Bit Strictly then

Carroll-Turner Piano Services arrived on time but I was surprised to see a man at the door. He set immediately to work and after an hour of plonking and rippling scales Kate was once again in tune much to my delight. However, he also revealed that she had a terminal illness and would not remain in tune for long so my happiness was short lived. I set myself the task of finding someone to stroke her keys at least once before her split back brought discord once more.

This is one of my favourites from her namesake.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZ03rCC0IBg

Oh the dawn has come
And the song must be sung
And the flowers are melting
What kind of language is this?

Later I went into town for coffee and on the way stopped briefly to peruse the window of Kemptown books, one of the few remaining independents left in the city. A woman joined me, and we found ourselves weaving in and out as we scanned the hardbacks. To my absolute delight she said ‘that was a bit strictly then wasn’t it’ and we both burst out laughing. Brighton really is a marvellous place.

I met Ed at Ground as arranged and it was lovely to see him and catch up. Inevitably he still wears the shroud of his recent loss but talk of future travel plans was a good sign, and I urged him to visit Tokyo which is still in my thoughts thanks to my Japanese lover.

Ground always surprises with its retro music and as if by arrangement the purple one was playing as we talked. Ed and I saw him together at one of the 21 Nights in London shows back in 2007 and due to the many encores we missed our train home. We ended up at some terrible gay bar until closing time and then made the best of the cold pavement outside Victoria until first light, keeping warm with coffee and using pasties as hot water bottles. There’s joy in repetition and blistering guitar solos.

All the poets and the part-time singers always hang inside
Live music from a band plays a song called "Soul Psychodelicide"
The song's a year long and had been playing 4 months
When he walked into the place
No one seemed 2 care

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XDiRUM_7T1I

Marije joined us for another round of steaming cups and the conversation buzzed around celibacy versus promiscuity, the kiss test, anxieties of dating and madness of men before a text message announced that sweetness, sexiness, sexy mess & honesty was ready to be collected. I said my goodbyes and dashed off, my heart pounding with the anticipation of the sensuous entwinement to come.

Our faerie groove was interrupted by the insistent ring of my landline. It was Thelma from Northampton, one of my father’s real family calling to tell me that he’d taken a turn for the worse and was in hospital. My feelings were a Jekyll and Hyde test tube of genuine concern, complete indifference laced with resentment and guilt. I decided to let my brain unravel the mess overnight whilst coiled in a hirsute embrace.

Life takes some queer steps

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3_TsrKmBwQ

Everybody's talking and no one says a word
Everybody's making love and no one really cares
There's Nazis in the bathroom just below the stairs
Always something happening and nothing going on
There's always something cooking and nothing in the pot
They're starving back in China so finish what you got

Nobody told me there'd be days like these
Nobody told me there'd be days like these
Nobody told me there'd be days like these
Strange days indeed -- strange days indeed

‘A memoir is how one remembers one’s own life, while an autobiography is history, requiring research, dates, facts double checked. I’ve taken the memoir route on the ground that even an idling memory is apt to get right what matters most.’ Gore Vidal - Palimpsest

Excerpt from a memoir - Stabilised

As a young boy my greatest pleasure was to wrestle my bicycle from the depths of the coal shed, wipe off the dark dust and go out for a ride. I would race up and down the roads, confident and upright thanks to the stabilisers bolted to my rocket ship.

I remember one summer day in particular. A trip to Aunty Sally had rewarded me with a homemade toffee apple which dripped snaking patterns of caramel down my arm. With a smile handlebar wide I munched the prize whilst serenading the hot flannel sun with gleeful bell ringing. At the time we lived in a prefabricated bungalow; cracked white asbestos walls and rattling windows. Dad was mostly away at sea back then, but today he was home on shore leave.

‘What are doing?’ My toffee apple dropped to the ground and rolled away. I was startled from my warm glow as the chill wind of my father’s voice shrank me back to reality. ‘You don’t need those; you’re not a baby.’ He was pointing at the stabilisers on my bicycle, and I trembled in the black cape of his shadow as he reached down to grip and pull me closer. ‘Get off’ he ordered, and I meekly obeyed, standing to one side as he crouched to remove the offending wheels with a spanner.

In minutes he was done and holding the bicycle steady with a hairy tattooed arm. ‘Get on it then’ - I shook my head and backed away. ‘Get on the bloody bike.’ The bicycle crashed to the ground as he lunged forward to pincer my arms with his thick leathery fingers. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes hanging heavy in the air as he growled ‘will you get on or do I make you?’ I clambered onto the saddle, my heart racing as I eyed the ground littered with shards of grit ready to tear me. ‘Don’t look at the ground. Look straight ahead and just ride. It’s easy.’ With a push from his powerful arms I was away and hurtling down the street, furiously peddling and holding on for dear life. For a few seconds I stayed upright but as the momentum of my launch faded I began to wobble and twist, looking down at the ground blurring beneath me. I crashed near a lamp post and bounced into some short grass, scraping my knee as I came to a stop. Winded I laboured to stand as dad closed on me like a spotlight in his white singlet. He looked angry and shook his head from side to side. ‘You bloody idiot. Why did you look at the ground?  Get up you stupid sod!’ I did as I was told and picked up the bicycle, also scratched and scraped. I wanted to run to mum, but I knew ‘hiding behind her skirts’ would make him even angrier; in our house boys did not cry. ‘Try again or I’ll knock your block off’ he ordered and fearing the sting of his hand I climbed back on the saddle but once more fell a few yards away in a twisted heap. ‘You useless little sod. Anyone can ride a bike.’ With the back wheel spinning like a space station I rose to my feet squeaking barely audible anguished sobs. Not due to the pain, but because I desperately wanted my father to love me and I wanted to please him. He was walking towards me again and this time I ran fast, moments later spinning through the kitchen door in a typhoon of tears. Leaving her paper and cigarette, mum swallowed me in her arms. ‘What’s wrong? Did you fall off your bike?’ Lifting me, she walked me around, miraculously finding a damp teacloth and Iodine on her circuit which she applied after seating me at the table. The Iodine stung like a thousand wasps, prompting more tears. I have a number of scars from that day but the only one visible is on my knee.

‘Just Kids’ Patti Smith’s delightful memoir kept me company as the train thundered through the green blur of England.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-uK2FoKdEh4

I was a wing in heaven blue
Soared over the ocean
Soared over Spain
And I was free
Needed nobody
It was beautiful
It was beautiful

The journey was painless and swift and I was soon walking through Northampton for the first time in many years. Memories flooded my mind as I walked up from the station - the listening booths of John Lever Records, Frank Brierley with his microphone in the bargain basement, the white chiffon clouds of Gallones ice cream and Oliver Adams butter crisp meat pies.

I stopped for directions by All Saints Church and two sweet old ladies set me on the right path with a customary ‘me duck’ and I knew I was home for better or worse. Then an eternity of corridors eventually led me to the Collingtree ward and the yellow bay. I stood outside with a pounding heart trying to slow down the spin of my thoughts.

Dad was awake but gazing up at the ceiling so I sat quietly and unnoticed on a nearby chair and took in the scene. He was dressed in red pyjamas with tubes snaking his body cocooned in a florid bed spread. I moved closer and he noticed my shape, looking across toward me with sightless eyes. ‘Who’s that?’ It crossed my mind to just stand and walk away but instead I replied ‘It’s Robert; how are you doing?’ and he smiled. ‘Thanks for coming; I’m not too good.’

He was clearly in some pain so I held his hand and encouraged him to tell me stories to take his mind off things and feed my own curiosity. Christened Henry Robert he was one of 11 children and only he and Aunty Pat still survive. He joined the Royal Navy in 1940 aged 16 after a short stint in the Home Guard and rejection by the Royal Marines for being ‘too small.’ He was lucky and survived the horrors of war but told of North Sea conveys, battles in the Mediterranean, drowning men and the menace of U Boats. In 1947 he married Doreen Alice whilst on shore leave and they spent a brief honeymoon in a prefab donated for the weekend by a relative. He returned to sea on the Monday and would be away for many months. No wonder the marriage failed and mum allegedly took to affairs with ‘Yanks’ and Kenny his brother. I asked dad if he’d enjoyed a woman in every port but he was adamant that he’d remained faithful. I find this hard to believe, but perhaps sailors don’t count.  I realised for the first time that I had inherited my father’s lust for travel and my mother’s lust for flesh. A combination which I wholeheartedly approve of and do my best to enjoy. Dad seemed to regret that things didn’t work out and I think he genuinely loved mum but as he observed ‘life took some queer steps.’ He spoke most fondly of the southern hemisphere and said that he wanted us to live there with him but mum wouldn’t leave Northampton. He spent his time in Australia training sailors to crew HMAS Sydney and said that Tauranga in New Zealand was his favourite place on Earth. I decided to visit there next year when I see Karin & Daniel.

I left him with a promise to visit again ‘before he goes’ and made my way through the chill streets with just spits of rain for company, trying to avoid the temptations of greasy pies and ice cream. To my absolute astonishment I stumbled across a gem I never knew existed. A Charles Rennie Mackintosh designed house nestling like a beacon amongst the wounds left by decades of town planners; another reason to return one day.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJSBaLddknw

The rain falls hard on a humdrum town
This town has dragged you down
Oh, the rain falls hard on a humdrum town
This town has dragged you down
Oh, no, and everybody's got to live their life
And God knows I've got to live mine
God knows I've got to live mine
William, William it was really nothing
William, William it was really nothing
It was your life...

The William in the song is none other than Billy Mackenzie who wrote the reply ‘Stephen You're Really Something.’ They were lovers I suspect J

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vb3KOdhDkF8

You know the love god
You must change your heart
We're coming sweet stubble
Well we're nothing but trouble
Stephen you're still really something