Monthly Archives: February 2010

‘Timeless Classics’ present Double Brainfreeze

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You know Brainfreeze? It’s that awful feeling when you’ve got something cold
in your mouth which seems to go right through your fillings. I’m assuming you
have some. If not you are a jammy so-and-so. Perfectly healthy teeth are but the vaguest of memories for me, probably the result of a minor addiction to Liquorice Allsorts  or more likely being too drunk or incapable to be in possession of a toothbrush. I get excessively envious of those who don’t have a mouthful of mercury and other toxic metals or resins.

Well, anyway, Brainfreeze sends the raw nerves behind those unsightly
nuggets of amalgam a-jingling and
a-jangling right up through your jaw and into your head, send your brain
into a maddening tailspin until you can put up with it no more and have to
jetison the the offending source of cold, or if it is small enough, swallow
it. It’s great fun watching the facial contortions of afflicted
unfortunates.

Not so cool if it’s you, though …

Well I had double brainfreeze the other day. I had  a FAB ice lolly (As in
“F. A. B. Virgil” You remember! … Thunderbirds) In fact, those of you who
want to kill two birds with one stone and experience a bit of childhood TV
nostalgia, along with the kind of refreshment experience that can only be
offered by a drink on a stick, would do well to try a FAB. Just be careful
where you consume it: because as I was about to say, we’ve just had oak flooring put
down. I am guzzling my FAB more than somewhat, when horror of horrors the
top half breaks off in my mouth. I stand in the centre of the living room: a
sea of oak around me as far as the eye can see. Nowhere, but nowhere to
jetison/spit/or otherwise get rid of this particular slab of frozen-over
Hell in my mouth, let alone dribble or drip!

I experience what seems like an eternity of agony, I reckon something
equivalent to 5 minutes of having all my original  drilling operations
performed at once – without the anesthetic this time or sitting through a debate in the London  Assembly: it’s about the same really, until I could finally
chomp up the chunk of now not-so- FAB and swallow it, just before passing out.

See? Double Brainfreeze. I have warned you.

© Andy Daly  2010

Todd Rundgren. Hammersmith Apollo 6th Feb 2010

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HAMMERSMITH APOLLO 06/02/10

I went to see Todd Rundgren. Not everybody’s cup of tea I know, but his complete understanding of the dynamics of a three minute pop song, his ability as a producer sometimes to ‘get a lot out of a little’ (Meatloaf)  and his longevity without sliding into self-parody suggest he’s doing something right.

Rundgren is a musician who has been a particular favourite of mine since the late ’70s. Funnily enough it was Alan (“Alright?!”) ‘Fluff’ Freeman who proved to be the link. Before Punk, like thousands of other ‘lost souls’ I used to listen to the mainly turgid shite that he played on his Saturday afternoon Radio One ‘Prog Rock’ show, bless him.

I say ‘lost souls’ because, at the younger end of his audience, I think many,  like me listened, almost out of duty. There  wasn’t anything else. We were just waiting … That’s why when Punk came along, we were off! Barclay James Harvest, Tangerine Dream  and Yes? Fuck off! I want to listen to The Damned, The Buzzcocks, Slaughter and the Dogs and the Pistols.

Well, anyway ‘Fluff’ had a jingle he used to play which I couldn’t get out of my head. It was a snippet of a song.  It was clearly live: you could tell by the ambience and which featured what sounded like the chorus to a song sung a-capella,  the audience joining in whilst clapping a slow heavy rhythm along to it. It fascinated me. As well as sounding ‘live’ it sounded ‘alive’ like real people at a real gig.

It took me a while. None of my mates were into Rundgren, so none of them recognised it, but eventually I did track it down. It appeared to be “One More Victory” on a live album, “Another Live”. So on the strength of ‘Fluff’s few snatched seconds, I bought it, second  hand mail order from Cob Records in Wales, and that was it. I still have it. If you are able to stomach the bizarre  band photos which seem to depict a group of cross-dressing Mafiosi and Rundgren’s occasional self-indulgences, is a great record. One which for me, sits comfortably alongside other favourites from the same period: “The Modern Dance” Pere Ubu, “Natty Dread”,  The Wailers,  “Never Mind The Bollocks”, The Pistols and “The Mormon Tabernacle Choir Sings Songs of Christmas”

And so, to Saturday night, when Rundgren performed his ground-breaking oddity “A Wizard A True Star” in its entirety (at the time, he was making his money producing, and was thus able to make the record he wanted to make rather than the record company.) It is an eclectic and ideosyncratic stream of consciousness. On tour here in the UK in 2008, his promoter  mentioned that the album had been cited by a number of up and coming young musicians as an influence, and suggested a one off performance.

And what a performance!

He was brilliant! A top drawer gig from a genuine Pop music genius. Moving, funny, sophisticated, absurd, tender. A night for the soul as well as the dancing shoes.

© Andy Daly  2010

Trainer Wars: Round One

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An old schoolmate has just told me that Mr. O’Riordan, the former Headteacher of St. Wilfrid’s the Middle School we both attended in Rochdale died at the weekend. He’d been suffering from Altzheimer’s for some time.

I must say, I wasn’t over-keen on him, especially since the day in 1972 he ‘slippered’ me with a size 9 Dunlop Green Flash tennis shoe. For once, I was innocent of all charges (That we’d shouted obscenities at the pitch on which a match was being played as we passed one lunchtime) I hadn’t done it. I was out of the sightline of the arresting officer/teacher anyway. I was guilty by association. My only crime was to think it was cool to hang around with a bunch of ne’rdo – wells and villains.

I didn’t realise I was being beaten with a ’70s ‘Design Classic’ at the time. I suppose that in itself was reason enough for a good battering. Come to think of it, this was probably the first ‘muscle-flexing’ of those companies whose battles for superiority in the ‘Great Trainer Wars’ of the 80’s and 90’s took place in every school playground in the country. My guess is that the late John O’Riordan was being paid a tidy sum by Puma to always make sure he ‘leathered’ pupils with a Dunlop Green Flash. The spectacle was organised so that the quaking miscreants were given plenty of opportunity to view their particular instrument of torture (and its distinctive logo) before the prolonged attack. Product-placement in reverse, I suppose. Accordingly the Head at the next school down the road was being paid by Dunlop to always make sure he ‘tanned their little backsides’ with Mitre boots and shoes and so on ….

There’s a lot more to marketing than meets the eye, you know.

© Andy Daly  2010

Salmon fishing on the Afon Dwyfor, Criccieth, Gwynedd

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Way back, way, way back before the invention of impermeable groundsheets, I took part in the  10th Rochdale Scout camp in Criccieth. Most notable for the food we had, or rather didn’t.  After we had been there for a couple of days and acclimatised ourselves to the rain, sausages, eggs and constipation, we decided enough was enough.  To hell with powdered mash and burnt baked beans. No! We were going to feast. Tonight, we would provide the food. And what was it to be? A  whole Salmon. In fact, the biggest salmon we had ever seen.  Two of our intrepid gang had gone ‘exploring’ in the area and had returned with tales of a ‘massive bloody Salmon’ they had found lurking under a huge rock in the Afon Dwyfor – a majestic strip of river that runs past Criccieth to the coast.

Like ancient hunters, we prepared. Something primordial was sparked off in us as we sharpened spears, made arrows and went about weaving nets made of string. Later that afternoon, away we went, like an ancient hunting party.

Our intrepid duo were right. Sure enough, in one of the deep slow moving pools, if you hung upside down and put your head under water (Incidentally, I don’t recommend this or condone subsequent actions. All I will say in my defence is that it was 1973) there was indeed a ‘massive bloody salmon’ exactly as described. Our plan of attack was cunning and considered: scare it out into the shallows with sticks and spears, then ‘catch it’ with our (now rather pathetic-looking) nets ….. and tonight we shall feast!

Well, part one of the plan went surprisingly smoothly. Within a few minutes we had the most enormous fish, at least 40 lbs in weight, splashing around, fighting for life, while we stood with dropped jaws, transfixed by the beauty and sheer power of the monster we had unleashed. So much so, in fact that we failed to notice the two dark green Land Rovers that had sped onto the fields adjacent to the river bank. Before we could utter a word, and in a scene reminiscent of the closing sequence of ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’, we were bundled into said vehicles and after the briefest of interrogations, driven back to our camp. It was during the course of this short drive back that I noticed, for the first time the signs along the river bank ‘Private Land’, ‘No Fishing’, ‘Poachers will be prosecuted’

We got off with a caution, scotch eggs and mushy peas.

© Andy Daly  2010

Greedy Greedy Guts Guts

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Once upon a time, I was up in Camden Town at the Dublin Castle to meet some friends who had come down from the North for a spell in the smoke.  We had a couple of beers together, before they had to shoot off to meet another party: I think, to go boozing up Highgate/Hampstead. I didn’t fancy it, so I went off down Parkway, towards the tube; as it was early, probably intending to head for home (Bromley-by Bow) and finish off in the Priory Tavern.

At the time, on Parkway, just below the Dublin Castle, was a no-frills English restaurant – I think also called ‘Parkway’. We used it a lot. They used to do a great all – week – round Sunday roast, and we’d often end up there for some nosebag if we’d been ‘getting the taste’ in Camden.

As I walked past the restaurant, I instinctively looked in the main window – I think I was a bit peckish and was half hoping that there might be someone in there I knew, who I could go join neck some scran. Well, whaddaya know, sitting at the window table: it’s only my best mate Aky and his girlfriend. I wave and grin like an idiot. Something approaching a smile briefly flutters across her lips, then her face hardens as she realises the possible implications of my sudden appearance (ie no more cosy meal for two) Aky, meanwhile is oblivious to this as he’s taking a big slug out of a pint glass and doesn’t see me. I do the honourable thing and walk on. However, he must have spotted something, or his girlfriend given something away, because he’s soon calling me from the restaurant door. I walk back up to and into the restaurant, ask for a third seat and join them; stressing that I do not wish to disrupt their evening together. While Aky says “Noooo, the more the merrier.  Listen, we’ve just this minute ordered, what are you having?” his girlfriend’s eyes are suggesting that whatever it is, I enjoy it, because if she’s got any say in the matter, it will be the last meal I have.

“The usual, I reckon” That was roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roasties, two veg and gravy. “Yeah. Me too” says Aky.

So we order some beers and presently the food arrives. It is politely and efficiently served and we get stuck in. Aky, a real ‘trencherman’ is first to finish, wrapping up the proceedings by draining the dregs of his pint, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and giving me his familiar beery grin. I’m not far behind him, but I’m more in the skinny git with hollow legs mould.

“Ahhhhh …” I said, contentedly: “Y’know what …  I could eat that all again”

“Why don’t we?” says Aky, mischievous glint in his eye. His girlfriend is horrified.

We call over the waitress.

“Can we have it all again. Just the same, one each, all over again.”

She didn’t seem to understand: “What? Was there something wrong with it?”

In the meantime, the head waitress had appeared. She seemed braced for trouble:

“Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all, we enjoyed it so much, we just want the same again, if that’s OK”

“Certainly!”

… and so off we went again! Everything was polished off, and I do believe we even – much to Aky’s girlfriend’s annoyance – had a pudding too!

A great night. If I tried it now, of course, I’d be crippled for days!

Andy Daly  2010

Mirror mirror

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Dinks, despite being from ‘Sheff’ was a smashing bloke. Bit of a nuisance when he was drunk; but then so are a lot of people. The last time I saw him, he wore baggy army surplus trousers, a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a denim jacket. His head was shaved, revealing an angry lunar landscape of spots, blackheads and acne scars. Bleached hair sprouted from a point to the front of his crown, and for the most part dangled down over his eyes and face.

“Did I ever tell y’t’ story of when I saw me oan arsehole?” He asked one day in the pub, apropos of nothing.

“Well, I were on’t’ bus comin’ oam fr-fr- fr-fr- frum college one dinner time…” (he stammered too)

I was immediately hooked and listened intently.

“Aye, I were on this bus, when I thowat: Y’ knurr, twenteh too yeayurs on th-th-th-th-this planet and I’ve n-n-n-n-n-never seen me oan arsehole.”

Then and there, Dinks resolved to do something about it. He hatched a plan. What sort of bizarre meanderings and tortured thought processes lead a human mind to close focus of such an issue is beyond me. However, unimpeded by such concerns, the intrepid Dinks prepared to alight.

At his stop, he scuttled down the stairs and off the bus. He quickly covered the quarter of a mile or so to his house.

“Twelve-thirty: brilliant, me Mum won’t be ‘oam till at least wun. Should be perfect!” he thought to himself as he glanced at his Tintin watch

He described reaching home, hurridly unlocking the front door, and racing straight up the stairs into the bathroom.

Once in, he threw off his jacket. The bathroom, though clean and tidy, was small and poky. The only mirror was that on the front of the vanity unit placed high on the wall, adjacent to the sink. Now this was going to be tricky, it would require nerve, balance and more than a little agilty. Not to worry! Our Hero had done his planning and, after feverishly unbuttoning, dropping and stepping out of his pants, naked from the waist down, he began his ascent. Careful!… one foot on the basket that housed spare toilet rolls, old newspapers, and inexplicably, a can of WD 40. Good! … it did’t give. A step up with the other foot onto the window ledge. Easy! The fan light was open causing the net curtain to play in the fluttery wind. This was the big one … Ready? One, two, three … Hup! Other foot into the ‘soap space’ corner of the sink, behind the tap … Will it hold my weight? …. Yyyyeeessss! Done it!

I recall the expession on his face as he reached this pivotal point in his recounting of the whole tale: a mixture of triumph and relief.

“At last! The Holy Grail!” (His words!) “I could see me oan arsehole!”

He should have taken more notice of the open window, for no sooner had his face of triumph clouded with revulsion at what he beheld in the mirror than the bathroom door (which in his haste he had forgotten to lock) swung open, and his Mum walked in.

“Jeremy!” She screeched “What on EARTH are you doing….?

“Well, I just said first thing that came into me ‘ead”

“I’m br-br-br-br-brushin’ me teeth Mum!”

© Andy Daly  2010