From the magnificent "Favourite John Peel quotes" thread on I Love Music, shortly after Peel's untimely passing:A rough paraphase to be sure, but the general gist and thrust of it certainly accords with my memory, and I'd wager that it was about 75% accurate, word for word.

From page 312 of the even more magnificent Margrave Of The Marshes - Peel's unfinished autobiography, completed in fine style by his widow Sheila after his death - which has had me alternately fighting back tears of laughter and emotion most lunchtimes for the past fortnight:Nice one, Sheila! (And there are several other quotes from the same "dimly lit corner of the Internet" - heh! - dotted around her splendidly written half of the book.)

I always knew I'd make it into hardback one day.

First, the disappointment: no Clor! To be honest, it was Clor that I was most looking forward to seeing last night: they made a likeable debut album this year, with a couple of ace singles. In their place, I was faced with the prospect of slogging through two completely unknown support bands. On my own. With naught but draught cooking lager and guilty fags for company. Suddenly, I had a flash of empathy with Pete Ashton, and his noble Going Deaf For A Fortnight project. This could be tough going.


First up, Ralfe Band (note the lack of "the"). A five-piece outfit, with a drummer and four multi-instrumentalists, all neatly lined up along the front of the stage. From left to right:

• mandolin/pedal steel
• violin/keyboards
• semi-acoustic guitar/electric piano/lead vocals
• bass guitar/snare drum & cowbell.

Consequently, every number they played in their short set featured a different instrumental line-up, with band members sometimes swapping instruments mid-song. This worked extremely well, not least because all the band members turned out to be fine, skilled musicians. In particular, there was a fantastic snare drum & cowbell/mandolin break in the middle of one of the faster songs, which earnt the band their first whoops from the audience. (Audience whoops when you're third on the bill being a pretty impressive achievement round these parts.)

Influences? Hmm, very difficult to pin down. There was an overall Celtic/folky feel, à la Waterboys/Levellers, which made me feel that the band would do particularly well in the south-west of England - but thankfully, they didn't overdo the raggle-taggle-gypsy-oh crusty-isms (or else they would have quickly lost me). There were also elements of country and blues, a smidge of Bad Seeds/Kurt Weill theatricality, and even a hint of early Cockney Rebel here and there. Without wishing to damn them by association, I could easily imagine a Ralfe Band track on a cover-mounted CD for Uncut or The Word. The readers of Mojo would definitely like them.

They were also being street-teamed to death: promotional postcards quite literally everywhere, and a bunch of Nice Young People wandering round the venue with clip-boards, collecting names and e-mail addresses in return for badges. (Unfortunately, the Nice Young Person I spoke to, having thoroughly enjoyed their set, knew next to nothing about them - which slightly spoilt the effect.)

Ralfe Band, then. Not what you might call bleeding-edge, but they could potentially do very well. A likeable bunch, who clearly love what they do, but perhaps they need to work a bit more on their stage-craft if they're going to raise their game. (F**king hell, I'm starting to sound like Louis Walsh.) Hope they don't get chewed up and spat out as nice safe corporate indie-lite; they're too good for that.

During in the interval, I bumped into two former colleagues - I & J - whom I have often hung around with at gigs over the past few years. Hooray for company! Billy lots-of-mates!


Vincent Vincent & The Villians were on next: a cheerful bunch of piss-takers, whose refusal to take themselves seriously made them impossible to dislike. Sure, the songs themselves were pretty daft - fast and snappy new wave power-pop, with comic lyrics and distinct rockabilly influences - but this didn't stop the band performing them as if they were stars in their own private universe, whilst also being well aware of the absurdity of their preening and posturing. In particular, the be-quiffed lead guitarist (playing in his home town, with his family in the audience) seemed absolutely convinced that he was some sort of hugely shaggable Rock God - and hence, because he believed it, he sort of was.

God, I'm making them sound like The Darkness. They were nothing like The Darkness. Got that? Good.

The singer was one of those unlikely looking types who often make unexpectedly effective front men. Think 1970s Howard Devoto crossed with 1970s Tom Verlaine, with a cross-strain of 1970s Wreckless Eric. Bulging eyes, high forehead, a Dave-Hill-out-of-Slade fringe (with some suspicious evidence of an incipient comb-over), and bearing a home-made logo on the back of his jacket, which spelt out THE VINCENTS in what could easily have been white gaffer tape. I liked the way that, straight after the first number, he called for the sound engineer to turn down the volume on the lead guitarist. Ooh, power struggle! We like!

Earlier on, I & J had witnessed one hapless member of the band being refused entry to the venue, and actually being chucked out of the front door by the bouncer. This gave them a perfect opportunity to dedicate a song to him - which turned out to be a scathing, sarcastic attack on the pathetic nature of the existence of all bouncers everywhere. So witheringly apt that it could almost have been made up on the spot, this had the band grinning from ear to ear throughout at its startling appropriateness.

Over on the merchandise stand, Ralfe Band had CDs, 7-inch singles, more badges and more postcards. Meanwhile, Vincent Vincent & The Villains had... combs. Yes, combs. Which kind of says it all.


And finally, onto Sons & Daughters - a band whom I had last seen supporting the Fiery Furnaces, at one of the best and most enduringly memorable gigs of 2004. I had a lot of time for last year's Love The Cup mini-album, which I played incessantly for several months - but having heard both singles from their latest album The Repulsion Box, had felt rather let down. Gone was their distinctive gothic country rockabilly, and in its place was something which sounded a little too close to bog-standard, NME-friendly, typically 2005-style garage-rock. It all struck me as rather short-term, opportunistic, and a waste of the band's potential - and so I was there to give them one last chance.

Well. I stand corrected. Yes, Sons & Daughters are quite a different proposition now than in 2004 - but in a wholly positive way. There's a new energy and focus to their sound and to their stage presence: having sharpened up their act, they're now performing like a proper rock and roll band, as opposed to a nervous bunch of indie under-achievers. There's confidence there now, and a real sense of attack.

This was especially apparent in lead singer Adele Bethel, who stalked the stage like an avenging fury. Constantly rocking herself backwards and forwards, looking and sounding fantastic, she still managed to hold just enough of herself back to retain that vital sense of mystique.

And guess what: the new stuff sounded spot-on, and a perfectly logical progression from the old stuff; everything blended together seamlessly, with the Love The Cup songs toughened up a bit, in order to match the rockier Repulsion Box material. In fact, the highlight of the whole set was one of the newer singles: "Taste The Last Girl", which came across like The Au Pairs covering "What Difference Does It Make". Yes, that good.

Sons & Daughters, then. I sense that this is a band who are now ready for larger stages, and who will know what to do once they're on them. Next time they play Nottingham, I'll be less apologetic about going to see them, and more determined to drag my gang of regulars out with me.

Ah, good old-fashioned guitar bands. They may not inspire quite so much semi-intellectualised purple prose as certain other musical genres, but on a freeze-your-bollocks-off Wednesday night in Nottingham, I can think of no better way of spending an evening.

Now for the Big Climb.

The last time we scaled the incline on the south side of Ashford, it was high summer, and we were sweltering and struggling. It's a long ascent, whose true length only gradually reveals itself over time - but the diligent climber is amply rewarded by stunning views back over Ashford, and the fields, hills and dales beyond.

A couple of hundred yeards short of the summit, we settle ourselves on the sloping grass and have our packed lunch. Whilst munching, we amuse ourselves by spotting the aeroplanes coming in and out of Manchester airport, another thirty miles or so beyond the horizon, over to the far left of our field of vision. With the clear, cloudless skies and the particular quality of the autumn afternoon sunlight, each vapour trail is unusually easy to spot. At one point, we can count a full ten planes ahead of us - and that's not counting the ever-widening vapour trails left by earlier flights, criss-crossing the sky in spectacular fashion.

Falling into an awe-struck reverie - punctuated only by occasional murmurs of "wow", and "so beautiful" - my gaze falls upon a group of three birds, flying around in the near-side fissure with the A6 at its base. Mesmerised, I continue to trace their path as they swoop up, down, and off above the high ground over my shoulder. By now, my neck is craned right round to the left - and as I keep gazing, my eyes meet those of an elderly lady, beginning her descent on the path which we have just climbed.

As I am smiling, and as I am turned awkwardly in her direction, she takes this as a form of greeting, and approaches us. Her smallish, friendly-looking dog trots ahead of her, making straight for K.

"Can Charlie come and say Hello?", she inquires. "He seems to prefer men. I don't know why."

By now, Charlie is all over K, and K is all over Charlie.

Charlie doesn't give me a second look. Clearly, he is well acquainted with the difference between friend and foe.

We chat briefly about the lovely weather, before the old lady calls Charlie to heel and sets off again down the hill. Charlie keeps gazing fondly back at K, who is returning his gazes with equal fondness.

Two or three minutes later, another dog appears to our right, on the upward path. This one is of an indeterminate breed, with a demeanour which suggests a bright friendliness, and an alert pereceptiveness. Once again, it makes straight for K's lap, walking straight past me without so much as an acknowledgment.

The dog's owner comes into view, head stooped, climbing up the hill. Another elderly lady, again with something of a "county" air about her. She smiles over at us, every bit as genial as her predecessor. K calls over to her.

"We were just wondering what breed of dog he is?"

"No idea, I'm afraid! I was rather hoping you'd tell me!"

"He looks a bit like a German Shepherd, doesn't he?"

"Yes, a lot of people have said that. I think there must be some German Shepherd in him somewhere. Glorious afternoon, isn't it? You've picked a lovely spot for lunch..."

Her cheeks are flushed with enormous patches of vivid crimson: either a result of her sustained uphill exertions, or of a stiff gin-and-dubonnet after the morning service. Or maybe a bit of both.

"He's from Animal Rescue! Third one I've had! I went to Bakewell Market to buy a cabbage, and came back with a dog in a cardboard box! Oh well!"

As the two of them disappear off to the left, I hiss seditiously at a still beaming K.

"What's going on here, then? Is this another one of your carefully staged I-want-a-dog ploys? I'm going to have Sharp Words with the script-writer, I'm telling you..."

He beams back at me, in that particular bare-gummed way of his which I always take to signal smug triumphalism.

"Come on then, you devious bastard. Next stop, Sheldon."

To be continued.



Jump to Part Three.

Labels: walking

I do hope you've all been enjoying my colourful new image borders. Having noticed them first on Dooce, and second on Blogjam, I quickly twigged that these were this season's "must have" blog accessories - and so spent chuffing ages working out how to code them.

(Don't ask. Very boring, and I've been told off for talking Tech before. Trial and error, basically. Probably lots of better ways of doing the same thing - but now I've got it working, I'm sticking with it.)

Anyway, in the course of a recent comments box discussion, I foolishly referred to my border colour as "mauve". Not so, apparently.

This is my border colour...

...and this, according to Wikipedia, is mauve.

Which, I have to say, bears no resemblence to any "mauve" which I've ever seen before - but who am I to question the wisdom of Wikipedia?

qB of frizzy logic - by now my official colour consultant - posited that the colour might be closer to lavender. Which would make it even more pouffey than mauve, but no matter.

This is lavender, then. Hmm, close. But not quite close enough.

Not to be thwarted in her colour matching quest, qB then suggested the rather more old-lady-ish lilac.

Mmm, scented-drawer-liner-tastic!

However, having consulted the full Wikipedia colour list, I have concluded that my borders most closely resemble thistle.

Look, not pouffey at all. In fact, really quite butch. Grr, feel my spikes!

"Thistle" it is, then. Or at least, "faded thistle". (Dried thistle? Pressed thistle? Wilted thistle?)

In the meantime, qB was busy developing and naming a brand new shade - a process which she discusses in mind-boggling detail on her own blog. Thus honoured, I can now present the first ever image border in the exciting new colour for Fall 2005...

... frizzy diva!

You can all wake up again now - we've finished pissing around with pouffe-assed palettes for today. Keep it pastel, blogpals!

(There again, I could always let myself go in puce...)

Er, I don't suppose anyone reading this is going to the Sons & Daughters/Clor gig at the Nottingham Rescue Rooms tonight, are they?

I'd hate to give you the impression that I have no social life, but none of the usual gig-going gang could be persuaded to come along to this one, and I do prefer a bit of company at these things.

God, that sounds tragic.

Well, if you're down there this evening and you spot me - down the front, left hand side of the stage as you look at it, somewhere around the far corner of the bar, pint in hand, guilty fag in mouth (they're my only company!) - then please do feel free to march up and introduce yourself.

(Please note that the preferred form of address is: "Oh my God you're TROUBLED DEEE-VA you blog is AMAAAA-ZING I read you ALL THE TIME!" I shall then graciously acknowledge your presence, dipping my head bashfully as if to bury my face beneath a non-existent Lady Di fringe. Them's the rules. Don't get out a pen and paper, though; that would just be unseemly.)

"I want to walk the forest path. And then - if it's within my range - I want you to walk it with me." (Peter @ Naked Blog, August 2002.)


As we leave the cottage, I craftily start the Madonna album at Track 6: just where the pace calms down a bit, after the opening salvo of gay-as-f*ck thumpers. Perhaps that way, I could ease K into the album gradually.

Ten minutes down the road, and still no reaction. I try the conversational approach.

"It's fascinating: while the album was being recorded, the producer - who's a club DJ in his own right - would take demos of the backing tracks out with him, to incorporate them into his DJ sets. That way, he could precisely gauge the dancefloor reaction to each track, and then go back and make tweaks to the... you're not remotely interested in any of this, are you?"

"Not even remotely."

"I could tell by that stony-faced expression. Puh. Thanks for taking a f**king interest. I mean, you could have pretended. Remind me to do the same thing back, next time you start blathering on about bloody proteomics..."

He doesn't take the bait. I fall silent. God, I need this walk. Clear away a few cobwebs.

As we turn a corner, the music softens to a light trotting pulse, overlain with sweet, simple melodic phrases. Right on cue, a group of horse riders come into view, causing K to slow the car down to a quiet crawl. The up-and-down movement of the horses and riders synchs in perfectly with the tempo of the track. Clip-clop, clip-clop.

"Actually, this is a good one."

He's smiling. We're getting there.

---

With the large car park at Monsal Head already filled up by the Bright And Early/Can't Park Efficiently For Shit brigade, we find one last roadside space down at Little Longstone. Which is actually more convenient, now that we think about it. As we change into our walking boots, the CD switches back to the beginning - thus ensuring that "Hung Up" will stay looping round and round my head for the next however many hours. Extended remix, and then some.

It's only the second time I've worn gaiters, and I'm having a hard time working out how to put them on. K assists, but I'm in a brittle mood. Why can't I do anything practical? Also, the straps are too long: flapping out either side of each boot, dangling in the mud, swishing annoyingly against the side of my trousers with every footstep. I try to tuck them in, but the gaiters aren't designed that way and so they keep popping out again.

"God, I hate these gaiters. What's the point of them anyway?"

"Look: as soon as we get to Ashford-in-the-Water, we'll stop at the shop and buy a pair of scissors. Then I can cut the straps down for you."

Patience of a saint. But I'm still stomping through the thick mud, failing to fall into an easy step, making heavy weather of it all.

"My f**king boots look like f**king Cornish pasties! How can I walk in these!"

K looks down at my clag-caked soles, and giggles. I giggle back, the drama-queeniness softening just a touch.

To be honest, I'm still upset with myself over last night. I should have left the unwrapping of the ceramic bobble-fruit-and-pillows to him, like I usually do. You know, get a grown-up to do it for me. But instead, I only had to Challenge the Assumption of Incompetence, didn't I? Stepping Outside The Comfort Zone, like I'm supposed to be doing, on a day-by-day basis.

Which would have been fine, until the moment that I lowered the bobble-fruit into the special dimple on the top pillow. Well, how was I to know that it would only fit one way? Stupid bloody thing.

And now there are two fragments of green china frond sitting in the top drawer of the sideboard, waiting until we get some glue, which we'll NEVER DO, because we ALWAYS FORGET that sort of thing, and it will be MONTHS before we even, in fact we'll probably NEVER, and it's all my fault because I've DESTROYED A MASTERPIECE, and I DON'T DESERVE NICE THINGS, and now I'm over-reacting because I CAN'T COPE, I mean f**k's sakes nobody's DIED, and...

"Time goes by / so slowly / time goes by / so slowly..."

---

In no time at all, we're in Ashford. It's a neat, well-heeled place, with a character all of its own: quite at odds with the surrounding villages, with its smart Georgian sandstone facades and its almost Cotswolds-like feel. All of which is marred by the constant roar of traffic from the busy A6 at the bottom of the village. Perhaps they all learn to tune it out. Handy for commuters, though: Bakewell, Sheffield, Derby. And you can sense there's old money here.

The village store is quaint, but crowded and claustrophobic. I wait outside while K queues, kicking my muddy heels against the kerb, dodging the passers-by on the narrow pavement, feeling in the way no matter where I place myself.

The store owner has kindly lent K his own pair of scissors. The straps are snipped, the scissors returned, the walk resumed, a new spring in my step.

Now for the Big Climb.

Jump to Part Two.

Labels: walking

13 houses, 13 bloggers. But who lives in which house?

You decide.

Good wheeze, this. Just my sort of thing. Thanks to Clare for devising it.

(Hint: careful readers of Troubled Diva should have no difficulties working out which house is mine.)

Oh, and should you need any further inducement: there's an exclusive artwork prize for the winner. Oh yes there is!

(But first, this.)


It is the first time that K and I have taken Mrs "Bob" out shopping for Lovely Things For The Home. Looking at her now, trapped motionless in front of the exquisitely turned chinaware, I realise that Mrs "Bob" may never have had Gentleman Friends Who Shop quite like us before. Perhaps it is all rather a lot to take in for one afternoon.

She was absolutely fine in the Gorgeous Kitchenware Shop at Hathersage (whose other branch is in Sloane Square, don't you know), coming away with a nice little raft of kitchenalia. (Meawhile, I bought a beautifully turned birch tray - along with a Swedish milk jug, co-designed by a professor of ceramics and no less than five of her students.) However, now that we have unexpectedly fetched up in the Gorgeous Ceramics Gallery at Rowsley, I sense that a certain trepidation may be threatening to cloud her enthusiasm.

Her eye has fallen upon a trio of tiny little china receptacles, in a sort of grey-green. Supportively, I draw myself towards her. This is no time to be faint-hearted.

"Nice, aren't they?"

"They're gorgeous. But Mike, what are you supposed to do with them?"

"Oh, you just have to love them."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

"Good answer. I'm going to remember that."

She's looking thoughtful. I smile to myself. Already, I sense that she has commenced her journey towards becoming a fully-fledged snapper-upper of the Beautiful But Useless. This is what we do to for people. It is a noble calling.

In the centre of the gallery, facing you as you walk in, some exciting new work from a promising young ceramicist is prominently displayed. It's surreal, vibrantly coloured stuff. Bold, witty, more than a touch whimsical. To the left, a battered pink sofa perches on top of a desert island, complete with palm tree. To the right, a "bobbly fruit", rather resembling a pineapple, squats on top of three pinky-blue pillows. As K points out, there are strong similarities with the work of the celebrated (and highly collectable) Kate Malone - but at a tiny fraction of the cost. Frankly, this stuff's a steal. We'd be daft not to.

Fetching the gallery owner over to the display, I point decisively towards the bobbly fruit/pinky-blue pillows composition.

"That one's our favourite. In fact, all three of us independently came to the same decision", I explain - beaming with pride at our connoisseurial unanimity, gaily unaware of any troubling subtext.

The gallery owner is too much of a professional to betray his feelings - but as he reaches for the selected objet, I sense the merest flicker of confusion dancing across his fractionally creasing brow.

A-hum. Well, he's not been there long. His colleague has been selling to us for years. She'll put him straight. Perhaps I need to work in a few more loud remarks to Mrs "Bob". "Look, over here! Your HUSBAND would LOVE THESE!"

After a few more conspiratorial circuits of the gallery space ("Tell Bob about the coffee spoons, boys!"), we drain our wine glasses, pick up our goods, and head for the door.

Back over at the till, the gallery owner can contain himself no longer. As the door opens, he calls over to us.

"So, er, who is the bobbly fruit for exactly?"

"Oh, it's for us", I beam, wiggling my index finger back and forth between myself and K. "Thank you so much!"

As the last of the sun sets beneath the blood red sky, the three of us giggle all the way through to the B5056.

...and, judging by the two pages of handwritten notes which I made last night, it will be very long, and very rambling. Unless I hire an editor between now and this evening, that is.

In the meantime, here is a picture of some cows.


(Image taken from K's moblog - oh, did I not say?)

Bloody hell, Monday mornings. This is another Breakfast Time Special post, written at precisely that time in the week when my mental processes are at their foggiest. (It's that 6:25 am start what does it. Not natural, I'm telling you.) Still, there's work to be done, so let's crack on with this week's results.

In this absence of an obvious show-stopper this week, it has been more difficult to predict which way the votes would fall. Consequently, we've had the widest spread of opinion so far, with most posts picking up votes along the way, and only two posts receiving votes from all three of us (myself, JonnyB and Zinnia Cyclamen).

In this week's batch of nominees, we've sampled the cuisine of East Dulwich, feasted ourselves upon The Gayest Cake Imaginable (with pictures!), and investigated the properties of albino ketchup (not a euphemism, but a Soho burger joint reality).

In our international section, we have photographed morgues in Kyiv (eww!), and gone for wee-wees in rural Zambia whilst being covered in termites (double eww!).

We've examined our priorities in life, had a damned good rant about NaNoWriMo, and have surveyed the visual evidence of what too much love can do to a neon-coloured bear.

At this point, it's worth giving a special mention to an entry which, realistically, was never going to qualify - as it's actually a series of fourteen consecutive posts in which Pete Ashton attends fourteen consecutive gigs by small bands in his home town of Birmingham. The resulting "Going Deaf For A Fortnight" project is a wonder to behold, and I commend it to anyone with a bit of time to spare.

This leaves just two posts, separated by just one vote. In the runner-up position, we find Mimi in New York, "dodging the slap" in the strip joint. As one judge said:But nudging ahead by a whisker, we have this week's winner:

The Marvelous Garden: THE ART OF SEDUCTION: A Short True Story.

As one judge commented:Speaking for myself, I'm pleased to see something lighter and more amusing/observational sitting at the top of the pile this week, after two winners from the heavier end of the spectrum. I'm also pleased that, for the third week running, the winning post comes from a blog which I wasn't reading before.

Here we go again, then. Please place your nominations for Week Four in the comments box below. Rules of engagement are here.

Our judges for this week are Anna out of little.red.boat, and Green Fairy out of Green Fairy.