Even monkeys fall out of trees

If you're a fan of Radio 4's long running science/comedy show The Infinite Monkey Cage you'll know that Robin Ince and Professor Brian Cox take it upon themselves each week to dismantle the universe one piece at a time, atom by atom, molecule by molecule; sometimes scientifically, sometimes not so, and, in true Reithian style, educate inform and entertain both scientists and non-scientists alike. It's great radio presented by two passionate people; I love passionate people.

On Tuesday night Ince was flying solo: performing an intimate bookshop* gig where he waxed lyrical for  an hour or so about not just his books but also many, many others he's fallen in love with over the years: everything from Cold Fish Soup (Adam Farrer's  beautifully written memoir about living in a down at heel East Yorkshire town - which was also, coincidentally, a recent read in our local book club) going all the way back to W.N.P. Barbellion's Journal of a Disappointed Man published in 1919. I've already put out my feelers out to snag myself a copy - hopefully a 'blue Penguin', pictured below.

Like Bob Dylan, Robin has been on tour since, I don't know, forever. If you haven't seen him yet then it can only be a matter of time till he pops up in a town near you**. And when he does, you really should go and see him. He's a lovely bloke. And very funny. Also, it transpires, he loves my favourite brewery building. Yes, that one. (He'd seen it on the way to the gig and was then confronted by a brace of my framed photographs of it hanging in the shop.)  

...

* Not just any old bookshop. Our local bookshop; a huge thank you to Tim for organising this and may other readings and book signings at the best bookshop in Nottingham.

** His Bibliomaniac book is a tale of his UK journey made entirely on public transport where he pulled in north of 100 bookshops)

If the phone don't ring, it's me

Same goes for texting and tweeting,

emailing and messaging. 

Radio silence. 

Forever.

It'll be...

 deafening.

This is where it's at

I know I'm being a tad premature here, but I'm calling my single of the year; if something better comes along within the next seven months then there's every chance Hell will have frozen over.

What I know about The Tates wouldn't get your hair cut: the lead singer works in a record shop (naturally), and the drummer keeps a pet hamster. And they're from Wales.

Did I mention this is their debut single? Talk about setting the bar high. This is where it's at (something I feel sure I would have said if I were twenty years younger).

The Tates - Electric Girl.

Swansong

This Thursday night sees York Songwriters putting on their/our latest showcase gig at the Fulford Arms; it's a cracking venue with a great little stage, cool lights, a soundman who knows what he's doing and some none too shabby beers thrown in for good measure.


The fun starts at 8:00. I'm second or third on the bill which will be nice (it could be the last time I'll play in York, what with my impending house move and all). We'll even be selling a few sampler CDs: it's called The Cost of a Pint and, that's right, it's yours for a mere three quid. It'll pay for the aforementioned soundman, with anything left over going in the nearest charity bucket.

I must extend a big thank you to David Breslin who, in recent years, has kept York Songwriters and its ragtag members in some semblance of order through thick and, often, thin. Unfortunately he won't be there on Thursday due to illness, but here he is singing one of his own compositions 'Orpheus in the Underlay'.

This Charming Penguin

You'll know by now that I love podcasts: discovering new ones is a joy, especially when they're as good as the Penguin Podcast.
I've just listened to my first one - a charming conversation between David Baddeil and Johnny Marr. Marr's autobiography, Set the Boy Free, was published by Penguin a couple of weeks ago and he was bringing Baddeil up to speed about it.
Although I was never a big fan of the Smiths, I've always had a soft spot for Johnny's guitar sound. Here he is explaining how he wrote the riff for their first single. When he was nineteen. Nineteen!

My favourite sister-in-law

Megan is Jenny’s half-sister. They are linked by their father's indiscretion in the early 1960s (I’m sure, with Jenny’s permission, I will tell the full story here one day).
But they only met for the first time five years ago. However, in that time Megan has enriched Jenny’s life more than she’ll ever know. She’s also become my favourite sister in law – we’ve shared stories, shared holidays and shared good times. And she’s talked me down off the ledge a couple of times when times haven’t been so good.

Round Ireland with no money

My brother-in-law, aka The Prof, is planning a bike ride for the summer: a bike ride with a twist. He's planning to leave his wallet at home, cycle off the Pembroke to Rosslare ferry penniless, and circumnavigate his way around the Irish coastline. His plan, to throw himself at the mercy of the good folk of Ireland, will see him 'pay his way' by telling stories, a few jokes and any casual work he can get such as pot washing in bars or restaurants that can see there way clear to giving him a meal for the night.

Having heard David's material, there's a strong possibility he'll be coming back a Size Zero.

Penguins on the motorway

I dread to think how many million miles I've driven since I passed my test on that blisteringly hot afternoon in June, 1979; or how many years I've lost, spent behind the wheel. However, as we all know, driving is a necessary evil - made (marginally) less mind numbing/more comfortable in recent times with the advent of a few 21st Century luxuries: seat warmers, Sat-Nav, cruise control and being able to listen to podcasts (aka mile munchers).

But nothing has brought me more motoring pleasure - in a very long time - than when I overtook the Penguin lorry on the way to Oxford the other morning. It's the little things in life.

Slackers

Despite reports to the contrary, I did not pull Steve's first born from a burning building: one more thing we have in common. However, we did share a few festive flagons of frothing ale earlier in the week. Our evening was rounded off in a hipsters bar where the beers were long on price and the staff short on common courtesy: our beards and/or turn-ups obviously didn't meet with current hipster regulations.
If I make but one New Year's Resolution it will be to make sure Steve and I see more of each other next year than we did this. Maybe a return trip to New York could be on the cards - twenty one years since we were last there together. And maybe, if the planets align, we could catch resident New Yorker Vic Ruggiero at The Knitting Factory. Or some other hipster venue. I think I'll start growing my beard now.

Vic Ruggiero: Always Something In My Blindspot

Reasonable

Green sleeves (and blue & red)

The Woodlands Gallery is fast approaching its first anniversary. It may not be have the same kudos as that afforded to The Tate or, indeed, The Metropolitan, but it works for me.

And it's not too late for a Christmas commission. You can get in touch via all the usual outlets. I think you'll find me very reasonable. I hope so, anyway; I'd be offended if you didn't.

That's right, Vision On's Gallery music

Ten things I like about Wreckless Eric

A Stiff Penguin?

    In no particular order:
*  My first published writing was a review of one his gigs
*  Whole Wide World
*  His bus driver's badges
*  When you meet him he's genuinely pleased to see you
*  He's not frightened to cover Tom Petty songs
*  Amy Rigby, his delightful wife
*  No two Eric gigs are ever the same (Friday's excellent show in                 Nottingham being a case in point)
*  His blog
*  The Wreckless Eric Radio Show
*  He's just a bloody nice bloke

A Bloomin' Book

When my cousin Raymond Murray was asked way back in 1975 by John K**** (our tearaway, black sheep of a cousin) who his favourite cousin was, he told him. And he told him straight: 'Adrianne'.

Roscommon July 2015. L-R, John M, Adrianne, Suzie, Raymond

K**** was crestfallen: 'Adri-fackin'-anne? She's a fackin' girl.' Indeed she is. I, however, was never asked this question as a boy. If I had, I would have said Raymond. Though Adrianne would certainly have been on the podium too. Anyway, it's all immaterial now. I'm in my fifties and love Raymond, Suzie and Adrianne in equal measure. I probably told them as much last weekend. As for K****, he was a wrong 'un. He fell off the radar many moons ago and these days will either be inside or underground.

In 1975, Raymond kept a book. And in this book he transcribed every Top 40 singles chart rundown as broadcast by Johnnie Walker on Radio 1. This would have been on a Tuesday lunchtime when chart positions were everything and Radio 1 was still broadcasting on 247 meters on the medium wave.

I saw this book for only the second time last weekend and it was spellbinding. The level of detail that has gone into it is quite staggering. There's even a (very early) cloud showing every group, every artist, every novelty act who made the chart between 1 January & 31 December. It is indeed an historical document.

Or, depending on your standpoint, just a bloomin' book.

Pick up a Penguin

That's six now. I may take a Penguin vacation and revisit them later. In the meantime, a couple of them are for sale over at Artfinder.

And if you can't see what you like there, feel free to get in touch via the comments box below.

Sweetie

Adele has the honour of being my fifth Penguin and also my first mixed medium: acrylic and water colour. And unlike the previous four (Ian Fleming, Paul McCartney, Jenny Medd and Jane Friend), I've painted her edges.

Although Adele isn't really a posh bird, she is a baker. And a sweetie.

Yellow Penguins

Penguin paperbacks don't come in all shapes and sizes. But they do come in all sorts of colours. The nice man in the short film below will tell you all about them. Suffice it to say that orange denotes fiction, red - drama, green - crime fiction, dark blue - autobiography, purple - essays, cerise - travel and adventure and grey - world affairs. And don't forget the Pelican and Puffin imprints. Penguin devotees looking to find websites dedicated to Penguins in all their guises won't be disappointed. Hardly surprising really - go and take a look at your own book shelf and see how many you've got.

One colour I haven't mentioned and that's yellow. Yellow was used as a safety net by Penguin for anything that didn't fit any of the regular perameters. Life's Too Short by Jenny Medd, for example. An oft repeated mantra here at at Medd Towers, along with 'there are no pockets in shrouds' and 'you're a long time dead', 'life's too short' is a stock response when defending your corner.

Anyway, here's that nice man I was telling you about.

Write the theme tune, sing the theme tune

Casino Royale - Penguin- acrylic on canvas, 12" x 9"

Live and Let Die - Macca - acrylic on canvas, 12" x 9"

Kick started by my piece yesterday on Ian Fleming and his alter ego James Bond, today's artwork pays homage not only to them but also the ex-Beatle who was asked to write the theme score for Fleming's second Bond novel. Live and Let Die was first published in 1954 but wasn't given the big screen treatment until 1973. Fleming had died ten years earlier so only ever saw Dr. No and From Russia With Love come to life in Technicolor, in 1962 and 1963 respectively; both starring Sean Connery.

Live and Let Die was Roger Moore's debut playing Bond and was every bit as cheesy as you'd expect from a one trick pony better known as The Saint and the English half of The Persuaders. Paul McCartney still drops the song into his live set. Moore, too, is still dining out on it.

I'd rather die of drink than of thirst

There are nearly as many Ian Fleming quotes about drinking as there are James Bond dust jackets.

My favourite is a line from Casino Royale which I often quote myself.

To Bond the best drink of the day was the drink he had in his head before the first drink of the day.

And quite where the (very blurred) line between Fleming and Bond really was is anyone's guess. Fleming was a serial womaniser and was rather partial to the bottle. He died in 1964 after a second heart attack aged just fifty-six, though he looked a good ten years older.

That may have had something to do with his diet: Fleming smoked seventy cigarettes a day and drank an entire bottle of gin. When told by his doctor to give up the gin he simply started drinking bourbon instead.