Month: January 2014

The Blogging Mojo

~ beetleypete ~ 20 Comments

When Austin Powers famously realised that he had ‘lost his mojo’, it was an amusing theme for a whole comedy film.

In the world of Blogging, the loss of the Blogging Mojo can seem like something much more serious. After a great week up to the 24th January, I have lacked inspiration, and ideas, failing to get much down on the blog. Despite having three posts still in drafts, and notes for a good few more, they are just not happening. Even this short post, essentially to explain the absence of other, potentially interesting articles, is having to be dragged out of the keyboard, as if I am typing, and thinking, underwater.

I could blame the weather, as I have often done for other moods, and inactivity. Grey days, cold, constant rain, perhaps not conducive to creativity. But that would be wrong. This weather is usually a great incentive for blogging. Shut away from the elements, in the small room grandly called the office, is the best place to be, when it is forbidding outside. Also, the weather is the same all over the UK at the moment, yet other bloggers are prolific, and posts are appearing in my Reader at a steady rate.

I have been doing some volunteering, but not enough to use as an excuse to be away from my blog. Ollie’s tail problems, hopefully concluding today, with removal of the stitches, have been bothering me, naturally. However, they have provided me with ideas and thoughts for posts about that very subject, so I can’t blame it on his tail. I haven’t even got around to clearing the last of the leaves, despite having a good crack at it recently. So, I can’t use the excuse of gardening, at least not in such bad weather.

I have been active blog-wise, as far as commenting on other people’s blogs goes. I have kept up with those that I follow, and even sent in work to be published ‘over there’. It is just beetleypete, lacking mojo, feeling directionless, and perhaps having almost run its course, in the present format. I have successfully managed to disregard dramatic blips in readership. Those very quiet days have been contrasted by some of the busiest ever, so the average is actually higher. It is not that I want, or need, a bigger readership, or following. I just want my blog to be better, and more satisfying.

It could all just be a slump, and I will soon appear on the other side, back to the same form as before. I am prompted to ask though, particularly of my regular followers and readers, ‘What do you think?’ Should I carry on the same, posting about all sorts, as and when. Or, should I be doing something different? Now is your chance to pour on your unbridled criticism of this blog. Tell me what you like, what you hate, and what you would like to see more of, if anything. Should I just scrap it, and start over anew? Feel free to be harsh, or kind, depending on your mood. I am asking for some directions, like a motorist who finds himself lost, in a town he thought he knew well. The place I am looking for might be as easy to discover as the next on the left, or as far away as the ring-road.

See you all soon. Pete.

 

 

Significant Songs (4)

~ beetleypete ~ 16 Comments

Woman Trouble

In the year 2000, I was 48 years old. I had just moved to Camden, and was living alone, for the first time in ages. I had a new car, and like many tracks featured in this series, I heard a record on the radio in that car, that I had had not heard before. I couldn’t keep still in my seat, and found myself jiggling around, oblivious to strange stares from other drivers, in the heavy traffic leading out to Brent Cross. I didn’t really catch the name of the song, as I was too busy humming along to it, and car-dancing like a fool, to listen to the announcement at the end. I wanted to listen to it again, straight away, and felt empty when it had ended.

I had to endure the embarrassment of going into a record shop in Central London the next day, and asking the juvenile assistant for a record that went “something like this”. What followed was the worst rendition of the tune ever, followed by a puzzled look on the youngster’s face. I suddenly remembered some words, “Oh- ‘fantastic, boombastic’. This snippet was enough to provide the recent school leaver with enough information. He steered me to a CD, telling me “it’s on this, it’s called ‘Woman Trouble’.” The boy knew his trade, and it was the right record, as he confirmed by playing a snatch from the track in the shop. When I said “wrap it up”, he seemed perplexed, and asked, “Do you know it is a compilation of UK garage, you know, like 2-step, by Artful Dodger?” I assured him that it was the right one, and hurried home to play it.

To say that a CD of thirteen tracks, is a classic, and almost flawless, is high praise indeed. However, this compilation of different songs by Artful Dodger, using various samples, assorted vocalists, and fantastic arrangements, is as near perfect as it gets. Young singers, at the top of their game fourteen years ago, render near-perfect songs, and accompanied by haunting melodies, thumping beats, and high production values, the whole thing is a wonder for the ears to behold. There is one track that I am not that bothered about, but one out of thirteen is pretty good odds. This CD is rarely out of my car, and is enjoyed as much today, as it was then. If anything, it gets better with time. As well as the track that led me to seek it out, there are other delights. ‘Think about me’, ‘Please Don’t Turn Me on’, ‘Movin’ Too Fast’, and ‘Re Re-Wind’, to name four more. The CD is called ‘It’s All About The Stragglers’, and is available from Amazon for £3.08p, the price of a large cappuccino. I suggest you buy it, but then I would, wouldn’t I?

OK, what was a 48 year old (now almost 62) doing listening to UK Garage, and jumping around in his car, like an unruly teenager? All I can say, is that if you can listen to this and not move an inch, see a doctor. Here is the track in question, an ‘official video’. Try the others please, they are all out there somewhere, free of charge.

Significant Songs (3)

~ beetleypete ~ 3 Comments

Reelin’ In The Years

In 1973, I heard a song on the car radio. It had a distinctive vocal, and one of the best guitar solos I had ever heard on a single pop song. The lyrics were easy to pick up, and the catchy chorus stayed in my head immediately. I bought it the next day, and was surprised at the unusual name of the band that had recorded it, Steely Dan. I went over to see some friends that night. They all played instruments, and were always keen to listen to anything new. One guy, a drummer, declared that the drumming was slick and crisp. The bass player praised the bass line, and the guitarist agreed that the solo was potentially legendary. We played it over and over, ignoring the rather bland lyrics, revelling in the quality of the vocals, and obvious musical talent. The B side, ‘Only A Fool Would Say That’, was altogether more Jazz orientated, and melodic, giving a clue as to the main themes behind this band’s music.

I started to investigate more of their recordings, and discovered the earlier song, ‘Do It Again’, which I preferred to Reelin’. I soon bought the album, ‘Can’t Buy A Thrill’, containing both songs, as well as the marvellous track, ‘Dirty Work’. The fusion of Jazz and Rock was more apparent, once I began to listen to the album repeatedly, and Reelin’ seemed almost out of place in there. Later that year, I bought the next album, ‘Countdown To Ecstasy’. The songs were more like progressive rock, with the other influences less obvious than those on the first release, and I felt that here was a band that I could follow, and appreciate the changes. I found out more about the group, discovering that the core was actually two artists, Donald Fagen and Walter Becker. They used assorted band members, a guest vocalist on occasion, and made great use of session musicians on recordings. It was Fagen’s voice that drew me in, and I became a life-long fan , and collector of all their records. They were unlike any other band around at the time, and the recognisable vocal sound, and high production values, set them apart from the crowd, at least for me. I felt that this might have had something to do with them originating in the East of the USA, giving them a very different style to the more familiar West Coast groups.

Things just kept getting better. The list of songs kept on coming, and became part of the soundtrack to my life through the 1970’s, until the release of ‘Gaucho’, in 1980. Many of those tracks remain as some of my favourite songs  up to this time, even after many more years of collecting a wide variety of music. ‘Rikki Don’t Lose That Number’, ‘Dr Wu’, ‘Peg’, and ‘Deacon Blues’, to name but a few of those enduring tracks. I never caught up with the more recent collaborations, many years after the band split in 1981, though I did buy the Donald Fagen solo album ‘The Nightfly’, in 1982, and could see from this where the real Jazz influence had matured.

Ironically, ‘Reelin’ In The Years’ ended up as one of my least favourite Steely Dan songs. However, it remains significant, as it introduced me to the band that I have loved for so long. Here is a simple audio version, from the original album. I still think it is the best way to hear it. Live performances are freely available on the Internet.

Blatant Advertising

~ beetleypete ~ 11 Comments

I am unusually puffed up once again today. For the third time, I have had an article published on a film website. These small things may seem unimportant, and carry an element of ‘so what’? To me, it is very exciting, to see my name in print, somewhere else, under a piece of writing.

As this is not a re-blog, and was written specifically for the other site, I will not publish it on beetleypete. What I will do though, is post a link here, and hope that any readers who are interested in film, and my writing, will go over and have a look at it.

The rest of the site is well worth a visit, with interesting, intelligent, and well-written reviews of films, cinema articles, and everything connected to both. (And that’s just my stuff! Only joking)

Thanks in advance for looking at it. Pete.

Blood and Bandages: Paramedics on film

Significant Songs (2)

~ beetleypete ~ 7 Comments

Tainted Love

When I was under 14, in 1965, I heard a really good soul song, with a driving beat. To this day, I cannot remember where, but it really got to me. I asked around at the record shops, but wasn’t able to nail it down, so couldn’t buy it. Some years later, in the early 1970’s, I heard the song again, in a London club. It was called ‘Tainted Love’, and was sung by Gloria Jones. She had just achieved recognition, as the girlfriend of Marc Bolan, front man of T-Rex. I still couldn’t find the record for sale though, and it was another couple of years, before I was able to buy the single on vinyl. By this time, it had become a firm favourite on the ‘Northern Soul’ scene, and was being played in all their premier venues, including Wigan Casino.

I plodded along quite happily with this version, until I was somewhat surprised, when a new one started to be played on the radio. Very similar to the original, but with clearer, and harder vocals, I soon learned that it was by a two-man British outfit, called Soft Cell. It was introduced to a completely new generation, and marketed along the lines of electro-pop, and glam rock, a world away from the soul roots it had emerged from. Nonetheless, it was a pretty good version, and showed me the vocal range, and obvious talent of the singer, Marc Almond. Although somewhat slower in tempo, and using synthesisers to replace instruments, I had time for this cover version, and looked out for more from the duo. They later released ‘Say Hello, Wave Goodbye’, one of my favourite torch songs ever, and Almond went on to a brilliant solo career, covering lots of famous artists, including Jaques Brel.

Unusually for me, the cover was almost more powerful than the original, and led me to an appreciation of a very different performer. The Marylin Manson cover is best ignored, and will not be featured here.

Here is a You Tube clip of Gloria Jones singing the song, with an interesting ‘Mod’ photo montage.

And here is the Soft Cell version, with Almond in full voice.

 

I hope you enjoy them, but will understand if they are not your ‘thing’.

 

Ambulance Stories (44)

~ beetleypete ~ 19 Comments

The National Dispute

By the autumn of 1989, relations between the Trades Unions and the Thatcher government were at an all-time low. The Tories were determined to use their large majority in Parliament to crush the unions, and remove any power that they once had. Empowered by the guarantee of government support, managers in Ambulance Services all over the UK were standing firm against any requests for pay rises, or better conditions for staff. In London, the managers were going one better, introducing changes in working practices, with little or no consultation. It was all getting very serious, and we could see that it would soon come to a head.

One of the new demands was that we move from our normal place of work, if our crew-mate was off sick, or on holiday. This might seem reasonable, but the previous arrangement had relied on overtime being offered to staff on days off, ensuring a full complement of emergency ambulances was available in all areas of London. If one of us moved to another base, up to ten miles away, we would operate from there, leaving our normal station undermanned by at least one vehicle. This not only left the remaining staff with a greater workload, it also meant that the local population did not have the guaranteed vehicles available to them, in the event of an emergency. The decision on who moved, and where to, was left to Control Room staff, often with no operational experience.

Protracted pay negotiations had got nowhere, and there was already a limited work-to-rule in place. This simply meant that we did the job properly, by the rule book. We took vehicles to be re-fuelled, refused to operate without adequate supplies of oxygen, or with faulty equipment, and carried out all the necessary checks, before commencing duty. Any defects with the vehicles, normally tolerated for the shift, would result in that vehicle not being used. All of these were safety rules, and for the benefit of the patients. They were routinely flouted at other times, just so the workload could be managed, and always at the suggestion of the managers, who used guilt and custom as leverage. Another rule, also ignored normally, was that no Ambulance should be operated, under any circumstances, by one person. There was limited rearward visibility, and also the chance that you would be flagged down to attend an incident, when you were alone, and unable to properly assist. Working to rule meant that we refused to operate vehicles on our own, so could not travel to other bases in them. We could not use our own transport, if we had any, as this would have necessitated insuring our own cars for business use. Public transport was not really an option either, due to the location of some bases, and the long journey times involved.

In an atmosphere of antipathy, an attitude of non-cooperation developed, and this was made worse, by the belligerent attitude shown by some managers. Despite the problems over pay and conditions, and the many factors affecting our working lives, it was the issue of moving bases, which was to become the spark that ignited one of the longest, and most acrimonious disputes, in the history of the National Health Service. As the Union Shop Steward at my Ambulance Station, it also fell to me, to become the instigator of this whole dispute, as it just so happened, that on that day, I had nobody to work with. On that morning in September, I had no idea that the outcome of my decision would result in a bitter six-month dispute, that would see us through a harsh winter, with no pay; staff losing their houses, marriages breaking up, and deep resentments being formed. It would never be the same afterwards, and the long-lasting effects would stay with me, through a further twelve years of service.

When Control asked if I was fully crewed that day, I replied no, and asked them to find someone on overtime, to work with me on that shift. After a few minutes had passed, they called back, and instructed me to take the ambulance, and to report to Chiswick Ambulance Station, to work with someone there, who was also single-crewed. I refused, advising them that I was unable to use the vehicle on my own, by their own rules. I then telephoned the person at Chiswick, telling him to expect a call, instructing him to drive over to work with me, as I anticipated that this would be the next step. Sure enough, that was what happened, and he also refused to move, citing the same rules. They called me back, someone more senior this time, and gave me a ‘direct order’ to do as they asked. I refused once more, and I was told that I would be suspended from duty, pending disciplinary action. Ten minutes later, the same scenario was played out with the man at Chiswick, and within an hour of starting work, we were both suspended, and potentially unpaid, unless we relented, and agreed to move.

I advised the other crew members on my station, and at Chiswick, and they all withdrew their labour, in support of both of us, demanding that the suspension be withdrawn, and the threats rescinded. I then contacted the next nearest base, at St john’s wood, and told them what was happening. They in turn, contacted Camden, Willesden, and Park Royal, and before long, almost the whole of West London was ‘on strike’, until we were reinstated. This soon got through to the full-time union officials, and the local media. I gave an interview to the local TV news programme outside the Ambulance Station, explaining the reasons for the action, and it was shown at lunchtime, and again that night. By now, we were occupying the bases, and the unions were running scared, fearful of having their funds sequestered, as this was unofficial action. They tried to get me to return to work, pending negotiations, but they were overtaken by events, as the dispute spread all over Greater London, the staff angry and frustrated by management attitudes, and frightened unions.

During the rest of that day, we had local meetings, and agreed that we were not on strike, and that we were still prepared to answer emergency calls, based on the terms and conditions that preceded the current dispute. However, the managers had seen their chance to break us, and refused to pass calls to the individual bases, telling the media that we were on strike. They began to use the Police, and called in volunteers from the Red Cross, and St John Ambulance, to respond to calls. They also used private ambulance companies for non-emergency work, and tried to portray themselves as the unfortunate victims of union agitators. Some operational managers took vehicles from Headquarters, and attended calls. We put up posters and banners, advising the public that we were still working, even though we were not being paid, and we gave them direct phone numbers, so they could ring in straight to us. We also told the Police and the local hospitals the same thing, and by the time night duty arrived, we were answering calls at our own instigation.

Some staff were still working normally, refusing to cooperate with their colleagues. Some had political, or religious reasons, some were scared of not being paid, and others just disliked some of us who were seen to be on strike. They had to be moved, so that they all worked in the same area. They were in no danger from us, we just lost respect for them, and they were never fully accepted again afterwards. They were surprisingly few in number, with the dispute, as we began to call it (as we were not on strike) gaining overwhelming support from the vast majority of staff. The whole thing escalated, and began to go national. Staff in all parts of the UK were joining in, and soon the unions could no longer ignore the overwhelming feelings of their members. In most of the major cities, solidarity was total, and we all still made our best efforts to provide cover for emergencies. Some bases actually attended more calls during some parts of the dispute, than they had when working normally.

This soon became front page news, and the first item on all the TV news stations. Government ministers were interviewed, union officials gave our side of the argument, and cameras appeared outside casualty departments, and the larger ambulance stations around the country. To the surprise of our management, the Government, and to some extent, those involved on the ground, the general view was sympathetic. Members of the public supported us overwhelmingly, and ninety percent of media reports were also very favourable. We were seen as the maligned carers, the professionals who put up with low pay, little recognition, and carried on uncomplainingly. For us to be in dispute, something bad must really be happening. The public believed in us, the hospitals believed in us, even the Police believed in us. It was left to our own management, and Tory politicians, to spread untruths about our motives, and to paint a picture of us as ungrateful strikers, callously disregarding the unfortunate sick and injured. Everyone wanted us to be paid more, and to receive decent conditions too. Opinion polls suggested massive support, and there were suggestions for a plan to pay more taxes, or higher National Insurance, to fund the changes, and to put an end to the dispute. The managers were on the back foot, and the government under pressure. They reacted spitefully, as you might expect.

Our occupation of the bases was declared unlawful, and they tried to get us evicted for tresspassing, but could find nobody willing to enforce this. They then technically sacked us all, withdrawing our right to use the ambulances, and the equipment owned by the services involved. They reported us to the Police, for ‘stealing’ ambulances that we were using to respond to calls. Again, the Police refused to enforce this, not wanting any part of a dispute that had caught the imagination of the public, who had soon realised that we were not actually striking. The attitude of all the staff was indeed admirable. Everyone continued to turn up for work, and to man all the shifts, even the most unsocial ones. Those on days off turned up anyway, to help with the occupation of the buildings, talking to the public, and answering the telephones. As the weather got colder, we had braziers burning to keep warm, and people turned up unannounced, with wood for the fires, and gifts and food for the staff. People also began to give us money. At first, we declined, feeling uncomfortable about this. We did get some hardship pay from the unions, but it was only a small amount, nowhere near enough to survive on. The donations were used to buy badges, stickers, and information leaflets, all handed out to the public, to advise them of our reasons for the dispute, and to ask them to wear the badges and stickers, to show support.

Staff began to attend busy areas with these; outside main railway and tube stations, at major junctions, like Oxford Circus, and also busy street markets, in our case, Portobello Road. We took banners, and boxes of badges, and we were soon overwhelmed by cash donations. From old ladies emptying their purses, to local celebrities giving wads of notes, the money started to flow in. By December, at least in London, we were receiving sufficient donations to almost pay staff the same wage they got when working normally. This stiffened our resolve, and made the earlier hardships seem worthwhile. With this continued level of support, we felt sure that we could win.

Without us ever imagining it, we were taking part in the most popular dispute in union history. We felt that we owed it to the public to continue, and we owed it to ourselves too.

Day to day, life was still hard. Staff divided into three groups. One would work on the ambulances, answering those calls we got through. Another would occupy the base, picketing outside, keeping the braziers burning, and putting on a brave face for the public. The third group would go and stand somewhere, advertising the dispute, receiving money from donations, and distributing badges. We had caps made as well, with our slogans on them, and often family members would assist too, standing with their husbands and wives, or mums and dads, showing solidarity with our cause. Each week, the donations would be divided, those with bigger families, or larger mortgages, getting the biggest shares. The meetings continued, locked in stalemate. The media kept the story alive, but also reported the tragedies that had happened, hinting that they might not have happened, if we were working normally. Army ambulances were brought in; unsuitable vehicles, doing an unfamiliar job, escorted by Police cars, as they did not know the areas. The managers, and more importantly, the government ministers, refused to budge on anything unless we first returned to normal duties. We endured a very cold, and miserable Christmas, with little hope held out, for a resolution in 1990.

Amazingly, public support never wavered. The donations kept coming, and the kind words too. We started the new year in an atmosphere of grim determination, on both sides. By now, former colleagues in supervisory roles had become bitter enemies. We no longer spoke to any managers, or control room staff. There was no local negotiation, of any kind, and all meetings were being held by union officials, with NHS management, and government ministers. We had become detached from the process, trying to deal with daily survival. I developed a deep personal hatred for some individuals, and for the voluntary workers, who were taking holiday time, to do our jobs when we were in dispute. For me, that never diminished, and remains with me, to this day. On the other hand, we formed bonds and friendships as well, with hospital staff, some police officers, and colleagues, that are unbroken as I write. Over 200.000 people attended a rally of support in Central London, and large events like this were seen all over the UK.

By the end of February, the unions were beginning to buckle. The management was willing to concede some points, but pay increases were a national issue, controlled by the government, and that was intransigent. Leading union officials began to hint at a possible solution, and this was accelerated by renewed media interest. The staff wanted none of it. We wanted to hold out, for all the reasons we had started on this five-month dispute, and could see no point going back to working normally, unless we got all our demands. The volunteers doing our job were running out of time, and would have to go back to their normal jobs. The cost of paying the police and army to carry on  was prohibitive. The total costs of the dispute already far exceeded what it would have cost to settle in the first place, but they would not back down. After meetings at the end of the month, the NUPE union leader, Roger Poole, announced that an agreement had been reached, and that we would return to work in March, six months after we began the work to rule. He didn’t think to ask us what we thought. He famously announced on TV, that he had ‘driven a coach and horses through Tory pay policy’.  And he wasn’t even embarrassed. What he failed to add, was that he had agreed, on our behalf, to accept the derisory pay increase that we had been offered originally, and that he had also agreed to the changes in conditions and practices that had brought us to this in the first place.

Some staff, me included, wanted to ignore the unions, and carry on. But there was no widespread support for this, and that was understandable. Some staff had suffered marriage break-ups, others had seen their homes repossessed. Many had just left, or resigned soon after, broken and disillusioned. All of us had endured six months with no pay, dependent on public goodwill from donations, and sticking through a harsh winter, with no end in sight. We went back to work in March, as if nothing had happened; though some people were shunned, others transferred by request, and some managers moved around. Our relationship with the unions was never to be the same again. I left the NHS union, COHSE, and joined TGWU, as a small personal protest. I had also stopped being the union rep for our base, as I had simply had enough at the time, though I did do it again, later on. We had lost, and it wasn’t a good feeling.

Or had we?

Within a short space of time, most of the old management was gone. Pushed out, retired early, or plonked behind obscure desks. Our public profile was raised beyond recognition, and training was brought into the 20th Century, with new skills, new equipment, and modern vehicles. Paramedics and Technicians were beginning to be portrayed in TV programmes, as an essential part of the emergency services, and as having a vital role in the NHS. They were filmed in documentaries, the often thankless job shown for all to see, actually as it happened. Other branches were introduced, rapid-response vehicles, motorcycles, and even a helicopter. (Actually run by the London Hospital) By the year 2000, ten years after the dispute ended, the job was being paid at a fair rate, and finally given the respect it was always due.

I don’t believe that this would ever have happened, without those six months of hardship, between 1989-1990. I am proud to have been a part of it, and always will be.

Judging by Appearance

~ beetleypete ~ 33 Comments

Do you ever wonder what some of your fellow bloggers look like? Some solve this problem, by using thumbnail photos alongside their comments. Many go further, by using their photo as the header picture on the blog. Some remove all mystery, by adding numerous photos of themselves, often in exotic places, or doing something ‘crazy’.

Some followers, and many ‘commenters’ are content to let WordPress generate a random symbol for them. I have seen some of these, and sometimes, I have found it difficult to work out if the person is male, or female. A clever choice of pseudonym, or blog name, can add to this, and stop me coming to any erroneous conclusions about background, location, or even intellect.

Does this aspect of blogging ever put you off? Do you choose not to follow someone, or approve a comment, based on photos and appearance, I wonder? I have never done so, but I have thought about it, I admit. I have often presumed that some of the stranger photos are deliberately included, to imply ‘wackiness’, or to give an indication that theirs is a ‘fun’ blog. Some thumbnails are just straight portraits, into the camera lens, and portraying an image that the blogger is happy to share with the world on the Internet.

Many use old photos; school portraits, or college yearbook images, from the past.  Perhaps they like to still feel that this is how they see themselves. Others use identifying shots; a pen for a writer, camera for a photographer, cakes for a baking blog, and so on.

The presentation of my own blog lacks imagination perhaps. In the past, the header picture, of a tranquil country scene, has been mistaken for a picture of Beetley. It is not. It is a generic image, that came as a screensaver on an HTC Mobile phone.

My Gravatar image is of my dog, Ollie. The simple explanation for this, is that it was one of the few photos that existed on my computer, that was readily available to use. I had always intended to replace it later, with a self-portrait, then decided not to. I felt that some people might make assumptions, from seeing my photo; it might well have increased readership, or reduced it. Either way, I concluded that I wanted the blog to stand on its ideas and writing, and not because of any pictorial presumptions.

Some people have seen my photo. Those who live nearby, or were visiting the area, with the possibility that we might meet. I thought it best to let them know what I looked like, just in case. As it turned out, I only ever met one fellow blogger, as she was living less than 30 miles away, and we met for coffee. It was an easy meeting, without awkwardness, or protracted silences. A testament to just how much we had learned about each other, through the process of blogging.

She said that I looked ‘just as she had expected’. I didn’t know how to take this, so considered it a compliment, for the sake of that meeting. Can anyone really look exactly as you expected, when you have ‘met’ through writing? That thought has stayed with me, and interested me greatly, ever since.

Looking back over my posts, I realise that I have given various clues to my appearance, sometimes on purpose, and also when describing something I was doing. For those of you who have never noticed this, or have any interest at all in how I look, I will give some written clues, that you might visualise them, or not, whatever you choose.

I am not tall, less than five feet eight. Too short to join the Police when I was eighteen, in 1970. What is left of my hair is a silver/white colour, and cut extremely short. I abhor ‘comb-over’ or ‘comb forward’ styles, and always feel embarrassed for those men that seek to retain the appearance of a full head of hair by rearranging what they have grown at the sides. And as for wigs, enough said.

My build is not slim, though far from obese. I have chubby bits, but not everywhere. I can still look presentable in a suit, and I do not have the beer-belly so often seen on other men of my age. I have hands and feet that are rather too small for a man, only taking a size seven shoe, and normally losing out in the handshake stakes. My face is showing the ravages of time, as well as the effects of decades of smoking, and it is beginning to crease, like a well-used cushion.

Lines are forming either side of my nose, and at the edges of my mouth. My neck is in the process of developing along the lines of that of a tortoise, or iguana, but isn’t there quite yet. The bags under my eyes, present since youth, have grown into respectable pouches, easily capable of concealing a large marble or two.

For those of you who are skilled at photo-manipulation, or good at using the numerous programmes available for this sort of thing, I have a suggestion. Get a head-shot of the actor, Steven Berkoff. Remove the warty thing from his face, and add a discernible mole on the right of the upper lip, like Madonna’s. Then get a similar size photo of Anthony Hopkins, and merge the two together.

This should give a rough approximation of my appearance. I once signed a theatre programme for a fan of Steven Berkoff, who was convinced that I was the famous actor, so it won’t be far off.

For personality, add a dash of a Bob Hoskins accent and demeanour, with the occasional grumpiness typified by the TV character of Victor Meldrew.

There I am.

Significant Songs (1)

~ beetleypete ~ 4 Comments

When I say significant songs, of course I mean that they have a significance for me. For many of you, they might be just annoying, or not to your taste. That is fine, as music is nothing if not subjective, and this occasional series of posts is not intended to convert anyone to a particular song, or style of music. Consider it nostalgia; as you may already know, I like the occasional wallow in that.

All The Young Dudes (1972) Mott The Hoople

When I heard this song played over a car radio, I thought at first, that it was by David Bowie. This turned out to be a reasonable assumption, as I later found out that he had written it. In 1972, I was far from being a Dude, in the sense of ‘a cool dude’. I wasn’t even an apprentice Dude, and did not so much as possess a single element of ‘Dudeness’. I was 20 years old, and a very straight South London boy; with a normal job, and a normal girlfriend. I did have varied music tastes though, and immediately liked this song, buying it on a vinyl single, the next day. It seemed to have something for everyone, and I liked a lot of the lyrics. As a city dweller, the line, ‘Is that concrete all around, or is it in my head?’ especially resonated. It even had some Cockney rhyming slang in there-‘Boat Race’.

I had no idea what the strange name of the band signified, if anything, and still haven’t bothered to find out, to this day. Although they were being marketed as a ‘Glam Rock’ band, I didn’t buy that at all. Ian Hunter, anonymous behind his signature shades, and mass of curly hair, was far too cool to be a Glam Rocker. This was a genre associated with The Sweet, Slade, Gary Glitter, and many others; they were not in Hunter’s league. His conversational singing style, almost like he was chatting to the listener, appealed to me immensely, and there was a real power behind that voice, that you just knew had the potential to roar. I liked the asides, left in after the recording, and the reference to spotty faces, Marks and Spencer, and the obvious English accent, made this single stand out from so much of the imported American music of the period.

At the time, I was going through a transition in my life. My old friends were still going to the South London pubs, listening to all our favourite stuff, suited and booted, drinking beer, and driving decent motors. My new friends were a little older. They had long hair, some had beards, they played in a band, and understood music. They weren’t bothered about cars and pubs, and their musical tastes were different. I felt myself beginning to be drawn to their spliff-smoking lifestyle, and relaxed attitudes to everything. Not that I was about to grow my hair, or to stop wearing suits and ties; I couldn’t quite go that far.

This song, along with many others, seemed to sum up how I felt at that age, at that time in the world. I took lyrics and ideas from it, and moulded those into representations of my own thoughts and issues. In retrospect, it seems I was completely wrong. Bowie later told how he wrote the song as a warning of the impending apocalypse, that he believed would be just around the corner. The news that the Young Dudes were carrying was that of Armageddon, apparently, and not the lifestyle and social upheaval that I was reading into it at all. I don’t mind getting that one wrong. The world didn’t end, despite Mr Bowie’s prophecy, and I still enjoy the song as much today, as I did almost 42 years ago.

Here is a clip of a good version of the song, billed as Glam Rock, unfortunately.

And here is Bowie performing the song himself. Less frantic perhaps, but still good.

If any of you have never heard it, then I hope that you enjoy it. If you don’t, well that’s life.

The End of a Dog’s Tale?

~ beetleypete ~ 29 Comments

Because some of you really care about Ollie, and I know you do, because you comment, or e mail me about him, here is an update.

He went in for his ‘partial amputation’ this morning, at 8.30. He was excited to get into the car, no doubt expecting to be taken somewhere new and different. When he saw the Vet’s car park, his enthusiasm dampened, and once inside, he was visibly uncomfortable. There were lots of other dogs, and a cat, already there. The morning surgery list was long, and the staff were very busy. He was weighed (26 kilos) and then taken in for a health check, to ensure he was fit enough for surgery. He hadn’t had anything to eat after 8pm last night, so that wasn’t an issue. The nurse reappeared, to tell me that he was going to be operated on, and I had to sign the consent form. They told me to telephone after 2pm.

When you have had a dog around, the house feels strangely empty if they are not there. I arrived home, feeling a bit guilty, and more than a little worried. I had asked them not to cut too much off his tail, if it could be done like that, and I was assured that only the smallest amount would be removed. I had some breakfast, and occupied myself with some routine household chores, one eye on the clock. Just after 2pm, I rang as requested. I was told that the operation had gone well, but he was too drowsy from the anaesthetic, to be collected before 4pm. I washed a bag of his toys, so that they would be fresh for his return home, and carried on with jobs, until leaving to collect him.

He finally emerged around 5pm, looking very dopey. Julie had finished work, and had met me at the Vet. Before they went to get him, they presented the bill; not much change from £400, as expected. At least the Vet will be having a good night tonight. As they said, only a tiny part of the end of his tail had been removed, and the wound closed with a couple of tiny stitches. It was so small, it was hard to tell the difference, before and after. It wasn’t dressed, and there were no tablets of any kind to take home. We were told that he had to have lead-only walks for ten days, and bland food for a couple of days. He was still very groggy, and had trouble getting in and out of the car, having to be lifted out, when we got home. He slept most of the evening, but did wake up long enough to eat some chicken and rice. About 20 minutes ago (10.55pm), he took himself off to his bed, and will hopefully sleep it off.

He has to go back for a check-up on the 27th January. I am hoping that will be that last part of this tale of a tail. Thanks to everyone who expressed concern, and sent good wishes for him.

Dogged Devotion

~ beetleypete ~ 27 Comments

Next week, my dog, Ollie, has to go to the Vet, and have part of his tail amputated. Those who have read all my posts will know the history of this, and be aware of the reason for this impending surgery. But this post is not really about that, I digress.

Anyone who has a dog, or has ever had one, will be able to understand some, if not all, of this post. There is something emotionally overwhelming about the affection and devotion that a dog shows to its owner. I use the popular term owner, but in reality, a better word would be companion. I may own a dog, but I am also his companion, his provider, and his mentor. His love, and loyalty to me are like nothing else I could ever experience. No human emotion could even come close, because we have opinions, thoughts and fears, doubts and worries. The love of children does not carry the same selflessness, and even the love of a mother for her children, perhaps the strongest, most unselfish there is, does not match that of a dog for its owner.

As far as he is concerned, I can do no wrong. If I leave him, he does not meet my return with recrimination, or complaint, rather with an excited spinning, frantic tail-wagging, and a genuine desire to see me back. If I spend all day with him, he is content to lie under my legs, doze on his bed, or chew a toy, as long as I am nearby, or at least in sight. If I forget to feed him, he waits patiently, and if I forget to let him in from the garden, he waits patiently. Every time I move, or adjust my sitting position, he is instantly awake and alert, ready for anything we might be about to do. If I open the back of the car, he jumps in, ready and willing to accompany me anywhere, without so much as a moment of hesitation.

His only request, is the occasional acknowledgement of his presence; a pat, a stroke, or the crust from my toast. He greets callers and guests with hospitality; as I have let them in, he presumes that they must be alright. He doesn’t destroy anything, take something he is not allowed to have, or interfere in any business that is not his to bother with. If I move from one room to another, he is instantly by my side, and wants no more than to go everywhere I go, and to see whatever I see. I have no doubt that he would die to defend me, or mourn my loss for the rest of his life. If I allow someone to take him off on his lead, he goes uncomplainingly. If I say it is alright, then he trusts me implicitly.

After almost two years together, I am still uneasy about that trust. When I lead him in to see a Vet, he trusts me that he will come to no harm, and not be hurt in any way. If I took him into a forest, tied him to a tree, and left him all day, he would just wait for me to come back; trusting completely in his belief that I will return. It doesn’t even occur to him that I would harm him, scold him unduly, or ever leave him for good. No matter how long he has known me, that devotion and trust remains undiminished; if anything, it is reinforced by time.

It is something tremendous, and I don’t know if I will ever get used to it.