Friday 27 July 2012

Music


Music was my first love. And it will be my last*.  Music is such a big part of my life that a single blog entry just won't do.  I will keep revisiting music as this blog progresses, but I already have mental place-holders for future posts to cover the impact that The Beatles, Bowie, prog and the Pet Shop Boys have had in my life. This post will have to serve as an overview.

I have excellent taste in music. You may feel that the Red Hot Chili Peppers are a fine rock band, but you're wrong, they're crap. You may feel that Tom Waits encapsulates the spirit of American music, but you're wrong again.  He's a charlatan who, if you're honest with yourself, makes turgid growlings that no right-thinking person could enjoy.  And you may believe that Lady GaGa is not fit to wipe the shoes of Bob Dylan, but, yet again, you'd be wrong.  In years to come there will be national holidays for Lady GaGa, when all Dylan will be remembered for is his Christmas Album. 

I'm joking, of course. I do have excellent taste in music (and a 'catholic' taste in music according to my wife), but these are just my opinions on artists who really don't float my boat. One of the rules I apply to music is that there is no 'good' or 'bad' music, just music I do or don't like.  The fact that I don't like the RHCPs doesn't mean they're bad, just that they're not for me (they have a huge global following, so someone must think they're good).  This woolly, liberal view is something that was triggered by Danny Baker.  Before he became the radio superstar we know today, Danny wrote for the NME in the 70s and, in particular, the NME Singles column.  I shared Danny's love of prog, but I also enjoyed pop music and disco.  I kept this very quiet from my long-haired mates who would proudly take their Budgie albums to school to show off.  One of Danny's Singles columns waxed lyrical about the latest Village People single (Macho Man, I think), a track I thought was the dogs bollocks. I can't remember what he wrote exactly, but the tenor of his review was that this is pop music; it's not great art, but it sounds fantastic, so get over it. I felt that I had been given a green light to enjoy anything and everything. 

Since I can remember, music has become a drug for me.  I'm always searching for that same hit that I got when I saw The Beatles as a child on Saturday teatime television.  The 70s were my musical heyday. Glam, prog, punk, reggae, soul, disco were all genres I dived into at the deep end, usually emerging excited, invigorated and craving more.  In the past 20 years, however, there has little to make me feel the same way.  I have come to realise that as we get older, the 'new' music we hear is usually something we've heard before and when we're young it genuinely is new.  I’ve become a bit jaded about new music, but I firmly believe that musical discovery should be a priority in every young person’s life.  I can’t see it, but I hope to God that today’s teenagers are getting the same thrill listening to The Wanted or Rizzle Kicks that I got listening to David Bowie in my teens.

While I've been waiting for the next big musical buzz to come along, my tastes have moved away from popular music to classical, particularly modern classical and early choral music. In addition, I've developed a love of electronica and ambient music. I'm also a big fan of dance music (Progressive House is a favourite).  I know that all this stuff tickles the same brain cells in my head that were previously allocated to prog, but I don't care.  I'll keep searching for the next popular musical hit and until it comes along the genius of Arvo Pärt, Jóhann Jóhannsson and Harold Budd will keep me company. 


*EDIT.  May not be actually true.  My wife has asked me to point out that, whilst the Hey Jude Hitmakers may have been my first love, she will be my last.

Tuesday 17 July 2012

Change


There's a Buddhist view that the two certainties in life are death and change. Nothing stays the same and, rather than resist this, we should embrace it. My work experience suggests that most people are uncomfortable with change, but I've always welcomed it as a chance for regeneration, reassessment and new opportunities.

For nine years I have been a huge fan of The Word magazine. I can't claim to be its biggest fan, because if I did, I know I would be in trouble with a large group of people I have come to regard as friends and who also feel the same as me about The Word.  The Word was written for me, a lover of music, the arts, someone for whom the first flush of youth is a distant memory.  The Word was not just a magazine, it supported The Word Massive, a vigorous on-line community (a community where everyone called me Handsome).  It produced podcasts which were always entertaining, usually funny and often wee-inducingly funny (the Van Morrison and the harmonica story is my particular favourite).  The Word promoted wonderful gigs in a small pub over the road from the its office.  It was the complete package.

The economic climate and the change in the way people consume their media means that The Word's business model is no longer viable.  This month's issue is its last and the website was closed down today.  Someone on the website posted that "It's only a magazine and nobody died.  It just feels like it." and, at first, I felt the same way.  But since the announcement I've realised it is only a magazine. One of the best, but only a magazine nonetheless.  The Word Massive have already shown their commitment to the on-line community by starting another website at www.theafterword.co.uk.  And, if I'm completely frank, it looks a lot fresher and more modern than The Word website.  I've no doubt that the main players at The Word, Mark Ellen and David Hepworth, will move onto new projects which will be equally entertaining.  The other staff (most of whom I know by name, many of whom I've met) will also be huge assets to wherever they work next and I will follow their next steps with interest.  As always happens, life is moving on.

I'll miss the Word a lot, it was brilliant while it lasted, but things change. If you're a lover of music and haven't read it, the latest issue is now available, so go and buy a copy.

Sunday 15 July 2012

Invasion


I am not a well man.  Up until recently my doctor and the Obscure Diseases Clinic at Leicester Royal Infirmary were baffled by my condition, but it's been confirmed recently that I'm suffering from acute hypochondria.  This has come as something of a relief. Now that I have given my condition a name I feel much more relaxed and able to deal with the difficult years ahead.

I feel comfortable in middle-age with illness and the treatments that go with them.  It wasn’t always thus, however.  When I was young I couldn't deal with hospitals at all and had problems with any procedure that involved sticking things in a part of my body that wasn’t designed for such a purpose.  Visiting elderly relatives in hospital and seeing all the bags of blood, drips and tubes was impossible.

As I've got older and had one or two hospital stays, I've become used to clinical environments and necessary invasive procedures.  A complete list of all the illnesses over the course of my life can be provided on request, but one of these required a barium enema. This was conducted at a small cottage hospital just outside Redditch by a couple of elderly ladies wearing flowery 'pinnies' (I'm sure they were clinical garments but they looked exactly like the things each of my grandmothers wore when they were in the kitchen).  As the barium was 'introduced' they were chatting quite happily about the terrible state of Redditch town centre and what they were getting for their husbands’ tea when they got home.  What they weren't talking about was the six foot tube (I may be exaggerating, but it certainly felt like it was about six foot long) they had just inserted up my bottom. This everyday approach to something that, to me, was not something that happened every day served to relax me and removed any embarrassment I might have been feeling.

I have also had an angiogram. The angiogram involved sticking a tube into my groin and feeding it through until it reached the heart.  Again, this was a routine procedure for the consultant that treated me, but definitely not routine for me.  On this occasion I was also completely relaxed about the whole thing, not because of two elderly ladies in pinnies, but because of the handful of ‘happy pills’ I had begged the nurse to give me (this visit to the hospital will probably have a blog post all of its own at some point in the future.  It involves an electric razor, an attractive nurse and me being completely out of it.  It will also involve a hilarious joke with the punchline “and there was a small prick”).  If you throw in the three prostrate examinations I’ve had (although one of those times was at a church fundraising event, so probably doesn't count) and the operation on my nose I think I’ve got over my childhood fear of hospitals once and for all.

So, if I can have a general anaesthetic, a happy pill or an elderly pinafored lady to distract me I think I can cope with just about anything the hand of fate throws at me.  There are two things that still give me cold sweats, however.  The thought of having any treatment on, in or round the back of the eyeball makes me feel sick.  And if there is ever anything wrong with my prostate, I’m not sure I will be able to deal with the tube they will use to treat it (Google ‘enlarged prostate treatment’ if you want the details).

To lighten the mood, I felt it was a good idea to include a couple of my favourite ‘Doctor, doctor…’ jokes from the wonderful Old Jews Telling Jokes.  If you like these, there are loads more available to download for free as an iTunes podcast.



Sunday 8 July 2012

Death

"It's not that I'm afraid to die, I just don't want to be there when it happens."  Woody Allen


I’m not messing around here.  As this blog is about the trials and tribulations of getting older, I could warm up with a few grumbles on the parlous state of customer service in this country or an informed analysis of why popular music has gone down the toilet since the 70s.  But then I thought, sod it, I'll go straight to the big one and start with Death.

I'm not scared of Death.I'm scared shitless of dying, but I’m relaxed that the afterlife is out of my handsI’m not a religious man, but I've given a great deal of thought to what happens next.  I’ve read books on philosophy, looked into different religions and even watched Songs of Praise. After careful analysis I have come to the conclusion that once I breathe my last there are three possibilities.

The first possibility is that what I've spent my life believing is some sort of grown-up fairy story is right, and I'll be faced with either Heaven or Hell.  Somewhere there is a celestial spreadsheet with two columns, Plus and Minus, containing all the things I’ve done that are good and bad.  If SUM(PLUS) > SUM(MINUS) then it’s Heaven for me.  If not, then Hell beckons (I don’t have any theory on what happens if the two columns are equal. Perhaps one week up, one week down for the rest of eternity?).  I imagine Heaven to be like a desert island in the middle of the Indian Ocean.  Warm,sunny and somewhere where you can spend the whole day in your shorts and flipflops.  If it's Hell, I imagine it will probably be a bit like Stoke. 

The second option is that I'll come back as someone or something else. Again, I suspect the celestial spreadsheet will come into play.  Now, don't get me wrong about this, I have a 54-year unblemished record of heterosexuality, but I could quite fancy coming back as a woman, just to get the full picture (my wife suggests I would have to have been really good in this life to come back as a woman). 

The final option, and the one that I think is most likely, is that death is a big black nothingness.  I can remember the time when there were two television channels in the UK and they both closed down around midnight.  At the close down the National Anthem would play, the announcer would wish you a good night and the screen would go black.  I reckon that death is exactly like that, but without the National Anthem.

So, whilst I’d like to hope that there's something more, I reckon it's the big, black nothingness for us all.Just in case, though, I’m keeping my options open. I'll be kind, helpful and try to be a good person. I’ve been our local church treasurer for the past six years, so I’m hoping that will stand me in good stead.  In addition, I'll ask my religious friends and family to put in a good word for me through their prayers.  So, if I’m reincarnated, I’ll come back as someone taller with bigger muscles rather than something without a backbone.   And if there's a Heaven and Hell, I hope the great afterlife administrator will hit ‘recalculate’ on my post mortem spreadsheet and decide that I'm going upstairs rather than downstairs.  Before I step onto the celestial up elevator, however, I'll check to see where my dad has gone. If he isn't upstairs then someone has buggered up the spreadsheet formula.

Sunday 1 July 2012

Hello



I'm Nick, and I'm 54.

When I was in my teens, 54 was 'old'. Some of my younger colleagues at work think I'm old, but I feel young.  Probably about 33.  I still buy the NME to keep in touch with ‘the kids’, I quite fancy some of those skinny trousers with turn ups that show your ankles (possibly in lemon), and I've tried some of those big glasses that are all rage at the moment and been tempted.  But I'm 54, and none of these are appropriate to a man of my age.

I realise I haven't got much to grumble about.  I'm in good health, have a loving (and lovely) family, close friends, an interesting job and no money worries.  However, more and more I struggle with the challenges that are before me as I get older:

  • I'm frustrated that my body can't do what it did 10 years' ago.  In fact, just recently, I'm frustrated that my body can't do what it did 10 days' ago.
  • I'm sad that I have minor things wrong with me that will probably never get better. Tinnitus is a constant unwelcome companion, my knees are knackered and as for my stomach, you really don't want to know.
  • I'm sad that I'll probably never hear music again that excites me like the first time I heard the Beatles, David Bowie or the Sex Pistols. I keep hoping and searching, but it's probably not going to happen.
  • I'm worried that I have no life plan for my retirement. As things stand, my retirement will involve getting up late, larking about on the internet until Channel 4 News comes on and then telly until bedtime with a few glasses of red
  • I'm worried that my wife and I haven't got kids to look after us in our old age. In particular, I worry whether anyone will be there to wipe the dribble from my chin and change my colostomy bag.
  • I struggle to provide support and help for my elderly relatives.  My mother can be stubborn and narrow-minded when we talk about how we can make her life more comfortable and happy. And I know I'm exactly like her.
  • I think about what dying will be like.  Although, having watched some of the BBC’s Diamond Jubilee coverage, I think I now have a better idea.
I am full of admiration for my internet chums who can express their thoughts in a concise and entertaining way in their blogs (I particularly recommend the small selection of bloggers in the right hand column).  So I've decided to put some of my thoughts about ageing down in a blog, simply to get things off my chest.  I've toyed with a blog in the past, but it's gone the way of the bicycle, ukulele and Spanish lessons on the dusty shelf marked Nick's Short-lived Projects.  But this time it will be different.  I promise.



PS The title of this blog comes from an Alice Roosevelt Longworth quote and sums up my desire to get my soufflé back to the size it used to be.  She also came up with those all-time classics "If you haven't got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me" and "Fill what's empty. Empty what's full. Scratch where it itches". I suspect she would have been great to know.