You can push things to the back of your mind, but you can never forget

In the space of a couple of months I've read Ben Watt's charming memoir Romany & Tom and Patient, his frightening account of how he nearly died in 1992. And now I can't stop playing Hendra - his 2014 collaboration with Bernard Butler. I've been a bit tearful of late, what with all that's been going on, and this stripped down version of Never Forget, performed in London's St. Pancras Old Church last year, certainly hasn't helped.

If you like this,  you must check out Ben's KEXP live session, again with Bernard Butler.

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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 It is indeed an historical document.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.

We only steal them

Beer by Black Donkey (legs c/o Suzie Medhurst)

In the 18th century the good folk of Roscommon (Rossies) would raid their neighbours in East Galway and steal their sheep. No big deal; I can think of worse sheep related crimes.

Fast forward 200+ years and, as part of the burgeoning craft beer scene in Ireland, Black Donkey Brewing are commemorating this ancient pastime with a sensational beer called, you guessed it, Sheep Stealer. On the pilgrimage to our maternal grandmother's home last weekend (a weekend filled with joy and sadness), a number of these bad boys were consumed.

A big thank you to Gleeson's for making our stay both a memorable and poignant one.

Too late

There is, in existence, only a minute and a half of movie footage of me as a child. I know this because, in around 1980, I found a yellow cardboard Kodachrome box amongst my dad's slides and asked him what was on it. 'Search me' he said. I replied that the father of my girlfriend at the time had a cine projector. 'Take it' he said, 'and tell me what's on it.' So I did.

Although it only lasts for about 90 seconds, it is a very moving piece of film: only a handful of days after I was born, sometime in January 1961, friends of mum and dad shot a (very) short reel of 8 mm cine film of them bathing their new born. You've never seen a more happy and proud young couple. And, as you can imagine, I am both very young and very clean. Priceless.

If only I hadn't lost it.

Or at least, I thought I'd lost it. Three Sundays ago after we returned to dad's after visiting mum in hospital he gave me a load of slides. 'I'm making you custodian of the Medd photographic archive' he said. Well, not in so many words, but that's what he meant. This next bit is quite hard to write, because, in amongst the the plethora of slides he gave me was the very same distinctive yellow Kodachrome box I thought I'd lost all those years ago. I recognised it straight away - but didn't say anything: I'll get it transferred onto DVD as a surprise, I thought, and we can all watch it together. My folks will be made up.

'It'll be ready next Tuesday' said the man in the photo shop when I took it in a week last Friday. 'Brilliant' I said. 'Mum's not so good at the moment, it'll make her day.' And then some.

It would have done too. If only she could have hung on for a few more days.

I'm seeing dad tomorrow. We'll watch it together and pretend mum's there.

Lola

Dolores Medd (1934-2015)

On what turned out to be the hottest day of the year, mum passed away this morning just after nine o'clock: the fight had gone out of her. And, anyway, she wouldn't have thanked you for being stuck in hospital with the temperature outside nudging 100 degrees - like all Medds, mum spoke in Fahrenheit not bloody Centigrade. She was a formidable woman, and that's putting it mildly. We never always saw eye to eye, but in the last few years we were closer than we'd probably ever been. When I was poorly after first moving up here she worried about me like a new mother would worry about her sick baby in an incubator.

I need to gather my thoughts properly before the funeral, as I want to say a few words; I know dad would want to speak, but he said he'd lose it. I might still.