Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition

The Spaniard, Belfast - ''A rocking little rum bar in the Cathedral Quarter.'' So says the blurb. It goes on to say - ''Attracting a collaboration of interesting folk, do not be surprised if you end up meeting a cousin/friend/relative twice removed, or even chatting to a stranger who becomes a new friend for life.'' Uncanny. I think we got the hat trick.Olé!

John, James, Raymond - well on their way to being twice removed

(Too many beers were consumed and too many stories exchanged to even begin writing up what happened a couple of weekends ago. However, it was both fast and furious - and very funny. Anyway, what happens in Belfast stays in Belfast.)

Sing it Again, Ray

It's back. Swedey McSwedeface - the series I nicked shamelessly from my good friend The Swede - makes a welcome return. And who better to kick things off than Raymond Murray. Ray is my older (and, some would say, wiser) cousin who, among many other life skills, has been known to drink a pint of Guinness in less than two gulps whilst simultaneously whistling Danny Boy. Added to which, his chart knowledge covering the period 1971 to 1975 is simply unparalleled. Quite apt then that the first album Ray bought with his own corn was released slap bang in the middle of the above mentioned 'golden era'. In your own words, Ray...

The title immediately reveals my first album purchase as a compilation. That was a tactic of mine in the cash strapped, limited pocket money era of the 1970s. Splashing out the best part of two quid needed a guaranteed return. In 1973 none of us could have imagined just how often and for how long Rod would indeed sing it again.
Mandolin Wind, Reason to Believe, and Handbags and Gladrags contribute to a magnificent Side 1, with Bernie Taupin's Country Comfort a worthwhile addition. But my generation just can't get away from Maggie May as quintessential Rod - superb lyrically and an early challenger for Song of the 70s.
Side 2 was almost obliged to be less spectacular, and so it proved. All things considered though I reckon it was £1.99 well spent.

Rod Stewart (with Ronnie Wood) - Mandolin Wind

FFS

For Fox Sake

Text message from my cousin Ray on Thursday:

Fox On the Run came on
the radio...I nearly came 
with it. Fucking brilliant 
when a song like that creeps
up and surprises you 

Tell you what, give me 150 

words on why Fox On the

Run is so fucking brilliant

  and I'll put it up on the blog. 

John, this isn't quite what you
asked for - but do as you wish
with it. An ordinary Thursday
afternoon. Christmas themed 
background music dominated 
the airwaves. And then...the 
explosion. It's amazing that 
despite having 24 hour access
 to one's musical preferences, 
when one of them springs 
unexpectedly from a radio 
station, it's inexplicably 
different. It's a joyous three
and a half minutes of nostalgia
that no pre-planned station can
 bring. March 1975. Sweet. Fox 
On the Run. Yes, lyrically it's
bitter, criticising as it does 
somebody whose glory of youth 
has deserted them. 'But the rest of 
you is out of place.' Hardly a 
compliment. Not being 
appropriately trained, I can't
identify what its musical qualities 
are. To be honest, I don't care. 
But what an ensemble. Like so 
many great Sweet songs, it didn't
quite make the top, being denied 
by the hysteria of Bye Bye Baby. 
This is a matter which has recently
been ignored amid the apparently
more significant Brexit issue, but is 
still one I intend raising with my 
MP on March 30th 2019. It's
never too late to gain justice.

Perfect. Thank you.

The Sweet - Fox On the Run (1975)

She gives me everything, and tenderly

Liverpool tomorrow. I'm training it - using split tickets for the first time - ETA into Lime Street around lunchtime. Ray's flying in from Belfast, due to land around the same time, so it'll be a spot of bush tucker in the Philharmonic, and then we'll see where the fancy takes us.

We're not expecting to see Macca during our two day stopover, though if he did care to join us I'm sure he'd be good company. There are many questions I'd love to put to him, not least: 'Why, at the age of 76, are you still getting bent out of shape about songs being credited to Lennon & McCartney and not McCartney & Lennon or, in the case of 'Yesterday', McCartney & Lennon can whistle? Life's too short Paulie, get over yourself.

If I've got this right, these two Hard Day's Night period classics - which, as you can see (above) were paired as an 'A' & 'B' side for their American release - were written by the pair thus:

And I Love Her (1964)- McCartney, with Lennon writing the middle eight* 

If I Fell (1964) - Lennon*

*Unless of course you, or indeed Macca, know different

Behind (10) Bars

English pubs may well be closing at a rate of 20+ a week but, in all fairness, a lot of those falling by the wayside had probably outstayed their welcome anyway. That's not to say that a few babies haven't been thrown away with the beer slops, but, if you don't use them, you'll lose them. Nothing's so sure.

Here are ten that I've used on numerous occasions over the last few years (with a couple of exceptions) and each and every one has a certain quality that makes a return trip a necessity, not an option. That they all sell sensational beers is a given. No, what makes these establishments the real deal often won't get mentioned in beer guides and bucket lists of hipster bars you must visit before you die.

Without further ado then, here are, in no particular order, my ten favourite pubs/bars in the UK (well, nine, actually - the tenth being an honorary English pub which sneaks under the wire, in what I will have to refer to as the Overseas Section).

And, so that you know, this is not a forum for gushing five hundred word critiques. I will endeavour to sum up each hostelry in no more than a couple of sentences.

* Knott Bar, Manchester

The Number One Son lives in Manchester and, for me, going in this cracking little boozer on Deansgate is synonymous with seeing James. Added to which they've got a splendid Ramones tour flyer on the wall, and their fish finger sandwiches are to die for.

* The Harrison, London WC1

It's no secret that my former business partner and I named our company after George Harrison. So it was hardly a coincidence that when we were working (or playing) in London we sought out this hidden little gem tucked away behind the Grays Inn Road. And we still go back to this day.

* The Lamb and Flag, Worcester

This is now the only pub on the British mainland where I'll drink Guinness. The snug at the back is like stepping back in time, and, I'm told, Robert Plant has been known to slide in for a dust cutter.

* The Baltic Fleet, Liverpool

There are two pubs on this list that I've only been to the once and this is the first one. This beautiful little drinking establishment is home to the Wapping Brewey. And they hold an annual sea shanty festival - but don't let that put you off! We're trying to schedule a return visit later in the year.

* The Black Horse, Whitby

If you're a shrinking violet or you're seeking anonymity in a backstreet boozer, this little drinking den in the old own probably isn't for you. You sit cheek by jowl with fellow patrons so getting embroiled in a lively discussion is as natural as walking up to the bar to get the next round.

* Reid's Bar, Lurgan

In my humble opinion this diamond in the rough - Lurgan is not a pretty town - would not be everyone's cup of Nambarrie.  But, if you can, prise yourself away from Belfast, take the (not so fast) train twenty miles into Co. Armagh, disgorge at Lurgan, make your way to Reids and get Raymond Murray to stand you a pint of Smithwicks. Tell him I sent you.

* The Crown, Belfast

Or to give it its full moniker - The Crown Liquor Saloon. When the IRA were blowing up the Europa Hotel for fun back in the seventies, The Crown, which stands directly opposite, never had so much as a cracked window pane. And what (stained) window panes they are. It's owned by the National Trust these days a so that makes it a real treasure, indeed. You'll find me in the third booth from the front door.

* Room With a Brew, Nottingham

Nottingham's newest addition to the micro pub scene and one that we only discovered for the first time a couple of weeks ago. The beers, from Scribbler's Brewery, are all literary themed and the walls are adorned with images of Penguin paperbacks. We went in for one and came out four hours later - says it all really.

* The Adelphi, Leeds

Leeds may or may not want to be part of the Northern Powerhouse. What it really wants is more pubs like the Adelphi. Again, when James was billeted in Leeds for eighteen months I would often meet him in him here for a couple after work; so a sentimental choice maybe, but you'll struggle to find a better pint of Leeds Pale in the city.

* The White Horse Tavern, Greenwich Village

A pretentious choice, I grant you, but if I lived in Manhattan I'd probably make it my local. Dylan Thomas used to hold court in there. Bob Dylan freewheeled in there many a time. Next time you're in New York City be sure you give it a coat of looking at.

Helter Skelter

The Fab 4

We've not done the Matthew Street Festival in Liverpool for a couple of years now; setting up base camp in the sweaty confines of The Cavern for two whole days and gorging ourselves on every eclectic variation on a Beatles tune you could ever wish for. Some turns even throw in solo stuff (though I don't recall ever hearing anyone brave enough to cover Back Off Boogaloo), even the odd Rutles homage.

That said, another gap in proceedings always seemed to be The White Album. For some reason 1968 doesn't loom large in Liverpool - if you gave me a pound for every time we heard a Bungalow Bill or a Martha My Dear we still wouldn't have had enough to buy a packet of crisps between us. I'm hoping if we go back next year the balance will be redressed.

I found this on Youtube (where else?) lurking in The Beatles aisle. I'd pay good money to see this fella. Maybe he'll be there in 2016. Nice hat btw.

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.

The McNamaras are coming (back)

'Roscommon' acrylic on canvas

Later this year I shall be making an emotional return to Roscommon. From being a babe in arms to a stroppy teenager, I and the rest of the Medds went on an annual pilgrimage across The Irish Sea to my maternal grandmother's year after year after year. And for the first fifteen of those summers I had a blast. But by 1977 I'd had enough. So much so that two days into the vacation and I baled: a quick 'phone call to my favourite Auntie north of the border and I was travelling, alone, on a bus through 'the troubles' and spent the rest of the fortnight in Lurgan, Co. Armagh. Happy days.
  But now, I want to go back. See the old place again. Will it have changed? Probably. Will I recognise the place? Definitely. Will I be able to take a walk down to Hessions and grab myself an ice cream wafer. Alas, no: Cyril Hession, like the lone Texaco petrol pump on his forecourt, is long gone.
  My cousin Raymond, who will be joining us on our quest, sent an email to the local rag ahead of the trip. I'm not expecting a ticker-tape reception, but a pint of the black stuff with their reporter & toggy would be nice. Here's what Ray had to say.


I am Raymond Murray, son of Aidan Murray (born 1934, Ballyleague) and Carmel McNamara (born 1936, Strokestown). My mother’s family moved to Ard-na-Greine in Roscommon town around 1940. My grandfather was Sergeant Joe McNamara, my grandmother, Mary (Maxie), nee Lynch from Donegal. They produced 14 children, Sean, Phyllis, Gerry, Joe, Myra, all deceased, and Mabel, Olive, Dolores, Carmel, Paddy, Adrian, Noel, Bernie and Stella. 

My granny may well be remembered by many still living in the town. She was a renowned golfer and a tremendous consumer of a product called Jameson’s Whiskey. You may have heard of it! My aunt Stella (Finnerty) has lived locally in Knockcroghery for 40+ years, a couple of doors down from the great Jamesie Murray’s pub. As you know, in the 1950s work was hard to come by in rural Ireland, with many having to go overseas to support themselves. 

My parents moved to London in 1953, returning to marry on 5th August 1957, before returning to England until 1968. We now live in Lurgan in County Armagh. Several of my mother’s sisters also moved and settled in England and live there to this day. As separate families, the various McNamaras travelled from parts of England to visit Ard-na-Greine each summer, but often our paths would cross as we squeezed into granny’s three bedroom house. As is normal, you veer towards those of your own age. So John Medd (born 1960. son of Dolores), Adrianne Stone (born 1959, daughter of Mabel), Susan Medhurst (born 1959, daughter of Olive) and myself (born 1959) formed special bonds. 

Memories of ice-cream from Cyril Hession’s shop opposite the county hospital; what seemed like very hot summers spent at Portrunny on the Shannon in the pre-sunscreen days of old; and the occasional night out to Con Moran’s pub or the Kon-Tiki near Rooskey to hear the soon to be famous Brendan Shine. Then life took over…..we grew up, we married, had children, did what people do….and drifted apart. John, Adrianne and Susan remain in England, but let’s not penalise them for that. We did, after all, thump them at rugby quite recently. But with many of our domestic commitments now fulfilled, and with luck having smiled on us, we have recently rekindled our friendships. We had a wonderful gathering in Lurgan in 2013, but always felt that a visit to Roscommon town would be a fitting way to seal our reunion. It is now 40 years since we spent a summer together in your town……and it’s been too long. Flights are booked, cars are hired and the four of us are staying in Gleeson’s on Saturday 4th July along with our wives and husbands. The girls have husbands, the boys have wives. (It’s not something you would have thought necessary to mention in the 1960’s but the times they are a changing). We hope to visit some of the afore-mentioned places and perhaps pay a tribute to Jameson’s, which killed my poor granny at the age of 93. Legal proceedings are ongoing. I hope this story is of interest to you.

They call them The Belfast Boys

'Two of Us'

Ray and Jack went to see a production of Let it Be at the Grand Opera House this week. Holding a Doctorate in The Fab Four (Mark Lewisohn has my cousin's number on speed dial), Ray would have been making copious notes throughout the evening: was Macca holding his thumbs aloft at the right angle? Was George doing that little shimmy he used to do just before he played a solo? That sort of thing.

Jack on the other hand would have been considering the pros and cons of crowd surfing. And whether or not they were selling tubs in the foyer at half time.

Dropping Bombshells in Belfast

The new resident pianist in The Europa Hotel (pictured moments before the blast)

As I alluded to a couple of weeks ago my cousin Raymond and I have been planning an elaborate family reunion in Northern Ireland where nobody, not even me, knew the full ensemble; you see Ray had invited a 'mystery guest'. Ray doesn't do smug, but this came close. More on that later.

I love reunions, especially when there isn't a wooden box in the corner of the room. I won't bore you with details of people you don't know or talk you through every permutation of photograph that was taken (aunties, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, first cousins three times removed), suffice it to say that Friday night was perfect. Before proceedings got under way proper I met my cousin Adrianne who I'd not clapped eyes on since the scorching summer of 1976. She hadn't changed a bit. I, on the other hand, looked old enough to be her father - and I'm a year younger.

Adrianne and I lay in wait in an adjoining room with the party now getting into full swing. I put a phone call in to Ray's father, my Uncle Aidan, from, he thought, across the Irish Sea: struggling to make himself heard above the hubbub I calmly walked into the party, still talking to him on the phone and straight into his line of vision: Bombshell # 1. After we restarted his heart I casually asked how Adrianne was these days. Her cue to walk through the door: Bombshell # 2. Whilst the Paramedics were working flat out reviving everyone the door bell rang. Auntie Stella. The 'mystery guest': Bombshell # 3. Carnage.

Saturday morning started as every Saturday should with enough bacon and sausages to feed an army washed down by gallons of tea. Ray was holding court in the kitchen basking in the success of the night before knowing that 2013's Party Planner of the Year award would be coming his way.

We left the oldies back at base, many still strapped to ECG machines, whilst us young 'uns ventured forth into Belfast for a few pints of Guinness in The Crown Liquor Saloon. On the train I told Ray I needed to drop into the Europa Hotel. I said I was writing a piece about Europe's most bombed hotel and that the manager had got some old photographs for me to use. He bought it.

Unknown to him, and the rest of them, I'd arranged for the Number One Son and his fair maiden to come over from Manchester and join us on the Saturday. And, after a quick call to the Europa, what better way to 'introduce' him, he being a musician, than for him to swap places with the resident pianist in the Piano Lounge and be playing when we all walked in; it went like clockwork. Ray was in bits: Bombshell # 4. Wipe out.

Thinking of organising a party? My rates are very reasonable.

Let's get together again

McNamara's finest

Prior to this photograph being taken in 2009, outside The Crown Liquor Saloon In Belfast,  I'd not seen my cousin Ray in twenty six years; when neither of us had even reached twenty six.
Next month we're pulling off another reunion involving more, as yet in the dark, family members. Ray now tells me that as well as the team listed in the programme he's bringing a mystery player known only to him. This, he assures me, means, and I quote, 'so only I know the full ensemble.' Now, where I come from that's fighting talk.

A Hard Ray's Night

My cousin Ray has been around these parts on at least one previous occasion. Not not only do we share the same set of grandparents, but also a love of all things Beatles; in particular A Hard Day's Night. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of conversations we've had that hasn't contained at least one line from the film: 'He's very clean, your grandfather' being a hardy perennial. Last Saturday, on a trip to the seaside, we found ourselves in what can only be described as a Hard Day's Night carriage - so with a little help from his son (my second cousin, I think) Jack, we tried to do a little FAB re-enactment. I'm out of shot holding Jack's feet. 

A little later we took our guitars down the corridor to the mail carriage and played 'I Should Have Known Better'.

The Day The Music Died

As a young Frank Sinatra once said: 'It's nice to go trav'ling, but it's so much nicer to come home.' After a few days in Bonnie Scotland, with a night in Berwick-on-Tweed thrown in for good measure, it's back to life, back to reality.

So, what have we learned?

1. Keep 'em peeled on the A1 - there's a killer on the loose.
2. The Barrels in Berwick keeps a magnificent pint of Jarl .
3. In said hostelry I learned that the door of No.10 Downing St has 6 panels.
4. And that the Paramount Pictures logo is surrounded by 22 stars.
5. Ray, my cousin, doesn't have anything on his iPod recorded after the 70s. 'Music died the day John Lennon was gunned down' he laments. Cue this framed photo, again from The Barrels.6. Margorie McCall lived once, but was buried twice: True Story!
7. Currie's and Kebab's (sic) are wrong on so many levels.8. I don't do gardens. But then I saw Drummond. Quite stunning.
9. Jack, my first cousin once removed, should be on the stage: he kept us entertained for the whole holiday. Can I have my hat back, Jack?10. The walrus was not Paul. It's Ray. I have the picture to prove it.

John Otway: I Am The Walrus

Making Contacts

We're going north of the border to hook up with my cousin and his family. Ray lives in Lurgan, Northern Ireland, but has won a holiday at some swanky place in Perthshire; so we'll be drinking pints of heavy and feasting on haggis for a few days.*

When we get up there I'll be telling him about David Bailey's latest exhibition; Ray's a huge Beatles fan (probably why he's always been my favourite cousin**) and, amongst Bailey's many contact sheets of The Stones, Michael Caine, The Kray twins et al, are the iconic snaps he took of Lennon & McCartney looking, for the most part, happy in each other's company. Bailey nailed them that day. Of the shoot he said: 'They were culturally so different. Paul was a nice guy, John was an a***hole and I like the a***holes.'

It runs from July 7 to August 13 at Hamiltons Gallery W1. See you there.

John Lennon Interview




* With apologies to any Scottish readers. Well at least I didn't mention deep fried Mars Bars.

** What I like to do he doesn't? No, you're confusing him with my perfect cousin.