Recently, my mother-in-law endured a prolonged spell in hospital.
A fabulous start to the new year with an ulcerated toe.... these are details I think the rest of you can be spared.

To relieve the tedium my wife had the sound idea of taking her mother's Sony Walkman (she collects antiques) into the ward, so the patient could while away the daylight hours listening to music and audio books.

While I was unloading the dishwasher a few days ago, my daughter was sitting at the kitchen table flipping through her grandmother's CD collection.  "Susan Boyle... Pam Ayres... Vera Lynn. Oh, Vera Lynn!"

Apparently the Second World War is now on the GCSE curriculum. Young people have knowledge of such vintage stuff.  "White Cliffs of Dover....We'll Meet Again...." and then,  after a slight pause...."Fairy Tale of New York."

It was at this point that £60 worth Le Creuset's durability was very nearly put to test by the quarry-tiled floor.  The thought of the Forces Sweetheart belting out "You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot" was enough to test any slightly tipsy man's crockery handling ability.

"Vera Lynn sings The Pogues?"  

"No Dad - Only Boys Aloud."

Which explained it. Sort of.  The movement through my mother-in-law's musical archive had been swifter than I expected.  But even so, Only Boys Aloud (also feat Only Men Aloud. So they are clearly liars, as they are allowed) covering one of my favourite festive songs is rather bizarre.

So. Cut to nostalgic moment.  Yes, once again my mind drifted back to my musical youth. Only this time, to when I was very young. Very young indeed, dear readers. Very young indeed. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

Mother would be in the kitchen; as like as not preparing an apple crumble. The transistor radio would be tuned to the Light Programme, and if we weren't being taken to the Palm Court of Grand Hotel, we'd be in the company of the Cliff Adams Singers and that one-way family favourite, Sing Something Simple.  The programme would be politely introduced by someone like David Jacobs, with a nice, relaxed informal manner - but even so we all knew he'd be formally dressed and that once the broadcast had finished, he'd be going on somewhere for dinner. Simpsons in the Strand, probably.  This was rather comforting to the average Englishman in the 1960s.

To the uninitiated, the Cliff Adams Singers were the ultimate covers band of their time.  They performed medleys of classic 'easy listening' numbers, often in little themed triplets.  For example, they might start with "Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside, " move smoothly into "Somewhere Beyond The Sea," and round it all off with a quirky "Bobbing along on the beautiful briny," to the unexpected delight of middle-aged couples all over the kingdom.  And me - who by this time would be trying to pretend I still had hot chocolate in my empty mug, so I could delay bedtime a little longer.

Just to prove they'd moved with the times, Cliff and the lads and lasses would zip a few Beatles songs in there too: the more up-tempo numbers like "Oh Bladdy, Oh Bladdah," "Yellow Submarine" and - it almost goes without saying -"When I'm Sixty-Four."  The arrangements were simple and pleasing to the masses at the time - just a piano accompaniment, and occasionally the accordion - played for the duration of the ensemble's popularity by the splendidly named Jack Emblow.

Now here's a thing.  Several decades after I was driving my James Bond car around the kitchen floor to the soothing background music of the Cliff Adams Singers, I found myself stuck in a traffic jam on the M25. Not far south of the junction with the M3, on a Sunday afternoon. It was the year 2000, and it was raining heavily. I turned on the radio, 
and very nearly went into the back of a Vauxhall Astra. My jaw practically hit the steering wheel.

"We'll sing the old songs, like they used tooooo doooo,
we'll sing some-thiiiiing simple, for youuuuuu (some-thing-for-yoooooooou)."

They were still going! The Cliff Adams Singers live, in the new millennium, on the radio. The same format, the same suede-slip-on-tapping tunes, the gentle melodies, the soporific arrangements. They must have been well into their eighties. I let them wash over me until......

"You're everywhere and nowhere baby, that's where your at...."

(What the hell was going on?)

...going down a bumpy hillside, in a hippy hat...."

(Boo! Boo! We want a My Fair Lady medley!)

I could not believe it. A format which was, to say the least, dated when I was four years old, was still being bashed out on Radio 2. It was rather sad to hear Cliff's crew desperately clinging on to their broadcasting careers like Jack out of Titanic gripping Kate Winslet's flotsam.  They just didn't cut it any more. Like old cricketers refusing to leave the crease. 

This was all happening around the same time that Paul Young rang the station's controller to complain.

"I heard 'Wherever I lay My Hat' being played on Radio 2 last night!"

- "Yes?"

"Well, Radio 2 is for middle-aged people!"

- "And your point being, Mr Young?"

There was a second song in Cliff's millennium offering, but I can't recall what - for it was totally eclipsed by the third..... "We don't need no, education..we don't need no thought control!"

This was possibly a pivotal point in broadcasting: BBC Radio2 was about to ditch the old, and ring in the new.
Well, not quite so new. Paul Young et al. Not so much as moving with the times, as realising that its audience was changing. It was also about this time that I realised I was no longer a bright young thing at the cutting edge of music.

I suddenly became aware that an irate sales executive in a BMW two inches from my rear bumper was blasting his horn loudly. The traffic jam was clearing - and I snapped out of my trance. With a jolly two fingered gesture into my rear-view mirror, I re-joined the flow of traffic, and shook my head violently.  "Perhaps you imagined it?" I said out loud.

I'd all but forgotten this musical interlude until the other night, when the unlikely Vera Lynn cover jogged my memory. So I googled Cliff Adams. Indeed the singers were still being broadcast at the time of his death in 2001.
Staggering. Even more astonishing, I discovered that one of the C.A. singers was the one-and-only Anita Harris - perhaps best remembered for going on Twopenny Bus Rides and being sawn in half by David Nixon.  

And, in the usual rounded manner as this blog draws to a close, I can now publicise that Anita Harris is keeping the spirit of easy-listening alive by touring the UK this summer.  I wonder if she'll be doing any bizarre cover versions?

"Sunday mourning: sad to hear about the death of Lou Reed. A big figure on our timelines…."

This was posted by a close friend of mine on Facebook recently. Having given it some thought, I  have to confess that Lou Reed passed me by.  Not literally - although he might have stumbled past me in Greenwich Village once. To be honest, I wouldn't have known him from Al Read (the popular 1960s radio comic, pictured) - who made me laugh when I was a small child.

Lou Reed, on the other hand, made me faintly depressed. Don't get me wrong, I'm not averse to the odd glass of sangria in a park. Or a movie too, and then home. But I never was one to walk on the wild side. More likely to be the one holding the coats if a fight broke out at school - or trying to smooth things over to avoid any sort of conflict in any situation.

Some of the cooler types at my Alma Mater would proudly display their support for Lou Reed: walking about the corridors of learning with an iconic 'Transformer' album cover tucked beneath their arms.  The Velvet Underground were definitely de rigeur amongst the great-coat wearing loon panted brigade. 

Confession number two: I have never heard this album in its entirety. The whole art-rock thing didn't appeal to me at all and I still don't get it to this day.  About five years ago I stumbled upon a bargain rack in a small independent record store, where they were flogging off classic CDs at three for a tenner.  Deciding it was worth the investment,  I selected a trio comprising Joni Mitchell's Blue, Pulp's Different Class and The Velvet Underground (digitally remastered)  complete with Cale and Reed depicted on a suitably moody sleeve insert.

Music is such a subjective thing, but I'd say Jarvis and the boys probably never surpassed the freshness of Different Class.  The young Joni's voice, once described in NME as 'soaring' is more akin to 'squawking' on Blue - but there are lyrical masterpieces to be found here.

Little Green, for example. This must have been an incredibly difficult song to write - so intensely personal, true and tragic.  
If you don't know it, here is a little word sketch of how the story unfolds. Joni falls for a young hippy, and falls pregnant. He flies the nest for California. There he enjoys a hedonistic life of painting, staring pointlessly at the sun and shoving flowers into soldiers rifle barrels. He sends her nothing more than poems in the mail. Daughter (Little Green) is born and 'dirt poor' Joni decides the only way to secure a decent future for her child is to have her adopted by a good family. Hardly any of Joni's family or friends even know about the birth. The heart-wrenching song ultimately wishes for Little Green to have a happy ending.

Which she did. 

Hoorah!

Unknown to Joni Mitchell, her daughter finds care and comfort growing up with a comfortably-off Toronto family, is privately educated and eventually cuts a catwalk dash as a successful fashion model. (Yes, this is all true). Not-so-Little Green doesn't discover she is adopted until she is pregnant with her own child, at the age of 27. All that is revealed to her is that her mother was a poor folk singer from Saskatchewen. A look in the mirror at her own high cheekbones, fair hair, blue eyes, something friends say….DNA testing does the rest. Nearly three decades after they were separated, mother and daughter are re-united. 

Now that is my kind of perfect day.

I mention this because, try as I might, I cannot find anything good to say about The Velvet Underground album. Nor - I am ashamed to admit - Lou Reed. I have gritted my teeth through the album but once, and I can't even bring myself to give it a spin now by way of a tribute. Nico and her pals' mournful droning and tinkly keyboards do not do it for me at all. 

But hey, what a terrible world it would be if everyone liked the same kind of music. And despite walking on the wild side and all that art-factory jazz, it appears that Lou Reed was a decent and gentle sort of chap - and I reckon those are just about the best reasons to remember anyone. 

So, RIP Lou. I don't suppose you'd like my music much, but then I'm not a bad egg either.

I have a confession to make. I still smoke cigarettes. Not many - and I'm really not lying about that. Five or six a day tops - only in the evenings, and always outside. I haven't lit up inside a building for years and, to be honest, I welcomed the ban on smoking in public places as much as any nose- pinching-handkerchief-wafting-buttoned-up old maid. 

Recently I invested in one of these new fangled E-cigarette things and persevered for a bit, except I found it gave me a blinding headache the following morning. Well I think it was that - clearly nothing to do with the vat of red wine I drank during the battery-powered fake fag experiment.

For years though, smoking and pubs were synonymous in my life. Particularly in the late teens early twenties phase: oh, for the Heineken ashtray in the centre of the lacquered wood table, surrounded on three sides by plush covered banquettes with about twelve of us crammed around, drinking pints of pre-CAMRA age beer! At risk of feeding more snappy one liners into Al Murray's repertoire, back then some of the girls had a penchant for adding a glace cherry on a cocktail stick to their halves of lager which were, without exception, served in a 'ladies glass.'  This was a sort of oversized wine goblet which has all but disappeared from the British Licensed Trade. Vanished, along with it, is the barman's question "Is the half for a man or a lady?"  (Men got a kind of miniature dimpled mug or, in some parts of the south west, a beaker-type affair with a little ridge around it known as a 'sleever.')

But what, I hear you cry, does this have to do with music? Well, sit back and I will elaborate.

The particular 'local' to which I refer was a town centre pub, in close proximity to the local theatre. It was also, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit of a dive. In other words, pretty rough. Just one bar stretched virtually the whole length of the building, and there was a kind of un-walled divide half way down.  The 'top end' was the haunt of local toughies and serious drinkers; below the mid-point step students, meeker locals and un-suspecting tourists were generally allowed.  

Thespians dropping in post-show for a nightcap were frequent: the sight of Hinge & Bracket propping up the bar still in their drag-act grease paint was a sight to behold, incongruous amongst the oil rig workers and hod carriers slaking their thirst.

All this being said, there was a generally relaxed atmosphere of tolerance and no nonsense was suffered by the ex-Copper landlord and his formidable wife. One busy evening a rather well-known actor of stage and screen was propositioned by a local hard-working girl. The freshly flock wallpapered walls resonated with his booming stage-voice reply: "No thank you, I feel like a young man tonight."  And he wasn't replying to a question about his health.

Sundays were generally quiet nights, and it was on one such evening - at a time of year when shadows were lengthening and jackets were being worn again - that this incident occurred.  

A few of us filtered in through the side door, and all clocked the rather lonely-looking figure sitting nursing a pint between the top and bottom ends of the pub.  Long hair, unkempt beard, floor-length overcoat and a Tom Baker (as 'Doctor Who') scarf wound loosely around his neck and shoulders. He seemed far away in thought, lighting cigarettes and staring into the middle distance.

We all knew who it was. Wearing exactly the same clothes, he had appeared on the cover of a recent issue of New Musical Express. I'd also seen him a couple of days earlier standing at the Taxi rank: indeed, dear reader, this was the slightly reclusive and enigmatic figure of Mike Oldfield.  He lived then in a large old stone house in the Cotswolds, spending his days composing and recording, recording and composing, composing and recording etc. His  output hadn't been particular prolific since the monumental success of 'Tubular Bells' some five or six years earlier…so perhaps he'd popped into our local looking for inspiration? 

There were mirrors behind the bar and the odd moonlight shadow on the pavement outside - but the chances of him drawing upon these references for future work are unlikely, given what was to follow. 

Almost un-seen, Mr Oldfield slipped out into the night. As quietly as he came into our lives, he'd gone. Phil the barman, armed with his little galvanised waste bucket and paintbrush, emerged from behind the bar to fuss around emptying the celebrity ashtray and collect the empties from the table. Suddenly, as triumphant as an olympic torch bearer, he sent a flame shooting towards the nicotine-stained ceiling.  "Woo-hoo! Mike Oldfield has left his lighter behind!!"

Now this really was cause for celebration. While several of the assembled party hummed and whistled the 'Theme from the Exorcist' part of 'Tubular Bells', another flicked the lights on and off in a spooky manner, while the rest of us formed a circle and simultaneously lit our fags from the multi-talented musician's splendidly fuelled-up Zippo. What a spectacle this was!  

Then a diminutive voice said "Excuse me, did I leave my lighter in here?"

Embarrassing beyond belief.  Someone tried to steer the singing away from 'Tubular Bells' and into something like 'Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life,' but failed miserably. Two or three culprits pretended they didn't smoke by hiding their fags behind their backs, others (self included) just stared at the floor, wanting it to open up and suck us down as far as possible.  Phil, braaaaaaave Phil, was as cool he had ever been (and never was again) and just said "Here you go!" before handing the lighter over as if nothing had happened. The somewhat unconvincing implication in Phil's tone was that Mike Oldfield had imagined the whole incident. Rather like the episode of Father Ted when Bishop Brennan wakes up to find his bedroom infested with rabbits.

Nobody had seen Mike Oldfield re-enter the pub: just how long he'd been standing there watching a bunch of youths in high spirits prance about we will never know. But it could be the reason that 'Tubular Bells 2' was thirty years in the making.  The jury is still out on whether or not my entourage did the world a favour there.

I sing and play with my eyes closed. The seasoned folk trouper Vin Garbutt does the same. He tells a story (well, actually he tells hundreds) about a gig years ago in a far corner of the Commonwealth, where he'd been booked to bring a little flavour of home to the diplomats and military personnel stationed there.  After completing his first number, he opened his eyes (following a polite ripple of applause) to find there were only about fifteen people left in the room. Those who hadn't already made their way to the adjacent bar were edging their chairs towards the doorway when they thought Vin wasn't looking.

True professional that he is, Vin carried on - slightly dejected - and played his planned set of witty anecdotes and thoughtful (sometimes edgy) songs. At the end of the gig, someone showed him a ticket. He'd been advertised as a 'Christmas Dinner and Disco.'

Now there's a lesson in this for all.  Imagine the reaction, for example, if the Missoula (Montana) Steer Wrestling Club mistakenly booked The Communards for their end-of-season hop. Or Chicory Tip were invited to open for Megadeath. The respective audiences would be a little miffed. Or, for argument's sake, a certain punk band were booked to perform at a Secondary Modern (which shall remain nameless) school reunion ball.  

Yep, it happened. The surroundings were very elegant indeed. A Georgian ballroom complete with glittery ball suspended way above the dance floor, below which a gaggle of young ladies with flick fringes bopped to the sounds of Tina Charles belting out 'I Love To Love' via the medium of the White Nite Disco. 

One glance around the stuccoed walls was enough to indicate this might not be the kind of gathering to appreciate original New Wave material and the odd Clash cover.  For propped against the Wedgwood blue panels and floor-to-ceiling sash windows were white trousered individuals of various shapes and sizes, mostly with their hair parted in the middle and swept back over the ears. To a man they wore shirt cuffs folded back over their jacket sleeves.  Wooden soled shoes tapped to the rhythm of The Village People informing them that they couldn't stop the music.Well, there was a challenge if ever there was one.  

Now I don't know why - perhaps advance ticket sales had been generally poor - but for some reason entrance to all and sundry was available on the door. Free raffle ticket for a magnum of Lambrusco included.  Ticket availability resulted in a trickle of younger lads and lasses filtering into the ballroom, who had little or no connection with the unmentionable school. There was a distinct difference in the new arrivals' choice of evening wear. Studded black leather biker jackets and tartan bondage trousers added a certain cutting-edge style to the erstwhile sartorial blandness of the assembly.  The idea of mingling at a party obviously hadn't hit home, and various little huddled groups began to form at opposite corners of the pillared room.

At this point I ought to interject that I was attending the function as a journalist, with a mission to review the main act of the evening. Mal, a musician friend of the time, had also gone along to watch and listen. But not dance. He was incongruous too - in his full length black wool coat and hair died to match. 

The band stormed on to the stage to a luke-warm welcome and finished the energetic opening song to a dozen or so enthusiastic cheers, one or two boos, but mostly stunned silence. Something told me this performance was not going to go down too well. 

Second song began: of the 'One, Two, Three, Four…..' and then as loud and raucous as possible variety. Not too far in front of us, a lad of about fifteen, exercising his right to pogo, lurched into a rather beefy fellow who had a far from firm grip on a pint of warm Trophy bitter. The hapless dancer's bondage trousers meant he had even less control over his leg movements than a unidexter trying to hop across a frozen pond. 

Result: boy sent flying across beer drenched by a swift punch to the upper torso. Band continue playing. Pintless drinker's friends urge restraint: "'ee's only a nipper" etc.  But it was clearly about to kick off. Mal and I, being bold chaps of the 'we'll hold the coats' persuasion withdrew to the lobby - where some of the organisers were already in a heated discussion about removing the live act from stage asap "We'll still have to pay them.." "It'll be worth it to get them to stop…."  that sort of thing.  Song two finishes in the hall behind us - the majority are no longer silent.  It's time to make our excuses and leave. 

In the park outside we encounter the young pogo dancer (who is actually only about four years our junior) and find him shaken, but not stirred. Rather a well-spoken lad as it turns out. Walking through the dark back into town with him, we discover that his father is in the RAF - a pilot for the Red Arrows. The family are of Champagne tastes rather than Lambrusco.

I always think, reflecting on that night, if the press had got hold of the story, it would have been reported very differently. 'Gang of punks gate crash smartly dressed function and cause trouble.' Far from the truth, but that was the general bent of reporting in the day. Another subject entirely and not one under scrutiny in this blog.

So, musical tolerances. Are they any better today? Clearly, yes. Bruce Forsyth at Glastonbury. That wouldn't have happened in 1980. And the crowd were reasonably pleasant to Charlotte Church at Cornbury in 2012, even though she didn't reciprocate. Nor deliver what was expected.

But playing live anywhere is still a worry for the singer/songwriter: what if the punters are eager to hear a Country and Western tribute act or a enjoy  a Christmas Dinner and Disco?  

Upon the cusp of returning to the circuit after an absence of a quarter of a century, I should therefore be biting my nails. But as a finger picker, they need to be a certain length. So that's something else that could go wrong. As well as opening my eyes and finding everyone has buggered off to the pub next door.

I was reasonably pleased with a tune I composed one fine April evening. It had a good depth of sound and a pleasing little melody. Short, but sweet. I made a mental note to expand upon its length - and maybe it would set the tone for my inaugural guitar concerto?

Sadly these great plans came crashing down to earth one Saturday tea time. I'd just taken my first bite of a club sandwich in front of the TV, when my new tune heralded the arrival of a commercial break. Save re-writing it as 'Rhaspody on a Theme of Ant and Dec,' there was no longer any hope for its future.  Unwittingly my brain had absorbed a TV jingle at some point, then played it back in my mind as if it were my own creation.
"Oh dear, how very unfortunate," I said to myself.

Plagiarism. A tunesmith's greatest fear; but is it more by accident than design? George Harrison was famously found 'not guilty' in the case of My Sweet Lord v. He's So Fine back in the 1970s. The ex-Beatle's multi-million selling Hare Krishna devotional appears to blatantly rip off The Chiffons 1963 hit, yet in 1976 a judge ruled that Mr Harrison had 'subconsciously' plagiarised the earlier tune.

I, for one, can believe that quite easily. 

These are not isolated incidents. An episode of Sergeant Bilko (aka the Phil Silvers Show) featured the reprobates from Fort Baxter entering a catchy little ditty into the US Army Song Contest. On reaching the final, Bilko hears another platoon belting out 'their' song.  The reason for this is that one of Bilko's entourage, who 'first' hummed the melody in the bathtub, had previously been in this other troop.  A fictional but believable tale…with hilarious consequences, of course.

And so, to KT Tunstall's new album. Invisible Empire/Crescent Moon. A fine collection of songs it is too - yet one track - Feel It All - sounded very familiar to Mrs W when she first heard it on the radio. When its similarity to another was pointed out to me, my jaw hit the floor.  Here we go again...

Now please, KT, (or may I call you Katie?) if you are reading do NOT take this as a case of 'J'accuse!' For yes, by my own admission I have strayed from the path of  creative writing. But might I ask you the question, have you ever watched the film 'Spinal Tap?'  There's a point in the movie when the band's origins are discussed - and flickering archive film from the 1960s is shown.  It has to be noted that tune the be-suited popsters are performing, 'Gimmee Some Money,' is remarkably similar to 'Feel It All.'  

Again, Spinal Tap is fiction - but Ms Tunstall and her band associates who recorded Invisible Empire in America's South West are very real indeed.  It's possible that they'd all nodded off in their relative motel rooms watching Spinal Tap and fresh from a long sleep, next morning were all very excited by the tune they were hammering out in the shade of a giant cactus. Coincidence, I am personally convinced - but would it stand up in a Court of Law? 

At this point I'd like to call as witness one 'Biffo', a colleague of my brother at a Gloucestershire engineering works in the 1980s. Now Biffo had a theory - simple, but plausible.  One day in the canteen he put forward the suggestion that before long, the world would run out of tunes.  "It 'as to 'appen soon, like," he explained. "All that classical stuff uses so many notes there can't be many more combinations to come."  At some point in time, the laws of mathematics would indicate this will become a reality.  One of the number sat around the table at that particular gathering quipped "Status Quo have only ever had one tune."

Indeed, if we examine the formation of the popular song, or even traditional harmonies, they have a common empirical formula.  

The majority of memorable tunes are not complex at all, just being based on a handful of chords at most - often only three or four.  And yes, each songwriter or composer will favour a certain combination - yet freshen each new tune with a sprinkling of alternative phrasing and intonation. A different hook. Not forgetting the all important lyrics, for that is what gives a song a reason to remember it.

So is this a form of self-plagiarism? Maybe you are Andrew Lord Webster and you have run out of tunes (as Biffo suggested). So what are you going to do? Look to your previous successes and add a few twiddly bits, a dash of music of the night and away you go, back on Broadway. Yet if you happened upon somebody else's melody - by chance - they'd be on their solicitor's doorstep two hours before the office cleaners arrived.

I met a man in a pub once. Like you do. An elderly chap, one Saturday lunchtime, who played the bar room piano for beer. It was in the Yorkshire Dales. The only seat in the wood-panelled room was next to the Joanna, so we were soon on nodding terms. He did a little medley, all based around four chords, fitting the words of several songs from 'between the wars' to the same tune. Heart and Soul, Either, Either, Neither, Neither and others a little more obscure. If you had a vivid imagination, you could even sing 'God Save The Queen' to the same accompaniment. I had to concur - these were pretty much all the same song. A good point well made. And, for the record, well played too.

So there you go. Shall we leave it at that? A happy musical coincidence - or is the Biffo Prophecy finally coming true?

Back in the days when Boots the Chemist had record departments, the facility to listen to the latest hits by means of headsets in little private booths was commonplace.

A simple request to have the latest offering from Family played at the sales counter was usually met with a sigh and an unusually warm and friendly remark like 'you can only hear part of it!'

This wouldn't be the case in, say, Cheltenham, where anyone in a tweed jacket asking to listen to Siblelius was fawned over in Fawlty-esque manner, and practically carried to the audio alcove in a Sedan Chair.

And it was in Boots Cheltenham (it is still there today, standing proudly on  the corner which takes its name) that one Charlie Eltham tried to place a back order for The Strawbs' single Grace Darling.

He'd recently heard it at a party and was impressed by Blue Weaver's mighty organ and the angelic backing provided by some young chaps from Westminster Abbey's choir school.  Boots would grudgingly oblige to get anything for you if it wasn't in stock, and Charlie's request was scribbled on a pad and he was told to come back a week later to collect it.

The following Saturday, the same surly shop assistant - after trying to ignore Charlie for ten minutes - frowned her way through the box of orders, pulled out a dog-eared card and more or less threw it back at him. "Sez not available" she snapped.  There was a reason for this. Instead of Grace Darling, the order had been placed for Grey Starling.

Clearly the heroic exploits of a Northumbrian Lighthouse keeper's daughter had not made a lasting impression on the Saturday girl with the flicked fringe, despite Blue Peter's best efforts to perpetuate her memory with an animated story read by John Nettleton. 

And so, to the Gloucester branch of the same long-established pharmacy, where a friend's wife had a part time job in the 1970s. An elderly lady marched up to the counter: "I've 'eard this song on the radio - Man Looking Tired. You got it?"

Puzzled looks on the business side of the counter. "Err, no. I don't think so. Who is it by?"

"'ooze it by? One of the bloody Beatles, of course. The Scottish one!"

"Pardon?"

Customer sighs and decides to perform the song.

"The one with all those men a-marching and a-piping. You know....Man Lookin Tired, And Mist Rolling In From The Sea...."

But these incidents were not just limited to Boots.  My cousin Rob, when he was small, liked Cliff Richard's song The Miniature Gun (The Minute You're Gone).  An easy mistake.  While we are about it, did Abba really call me last night from Tesco, and write another song about Chicken Tikka?  Then there was...You Can Dance, You Can Dance, Everybody Look At Your Pants..but I don't know who recorded it. Sorry.

Now then, I am guilty as charged.  My hearing may not be what it was, but last year when I went to collect one of my daughters from a bowling alley in Worcester, I endured a few minutes waiting in a convivial bar area with a warm lemonade, until the disco fell silent. The DJ was spinning a song called All The Cigarettes. At least I thought he was. Apparently it was somebody called Beyoncé performing her popular chart hit All The Single Ladies.

Radiohead's OK Computer may have been voted the best album of all time in the history of Channel 4 Best Of programmes, but I could only make out a few words on the whole CD...alarms, surprises and no.  Then there's a whole raft of young men currently mumbling their way through a new wave of acoustic albums. Pleasant, most of them, I admit. But not memorable. They might be more so if I could hear a word they were saying. As my Grandfather would have commented: "They're singing into their boots."

Songs have to tell stories in my book. My story book, in fact. And I do like to hear what singers are singing about. Surely it is the lyric that leaves us with a lasting memory, and helps music add an extra dimension to our lives? We can all hum a tune, but without words it can't have much meaning other that a momentary pleasant diversion. Or perhaps not for someone audibly challenged nearby, who mistakes your happy humming mood for an invisible wasp attack.

So, for the reasons which vex me posted above - it was very pleasing to receive a compliment from a songwriter of considerable talent recently.  She said, of one of my own songs: "...delicately picked and beautiful diction...just the way a good song should be played (in my opinion)."   This made me feel very 'umble: at least I'm not mumbling into my own boots then. Or even mumbling in Boots.  Although if it still had a record department, I may be grumbling there.

Right, I'm off to find a cigarette.....if you hear what I'm saying correctly.

Pinpointing the exact time is quite difficult, but the place is easy to picture.  
It would have been the mid 1980s - the location was Aust Services, just off the M4 and overlooking the Severn Bridge.  Twenty or so years prior to this particular sunny Sunday, the adjacent bridge was still a relatively fresh feat of engineering which was marvelled at by thousands of visitors each month.

Over a mile in span, this was one of the world's longest suspension bridges, fording a notorious estuary with the world's second largest rise and fall in tide. School trips visited, there was an observation deck and a small exhibition of how the bridge was built.  It carried the M4's traffic over to Wales for a few shillings - but a charge was only made when heading in a westerly direction. It was for this very reason that my father always approached from the east on our Sunday 'runs out' in the car.

But back to the 1980s. Aust Services was, in comparison with other monstrous motorway diners, a reasonably intimate spot to take a break. The facilities clean and tidy, flower beds relatively free of cigarette butts, and the range of meals on offer reasonably priced. Verging on the 'freshly prepared' too - if frying eggs to order can be so described. It was justifiably popular in its day.

On this particular bright summer afternoon, the hoards had rolled in and demanded to be fed in great numbers. There had been a bit of a run on the cutlery, and as I searched the grey plastic trays for a matching pair of utensils, a black haired Valley boy with jacket and jeans to match caught my eye. "Where's the forks, mate?"  "Umm, I think I might have the last one."  "Shit, I'll 'ave to go an' aask then," he muttered, and ambled back to his formica table with two plates of sausage, egg and chips - and two knives.  His companion - in a similar neutral/denim combo - was none other than Bonnie Tyler. 

A moment later the man in black returned triumphant from the self-service counter with two gleaming forks, and shot his lady friend a tiny winning smile.  Somewhat incongruous amongst the rugby shirts, shorts and flip-flops favoured by their co-diners, the rock couple seemed lost in their own little world. Aww.  But they hadn't gone unrecognised. A bright spark somewhere behind the M4 service station scenes had sprung into action. The familiar strains of 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' suddenly replaced the tones of Bert Kaempfert, which had provided the background ambiance up to that point.

So what, you may ask, was Bonnie Tyler doing being wined and dined at Aust services thirty-odd years ago?

Nay, say I, that was fine and dandy. 

But what exactly was Bonnie Tyler doing 'representing' the UK at the 2013 Eurovision Song Contest?  Trying to put a lid on her career in the same way Engelbert did twelve months before? Who is going to be wheeled out next and - furthermore - do we actually need this kind of television anymore?

When I was a small child, it was front page news that barefooted Sandie Shaw had conquered Europe with the quirky 'Puppet on a String.'  After the abject failure of previous contestants such as Pearl Carr and Teddy Johnson, this was a major story. The BBC found the tune so original, that it commissioned variations on the same theme for approximately the next 25 years. Even Norway had moved on by then. Lulu, Clodagh Rodgers, Cliff (umpteen times) all banging out oompah-based pop tunes with trite lyrics. Once The Shadows were selected to wear the GB colours, and nobody was more surprised than the band's members. They had disbanded several years before and - I believe - Hank Marvin had emigrated to Australia.  Yet Aunty Beeb still believed them to be at the cutting edge of popular music.

Do viewers/listeners still choose the song? This part I have not researched. At the age of 15, I did submit one of my own compositions for consideration - somewhat tongue-in-cheek. Not only did I lose, but I didn't even get a reply. I still don't know what's wrong with the line 'French or German, Belgian or Swiss, You Can All Sing To This.'  Catchy, in the great tradition of boom-bang-a-bang, yet with pan-European appeal.  The rest of my words may not have been quite so P.C.

Recently the annual song contest has become a joke. On this, I think, we are all agreed. It is becoming de rigueur to gather in small parties to gawp at the TV and express surprise at just how awful, weird, wonderful and utterly pointless the whole charade has become. Then quite probably go to bed before the final scores have been totted up. The competition is pointless; rather like the UK's entries since making the wrong political moves in the eyes of the rest of Europe/Eurovision. 
It is also way, way, beyond a very tired old joke.

Music is not, by nature, competitive. It is emotive, challenging, touching, memorable, reflective and many different things to every individual. Europe has a rich tradition of roots music and vibrant sounds which celebrate cultural diversity in a good way. If an annual knees-up is necessary, then mututal appreciation of music is surely what it should focus upon? Throwing everything into a great mixing pot and emerging the other side of predictable voting with a winning song comprising vacuous words (why are they in English?) and synthesised sounds cannot be justified in any way whatsoever.  

So let's either change it for the good, or do away with it completely. After all, one can count on one hand the number of enduring songs the contest has given the world.  The two that spring to mind are 'Volare' and 'Blue, Blue, My World Is Blue' - and I don't think either of them even won!

And so, back to Bonnie and her beau. I read an interview with Ms Tyler recently, who has been with her chap now for over forty years. Many congratulations to them. And if either Mr or Mrs Tyler happen to be reading, here's a little ditty I wrote way back when there was only one Severn Bridge.  It is called 'Bonnie Tyler's Boyfriend.'

Oh, Duw, my head is in a whirl,
I have fallen in love,
With a Mumbles girl,
It’s a wonderful thing,
Never thought I’d have a chance,
But now we are together,
I’ve got lost in bloody France

It went down in history as The Incident of the Plastic Hand. 
For once, schoolboys wrongly accused of high jinx in the classroom.
Here's how it went.

We were working on our O-level art projects, heads down in concentration, when somebody screamed. If 15 year-old boys do scream. There, in the middle of the art room floor, was what appeared to be a severed hand. There was enough commotion to bring Rick James, the rather dapper young master, from his ante-room. 
"All right, all right, that's enough!"  
He stooped and picked up the gruesome object. Chris Wintle looked guilty. 

"Who's been messing about with this?" Asked Rick, blowing the dust from the fingers. 

"What is it, Sir?"  (Truthfully, we were all slightly freaked out by the limp, lifeless, open palm and pale fingers in the middle of the floor)

"It's for an exhibition. Quite an important show, actually."

An exhibition of what was never revealed. It was obviously a personal project. Rather the like the one across the quadrangle, in the loft between the two chemistry labs, where Mr Smith was scratch-building a scale model of a steam locomotive between lessons. And even during them.

Rick shuffled off to his garrett, and we settled back down to our Letraset and Kodatrace.  Normality was restored. Someone shoved Paul Davis off his stool. Probably the same freckled lad who'd placed a rather realistic plastic hand on his shoulder a few minutes earlier. We couldn't be sure.

All was well until French. Last but one lesson.  A meek little messenger arrived at the door, sent by the formidable deputy head. One Fred Jessop. Those from the art lesson were requested to re-convene after the last bell.  It was a stern affair. Phrases like 'woe betide' and 'every man jack of you' were bandied around, although I wasn't really listening. My main concern was wondering if I would still be home in time to see Jenny Hanley crossing her bare legs on ITV's 'Magpie.'

The hand had gone missing. The culprit had been given 24 hours to return the Hammer-Horror object, or the whole class would be given detention each subsequent night until it reappeared. Letters to parents would be issued, seriousness of situation, blah blah blah. Messrs Wintle, Overton, Johnson all declared their innocence on the way to the bus stop.

The following day, after assembly, a solemn little gathering was addressed by Mr Jessop. What were we hearing? An unconditional apology being dished out by one of the most feared figures amongst these hallowed halls and redbrick walls?  The truth was indeed told. Mr Jessop was on his usual after-hours rounds, banging locker doors shut, tutting at the chewing gum stained tiles and bursting into empty form rooms expecting to find someone in there up to no good (a seance had once been busted). A piercing cry came from the cleaners' station and he dashed there post haste, fag firmly clamped between dry, tight lips, black gowns flowing behind him, to discover Molly the Mop all of a dither. There, in her galvanised bucket, was a severed hand. Behind her, head caretaker Vic, was in fits of laughter. 

Vic was a relatively new addition to the supporting cast staff at Cheltenham Grammar School. With his Brylcreemed black hair and pencil moustache, he was a big departure from recently retired post-holder,  the kindly old Harold Whitworth. Vic, a Cockney fellow, looked like the sort of character who would lurk in doorways after dark and try and sell knocked off nylons to passing office girls.

Yet, to his credit, he (as the youth of today would say) 'fessed up' to the theft of the hand. "Honest guv, I can't tell a lie, it was me. Just a bit of a larf, so to speak, like as not and no mistake. Lubbaduck. I never meant no harm, honest I didn't Mr J."  Or something like that.

The curious incident of the hand in the nightime was over.

But this is where the story starts. For Vic the Caretaker, somewhat improbably, was to become step-father to Robert Fisher.  I don't know the ins and outs of it, but somehow it happened. Rob was a year above me at school and, therefore, I didn't know him at the time of the wedding. Then, as now, it was not cool to socialise with younger boys - at least not during school hours.   But I always imagined it would be a little embarrassing to see your new Dad slopping out the staff toilets as you passed by at break time.

Rob lived at Gretton Fields near Winchcombe, a semi rural location in a big Victorian double-fronted house with a lean-to conservatory. I never went inside the place, but imagine it was well maintained and kept clean by Mr Vic, and that his mum probably never went short of stockings or Jeyes fluid.  I'd got to know Rob through a mutual friend, and found we shared a common interest in music, as well as in Bev Rees. But I had a bike and he had a Ford Anglia, so I guess he was bound to win that one. Although a few months later I did find myself snogging Bev at a party in Winchcombe. In the garden, while Rob was playing the piano inside. 

And my, could he play the piano. He'd written his own original version of the Four Seasons, from which 'Autumn' was particularly lovely. Like all students, finding a new life elsewhere and a circle of friends at Uni inevitably meant us losing touch. I last saw Rob in 1988 at a wedding. By then he'd made quite a name for himself. At Bath University, his musical tastes had found new directions too - drifting into synth pop, and after playing with various musical combinations  he settled into Neon - who evolved to become not one but two successful bands, Naked Eyes and Tears For Fears.  Rob and Pete Byrne, as Naked Eyes, had chart success here and in the USA, before dissolving the partnership.

It was as Fisher 'out of' Climie Fisher that Rob probably found most fame. Of a quiet and slightly shy nature, Rob was always destined to be the one in the background, while Simon Climie stepped into the limelight. Major international hits such as 'Love Like A River', 'Love Changes Everything' and 'Rise To The Occasion' elevated Climie Fisher's reputation as writers and producers as well as performers, and they went on to work with major music industry figures such as George Michael and Aretha Franklin.  After Simon Climie pursued a solo career, Rob (who by then had his own London studio) worked with Rick Astley and re-kindled a partnership with Pete Byrne. Naked Eyes were to embark on a new album, before the new millennium.

The album was never to be completed. In the Summer of 1999, I had a phone call from a mutual friend telling me that Rob had died from cancer.  Measured in terms of chart success, Rob's total was four top 40 singles on the US Billboard charts with Naked Eyes, and five UK top 40 hits with Climie Fisher - peaking at number 2.

'Always Something There To Remind Me' (a Burt Bacharach cover) was probably Rob's most commercially successful track, reaching number 8 in the USA.  I was picking around some new tunes on the guitar a few weeks ago, and stumbled upon the haunting refrain from 'Autumn.' And it is for that I remember Rob Fisher most.  The quiet man I knew but hardly knew, can still say something to me through his music.

During the late 1970s and early 1980s, the leafy spa town of Cheltenham had a pretty serious folk scene.  I've no idea why, but quite number of the leading lights of the folk revival were either working or living in the town at the time. Decameron had sprung up there, and after the band dissolved a number of its members hung around - forming new partnerships, writing fresh material and generally wondering which way to go. 

In those days, all roads on a Sunday night led to Granny's Folk Club. Something of a movable feast, it operated variously from the ballrooms at the posh but faded Queens Hotel, the slightly down at heel Carlton and - for the purposes of this story - the lovely old Plough Hotel.  

For younger readers, this building stood where the High Street entrance to the Regent Arcade now is. During the re-development there were half-arsed efforts to preserve its Georgian facade, but the crumbling structure partially collapsed. The architects eventually gave up on preservation and sent in the big, clanky, yellow machine with a large metal ball on the end of a huge, swinging chain. The rest is history.

So, let's take a trip back in time to the Plough. Through the polished mahogany and brass revolving doors, up the sweeping staircase to the bar with its beaten copper-topped tables, and down the dodgy beer-stained steps to the old ballroom. Filled with the aroma of Old Holborn, stale Wadworths 6X and the murmur of 200 or so people in low volume conversation.  When your eyes become accustomed to the gloom you could see a small dimly-lit stage - and possibly even enjoy listening to the floor spots before the 'turn' came on.  

The route from dressing room to auditorium wasn't far. In fact, pre-performance, acts would dump their gear behind a screen in a corridor and adjourn to the nearest bar stools. Sometimes there would be a pile of fiddle cases or the odd guitar propped against the wainscotting.  It was here, one winter's night, my mate Jonny and I were smoking and drinking in a dark corner, very close to a taciturn and broody looking Jake Thackray.  Due to perform later that evening, he'd glanced across a few times while nursing a pint.  "He's coming over!" said Jon. No flicker of a smile. Just a jerk of the head in the direction of the clutter behind us.  "Lads. Mind the instruments."

Others proved more affable.  Dave Cousins, front man and founder member of The Strawbs, had enjoyed much chart success with his band. They'd even wavered into progressive rock, but this was a period when - perhaps way ahead of his time - he'd returned to his acoustic roots.  The tour which brought him to Cheltenham saw him accompanied simply by a bass player; I want to say it was Danny Thompson, but I can't be sure of that.

This was only a year or two after Sandy Denny had died.  Little more than a decade prior to this night, the original Strawbs trio had hooked up with rising folk star Sandy Denny, and they recorded their first album together. By pure coincidence, my pal Wigger and I had recently visited Woolworth's record department and there - in the reduced rack - were a few copies of said debut album.  It featured the very first recorded version of one of the most celebrated folk songs of all time, Sandy Denny's "Who Knows Where The Time Goes."  The album was produced in Copenhagen, using very basic equipment. Dave Cousins was charged with finding a UK record label to release the album, but by the time he had done so Sandy's solo career had soared.  She moved on to work on her own and with friends, before famously linking up with Fairport Convention - taking the classic song with her.  The rest is history.

Before the gig, our small contingent was in its usual bar side setting, when we were surprisingly joined by a very friendly Mr Cousins.  This was good for me, as I wrote a music column for the local weekly newspaper at the time. I'd even phoned The Strawbs' agent asking if I could do an interview… a very bold step for me as I was a timid young hack at the time.  While out at lunch, the telephonist (yes, we had them in those days), took a message for me. "Someone rang from a phone box for you - a Dave Cousins. He said he'll try again."  Yeah, right, I thought. Yet another prank call form one of my work mates. 

So, rather nervously, I introduced myself to the great DC. "Hmm? Who? Ah, yes - hello, I rang you last week - sorry I didn't get chance to call back."  Bugger. But no harm done, as he was there in front of me and willing to chat. Wigger chipped in - as he was wont to do (and still is). "I bought a copy of that album you did with Sandy Denny in Woollies on Friday."  Mr Cousins nearly choked on his ale. "No!!  I haven't got a copy of that one!" he said, more than a little excitedly.  "Have they got any left? If I give you the money could you see if your could get me one? Only I've got to go straight back to Devon tonight."

Now, as it  happened, Wigger was himself travelling to Devon - with tent and girlfriend packed into his Ford Anglia - the following weekend. An address was written on a scrap of paper scrounged from Alison behind the bar, and a shiny 50 pence piece was entrusted into our care. Mercifully, Woollies still had several copies shrunk wrapped in the 'remaindered' section and one was duly hand-delivered to Mr Cousins. Who, from memory, lived in a converted school house near the town of Colyton. 

I wonder if he remembers the incident himself? I bet it's worth more than 50p now!  It was all a very long time ago. Indeed, who knows where the time goes?

Forty years ago, the World was a different place. Our school magazine carried an article boldly titled 'Why Computers Will Never Do Your Homework' , television audiences keenly anticipated the 'Miss World' contest and CDs were something Raymond Baxter of 'Tomorrow's World' fame ran over in his car to prove they were indestructible. "Of course," he told us, in reassuringly resonant tones, "they will be far too costly to ever be mass-produced, but at least data will be safely stored on them even if they are run over by Russian tanks  - and will probably survive a direct hit by a nuclear warhead too."

So, it was LPs we turned to for our pleasure. On our parents' radiograms while they were out at a dinner dance/bingo/the pub, or in the privacy of our bedrooms if we were lucky enough to have a Dansette record player.  

Mine was a Curry's Westminster. Mono, of course.

The flashier amongst us might have a Ferguson Hi-Fi system with smoked-glass effect lid and separate speakers, strategically positioned in opposing corners of the through-lounge. His Master's Chair would be placed at the apex of a sonic triangle so the stereo could be marvelled at. The sounds of a passing train, perhaps. Or monks, chanting their way around cloisters. This system was designed to impress technically: what it played was a minor detail.

Except on the record players of we bright young things. 

This rather elaborate scene having been set, it is on one particular LP I wish to focus. El Pea, in fact. This double album was a sampler for the Island label which then, as now, had something of reputation for cutting edge music.  Like Chrysalis records, Island would 'take a risk' with artists who had been shown the door by the labels who were all looking for the next Marmalade or Chicory Tip. In fact, the door probably hadn't even been opened to the long-haired layabouts. They were, most likely, told to go away by an A&R guy's secretary shouting at them through the letterbox.

So, back to the old school. There were no girls (hence the interest in the Miss World contest) and the place was packed with an eccentric mix of masters, as well as pupils. These ranged from the old professors who wore linen jackets on summer days and openly smoked in the staff room, to the younger ex-Oxbridge set who were racy enough to team desert boots with their brown suits. And one chap who, for these purposes, shall be referred to as Mr R.

Mr R was something of a legend: a Welshman with the face of Max Boyce crossed with an old boxing glove. A Rugby player who, it was rumoured, had chosen a career in Chemistry over his national sport, and driver of a slightly shabby Frog Eyed Sprite. Something of a maverick within the hallowed walls. 

On a Friday lunchtime (and possibly others too) this burly chap's throaty-sounding convertible would whisk him into town, where he would prop up the public bar of an atmospheric old half-timbered inn, and relax over four or five pints.  Before driving back quite safely. People drove better in theses days after a few pints. Or at least they thought they did.


(I refer to him as Mr R in case this blog causes his career to be retrospectively examined. AndI wouldn't want that. Read on!)

As a consequence of his convivial lunchtimes, Mr R's lessons on a Friday afternoon were to be much enjoyed. These incidents are all true: Mr R once tried to demonstrate the creation of 'plastic sulphur' and caused a minor explosion. Another time he set fire to a lad's trousers and said 'shit, tell my mother you're sorry!'  after he'd thrown water on the burning garment. On more than one occasion he forgot his desk was on a small stage and fell off the edge with humorous effect.  Sometimes he couldn't really be bothered to teach and would offer the option of a quiz:  he would deduct points if he thought anyone was talking while the answers to his questions were being considered. 

"Jones, nought!"  

"I haven't said anything, sir!"  

"Right, minus ten!"

But when all was said and done, Mr R was a great teacher. Particularly affable on Fridays, but always something of a gentle giant. And I have one thing in particular to thank him for, apart from failing my O-Level chemistry. Although, to be fair, Dr W (fifth form teacher) was responsible for this exam disaster as he had the capacity to make a boring subject even duller, so I stopped listening. Not an exploding test tube in sight during my final year of study.

So, I had purchased El Pea (as mentioned several paragraphs previously) for the princely sum of 99p in ashop called Universal Stationers. I was attracted by the double album's value as well as the artists thereon - progressive rock was a big thing in those days. It had tracks by Mountain, Emerson Lake & Palmer, Free, Cat Stevens and Mott the Hoople among others. I'd  agreed to lend said album to a friend and it was in the process of being passed under the desk in the half-life of a Friday Chemistry Lesson when a voice said…

"RIGHT!!! BRING THAT HERE!!!" …. and it was sheepishly placed into the firm hands of Mr R. Who, while the class was pretending to be engrossed in the whys and wherefores of the periodic table, could be seen studying the sleeve notes.  

Saved by the bell. Class dismissed, and I skulked back up to Mr R's desk. "Can I borrow this?" he said, surprisingly politely. And, furthermore, surprisingly soberly. Jabbing his finger at one of the sleeve's line drawings which depicted the artists featured on El Pea, he added "There's some good stuff on here."

And indeed there was. When I got the album back, unscratched, thank God, I gave it a proper listen from start to finish.

For there, sandwiched between the likes of Quintessence and Heads, Hands and Feet, were offerings from Amazing Blondel, The Incredible String Band,  Nick Drake, Sandy Denny and Fairport Convention. Some of the best performers and songwriters ever to grace the folk/acoustic genre on one double album.

Mr R opened my ears to a whole new sphere of music, for which I thank him greatly.

If you are wondering where his finger landed in particular, it was on Tir na nOg. Probably the greatest Prog Folk writers ever to come out of Ireland, who achieved a cult following and were much admired by the late John Peel. By coincidence, forty years on Tir na nOg are touring the UK again and - I am delighted to say - have allowed me to include their song 'Our Love Will Not Decay' (as featured on El Pea) as the sound track to this block.  To listen, click the button below.

You can find more about Tir na nOg's history and their current tour dates by visiting http://www.tirnanog-progfolk.com/

Finally, if anyone out there remembers El Pea, I wonder if they can solve a mystery? Nick Drake's track is listed on the cover as 'One Of These Things First' yet on the record (or at least on my copy) it is 'Northern Sky.'  Is this just a mistake - or do I have something very rare stored away in my archives?