​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 my recent police-themed post breaking a long hiatus 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, waiting to be called into action again. 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, 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 work 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 because 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 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.​
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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, prompting strange looks from 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 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.

We weren’t fully aware that 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, 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.

​To escape one of our worst early summers of recent years 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 the place.
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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 Alcázar, 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. It turned out to be one of the better holiday decisions I've ever made.

​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.

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:

​After last month's day with the police dealing with some of London's more unsavoury characters, this month I spent six days on a press trip to Israel with someone who was in many ways a lot worse, to the point that the Israeli guards' guns (pictured) looked increasingly attractive as the week drew on. (*To clarify, I don't have the full data on Britain's bullshitters but he's indisputably the biggest I've ever met.)

The background to this is that you often have to spend press trips with other journalists, and as many PR people will tell you: “There’s always one in every group...(making) the trip less enjoyable for everyone else".  Step forward - 'Stan', which is as close to his real name without fully revealing it.

All I know about Stan is he used to work for a red-top tabloid before losing his job, not long after somehow being shortlisted for 'Reporter of the Year' - something he mentioned at least four times during the week. His most immediately prominent physical attribute though was his grating, unintelligible northern accent: a nasal babble somewhere between a sped-up Liam Gallagher and that Lancashire girl off The Apprentice a few years back.   

​Last week I had a much more exciting day than the usual shift at my writing desk, after being permitted to shadow a Metropolitan Police response unit for an afternoon and evening in central London, as part of the police ride-along scheme.
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After meeting my sergeant contact at Paddington Green Station I went through a series of checks and disclaimers – understandably a fair bit of bureaucracy involved due to the potential dangers – then was fitted with a bulletproof vest and invited into the daily group briefing before officers’ shifts begin.

Ride-alongs have generally been more widespread a scheme in the United States, however UK police forces have recently become keener to implement the practice here, perhaps due to lapses of public trust in law enforcement.
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It presents an unobstructed view of a police shift – dealing with offenders and victims, statement taking, arrests, even the form-filling back at the station if you’re that interested. As a fan of police procedural TV shows – BBC’s The Met by chance the most recent – the opportunity of being a solo spectator in a live and unedited episode was never going to be refused.

After sifting through and compiling the better photos I'd taken in the last 10 years it became clear that my favourite of the lot of them had all been taken in the last 12 months, which was gratifying to realise because it means I'm - as I imagine are most photographers or any artist - still improving with each year that passes, which bodes well for sitting down one afternoon a decade from now for the same purpose.

So I thought I'd post this final few in a discrete post, with a bit more space to play with for image size and explanatory notes.

​The news is out: Lionel Richie smashed it at Glastonbury, aced it, won it, and various other victorious verbs. I have to say that the whole spectacle though - both the performance and the reaction - has left me scratching my head a bit.

It seems that all the Sunday afternoon heritage act has to do to 'win' Glastonbury is deliver their 70s/80s standards with enthusiasm, and as long as the sun comes out and people know the words then that's that - they win.

To my eyes and ears though, no crowd numbers or singalongs can detract from the fact that Richie's music is and has always been middle-of-the-road wedding reception cheese, the kind I'd dance along to with the aunts for a few minutes before quietly slipping away.

Maybe it's my predilection for thrash metal or 50s rock 'n' roll but Richie's placid soul-pop croonings just drift straight over me, and the novelty factor quickly dissipated. I was there for the whole of Stevie Wonder in 2010 though, who had a bit more spunk and funk in his armoury to deploy - however because Twitter hadn't taken off by then there wasn't the same Richie-factor reaction.

As I watched Lionel repeatedly hollering "Thank you Glaston-Berry!" amid All Night Long and his solo We Are the World - the crowd straining to remember the verses - it all reminded me of an anodyne Heart/MagicFM family roadshow, and that familiar Sunday comedown feeling, trying to rouse yourself for whichever codger is wheelchaired onto the stage that year.

There's always hyperbole afterwards - from Eavis iterating each year "the best one yet" to similar media gushing over Jay-Z 'conquering' Glasto in 2008, completely at odds with the sight of thousands drifting away in apathy after the first track.

I can't help but think that if Kanye West, whose headline designation drew the wraith of thousands of petitioning rockists, had not flopped so badly the night before would Lionel have been elevated to music Messiah status the following day?

"Richie Proves He's The Biggest Rock Star" ran one headline. A sad day for music if revolutionary call-to-arms anthems now include Hello and Three Times a Lady.

So, to all the Richie-lovers out there, tell me how to win your heart, cos I haven't got a clue...



See also: When Joni Mitchell wore blackface for Halloween (BBC)

​As I've not blogged for a while I thought I'd curate some of my favourite pictures taken over the past 10 years since first becoming interested in amateur photography, something compelled initially by working in journalism as to take your own decent-standard pics and not rely on stock images is always an asset. 

Even without the professional compulsion though I'd still have been drawn to the artform having been worn down over the years by the deluge of badly-composed snaps forming the bulk of Facebook/Instagram landfill, often seeing galleries of 100 samey shots of a single weekend away or, in extreme cases, a night out. It progressively pushed me down the quality not quantity route, always whittling pics down to the best ones, hoping others will too.

Which leads back to the opening quote: from the thousands of photos taken on the only two digital cameras I've owned since 2004 - a £70 Kodak compact & a Canon EOS - only a handful are truly good, frameable images. I've never been on a course nor read any books, just took tips on the basics from a couple of friends who had done and a few jobbing snappers met in the line of the duty: rule of thirds, depth of field, patterns & lines, etc. And in constantly beholding pros' work, whether in articles or exhibitions, it all eventually becomes clear.

It was fun to look in hindsight at my earliest snaps, taken with no aforethought of exposure or aperture values, often using those £5 disposables from Boots - most were immediately binned but a fair few still passed muster sheerly through unwittingly decent composition and often luck with light sources. Spontaneity always good too; no rules-ruminating.

I think the essence of Cartier-Bresson's quote isn't its literal meaning but that, as in most pursuits, you will always improve. I've hardly ever used Photoshop, not on the below images anyway, which were edited only with the software that came with the cameras, to tweak levels and sometimes sharpness. Only the kit lens used with the Canon, no filters and all hand-held - don't think I'll ever make it to the tripod stage.     



KODAK COMPACT, 2004-2011

​Since the turn of the year I’ve noticed the increasing presence of a company called Grammarly in my social media feeds, from friends thumbs-upping the service on FB to retweets of its stock language memes on Twitter. 

For anyone unaware of it, Grammarly’s basically a proofreading and grammar-checking website that, while appearing to be just a fancier version of Microsoft Word’s built-in document reviewer, actually bills itself “the world’s most accurate grammar checker”, helping “more than 3 million writers...perfect their written English” (monthly fee $29.95).

That’s an impressive claim. It may well be the world's best grammar checker, but that's not necessarily saying much because it turns out the platform isn't that accurate – reviews have shown that Grammarly regularly misses clear mistakes in checked documents, while flagging errors that don't exist.
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That was never going to bother me as I'd never use it anyway, and wasn't going to pay to give it a go out of curiosity, so I was happy to see it recently publish and publicise an infographic of its application of grammatical rules, entitled ‘Fifty Shades of Grammar’ to tie in with the release of the eponymous movie.