember three couples, six friends, living in faltering relationships and generally not making a great advertisement for marriage - falling in and out of love - sometimes with each other, sometimes not. I was the same age as these people back in the nineties and found the whole thing mesmerising. And having a soft spot for Helen Baxendale I always thought Rachel could have done better than Adam. As it turned out, it was all immaterial. Life really is too short.

Sometimes all we want to do in life is stand up and say: 'Can we just go back to the start?'