My Life in 10 Objects (#10)

I was certainly standing on the shoulders of giants when I commissioned myself to write this homage series; the idea that there are 10 objects I'd run into a burning building to rescue is really nothing more than me storing my thoughts in a safe place so that I can maybe look at them again when my memory maybe isn't as sharp as it is now. Which, in all honesty, is probably why, a decade after I started, I regularly update this journal, this web log. (Without getting too deep here, I'm not afraid of dying; but I am afraid of getting old; there, I've said it. When I look back at my life thus far I often think that much of it happened to somebody else, not me; a version of me, but not the me I recognise through the lens of 2020.)

But I digress. I said at the outset of this project that I would also mention the items that didn't make the cut. Of course I can't possibly list all the trinkets that have come into my possession over the last six decades. But here are a few that just missed the crucial cut off: my paperback copy of Magnus Mills' All Quiet on the Orient Express; my guitar; the bagatelle Santa put in my sack in 1966; a square of my Nanna's sewing; a set of Beatles autographs (fakes, but I don't care); one of my (many) watches; my mother's music box; the mixing bowl I use to make bread. All precious to me, but not as precious as this.

I've wanged on about this band quite a lot around here so, I won't bore you any further; suffice it to say this is my last item and these are the stats.

What's it called? Block Buster!

Who's it by? The Sweet

When and where purchased? January 1973/Grantham Market

How much? 25p

Number of plays? 17,550 in its first year alone*

Has there ever been a better single released since? Hell, no!

Will it be going in my coffin with me? Of course

* That's a very precise number, I hear you say. But I reckon I listened to it at least 50 times a day thru 1973 (less my two week holiday in Ireland). So, I make that (365 -14) x 50 = 17,550.

My Life in 10 Objects (#9)

The Summer of 2005 was a brilliant Summer for all sorts of reasons - Phill Jupitus came to Medd Towers and did his breakfast show live from our lounge and we took James to New York for the first time (he loved it so much we went back the following year).
It was also the Summer an artist friend of mine, Gerry Laffy, painted James. Still only 15, James was in a band that were tearing up trees at the time. Winning Battle of the Bands, recording a dazzling EP and getting played on the radio - I wanted a permanent reminder of just how amazing (and how amazingly proud of him I was - and still am) that time was.

Gerry didn't disappoint. While we were in NYC I was regularly checking my emails in sleazy internet cafés (remember them?) where Gerry was emailing me progress photos of his painting. The final one being of the canvas drying in his north London back garden. 

A couple of days after returning from America I bombed down to Swiss Cottage and picked up the canvas which, even with the back seats folded down, only just fitted in the back of the car. James' mind was blown when he first saw it. Truth be known, 15 years later, it probably still blows his mind whenever he comes back home to visit his mother and father.

The reason for the delay in posting this is that I was desperately trying to find the photo of me and Gerry posing in his kitchen in front of the canvas. But could I find it? Three house moves in seven years and despite thinking I knew where the photo lived I suspect it might be in one of the as yet still unopened packing cases. I will find it! 

My Life in 10 Objects (#8)

I've been a tad distracted of late, so the latest instalment of MLITO (catchy, huh?) got temporarily jammed in the works while I was busy in the back putting out a few fires.

Today's object comes as part of a twofer, simply because the first object - when it's not in use - resides in the second. Let me explain:

Since James was old enough to throw, and catch, a ball, he's been throwing a frisbee with his old man - usually on beaches (and usually beaches in Devon).

When packing for holidays our Discraft Ultra-Star 175 (175 grams - weight is everything when it comes to frisbees) was every bit as important as a toothbrush or a clean pair of socks.

The action shot below shows perfectly the frisbee in mid-flight.



This was Slapton Sands in South Devon about ten years ago. (Looking at the clear blue sky I don't think thermals would have been an issue that day!)

James is coming up to Scotland with me in a couple of weeks - so no prizes for guessing what we'll be taking away with us.

And that second object? Like the frisbee, I've just remembered, it was bought in the same town (Totnes) and probably around the same time (c.1997). My rucksack - to be found in the bottom of my wardrobe - has been all over the world with me and, as I said above, it gives board and lodging to the frisbee in the close season. Today's object(s).

My Life in 10 Objects (#7)

Despite being a man of a certain age I'd like to think I can more than hold my own in this frighteningly fast moving digital age; although I am mildly disappointed that we have yet to see the jet-packs, monorails and Wimpey Bars on the moon we were promised as kids.

As digitalised as we all are entering the third decade of the 21st. century, it's become apparent - to me anyway - that even since lockdown how the pace of change has accelerated yet further still, hurling us headlong into a virtual contactless only way of going on; at a time in history, perversely, when most of us are craving more human interaction, not less.

"Hello!"

Thank God then for pen and paper. Even in 2020 I still write things down: diary (yes, I still keep a pocket diary); lists, notes to myself, doodling - all are all done with my humble pen.


And my pen of choice? A Bic four in one biro, of course. The immensely satisfying staccato clicking between the different colours is as pleasurable for the user as it is annoying for anyone else within ear shot. I've been using them for years and see no reason to change horses now. Parkers may come and Papermates may go, but give a me a Bic any day. With a vast choice  of barrel livery (as you can see I'm currently using a 'silver' one) and permutation of ink colours, what's not to like? 

I think one of the reasons I love this particular writing implement is that it's a throwback to when sales assistants in hardware shops would have them sticking out of their top pockets; when, despite a total lack of health & safety, the world was still a safer place. In every respect. The Bic four colour biro - today's object.

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However, I've just seen the future: the Bic 3+1 with mechanical pencil. I want one! Tomorrow's (World) object!

My Life in 10 Objects (#6)

The recent passing of Jack Charlton was a sad loss not only to the world of football, but also to the world of playing cards. Let me explain. We Medds are inveterate card players; as soon as we're able to count, a place is set for us at the table and somebody deals us in.

When James was growing up and living at home he played many, many hands of Rummy, Newmarket, Predictions with friends & family, and could hold his own from a very early age.
One of the packs of cards we used depicted badly drawn footballers  - we often wondered if the artist even knew who Gary Lineker was - and it soon became our default deck.

A number of catchphrases built up around several of these these hapless artist impressions: whenever Jack Charlton(a humble Two of Clubs) came out of the deck, it was met with a derisory 'Jack? He'll win you jack!' Nobby Stiles simply: 'Nobby lad!'

David Beckham, on the other hand, was quite literally the ace in the pack. Lay down the Ace of Hearts and a shout of 'Becksy's out the pen' would drown out many a game.
But now Jack joins the list of those in the pack sadly no longer with us - George Best, Bobby Moore, Stanley Matthews... 
Football playing cards. Today's object.

Speaking of George Best:

Link Wray - Ace of Spades (1965)

My Life in 10 Objects (#5)

I mentioned the deteriorating state of my eyesight as far back as 2010. Back then I was floating the idea of wearing my glasses on a chain round my neck; no, of course that didn't happen. However, in the intervening period I've had my eyes tested regularly and upgraded my bins as my eyesight has, predictably, got worse. In this time, therefore, I've changed eyewear on at least four occasions and each time had my previous pair turned into sunglasses. So that has meant two spectacles cases to carry round, put down, and mislay. They have been part of my life for so long they've become part of my spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch mantra before I can leave the house.
The glasses cases - one pictured here - are what I call the Toblerone type: triangular. They also have a magnetic lid and, as you can see, fold flat; so easy to put in my inside pocket. The cases I use - made by Lindberg - date from when I used to wear their glasses. The cases that all my subsequent glasses have come in are nowhere near as robust, so I've stuck with my trusty Toblerone. Today's object.

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I tweeted about my new bins here. Similar to my last pair (in my profile pic), but they're yellow on the inside. And on the top. But you'll only see the yellow if you stand over me. It's the little things in life.

My Life in 10 Objects (#4)

In 1977 John Noakes, Blue Peter's most unlikely Action Man, was about to climb Nelson's Column in London's Trafalgar Square - without a safety harness and wearing nothing more than a car coat and a pair of flares. His mission - to help clean pigeon guano off Nelson's noggin.

I must confess I've been looking for an excuse to show this classic bit of footage for ages. And what better way to shoehorn it in to my blog than to include my actual Blue Peter badge - the one I received as a competition runner-up in 1968, c/w a signed letter from the show's producer, Biddy Baxter. It's been sitting in a 'badge box' (not to be confused with a badger box) full of all my old punk pins - Generation X, Buzzcocks, Radio Stars et al - for donkey's years. So I'm pleased to elevate it, finally, to treasured status. It is my fourth object.

The non-Shep related quote below is taken from Noakes' IMDb page. It's from the commentary he overdubbed on to the film afterwards; as opposed to the ongoing nervous dialogue he's having with his appointed sherpa, and the BBC camera man during his assent (both of whom are also wearing precisely the same amount of PPE as Noakes i.e. bugger all).

"At this level, the plinth on which Nelson stands overhangs the column. I found myself literally hanging from the ladder with nothing at all beneath me."

John Noakes (1934-2017)

My Life in 10 Objects (#3)

If you could say it in words there'd be no reason for mugs

Apparently radiocarbon dating is the most effective way to both accurately date an artefact and to establish the site from which it came; though with fossils, for example, you could still be a few million years out either side.
Thankfully, I think it's safe to say, I can date the 10 objects in this series with a fairly high level of accuracy without the need for such technology.



In the case of today's show and tell I think it's pretty much beyond doubt exactly how old it is, and indeed where it's from: you've just got to look at it. A visit to Tate Modern in the summer of 2004 to see the magnificent Hopper exhibition was the backdrop for a perfect day out in the capital. Ah, train journeys to London; remember them? I can't wait to see John Betjeman at St. Pancras again and tap him on the shoulder.

Vintage 2004

I've written about Hopper hereabouts and in particular Nighthawks so, I hope you don't mind, I'll limit today's missive to concentrate on my purchase from the gift shop at the Tate. Not having a spare £50M about my person that particular day (how remiss of me) I had to content myself with the ubiquitous mug. Which, can I say, is still alive and well (after 16 years) in my kitchen.

At the risk of making me sound like a crazed loner I need to tell you that I only use it on Saturdays and Sundays; coffee only. I have mugs a plenty for use in the week; mainly, though not exclusively, for tea. But not Hopper. Oh no, not Hopper. He's a weekend mug. And a coffee mug. Today's object.

My Life in 10 Objects (#2)

I love a scarf; I have a bit of a thing for them. From my Tootal silk scarves to the lovely wooly one my daughter-in-law knitted a couple of winters ago, they all sit in an orderly pile* at the bottom of my wardrobe.

Today's object can be found in amongst them. When my pop sadly passed away in 1983 his estate comprised nothing more than a few pound notes stuffed under the mattress and a modest bank book. Doreen, his second wife, was therefore left enough readies to pay the rent for the next couple of months and not a lot else. Before she took his clothes to the charity shop she asked me if there was anything I'd like. Quick as a flash I said 'That scarf' pointing to the coat hooks in the hallway. Pop's favourite scarf - the one he'd worn for years - hung on a peg looking every bit alone as Doreen would be in that already quiet house.

Nearly 40 years later and I wear it every winter. I'm proud to say it's never been washed and I'm sure I can still smell his scent on it.

As a bonus to today's post you can see another object on display here (#2A!); that's right, the vintage coat hanger. This too has been in my procession for more years than I care to remember: liberated by my dad from the Bonnington Hotel in London's West End sometime in the 60s, this hanger, despite having endured  upwards of a dozen house moves, is still holding up; a coat hanger amongst coat hangers!

* For orderly pile, read heap

My Life in 10 Objects (#1)

I've been listening to recent reruns of the excellent Radio 4 series A History of the World in 100 Objects. It's a history of humanity through a myriad of man made objects of ancient art, industry, technology, and arms dating back to 9000BC. This amazing programme is presented by Neil McGregor from the British Museum who curates an incredible collection, and pulls in priceless artefacts as diverse as Hoa Hakananai's Easer Island Statue, relics from the Byzantine Empire, Moche warrior pots and a Japanese bronze mirror from the 12th century. A truly epic series broken down into one hundred 15 minute nuggets. Absolutely riveting. I can't recommend it highly enough.

I only wish I could say the same for this new mini series of my own. My Life in 10 Objects is, I've got to be honest with you, far from riveting. Seriously; I don't even know how I have the temerity to even mention the Director of the British Museum in the same sentence as this cheapskate version of Mr. McGregor's award winning series that took four years to research. But, hey, what are you gonna do?

My life on this planet, such that it is, has seen men walk on the moon, the Beatles, punk rock and more internet porn than you can shake a shitty stick at. So how does a child of the 60s condense nearly six decades of love, life and happiness (mostly) into a clutch of objects that probably wouldn't even fill an average size suitcase? Good question. The items I have chosen are a hotchpotch of the everyday mingled with stuff that I turn to only occasionally but are every bit as poignant/important to me. And no, I haven't got anything in there as mundane as my car (or even my car keys) or my phone or my favourite winter coat; though my list of also rans at the end of the series that didn't quite make the cut will include, I'm sure, all sorts of flotsam and jetsam that help make up my dodgy DNA.

Today's inaugural offering is an item that despite me knowing exactly where in the house it resides, I tend to only seek it out when I allow my mind to wander; specifically when it wanders back to one of my earliest exposures to television. So between Watch with Mother (when I'd be around five) and Doctor Who (I was all of seven when I first encountered Patrick Troughton) came Captain Scarlet. Quite how the colours of all the characters who worked for Spectrum were ever conveyed through the medium of a black and white telly is something of a mystery, but as a very impressionable six year old I'm convinced I could see that Captain Scarlet was indeed wearing a shiny red uniform and that Captain Blue's was, er, blue. It must have had something to do with all the merchandise around at the time - TV21 comics, action figures and the like.

Pride of place in my 1967 bedroom, however, was given over to a Spectrum wallet. Pictured here you can see it came in a striking scarlet livery and, most importantly, contained a driving licence (a full ten years before I got behind the wheel of my Vauxhall Viva), permitting me to drive both a Spectrum Patrol Car (the sporty red one) and a Spectrum Pursuit Vehicle (SPV - the one you drove whilst facing backwards). I probably wasn't cognisant of the fact that opportunities to drive such vehicles in Kingston-upon-Hull in the mid-1960s were few and far between; but that didn't shake the notion in my mind that I could walk into a back street petrol station, show my licence to the owner who would then point me in the direction of a dilapidated out building wherein would be parked one of the above mentioned vehicles. Equally important information was contained within this magical document too: a short Bio of each spectrum member beneath a passport style photo. Scarlet, for instance, was actually Paul Metcalfe in real life; not surprisingly he hasn't even been born yet - his date of birth is given as December 17, 2036 in Winchester, England.

Funnily enough I've dug this wallet out more times during the last three months than I have my 'real' wallet; it still contains the same tenner in there and trusty pieces of plastic that I went into lockdown with.
The woman in the spine must have finished that book by now.