Advent - A Year On My Stereo

It's that time of year again, the time when educated conversation turns to what OG will do for his advent calendar this time. Well, the answer I'm afraid is that he will shamelessly purloin the idea that underwrote the complilation CD he used to receive each Christmas from a relative (by marriage) who no longer enjoys that status. It was from one such CD that OG's liking for Belle and Sebastian was born. Oh well.

I'm pretty sure that Spotify is not great for recording artists whilst being brilliant for those consumers who like to listen to all sorts of music. I keep a 'Liked' list that comprises all the songs I have serially obsessed over. Generally the obsession passes but I like to have the reminder of those obsessions. And that list is the key to this year's calendar. I give you twenty-four ear-worms that have helped OG through 2022.  

The Return Of The Grown-Ups

Alexei Sayle is back doing stand-up, or at the very least he has launched his Imaginary Sandwich Bar for the delectation of radio listeners. This is decidedly good news. Sayle has more wit in his little finger than many of the self-loving modern stand-ups put together. Sayle and I stand at opposite poles of the political world (I exclude the lunatic fringe right from my analysis) but I have always had an admiration for sane socialism. And he never forgets the underpinning rule of comedy - it's supposed to be funny. 

A far cry from comedy (well, on reconsideration, probably not) is the state of British politics - tragi-comedy perhaps, that difficult bastard child. Much of the time I give way to the counsel of despair and just roll my eyes sagaciously when politics intrudes into my life. Well, what would you know - I turned on the television to watch the parliamentary debate on the Autumn Statement. I should declare an interest here. For the record, the provisions of the Statement materially and injuriously affect the finances of the life of Pig. I neither expect nor seek any sympathy. What struck me about the debate was that before the infantile shriekers of the back-benchers took their turn, there was the spectacle of adult speeches. No matter what James Naughtie may think of him, I estimate Jeremy Hunt as a serious politician. And lo, I give unto you, his Shadow, Rachel Reeves. Another adult and one not tainted by service in the joke Corbyn Shadow Cabinet. Unlike, of course, her pudding-brained leader, the pathologically useless Keir Starmer. Sayle's show included his slam poetry offering - I Hate Keir Starmer. Quite.

Beyond Satire

I am blocked. As in, I can't find any inspiration to write. This despite a whole world turning about me.

Bluntly the shithole of modern life is beyond parody/satire, call it what you will. Rishi Sunak becomes Prime Minister and within a matter of days has to accept the resignation of Gavin Williamson who, it seems, is a graduate of the Prince Andrew school of charm. Inflation (us oldies can tell you youngsters a few tales of how destuctive it is) is poised to go full Tonto. That arch-bastard Trump seems to be on the point of declaring that he will run for President again. I suppose, on the bright side, his candidacy will give me something to write about. He would be funny if he wasn't so very real.

But then I stop and ask myself, a manic depressive, how I feel in myself. Well, there's the rub. I feel great. I have my family. I have my friends. Perhaps it is a fact that, just as I write my best poetry when depressed, so my pen is only barbed (or so I hope) when I'm at my worst.

I feel great, so don't expect any shafts of wit any time soon. Incidentally, not that you could care less, I had successive birdies when I played golf on Monday. Not flukes either - good drive, accurate approach, shortish putt. Sometimes, just sometimes, things look good. And for no reason other than that I like it here is a Kandinsky print. See ya.

In Defence Of Liberal Melodrama

Many years ago I compiled a list of my fifty favourite films. Much water has flowed under the bridge since then but if you have been with me on this journey (the blog I mean) you will have got a flavour of it, most particularly from my Advent calendar a while back.

Today I want to talk about one of the films that was on that list of fifty but didn't make it into the selection of twenty-four. If I were to do the Advent thing again, I suspect that The Best Years of Our lives might make the cut this time. I hadn't re-watched it for an age and I think I was scared to do so in case my memory of it was faulty. I had first seen it as a teenager. This may remain an unfashionable view (rather like my predilection for Steinbeck's fiction) but I think this is more than a very good film - it just creeps into the category of the great.

It is a film about the after-effects of war, about the toll not only on the combatants but on the families they return to. Yes it is melodramatic but there is a moral seriousness underscoring it. There is a scene when the Dana Andrews character punches an America-firster into a shop display case that has modern resonance. Great. Just. 88/100.  

Reasons To Be Cheerful

Just back from a long weekend with former rugby playing mates in Valencia. The ostensible reason for the trip was to mark BH's sixtieth birthday. Great fun. Once were warriors.

what a place to do your shopping

 

Another reason to be cheerful? Well, perhaps not cheerful exactly but certainy full of admiration. George C. Scott famously turned down his Oscar nomination for his performance in Patton, describing the Oscar ceremony as no more than a meat market. The Academy ignored his refusal and awarded him the prize anyway. Meat market or not, they were right. His portrayal of this gigantic but troubling military hero is breathtaking. Another notable aspect of the film is that it brought a first Oscar for another hero of mine, Francis Ford Coppola for his work on the screenplay. It's one of those films that crops up on obscure channels at Christmas - I note that my recording of it was made on 30th December last year. 80/100. It'll soon be Christmas!

 

No, Seriously I've Had Enough

You couldn't make this shit up. Liz Truss (who she ed?) lasted forty-five days as prime minister. Forty-five f***ing days. I haven't even had time to write one of my famous blogs commenting on her performance. In all seriousness, an earnest young man of my acquaintance asked me a couple of weeks ago whether she was already the worst PM in my memory. I said the jury was out. Shows what I know. Come back James Callaghan, all is forgiven.

But it lurches from low comedy to plain farce. Now that immoral grifter (can you have a moral grifter?) Boris Johnson is being seriously talked of as returning to office. Spare me please. My dear old Dad once said to me that for him all elections were single issue elections - the issue was education. I am going to follow his line. God, I despise these venal bastards.

no magic cure

Life goes on. Cheerier news - I have bought myself some new golf clubs - TaylorMade M4 irons. The aim of this project is to recover some of the lost yardage that comes with old age. I took them to the Belfry earlier today for a first smash. The distance is great but the accuracy remains pitiful. Oh well they look lovely. And when I am playing golf I can escape from thinking about politics. Which is nice. 

The Old Wild Men

This particular old wild man hadn't been to a gig for a while. Actually I say that but we did see Maddy Prior last Christmas and before that it must have been Muse at the NIA. Anyway last night was my covid-delayed sixtieth birthday gift from my sister - what you might term arthritic rock - 10cc at the De Montfort Hall in Lecester. Proper venue, proper band.

Only Graham Gouldman (national treasure and a man unscarred by his exposure to rock and roll) of the original line-up remains (the others are all engaged in other fields) but the touring band are tight and virtuosic. Their music remains attractive and full of wit. I fet positively young in this audience. We were all on our feet by the end. Brilliant.