*As Womad 2023 has just passed, I thought I would post my review of Womad 2022, which never got printed in the end because the title it was supposed to appear in ceased publication shortly afterwards. Better late than never!


REVIEW: Womad 2022, Charlton Park, Wiltshire (July 28-31)      

This was without doubt a momentous Womad festival – the first in the UK for three years following the pandemic period, and the 40th since its inception – and boy did it show.

There were 39,000 in attendance at the last Womad in 2019, this weekend rising to 40,000, and thankfully no heatwave weather this time – a more temperate mix of sunshine, cloud and patches of drizzle to clear the air. Spirits certainly weren’t dampened at any point though: the atmosphere from the outset unsurprisingly a lot more buzzy than usual.
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The biggest trump card of this festival, as ever, is the sheer variety and eclecticism of its programme, with bands and artists from all over the globe, covering a wide spectrum of musical genres. It remains truly unique in this respect on the UK circuit.

On Friday night Angelique Kidjo, from Benin in West Africa, attracted one of the biggest crowds of the weekend for what was billed her African reinterpretation of Talking Heads’ ‘Remain in Light’, but which also included highlights from throughout her lengthy career.

“I am so happy to be back, celebrating our humanity,” she effused from the stage, clad in a radiant red dress, and at one point bringing onstage festival founder Peter Gabriel to join her in one of her more famous songs. It was a magic moment in a weekend that contained many. 

On Saturday night, The Flaming Lips blew everyone in attendance away with a bombastic, multi-coloured set that incorporated everything from giant inflatables to confetti cannons to frontman Wayne Coyne’s famous hamster balls. His ethereal standard ‘Do You Realise?’ landed with particular force, after which he declared that we were all presently experiencing “the coolest place on earth at this moment”. It was hard to disagree with him.

A daytime highlight was the gospel choir The Spirituals, who enlivened the Saturday afternoon with a selection of soaring group harmony-driven numbers, encompassing hymnal classics and a moving cover of Labi Siffre’s ‘Something Inside So Strong’ that really got the pilomotor reflex humming.
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The beauty of this festival is what also goes on outside of the music programme. Logistically, the simple gradient-free layout of the site makes it relatively easy to get from one side to the other – no mile-long treks through muddy quagmires. It’s a spotlessly clean arena too, with the recycling bins dotted around the site well used at all times. 

In the extensive wooded area lies a world of health and wellbeing pursuits, from massages to artisan tea-shops, and a wealth of cultural options, including a live poetry arena and a talk tent whose human subjects ranged from festival founder Peter Gabriel to a couple who have spent years living out of their modified van, enthusing about how you could join them in doing so.

Meanwhile, the more scientifically minded are well catered for by a diverting physics tent which holds a varied programme of talks and activities, this weekend featuring an appearance from The Flaming Lips’ frontman Wayne Coyne himself, which I sadly missed!
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For families with children in tow, Womad is probably unsurpassable among festivals on the kids’ entertainment front, boasting fairground attractions all generations can enjoy, while foodies with international tastes unsurprisingly have a whole world of cuisines to enjoy beyond the usual burgers and butties, from authentic Goan fish curries to Mongolian barbecues. I’ve never been better fed at a festival, nor had such a fantastic range of beers to choose from, in the real ale tent – only problem being that most barrels were drank dry by the final day.

It’s no surprise that Womad festival has travelled to more than 30 countries in its existence, from Chile to New Zealand, and made it into the Guinness Book of Records as the ‘biggest international music festival’. Some of the major acts to have played here over the years include Baaba Maal, Ravi Shankar, Youssou N’Dour, Nina Simone, Joan Armatrading, Suzanne Vega, Siouxsie and the Banshees, David Byrne and Toots and the Maytals.
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On the continuing evidence of this year’s 40th instalment, it shows no signs of slowing down nor resting on its laurels. Like Glastonbury, Womad will be one of the few festivals that truly goes the distance. I hope to be around for many more of its future editions to personally attest to that.

Since it’s my birthday week and I’ve neglected this blog since the outset of the pandemic I've decided to finally write a post on a certain annual meteorological phenomenon I’ve come to notice over the years and which I point out to my friends every September: it never rains on my birthday celebrations, and hasn't done for as long as I can remember.

It is always warm, always dry. And this week’s outlandish late heatwave just takes the biscuit. Not so much an Indian summer as not far off what it would actually be like in parts of the Indian subcontinent in their actual summer – 29 degrees in my town tomorrow!
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It was Thursday 12th March 2020, a fortnight before things got serious on the Covid front, when I was invited to the press launch of Q Shoreditch: a new pool club cum cocktail bar in a swish casino-style setting on East London's Tabernacle Street, as far removed as can be from the dingy snooker clubs I'm better used to.

I readily accepted the invite, being a life-long cuesports fan (blogged a few years ago about meeting Ronnie O'Sullivan, and tweeted only last week my Crucible ticket for the cancelled World Championship, and having to settle instead for a BBC rerun of an old Steve Davis match.)

Handily for me I was already in town that afternoon for a Puressential press conference at The Ivy (eat your heart out Alan Partridge) so was able to arrive early doors for the Shoreditch opening, which I also made sure of after finding out a certain six-time World Championship snooker finalist (and my mum's favourite ever player) was in attendance for the evening.

​As luck would have it, Jimmy was just loitering about at that early point, and the PR man Antoni Heatley asked me if I'd like a game of pool with him. It was an offer I inwardly laughed loudly at: would I ever want to shoot some pool with one of the all-time legends of snooker - the 'People's Champion' no less - having only expected a brief meet and greet with him at best. "That'd be amazing," I replied, in the knowledge that I was at that point sober and decent with a cue when not intoxicated, and that pool is a great leveller - if the balls go your way and you can hold it together, you can beat anyone. Minutes later Jimmy duly arrived with a handshake and smile as I racked up the balls at the corner table I'd chosen.

Further luck was on my side in that my new girlfriend Margo had also just arrived, so would be my mobile photographer for the game, although it quickly emerged she didn't have a clue who Jimmy was while I gave her the briefest of briefs as to what was happening. 

I will now provide a blow-by-blow pictorial account of exactly how that game transpired, for the benefit of anyone who might find themselves playing Jimmy or another pro of his ilk any time in the future... 


Link to Facebook gallery for mobile phone visitors, as slideshow appearing only on desktop version annoyingly
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When that black sank I don't think I've felt that ecstatic ​since maybe the Pointless win in 2015, or scoring with my first touch for my new Sunday league team ten years before that. What was the cherry on the cake was when Margo and I left the place a few hours later, many cocktails down and preferring somewhere a bit quieter, we stopped and peered back through the window at Jimmy still playing with the umpteenth journo as a gathered drunken crowd watched on. While his opponent was taking his next shot, Jimmy chose that moment to glance up and spotted us standing there over a cigarette, looking fondly his way. "You beat me" he mouthed back, pointing his finger and returning the smile, before turning back to his game.

I floated on air for the rest of that week, despite everything in the world going to shit, and will unashamedly be dining out on it for a good while to come. Have considered putting it in my CV under the Interests/Achievements section. As I reply to people who don't believe me ("He probably let you win", "Are you sure it wasn't a lookalike?" etc) I probably wouldn't believe them if they'd told me the same, because it doesn't make sense that a snooker icon who can rattle off a 147 on a full-size table can be beaten - while clearly trying not to be - by a random dabbler on a pub pool setup, and not via him prematurely sinking the black. 

So thank you Q Shoreditch for bagging the legend for your venue launch, and PR don Antoni Heatley for setting up the game, and Margo for the impressively composed snaps and subtle distraction tactics. 

Once lockdown is finally over it's going to become my mission to find and beat another snooker player at pool, to prove to myself and others that it wasn't a fluke. Until then, I'm going to find and dust off my old Amiga in the attic for a rematch on 'Whirlwind Snooker' - a 1991 80% 'Hit' in Amiga Power magazine no less.

*Q Shoreditch, 55-61 Tabernacle St, London EC2A 4AA. www.q-shoreditch.com

As it's been a while since my last blog post, and because they tend to be mostly music-orientated these days, I thought I'd expound my favourite tracks of the 2010s, before we get too far into the new decade.

The 10s was a cultural timespan so fully immersed in the digital era that half of any new music you listen tends to go under most other people's radars, the last hurrah of the singles chart being so far into the past now you'd need a Hubble-strength telescope to detect its dying rays.
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Nowadays my main sources are BBC 6 Music, as ever; Radio 2 (!) occasionally; otherwise random tweeted recommendations from friends and those I'm following, and around the summer festival period I'll peruse music websites for the lowdown on bands I've just come across or am about to see. Nothing from TV, nor from an equivalent to NME, which is quite sad when I think about it, compared to the pre-internet era of MTV when it actually played videos and the music press when the alt scene was thriving.

New acts aside, heritage artists like Metallica and the late Leonard Cohen have still been producing the goods, to my ears, although I can't see that continuing much longer.

The final cut is an unholy mix of (mainly) alternative, indie, metal, post-punk & electronica, but also some classical, reggae, trip-hop and African jazz-funk. There’s a few not included only because they’re not on Spotify, like a bonus track from Bowie’s 'The Next Day' in 2013, which proves why the app can’t always be relied upon.
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​If I had to narrow it down to a top six: 
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> Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains), Arcade Fire (2010)

Epic 80s-channeling opus with fantastic Bjorky vocal and slight Blondie melody purloining going on. Only heard properly for first time in early 2018 when my local radio station played it and replied to my tweet asking who it was.  ​

> Supremacy, Muse (2013)

Their last truly great song IMO, the Bond theme tune that never was; although the title track of the album it appeared on - The 2nd Law - also rocked my world with its dubstep groove and histrionic​ choir. Ever diminishing returns since then.  

> Two Weeks, FKA Twigs (2014)

Dark and brilliantly produced trip-hop. While Twigs never fully goes for it vocally, when she does smash the few high notes it gives me the old pilomotor reflex every time. 

> Moth Into Flame / Dream No More, Metallica (2016)

While they’ll never reattain Master of Puppets heights, this is still the best any thrash metal band can produce, at both fast and slow tempos.

​​> You Want It Darker, Leonard Cohen (2016)

Absolute master of the atmospheric slow-burner, right up until his death only a few weeks after this release.
​Am eternally grateful to have seen him live from close quarters at Glastonbury. 

​> The Island, Pendulum (2010)​

Dubstep/D&B, whatever you wanna call this, it's a hectic wallshaker and my favourite treadmill workout number for smashing it on the highest gradient.
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​​*Honourable shout-outs to PJ Harvey and St Vincent, and Sleaford Mods: their single-note gem 'My Jampandy' my standout.

Got my hands on a review copy of LoC - the dramatised examination of seminal Norwegian black metal band Mayhem - released last week on DVD. 

​As a lifelong metal fan I’m well acquainted with the story of these church-burning nutjobs (while never having got round to reading the eponymous book) so to finally see a filmic representation of what went down was certainly an eye opener, and not wholly in a positive way.   
 
I thought I’d fire off some thoughts on the movie and its cast/director, what was good about it but mainly where it all went a bit wrong. The former can be summed up in its being visually decent - slickly produced and edited – which is no surprise considering director Jonas Åkerlund’s history of music videos for the likes of Rammstein, Ozzy and Metallica (not to mention J-Lo, Pink and Lady Gaga!).
 
There were also some genuine lols punctuating the film, derived chiefly from the middle-class suburban situations of these cod-Satanic black metallers, like the little sis peeping and guffawing at the band rehearsing in the family home basement.

Which leads to the first of my major beefs with Lords of Chaos, in list form:

​> There wasn’t nearly enough of the actual music in the film. As ridiculous as these guys look and behave, they are – like most practitioners of this genre – highly accomplished musicians, playing at breakneck speeds with technical virtuosity. But all we witness of this is that brief rehearsal, snatches during the party scenes and one gig which was more about the frontman’s blood-spraying antics. Just needed to see more of this elemental aspect, to offset the murderous juvenility that was to follow - give em some credit for something!

> To expand on that, I found myself hating all the main characters, and not caring about what happened to any of them, which for me is a major drawback for any film, novel or play – you have to hold at least some interest in the outcome for a protagonist or the motives behind their actions. We are given no clue as to the motivation driving Varg Vikernes: what ultimately compels him to (spoiler alert!) murder Euronymous in the manner that he did, beyond all the infantile one-upmanship that preceded it.   
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> Call me po-faced but wantonly destroying centuries-old churches as some kind of marketing campaign for your band is not big or clever in any way. There was scant reference to the impact this destruction had on local communities, on peaceful churchgoers and townsfolk who might have used the church as a meeting place, not to mention historians and visitors to these towns. A thousand-year-old church is of historical value no matter how godless you are.
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​The film portrays the arsons to be both a pathetic jape yet also kind of ‘cool’, with the perpetrators silhouetted triumphantly  before the burning edifice, as per the official poster above. This for me epitomises the narrative confusion at the heart of Lords of Chaos – are we supposed to be laughing at these characters or feeling some kind of warped respect for the  ‘metalness’ of their actions? The film never strikes the right note on this, seeming to oscillate awkwardly between both. 

​> The casting choice of McCauley Culkin's brother Rory as Euronymous – I’m sorry but it’s even harder to take this character seriously when I keep seeing Kevin from Home Alone.

​> I just think this story would have been better served as a feature-length documentary, with contemporaneous photos and video footage of the band, and interviews with those who were there and lived to tell the tale. Some of the best documentary flicks - to wit Touching the Void, The Imposter, Diego Maradona (reviewed last week) - would not have worked so effectively as dramatisations, their compelling stories not needing to be exaggerated or exploited to the extent Lords of Chaos does so with its own. Its OTT close-focus violence, corny dialogue and mystifying directorial perspective just lays waste to what was such  rich material to work with.

​> Finally, it would have been nice to have seen some end credits apprising what happened to the surviving band members, eg. what transpired with the homicidal Varg – where did he end up? Didn’t Mayhem later reprise themselves with a new lineup to greater success? Shouldn't have to google all this.

So unless there’s a sequel in the pipeline Lords of Chaos doesn't really provide a sense of closure, or any sense at all, beyond two hours of mindless violence and vandalism with no real explanations nor nod to its aftermath.

Time to read the book I think.  (Movie available to stream on demand at www.lordsofchaosfilm.com ) 

​We've all had one of those nights, be it a party or, in this case, a gig, where the whole affair is punctuated by a series of bizarre incidents, when you can't predict what else is going to happen but know that something definitely will, with alcohol usually the culprit. I had such a quintessential one of these last Saturday that I had to relate it in a blog post for posterity.

It all began with the suggestion from my 60s music-loving mate Pete that we go and see 'Cosmic Charlies' at Fiddler's Elbow in Camden, the band being "Europe's premier Grateful Dead tribute" est. 1988, and the venue a dive pub near Chalk Farm Station, in its own words "a classic, no-nonsense, retro live music venue".

What made this an attractive proposition is that Pete is a proper 'Deadhead', having seen the real deal a couple times in the 60s & 70s, and he rated the Charlies - had even bumped into fellow Deadheads at their shows who were at the same concerts fifty years ago. So for me, having listened to a lot of Grateful Dead over the years and knowing that it was more about the  'live experience' with them, this would be the closest I could get to it, surely.

After roping in mutual muso mate Gordon, 10 years older than me and 20 younger than Pete, and equally beguiled by the Dead's legacy, we assembled in nearby retro bar Joe's for pre-beers, ​where Pete primed us by waxing nostalgic on the quasi-religious communal experience of the Dead's often 7-hour sets, plus how he once climbed up the scaffolding tower at one of the big outdoor shows while off his face before remembering that he hated heights and couldn't work out how to get down. Tonight would have a lot to live up to.
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                                                                                                 Peter and Gordon - back in the day


​The gig venue was exactly how I'd envisioned it: rough and ready, walls emblazoned with vintage music posters and vinyl, battered Chesterfield sofa in the corner. After handing over the £10 door charge we were branded with a large brown stamp which made our hands look like they'd been badly scalded. When I asked at the bar what wine they had - "red or white mate" was the brusque reply, but it was Pete & Gord on the vino while I was pleased to find they sold the much more fitting Iron Maiden Trooper beer by the bottle.

We had fortuitously arrived just as the Charlies (*named after a song from the Dead's 1969 album Aoxomoxoa) were taking to the stage, and all were ready to go except lead guitarist and band leader ​Brian Kenneally, who was on his knees aggressively fiddling with his assemblage of effects pedals. This went on for some time, during which I couldn't help notice that the other, much younger guitarist had his pedals neatly arranged in a square box, all good to go, while Brian's were strewn around the floor, which surely had contributed to this late flurry of faffing. The tone of Brian's turbulent evening had been set. ​
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​At long last we had lift-off! And with the fourth-beer buzz kicking in I really got into this opening sequence of folky jam tracks, dancing at the front among some women who were clearly devout followers of the Charlies - hollering every lyric and over-enthusiastically applauding the start of each new song, while the band themselves looked like they were just going through the motions. This was to become a bone of contention with buddy Gordon, who disapproved of the absence of audience acknowledgment, something I personally didn't have an issue with because to me, as with jazz bands, it's more about the musicianship, and the Charlies' was so far collectively decent.

What I did have a slight issue with was the positioning of the keyboardist centre stage with a lyric/music sheet stand which he stared raptly at throughout, which not only looked uncool but obscured the view of the drummer. I was beginning to sense also that they wouldn’t be playing my favourite Dead tune – one of my all-time favourites of any artist – called Touch of Grey. Released in 1987, it was the band's only hit single: a paean to getting old, lyrics penned by their guitarist Robert Hunter (a descendant of Scottish poet Robert Burns), and one of my earliest music memories, from the late-80s MTV era when they actually played music videos (the band were memorably portrayed by skeletons in theirs). However I learnt decades later that most diehard Deadheads never took kindly to younger whippersnapper fans like myself who had bandwagonned on the back of Touch of Grey’s crossover success (we are known as 'Touchheads' to them).

To be fair, I can kind of empathise with their antipathy towards us Johnny-come-latelys, and so can only apologise for clambering aboard not long before frontman Jerry Garcia ungratefully snuffed in 1995. But for tonight in Camden 25 years later, I would've given anything to behold in my boozy haze the song being performed by this well-drilled tribute outfit.  When the intermission arrived and they came out to mingle I grabbed my chance.
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                                                                                                             Touch of Grey (1987)
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​The bearded bassist looked the friendliest so I nabbed him as soon as he alighted from the stage. Annoyingly I had instant competition from one of the groupies so had to content with a three-way confab about the show so far before I slipped in the enquiry do they ever play Touch of Grey? Groupie chick upon hearing this widens her eyes, covers her mouth and steps back saying “I can’t believe you just asked that!”. This was obvs a heinous crime even in the tribute-act community. Thankfully the bassist responded a bit more gracefully, shooting a frown at drama queen before explaining that yes, they have played it before, but the main reason they wouldn’t tonight is that their new guitarist hadn’t yet learnt the chords.

Gladdened that this had been pre-discussed by the band, at odds with groupie's reaction, as of course they’d be playing not only to hardcore Deadheads but to some cheeky Touchheads too, I was still disappointed that new boy couldn't at least play along, them being a homage to the most famous improvisational jam band in history. 

I grabbed the keyboardist for a second opinion, asking the same question as if I hadn’t already just done so, and heard likewise - he’d love to play the song but the newbie hadn't yet nailed it. What’s newbie’s name out of interest? I asked. Awkward pause, then: “I’m really sorry but I can’t actually remember?”, with a look of cringe that he’d been defeated by this line of questioning. He then 'spotted' someone and hastened away.

​Bemused by this exchange I go to find Pete & Gord, but can't see them anywhere. While rolling a cig in the smoking yard I hear raised voices on the street but think nothing of it. Moments later I get a text from Pete saying "outside!" so duly hasten outside to find a small crowd of punters on the pavement, including one of the Deadheads I'd earlier seen swaying blissfully to the band, but now in a state of angry agitation. Pete grabs me and fills me in: matey here had got into a hostile altercation inside with none other than Brian the band leader, over Brexit, with the pair having to be pulled apart, Brian bellowing "the EU are fascists!", before the fan was ejected by the bouncers.

​It's not clear how it began, or why exactly matey had copped it (I guess they couldn't throw out the band leader during the intermission). He had calmed down now though, and seemed happy enough that he'd had his £10 refunded. He invited us back to his flat in Finchley to "listen to some proper Dead and smoke some homegrown", but we politely declined. Of far greater interest now was how the Charlies' second set would unfold, after Brian's little political fracas. As Pete mused to me while we retook our positions, what the hell was the revivalist of a hippy institution doing screaming UKIP slogans outside his own gig venue?

​Sure enough, when Brian returned to the stage he didn't look happy, and Gordon took the opportunity to point out how much he looks like Chief Vitalstatistix from the Asterix books, although I disagreed - he looked more like the angry fish-monger Unhygienix. To be fair to Brian though, he's a decent lead guitarist, and despite his ill-tempered countenance he got on with the job of skippering another jaunty folk-rock jam, the band then delivering some jazz-esque solo flourishes which Pete and I warmly received, however Gordon was no longer enjoying it. "This is shit," I heard him gripe over my shoulder, "let's go somewhere else".

And then the crowning moment of weirdness occurred: Brian just suddenly stopped playing mid-song and stormed offstage, past us lot and through a door into the back of the pub, while the flummoxed-looking band played on. And he was gone for ages, no one quite sure what was occurring - had he spotted another 'Remoaner' in the crowd? Or had he suffered a moment of crisis which I'm sure many tribute act members must experience while playing the same old covers to another heckling dive-pub rabble. ​

And I say 'heckling' because by this stage I'd reached sloshed-and-wanting-answers mode, exclaiming my displeasure at this development when the band had finished the track and still no sign of Brian - I'd paid my ten pounds by Jerry Garcia's beard. "Where's Brian!?" "Release Brian!" "I demand a pro-rata refund!". Pete was now telling me to pipe down, while Gordon implored me not to encourage him back because the band sounded better without him? That was beside the point to me - if James Hetfield just randomly bailed mid-gig you would rightly feel a bit short-changed.

At long last Brian finally re-emerged, explaining on the mic that he'd managed to snap a couple of strings mid-song, which I found hard to believe as he was only playing delicate lead licks not windmilling power-chords. And even so, an improv guitarist should work around a string breakage until at least the end of the song. I didn't buy it. It was all really weird and unprofessional.

The rest of the performance went to pot after that to my ears, with bum notes, a drop in tempo, and Brian looking even more like he just wanted to get home to his Daily Mail. The night had also got to that messy, desultory stage where we'd wander off separately then lose each other; at one point I found Gordon in the rear bar area but we were then accosted by a yammering twenty-something in late-stage stimulant frenzy, who followed us into the smoking yard doing maniacal "Get to the chopper!" Arnie impressions, then Pete unwittingly opened the door and was immediately set upon.

​It was swiftly decided to call time on this psychedelic extravaganza, instigator Pete the first out, Gordon and I following shortly afterwards but boarding the wrong tube going in the wrong direction, only realising four stops later. Amazing what nights like these can do to intelligent men's brains. I woke the next morning on his living room floor with a killer headache and ashtray mouth so rank that I this week took the plunge and bought my first vaper, report to follow. 

So just to conclude, should anyone from Cosmic Charlies happen to read this: if you play Touch of Grey at your next London gig, all will be forgiven. I'd be happy to sing and/or play guitar if your mysterious new lad still hasn't nailed the chords. And if Brian wants to belligerently discuss the merits of leaving the EU again during the intermission, tell him not to be such a knobhead. At least wait until after the show so he can receive the ejection he deserves.


*POSTSCRIPT: By sad coincidence, Robert Hunter - writer of Touch of Grey - died three months after this blog post.

​Also, a former member of the band has got in touch below, in the comments section. Apparently this gig turned out to be the Cosmic Charlies' last! I can't say I'm particularly surprised.

​I've had some pretty crappy days over the past couple of years, but last week had one of the worst of my whole life, and funnily enough after recently breaking a long blog hiatus to reveal I'd actually joined the police, it was a police officer who made a fleeting cameo in my afternoon and was instrumental in fucking it up. 

The backstory is that since leaving the force I haven't had much use for my battered old Ford Fiesta that now sits forlornly outside my house, literally gathering cobwebs on its wing mirrors. After being driven only a couple of times in the preceding six months – to pick up my late dad from hospital then later help clear out his pad – it was needed again for a short-notice work assignment in the neighbouring county, which meant having to jump the flat battery.

​No problem: my one local mate Andy (a driving instructor, who taught me to drive) was able to swing by during his lunch break with jump leads, and after we hooked up our engines mine instantly spluttered into life along with the radio and alarm with a turn of the ignition. Happy at the painlessness of the procedure, I went back into the house after waving Andy off to gather my stuff and lock up, leaving the engine running because of course if I switched it off it wouldn't start up again due to low battery level.

Incredibly, however, in the space of those few minutes a random passer-by on my quiet residential street actually got into my car and grabbed the keys – but he wasn't a thief. I heard the engine cut off while closing my front door and looked around to see a man opening my front gate with my car keys in one hand and an opened police badge in the other.

​"You know that leaving your engine running is illegal sir," he admonished while handing over the keys. "And anyone could drive off with it?".

Now I do actually know from my police training that stationary idling is a traffic offence, but it's also my understanding that the £20 fixed penalty it can incur can only be imposed if the driver fails to turn off their engine when asked. However this jobsworth (who in retrospect might not have been off-duty as the title suggests; could've been a plain-clothed) has not even given me the option of switching it off, not knocked on my door to query its idling – there are valid reasons allowed by law, like being in the process of car repair/maintenance. No, this fucker has gone straight in, pulled the keys out and immediately come to bollock me.
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​"Sorry officer, I left it running briefly cos my battery's just been jumped and I was about to drive off in it," I explained.  "But you've just killed the engine so I'm at square one again".

PC Jobsworth must have been expecting some kind of gratitude or appreciation for his service because he appeared taken aback by this and simply strode off with a "Just looking out for you mate".

Now, the only small thing I could say in his defence is that he was 'proving' how easy it was for someone to pinch my motor. Indeed, in researching the legal aspect I came across a news story about ex-Man Utd footballer Paul Scholes whose Chevrolet Captiva was nabbed while he left it idling in his driveway one winter morning to defrost the windscreen. But that's exactly what I'd taken into consideration: I don't drive a Chevrolet. It's extremely unlikely that a roving car thief is going to make off in my cobwebby 2002 Fiesta on its last legs, and I live in a low-crime area, and even if someone did nick it in that tiny window of opportunity they wouldn't get very far with a flat battery.

Of course, I didn't get the chance to explain this risk assessment to Captain Justice who'd made a swift exit after dispensing his justice, nor to divulge my former tenure in the same local force, not that there would have been much value in doing so. But to this day I defensively protect the profession, having experienced first-hand what it's like, and continue to rebut any of the routine attacks on the police I encounter on social media.

However I have to say that it is this kind of petty busybody copper that tars the rest, unable to give his sense of duty and authority a breather at any time.

So anyway, there I was with a dead-again car that I needed to revive and Andy couldn't come back so I had to get on my bike and cycle into town to see if a garage would lend me a portable battery jumper. The first one I visited might as well have just laughed at me, saying the most they could do was sell me a new battery which I'd have to fit myself. So I decided to go to the Ford dealership where I've actually had my car MOT'd and serviced, hoping they would more readily assist a longtime customer. 

The suited man at the service reception informed me that yes, they did have a portable kit, but it's not allowed to be taken off the premises. I pleaded with him, stressing my loyal customership and that I'd sort him out with a bottle of booze, and that actually did the trick – he said he'd drive round with it during his next break and jump my battery there and then.

Happy days, I thought, and not long after I'd returned to my street he arrived as promised. However a new problem materialised: I discovered that I had pulled off the little zip puller from my coat pocket in anger or frustration, no doubt during or immediately after the lawman confrontation, which meant my keys were trapped inside and I couldn't get them out. As I stood there furiously trying to prise the zip open with my fingers, Ford man waits patiently with his battery pack, a polite "ain't got all day mate" forced smile on his face, so I end up having to grab a pair of secateurs from my garden shed to hack a hole into the coat to extricate the keys. 
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"Not your day is it fella," he remarks while attaching the jump leads, and my engine sparks into life again.​
​

After thanking him profusely I wave him off as I get straight into the car, throwing my ripped jacket onto the seat next to me.   I then pull out and begin executing a three-point turn just as a queue of school-run traffic arrives. On the reverse section of the manoeuvre, the worst happens. I stall it, leaving the car marooned in the middle of the road at a right angle to the pavement, blocking traffic in both directions, and I of course can't start it again as the battery's flat. 

I don't even have time to face-palm or headbutt the steering wheel because the front two of the blocked queue start to toot, obviously unaware of my predicament, so I have to jump out and start frantically ringing neighbours' doorbells in the hope that someone's around who can help me push the car back onto the pavement. No doubt if any of the drivers had exited their vehicle to help, that police officer would've leapt out from somewhere to inform them it was a traffic violation to do so.

As luck would have it the only person to answer their door is an elderly gent on the other side of the road who I'd never met before, but immediately grasping the problem he hastens to help push while I steer. Unfortunately the steep camber of the road – which is partly what caused me to stall in the first place; this certainly wasn't the first time – also means that it's difficult to overcome the increased inertia, and once overcome it's then harder to navigate the car back to safety. The best we can do is leave it diagonally against the kerb with its arse sticking out, forcing traffic to manoeuvre around it. 

I was experiencing a variety of negative emotions at this point but had to hold it together, knowing I now had to return to the Ford garage in town and suffer the embarrassment of asking the man to come back and help me again. I've tried to blank out the scene from my mind but have to relive it again here. That timeless feeling of dread, reminiscent of having to find dad to inform him you've done something incredibly stupid, which is also going to greatly inconvenience him.

​​He was with a customer as I slunk back through the door, was still talking to him as his eyes alighted on my sorry self, wearing my coat with a gaping secateur rip down the side.

"What," came his tight-lipped question, probably knowing what was coming next. Upon hearing that I'd stalled the car he delivered an unmistakable "You fucking bellend" head-shake, then told me to go back and he'd be there when he'd finished with his customer. While back on my street hitching up the bonnet for a third time, I had hit a proper emotional low, in shock at how the afternoon had panned out, the absolute injustice of it. The appointment I was supposed to be honouring had to be postponed by two hours, and here comes Ford man with a distinct glare as he again rocks up with the battery pack. 

"This is the last time mate," he says, going through the same motions. "So keep your revs up. And I'm a big whisky fan."

I promise him a bottle of Waitrose's finest, thank him again with almost a lump in my throat and get behind the wheel once more, this time not bothering with the U-turn and going the long way in the other direction, frenziedly revving the engine at each junction stop, eliciting concerned looks from passing pedestrians.

After that journey though the car's running fine again, just have to drive it a bit more often and have invested in a portable jump starter to prevent ever having to re-experience this.

​But just to conclude this sorry tale, if you ever happen to read this my Cambridgeshire Constabulary chum who came walking down my street that day and straight into my car: thank you for your quick thinking and assistance, it truly made my day. Karma Police is one of my favourite songs funnily enough.

This is just a post of recognition of the fact that there's been a gap of more than a year since my last, which is owing to an eventful year-long career change that has come to an end and a lot of other life stuff that's been going on that's kept me away from recreational writing. However I'm now back in the game and will be posting again soon, as well as adding some new pictures and videos and having a general update.

​It turned out that my day with the police as a civilian observer became a full year wearing the uniform - more to come on the highs and lows of that when the time is right. It's safe to say for the time being that I have a major newfound respect for the police after experiencing first-hand what the job entails and the impact it has on your life and those around you.

​So it's back to the writing board for now, and reminiscing through episodes of Police Interceptors.

Until later.
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​It was the audience participation elements that elevated the show above being a mere career retrospective, with a Shakespeare quiz and show-stopping skit making use of the theatre’s staff members thrown in for good measure.

Theatre director Jez Bond revealed at the end of the show that Ian’s week of performances, alongside his other appearances at charity dinners and aftershow meet-and-greets, had raised an incredible total of £250,000 for the theatre, which sparked a round of applause so loud it could probably have been heard by theatregoers in the West End.
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Another masterstroke that also injected a significant amount of funds into the pot was a limited-edition Ian McKellen souvenir wine available to buy only at the theatre, of which only 1800 bottles were produced by Tikveš of Macedonia, the oldest and largest winery in South-East Europe. I enjoyed several glasses of this collector’s item vintage before and after the show, and was chuffed to be able to take a bottle home with me, as did everyone else who had bought a ticket.

Sir Ian emerged into the upstairs bar area following the show to pose for photos but was quickly overwhelmed by fans so had to take his leave a bit sooner than expected, but his work here is already done.

“Ian has been a staunch supporter since the building was a hard-hat site,” said director Jez Bond before the show. “He’s donated his time to help raise vital funds by performing this show. I continue to be humbled by his incredible generosity.”

One can only hope that there will be a reprise of Ian’s unique show at some point and a return of the special McKellen wine – 'limited-edition' is all well and good but once it’s over, that’s it!

In the mean time, Park Theatre’s doors remain open all year ​(www.parktheatre.co.uk) and you can keep tabs on Sir Ian’s next moves at his own website www.mckellen.com ​​

It was early December, 1995, a Saturday evening, and my parents had gone away on holiday, leaving me the sole occupier of the family home for a week. As a burgeoning rebellious teenager that meant only one thing: inviting the lads from sixth form round for a Saturday-night session of beers, smoke and music, specifically the stuff we’d recently been getting into: The Beatles, The Kinks, anything that had influenced the Britpop movement which had crested that summer with the Blur .v. Oasis chart showdown.

Little did we know there was another British artist who’d had a major influence on both those indie heavyweights: Oasis were to cover Heroes as a B-side two years later while Blur faced legal intervention the same year after their single M.O.R was found to bear more than a striking resemblance to Boys Keep Swinging (Eno & David later received a joint songwriting credit for the track).

Back in my hazy living room that evening we were all well aware of Bowie as a musician, although he hadn’t quite made it onto our session A-list. Only two years previously I’d bought my first single of his – Jump They Say – enamoured by its funked-up Nile Rodgers vibes, chorus guitar wail and jazzy trumpet solo, all contrasting the morbid lyrical content. As my teenage ears were more attuned to modern production values it was tracks like this, rather than Changes, Space Oddity etc, that floated my boat. Appreciation of the older stuff would surely follow, but for now it would all be kept in the back seat even longer by what we experienced that evening.

David was scheduled to appear alongside Oasis and Aztec Camera on Later…With Jools Holland, which we decided to switch on for some visual diversion, but keeping the hi-fi on full amplification as the TV was wired up to it.
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I'm usually reluctant to use the adjective “mind-blowing” but to this day I struggle to find a more fitting verbal alternative for what followed. We turned on just in time for Bowie and band to launch into the sci-fi rock juggernaut of Hallo Spaceboy from his latest album Outside: a chaotic but controlled blitzkrieg of guitar feedback and distortion, pounding drums and scattered lyrics about moondust and chaos, bisected by a virtuoso piano solo.
 

All I remember is our collective jaw dropping and eyes widening in a stoned trance as Dave’s musical wizards battered their instruments and sent swirling into our room the most strident, other-worldly barrage of sound we’d ever heard until that juncture in our existence. For those five fleeting minutes it felt like life had finally clicked into place.
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As an amateur guitarist I was particularly fixated upon the nonchalantly delivered dual attack of Carlos Alomar and Reeves Gabrels, both wielding Parker Fly guitars, but the overarching upshot for me was an apotheosis of the frontman, his effortless nailing of that track followed by a characteristically insouciant interview with Jools as if that were an average performance, and then he played an equally spellbinding reworked version of The Man Who Sold the World which had appeared as a B-side to previous single Strangers When We Meet. I recall feeling slightly sorry for Oasis who had to follow it all with their stock rock, which shrivelled in comparison.    ​                
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Unfortunately these were pre-digibox days so unless you’d had the foresight to videotape whatever you were watching then that was it – no rewinds, no iPlayer, no instantly reliving the moment as we would surely have done repeatedly. But that’s what made the moment more special, more unforgettable, undiluted.
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I remember the following week rushing to HMV at the first opportunity to buy Outside, but feeling distinctly disappointed by the album recording of the song, which sounded bereft of the urgency and vigour of the live performance we’d witnessed. Then a couple of months later saw the release of the Pet Shop Boys’ disco version which, again, sounded relatively plodding and lifeless to my ears, spoilt by what they’d already heard. 

​It would be many long years until I finally got to relive that formative viewing (posted above), when YouTube eventually arrived on the scene. Until then I’d increasingly despaired that I’d never again have the opportunity to do so, a feeling of cultural sorrow surpassed only by hearing a certain breakfast newsflash one January morning a decade later.
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By that culminating point though, aged 37, I’d fully embraced the complete breadth of David’s canon, consuming a far vaster palette of music than I’d ever anticipated as a teenager. But if I had to distil my love for his artistry into one track, one moment, then it would surely be that mid-90s TV performance, beheld through a wispy indoor haze and received by ears and consciousness that felt more open and alive at that instant than they ever would again.

​

This blog post, uploaded on first anniversary of David's death, is part of a wider tribute piece written last January,
and is to appear in a new anthology book on Bowie entitled 'Starman', released in 2018.
​Published also at Medium
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​To escape one of our worst early summers of recent years weather-wise I visited Seville and Cadiz in Andalusia for the first time last month, just in time for the weather in southern Spain to hit the other extreme, of often unbearable 40+ degree heat – the Spanish version of a heatwave.

However my week there was made a whole lot cooler by two random animal-themed incidents on the first and last day, which perfectly captured the vibe of each place and the serendipity of being in the right place at the right time.
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THE PEACOCK

Without going into too much detail about the city, Seville’s biggest cultural draw is its 14th-century Moorish palace called the Real Alcázar de Sevilla (Royal Alcazar of Seville), where the mrs and I decided to visit on our first morning before the afternoon heat took hold. Unfortunately that’s what hundreds of other tourists had opted to do too, so in we bundled with the queuing hordes to wander the ancient halls and courtyards.

After an hour of having to muscle in on photo vantage points I decided to escape the herds, grab a coffee and stroll solo around the quiet shaded area of the outdoor gardens while Jen continued inside, as she wanted to find the spots where Game of Thrones had been filmed. This turned out to be one of the better holiday decisions I've ever made.

I’d completely forgotten that there were peacocks roaming the grounds, until I suddenly come face to face with one strolling along a perimeter wall in a secluded corner of the site.
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Luckily I’m packing my good camera so slowly reach for it like a Wild West sheriff for his holster when faced with an outlaw. 

​As soon as it clocks me taking a snap it stops dead and fixes me a stare (above) like I’ve breached a strict no-photo rule.  

After standing static in each other’s gaze for several moments, the peacock makes its move. Turns out this bird wasn’t shy or affronted at all, just wanted to show me its best side.

I felt particularly smug upon rendezvousing with bird expert Jen, who after grudgingly viewing my pics suggested that the fowl had been attracted to my similarly blue-coloured t-shirt and so was simply attempting to outdo it / trying to bust a move.

Whatever its reason, I’d found my inner peace for the day, appreciating how those right-place-right-time moments don’t come along often.


THE SNAILS

This second, more bizarre happening timed itself perfectly for the usually-poignant final evening, with airport and back-to-work reality looming the next morning.

We’d made it to the coastal city of Cadiz, 100km south of Seville, and for our last meal of the holiday found one of its best-reviewed restaurants, 'El Tio de la Tiza', tucked away on a sequestered square, where we bagged one of the remaining tables and began perusing the menu.

As I’d not had snails for years and was pretty hungry I did what my dad sometimes does and ordered two portions as a starter, as you usually only get about six per serving, which doesn’t really touch the sides. However, upon receiving this order the waiter’s eyes widen and he reacts like I’d asked for them to be served alive. “Are you sure about that,” he asks, “as that is a lot of snails?”

Fine, just the one snails then, I concede, clocking that this is clearly a no-no in Spain for some reason, although unconvinced that the portions could be that much bigger.

When they arrived, it became clear. I’d never seen that many snails before in one dish, and supplied with only a toothpick to prong them out of their shells it would’ve taken an age to get through them all. Locals must have more time on their hands for this kind of leisurely eating; about a third of the way through I had to stop.

I hate perfectly good food going into the bin though, so, emboldened by the strong accompanying table wine following pre-beers I decided to offer the remaining snails to the first Anglophone table I could pinpoint on the square, and once the waiters were out of sight strode its way with the bowl of molluscs.

The two couples at the table were initially taken aback by the randomness of this unsolicited bequeathal but as their food hadn’t yet arrived they did the right thing and accepted the snails.

Upon returning to my seat I noticed the occupants of the table next to them strike up a conversation with them on the very subject of the bestowed snails, and eventually the bowl was passed their way for them to tuck into too.
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Happy with how that had turned out I turned back to Jen just as our fish mains arrived: shark for me and monkfish for Mrs. 

​Then a few minutes later the last person to have received the snail bowl returns it to our table with still many of them left, explaining they couldn’t eat any more as it’ll ruin their dinner so thanks but please take them back.

We beheld the dish that kept giving like the disciples must have beheld the leftovers after Jesus had fed the multitudes. The only remaining option was an American family that had taken a table on the other side of us, and who had funnily enough just had a service problem whereby they’d all received their starters except the teenage son, whose order hadn’t gone through.

It was his lucky day, as I stepped in with the lingering snails, explaining how to eat them as they'd never done so before and had no clue. The boy was tentative at first but rather than wait for his starter while his fam tucked into theirs it became clear that the sensible option was to eat the snails. And thankfully once he popped he didn’t stop.
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At long last the final mollusc was consumed, and there’d even been enough for mum, dad and sis to have a couple each too, all consumed with vocal enthusiasm.

Job’s a good ‘un we thought: lots of happy first-time snail munchers, although the waiters might not have looked kindly on this expansive sharing around the restaurant to the potential detriment of its takings.
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But they needn’t have worried because no sooner had Jen and I swallowed the last bite of our mains, a waiter arrived at our table with two plates of chocolate dessert ordered for us by the Yanks, followed by two rounds of liqueurs sent with a wave and thumbs-up from the Brits on the other side.

​It took a fair while to exit the place after returning to personally thank them for the reciprocal gifts, “You didn’t have to!” etc, and we saw that the two separate tables of Brits who’d first shared the snails had properly hit it off and were now sat together getting on it. As we didn’t want to be hungover for the next morning’s flight we declined to join them and took our leave, our work done, the waiters waving us off into the night.

And so concludes this real-life fable, with the moral that you should always leave the beaten track at tourist attractions to increase your chances of meeting a beautiful bird, and always dole out surplus snails when the portions are too large.

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See also: > travel feature for Fodor's, on Baalbek, Lebanon - Kris Griffiths, 2021

                   > travel blog post on Seville & Cadiz (+ Cuba) with photography, at Proper Mileage

​Charity shops have generally been a happy hunting ground for me over the years. At least half of my book and record collection, and a fair few wardrobe items, can trace their lineage to Marie Curies and Faras across the land.

​In this post-recession retail landscape they've proliferated more than ever, often occupying empty high street spaces no sooner have they been vacated, attracted as ever by heavily discounted business rates. 

​Whenever I’m on a weekend away or assignment in another part of the country I’ll always duck into one if there’s time to kill, in pursuit of another random find, be it a pair of vintage flares or an old Beano annual.

Though I’ve stopped buying novels from them as I’ve more now than I could ever read this side of 40, I’ll still head to the sound & vision, clothes and kiddies sections (can never have too many Asterix or retro Ladybird books).

Only charity shops can deliver that Proustian high of another nostalgic find or a rare vinyl that’s slipped through the shop’s pre-filter process, followed by the smiling elderly volunteer till experience, which can often be a protracted one. I even progressed to first-name terms at one hometown outlet, where I was sometimes let into their stockroom when a big load had arrived. These were true glory days, the favour of which I returned with volunteer shifts when they were short-staffed.

Those better times, however, become more distant with each passing year as over the last decade I’ve perceived a significant downturn in the charity shop experience. (And it’s nothing to do with Mary Portas’ short-lived attempts to improve their fortunes a few years ago). 

What's become clear is that since the rise of eBay more people have chosen to sell their cast-offs online than to donate them, and the best of what is donated is routinely creamed off by shops’ management before making it out of the stockroom. Indeed most charities nowadays have their own dedicated eBay stores for the more profitable stuff, where they can also sell a lot of the electrical goods they tend not to in-store.     
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Then on the flipside you've got the greater-spotted charity shop hounds often seen stalking the aisles armed with their smartphones, openly eBay-searching anything potentially worth more than a few quid to sell on (something I’ve never understood, as surely the time and effort spent doing so, then listing the items and paying eBay/PayPal fees + packing and postage negates any meagre profit in the enterprise?).  

The cumulative consequence for customers has been ever diminishing returns as far as finding anything truly decent or valuable goes. All that’s left is the proper, what one would call ‘tat’ – classic charity shop filler from naff ornaments to shelffuls of the Fifty Shades of Grey novel series, a lingering reminder of the cheap cultural fads consumed then discarded en masse by the general public, with charity shops always the final dumping ground. (Turns out some outlets are now no longer accepting the books, as they can’t even give them away).

Anyway, this all in turn leads to the next insidious charity shop phenomenon of recent times, that of the ridiculous mark-up prices given to low-end items, encapsulated in this recent photo I snapped at a British Heart Foundation store in Stowmarket, Suffolk: 

​In case you can’t make it out, the prices being charged for stale old Harry Secombe and Doris Day records are £6.99 & £7.99 respectively, not the far saner blanket price of 50p or a quid max. What little cultural capital they ever had has so long expired that you wouldn't be able to give them away for free, something I've witnessed: one shop I lived near left boxes of old LPs outside with a “Please take me!” sign, ignored for days, as would be VHS cassettes which some stores still try to flog for as much as £1.99 a pop.
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​Other wishful thinking examples include used DVDs for more than what they’d cost brand new on Amazon; budget book series like Penguin Popular Classics whose original retail price often doubles upon hitting Oxfam's shelves; and some antique-range collectables priced way off the scale of what you’d pay at a specialist.  

Now a common response to these observations is “Look, they’re a charity, they need to make as much profit as they can” or “Don’t complain, it’s all for a good cause”, another being that bigger charities like Oxfam/BHF have sales targets to meet, which might explain their shops being dearer than the more laissez-faire independent ones.

Don’t get me wrong – I entirely agree and assent that a charity shop’s chief objective is to make as much money as possible from donations, while also finding new homes for truckloads of unwanted items that would otherwise be binned.

Surely then though these goals will be better hit by attracting more customers with reasonable and realistic prices rather than alienate them with illogical ones? If the key business principle of maximum profit is to be fulfilled then shouldn't it emulate a commercial retail enterprise in that respect – if a chemist or greengrocer randomly hiked up all its prices it would very quickly go out of business.
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And from a donator’s POV there’s a secondary principle of what’s the point in bequeathing your boxful of CDs & DVDs, as I do every time I move house, if they’re just going to vegetate on a shelf for months before eventually being dumped because they haven’t been priced sensibly? I once returned weeks later to a shop I’d donated to, to find that some of the CDs - old indie compilations off the fronts of magazines - had been arbitrarily priced at £1.99 & £2.99 with no forethought or comprehension that in the digital age they won't shift for that.

When stockrooms are stuffed from floor to ceiling all these shops need are people who understand this. Pile ‘em high, sell ‘em cheap, keep the stock flowing, like a perpetual task on The Apprentice with SirAlan barking the mantra from his boardroom chair. That's what will ultimately help the charity a lot more.

Granted, many shops do do this, and more power to them, but as long as the mavericks stubbornly stick to their dated guns in the same way do doomed restaurateurs despite Ramsay's efforts, then more customers just won’t be arsed any more.

For me, my charity shop days are winding down either way. The ratio of time spent looking .v. finding anything good has dwindled too much – only a decent window display item will entice me in now. Plus I’ve more than enough junk as it is and would rather donate directly to charities without the inducement of more.

But for those who for financial disadvantages rely on charity shops for things like clothes or baby toys more out of necessity, that’s where stores will do well to knock lingering mistakes on the head for the common good, with the charities themselves the ultimate beneficiaries.

I'm just glad I was around before eBay got its yellow mitts on everything – what's left behind ain't pretty.

The epilogue to this sorry tale is that, following some choice words I and others tweeted highlighting the rankness of this duplicity, The Sun finally quietly removed the offending 2007 article from its website, but not before I captured the evidence presented here today.

So well done, The Sun, for the further imperishable proof if any were needed of the depths you'll plumb in your ceaseless quest to manufacture outrage, when it's your own conduct that's the most deserving of it.


Liked this? Read this: What the 'Face of Jesus' story says about the media 
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Celebrity fatalities generally leave me cold and unresponsive but, as with the demises of Kurt Cobain and Freddie Mercury  22 and 25 years ago, David Bowie's death last week was one of the few that did impart a slight wrenching effect, in a breakfast radio switch-on moment that'll now be ingrained in my memory until my own end.
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It was the abrupt nature of the news, following the unmentioned cancer, and because he was so enduring - I'd actually predicted he would headline Glastonbury this year following the new album release which turned out to be his final words, and was cursing my luck even more at being abroad and missing the tickets boat again.

However while last Monday began grimmer than most January weeks ever could, it actually became rosier as the day continued, with wall-to-wall Bowie tracks on BBC6, a monsoon of memories and commemoration online, and just going through all my albums, photos and video clips, all work plans shelved.

By the end of the week, however, I'd consumed so many similarly worded tribute pieces as to have reached saturation point, a feeling nailed by David Baddiel who tweeted on Friday:

As someone commented beneath it: "the best description of him was the way Rick Wakeman enthused over his chord structures on Life On Mars". And I had to agree - we've all been well reminded of what a legend and game-changer he was; how about some more personal commentary of the actual music, of what that meant to people rather than the other things he stood for. Surely he'd appreciate that more.

So that's what I did this weekend, on life moments soundtracked by particular Bowie tracks - some obvious, some not so - and a small handful of photos of or related to him, one of which I framed and hung on my dining room wall on NYE, ten days before his death.

                                                                                                                FIRST MEMORY

​Not born until 1978, with the Heroes album still in the chart, I missed out on the 70s & early 80s glory years, my first visual record of David being the evil goblin king Jareth in Jim Henson's Labyrinth in 1986, the scene I remember the most his threatening to hurl a dwarf into the bog of eternal stench.

My first musical memory wasn't to arrive until a year later, at the outset of my MTV-watching days in 1987: a song that remains in my top five despite not registering on many others' radars. It was the title track of his album Never Let Me Down released that year, and one I later found out was the least successful single from it, failing to enter the top 10 in any country (#34 its highest UK position).

To this day I'm not sure why it wasn't so well received, as it was one of David's personal favourites and the sepia video wasn't that bad. Ok, it's not the best Bowie song musically but the minor-key verse melody and chromatic chord sequence were always compelling to my ears, and entrenched by those early years of musical awakening.

It wasn't until a good few years later that I first heard Space Oddity, Changes et al, but being a young teenager my ears were more tuned in to modern production values so it was his contemporaneous releases that moved me more than the older stuff - Jump They Say, the 1993 single written about his brother's suicide, was one I remember making a beeline to HMV to buy, my first ever cassette single.

It remains in my top five to this day: its funked-up Nile Rodgers vibes, the chorus guitar wail and jazzy trumpet solo, all slightly at odds with the painful lyrical content, inspired me to create a mashup tribute video last year marrying it with the video for Pink Floyd's own obscurer single, Learning to Fly, after I noticed it fit Floyd's video thematically and narratively pretty much frame for frame.​

There was one significant TV moment during that period - I'm usually reluctant to say mind-blowing but it's a fitting adjective in this case. At the turn of 1996, twenty years ago, David appeared on Jools Holland, alongside Oasis and Aztec Camera, an episode I watched with some sixth-form chums in the living room of my family home while the parents were away. All I remember is our collective jaw dropping in a stoned trance as he and his band of music wizards launched into the sci-fi rock juggernaut of Hallo Spaceboy from his then latest album Outside: a five-minute blitzkreig of guitar feedback and distortion, pounding drums and lyrics about moondust and chaos, bisected by a virtuoso piano solo.

For me it was an apotheosis, his effortless nailing of that track followed by a characteristically insouciant interview with Jools as if that were an average performance, and then he played an equally spellbinding reworked version of The Man Who Sold the World which appeared as a B-side to previous single Strangers When We Meet. I just remember feeling slightly sorry for Oasis who had to follow all that with their stock rock, which shrivelled in comparison.      

I just love the former's funky slap-bass which comes to the fore on stage, while the brawny rendering of Ziggy on Jonathan Ross re-emphasises its qualities as a balls-out rock song, especially in the "where were the spiders?" breakdown.

It was also funny being reminded last week of Dave's stance on Nirvana's unplugged cover of TMWSTW: "kids that come up afterwards and say, 'It's cool you're doing a Nirvana song'. And I think, 'Fuck you, you little tosser!'". I at first thought it was unbecoming of him to say something like that, but then I remembered Kurt explicitly mentioning after the final note, "That was a David Bowie song", which people still managed to miss or forget so the reaction's a bit more understandable.

Which leads me onto my concluding pair of images, both taken last year: the first a themed wedding table decoration, and the second a photo I found hanging in Margate's Turner Contemporary Gallery which I had to snap as it nicely encapsulated David's early superstardom, arriving at Hammersmith Odeon in 1973 - had never seen the image before and there's only one copy of it online.

There are many other memories I've recalled while writing this, from his random cameo in the Twin Peaks movie to my GCSE English teacher being visibly impressed that one of his pupils was getting onto the Bowie scene at 16, told me he loved the song Sorrow. Sometimes there's just too much to write about.

From now on I'll be diversifying my Bowie range when DJing: dropped the obligatory Let's Dance on NYE, and have customarily veered towards the collaborations at other times - Under Pressure & Dancing in the Street - which often go down better. Haven't yet listened to all of Blackstar - something to look forward to - but still return to 2013's The Next Day, my favourite number from that release being the stonking bonus track I'll Take You There, available only on the collector's edition:

It's the sheer breadth and length of Bowie's canon that will sustain his music not just for the rest of my life but for countless generations to come, and that's the most important thing in my eyes (and ears): the tunes. It's the be-all and end-all.

As tempting as it is to find another way of reiterating what other tributes have concluded with - end of an era, the ultimate singer-songwriter, won't be another, etc - I'd prefer to leave it on that note.


Liked this? Read this: A Reflection on Britpop or My Abiding David Bowie Memory