Operation Goldfrapp

Day 1: I am sitting in Edinburgh Airport where I expect to be collected by Dom in an hour or so. The concert isn’t till tomorrow so I will have a day in Edinburgh. The trip here has been uneventful; I got the train to the Crawley Arndale Centre (Gatwick Airport) from where I flew in a shiny new Easyjet plane. They seem to be trying to brush up their act, the pilot sounded like a British Airways one; he called me “sir” as I disembarked.

Behind me on the flight were two middle aged Americans, they were next to an elderly English chap. They kept asking him questions about Scotland; various things including its currency and whether it was still England out the window when old boy was pointing out the Forth Bridge to them. The septuagenarian made my day, apparently he couldn’t hear very well or he just felt like telling them whatever he fancied and provided them with all sorts of duff or irrelevant info. The Pittsburgers revealed that they were on a fourteen day tour which started in London, then on to Edinboroe, Paris, Rome, Barcelona and Denmark (the city of). Sounds like two weeks in airports, planes, taxis and hotels.

Day 2: So I am now sitting in the living room of the flat that Dom uses during the week in a place called East Calder. When I ventured out earlier, I discovered two café’s one furnished with old lounge furniture and old people, a Co-op, two sun tan places (one spray-on called Peely Wally, which if you are not Scottish means kind of off colour), the East Calder Electronics Centre; a tiny shop with old TVs, a newsagent called Jimmy’s Pay-n-take, proprietors A& J Ahmed and a handsome church.

Having been up and down the street I settled for the second café. There I experienced an emotional hour as I tasted a breakfast the like of which I would have enjoyed at my grandma’s when I was a kid. I looked at the menu and wanted everything. I settled for the standard breakfast (having to give up the Scotch Pie) and despite my not getting on with wheat ordered a roll which, with sausage and tea hit the button. It must be the water, but tea in Scotland tastes delicious.














At about half 5, Paulo and Paul collected us and took us to the Blue Blazer pub where we met up with everyone. Three pints of Baltica (Russian beer) later we headed for the Usher Hall to watch Ms Goldfrapp doing her thing. A good gig despite the bass player’s hat. The rest of the evening zoomed by at two or three drinking and dancing places. I notice that at this age my ability to remember what goes on this type of evening is rubbish, although I am confident I had fun and am looking forward to the opportunity to go back and do it all again. I particularly enjoyed meeting people whom I had only met via email previously. The evening came to a close after Dom and I had a couple of Pot Noodles at about 2.30; it might be 20 years since I had a Pot Noodle; we used to enjoy them at school, particularly during a post Sunday evening service episode of Hart to Hart. Thanks to all concerned.

Day 3: up reasonably early, Dom dropped me at Livingston South railway station, where I set off for Glasgow. What a beautiful day; clear skies.

The pier at Invereray (where the bus stopped for a pee break)







From Glasgow I got the bus to Castleton near Lochgilphead. There I spent a couple of nights at my Mum’s; I ate some nice food, had a good walk and enjoyed a Hopi Ear Candle treatment.

Captions welcome....

Two fours are eight

Some time ago my brother and sister in law asked me if I was buying Gemma any CDs for Christmas. Basically they wanted to get her a couple and wanted to get in first so I'd have to think of something else. Well, I knew that Gemma wanted the Madonna CD, that was their first idea and so I conceeded. Then they came up with Robbie Williams. I said, "Please don't get ther that". "Why?" they asked. "Because then I'll have to listen to it". Anyway they did and after dinner just now, Gemma announced that she was going to try it for the first time and hence I am upstairs typing this. The good news is that Mr Williams has only lasted a couple of tracks and I can hear that she has switched to the X&Y which she bought me for Christmas along with Emimem and Gorillaz , When I was maybe thirteen I was played F*** Off by the Electric Chairs by Debbie Jarvis and I have to say I was a little embarrassed at the language (particularly in the company of a lady) but the Eminem chap could wipe the f***ing big ass mother floor with them on the rude words front I reckon. At least I don't seem to be as easy to embarrass as I was, although for it to be a like for like test, I would need to track down Ms Jarvis.

Match Point ***

A film of two halves. I suggest that you find out when it is showing at your local cinema and turn up about half way through. I can fill you in on the first half; ex tennis pro meets nobby English family starts a relationship with the daughter and has a fling with the son's bird, played by Scarlett Johanssen (whose presence, in my opinion, would redeem the first half of any rubbish film). There you are, saved an excrutiating hour of your life. The problem is about pace but more about plausibility. The patriarch mega wealthy businessman is played in the style of a beige buffoon; I could not accept that such a person exists. His son, who is the best actor in the film would, in real life, have spotted that his brother in law was up to something. No one else is particularly believeable, Mr Allen needs to get out more (in Britain).

I was deterred from walking out as the beginning of the second half of the film saw the building of some tension. I wanted to find out what would happen and I enjoyed tutting at the fact that the makers of the film were giving American's considering applying for a passport to come to London, the idea that you can get from the Fulham Rd to the City in 5 minutes in a cab (and such like).

Finally Mr Allen pulls a rabbit out of the hat by leaving us with our heads filled with dilemma. He brings to a head the idea of luck, which has been popping up regularly for the past couple of hours, are we lucky to avoid mortal punishment or are we damned, lucky anyway.

The beat that my heart skipped *****

This brilliant film manages to portray a hard man hero’s sensitivity, without softening the gritty violent world the he inhabits.

No effort is required to believe in Thomas Seyr; the main character played by the cool Romain Duris, I found myself liking him despite his flaws. There is no gloss at all in this story, it has the kind of reality that the French seem far better able to achieve than does Hollywood.

It reveals the power of music and the result of having the courage to make big life changes

(The only thing that marred my enjoyment of this movie was the fact that half way through, someone in the row behind me let off with the most gag-inducing effect. One person at least actually complained and moved seats. Fortunately it blew over in a few minutes).

Yesterday afternoon

Cycle Shop

In the late sixties (I would have been around 5 or 6 years old) I used to go to Safeways (somewhere on the south side of Glasgow) to watch my mum do the shopping and to have a burger and milkshake at the snack bar. A little later we did a project on the Romans at school which featured mosaics. The only example of a real mosaic that the class might have seen, that the teacher could come up with, was the big Safeways "S" on the wall of the shop.

In the seventies I lived in Harrogate and used to pedal to the construction site of the new Conference Centre and Morrisons shop to watch the cranes and to be amazed at the speed of progress, (despite having no idea what was being built). Today the last four Safeways branches will be reopened as Morrisons.

I'm sure there is a moral in this tale, particularly as it is my birthday and I like Taoism.

Coping again

I'll stick with a mullet thanks.


A few weeks a go my friend mentioned that he was going to see a Matisse exhibition in Denmark. I like Matisse and after a little chat about various things including the fact that, earlier this year, I had visited the chapel he decorated in Vence and after my friend mentioned that his daughter didn’t want to go (and so there was a spare ticket) he suggested I went; so I did, last Thursday.

We arrived at the very handsome airport (unlike the Crawley Arndale Centre which we had set off from) just before lunch and made our way by foot to the hotel. We were working on instinct and so headed off in the wrong direction. Eventually we were given directions by a police man by which time we were a both a bit peckish and ready to sit down. As we came by the train station again, I was walking slightly ahead of my companion, when I heard his bag hit the ground behind me. I turned in time to see him hit the ground very soon after. He then rolled off the pavement into a puddle at the edge of the road; he is epileptic by the way. We weren’t looking very expensive when we eventually entered the Grand Hotel. I don’t think my friend had fully recovered from his episode as he got quite angry about the lighting arrangements in his room. He complained, got dried off and we went for lunch.

This meant retracing our steps yet again, passing the interesting looking Tivoli Gardens, earth’s oldest theme park, which was closed for the application of Christmas decorations. In due course we got to the more interesting part of town. By the station, as is often the way, the City is a bit bleak but you don’t have to walk far to find an attractive, buzzing centre with plenty of cafes and happy looking people. We found a restaurant down a side street which we liked because of its lack of touristiness. It was quite dark inside, pictures of kings and queens on the wall. It was busy with locals, many of the tables had large platters on them which looked good. When ours arrived it had two pork chops, two breaded haddock, portions of other fish and various salads as well as a tasty thing that we decided to call ham and mushroom surprise. We ate the lot; very good it was too at 15 krona per head, about £14.

Afterwards we felt we deserved a rest and retired to the hotel for a couple of hours before retracing our steps again, headed for a bar or two. Bar number one was quite uninteresting. Bar number two; Oscar, looked inviting. My sidekick found a table whilst I went to get a round of drinks. It was much friendlier in here. I placed the drinks on our table and as I sat down, mentioned that there was a very large jar of free condoms on the bar. This didn’t seem to register with my friend; I said, “it must be because it’s a gay bar”. “Is it?” he looked round. “There are some girls over there”, he countered.

In a short while a couple of lasses sat down at the table next to us. They were lovely. The girl opposite me had a kind of tight skinned alien quality, the girl next to me was less feminine. We chatted and bought each other drinks for an hour or two before leaving about elevenish. The women walked with us towards our hotel (they were getting a train home) and pointed out where they had been married two years ago at the town hall, Beautiful Alien proudly showed me her wedding ring.

To be continued………

Tales from a past life - baptism of fire

Before I worked for Big American Company, I worked for Smaller American Company. I was the sales office junior. The company was doing very well and some people were earning lots of money. I moved from Yorkshire to start work there in the autumn of 86, I think. Initially I stayed in a bed and breakfast before sharing a house for a while in Chiswick and then a flat in Ealing. The office building was brand new and quite imposing, situated by Langley Station near Slough. I spent about two and a half years there. It was a bit of an eye opener.

At the first Christmas party (in a local restaurant), I was surprised that most people were dressed as though they were going to do some gardening, I was looking quite smart, at least to start with; by the end of the evening I was soaked and covered in all sorts of stuff. Moments after arriving at our table, it was on fire and I don’t mean a singed napkin, I am talking kitchen staff running into the restaurant armed with fire extinguishers, and using them. I was shocked not so much at the pyrotechnics but at how funny everyone in my group thought it was. Not long after that the bosses were on the table with trousers down and there was food flying in all directions. I got into the spirit of things a bit better than the people from the company who had booked the other half of the restaurant.

The next few years of what you could laughing call my career, were punctuated by a number of similar meals, for which it has to be said, I was better prepared. One of my favourites was at a sales conference at a hotel in Bristol. The evening had started with flying food etc but by three in the morning in the bar, many people having left through fatigue and after the barman had got the hang of not falling for being distracted, whilst people stole booze, there was a quiet little cadre, giggling the night away. That was until a particularly naughty member of our team (who has gone on to be an important person in the industry ), despatched someone into the dining room (adjacent to the bar) on some pretext or other. There were no lights on in there but the tables were set for breakfast. Once his friend was in there fumbling about, our hero launched a salvo of large silver trays into the darkness; moments of silence were followed by very loud crashes and prostestions. Needless to say everyone sobered up quite quickly and a couple of people grabbed the protagonist and we all headed into the foyer. I ran ahead to call the lift but was overtaken by a large plant in a pot which smashed against the wall by the lift button. I can remember the way the mud stuck to the hessian. Things degenerated from there. The next day a number of us were summoned to the Sales Director’s office for a bollocking. To his credit, the nutter tried to take the blame. I will always remember the director’s response, “ Your attitude is creditable, but I have spoken with the hotel manager an there is no way that one person could have caused that much damage, at least you have the balls to own up; unlike your colleagues here”. I wish I had had the temerity to protest “no really; it was all him”, as it was I was singled out as I had not been drinking.

Later at Big American Company there was a Christmas lunch which took place at a restaurant called Borscht’n Tears in Beauchamp Place; chosen because it advertised itself as a “dancing on the tables” kind of place. Again we were one of two companies who had the whole restaurant to ourselves. The first hour or so was quite quiet. Amusingly, one of us would occasionally lob a piece of turkey or the like on a high trajectory (so as to make the source harder to trace) into the other company’s area. This typically caused a minor skirmish to break out amongst them. As the afternoon went on the tension was increasing and there must have been those in the other company group who suspected what was going on; but felt unable to act without proof. Eventually we were too careless and a gravyed potato was seen leaving our section of the restaurant, destination carnage. The escalation of hostilities was immediate, it was all out war. Within a few seconds (the guitarist having fled) our table was on its side so that we could shelter behind it taking turns to stand up and throw two or three handfuls of anything you could before dropping behind it again to regroup, like Paul Newman and Robert Redford.

Very soon the restaurateur was dancing about, apoplectic, trying to restore order. My favourite memory of that occasion was, through the mayhem, observing the crowd of people outside on the pavement peering in through the windows (before the police arrived).

Another phone shot

Broken Flowers ***

This is a film that has been quite hyped. I like Bill Murray and Jim Jarmusch (I thought Lost in Translation was delicious and Night on Earth is one of my favourites) but this is not the work of the director at his best. It had a similar style to Lost in Translation except that it over-did things on the laid back front, enjoyable nevertheless with some amusing moments.

George Best

In 1994, one Saturday luchtime, I wandered into a restaurant called Pucci in the King's Road for a pizza. I didn't normally go in there, despite it being quite a reasonable place, my favourites were Picasso's or Mona Lisa. There was only one other customer, sitting a couple of tables away, quietly studying the TV mounted on the wall; Italy were playing some other country in a World Cup match. The waiters were all bouncing about the bar screaming their passion at their team. Meanwhile, one of the most uniquely qualified men in the world was not to be found in front of a microphone, elightening the fans. Instead he was sitting in silence, three thousand miles from the action and his peers, alone with a capuccino.

The Golden Pig

Whilst sifting through memories of trips to Brussels, I came across a particularly fond one. At the previously mentioned two week training trip, one of the students was a dapper little Parisian guy, in his late forties. We had chatted a little although he didn’t tend to mix with us yobs. I asked if he would like to join us for dinner one night. He agreed and at the appointed hour we set off for (I think) Rick’s American Café on Avenue Louise. There were probably fifteen of us, I was near the back of the group as we approached the restaurant. Going through the door I felt a tug on my sleeve; Pierre was not happy about our choice. He had a young technical chap with him from the Paris office and he suggested that I should pick one of my mates and the four of us would go somewhere he thought would be better.

So we got into his 205 and headed across town. (Waiting at a traffic light, a Belgian in lycra crossed the road pushing a state of the art racing bike with only a rear wheel; Pierre chuckled “ah les Belges”). After twenty or so minutes we parked up in what appeared to be a residential part of town, walked across a square and up a few steps into an unprepossessing establishment called the Cochon D’or. It had only four or five tables. Immediately Pierre got into quite a serious chat with the Maitre D’. We stood around helplessly. After a few minutes Pierre asked us to wait and he and the main man disappeared into the kitchen. Another ten minutes later Pierre emerged saying that everything was ok. We sat down, I was never offered a menu. It was one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten.