Wow, That's Amazing!

The Thirtieth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

Here we are in Colwyn Bay, myself and sons no1 & 2 (changing that around is too confusing, let's just stick with age order). We got here yesterday after a weekend catching up with the international Hendrick clan (the historic meeting between my Austrian brother-in- law and my Chinese sister-in-law took place at a Salford McDonald's) and we've settled in nicely. Had a bit of a tummy bug and went to bed with a headache but that seems to have come and gone.

We've got the cereal in and we bob a pint of milk in a sink full of cold water so we can start breakfast in our room as soon as we wake. Then like good little Hobbits we go out to a cafe to have second breakfast. This was tea and toast at the Rendezvous cafe (I know! The same name as the one in Scarborough!) today. Then off we trot to our next adventure.

Today that was a visit to the Welsh Mountain Zoo. Since it is right up in the hills that overlook Colwyn Bay there's a free bus from the railway station that takes you there. It started raining before we even got to the bus stop but we were determined to enjoy ourselves regardless. No2 son looked over the leaflet we had picked up from our hotel and announced our priorities: 'one tiger, two crocodiles and a lion.'

The bus driver was a cheerful Irishman who assured us that at whatever height above sea level the zoo turned out to be was actually above the rain (this turned out to be blarney). We waited for a train to feed up some more passengers then off we went. (Another aside: the others in the bus had come from Butlins in Prestatyn and the daughter had lost her phone on the way. As we rode, Mum left a voice mail message urging anyone who found it to hand it in) .

We alighted and entered the zoo. We were enjoying some macaws by the side of the entry road when a guttural roar behind us captured our attention. There, in a large enclosure was a huge brown bear. No2 son uttered the words that were to become our catchphrase on this holiday: 'wow, that's amazing.'

We quickly made our way to the tigers. Last year we visited Paignton zoo which was good but the animals were miles away. Here, we were mere yards away from these great cats that scratched their necks on a post like tabbies but could take your leg off if their mood changed. It was brilliant.

The crocodiles turned out to be alligiators and they just lay there in the murky water, sinister eyes resting just above the surface. And there were no lions. But there were gibbons and chimps, snow leopards and snakes - it was all pretty much what you'd want for your zoo experience. We got the bus back to town with the same people we rode up with. I enquired if they'd had any luck re the phone. They hadn't, and the daughter informed me that she had kept the same memory card from phone to phone so there were tons of photos and stuff that she was devastated to have lost. I hope it turns up.

It was the middle of the afternoon when we arrived at the station so I announced that since our time in Wales was short we were going to try and cram in another attraction. We hopped on the next train to Llandudno - we were going up the Great Orme!

I'd checked closing times before we set off - if we were lucky we could fit in a trip on the Tramway and the cable car. We set off at a pace upon arrival. No2 son refused to believe No1 when told he was going on a tram. 'That's in Manchester,' he insisted.

He soon had to eat his words when we arrived at the tram station. The tram climbed the steep slope of the Great Orme the same way the streetcars negotiated the hills of San Francisco. A cable running inside the tracks pulled the vehicle along. At the halfway point we changed to a a second tram to complete the journey. When we reached the summit we rushed to the cable car - would we be in time?

There was a queue, but it seemed to be moving along nicely. It was only when we got a little nearer that I could see the sign in the ticket window: 'no credit cards.' Pigging 'eck, we were already thin for cash today. I'd had to borrow off No1 son for ice lollies earlier so we couldn't afford this. Dejectedly, we left the queue.

'If only there was a cash machine up here,' I wondered idly.

'Why don't you ask?' suggested No1 son. There was a bar here - the presence of a cash machine wasn't unheard of so I have it a bash. Turned out there was one of those ones that charges £1.75 in the cafe next door. We got some money and rushed back to the queue. We might only have time for one way but that was better than nowt.

It didn't look too likely but then the ticket lady came out of her booth and called forward people who wanted return tickets. Since we would have to leave in time to get back we were brought to the front of the queue! No2 son was disappointed that we didn't get the red cable car he wanted at the rest of us were made up.

It was a very peaceful trip, with 'wow, that's amazing' views. As we toddled back to the tram it was with the pleasure of a gamble that had paid off. We had (another) chippy tea at the badly punned, but very friendly 'Fish Tram Chips'. We ate these at the railway station with No2 son aggressively disparaging a young gull that was eyeing up our grub.

We boarded, and as the train left we saw a fox by the trackside. It had been a long day but there was just time for one more -

'Wow, that's amazing!'

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I Am Not a Number

The Twenty-Sixth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.

This might get a little bit complicated.

Using the time honoured tradition of numbering my offspring by age I have always referred, on this blog and in day-to-day life, to my 11 year old first born as No1 son (a small tip of the hat to Charlie Chan too) and, logically, to my 3 year old as No2. It's merely a question of chronology and both are loved equally although when alone with either of them I always explain that I prefer their company to that of their sibling. This, I believe, constitutes good parenting.

Now, No2 son has done very well learning his number, both spoken and signed,  and with a view to encouraging this I explained to him my naming convention. 'You're No2 son,' I told him.

This provoked an immediate response. 'No,' he said and signed, 'I'm number one, me.' I went on to detail that since he was little and his brother was larger and older it made sense that he was No2. 'No,' he told me quite definitely. 'I'm number one, me.'

In the hope of finding some sort of accord I turned to No1 son and asked him if, being an older and wiser head, he wouldn't mind abdicating the top spot. 'Er, no,' was his position on that.

'Sorry,' I signed to No2 son, 'you're number 2.'

'No. I'm number one, me.'

No1, as always more interested in fanning rather than dousing the flames, questioned his brother.

'What number's daddy?'

No2 son paused for thought. He made an exaggerated 'hmm' sound and then delivered his verdict.

'Five.'

Cue much laughter from No1 son. Pursuing his theme: 'And mummy?'

Again, this did not receive an immediate answer. Another thoughtful 'hmm' and then: 'Six'.

That's not fair! That's Patrick McGoohan's number in The Prisoner! (Of course it's my Fifteenth Telly Recommendation. How could it not be?) How come she gets a cool number?

(And talking of cool stuff, while I was looking for a picture to illustrate my appreciation of The Prisoner I came across this:

Yes! Jack Kirby did a Prisoner comic! It was for Marvel but was never published - this site has the details. I'll say that again - Jack Kirby did a Prisoner comic!)

Anywhere, where was I? Oh yes. No1 son was intrigued by the seemingly arbitrary assigning of numbers as was I. So we asked No2 'Who is number three?'

'Hmm,' declared the sage, thinking hard. 'I don't know.'

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Some Truths 01

The Twenty-Fifth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

When I came home last night there were children running around in the square at twilight pretending to be dogs.

One of the dumbest things I have ever done is say to the attractive girl in a bookshop that I had been chatting to about The Starlight Barking, Dodie Smith's follow up to 101 Dalmatians where they have weird mental powers (I know! Cool!), when she offered to lend me a copy 'No thanks, I'd like to buy it for myself.'

Whatever happened to Tempestt Bledsoe?

The Blue Tigers are coming. Turkish Blue Tigers.

I fell into a nettle bush while attempting to impress other children at the Plas Goch caravan park in Llanfair PG, Angelsey. Many years ago...

I have had letters published in the comics Captain Atom and Power Pack.

The most I have ever laughed is at the end of It's a Wonderful Life. The man who shut off the Battersbys' electricity on Coronation Street claimed that James Stewart mouths 'fuck me' (as an exclamation of amazement, not an invitation! This is Jimmy Stewart we're talking about, after all...) when all his friends rally round with the missing money (oops, spoiler alert!). We both watched it, drunk, and exploded when George Bailey actually did mutter a profanity under his breath. Here, have a look at this at about 1.07 -

The blurry resolution helps - as would any booze you may care to have.


Incidentally, talking of James Stewart and drunkenness, as an audition for a drama degree I did a monologue from Harvey. In a Scottish accent.

In an interview on BBC GMR in 1995 I claimed that I had found a rhinoceros in Spotlight, the actors' directory.

The Eighth Best Thing I've ever done is go barefoot in the grass in Tavistock Square.

My (proper) Fourteenth Telly Recommendation (after forgetting that what I'd said is my Fourteenth was actually my Second) is Being Erica. Here's the opening titles to Season 1:

I once gave Anthony H Wilson 'the nod' in the bowels of the Hacienda. And Wayne Sleep 'the nod' at the Crewe Lyceum.

I always open packets of crisps at the bottom, holding them upside down as I eat.

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SPLINK!

The Twenty-Fourth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

I sometimes (who am I kidding? It's all the time!) worry that I'm missing the point of life. That there is some higher meaning to existence that eludes me and that if I had even an inkling of what that meaning was my life would be a lot more satisfying and I'd be a lot happier.

With this in mind there are two ways the following story could be interpreted. Either the person concerned has found there place in the world and is thus content or they are a complete and utter nutjob. Far be it from me to cast nasturtiums I'll let you decide.

There is this chap, spectacles and beard, hat and cagoule, who has in the past spent large tracts of time hanging around the railway station. He has a propensity for handing out train information, unbidden, to anybody on the concourse who looks troubled or confused. This information isn't always accurate, mind. Haven't seen him around the station much recently, but it appears he has moved his manor elsewhere...

On my way to and from work I cross over a junction between the local Comet store and the Valley Bridge. That crossing is split into two by a small island in the middle of the road where the traffic light and a pedestrian crossing for each half of the road is situated. It is here that the chap from the station has made his new home.

Not permanently, I assume, but he is seen there regularly. As he was on Saturday when I was met after work by my two sons and we made our way back to my flat. No1 son and I were well into our usual nonsensical conversation when we approached the crossing and I noticed him without paying him much attention. As we  waited for the lights we continued to chat and as a result failed to see the exact moment when the 'green man' appeared.

It was then that the islander leaned slightly forward and pointed to the 'green man' on his side, clearly put out that we had not leapt into action. Here is a photographic re-enactment of that moment:

When I noticed him doing this I deliberately waited another five seconds just to show that we needn't be dictated to by the machines. I don't know if that is how he interpreted it or whether he thought I was just trying to piss him off, but regardless we crossed before the light turned back to red and continued on our way. As we crossed the bridge, No1 son and I reflected on the oddness of this moment and I have to confess that several times over the weekend we drew amusement from mimicking the very precise, yet casual way this bloke pointed to the 'green man'.

I had thought perhaps this was a one-off incident, but when I told this tale to one of my colleagues, the estimable Madame Z, she informed me that she had encountered him in the same location only on that occasion he had held his hand up to stop her, as if to emphasise the message of the 'red man'. As I know there is a dearth of news about the inhabitants of traffic islands in the blogosphere (sorry, I won't use that word again. Promise) you can be sure that any updates to his later activities well be featured here as and when they occur.

By the way, here's the road safety film referred to in the title of today's entry:

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In the Swim

The Twenty-Third of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

I went swimming today. I am not naturally a creature of water but I asked No1 son what he wanted to do and he suggested going to the baths.

I am at an age where shorts rather than trunks are the kindest thing to wear. I used to have a stripey pair of my dad's old trunks - God, how long did I have those for? I learned to swim at Seedley Baths in Salford - here's a photo. All tiled and copper - cold and unfriendly as I remember. Strange to think it was closed almost exactly 33 years ago. I remember Chris Jehan giving me repeated dunkings there to the point where my eyes stung with the chlorine.

I managed to get a 3rd class swimming certificate and I think I got a 2nd class one too, but it's possible I'm just bigging up my part a bit there. What's the one where you have to get a heavy block off the bottom of the pool? Well, that one - I did that one. I didn't do anything involving pyjamas so i am not qualified to sleep while I swim.

Other swimming related memories: swimming lessons at secondary school were at the pool attached to Pendleton College. As a result, as we queued there at break time we weren't far from Irlams o'th' Height and the shops there. Consequently, once a month, I would use this opportunity to visit the newsagent and buy Doctor Who Magazine. I still remember the excitement in seeing Peter Davison in costume as the Fifth Doctor for the first time on the cover of an issue. Even the foul swimming teacher who delighted in making us bend our arms back as far as they would go (to build up flexibility. Really?) couldn't ruin my mood that day.

Blimey, just seen that Pendleton College merged with my alma mater Eccles College a couple of years ago. Pity they didn't do that while I was there - that would've saved a long walk.



I can only manage breast stroke, my strange monkey arms don't seem properly put together for the crawl, and I did once take part in the house swimming meet at secondary school. Out of the four 'houses' (I was Lancaster) I managed to come second. But i touched the side at the end with one hand, not two as per the rules and was bumped down to third. Nobody had told me! I had never been in a swimming race before - i wish someone had taken the time to mention that.

Today i contented myself with swimming a few widths and taking turns to swim underwater in-between each other's legs. I felt a few cricks and cracks in joints that had been abused but afterward I had that relaxed, post swim feeling that comes with the 'heaviness' of muscles that have had a bit of a workout. I'd been looking forward to the most important part of the experience - a cup-a-soup from the vending machine - but was disappointed to discover it didn't take £2 coins when that was all I had left in change. On the way back, No1 son and I walked through Peasholm Glen in the drizzle and got wetter than when we were in the baths. In the gloom we discovered this mysterious idol that had been left there.

Nobody knows by whom but a translation of the symbols on its head reveals that it says 'Check, Please!' Very odd.

Battery low - shutdown.

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Nature, Red in Tooth and Claw

The Twenty-Second of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Monday.

Seemed like it was going to be a lazy day today. No2 son jumped onto my bed and then proceeded to jump up on down on me. I retaliated with some black belt tickling techniques I had picked up during my 3 year sabbatical with the monks of the Tzeng-Chu monastery in Tyne and Wear back in the nineties. When - as is the way with this sort of conflict - we eventually decided to team up and combine our attacks against No1 son it looked like the idea of getting dressed wasn't even being considered.

We got as far as lunch time. Watched a bit of rubbish on telly, although I did quite like a programme I hadn't seen on cBeebies before called Raa Raa the Noisy Lion which I quite enjoyed cos the main character's catchphrase was 'roarsome'. Oh and there was a Zebra called Zebbie, which seems kind of obvious but it still managed to make me smile. Still there wasn't a lot of movement or desire to move.

But I am a caring and responsible parent so I thought we'd better get out of the flat and get some fresh air somehow. So I made a flask of coffee, put some milk in a sports bottle and an old Irn Bru mini bottle and we went to the bakers and got cakes! We ate them in the square outside my flat and checked out the insect life at the same time. There was a really cool shield bug on our bench and No2 son has taken to collecting ladybirds. He got his first of the day here.

It was a very pleasant afternoon, sunny with just the odd cloud keeping things from getting too hot. In a flash, we decided that we'd go down to the beach for a paddle.

I live just round the corner from Scarborough's South Cliff. It only took a couple of minutes (after an unscheduled loo stop) to get to the cliff lift and get to the sea. I had gone for my shorts even though I knew the sun would make my legs itchy (they're itching now!). But I kept my hoodie handy cos I can't find a sun hat big enough for my giant potato of a head.

I had a dignified paddle while my two offspring set about splashing the heck out of each other. There was much screaming and laughter so I can only assume they were enjoying themselves. I was merely content to let the soothing waters of the North Sea work their magic on my aching feet.

It could have been the Mediterranean. The sun was on its slow, slow way to bed and there were long shadows and bleached out silhouettes all around. Check out this shark -

Of course that wasn't the real thing so the three of us made our way to the rock pools to hopefully find something more lively. And did we ever!

It's not very clear from this photograph but somewhere behind the seaweed there's a crab that was tucking into a tiny squid. It was amazing! Proper David Attenborough stuff. Who knew this sort of thing went on. And it was a tiny squid. A tiny squid. I don't think I've ever seen anything like it in my life. That white bit in the photo above is part of the body of another squid that was in there. The crab got scooped up and put in someone's bucket, but so did both bits of squid so I think he was happy enough.

Imagine if there'd been a nearby atomic test at that moment. If the squid and the crab had mutated to giant size who knows the extent of the damage that could be caused? Would have been pretty cool, though, but that's not the point.

After a mini aquatic safari we continued splashing a while before we wended our way towards the chippy. We took in the gardens on Prince of Wales Terrace en route where there was running, chasing and hiding but no deadly battle between giants of the deep. It was enought just to let the day run down from there.

There was a small conflict, however. When No2 son saw me getting my own squeezy sachet of mayonnaise to go with my chips he insisted that he should have one of the ret sauce one. I tried to explain that we had plenty of sauce back at the flat but I could see that the squeezy aspect of it was the real appeal. So much so that No1 son decided he wanted one as well. I relented - it doesn't do to spoil your children but I thought a 20p sachet of sauce wasn't really over doing it.

It hasn't been bad for a Monday.

More soonliest.

Four-Colour Heroes on Film Part 2

The Nineteenth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.

Yesterday I was saying how Green Lantern the movie came fourth out of four in the comic movie rankings that No1 son and I thoroughly debated. In the space of five minutes. Walking home from the cinema.

Let me quickly run through how the other three ranked.

X-Men: First Class

Now this was an odd one. Ostensibly a prequel to the other X-Men movies (there are a couple of sequences that tie it very firmly to the continuity of the earlier movies.

And yet the film is very deliberately set in the early 1960s - specifically around the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis. This plays Havok (do you see what I did there?) with the idea of the original films being a short time in the future from the word we would recognise. Not that important but odd. The film makes a big deal of this being the story, already alluded to in the previous films, of how Magneto and Professor X became friends and subsequently enemies.

One of my pet peeves is how producers seem to make superhero movies but always ignore the tone and melodrama of the comics they're based on. There's almost always a knowing wink or some unnecessary change in the details to explain how a superhero could work in the real world (organic webshooters? the Joker killed his parents? his father's experiments helped make him the Hulk?) that shows they don't get just how cool superheroes are .Funnily enough, the director of First Class, Matthew Vaughn was responsible for Kick Ass, a movie about a 'real world' superhero.  To First Class' credit however, the hook on which they try to hang the implausable heroics is an interesting one - referencing 60s spy movies (Bond, etc), using the retro futurism of an already well-established genre. It works well, but it still feels like they're apologising it being a superhero movie. Which for me is why it comes in at third on this year's comic book movies (it did for No1 son too.)

Thor

The god of thunder actually made No1 son's favourite comic book film of the year. For me it came second but was still a highly enjoyable bit of high adventure.

  only
They got Kenneth Branagh, of all people, to direct this. I guess there was always something cod Shakespearean about Thor, what with all the 'thous' and 'dosts' being thrown about (in the comic at least - not too many of them here). But for me the success of this film comes from it embracing its origins and revelling in them (Norse gods! Asgard! Frost Giants! The Rainbow Bridge!) instead of trying to come up with excuses for them. It had a big, fire breathing roboty thing and Thor chucked his hammer a lot. What more could you want? How about a decent villain? Tom Hiddleston does some ace work as Loki in this film.

Captain America

Well, I enjoyed this most this year, but No1 son only ranked it second. Another period piece, set during World War II and directed by Joe Johnston who had dabbled with nazis and Indiana Jones style boys-own-adventure stuff in The Rocketeer, another comic book hero, some twenty years previously.

This just confidently got on with the story, tossing terms like 'vibranium' and 'vita-rays' about without worrying how hokey it sounded. Self-aware enough to have a sense of humour (Cap as star of the song and dance fund raising shows was great) but backing it up with strong and exciting actions sequences. Interesting with the film told in flashback from a modern perspective that it takes in the whole of Cap's WWII career - a montage shows a number of missions over time, establishing his reputation as a hero. It's an intriguing bit of world building - along with Thor, Iron Man and the Incredible Hulk, this movie serves as a lead-in to next year's Avengers movie. The structure of this film has to get across how big a deal Cap is, and maybe at the cost of some character development we get the broad strokes of his contribution to the war effort.

So Cap's my favourite this year but none of these films have been truly outstanding. Good as they are there's nothing here that's made me go 'wow!' Maybe that's the job of Joss (Buffy) Whedon's Avengers movie next year. Let's see.

Gotta get to sleep again. Sorry this one's a bit dry again - let's see if we can liven things up next week. Have a great weekend.

More soonliest.

Four-Colour Heroes on Film Pt 1

The Eighteenth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

Hmm. I didn't rush to see Green Lantern when it first came out. The reviews weren't particularly hot so it didn't look like a must-see ticket. But it was on at the conveniently-placed Stephen Joseph Theatre (that's its full name - the Conveniently-Placed Stephen Joseph Theatre. Named in honour of Conveniently-Placed Stephen Joseph. Brother of Wrongly-Accused Roger Joseph. I'll stop now) so I called my homie, No1 son, and we checked it out. This was the fourth of this year's comic book movies that we had both seen - we'd caught our 3rd,  Captain America on Sunday. On the way home we compared notes and ranked the fillums.

Green Lantern

 

We both agree that this was the least successful of the bunch. For optimum results we saw it with a group of German students - I was this close to calling out 'nicht sprachen!' but I wasn't sure if that was correct and they shut up when the film got going anyhow. 

We'd read some 60s GL comics in the big black and white Showcase reprints,  so we were familiar with the character. One of the issues has a brilliant cover that always gets a laugh when we quote it to each other:

Ah, 'you crazy fool!' So we were well up for that sort of nonsense. But the whole film seems to be a lot of unconnected stuff happening. The bits where he creates 'constructs' with his ring (Green Lantern's schtick is that whatever he can imagine, his ring can create: shields, chains, fists, even a giant version of a Matchbox car race track) look amazing, and an early 'dogfight' sequence featuring fighter jets is exciting. But we go from one scene to another, with aliens and backstory and this and that introduced with little sense of how it all links together. Everything is chucked in. I wondered if this would have benefitted from a Batman Begins approach where only the bones of the character and his world are established in the first film (this film is clearly designed to be the first in a franchise. Whether that happens now after its lukewarm reception is another thing, but I think a bit more confidence in the long game might've paid off) with more time spent on establishing them. Instead we discover that there are 3600 Green Lanterns that operate as a sort of galactic police force, and we touch on some of their history. None of this serves the story particularly well - it's interesting background but it's all a bit 'told' and not 'shown'. Imagine that as a cliff hanger instead - Hal Jordan, the hero of the film, thinks he's the one and only Green Lantern. Then there's some interstellar emergency and he suddenly discovers that rather than being unique he's one of thousands wearing one of these powerful rings. I don't know, easy to throw ideas like that around, much less easy to put them into practice. Just thought there was a lot in this film but not much was done with it.

Time has run away with us again folks. Going to wrap this up for tonight - more thoughts on some of the other comic book films of 2011 tomorrow. Cheers.

More soonliest.

I Can See Clearly Now

The Seventeenth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

It's HD switch-on day here in Scarborough. Digital retune stuff and all that. Oh, they're telling us it's all for the best but they always say that when they're planning some mind control transmitter thing, don't they? They were all there outside the pound shop in their pink polo shirts and their pink van informing the public. Yes, it's all very suspicious. Robots driving vans, all very freaky.

(Sorry, I don't know if this is a symptom of some mind-control test transmission, but this thought just popped into my head and it's important that I share it with you now. That film, Invictus. Haven't seen it but I know it's about Nelson Mandela and the Rugby World Cup. Or something. But it suddenly occurred to me that it sounds like it's about cough syrup. Doesn't it? Back to your regular programme...)

So, I've stocked up on tinfoil hats and gone and retuned anyway. Oh, I'm big on the HD me and have bought that Humax HD recorder that I was talking about here. It seems very nice, though I'm noticing a few quirks compared with my trusty old Hummy. This new one looks like this.

Anyway, Julia Bradbury's Railway Walks looks really good. But there's part of me thinking should I have spent money that I don't really have on just four HD channels? Mind you, I'll be able to watch Man City in the Champions League on ITV1 HD so that'll be good.

And another thing. Has anybody else got this? On Channel 66 there seem to be transmissions from another dimension. There are all these crazy looking fellows with really huge foreheads staring at each other. Occasionally various animals float past - they seem to have legs but don't use them, instead their bodies are suspended beneath some sort of gas sac thing like a dirigible. It's odd but exceptionally dull - a sort of mutant version of the Big Brother House at three in the morning. I've recorded hours of the stuff but the couple of people I've played it back to have gone insane so I'm thinking of deleting it. Transdimensional stuff seems to take up more room on the hard drive too.

I think I'll have to ask the pink polo shirt people about it.

More soonliest.

Doesn't Bear Examination

The Sixteenth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

I learned something today.

No, really. And officially. For the last few weeks I've been doing an online course in British Sign Language (BSL). No2 son is moderately deaf and supports his speech with signing, so his mum and I thought it was time we made a concerted effort to learn to sign. We've picked up stuff from one day courses and the like, and Shu Shu is learning all the time being with him but this is the first time we've sat down with a view to earning a qualification. The course isn't cheap and we were very grateful to receive help from the Robert Dent Memorial Fund toward its cost.

The Level 1 course comes in three progressively more difficult units. It's pretty cool, the lessons are streamed online as videos and then you have regular Skype sessions with your tutor. Tonight was a scheduled tutorial with what looked like an assessment scheduled for next week.

I am 42 years old and I graduated as a mature student from a degree course at the age of 27. Yet I still have nightmares about exams.

Seriously, even a couple of months ago I have awoken in a cold sweat from a dream where I have my O level exam the next day and I haven't done any form of revision (despite what you might have heard that isn't what really happened!). In the bizarre dream world I clearly remember saying myself saying something along the lines of 'I have a degree - I don't need to do this exam,' but still being terrified.

Nothing quite as bad as that tonight - and besides it was only a tutorial. I had reviewed the material and had a fairly good grasp of it, but I wasn't too worried as I would have another week to hone my skills.

Before the Skype connection rang I was pacing up and down like a man waiting to be called back into court for sentence to be passed. I can't believe how stressed I was getting for what was only going to be a quick 15 min chat.

The time came and I muddled through. Part of the unit is being able to clearly ask for signs to be repeated if needed and I think I mastered that pretty well - I did it often enough! I stumbled through the rest of the conversation, touching on the assigned topics (weather, directions, general introductions) fairly well and getting a sense of most of what was being said. Like any new language, I don't think I got everything that was being said but I got the gist. You get the chance later to have a look at a recording of the session so you can review your own performance. Suffice to say I haven't picked up the courage to do that yet.

Anyhoo, as the conclusion was reached and my tutor thanked me, she said 'that's it - unit 101 completed'. That tutorial was used as my assessment! I think the idea was that I'd done well enough (as had Shu Shu earlier) that a seperate formal assessment wasn't necessary - all the main stuff had been covered. I had effectively taken an exam without realising it. There was a momentary sense of relief but then I couldn't help thinking I could have prepared a little more thoroughly. Blimey, if I was this nervous (and I was still wound up afterward) without realising I was doing an assessment what was I going to be like when a scheduled one came along.

So somehow I have managed to complete the first quarter or so of my course. I have formally learned something for the first time in years - gosh I feel young again. But also do I feel a young man's fear. Oh, the older and wiser one tries to take control, but I still can't shake the feeling that there might well be an exam tomorrow that I've completely forgotten about - and I've got to cram for it.

How can I go to bed now? Quick where are my notes? There are no notes! Why are there no notes? What's happening? Arrgh!

Here's a quick video to finish. Some of this is stuff that was covered in the first part of the course.

More soonliest.

It's Not a Cult, It's a Religion

The Fifteenth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Monday.

Friends, Hello.

My name is Doctor Vin Marsden Hendrick and I'd like to do a lot more.

A lot more than simply introduce myself to you. I'd like to introduce 'you' to VINETICS!

And this is my point.

I'm going to do that which I have said I would like to do.

Has this rung any mental bells within your telephone box heads? Let me throw in my ten pennies' worth. Let's make a connection.

Let me tell you about the Modern Thought Science that is VINETICS!

It's difficult to say exactly when VINETICS! as a concept came into existence.

With a sock in your mouth.

It would sound something like 'wn fhntks s uh knspt hmm ntu hgsstns'.

Yes, a simple sock, usually a barrier between the warm, fleshy domain of the foot and the harsh, hibernal world of the shoe/floor hinterface. But today it was a barrier between my desire to communicate something a bit spesh to you, and the resident actuality  of you understanding and appreciating that something in mouth-to-ear terms.

And this is the very essence of VINETICS! Or it would be if that hadn't been merely an example.

VINETICS! was born of humanity's base desire to communicate within itself in an untainted, 'barefoot' fashion.

VINETICS! was founded upon three fundamental precepts. That:


A) Everything is True;

B) Nothing is Important; and

C) Nobody Knows Anything




By way of an introduction to VINETICS!  I would like to touch upon the thinking - or as I prefer to call it, the 'braining' - behind each of these precepts here tonight.

Please, let me.

A) Everything is True

Subjectivity, by its very nature, its very big nature, requires a subject. This could be Math, English, Phys Ed or Science. In my case it is VINETICS!

But does this mean that VINETICS! should be taught in schools?

Ah ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha...

Thank you. Maybe one day.

Or a weekend.

And it is that very word 'OR' that concerns us - and by 'us' I mean 'me'. If, and only if, there is an 'OR' in the month then both a possibility and its attendant IMpossibility co-exist.

It is then the province, nay the duty, of the VINETICist to 'mine' this 'OR'. And through a recursive process of synaptic 'smelting' refine the 'OR' until subjectivity - what I like to think of as 'other peoples' wrong ideas' - is reduced to a lying slag.

Like Mary Whitehouse, I object. I, Clavdivs, I, Robot, I, Object.

And from such a state of pan-objectivity it is but a huge Armstrongian leap to the preceptive absolitude that 'Everything is True'.

B) Nothing is Important

It was my intention to go into this in minute detail, but then I decided that it wasn't really worth it.

Finally,

C) Nobody Knows Anything

The brain is now in the head. That is where we use it, through the process of 'braining'.

But what if the brain were in the stomach?

According to VINETICS! since Everything is True the brain is in the stomach.

Fortunately though, since Nothing is Important, this doesn't matter.

In such a case, as well as 'gut feelings' perhaps - and by 'perhaps' I mean 'certainly' - we would have 'gut thinking' or 'gut braining' too.

But not in the biblical sense.

If the brain is in the stomach and nobody knew that, it requires only a £500 per annum subscription to my self-help VINETICS! course to go that little further and realise that, in fact, Nobody Knows Anything.

That concludes my little introduction to VINETICS!

In less enlightened times we might have been burned as witches for having this discussion. I cannot tell you what a pleasure  it is for me to discover that today those flames of hypocrisy and deceit merely form the 'fireside' by which you and I can have a 'chat'.

If anyone is finding out more about VINETICS! we are holding a convention - the 'Braining Integration Gestalt' Convention or BIG-CON for short - at the Ramada Renaissance Hotel in Manchester on July 15th. Hopefully, I will see some of you there.

Thank You and Good Bye.

Light from the Idiot's Lantern

The Twelfth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.

Another telly based one today - I used to spend all my time in front of the box. What's the joke? Third parent. Surprised to find how much time I waste on this internet thing these days. Gone is the time when you would settle down and spend an entire night (oh God, an entire day on a wet summer holiday) in front of the television. Now you go looking for the programmes - the 'content' - that you want (or some idiot recommends on his blog) and you can watch them whenever you desire. Goodness me that feels like hard work.

So for now I write in celebration of the couple of hours around tea time when I switch off my brain and just sail through a couple of hours of mental chewing gum. I wouldn't call any of these Telly Recommendations (well one of them would be if they weren't 10 years out of date - although ironically they would be if they were 15 years out of date) but they form a reassuring balm after a day of frying my brain at work.

Ah, Alexander Armstrong, you computer voice in a top children's sci-fi programme you. I've only really started watching Pointless as it's moved on to BBC1 but despite you having been there since day one you look a little ill at ease.

I've nothing against Pointless. When I'm on a middle shift and finish around five o'clock I usually get home about half way through an episode. It's a great format - a quiz where you have to come up with the most obscure correct answer you can think of, hopefully the 'pointless' one of the title that none of the surveyed members of the public have come up with. I like it when Richard Osman, Mr Armstrong's sidekick (but clearly the true seat of power. A little googling reveals he's something of a big noise at Endemol) turns to the camera after listing the possible pointless answers and says 'well done to you at home if you got one of them. On a Kate Bush round I successfully identified her 1986 'hit' Experiment IV  as a pointless answer and felt particularly chuffed when Richard congratulated me through the screen. (Actually, that was a weird song - I remember my sister saying the video for it was disturbing. I've just looked at it for the first time on You Tube. Blimey she wasn't wrong. Apparently it was banned from Top of the Pops.

Dawn French and Hugh Laurie in their younger days, though, eh?)

Anyway, it's all highly enjoyable and just the thing to have on in the background while making tea (hah! 'Making?' Setting the timer on the microwave you mean.) It just that it seems just short of flowing naturally. The banter between Armstrong and Osman seems a little forced, but it's amiable enough to overcome me being picky about its near-invisible shortcomings.

I may have been eulogising the pre-digital age, but when Pointless finishes here's where all this multi-channel nonsense comes into its own. We switch over to catch The Chase on ITV1+1! What a genius idea these +1 channels have turned out to be. I'm always late for everything so the concept of channels that are late to begin with is outstanding. And a punnish tip of the hat to whoever came up with Dave ja vu as the name for Dave+1.

The Chase is another one of these slightly confrontational quiz shows that seemed to come in vogue around the time The Weakest Link hit its stride. It's the usual win money with general knowledge stuff, but the twist is you're up against a quiz expert - the Chaser - who if they 'catch' you by answering more questions than you, take all the money you've earned up to that point. Apparently there are four chasers this series, but I've only seen three so far: Anne Hegerty ('The Governess'), Mark Labbett ('The Beast') and Shaun Wallace ('The Barrister'), pictured here with host Bradley Walsh.

Funnily enough, I have seen the fourth chaser, Paul Sinha, elsewhere.

As well as being a doctor he's a stand up comedian who appeared on the last series of Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle.

Bradley Walsh does the host thing pretty well (hey, there's a connection with Pointless. Both hosts have featured in a certain popular children's sci-fi programme) (and while I'm at it, isn't he surprisingly good in Law and Order UK? Alongside that bloke out of Battlestar Galactica (I know!)). And let's be honest, anyone who finds sausages amusing can't be all bad.

Which neatly leads us up to seven o'clock where we can turn over and catch The Simpsons on Channel 4+1. I know, they do seem to be on a loop, and like I said stuck with anything up to ten years in the past (and that's what I meant about 15 years old eps being better - them's probably The Simpson's best seasons. Man, 'And Maggie Makes Three' from 1995 has my favourite ending ever. No, I'm not going to tell you what it was, you'll just have to watch it next time it comes round. Oh, that and Itchy and Scratchy: The Movie from 1994. That has a good ending too) but come on, it's The Simpsons.

There's a variation on this pattern if I feel I want to be done by seven and that's watching The Simpsons at six on Channel 4 and then only the second half of The Chase on ITV1+1. Brilliant, eh? The Chase only really gets going in the second half anyway, so that works quite well.

Then I go back to my user-defined world and get all picky and choosy instead. But for a couple of hours it's relaxing not to have to think about the telly or the internet too much and just let stuff wash over you. Brainwash over you, I guess. Excuse me, I think my brain has just this instant turned to mush. Better get to bed.

Have a great weekend - see you on the other side.

More soonliest.

That's an Earth Joke, Uni

The Eleventh of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

EDIT: Twenty-Fifth of August

I should really keep up to date with my own tags. The D&D Cartoon was my Second Telly Recommendation, way back when. Let's change that...

Let's just dive straight (back) in to my Second Telly Recommendation the fabulous Dungeons and Dragons cartoon from the 1980s.

Blimey, was it that long ago?

I used to play D&D regularly in the 80s and 90s - still got a lot of the rule books, supplements and stuff that I haven't used in ages and should really get rid of. Would do too if they weren't so cool. So when I saw the cartoon listed on broom cupboard era BBC children's telly I poo-pooed it thinking it was just a cheap commercial cash-in. There was a cute unicorn character, for flip's sake. It must be rubbish.

I could not have been more wrong.

I can't remember exactly when I got into it. I remember seeing several episodes from the first series. But I remember loving the first episode from the second: The Girl Who Dreamed Tomorrow. The titles had been changed, as if to reflect that, like in the game itself, the characters had become more experienced and more powerful.

Oddly though, repeats of episodes from the second series and the DVD releases use only the one title sequence - the one from the earliest episodes. It's a shame as this one's pretty cool.

In fact the whole thing's pretty cool. Back then it was fun to spot specific monsters or other direct references to the game. Now it's recognising some of the writers' names - people like Michael Reaves and Paul Dini who would go on to contribute to the brilliant DC superhero cartoons of the nineties or Steve Gerber and Mark Evanier who were better known for their work in comics. And for a series with fairly basic animation it was surprisingly cinematic - shots would be framed in inventive ways, the action was always edited really tightly. A particular treat was the different ways the arch-villain, Venger, would regularly meet his demise. I think the coolest was at the end of Day of the Dungeon Master when as Venger is trapped in the collapsing remains of the city of Darkhaven a huge dust cloud, rising as if to form the familiar mushroom shape, instead takes on the shape of the demon-like creature. The ghostly cloud then looms threateningly over our heroes only to dissipate as it reaches out toward them. There's loads of great stuff like that throughout the series - most of the episodes are on You Tube - check it out, either as a nostalgia kick or just for some really good fantasy stories.

The boxed set is pretty cheap on Amazon too if you want a few extras added in including the script for the never made 'final' episode. All good stuff.

If all that wasn't enough though, there is one reason why this cartoon is more than a footnote on one of those 'I Remember...' programmes. Two reasons really. There were lots of great characters in this show, from Eric the Cowardly Cavalier to the mysterious Dungeon Master himself. But what really made an impression on my 15 year old mind as a boy was the sight of a redhead in thighboots and an athletic young woman in a fur bikini.

.

Sheila (and Diana) take a bow. Fortunately, at the tender age of 42 such things don't bother me any more. Yeah, I watch cartoons from a much more mature standpoint now. Or something.

More soonliest.

Behind the Sofa

The Tenth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

The boys are over again so until I finally get myself a new bed I'm relegated to the pull out sofa thing in the living  room. I'll hold my hand up: it doesn't get cleaned out as much as it should do. So at times like this it's surprising what you find down the back of it when you unfold the hinges and uncoil the springs.

Yes, it's way past bedtime so I'm keeping it short and sweet again today with one of those list things. I love a good list, me.

Anyway this is what I found hidden in the depths of my sofa.

Two pounds and twelve pee in sterling.

Twenty cents (euro) and Thirty-Seven cents (US).

The remote control for the TV/VHS combi that used to be my main source of telly and is now hidden somewhere in my bedroom.

My membership card for the Spooky Spooky Club ('Spook On!')

Various stickers from Cars (the Pixar movie).

A divining rod (tried to find this not so long ago but couldn't - would have been easy if I'd had a divining rod that I could use to look for it!)

Bob the Builder's head

Set of car keys for an unidentified Mercedes Benz. Been looking for them, too. Every now and then I trawl the streets pressing the central locking in the hope I'll find a car I can keep.

Haunted comb and paper.

Lucky bit of shrapnel from flying saucer crash (must have fallen from my pocket sometime) (come to think of it I don't know why I ever thought this was lucky. It wasn't for the UFOnauts).

Small gateway to hell, suitable only for sweet wrappers and pencil shavings. Hmm, need to find somewhere sensible to keep that.

An Earl Grey Redbush teabag (no wonder the sofa smelt so nice).

Lots of crumbs.

Ok, time to get them away, get this bed unfolded and get my head down. I'm nodding off here.

More soonliest.

Made in Scotland From Girders

The Ninth of August Two Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

It's probably going to give me diabetes and rot my teeth, but...

I love Irn Bru.

So do the Russians, it seems.

It has long been the signature drink in my lifestyle to the point where no2 son calls it 'Daddy's drink'. The peformance projects I did for my Creative Arts degree prominently featured empty Irn Bru cans. My fridge is chock full of the 250ml 'four for a pound' bottles that you can get from Poundland.

I first came across Irn Bru at the off licence on the corner of Goulden St a couple of blocks away from where we used to live on Seedley Park Road (they used to do draft beer there, too. I remember Lee Michaels' dad always used to send us there with a demi-john that we'd fill up with mild).  As the youngest of three siblings, when we bought of bottle of pop to share (or 'mineral' as we called it (or 'mingral' as my sister called it) I had no say in what was bought. Consequently it was usually a bottle of Barr's Dandelion and Burdock, Tizer, Lime and Lemonade or occasionally American Cream Soda. Irn Bru wasn't even to be comtemplated. Oh the happy day when I was old enough to buy my own pop.

It seems odd to think of it now, but the flavour I always associate with that first sip of Irn Bru is 'bubblegum'. It doesn't taste like that now, but sometimes, when you let it flow over the back of your tongue like a wine taster sampling the latest red, you get a little hint of that peculiar taste from long ago. The big litre bottles (I think they were actually a pre-metric 32 fluid ounces) came with a deposit 10 then 12 then 15 pence that meant that if you could return enough of them you would have enough to get a new bottle entirely free. Sometimes this had to be bolstered by taking along some of my dad's Boddington's bottles or one of mum's Mackie's botttles. I can still hear the clank of glass in a bag filled with a back yard full of bottles as I traipsed to the shop. I don't remember my first pint, but I recall the thrill of having enough money to buy myself a can from Greenwood's newsagent at the bottom of the road.

The details that stick in your mind - I'm sure that the original can size was 313ml. At any rate, metric or imperial, I'm stll getting through gallons/litres of the stuff a day. On my last trip to Glasgow (Irn Bru in pubs is one of the many wonderful things about Scotland - along with the Macaroni Cheese Pie) they were giving out free branded Irn Bru glasses with the evening paper. My intention was to drink only Irn Bru from it, so I was livid with Shu Shu when she 'deconsecrated' it by filling it with Vimto. I'm not sure if she understood where I was coming from with that - we seperated not long after. The two events are not linked in any way. Probably.

Here's the obligatory link to the Wikipedia page.

Anyway it's gotten late again and I ought to get to bed. Providing I can go to sleep with all this caffeine whizzing round inside (apparently they manufacture Irn Bru in Canada but with the caffeine taken out. Sorry Canada, that's not the way forward).

More soonliest.

To Be Frank

The Seventh of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Sunday. 

A couple of things came together in the last couple of days that made me think about somebody else no longer with us. I was in the shower this morning when the strains of Guess Who’s Been on Match of the Day came on the shuffle. This, along with finding among my vinyl LPs as I tidied up Cam’s room/the-room-with-all-the-unpacked-boxes-in-my-flat the superb double album 5:9:88 (among others)

  led me to recall with affection and admiration Mr Frank Sidebottom, the Bard of Timperley. With his giant papier maché head and nasal voice he was a cartoon character come to life.

 

Frank was more than just a novelty act. Brilliantly funny as his mangled cover versions of Anarchy in the UK and I Should Be So Lucky were (each inevitably ending with a variation on the phrase ‘You know it is, it really is. Thank you.’) there was a sharp musical sensibility behind all the nonsense that had been honed by Frank creator Chris Sievey’s time around the Manchester music scene – notably with The Freshies (anybody remember I’m in Love With a Girl from a Certain Manchester Megastore Checkout Desk?). One of Frank’s own songs, Airplay (currently available compilation CD E, F, G & H (itself a follow up to compilation A, B, C & D – both albums obviously forming my Fifth Music Recommendation) is a very witty and effective (as well as catchy) dissection of a formula pop song. There was a lot of understated genius in Frank’s work. 

No there wasn’t. He was bobbins. 

Shut up, Little Vin, no he wasn’t. Sorry, I made the mistake of leaving my Blogging Puppet, Little Vin, near the keyboard while I made a cuppa. 

Oo, it wasn’t a cuppa. You went and made a crisp butty even though you’ve only had your tea five minutes ago.

No I didn't, Little Vin! Anyway, you're not supposed to be typing on here!

Oh, why not?

Because, er, your hands are made of cardboard and I do all your bits.

Oh blimey!

Frank was often assisted on his records and shows by Little Frank and his puppet pals Little Denise (who had her head stolen, never to be replaced) and Little Buzz Aldrin the American space puppet. It was, as Frank proudly boasted, a ventriloquist act where nobody's lips moved. Other members of the puppet entourage included Breville Toaster Frank ('Sandwiches!') and Amoeba Frank, the one-celled ventriloquist puppet. Little Frank would constantly undermine his big counterpart and often a  huge argument would ensue ('You stupid, stupid puppet!). In live performances, sympathy would invariably go toward Little Frank at which point Big Frank would point out that he was the one doing his voice.

A good old google will tell you everything you need to know about Frank's World (from Radio Timperley on Piccadilly Radio to his Proper Telly Show in Black and White (with repeats in colour) on Manchester cable tv station Channel M). Caroline Aherne's Mrs Merton, Chris Evans, Mark Radcliffe and writer Jon Ronson were all associates of Frank at one time or another. Here's an article from 2006 by Ronson who was a member of the Oh Blimey Big Band. I saw them perform at the Ritz in Manchester and I'm not kidding, they rocked. Hit the North took the roof of the place.

Here's his comic strip in Oink.

My best memory of Frank is a personal one. Way back when, I was going out with my then girlfriend for a night at the (now demolished) Oakwood pub in Salford. There's been a power cut and so no-one was allowed to go in. To kill some time we went to the phone box around the corner. I had remembered that on Frank's Timperley EP he had done his own version of Pennsylvania 6-5000 entitled Timperley 969 1909 at the end of which Little Frank had berated him for giving out his phone number to the public.


'Nobody'll bother, they know it's showbiz,' assured Frank.

So I put me 10p in (that's how long ago it was!) and rang the number, thinking maybe there'd be an answerphone or the like at best.


'Hello!' came the nasal greeting on the other end of the line.


'Oh, hello, Frank,' I said. 'I didn't expect you to answer. I thought it was just a joke.'


'Oh no, boss,' Frank replied. 'It's serious. If me mum ever found out I was in showbiz she'd give me what-for.'


According to Yell.com that number is now for a business called Rhino Frames. I wonder if they still get pestered by Frank fans. I'm not going to ring to find out.


I thanked Frank and wished him well, slightly shell-shocked that I'd got to speak to the man himself. I wish I'd been as bold more recently. A few years ago Frank played Scarborough and I didn't bother going, not wanting to go on my own. I later found out a couple of friends from work had gone (one of them winning Little Denise's body in the raffle!) on spec and had been bemused by the whole affair. I'm really going to have to work on that shyness.

Right that's the end of programmes for tonight. I'll hand over to the testcard.

There will be more soonliest, actually.


You know there will. There really will.


Thank you.