There's a storm coming, so let's renationalise....

LOOKING FOR HATCHES TO BATTEN DOWN.

Storm warning, storm warning!  Feel free to panic.  The weather forecasters are telling us that high winds, possibly up to hurricane force, and torrential rain are about to hit the British Isles later tonight and for much of tomorrow morning.  Looking at the maps showing the predicted path of the tumult it looks like South Wales, Southern England and, eventually, the Northeast of England, will take the worst of the hit.  Here on Merseyside it seems we may just on the northern fringes of that passageway and will miss the worst of the weather.  Nonetheless it is already obvious that the winds are much stronger here than they were earlier in the day, and from Twitter I see that same can be said in Edinburgh, so it looks like there will widespread effects, even for those off the main route of the storm.

I've had a quick look around my property, but there seems little point in moving bins or tying anything down.  We've survived high winds here before and the worst I expect is to see some damage to boundary fences.  And there aren't many of them.  Further south I imagine it's sensible to be taking more rigorous precautions and try to minimise the potential problems.  It's certainly looks like being a day to avoid travel, and stay indoors if at all possible.  But I don't expect Southport will see much in the way of fallen trees and flooding, both of which are likely to occur elsewhere, so I still expect to be going out tomorrow.  I just hope people can stay safe, especially the homeless.

As soon as a warning like this is issued there follow the inevitable reminiscences about storms past.  The most notorious in recent British history was in October 1987, although that's as much for the Michael Fish meme as the actual damage it caused.  He  claims that he was misquoted, but that can't change the widely held view that the Met Office failed to predict the severity of the impact.  Fish, of course, was but the front man for this.  In the event there were several deaths and widespread damage which took months to fully clear up.  

Recently, at the end of 2011, there was the wonderfully named Hurricane Bawbag, which Scotland laughed off, but did cause a fair bit of damage.  But as it didn't go anywhere near the south of England it wouldn't get the same publicity, would it?  I missed out on Bawbag by a couple of weeks, Travelling up to Edinburgh just before xmas the extent of the destruction was still evident on the roads and in the fields.  

When the 1987 storm hit I was living on the south coast of England, slightly off the path of the most forceful winds, and don't actually recall much about it.  There were a few nearby trees uprooted, but no real damage to my property or those nearby, other than a wobbly fence or two.  It didn't feel like a big event and I don't recall losing a night's sleep over it.

Whereas the storm of January 1990 made a much greater personal impact.  Although less vicious that it's 1987 predecessor, it caused many more deaths because it hit during daylight hours when far more people were out and about.  When it hit I was in London on the final day of a training course.  I made my way to Euston to find all trains to the Northwest cancelled, with no prospect of them being resumed in the near future.  By the time I found this out it seemed likely that every available hotel place would have been snaffled up, but I was keen to see if I could find a way home.  After discussions with British Rail staff (this was in pre nationalisation days, something that features prominently in the story I'm about to tell) and other travellers I made my way to Kings Cross.  

The work force there proved eager to help everyone they could and I followed their advice to take a train heading for Sheffield.  It was packed.  Not simply busy, but with every available floorspace occupied by bodies.  Uncomfortable, but there was a great spirit of trying to cope with, and overcome, adversity, and a sense of adventure because many of us had no idea where we might end up spending the night.  So there were plenty of jokes and lot of laughter.

I've forgotten the exact details, but I think I continued on there all the way to Sheffield, then sought further advice on my next step.  Which ended up being a connection to Manchester, with the luxury of an actual seat.  It had been much delayed so hardly anybody on board had originally planned to get that train, but it was enough that it was moving, and in the right general direction.

We got into Manchester about midnight and I certainly won't forget what happened next.  BR personnel were on hand to ask if anyone needed to be taken any further to get home, and we were allocated into little groups depending on our ultimate destination.  The staff (public servants of course), it seemed, were determined to get everyone home to their beds and relished the task of organising the event.  It felt more like It's A Knockout than a national emergency.

Each group was provided with a means to get home.  As one of those with the furthest distance to travel I wondered what my option would be.  I need not have worried.  Four of us were bundled into a taxi and told that BR would cover the costs.  I can't recall all the stop off points, but I know Wigan was one of them, and that I was the last person to be delivered.  Not long before 2am I was in my bed and trying explain to my wife all that happened (this being long before the days when mobile phones became ubiquitous - she had no idea what had happened to me).  British Rail was a wonderful organisation.

Which leads me to one final coda.  Not a storm story, but an indication of what we all lost when BR was dismantled and given over to profiteers.  About six years ago I was again in Euston, looking to get back to Southport, and found that all Northwest trains had been postponed for several hours.  In this instance due to a suicide on the line.  So we knew that it would eventually be cleared, but had little indication of when that might be.  The Virgin staff were friendly enough, but had little information to act on.  What they could tell me is that any thoughts of travelling by an alternative route, from Kings Cross, would cost me dearly.  My Virgin ticket was of no use of other routes and I'd have to pay full whack if I decided to take another company's trains.  So I waited and waited, and well over four hours later I got on an overcrowded train.  There was no sense of togetherness, unless you can count mass grumbling about the way we'd been treated.

Which made me think.  Had the railways been privatised when then 1990 storm hit how would I have got home?  Would there have been the spirit of determination and cooperation that existed then?  I doubt it, because it would be "more than my job's worth" for staff to break the rules.  In BR they could make them up as they went along, because this was a public SERVICE.  There are many strong economic and moral arguments for renationalising our rail system, but this is one which rarely gets a mention.  A service which exists to serve the public will respond in times of emergency.  Whilst the private companies will just worry about their profits.  Which is best for the people?

So when will the Labour Party commit to a policy that the majority of us want?  It's about time.

My Top Ten

A MONTH TO REFLECT ON

More than four weeks have passed since the end of Edinburgh Fringe 2013.  In an earlier post I wrote about the first few days of that wonderfully crazy three weeks in which we ended up seeing around fifty five shows plus numerous street acts, exhibitions and general daftness.  It feels like a good time to look back at the list of acts we saw and work out which were my personal top ten moments.

In flipping through the list of events I find some I struggle to remember at all, others that bring a smile of recognition, and a few that provided great moments of pleasure.  With only four immediately falling into that latter category it has taken me a bit of time to decide on which six would make the grade from that big group in the middle.  Maybe if I wrote this again tomorrow it would change, but for now here's my ten most memorable moments of Fringe '13, in no particular order.

In that earlier post I mentioned that we had a few big name acts on our schedule. Whilst they were all good, most weren't quite good enough to make this list.  With one exception. Maybe he hasn't been on the telly as much as some, but he's a star of Radio 4 comedy and has a formidable reputation as a radical political activist and voice speaking out for the rights of oppressed groups and communities.  When Mark Thomas combines that talent for advocacy with his powerful comic instincts, and a stage energy that wraps itself around an audience, the result is as near to genius as gives me no qualms about using such a frequently abused term. 100 Acts of Minor Dissent is an account of his efforts to commit that number of mischief making actions over the course of one year. These range from well organised events, such as bringing an Irish ceilidh band into an Apple store to protest about that company's tax avoidance shenanigans, to the schoolboy silliness of slipping a piece of paper into a bookshop copy of a Dan Brown with the words "the person who bought you this hates you".  Many of his targets are the big businesses which take so much and give little, but he also makes strong points against the minor, joyless conformities of life that take pleasure out of daily living.  The show is now touring the UK and you really, really should go to see it if you get the chance.

My second choice is a bit of a cheat, as it wasn't officially a Fringe show at all, but wouldn't have been what it was without the presence of so many performers in the city.  It once again features the amazing Mr Thomas, this time acting as compere of a stand up show which took place in the street outside the Russian Consulate.  This was a protest against the suppression of LGBT rights under the rule of the homoerotic Putin.  There was an enthusiastic, colourful crowd, a generator powered by two red faced, sweating cyclists and an incredible line-up of top class comedians. Although it's the only time I've seen Susan Calman not be at all funny.  Largely because she cried and sobbed during her brief set, overjoyed that so many people turned up.  You can see footage of the gig here, just so you know what you were missing.  This may turn out to be the only time in my life when I’ll be able to text my wife to say she can find me under the pirate flag next to the transvestite nuns.  But who knows that the future holds?

There's a lot of comedy on this list, but then we did go and see a lot of comedy.  But to introduce some variety my third choice is a one-woman play.  Although it did have a lot of laughs in it.  An antidote to the pervasive RomCom genre, Operation : Love Story is about one woman's efforts to bring a couple together without their being aware of her role.  Her methods are amusing, romantic and, sometimes, scary in an I've-got-a-stalker kind of way. The use of scene cards to break up the storyline works effectively and allows writer/performer Jennifer Williams to constantly revisit and subvert her character's plans.  I hope she'll be back with a new story next year.

Music next.  Well, sort of.  The event was listed under Music in the Fringe brochure, but could just as easily be in Comedy.  Or Legend.  Or National Institution.  Anyone turning up in the hope of hearing virtuoso playing and quality singing would have left bewildered.  For this is the self-proclaimed greatest failure in rock and roll, the unique institution that is John Otway.  He can't really sing.  He's not much of a guitarist.  He looks less of a rock star and more a middle aged man who'll do something embarrassing at a wedding.  He is simply John Otway and there isn't another performer like him.  Whatever category you might try to slot him into he just ends up being an Entertainer.  And Enthusiast.  And Eccentric.  Maybe even Excellent if you were careless about the definition.  The show is just fun from start to finish and is basically an explosion of Otway personality and ego wrapped around songs and stories and antics.  Plus a bit of audience participation.  If you have no clue what I'm talking about then have a look at this and marvel at the chutzpah.  Go see Otway: The Movie if you can.  We did and it's brilliant.  A BAFTA awaits.  Or maybe not.

Music and comedy combine again in my fifth selection.  A Danish Bagpipe Comedian does what it says on the tin.  He's called Claus Reiss, he's from Denmark, he plays the bagpipes and he's a very funny man.  Tall, blonde, very good looking (my wife says) and a striking figure in kilt and waistcoat, he tells tales, plays the occasional tune and uses the bagpipes to illustrate aspects of his stories.  Is the this the only man in the world to use the instrument to impersonate a Wookie?  Some of the stories lacked a decent punchline, but any failings are made up for in his audience interaction.  Even more impressive when you remember English is his second language.  We laughed, we joined in, we came away with a new catch phrase and we had a chat with one of the nicest men you could meet.

How about a lecture next?  Nakedy Nudes treated the audience to a slide show illustrating the history of the nude in art throughout the centuries.  And told us why Australian Hannah Gadsby, who has a degree in fine art, can no longer take the subject seriously.  She began with a fine seventeenth century Italian portrayal of a reclining nude woman, pointed out the finer qualities of how the lady has been depicted, then asked us to concentrate on the background, specifically the top right corner, where two other women appear.  One of them doing something slightly strange.... I won't spoil it for you in case you ever get to see her. Anyway, it's one of those 'you had to be there' moments.  But Gadsby had us creased up with her words, the picture provided a recurring theme throughout the hour, and gave us yet another new catch phrase.  If you sit through her discourse you will never look at classical art in the same way again.  We've never been fans of Medieval and Renaissance religious art, but now that we know what to look for....

Back to the music.  And comedy.  And variety.  My seventh choice is a cabaret act.  Tricity Vogue's Ukelele Cabaret.  And what you get really depends on the night you turn up.  Tricity Vogue is a well established Fringe performer and we enjoyed her solo show of suggestive songs drawn from her apparently extensive love life.  She is very much the guiding star, and compere, of the cabaret set and dominates proceedings.  Just as well, as the quality of the support varies hugely.  Every night there are three different acts, the only qualification being that they must use a ukelele somewhere in their act.  Each does a short set which is voted on by selected members of the audience.  The winner is given the 'Uke of Edinburgh' award which entitles them to deliver a song whilst playing a uke strapped to TV's head. There is a fair bit of audience participation too, with silliness a prime requirement.  On the night we attended there was one group of locals who were fun, but, well, a bit crap. Fortunately both the other acts were hilarious.  Unfortunately I didn't note the name of the (very deserving) winner, because I'd liked to have seen her solo show.  Wearing a dress and white socks like some caricature of a Swiss Miss, she bent the image somewhat with Nana Mouskouri glasses, a teacosy hat and a cod East European accent.  Three strong young lads were selected from the audience and cajoled into holding her aloft while she played her song.  Some face licking was involved.  You had to be there.  And if you were there you couldn't stop laughing.  What a great atmosphere.

Number eight.  Poetry.  We descended to a pub basement to find two guys looking relieved that someone else had turned up.  They needn't have worried because the room was packed when the show began and more kept coming.  I felt compelled to go to this one when I saw the title - That's Not How You Spell Pedantic, a one man show starring  Jim Higo from Hull.  He began by asking if there were any pedants in the audience.  One of those first two guys stuck his hand up.  And my wife pointed at me (it didn't count though, as she used the wrong finger).  There were a couple of disappointingly sexist comments in the show, but if I can be allowed to pass over these then this was a superb way to spend an hour.  If you were middle aged.  Jim's ranting rhymes largely targeted the perceived inanities of an internet and texting dominated society where the spelling and grammar and manners our generation were brought up with are being ignored, to the point where language becomes incomprehensible and ignorance seems to be prized.  We laughed our heads off, while the youngsters in that basement sat stony faced, their world being derided.  I wouldn't want to think that way all the time.  But I knew exactly what he meant.

My ninth is, I feel, a great discovery for us and a man we'll be sure to see in future.  Aidan Goatley works in a pet shop and is a film fan.  He has a relationship with his father in which visible emotions play little part.  Ten Films With My Dad tells the story of how they came to bond through shared visits to movies.  It is often moving and always funny.  There are short film clips used to illustrate the points he makes along the way.  Not from the Hollywood blockbusters - that would have been unaffordable - but ultra low-budget recreations made by Aidan and his mates.  And his dog.  The image of said small canine scampering from the Brighton waves with a shark fin on his back has stayed with ever since.  Mr G had another show running on the Fringe and for various reasons we missed out on seeing it. But he turned up as the final act of a comedy night we attended, performed some of that set we’d failed to see, and was the star of the evening.  In a just world Aidan Goatley would be a big star.

And finally.  Number ten.  One act, three gigs.  We first came across them in the street at the last year's Fringe.  The sound drew us in and wouldn't let go.  We saw their stage show and loved the music and the stories of how they first got together.  This year they were mostly performing on the streets, and we kept missing out on seeing them, but they were scheduled to perform three times in the Tron Kirk.   An old disused church on the Royal Mile, this year it turned into a free music venue, with a bar, pizza, a crazy artist painting a fifteen metre mural, and different musical acts every hour from midday, every day.  We dropped in a few times and usually dropped out just as quickly. T here was some awful stuff going on in there (as a chat with the artist later confirmed - and he was there fourteen hours a day).  People in the seating area generally watched the acts on stage, but there was usually a crowd standing at the bar, talking loudly.  Getting through to that lot took something special.

Mik is a classically trained guitarist, a virtuoso.  Jake comes from a heavy metal rock background.  Together they are The Showhawk Duo and have come up with their very own sound combining their individual strengths.  They have also, we noted one year on, developed into genuine entertainers.  Their musical influences are drawn from many sources.  You get to hear Disney tunes on steroids, Ibiza dance music, Tchaikovsky with a rock rhythm and, my favourite, the Ray Charles classic Hit The Road Jack melding into Paganini and back again.  The lads (still only in their early twenties) are smiley, enthusiastic and keen to interact with their audience.  And just a bit mindblowing to watch.  They mostly play in the Bath/Bristol area, lots of busking and some professional engagements.  Why, oh why, aren't they famous?

We saw all three of their Kirk performances.  Watched an audience, who mostly had no idea what they were about to see, being won over such that each gig ended with a standing ovation.  The last of the three events began with the noisiest crowd at the bar and even they were converted long before the finale.  Here's some footage of the end of that last gig.  Sorry about the sound and video quality, but just feel that atmosphere.  And maybe even see us going crazy in the front row.  That, above all the others in a truly marvelous month, was my favourite moment of Fringe 2013.

Roll on August 2014.

For Bookworms

HAY, HAY, WRITTEN BY MONKEYS?

Give an infinite number of monkeys an infinite number of typewriters and they will produce the works of Shakespeare.  But would they ever manage to produce the works of Hay on Wye?  (And by now wouldn't they be demanding laptops anyway?)

We've been to Hay before. I can’t recall the exact year, but it was probably around '97.  So about fifteen years ago.  Much has changed in that time, not least ourselves.

On our first trip we turned up looking for somewhere to stay and found a B&B with the help of the tourist office.  And what a cracker it was.  I've never forgotten Annie Day and the best cooked breakfast we've ever had.  We can also remember the fun to be had in a town that appeared to be some accommodation built around a load of secondhand bookshops. Not that it had always been thus of course, and my understanding is that the book business took off in the sixties, rapidly building a reputation as the secondhand book capital of the world.  When we went I think there were thirty six distinct bibliophile targets, scattered about this small and ancient town.

I recall arriving in pouring rain, finding our place to stay, eating out in a pub, then spending the next day going round shop after shop, poking about, discovering gems, with no specific agenda.  I doubt we fully realised what we were coming to, the sheer scale of what was on offer.  One shop, The Hay Cinema Bookshop, isn't named as such because it sells movie-related items, but due to its being housed in an old cinema.  It is vast, and one could easily spend a day in there alone.

The other memorable establishment, albeit one that offered nothing we wanted to buy, was a specialist in jigsaws and teddy bears.  I remember standing alongside several of the latter, as tall as myself and twice as wide.  Surreal.

I can't say exactly how many books we came away with, but assuredly it was a substantial haul.  Or what would have been the point?

Since then I've been back to the town once, before last week.  That was for work when I went to the Register Office and fiddled about with their PCs.  No time for book shopping, sadly.  That must have been in 1999 or 2000, and since then the opportunity didn’t arise again.

So we were looking for somewhere to go to celebrate our sixteenth wedding anniversary and up popped a Groupon offer for a hotel just a mile outside of Hay.  A good deal and somewhere we'd always promised ourselves we'd return to.  Why not?

The drive down took about four and a half hours, including a stop for lunch just outside Leominster. Slowish traffic made us take our time, but there's some great scenery on those roads. We parked in Hay and had time to take in a few of the shops on offer.  Well, almost.  The first couple were promising, and I made notes of books I might want to purchase, rather than just buying the first things I saw.  Then we set off to look for Murder and Mayhem, a specialist in crime and detective fiction.  In a small town this should have been a simple matter.  But.

The rain began.  And got heavier, and heavier.  Checking the map became tricky, as it threatened to disintegrate each time I took it out for consultation.  In the end we gave up and made our way to the Cinema Bookshop, somewhere easy to find, close to where the car was parked, and big enough to occupy us for as long as we wished.  Having again noted several possible purchases we got back into the car and headed for the hotel, relaxation and dinner.

By then it was already obvious that Hay had changed considerably since that last visit more than a decade ago. The monkeys still might struggle, but they'd fancy their chances a bit more.  In the mid nineties there were around three dozen bookshops in and around Hay. Now that number has been reduced by about a third (and the weird and wonderful jigsaw and bear emporium has shut down too). There are more 'ordinary' antique shops, and plenty of the ubiquitous charity shops.

On our return the following day something else became more obvious too.  The number of owners has dropped even more dramatically than the number of actual locations.  A lot of the shops seem to belong to little groups.  So Murder and Mayhem was, in effect, the crime department of the shop across the road, which also had an annex in another street.  Nothing wrong with that if it means that the place survives with its reputation intact.  But also somewhat sad that much of the previous anarchy and independence appears to have been throttled out by the demands of capitalism.  Such is life.  At least there isn't a Tesco Books!

In the end we visited about eight of the two dozen available to us, and came away with more than twenty volumes.  Some presents, but mostly for us (well, me) to read.  I did particularly well in the aforementioned crime shop finding ten in there alone (and it could easily have been double that number, but some restraint was required!).  I'd gone armed with a list of new authors I wanted to try out, and of books by those I already enjoyed.  In the end I came away with few of the former, quite a number of the latter, and a sprinkling of writers who are totally new to me, but seemed to provide interesting subjects.  There are novels set in Italy, Ireland, Denmark, Sweden, Iraq, Afghanistan, Chile and Albania. Oh, and Leith. Although around half are crime related there are many more diverse topics including women's rights, and the perils of resistance in a dictatorship.

The Hay shops provide the widest possible scope for every type of reader.  There are shops specialising in Natural History and Transport.  Poetry has its own home, as does Dickens.  Almost matching the vast Cinema shop there is another of near comparable size where you can poke about in the cellar or stroll through high ceiling upper floors. The geography and architecture and ambiance of the place are almost as interesting as the items for sale.

If you love books, go to Hay at least once in your life. I hope it won't be fifteen years before I'm there again.

There's more than one way to be gay

A GAY CROWD?

adjective (dated) light-hearted and carefree (dated) brightly coloured; showy

The dictionary says dated, but after yesterday I'm not so sure.  Of course the more familiar modern usage of the word is

(of a person, especially a man) homosexual

and that certainly applied at the event I’m discussing here.  But if I take with me anything from the assembly I joined, then light hearted and carefree would be right up there.

This was essentially a political demonstration, an act of solidarity and protest, an opportunity to stand up for human rights. It took place outside the Russian Consulate in Melville Street, Edinburgh, and like many other related events and articles around the world, was organised in response to the current, vicious crackdown on LGBT rights by the Russian government of Vladimir Putin.

Anyone who's read my recent blog entries will be aware that for much of the last three weeks I have given myself up wholeheartedly to the pursuit of pleasure at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe.  Light hearted and carefree indeed.  As the end approaches on the coming bank holiday Monday I will have been to over fifty shows, events, gigs, whatever. So I haven't had a lot of time to follow news coverage.  But even living in this hedonistic bubble it's been impossible not to take heed of the regressively aggressive behaviour emanating from Moscow.  It makes even the disgusting Section 28 practices of the Thatcher era look mild by comparison.

Not that the battle in the UK can be regarded as over.  Blair might have repealed that evil legislation, but under the current Tories it appears to be making an appearance from under the carpet where it had been swept away.  Read this item from The Independent if you want to see what I mean.  No surprise there when you see the attacks being made on other groups in society.  Cameron's gay marriage legislation is the verdant tree line concealing the bitter swamp of Conservative homophobia, much as I'd already suspected.

So any fight for gay rights is part of an ongoing worldwide conflict.  If we stand by and ignore what takes place in Russia it may be taken as a sign that similar behaviour will receive passive assent in our own society.  Not only are increasingly repressive laws being implemented (see this piece from the Los Angeles Times for a flavour of what is taking place), but the rule of law itself is being assaulted. Russian police turn their backs whilst right wing thugs hand out beatings to gay activists.

Fronted by the wonderful comedian and activist Mark Thomas, yesterday's protest brought together around three hundred people to voice their opposition to what the Putin regime is doing/allowing, primarily through the medium of laughter.  Mr Thomas had assembled a cracking line-up of his fellow comics, including high profile names like Zoe Lyons and Stephen K Amos.  We laughed, we cheered, we mocked a man who strips to the waist, wrestles a bear and then acts like he hates gays....

It was certainly a disparate crowd, and the first time I've been able to tell my wife she can find me under the pirate flag being waved by the transvestite nuns.  I don't think that's a line I'll get to use too often (and this has now become her favourite ever text message).   There were, for obvious reasons, a high percentage of LGBT people making up the numbers, but there were plenty of us straights there too.  Gay Pride was mentioned, but what struck me most about this crowd was how much it also reflected those dated definitions I started this piece with.  Despite the very serious motives behind the gathering, and the genuine and rightful anger being expressed, this was one of the most carefree throngs I've ever been a part of.  Everyone smiled at everyone else, just happy to see the numbers who'd turned up to offer their support, whatever their motivation in doing so (and I'd confess that getting a chance to hear some great comedians for free was a strong incentive - I am Scottish after all).

Forget the Gay Pride tag - this was Human Pride (totally different to Mother's Pride, now that really is disgusting....). A recognition of the diversity of humanity and the importance of each individual being treated and valued equally and fairly. It might not have been seen to achieve much  in concrete political terms, although it really is the case that 'every little helps', but it was both one more small brick in a vast Lego puzzle and a very human marker of hope.  I doubt that one single person there today (and, judging from their expressions, that may well include many of the police who were there to make the event safe) will forget the message that they were a part of.  This is one event of Fringe 2013 that will stay with me for a long long time.

Young Bands, Old Fans

GREAT, WE'VE GOT NEW FANS.....OLD ONES

In the last two days we've seen two of our favourite bands, both of whom we only discovered in the last twelve months.  They might not be quite in the class of the mighty Lau (who is?), but both offer something different musically and are great live performers.  More to the point they are both acts who, having first heard them live, offer CDs which don't then disappoint.  This isn’t often the case with street acts (which one of these favourites most certainly are).  The live performance is exciting and attractive then the hard copy turns out to be flat and derivative.  That's happened a few times....

I can't recall which of them we saw first, as both were Festival discoveries last year.  Let's go with today's candidates initially, because they were in their proper form when first viewed.  That will make more sense when I move on to the second of my choices later!

There are a lot of musicians and bands busking in Edinburgh throughout the summer, but that number increases exponentially in August when the potential audiences are so much the greater.  It's said that around two million people pass through the city, which has a bit more than half a million inhabitants, during the festival month. And the vast majority of them are looking to be entertained, hoping to see something new, original, exciting.  The Spinning Blowfish meet all these criteria.

The line up of instruments isn't especially different.  You can see many similar.  There's a drummer, a guitarist, and a piper (Highland bagpipes, requiring a bit of puff rather than a strong elbow).  They play some traditional Scots tunes, plus a few of their own compositions, and there’s an EP for sale, five tracks for five pounds.  And their sets usually last around half an hour.  So far, so conventional.

So what marks them out?  There are two things that strike the observer immediately, and one more that becomes apparent when they introduce themselves.  Most immediate is the music itself, or, more specifically, the arrangements.  They are obviously highly competent musicians, but there is imagination at work here.  To be able to present 'Scotland the Brave', one of the most hackneyed tunes in the nation's 'popular' repertoire, in a manner that makes it sound fresh and interesting is some achievement.  Then there is the performance.  The guitarist and piper pogo in formation, spin around whilst playing.  They are obviously enjoying themselves and this communicates itself to their motley audience.  Once you start watching you have to stay.  And they get the crowd involved.  The patter is amusing, at times both corny and surreal, and gets all before them clapping along and cheering, attracting further observers.  This is a proper 'live' act.

The guitarist’s accent gives a hint of the other unusual aspect of this band.  They're from the three 'M's.  The drummer from Madrid.  Our amusing guitarist (and banjo player) from Milan.  And, completing the exotic line up, a piper from Musselburgh (a wee town on the north eastern edge of Edinburgh).  An international line up.  I'll enjoy them while I can and hope they get discovered soon.  They deserve so much more.

Our second discovery was even more accidental.  At last year's festival the bandstand in Princes Street Gardens was reactivated during the month to provide a showcase for local bands.  There were allsorts, from school choirs through to heavy metal via chamber quartets, pipe bands and folkies.  We checked it out as often as possible and found a couple of bands that caught our ears.  One was another bagpipe fronted ensemble, Pipedown.  The other more of a pop/rock outfit who had a lead singer we particularly liked.  They went by the excellent name of Flatpack Society.  On a couple of the occasions we saw them they opened up with a guest female vocalist who came from a band called Jules and the Blue Garnets.  She had a fabulous, truly wonderful, voice, but we only got to hear about four numbers from her.  Pity.

Earlier this year we went to a local folk club and enjoyed the support act.  One Jules and the Blue Garnets.  The same amazing voice accompanied by the lead guitarist and percussionist from Flatpack.  And they were great.  Original songs, clever arrangements, and that sensational voice.   (Maybe every bit as good as Emily Smith?)  After their set I went over to say how much I'd enjoyed the performance and bought their eight track CD.  Which has since had a fair bit of play in the Crawford household and we have learned to sing along (off key) with all the songs.

So when there was a chance to see them again yesterday we grabbed it enthusiastically.  It meant a trip along the coast to North Berwick, but as that's an old haunt of mine, with many memories, it was no hardship.  A lovely sunny day, the seaside and a Speigeltent.  The support band were competent and enjoyable.  Jules and co were superb, relaxed and confident, and the songs beautifully delivered.  This was home territory for them as they hail from the little holiday town, and they had a good audience, including several from Jules' family.  The performance was definitely worth the trip for us, with a high grin factor, and it was a shame we had to rush off afterwards to get to a Fringe gig back in the city.

It was seeing the aforementioned family members that brought back to mind a thought I've had several times in the past.  We love discovering new music, finding contemporary bands and musicians we enjoy to add to the list of those who've been going for decades.  But sometimes I wonder how the bands feel?  Is there a bit of good news/bad news going on?

Great, we've got a couple of new fans, people who obviously appreciate what we're doing and get a lot of pleasure from our work.  But.  They're probably older than our parents.  Not much street cred in that, is there?  How did we end up attracting oldies?

I hope not.  Whilst in no way wanting to make a comparison with the great man, I doubt many young bands were offended by interest from pensioner John Peel in his later years.  Good music is good music.  Are good fans just good fans, whatever their age?  The disparaging term 'political correctness' is much abused, but actually represents a steady pushing back of the boundaries of bigotry.  Racism, misogyny, homophobia etc, remain forces which need to be resisted, but the war against them is fighting from much higher ground than it did thirty years ago.  (Although sometimes Twitter suggests otherwise....)  But ageism remains a thing which has yet to gain the recognition of its fellows.  Perhaps because it's only something you can notice once you pass fifty or so?

So how do young bands view older fans?  They're polite of course, but what are they really thinking?  It's an odd situation to find yourself in, where you want to give your support and can't be sure how well it will be received.  But I'm an optimist.  They're musicians and all they see are music lovers.  I'll settle for that.

Fringing onwards and upwards

WE LAUGHED

So, how to approach three weeks at the Fringe on a tight budget and still have fun?  One part of the answer is, and I say this utterly shamefaced, to deploy some of the old project management skills.  Enjoying yourself can be a serious business.

We have a few events booked well in advance.  A couple of big names just so we're not totally missing out on the glamour of it all, and some interesting stuff we've not seen before. And if you take on the seen-on-TV faces early on there are two-for-one deals to be had. Then there's the BBC.  We entered the lottery for free tickets to a variety of radio broadcast and recording events and got lucky with four of them.  Put those two approaches together and we have a succession of fixed points spread across the month.

Now to fill in the gaps.  Of course there are a lot of street acts and you could spend hours taking in the entertainment they offer. If it stays dry.  But there are only so many fire-eating, unicycling jugglers one person can watch.  Believe me.  It doesn't take long for "Is that all you've got" syndrome to develop.  This is a world in which seeing a gorilla, two pandas, a Viking and a multi coloured train of Japanese drummers, all in the space of ten minutes, isn't even worthy of discussion. They’re just what you'll see.  And they'll all stuff fliers into your mitts.

There are always half price and two for one offers.  The former depends on your fondness for queuing, the latter on being sharp to what's hitting the internet.  Better to get on with enjoying yourself.  Then there are the Free Festivals.  Free to get in that is, pay what you think it's worth on the way out. These suffer from accusations of poor quality, may have very small audiences (with accompanying embarrassment factor for all concerned), and are stuck away in many tiny and obscure venues.  Which, if my memories of the seventies have any validity, is exactly what the Fringe is all about.  It's almost the whole point.  That you go to see something based on a brief description and a lot of hope and just see what happens. You'll see some s**t, some mediocre stuff, and a few performances of high quality and sometimes near-genius.  A bit like life really.  (I can't believe I just wrote that.)

So the last three days have seen a mix of these approaches. And bloody good it's been too. On Monday there was a Free Festival offering from Tricity Vogue. One woman, a ukelele, and eyelashes that threatened to lift marshmallows out of the hands of the back row of the audience.  Original songs based on her calamitous love life, complete with sexual shennanigans and bitterest venom directed at exes.  We laughed, we cringed, we drank alcohol.  We found an hour had passed and we had had a good time.  Which was kind of the point really.

Then one of those TV faces, albeit not for the hip crowd.  Unless contemplating hip replacement.  A decidedly middle aged audience watched the emphatically middle aged Jenny Eclair.  Fart gags and a whole lot more.  The perils of middle agedom for women covering the full range of sagging, aching and unwanted pissing.  It was hilarious throughout and Ms Eclair demonstrated surprising mobility for one with knees like those she insisted on displaying to us, her paying public.  Go see her, even if you're not a MAW.  I'm not, and yet I knew all the signs.  No comments required thank you.

Want hip?  Want a TV face?  We did Ed Byrne last night.  Actually he's a forty one year old, happily married father of two.  But he is on the telly and, unlike some similar I've seen in the past, didn't disappoint.  He reckons that now he's supposed to be a respectable family man he keeps being overcome with the urge to act like the dick he was in his teens and early twenties.  And, since that offers a pretty good source of comic material, he does.  So we heard about his incessant need to play air guitar (and drums, and sax, and.... you get the idea) despite it's high irritation factor for his wife.  And his intolerance of people he knows he's never going to like and can't be bothered being polite to.  There were some decent rants.  Politicians received some ire, with the best diatribe of the evening was reserved, deservedly, for the odious and oleaginous Gideon.  When he digressed to the Olympics I'm surprised he left out the greatest highlight of that triumph - 80,000 people spontaneously booing the obnoxious Osborne.  So I'll mention it for him.  But Ed did a great job of keeping a big audience on his side and if you get the chance to see him then take it.

Today was all about Free Festival gigs for us so you'd expect it would fail to burn laid in the shadow of Mr Byrne strutting his stuff.  Not so, this was about as diverting a day as I could wish for. Three shows, all unlike not only each other but so much else that's around.  First up was Gusset Grippers, a comedy lecture on how to stave off incontinence using pelvic floor exercises.  Yes, you did read that right.  It featured real science, a model of a pelvis, sex toys and a knitted vagina with a Swarovski clitoris.  And, believe it or not, genuinely useful health advice, for men too.  Since it turns out that following the proffered tips can not only prevent you pishing yourself but also improve your sex life (although I'd have thought the latter would automatically follow on from the former?) this show should really be selling itself.  I think I'm not risking much to say that there probably isn't another show like it this year....

10 Films With My Dad was another step into the unknown.  I'd never heard of Aidan Goatley, but I do want to see him again.  With a mix of audiovisual and stand-up material (plus, on screen, the cutest, smartest dog since The Artist, especially when equipped with a shark's fin) Mr G outlined the way his relationship with his father was largely determined by shared visits to the cinema. Funny, sad, touching and, best of all, often genuinely stupid. He's got a great way of interacting with his audience and I am now a fan.

Finally, a Free Festival TV Face. In disguise. Porky the Poet, aka Phil Jupitus. Fat, scruffy bugger. Fat, funny bugger, with some decent poems and a fine delivering voice. All for fun. Shared with two lovely Welsh ladies who both had an amazing way with words and some pointed observations on the world, especially the beauty "industry". Might go back another time.

On to a bus heading home. Only to catch a glimpse of street-band Spinning Blowfish, a favourite of ours since we saw them last year.  Who could resist a bagpiper who plays whilst pogoing?  Or an international line-up from Madrid, Milan and, em, Musselburgh? We dismounted, caught the last half of their set, and rebussed ourselves. Happy homecoming.

Only nineteen days to go.

Entertain me please

AND SO IT BEGINS

If you've never been to Edinburgh, indeed if you've never been in the Athens of the North during Festival time, then the following isn't going to mean a lot to you so I'd turn over to another channel immediately.  There must be something better on than this rubbish.

We arrived after midnight so today is most certainly the first of our Fringe 2013.  There is much more to come.  It was planned as a day of rest after the journey and our first pre-booked tickets are for tomorrow and the queen of middle aged comedy, Jenny Eclaire.  But it would seem churlish not to venture up into the city for a brief visit and check out the atmosphere.  So I walked up the hill whilst Barbara took the bus.

Which immediately makes me sound antisocial.  Nonsense.  I'm just mean.  If I walk it saves £1.50 (hey, we're pensioners....) and I can pretend I'm getting fit.  Anyway, she had important things to do while I was ready to leave (fried egg sandwiches rate high in importance in our household).  

So we met up at the Lothian Buses office of Waverley Bridge.  Yes, I know this sounds just like a scene from Casablanca, but there was practical motive for this romantic assignation.  Bus passes.  I think Byron once wrote some lines on the subject.

And so we made our lovers' tryst and had our photos taken for our ridacards (I now think I may have been mistaken about Byron - perhaps it was James Blunt?).  The Fringe is all about merriment, entertainment and the search for meaning in life.  You may wonder how two bus passes can encompass such noble goals, but the depths were indeed plumbed.  You know those Greek masks reflecting comedy and tragedy?  That's our photo ids.  I daren't say any more, but I'm the comedy one.

And so up to the hub of Fringe life, the High Street, where if you aren't a performer you wonder how you there was space for you to be there.  And, on cue, my first sighting of the ubiquitous fire-eating, unicyling juggler.  In Edinburgh, in August?  Yawns all round.

There was also a purpose to this journey and a visit to the main Fringe office produced a three foot run of tickets, a lizard tail of artists and venues to occupy our time in coming days.  But that was but a brief interlude in circumnavigating the hordes.  Along the way was a helmeted man with a dinosaur tail; a Japanese troupe of musicians dressed from a fire sale in TK Maxx; an American guitarist who appeared to have at least sixteen fingers; a country music fiddler/one man band with the controls of his drum gaffer taped to his right foot; and a kilted gent propelled by a furious zimmer frame.  A fairly typical sample of Fringe fare really.  So far so normal.

But there was a shock.  I went from Cockburn Street to George IV Bridge (Google it if you've no idea what I'm on about), passed countless acts, and not one flier was thrust into my mitts.  Not one.  Que?

It will change.  There is an early days atmosphere, a sense of youthful optimism and no hint of the stench of failure.  None of the many performers present have yet suffered ten nights of single figure audiences.  Yet. Their dreams remain intact.  There is hope and enthusiasm in abundance, they are friendly and accommodating, they are looking at a glorious run ahead of them as word of their triumph ("triumph") spreads like botulism though the masses.  How times will change.

I await the coming day, not so far off now, when those same faces will approach me with a manic hint of desperation, a desire to please, debilitate, and kidnap combined in a sly glance, the need to relieve themselves of those tiny bits of paper and cardboard that define their future.  There's no better time to be a potential audience member....

We did take in a show.  We had to make a start somewhere and there was something in the Free Festival starting in less than ten minutes.

Forget the cynicism.  There is no substitute for live entertainment, even if not of the highest quality.  We so easily become blasé about the way in which we interact with performers when they are delivered to us through a glass screen.  But these are real human beings, doing their best to present themselves, through comedy, music, drama or whatever medium, to the people who have come to watch.  This is real communication, none of that electronic nonsense.

So we found ourselves watching Pam Ford in a show called Happy In My Skin.  And it was OK.  Not brilliant, not awful, but good enough to make me feel I'm glad we made the effort to go.   It was, by and large, about her life, and how various people along the way had made her feel bad about the person she appeared to be.  So there was a moral of sorts.  Value yourself for the good bits of who you are, not for how other people see you.  (I'm old enough, indeed a lot older than Pam, to have figured that one out some time ago, but it's good to seeing others do so and spread the word.)  There were laughs.  She was likeable.  We had fun.  And that's enough.  It doesn't have to be constantly hilarious, or philosophically earth shattering.  It just needs to be human to human contact, a rare enough thing at times.  That's what we're here for.  And that was a good beginning.

(If you are coming to the Fringe Pam's on at Espionage and is worth an hour of your time.)

Only three weeks to go....

Panic? Who? Me?

THE LATE BLYTH CRAWFORD

I have a hatred of being late.  For anything. To the point where I exhibit symptoms of panic if I feel I'm not going to be on time for something. Which makes for some interesting moments when you live with someone who is a bit more relaxed on the subject of timekeeping and you are depending on them to keep your own fears at bay. How did I get to be like this?

It would be simple to blame my mother. So I will. She ingrained good timekeeping practice into me from an early age. This was someone who was, in her own way, so self effacing she'd always put herself out so as not to inflict any minor discomfort or annoyance on others (and then moan about them afterwards). She had, I suppose, a low sense of self worth and sought to stay in the background most of the time. Which might explain her total failure to understand of my desire to get up on a stage and perform in front of strangers. But that's another story.

Prime among her minor phobias was this fear of inconveniencing anyone by being even a minute late for any kind of appointment, be it with a doctor or an old friend. Of course these things did matter more in the old world. That one that didn't have mobile phones in it. Then you often made arrangements several days ahead of the actual event and there was no more communication on the matter. You turned up at the agreed time and place with only plague, flood or an attack from alien zombies being acceptable excuses for lateness.

And that was perfectly good and proper. If you didn't turn up when you said you would then the other poor sod, more punctual than you, had to stand around like a lemon with no means of finding out what the cause of the delay was. (I say standing because that seemed to be another forgotten feature of the society that once was - you arranged to meet people outside of places and not in them, a not entirely sensible policy in our rain drenched climate. Was it a fear of having to spend money?) That, at least when meeting friends, is no longer the case. And yet I still hate the idea that I might be the one to hold things up. That imbued self-effacement lives on in me somewhere.

It's different if the time being aimed for is for something more formal. An appointment at the dentist maybe. Professional people have schedules to keep, and if you delay them it's not so much the impact on that person themself as the possible knock on into the lives of others who are waiting to see them. Of course they will have contingency built into their timetables, if they have any sense, but you are never aware of how much.

I think my greatest fear is of being late for performances. Concerts, gigs, plays, films. Whatever it is I want to be there early. There are several good reasons for this (he says in preparation of defending the semi-indefensible) even if I know it's that maternal legacy providing the underlying driver.

Consideration for others. Not a fashionable approach it seems, although it still has some life in it. The old adage that you should treat others as you would want to be treated yourself. Which only works if everyone is the same. But not everybody cares. Nonetheless I know how much I hate it when people barge their way into an audience once a performance has begun. (These are the occasions when I have to speak sternly to my inner reactionary, that querulous voice that is but one Daily Fail article away from shouting that hanging's too good for these people....) It's irritating at best, and can entirely spoil the evening at worst (if you end up missing a critical turning point in a plot). It's one thing at a folk gig, another entirely at a theatre (where I'd happily have late entrants banned until the interval, as happened once upon a time). The only time it may be welcome is at the sort of stand up where the on stage talent will take the piss out of latecomers without mercy. Now there’s a custom which could be employed more widely in life.

Then there's my pretentious, lovey side. I've been a performer (darling) and know what it’s like to have to put up with disturbances in the auditorium due to late entrants. If you're a comedian and armed to ad lib then it's just more material. If you're delivering a carefully scripted and directed ensemble piece then it's a pain in the arse and can potentially ruin the flow of the actors (lovey). I don't want to be the one who's responsible for 'that' moment. Thanks Mum.

None of which excuses the state I get myself into sometimes. If I've stated a time to leave the house by then it's been thought through, carefully calculated. And then had a whopping great slice of contingency and anti-panic time inserted for my own peace of mind. Which nonetheless will often translate into just-in-time, or worse. One of the worst feelings on earth is being sat on the top desk of a bus, able to see the stationary traffic laid out before you like a time-sucking chastity belt. You know where you want to be and that there's no way to influence events to get you there. Aaaargh!

So I get a bit of a sweat on. Maybe a mild tremor. The foot jiggles as if directed by a puppet master with Parkinson's. The voice rises a fraction in pitch and delivers a load of bollocks. Either statements of the bleeding obvious, or rants against the universe in general, or possibly describing the mother of the driver of the car that's inexplicably blocking the junction ahead. Rational doesn't stand a chance.

It's the same with going for trains. Or planes. Or the cheap deal in the restaurant. Worse still, the genuine uncertainty of the unallocated ticket, where you don't know how early you need to arrive to get THAT seat. Well, one with a decent view anyway.

There is no cure. I am condemned to a life of perpetual time anxiety. If only I could just relax and enjoy it....