Author Archives: Sitting comfortably with andy daly

My Best Steak and Kidney Pie Recipie

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You may/may not be aware, but I’ve been searching for the ultimate pie recipie. I think I’ve found it. It only works, however if you do it in the style of Jamie Oliver.

1½lb braising steak,½lb Ox Kidney, Flour, 1 onion, roughly chopped, 4 sticks of celery roughly chopped, fresh mixed herbs (Rosemary, Thyme, Bay), 1lb2oz pack of Puff Pastry, Olive Oil, lots of salt & pepper, Red, wine or Brandy – preferably both, one egg.

Firstly chuck a couple of generous slugs of Olive Oil into a pan. Roll the meat in flour, whack it in, season well, add your herbs and let it golden. Bung in the onion, and about 5 mins later frow in the celery. (oh, by the way some heat under the pan would be a good idea. If you haven’t yet: Start Again).

Pull the cork out of a bottle of red wine with your teeth cos you’ve got your hands full, manage to release one of them, and use it to hold the bottle. Take 2 good guzzles of the vino then bang one in the pan (NB always use this ratio: 2 for self, one for pan)
Allow to simmer for about 2 hours. You could go and open a school, or show everyone on a Northern council estate how to cook, while you’re waiting. Top up with wine or Brandy (or both) as required.
Pre-heat oven to 190. Slosh the meat and gravy out the pan and into your pie dish. Loverly! Beat your egg and with a brush egg wash the rim of the dish. Roll out your pastry, using the backing sheet to allow you to get it flat and in position covering the whole of the dish. With a knife, slice round the rim to remove excess pastry, which you can then use to fashion an appropriate design – like you used to see in kids’ story books when you were … well, a kid. Pinch the pastry with your thumb and forefinger all the way round the rim – to make it look even more authentic. Egg Wash the pastry on top, and chuck it in the oven, darlin’ for about 45 min or until golden. Serve with red wine.
Pukka!
PS it’s easy to get carried away with this one and forget about the vegetables, mashed potato or whatever you’re having with it. Try and avoid this as it doesn’t tend to go down very well in my experience.

© Andy Daly 2011

The Carbon Fibre’s In The Kitty Litter

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I know this is a bit of a specialist subject, but  lately I’ve become fascinated more than somewhat by the work of three pairs of British motorcycle  racing commentators, namely Julian Ryder and Toby Moody who cover Moto GP, Moto 2, and the 125 class, for British Eurosport. Jack Burnicle and former rider James Whitham who commentate on World and British Superbikes, also for British Eurosport; and Nigel Pearson with former England rider and ex-World Longtrack champion Kelvin Tatum, who cover the Speedway for Sky Sports.

(Moody, Ryder, Burnicle, Whitham, Pearson and Tatum)

So, what is it that makes them all so compelling? What common links exist between these six disparate characters, other than their habit of hanging around in twos at race venues? Obviously, as befitting of people in their position they are almost all completely immersed in the world of motorcycle competition – and in  particular their own areas of specialism in the sport, either as a former rider (Whitham, Tatum) or as serious enthusiast (possessor of  frighteningly comprehensive encyclopaedic knowledge, Ryder; highly articulate, often comically tongue-tied Moody, informed ‘giddy spectator’ Burnicle and Pearson, genial apologist for Speedway, everyone’s ‘Love it or loathe it’ sport)

I used to think commentators were superfluous – I think some still are. Dave Lanning, the voice of Speedway in the ’70s changed that. A good commentator, I feel should not be there simply to give you information, or explain; for example in the way  you might have to explain to those who have never attended or watched such an event before what is going on: especially when it means everyone who has is forced to hear it again and again. (Hope you’re reading this Tony Millard)  A good commentator should be in that place where audience and sportsperson meet; they should engage with the experience that their audience is having, develop and deepen it. This is what Lanning did. He knew the riders, the teams, the tracks, a ‘sufficient’ amount about the machinery to explain the reasons why riders did  the things they did and why events on the track took the turns they did. (No pun – honestly!- intended) with authority and humour. Watching speedway today, I sometimes find myself slipping into ‘Lanning-Speak’ as, distracted, I mentally commentate. (“Oh I say! What a fine piece of speedway!” “It doesn’t get much tighter than that, you could throw a handkerchief over all four of them” “He’s going out to the fence, he’s taking the high, wide and handsome route”)

Do any of  my crop of six come close to the Big Man? Well let’s say they are at their best, when, like sharps of flint they crackle and spark off each  other with a vitality that the common herd can only watch and envy. Okay, maybe that’s going a bit far in some cases, but tune in to British Eurosport, or Sky Sports, catch this lot on form and you’ll see what I mean.

So, to business. My key areas of interest comprise:

  • PLOC
  • Background knowledge/Response to ‘On-Track’ events/Observational Skills
  • Favourite sayings and creativity in use of euphemisms for the word ‘Crash’

My findings are attached below:

 

(On board chasing Moto GP traffic. Let’s face it, you’d have to be bloody nuts wouldn’t you?)

(Ben Spies: making some noise in his first season of Moto GP – I knew he would)

PLOC: (or to give its full title Point of Loss of Control) – usually with reference to voice, but may apply to bodily functions as well, this denotes a point in a race: a frantic start, a particular passing move, fierce tussle, spill, collision and so on which is momentous enough to cause our commentator to lose all self-control in relation to both his immediate environment (the commentary box, his partner and any guests) as well as his listeners/viewers: affects  the volume, tone, timbre of voice and its level of hysteria as evidenced in ‘breaking’, shouting, screaming and in one or two cases singing.

  • A particular feature of Moody’s work, where PLOC is often found to have been reached, before the end of the first sentence. For example at the start of practically every Moto GP. Toby’s voice shifts semi-tones, up and down mirroring the riders’ changes of gear. This is made even more entertaining if his commentary position leaves him unsighted and relying only on the local TV director’s footage. Toby gets more and more tongue-tied and frustrated as he is unable to see who is who, but continues regardless: …. and look! Casey Stoner’s made a BRIIIILLIANT start on the …(up semi-tone) oh! but he’s being OVERTAKEN by  who……? Now THHHHAAAAATTTS (up semi-tone) Capirosi. But No! It’s… ( down semi-tone ) NICKY HAYDEN … Loris Capirosi … (down semi-tone) as they go into the right hander (up semi-tone) But where’s Stoner? WE’VE LOST CASEY STONER! (up a whole tone) etc…
  • Ryder avoids the hysterics. He is the ‘Steady Hand’ to Moody’s emotional outbursts.  His main problems when excited are forgetting to breathe and using unfeasibly long sentences.
  • Nigel Pearson and KelvinTatum feature quite strongly here I am afraid. For example, Pearson continuing to shout in a most disagreeable manner, despite the finish of the particular race he is supposed to be commentating on: “WELL, HAVE WE GOT A MEETING NOW, OR WHAT, KELVIN TATUM?” I just wish he wouldn’t expend so much of his (apparently limitless) energy trying to convince us we’re watching great racing. I think we’ll be the judge of that, Ta.
  • Tatum, too, is capable of allowing himself to rapidly spiral out of control, although he seems to take many of his cues from Pearson;  indeed, at times they will chorus in unison; for example, over a skilful piece ‘fence-scraping’  “Ohhhhhh! HOW did he do that?!” Nevertheless, he falls short of that daemonic, possessed quality that transforms Pearson from affable host to deranged nutcase: “IF YOU’RE SITTING AT HOME WITH PIZZA TAKEAWAY AND THE FOOD HAS GONE ALL OVER THE FLOOR DUE TO THE EXCITEMENT OF THAT RACE, PLEASE FORGIVE US!” Nonetheless, I do think it terribly endearing, however that Pearson and Tatum continue to model themselves on 70’s TV regulars, Fozzie Bear and Kermit. Next time you see the dynamic Sky Sports duo doing a discussion to camera, wearing their silly big headphones (What are they listening to: Deep Purple?) and nodding sagely in agreement at appropriate intervals, think Muppets.

  • Of the six, Burnicle and Whitham are probably the most restrained. In Whitham’s case, a riding career which saw him reach the heights of success, tempered by a catalogue of injuries that would make an orthopedic surgeon wince mean he has the ability to commentate with authority and experience. Add a touch of dry, gallows/paddock humour and he’s your man. Having been there, seen it, done it, he doesn’t tend to shout about it much. He finds more satisfaction teasing Burnicle, the enthusiast who comes across more like Whitham’s Dad.

(The irrepressible Rossi. Doesn’t like hospitals! )

Background knowledge/Response to ‘On-Track’ events/Observational Skills

  •  Background knowledge I am happy to report is very good in all cases and in some excellent.
  • Jack Burnicle, for instance, can always be relied upon to give you that extra insight:  (Re: Colin Edwards, World Superbikes and his choice of tyres) “Colin  had a hard on in practice earlier, and I bet he wished he had a hard on now” and “Simon only weighs 63kg and most of that’s his ears!”

(Casey Stoner)

  • Whitham: (My job) “is to get across the subtlties of what is happening, what strategies they might be evolving, what’s going on with the tyres and so on” In response to track action, the assured Whitham sometimes employs an elegant spoiling tactic. When something he has said is about to be contradicted by actual  events as they happen (to be fair, not very often):  He diverts attention away to another area of the race course ” Look, Jack  Now ah knew that were gunna ‘appen. I knew sooner or later someone were gunna open a Heineken umbrella on that bit o’ banking …. I mean … “
  • And then there  is Ryder. He is eagle-eyed and has (seemingly at his fingertips) a mass of information about riders, and their pedigree, bikes, engines, teams, gossip, rumour, lap times, records and is able to – and this is where he scores trillions of points – put all this in context for the casual viewer. For example, as a result of watching coverage of free practice at the new Spanish Aragonese track, I now have a much more complete understanding of ‘wet’ tyre technology. It might not get me very far with the man on the Clapham omnibus, but if I ever find myself in the paddock on a wet raceday, I’ll be able to say: “Yeah! get the wets on, they’ll grip without compromising speed too much, Why? because … er … the heat … um … err … and the little bits … they squash … sort of … and …  Hang on a sec. I’ll just ask Jules”

(Going down the road)

  • In responding to on-track action, bear in mind that our six will know many of the riders personally. A close shave (or God forbid worse) for one or a number of  competitors elicit a uniform response, though these vary in their intensity and level of empathy depending on the circumstances. So we get:

“OOHHHHHHHHHHH!” (Ryder and Moody)

 “OOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHH!” (Pearson and Tatum)

“OH NO! OOOOOOOHHH  AHHHHHHH  OOOOOOOOOOOH….!”  Poor Burnicle seems to feel every bump and scrape himself as riders come off and hit the hard asphalt or gravel traps: He then, to add insult to injury,  admonishes the fallen rider: “Oh Leon, what have you done? You silly boy!’ for his recklessness/speed/ill-timed braking/poor choice of tyres/big ears.

Whitham is more matter of fact “I see what’s ‘appened,  he’s front-ended on braking, going int’ corner, so he’s hit the deck fast.  Aye, he’s moving across that tarmac, mind you he’s missed t’ kerb. Nah, he’ll be all reyt”

Tatum seems to take an unhealthy over-interest in the trauma suffered by fallen riders as he puts each spill under his ‘Pain Microscope’

“If we take a look at that again Nige you’ll see … Ohhhhh! Look at him getting thrown around like a rag-doll … and thump on his head! … And now the bike runs over him! That’s got to hurt. Let’s have another look …..”

Favourite Sayings and creativity in use of euphemisms for the word ‘Crash’

  • Pearson insists on wishing stricken riders “All the very best” – Is it just me ? Isn’t that  the sort of thing you write on a Christmas Card?
  • Pearson: “Chris Louis in the pits there, and apologies if you heard one or two words which you may have found offensive”
  • Tatum: (Every week) “Y’know Nige, very often in the re-run it is not the rider who was leading the race when it was stopped who wins”
  • Tatum: “Well, Nige they’ve just not come to the races”
  • Ryder: “Valentino’s shoulder”
  • Whitham: “I knew that were gunna ‘appen.”

 Crash Pronunciation:/kraʃ/: collide violently with an obstacle or another vehicle. Not to be confused with a ‘Moment’ (When a rider almost comes to grief) Crashes are otherwise known as an ‘An Off’ ‘, ‘A Front/Back End’, Dropping It’, ‘High Side’ (When the machine bucks the rider off after going into a rear wheel slide),’Going Down The Road’  ‘Throwing the baby out with the bathwater’

but by far my favourite is from Toby Moody ‘The carbon fibre ‘s in the kitty litter!’ (Incidentally, there is one ‘bogus’ in the above list. Can you spot it?)

So in conclusion, between them, in spite (or perhaps because of) their foibles, idiosyncracies, things they say that drive me nuts, I enjoy their company. After all, if  it gets too much, I just turn the sound down.

Closing note: The Spanish Aragon GP 2010: King Juan Carlos presents winner Stoner with the trophy. Event sponsor’s logo given pride of place!

Links:

Moto GP

British Superbikes

World Superbikes

Elite League Speedway

Let me take you back to the dirtrack

James Whitham

KelvinTatum

Nigel Pearson

Julian Ryder Twitter MotoGPJules

Toby Moody Twitter tobymoody

 Neil Spalding  Twitter Spalders

Andy Daly   Twitter andydaly25

 

Jack Burnicle

Nigel Pearson ‘Take Away’ Quote: Jeff Scott ‘Showered in Shale’ Methanol Press 2006

This post is affectionately dedicated to those brave men who risk life and limb week after week at racetracks around the world for our enjoyment, namely Julian Ryder, Toby Moody, Jack Burnicle, James Whitham, Nigel Pearson and Kelvin Tatum.

First published  Sept. 2010

© Andy Daly  2010

My Mate Bill

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Bill gladdens me, as he has almost every week for the last 18 months. Each Wednesday lunchtime, we shoot a few games of Pool and chew the fat a nearby pub. I cycle and meet him there. He is always early. I am always late. Sometimes he comes to collect me from home in the car. Even then, I am still late. (Another unexpected Bonus Parkinson’s Free Giveaway: The complete inability to organise oneself and work to anything resembling a ‘time frame’.) Formerly punctilious to the point of obsession. I am now late for everything. A trait I abhor.

In the pub, one which after my first visit I swore I would never set foot in again, we chat about this ‘n’  that. His beloved QPR, my beloved Valencia CF, and always about music, while we share some ‘Pub Grub’ which I swear is pieces of Saloon bar carpet served on a bed of the most anaemic, jaundiced-looking lettuce, accompanied by a portion of ‘fries’ which taste like they have been cooked in linseed oil. Bill usually has a pint of Guinness. Either that, or a bottle of bright blue pear cider! If it’s a Guinness day, I usually spend a sizeable chunk of the afternoon wistfully gazing at it. Maddeningly, the blackstuff, one of my favourite thirst-quenchers back in the day, now, like most other alcohols, after two or three swallows tastes like cheap diesel. Again thanks to Parkinson’s. I’ll have a soft drink or occasionally, if I feel like pushing the boat out, a pint of lager shandy.

‘Which lager do you want?’ The bar staff kindly ask. I think, though I never say it ‘It’s a fucking  shandy, it doesn’t matter what lager you put in it, it’s still going to taste shite’ I invariably find myself asking for ‘Cooking Lager then please’ but no-one gets the joke anymore.

Then it is to battle. At the pool table. What follows is a Pool Masterclass. Usually one in which I play like a complete novice, moreover one who is suffering from vertigo and has no thumbs. I  usually finish three, often all four games down.  Bill has the killer instinct, the eye for a ‘snooker’ and an ability to read the game, which sees me cornered, teased and then dispatched. Game over. Nevertheless, I continue to train hard and work at my game. I think it is paying off: I haven’t potted the white from  the Break  for weeks, now (‘The Break’ is the shot which disperses the pool balls from their triangular configuration and which marks the commencement of the game – I’m not sure how familiar you are with Snooker, Billiards, Pool and suchlike)

I on the other hand can read the game, but just can’t be bothered, and go for all the ludicrously ridiculous trick shots, which when they come off (flukes) have Old Bill staggering around in amazement. When I miss, which is more likely,  he moves in like a Hit Man and I am severely punished for my sloppy play.

Bill cheers me up no end, especially when he either:

  • Tells me the tales of his ‘Home Improvement’ capers. I am indebted to him for making me realise that there is someone worse, much, much worse than me at practising the Dark Art of DIY . Whenever I find myself struggling with a reluctant screw, troublesome nail or somesuch. I just think of Bill. For example, there was the time when he tried to plane the bottom of a door which had stopped closing smoothly, because a new carpet had been fitted. He took the door off, and gingerly at first, began to plane wood from the base. Put the door back on: check. No, still catching on the carpet. Off with the door again … and so on, for about twenty minutes, at which point he stopped, panting and sweating in order to inspect the door once more only to find he had been planing the wrong end. In other words the top. So now he had a door which still rubbed on the carpet, but which boasted a handsome four-inch gap, up above, between door and frame!
  • Has a ‘Grumpy Old Man’ rant. Usually about some spectacularly bad customer service he has received, or rather, not. A man of principle, unequivocal about what he believes is right and what is wrong, but also possibly verging on the Tourette’s spectrum, from where, he is a fine sight (and sound) as he effs and blinds about Call Centres, Helplines and some of the hapless halfwits who work therein.

And that’s my mate, Bill. God bless him.

And that’s my Wednesday afternoon.

See also Chuck Berry and CSE, TVEI, NVQ, GCSE: I talk to B and E over a BLT

 

© Andy Daly 2011

   

 

 

Bloody Hell

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I feel I cannot let the events of this weekend go by without some comment.

It certainly puts things into perspective when you see images like those from Japan. It makes you realise how insignificant we are, and how slender is our grip on all that we rely for our survival and all that we hold dear. Both, if we are honest we blithely take for granted – sometimes because we are ignorant of them, while other times because we are simply absorbed by things which seem vitally important (Such as ‘Blogs’ for instance) but which are in fact mere distractions.

It makes you realise that despite our technological advancement; our ability to control the atom, engage in forms of mass communication our grandparents could not even have imagined plus our knowledge, skills and techniques which allow us to conquer just about any form of terrain or habitat on our planet, we are just as fragile, bewildered and helpless as our ancestors. We really haven’t come that far at all.

What has been most startling and moving about all the TV footage I have seen is the composure, stoicism and dignity of the survivors and those involved in the rescue and repair operations. In fact, the nation as a whole. An example to us all.

© Andy Daly

Image: Japanese Cherry Blossom: http://superwomanquest.wordpress.com/

The Way Of The Hand, Foot And Walking Stick: Taekwondo And Parkinson’s Disease

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Tae Kwon Do (The way of the hand and foot)

‘Daly rewarded with Taekwondo Bronze medal’ ‘Third spot for battling Ruislip favourite’ ‘Against all odds, Daly steals TKD bronze’ clamoured the back pages of the morning papers.

Next week, iron your uniform

You don’t recall it? Tsk! Well I’ll just have to refresh your memories then. But first, a bit of etiquette:

“Kyungnet!” At this command, you bow purposefully but deferentially, not too low; from about the height of your solar plexus. Once you have raised your head again, relaxed, but with the limbs firmly under control, you, without shifting your position, step your left foot out 90 degrees to the left: a distance broadly equivalent to one shoulder width, at the same time bending your arms at the elbows (always a good place to do this in my experience) raise your fists to a point just below your chin, outer edges touching, palms facing in. By now your left foot should have completed its shift – if it hasn’t, may I politely suggest that you may be better off with the flower arrangers in the room next door. Thrust your fists (once again, firmly, with strength – but under control, not wildly) out in front of you so that they are just in front of your belt knot. Hold the position, fists about a fist apart, Eyes dead ahead; standing firm yet relaxed.

Good! This is ‘Joon Bi’ or the ‘Ready Stance’

“Charyut!” You are called to attention. Snap to it! Straight and tall, hands and arms following the seams of your trousers. “Kyungnet!” You bow again out of respect for your instructor: who will be your better – if not your elder.

‘Okay, sit down’ The instructor addresses his class, which consists of about 30 WTF (World Taekwondo Federation) students, ages roughly 7 to 13, of which nearly half are girls. The class members are each kitted out in uniforms which go  through a whole spectrum of dirtiness and dishevellment from grubby grey to the crisp, smartest, whitest of whites. I notice that the majority wear a white, white and yellow or yellow belt, while alongside the instructor, standing to attention at the front of the class are a young man wearing a black belt and four older teenagers all of whom wear striped belts: two girls in green and blue and two boys in black and red.

The instructor fixes his gaze on a couple of fidgety lads as the class sit in lines before him:

‘Now, for next week, iron your uniform, so it doesn’t look like you and your mates have slept in it all week. Just don’t answer the phone if it rings while you’re doing it: and…’ he signals another pair: ‘I want to see you two tie your belts yourselves. No! Not together. Each of you, ’round your own waist. Legs crossed if you please … Oi! Legs crossed … Why? Dunno? Anybody want to tell ’em? Well just imagine what one of these big fellers here … C’mon Rob, let’s have you over here a minute’

With the young black belt, he ad libs a short, but impressive fight sequence which finishes with Rob feigning the effects of receiving a powerful kick to the head and fighting to retain his balance .

‘Now just imagine what one of these Black Belts would do to your skinny little legs, sticking out in front of you as he goes trampling all over them, when  he’s sparring. He’d snap ’em like they were bits of sphagetti’

It is a scene repeated, I am sure, in Do Jangs (Training Halls) up and down the country, every Saturday morning; where classes in this increasingly popular Korean martial art are held, and has been so since the sport began to get a foothold in Great Britain in the 1970s, thanks to a small, but dedicated group of enthusiasts. Some of whom, as it happens, had the night before been training in this very room.

But I am totally unaware of any of this.

The Martial Arts

It was a lovely, sunny Saturday morning as I drew into the car park of the community centre which was home to The Brotherhood Taekwondo Foundation all those years ago. In fact, it was so long ago that  David Cameron was no more than an irritating itch on the backside of the Conservative Party, while  Anthony Charles Lynton Blair had yet to be wooed by wannabe-cowboy, George W Bush Jnr, and in so doing cuckold the British electorate over Iraq and Afghanistan. Little did I know it, but I was about to enter a building which for some five years or so was to prove  almost as important to me as my home or place of work, and in so doing, make one of the best decisions of my life.

But, one thing at a time. I am here, instead of  Sainsbury’s because I’ve come with my eldest to take a look at a martial arts class. We felt that at the ripe old age of 12, it was about time he learned how to look after himself. To this end we’d asked around and this club: ‘The Brotherhood’ and one of its instructors in particular, Neil Patterson had come highly recommended

I knew nothing about the Martial Arts, or ‘Marital Arts’ as a student I once taught referred to it on his University application Personal Statement.

No. All I knew was what I’d gleaned from watching ‘Kung Fu’ with David Carradine on TV. Now, that made no sense at all. Even in the most innocuous school playground fight, I reasoned, Carradine would get nothing less than a sound arse – kicking if he were to spend as much time gazing, glassy-eyed into the middle distance, and then fight so painfully slowly.

No. The closest I had come to experiencing the Martial Arts was watching the late, 10th Dan Dai Hanshi Phil Milner and team training  for, and executing  a world record ‘Breaking’ attempt. Demolishing a piano by hand. Literally smashing it to pieces, all of which had to pass through a 9 inch diameter hole. Against the clock. Foolishly, I didn’t regard the spectacle to be of any real significance at the time, and although I always had a secret fascination with the Martial Arts, dismissed them as something which were not for me.

A Black Belt is only a White Belt who never gave up

‘Wassup?’

I am brought back into the training hall with a bump.

‘You’re knackered?  Whaddaya mean you’re knackered?’  The instructor good-naturedly teases his charges.

You ain’t done anything yet …! Who wants a drink?’

‘Me!’ they sing out in unison.

‘Tough! You can have one in 5 minutes. Patterns first – in the groups you were in earlier. Remember you’ve got a grading coming up in 2 week’s time. I want them perfect by then. Practise and practise till you can do them in your sleep. Practise makes …?

‘Perfect’ Almost all of them chime back

‘No, it doesn’t. Practice makes permanent. So make sure you are getting your stances right. Ask if there’s anything you’re not sure about.  Charyut!  Kyungnet! Sijak!’

And off they go, into their groups to work  with the senior belts.  A few minutes later, a couple of them are put through their paces on the floor demonstrating their particular patterns in front of the class. They are reminded, as some despair at ever being good enough to move up the belts:

‘Listen. A Black Belt is only a White Belt who never gave up’

Finally, they get their drink

The instructor takes the opportunity to come over and introduce himself.

Taekwondo in two minutes

The Patterns or Taegeuk, I discovered later are based on a fight scenario and consist of planned sequences of attack and defence against multiple opponents, designed to perfect stances and the techniques of kicking, blocking, punching, turning and so on. Each Taegeuk, has its own attributes. Number One (or ‘Il – Jang’) for example, represents ‘Heaven and Light’ and symbolises creation or the beginning. The floor pattern of steps and stances belonging to each conform to the shapes of the four trigrams on the Korean flag, the Taegeuk, representing the origin of all things is in red and blue, holding the two principles of yin and yang. The whole denotes a universal unity. Amongst other things, advancement to the next belt colour demands mastery of the pattern  for that level; and to reach Black Belt there are eight.

The philosophy of Taekwondo is taught as well.  It has to be if students are to progress, but it is done so in an unobtrusive way such that it is presented as a series of maxims and principles by which students might abide and thus lead  honest and decent lives. The most immediate manifestation of this is in its five tenets: Etiquette, Modesty, Perseverance, Self-Control, Indomitable Spirit. It is mandatory that all students know what these are and what they mean.

Training

My son and I stay to watch the remainder of the class and he is keen to give it a go, so I bring him down and he starts to train the following week. I accompany him to each lesson for the first few weeks; I guess to make sure that he is training safely and happily. I soon realise that this is not an issue at all as the instructors: Master Con and Fatima Halpin, Robin Bell,  Alec Bryan as well as Neil give a high standard of tuition, which allows individual students to learn and progress in what can, sometimes be a busy class. However, I continue to accompany him long after I am satisfied he is settled, because I begin to be fascinated by the whole concept.

One thing that struck me immediately was that the progress students made (If they were prepared to put in the time, and most were) was impressive. In fact, the whole concern was imbued with a ‘culture of success and achievement’. Higher grade students were making the transitions from the coloured belts to the coveted black, and from there, instructing  the lower grades. Meanwhile the junior students were encouraged to accomplish at the regular gradings and prove themselves worthy of the next belt up. In addition, the club was constantly pushing for honours. Competition, in the form of Kireugi (fighting)  Poomsae ( collective term for the Patterns) and challenges against other clubs was a strong element of the club’s work. Students were encouraged to compete and as a result the Brotherhood had a justifiably highly regarded reputation in British WTF Taekwondo circles. Success was expected and celebrated when it came, with award ceremonies built into lessons so that everyone participated.

With this in mind, I recall that at the end of each saturday morning class, Neil presented a trophy every week to the student he thought had worked the hardest and had made most progress. Anyone good enough to be presented with it three times, he said would win it for keeps. On getting changed one morning my lad said:

‘Dad, I’m going to win that’ And he did.

An overwhelming air of inevitability

For my part, as with so many parents (and there were many in whose footsteps I followed and yet more who subsequently followed in mine) with an overwhelming air of inevitability, I soon found myself being inexorably sucked into joining my offspring in the Do Jang. I began to think: Hmmmmm I reckon I could do this, and what a good way of keeping fit!  Suddenly, I had a Do Bok (uniform) ‘Oh there’s no going back now!’ remarked a fellow, but more experienced late starter at seeing this; and with the addition of a Te (My painfully white belt)  I was, before I knew it, training three nights a week.

Bloody hard work, with the result that …

And I loved it! It was bloody hard work, don’t get me wrong.  Due to advancing age (I was in my 40s when I took the plunge) and the associated failure of vital body parts (and of course in my case, the onset of Parkinson’s although at the start of my ‘Martial Career’ it remained undiagnosed) I had to work  twice as hard as the young ones. And he was right, my equally creaky colleague:  There was no going back. The drill work and Poomsae, the repetition of moves again and again in the Do Jang till you were doing them in your sleep (basically, the development of  ‘Muscle Memory’) could be tedious at times but is something for which I am eternally grateful, because as a result I now have a stock of warm-ups, exercises, stretches and movements I can call on to help me deal with the ways in which the Parkinson’s affects my body. In the same way that Conductive Education, developed at The Peto Institute in Hungary can sometimes enable people with disablilties to initiate movement by ‘cues’ and ‘prompts’, I employ the principle of  the ‘action/reaction’ force to make reluctant limbs groan into life. Of course none of this works without the drugs too, unfortunately. I am still able  to remember most of the patterns and from time to time, when I’m feeling brave enough, I try a couple.

I really enjoyed the sparring. This was when you used the skills and techniques for what they were intended: fighting. Full contact was always very safely managed. That is not to say that anything less than 100% commitment was expected, but adequate protection and an awareness of the well-being of others were insisted upon whilst any sign of recklessness not tolerated and stamped on straight away. Breaking was great fun, and almost always left me with a sense of achievement and surprisingly, rarely any lasting harm. I was possessed of only modest skills, as I was always aware: especially compared to the awesome physical and mental prowess of some of my instructors and fellow clubmembers. For example, the skill, accuracy and control in the performance of flawless patterns as demonstrated to a hushed hall by Master Con Halpin, Robin Bell’s fluidity of movement, Andrew Yick’s phenomenal breaking power, Wayne Gates’ absolute concentration and economy of style.

Bloody Parkinson’s, with the result that …

For me, it is the general feeling of fitness, strength, well-being and confidence in one’s own physical ability, the friendship and the cameraderie that existed within the club that are the highlights of my time training with The Brotherhood. All things I miss terribly.

My pride and joy, and Yes! They are genuine.

I got my diagnosis three days before taking my Blue Belt grading. The consultant recommended starting drug treatment immediately. However, after realising that starting on Anti-Parkinson medication (though microscopic amounts compared to the industrial quantities I have to take now) would involve sickness and nausea, I held off (although physically I was nowhere near my best) till after the test.

I passed. I’m not sure how.  As far as moving up the belts was concerned, my son and I went neck and neck (although of course no martial art should be just about belts) Most of our training was done together. It’s a great comfort to know that at least for a couple of years he, and to a certain extent his brother, younger by two years and who trained with us for about the last 6 months or so, will have some memories of me as fit and able, going through my paces, equally happy to face up to an experienced Black Belt or a white belt novice.

The First Southern Area Poomsae Championships, Gatwick

And so, masterfully succinct – as you’ve come to expect  from me, that’s the quickly-sketched background, as to why I am here, in my Do bock and (2ndKup) red belt, freezing my nuts off, far too early for it to be respectable; on a Saturday morning  in a sports hall near Gatwick.

I am here as a competitor in the First Southern Area Poomsae Championships, hosted by The Livingwell Club, near Gatwick. And it is busy, with entrants from all areas of the country.

Although I have spectated at both pattern and fighting events, this is my first competition. My day is made virtually complete when, with dismay I realise that my competition category is that of  ‘Veteran’.

And I’m still freezing cold.  Together with Big John, my long-suffering, even-tempered sometime sparring partner, who is also competing in the same category, I mooch around  bit to find out at what time we are expected on the floor, so to speak. Apparently our ‘slot’ is about midday. I do some warming up and begin to run through my patterns. My eldest has a busy day. As a first Kup (Red/Black belt – one away from black) his is one of the most competitive  groups. Unusually I begin to feel quietly confident. This rare state of affairs is thrown into turmoil more than somewhat by the news that they are bringing our category foward. So far forward in fact, that we’re on now!

frantically trying to remember 

While I am frantically trying to remember the drill for entering the competition area, the first competitor, a red belt from Liverpool takes the floor. He knows his stuff. He’s obviously competed a few times before and already looks like a potential winner. My confidence in a podium finish, however is undiminished. Today feels like the day. Then it’s Big John’s turn. John has been training a little longer and more regularly than me. And it shows. Then it’s my turn. Thankfully, I am still in an ‘on’ state (In other words my L – Dopa medication is still working)

Normally, there are three rounds. The first requires performance  of one Poomsae from the first compulsory section. I think I did Koryo, the  first Black Belt pattern. You are marked on Accuracy (Correctness of Poomsae: techniques and basic movements) and Presentation (Skill, speed, strength and power)  The highest 50% in the category go through to round two. Here, contestants choose from the second, more advanced compulsory section. I must have done Keumgang, the second Black Belt pattern, which would have left me, for the third and final round, pattern 8 and one other. Which? I don’t recall. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, it didn’t go to a third round. I remember nothing about performing, except at the end, trying to make sure I finished on the right spot, which in most patterns is the same as your starting point. I also remember the feeling of relief that it was over. It is quite a tall order to perform physical tasks/movements of such complexity and under such intense scrutiny.

It’s true, Dear Reader

A short wait for the scores and Lo and behold! I get into the medals! That’s right! Third place. Joy unbounded! … or Joy  unfounded, I’ not sure which. My son on the other hand has had  a tough and unproductive afternoon. His category went the whole three rounds and started with about 20 competitors. He has cooled down after his last pattern, and is feeling shivery, achy, hungry and generally pissed off. It’s now 5:00pm and we still have to battle the traffic home; so my, some might say, rather unwarranted celebrations are cut short and we head off. On the drive back, my eldest is not in the mood for ‘move by move’ breakdowns of my killer patterns … and promptly falls asleep, only waking up as we pass the White Bear pub in Ruislip. He doesn’t realise it as his ‘cartoon’ sleepy face: two crosses for eyes and an upside down mouth with its tongue hanging out, slowly dissolves and he returns to normal, but all journey long I’ve nevertheless been regaling him with the tale of my day’s  success.

‘One thing’s a bit wierd though Dad, Howcome you only had to do two rounds?’

Perhaps he has been listening after all …

The eagle-eyed among you, I suspect, may have spotted same:

‘Why no third round? Ah. I didn’t explain that did I?’ Of course the reason we weren’t called to do a third round is the same reason I was so confident of a ‘podium place’: ‘There weren’t enough entrants to warrant a third round.’

‘How many, Dad?’

‘Oh, enough to make it a close and exciting competiton’ I offered, unconvincingly.

‘How many?’

‘Three’

‘What!? So all you had to do was turn up, living and breathing to get into the medals? He was livid. ‘And even if you weren’t I suppose you still would have got it posthumously! …’

It’s true, Dear Reader. Three contestants: me, Big John and the Scouser who, as we suspected he would, won it.

The trophy – Life size!

And so ended my competitive Taekwondo career.

And that was it.

I continued training for about a year, but eventually circumstances prevailed. I remember my last training session. I was with my two lads.  Mindful of pacing myself for the whole lesson, I had taken it easy. It was no good. The ‘Offs’ had started to come more regularly and powerfully by then. So much so, that I had to sit out the bulk of the lesson, frozen, unable to move. We left at the end, some degree of movement having returned: sufficient I thought for me to get us home in the car, but it wasn’t to be. About half a mile from the club I had to pull in as I felt that the rigidity which persisted made it unsafe for me to drive. We had to sit ignominiously in the car till a taxi arrived and got us home. I cycled back the following day to collect the car.

And that was it.

I have to say, in all honesty and without wishing to descend at all into sloppy sentimentalism that it was a significant loss. A loss of, as I have indicated so many things: the fitness side of it, the skills, techniques and the learning all the time, the piecing together of one bit of knowledge with another, the way in which certain elements of the training, and in particular events such as gradings hauled you out of your comfort zone, and the shared nature of the experience of all that. The banter, the fun and the friendship. And I think here is where we get to the nitty gritty, for ultimately, the strength I draw from my memories of my time spent training with the Brotherhood as, let’s face it, a decidedly average – if that – Martial Artist, is a result of the warmth and kindness extended to yours truly and my family, by almost everyone involved in the club at whatever level. Now is that the friendship of a particular group of people, bound together by a common interest, or is that the friendship of Taekwondo? I’m still working on that, but I think I know the answer.

At about the same time I stopped training, though thankfully I don’t think the two events are related, the club went through some changes in personnel and training facilities. Neil Patterson, in my humble view, a gifted and resourceful teacher meanwhile had moved to the South Coast, where, knees permitting or – more often than not –  knees not permitting, he continues to instruct. I only mention this in order to point out, without being presumptious that I consider all Brotherhood club members, be they current or former with whom I had contact over the years, friends.

Thank you and goodnight

I would like to end this long-winded epic by, as well wishing the Brotherhood a Happy 30th birthday, saying a big ‘Thank You’ to those people (far too many to mention individually, and if I did I’d be bound to forget someone,) who had the misfortune to have to spar with me, do one step, self defence or watch as I stumbled my way through pattern after pattern or who were generally responsible for giving me a ‘prod’ along the way. Special Thanks go to the following, who I will name  for their willingness to give of their time and expertise, their patience, help, encouragement and inspiration: Neil Patterson, Master Con Halpin, Fatima Halpin, Robin Bell, Brian Robinson, Alec Bryan, Donette Gates-Day, Tracey and Rob Sleight, Rosie Biddlecombe, Kyle Patterson, The Long-Suffering Big John Moran and family and last but by no means least, Master Usman Dildar (I finally wrote it! I may have gone off track from time to time, but I did finally do it!)

To all of you,

당신을 감사하십시오

Links

The Brotherhood Taekwondo Foundation

Titan Taekwondo

Premier Ki Taekwondo

Ickenham Taekwondo

London Taekwondo Academy 

The British Taekwondo Control Board 

World Taekwondo Federation

Postscript

Of course, it has occurred to me since publication of the above, that certain points may have been left open to potential misinterpretation. What you have read, skimmed, through or totally ignored to come straight here is My Own Story. I am not advocating the practice of Taekwondo as a ‘cure’ for Parkinson’s Disease. There is no cure. Nor am I suggesting it allieviates symptoms, or likwise encouraging people with Parkinson’s to take up the sport. In my case, I was lucky enough to ‘get in’ my all-important two formative years before the arrival of my uninvited guest. The point is that I was, and still am able to use some of the skills and techniques I have learned and put them to use or adapt them in such a way as they enable me to keep fairly supple and fit: which is half the battle with Parkinson’s. They may play their part in my ‘Bag of Tricks’, which might for instance, mean steps or moves which allow me to navigate a particularly tricky bit of the house when my walking is not too good.

Parkinson’s has been dubbed ‘The Designer Disease’ for a reason. No two people’s symptoms are alike. What ‘works’ for one person may not for another, as I have painfully found out over the years, while Taekwondo is a Martial Art; It is not meant to be easy.

Should anyone with Parkinson’s, despite all that has been said, wish to take up the sport, I would urge you strongly to discuss it with your GP or Neurologist in the first instance and then with the club you intend to train with. As for choosing a club (and this goes for anyone: able-bodied, young or old) shop around. Visit a few. Sit and watch lessons (If the club is reluctant to, or doesn’t allow this – Strike it from your list.

End of sermon.

© Andy Daly 2011

A Marvellous Night For A Moondance

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It’s a marvellous night for a moondance …

Name: Bernard Daly
Birth Place: Barbados, West Indies
Residence: Lancaster
Death Date: 12 Feb 1915. Age 35
Rank: Corporal
Regiment: King’s (Shropshire Light Infantry)
Battalion: “B” Coy, 2nd Battalion.
Number: 8145
Type of Casualty: Killed in action. Sniper Bullet, in trenches near Bois Confluent
Additional information: Son of Capt. B. Daly, Waterloo Gardens, Belfast; husband of Jane Frances Daly, of Bradshaw St., Lancaster.
Grave/Memorial Reference:  Panel 47 and 49.

Memorial:                      YPRES (MENIN GATE) MEMORIAL

My Great Grandfather

Picture taken in the back garden 11:35 pm 12/02/2011. ‘Moondance’ by Van Morrison

© Andy Daly 2011
 
 

If It’s Thursday It Must Be Tintin!

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At school one day, out of the blue, the lad who was sitting next to me, and with whom I’d had a fairly tempestuous relationship, involving at least one fight said:
“Why do they always put Tintin on telly on a Thursday?”
“They don’t” I said. “I saw it on Monday last week”
“No, no …” the urchin replied “It’s definately Thursday. They always announce it at the start”
“What are you gabbing on about?”
“They announce it!” he said, emphatically, and taking a deep breath he attempted an impersonation of the stentorian voice of the M. C. who did indeed initiate the programme: “Thursday’s adventures of Tintin!” He boomed.
I quickly weigh up the relative benefits and the likely timescale involved in explaining that the announcer was in fact saying “Hergé’s Adventures of Tintin”, then of course,who Hergé was and so on; compared to simply letting sleeping dogs lie.

It didn’t take long.
“Hmmm! Yeah so they do. Well I never … Tintin only on Thursdays eh?”

Thin Lizzy Live! 15th Nov.1975

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 Okay, now here’s a bit of fun for you all. A live music review from 15th November 1975. Yes, I know I’ve been a bit sluggish in getting it to publication, but these things take time.

I am just turned 15, sitting with a group of my mates in the Champness Hall in Rochdale Lancashire.  I remember as though it were yesterday.  It was – and probably still is – a rather austere Methodist church hall, one which I knew well as the meeting/marshalling point for the hated annual test of will power and patience that was the Scouts’ and Girl Guides’ St. George’s Day parade. Tonight, however, it plays host to a very different gathering.

 

 Champness Hall, Drake Street, Rochdale

All around me a sea of sickly denim and patchouli oil is headbanging.  There is a band on stage.  Despite, (or perhaps because of) the stage clothes, the coloured lights, the expensive  looking guitars and seemingly endless stacks of Marshall amps and speaker cabinets, they look incongruous, uncomfortable even, on the high irregular stage, which slap bang in its centre boasts  a stairway with banisters. It is the one that allows access from the congregation  to reach the pulpit. I bet it’s the oddest venue on this tour. Behind the group an imposing set of organ pipes dominate the back wall ( Note the refusal to stoop as low as using these as an excuse for unsavoury  jokes and puns) Lit by reflected colour from the stage lighting, they look like stalactites and stalagmites forming a surreal backdrop  to the whole affair.

 The lead singer has just addressed his audience and the band launch into the opening riff of the next song.  They don’t look uncomfortable any more.  Once they start to play, all swagger and poise, menace and noise they make it clear they own the place. The lead singer teases and goads the audience between verses. At the risk of using a cliché, inside the hall it becomes an assault on your senses, and in particular on your hearing … I SAID PARTICULARLY ON YOUR HEARING. The sound is shocking. All the  mid range tones are lost in a kind of ‘acoustic soup’,  the higher frequencies  are sent thrashing around only to be echoed back off the organ pipes, while the bass guitar, bass drum and snare punch your chest so hard it hurts. But it is charged, the atmosphere is electric!

The band, a four piece, is here playing the 21st night of a 39 date European tour to promote their fifth album, which features a cover photograph of the band standing, trying to look as aggressive as possible. In fact, if anything, they look hungover. This is the arresting image, enlarged and reproduced on a life size scale which greets you as you enter the venue. The record company, Vertigo, are keen to push the album in order that it may prompt for the band, who originate from Ireland, the breakthrough they desperately seek. In fact, during the course of 1975, as well as recording the album the group had, by the end of the year of the year undertaken five (five!!) tours.  These have included dates in the US (supporting Bachman Turner Overdrive, Bob Seger, ZZ Top and Joe Walsh) Europe (Germany, Holland, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, Norway) Eire and the UK.  Including the Reading Festival, I make it 131 nights in total. Last night they were in London at Thames Poly (Now probably the University of Deptford or somesuch) Tomorrow, Newark (that’s Notts not New Jersey) and the day after, Swansea.  A punishing schedule, not least when the band’s propensity for making touring as … how can I put it? … as enjoyable as possible …  is taken into account. However, back to our gig. 

As I said, the lead singer has just addressed his audience. Dripping with sweat, in his left ear he wears a large silver hoop that intermittently catches the light, and with a lop-sided  grin from said ear to the other he sheepishly looks up from under long lashes, and the curls of black hair that hang rakishly down over his left eye.

         “Anybody in here got any Irish in ‘em? …”

 I won’t complete the enquiry as it highlights an aspect of the band and in particular its frontman’ s persona that I must admit I’ve always had bit of a problem with.  Anyway, tonight the response is drowned out as the black singer, tall and gangly, in leather trousers and a sequined top drops to a squat clamping his black bass guitar (a Rickenbacker as it happens) between his thighs and makes as if to ‘machine-gun’ his audience with it. Meanwhile the guitars break into the staccato opening to ‘The Rocker’. Yes! It’s Thin Lizzy.

Thin lizzy!

Moreover, not only is it Lizzy, but the definitive Lizzy, which first exploited the distinctive twin guitar harmony playing of Brian Robertson, a seventeen year old whizz kid from Glasgow, and Scott Gorham  a Supertramp ‘reject’ from California that they nicked from who? The Allman Brothers? (Referring to Robertson/Gorham, ‘Chalk and cheese’ grinned Lynott slyly when pressed to explain his choice.) The volatile Robertson and terminally laid back Gorham, (he of the ‘Sunsilk’ hair – then, not now of course,) are responsible for two of the finest  musical moments which  together with about two dozen others from artists as diverse as The Sex Pistols and Charlie Parker map out the course of my teens. In this case the genius-made-sound that is the ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’ and ‘Don’t Believe A Word’ featuring Robertson’s searing, vicious solo.

 

Yes! It was Thin Lizzy, on the ‘Rocktober’ tour 1975, which in the context of their career, was “about a minute before they burst through into the big time – very  exciting.”

 

 

Robertson: Is this what is meant by ‘Guitar Tab’?

A breakthrough which was to be cemented four months later with the release of the classic ‘Jailbreak’ and in particular, the aforementioned, ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’  

Lizzy, that chaotic mass of contradictions that came out of Crumlin, Dublin. Who wrote and recorded many, many great songs – and one or two awful ones.

Lynott in full flow                      

Lizzy, who seem to, at one time or another have featured every  guitar player with an axe and a serviceable amp living in the UK in its line up.

Lizzy, Phil Lynott’s pride and joy, who seemed  to  follow their own trajectory through the ‘70s and ’80s steering a more mainstream, less po-faced course than many of their contemporaries like Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath and so on. The result being by accident or design I don’t know, timeless music.

Lynott and Gorham 

Lizzy, the outfit who could  be relied upon, as sure as night follows day, to fuck things up at those critical points where other bands seemed to be able to seize the day and use the momentum to propel them that bit further to ‘superstardom.’  Like the night before embarking on an eagerly – awaited and vitally important US tour. Instead of being tucked up in bed – or packing, Brian Robertson is not only not doing either, he’s at the Speakeasy Club in London, where at some ungodly hour he decides to leap into the midst of a drunken brawl  to assist his pal singer, Frankie Miller who is apparently about to get glassed. ‘Robbo’ takes it in (and through) the hand, severing a nerve, an artery and narrowly missing a tendon which would have finished him as a guitar player for ever. But not before first dealing with the assailant:

 “I broke his leg”

  and his mate:

“I broke his collarbone”

  His other mate:

 “I nutted him – I would have killed them all if someone hadn’t hit me on the head with a bottle and knocked me unconscious!”

 Odds on it was Phil Lynott, or if not, by the following morning Phil I’m sure would have wished it had been.

Exit Robbo, back into the band comes previous Gary Moore … for a while. Then he goes back to Colosseum. ‘Robbo’ returns when his injuries have healed, unofficially. He’s not talking to the band. ‘Robbo’ becomes ‘official’. Then jumps ship for good to be replaced  by … Midge Ure, Dave Flett,  Snowy White, John Sykes  and so on until I lose interest. Oh! Not forgetting Eric Bell of course.

It’s just the kind of band Thin Lizzy were.

Lizzy: Downey, Robertson, Gorham, Lynott. Flawless live

Anyway, enough of that. Tonight is about Lizzy as they were. Flawless on stage.  As I said, I remember it as if it were yesterday, although of the songs they actually played, I’ve only got definitive recollections of,  apart from ‘The Rocker’ and the ubiquitous ‘Whiskey In The jar’ (originally a ‘B’side piss-take) which they had to be convinced to release as an ‘A’ side and which gave them their first chart success in the UK and their  first foothold on the ladder. Apart from these two, the one I remember was ‘Suicide’. I recall being struck by the ferocity of Lynott’s attack on the song. The sheer physicality of his singing. This was only my second live band. (I’d  seen Status Quo in May earlier in that year at Belle Vue, Manchester. But  the 50p ‘unreserved’ cheap seats we were in were so far back they were in Longsight, so not such a good view. In fact, my Dad had a better view than me – It’s a long story best kept for another day) Otherwise, almost every other band I had seen on TV mimed. Lynott was the first singer I can remember who actually looked like he meant it.

He (and the band) had some bottle. Remember it was the mid ‘70s. Racist jokes were still, sad to say, considered ‘acceptable’, even in mainstream culture. Meanwhile Northern Ireland festered as Republican and Loyalist atrocities followed a dismal pattern,  which became almost as sickeningly ‘acceptable’ Against  this backdrop as a patriotic black Irishman taking his music to a British audience, Lynott was all but putting his head into the Lion’s mouth.

After the gig I remember on the way out being given a Thin Lizzy sticker by one of the road crew which I proudly stuck on my school bag and hauled around Bishop Henshaw RC Memorial School off Oldham Road, Rochdale for a couple of years.  I loved them! They were my band – in the same way that The Ruts were to become a few years later (Another story for yet another day ) In fact, I’ve heard that around the time of the first incarnation of the Ruts came about, Malcolm Owen was hanging about with Lynott.  Ruts drummer Ruffy who back then  played bass borrowed Lynott’s black Rickenbacker for some of the early rehearsals. Which if true, shoots dead in the water the tale I was told after the Rochdale gig, the source being someone’s elder brother, who, as he hung around after the gig to meet the band,  apparently saw a roadie drop the (same) Rickenbacker on the stairs and break the neck. Which is why from about this time onwards  you see Phil playing the black Precision with the mirror scratchplate. Interesting Lizzy pub quiz fact or total bollocks? I’ll leave it to you to decide.

I was really genuinely delighted for them, that ‘Jailbreak’- which came not long after the ‘Rocktober’ tour was the success it became. They deserved it. Even if not everyone agreed. I recall seeing around this time, the lyricist/ songwriter/composer Sammy Cahn (‘Three Coins In The Fountain’) interviewed by Michael Parkinson. He was asked in typically lugubrious fashion about the craft of songwriting today.  Cahn replied, saying how he thought standards had fallen.

“For example … “ and he told Parkinson all about a song he had overheard  in which the singer  just shouted the words ‘The Boys are back in town’ over and over again. I remember thinking No! … you have chosen the wrong song there Mister. In fact he couldn’t have picked a worse example. ‘The Boys’ is a terrific, vivid evocation of a mythical space and time inhabited by ‘the boys’: all testosterone and bravado, equally mythical, who can be found on ‘Friday night, dressed to kill, down at Dino’s Bar and Grill …’  A wonderful construct. I don’t believe it ever existed: not in the form it appears in the song. ‘No. 77 Sunset Strip’ was the name of a US detective series from the 60’s starring  Efrem Zimbalist Junior. Lynott wanted to see what was actually at No. 77. So while in L A on Lizzy’s first tour of the States, he went to take a look. It turned out to be a ‘supper club’,  the former haunt of showbiz legend Dean Martin. It was a brilliant combination of the idea of the ‘gang’ with its meeting place, whose name was a derivation of Martin’s own. And although I have never been there – I couldn’t have – I can imagine exactly what it was like. Great songwriting. And there was plenty of it over the years, even towards the end, ‘Sarah’ and ‘Old Town’ for instance, I think are quality gear. Okay, a bit sentimental maybe, but nothing wrong with that in small doses.

The Rocker

Having said that however, I’m not sure I fully subscribe to the ‘Lynott as poet’ view. He barely got away with it on ‘Jailbreak’:

‘Tonight there’s gonna be a jailbreak, somewhere in this town …’

Hmmmm. Well unless the Bizzies are really dumb, you would think they’d keep their eye on the Jail!

Then there is the frankly unforgivable rhyming couplet in ‘Parisienne Walkways’ written and sung by Lynott, recorded by Gary Moore; His attempt to out – Santana  Santana. In what is supposed to be a portrait of ‘Paris in ‘49’ Phil sings (I don’t know how he had the brass-neck …)

‘Looking back at the photographs, those summer days spent outside corner caffs’

I think I would have even preferred:

‘Looking back at the photographés, those summer days spent outside corner cafés’

And as for ‘Killer On The Loose’. Well, I am going to simply gloss over it and charitably put it down to the smack and coke  having addled his brain so much, he didn’t know what he was scribbling. (So how does that explain ‘Sarah’ and ‘Old Town’?) Ahhhh … Anyway …

Thanks Phil

I would still like to thank him though (and Downey, Robertson and Gorham) for a great night back in November ’75 and for making at their  very best, earthy, raw, yet at the same time elegant even sublime music  which continues  to raise the hairs on the back of my neck today (and annoy my kids) – so it can’t be bad.

 It is twenty five years since Phil Lynott died a miserable death, a long way from the assured frontman I saw captivate his audience as skilfully as you like. Far be it from me to cause controversies or open old wounds, but there is one thing that I think ought to be mentioned before we leave the ghosts of November 1975 in peace.

‘Why are you wearing that T shirt?’

 

 This one?

It is November 2009, during the last time I had to have a spell  in hospital. The voice belonged the bloke in the bed opposite me, who I won’t name. He was leaning on his elbow, looking like death warmed up, nodding his head in the general direction of the distinctive Lizzy logo on my tatty black Thin Lizzy T shirt.

‘Is it because you like the band or the shirt?’

After I’d got over the mild effrontery I felt at having been thought of as so shallow that I would wear such a garment simply because of its aesthetic attributes. I replied:

‘Well, I loved the band, and I like the shirt’

As I said this I glanced down at his chest, hoping I might find a gift of a Wings, Emerson, Lake and Palmer or (the comedic potential!) a ‘Phantom of the Opera’ T shirt. No such luck. Only the thick black hoops of a ‘Pirate – style’ shirt. (Favourite band, I later found out? The Pirates!) From such unlikely beginings high up on Charing Cross Hospital’s eleventh floor Neuro ward we developed quite a rapport.

‘I only ask because I worked for Phil Lynott for the last couple of years of  his life. I was his Personal Assistant. It’s amazing, he and the band are more popular now than ever. Often I see people wearing shirts, carrrying bags or whatever with Lizzy designs on them, yet they could have never seen them. They’re too young.’

I was keen to learn more, but unfortunately my comrade in arms was really not in a good way, and was having to spend large portions of his day hooked up to a drip, and unable to move, nauseous into the bargain. So as inquisitve as I was I eased off on the solid wall of questions I had targetted at him and let him have a break.

One thing he did say though – and bear in mind Lynott’s death was probably not a case of ‘if’ but ‘when’

‘He needn’t have died. If I’d have had my way he’d be alive today’

‘Well … You know what it’s like with addicts …’ I offered. Not, of course knowing the first thing about what it is like with addicts at all. ‘You would never have been able to get him clean, there were too many people surrounding him who were supplying … and if he didn’t even listen to his mates … You’d have had no chance …’

‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean at the house that Christmas. They didn’t want any fuss; anyone to know, so they took him to that bloody drug clinic place near Salisbury. They didn’t know how to treat him, not properly, not in his condition. I wanted him taken to the nearest A and E.’  (Probably Kingston, a few minutes drive away as opposed to the middle of  Wiltshire, where he was eventually whisked.)

Do I believe him? Yes. Other than that, I’m saying  nothing, except that as many others before him and no doubt many still to come, Phil Lynott was a victim of his own belief in his ability to control drugs.  I wish Phil, like Iggy Pop, had made it through and survived.  I think he would, as Iggy is, be ‘quietly massive’ and thoroughly enjoy basking in the glow of warmth and affection that still exists for him from those who knew him, loved his music, plus those – and there are many, for whom he paved the way. 

 And if he chose to earn a few potatoes selling car insurance? Then so what.

And how about that? A whole article on Phil Lynott which doesn’t  use the phrase ‘Wild Man of Rock’ … Till now… Doh!

The Official Thin Lizzy Site

Thin Lizzy Online

The Thin Lizzy Guide

© Andy Daly 2011

Love And Other Drugs

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As you may know, I try to avoid focusing on my Parkinson’s as a subject for posts, but this has been gnawing away for a little while, so here we go.

Know It All

Now if anybody tells you that these days, Parkinson’s is not so terrible and that it can be easily managed with drugs, you can say nothing.

 

But just punch them as hard as you like on the Philtrum (It is the vertical groove or ‘channel’ we all have which runs from the nose to the top lip) There are lots of nerve endings here which make it extremely painful when bopped.

With any luck, fragments of bone will be shattered away and lodge themselves in the Know It All’s brain too.

Joy of Movement

In order to experience  the joy of movement every morning I enter into a kind of ‘Faustian’ deal.  However in my case it is not out of choice, nor some idle desire for worldly pleasures, knowledge or power.  Neither is it made with the Devil (although sometimes I do wonder.) No, my pact is with pharmaceuticals and my Mephistopheles, the drug companies, Merck and Boehringer Ingelheim. For the joy of movement I have to take regular doses of two drugs in particular: Levodopa which basically turns into Dopamine in the brain in an attempt to replace the missing ‘chemical messenger’ whose depletion is essentially the cause of my Parkinsonian symptoms. However, Dopamine is very quickly broken down by the body, so it requires plenty of help to ensure it reaches its target. (Think of ‘The Dambusters’ or the aerial bombing sequence at the end of ‘Star Wars’ that Lucas lifted from the same 1955 classic.) My Neurologist once said it was a bit like  putting rocket fuel in a car. The second, Pramipexole, is a Dopamine Agonist, designed to stimulate receptor sites such that they make the most efficient use of the available Dopamine. Both are in my case, very effective when taken at the appropriate times, sometimes in conjunction with other drugs. They permit me a range of  movement from one end of the scale: stumbling and creaking about, to the other equally debilitating hyper-active and dyskenetic (uncontrollable) movement and everything in between. These phases manifest themselves as I go through the day and the efficacy of the drugs is tempered by stress, tiredness, the ‘blocking’ action of proteins, the wearing ‘on’ or ‘off’ of doses, dose failure and so on)

Payback

And what is the price I have to pay? Well, well, this is where it gets interesting. As drugs of true dependence, over time your body requires more to do the same job; and of course Parkinson’s is degenerative as we know. So over even more time it means even, even more. Even more drugs which are known to cause secondary effects (did you know this?) such as hallucinations, paranoia, compulsive behaviour, psychosis and all sorts of other unpleasant things you really don’t want to know about. Out and about, people assume that you are drunk – or just a nutcase, and laugh at your increasingly eccentric behavioural mannerisms: which of course become worse once you realise you are being observed. Friends and family watch as your personality becomes hideously distorted and, just like drug addicts out on the street, you turn inwards and obsess about your next dose, and the next and eventually it starts to run your life. And the worst thing is you know it happening, but feel powerless to do anything about it.

Love

And what of Love?

You love. You love as deeply as you ever did, perhaps even more so, but as deep as you feel it you also want hide it.  You want to hide yourself away too. I guess it becomes part of your defence mechanism. You feel the need to protect those around you and immunise them to your suffering. You get so objective about it that you start to become hard-hearted. You can’t bear to think about it sometimes as you feel it reveals chinks in your armour which would very easily be exploited by the unprincipled, steely spectres that haunt you. You can’t bear to think about the enormity of what is happening. If you did, you reason, the tears would almost certainly fall. And if they started, they would never never stop. Ever. But you still feel the love, often expressed in the simplest of ways, as in the feats of endurance performed on my behalf by those nearest to me every day.

And what if?

And what if I just don’t take them? The drugs I mean. Well, within a matter of a few hours I am reduced to a kind of jelly, Unable to walk, talk clearly, chew, manipulate with my fingers or hands. I wouldn’t last long in the wild … or in the front room for that matter. But my cognition and awareness remain intact.

Nasty bastard isn’t it?

“Parkinson’s causes slowness of movement, tremor, rigidity and is commonly diagnosed in people over 60.” How many times have I read that and wondered as now, age 50 with 10 years of the ‘Shaking Palsy’ under my belt ‘Yes? and the rest?

Good News?

However, there is a glimmer of hope. I have had preliminary tests at The National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery here in London to assess my suitability for surgery. Specifically, Deep Brain Stimulation. I won’t go into detail, but if accepted it would mean an operation to implant electrodes deep into the brain, which would be set to send out electronic impulses stimulating various brain target areas. These  in turn, are controlled by a unit (similar to a pacemaker) implanted into the top of  the chest cavity. The results of this particular operation have for some time been the source for encouragement. It is not a cure. However  patients for whom it has been a success have been able to substantially reduce the medication they take, while quality of movement, balance, gait and tremor among other things have improved. In some cases dramatically.

My mate Reg who has had it done says he feels like a ‘New Man’ and since the op he’s re-applied for and been granted his Driving Licence – A target for me if ever there was one.

The film? I haven’t seen it. Review? Oh dear. You mean you’ve sat through all of the above waiting for a review of the film? Oh well, never mind. At least you may have learned something.

LINKS

Parkinson’s UK  (Formerly The Parkinson’s Disease Society)

The Parkinson’s Appeal for Deep Brain Stimulation (DBS)

Patients’ Stories

© Andy Daly  2011 (‘Know It All’ first published in  Feb 22nd  2010)

Houston, You Have A Problem?

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We were at the dinner table one evening, talking school with our boys. Thankfully, this has always (up to now at least) been a thoroughly pleasurable experience: They do like to talk about school and especially since they have both been at secondary – they tend to ‘bounce’ stories off each other. Occasionally, you get some utter gems, such as this one.

Mission Control. Houston Texas

Our eldest told us this about his Year 9 (That’s ‘Third Year’ in £ S d) Science teacher ‘Miss Houston’. Miss seems a bit dizzy from what he’s already told us. You get the feeling that she’s not really fully in control. She is Greek, apparently, talks in a high-pitched singy-songy voice, and asks the kids “Houston gotta problem?” (As in Houston, Texas NASA. Mission Control: “Houston we gotta problem”) when she thinks they are stuck. She likes a challenge.

Year 9 Science classroom

Well, it’s a hot, tedious afternoon, almost time for home, but that bell is just far enough away to make it feel like an eternity. They are studying Human Reproduction and are labelling diagrams in their books as she points out for them the various key features. They are scribbling away with the parts of  the male reproductive system. They get to ‘Scrotum’ which she points out on the diagram and as they continue to write, heads down, suddenly, and to no-one in particular, she announces:

“Ahhh! ‘Scrotum’ I love the way it rolls off your tongue!”

(I swear this is true)

The kids carry on writing … then it slowly began to dawn first on one or two…then a few more. Lazily, the import of what she had actually said, coupled with her directness began to make  itself apparent to the class – and then, it was the end of the lesson. Bell went, students departed. So it wasn’t until outside that the real fuss began, with pupils scurrying down the corridors hurridly cramming books into bags (the Boys’ voluminous enough to carry a full set of the ‘Encyclopaedia Britannica’ the Girls’ about the size  of a postage stamp) “Did she really say what I think she said?” “I think so …” “Hey Shellie, guess what our Science teacher’s just said?…”

Well, after I’d recovered my composure (it was one of those cases where eventually you get to laughing at other people laughing. and our eldest’s laugh is the most infectious ever..Oh God , I was in bulk…) Well, I was horrified and impressed in equal measure. He had, in fact already told his Mum in the car after she’d picked him and his brother up for the Home Run. She nearly went off the road in hysterics; they thought she was having a fit, she eventually pulled up.

As we got to hear more and more stories about Miss Houston, it became clear that this was completely in character. Our eldest chose to study Chemistry, her subject at GCSE level (however not necessarily because of her, though I will strongly encourage his brother to do so too.)

Another example  from a GCSE class, again, courtesy of our eldest. She taught them about the ‘Bonding’ of atoms, by getting people from the class to act out scenes from a nightclub where each participant was an atom, the majority of who were out for a few drinks and a laugh, but basically to bond with another. Then there were one or two ‘kinky’ ones who wanted to bond in twos and threes! I began to wonder. Is she a dizzy, daft old moo who doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going, or is she (and this is where my money’s going) actually a very canny teacher who was using language, key words, vingettes, play-acting, kinaesthetic learning to make it fun, interesting and easy to remember.

I finally met her at our eldest’s year 11 parents’ evening and we had such a laugh (much of which was at his expense I’ m ashamed to say) she didn’t know I was a teacher and I didn’t let on. We were however, on the same wavelength immediately. He will never have any trouble remembering, or explaining what ‘bonding’ is or how it works. As for scrotum…

One very cool (if still slightly dotty) lady.

 © Andy Daly  2010