Growing Old Without Dignity

Punky Rennie has moved house

2007-08-01T19:22:00.000Z

Dear Readers,

I have been posting this blog on another site as well as this for some time now. I have now decided to blog exclusively on the other site for various reasons, so if you are a regular on this site, you will still be able to read my blogs at:

http://punkyrennie.wordpress.com

I sincerely apologise to Blogger and it wasn't an easy decision.

The Death of a Camera

2007-07-28T21:40:00.000Z

On 19th July 2007 at 1.08pm exactly, my camera died. It was a Samsung Digimax 430 - 4 million Mega Pixels, with a viewfinder, lots of zoom and small-ish LCD screen. I was heartbroken.

We were on holiday in the New Forest and we had gone for a drive along the coast south of where we were staying. I had seen the Isle of Wight across the Solent (bringing back happy memories for me, mainly having my ears pierced the day before my 14th Birthday against my mother's wishes) and I wanted to take a photograph. We parked up and the two girls went to look for a beach so they could paddle (it was freezing so I have no idea why they would want to). I took the picture below:

Then I checked it and zoomed in on the Needles to see if they were visible (they're very faint and to the right of the Island in the photo). Then I turned the camera off. It started to retract its lens and then beeped 4 times at me and got stuck.

No problem, I changed the batteries (for once I had come prepared and I had some freshly recharged ones with me). I turned the camera on and it beeped at me 4 times and turned off but did not retract its lens. I repeated the procedure more in hope than expectation a couple times more and then set off after my husband, who had walked down the beach, to see if he could do anything. He couldn't, to my dismay, so I put it and its half-retracted lens back in its case and fought back the tears.

I got this camera for Christmas in 2004. I'm pretty sure the first picture I took with it was of my younger daughter, Bobbie. I took it at 8.15 on Christmas Day 2004. She's stuffing her face with toasted Milk Roll and Jam. It's a family Yuletide tradition, you see (toasted Milk Roll and Jam, not taking pictures). The camera did me good service and I've taken loads of photos with it since, some of which I've uploaded onto my blogs. Now it's broken and I don't know if it can be fixed. It is a bit like losing an old friend but, unlike old friends who are lost and now departed (Jimmy Ruffin reference there) the camera could be replaced. My family were a bit apprehensive about buying a new one but when they realised I was going to sulk for the rest of the holiday if I didn't get a new one, we went off in search of one and I got a brand new Samsung Digimax S630 - no viewfinder but a whopping 2.5cm LCD display, 6 million Mega Pixels, plenty of zoom and lots of other things that I haven't worked out yet.

So to paraphrase a not particularly common phrase:

"The Camera is dead: Long live the Camera"

and here's a photo I took with the new one. I used the macro setting (which was on the old one but never seemed to produce anything quite like this) and I took it in the Eden Project on Thursday.

Talking Machines and Mad Scientists

2007-07-12T06:04:00.000Z

I have a problem. Actually, I have lots of problems but one particular one is bothering me at the moment: machines that talk to me. Now, I'm not going to include Stephen W Hawking in this category of things that bother me. He's not a machine, for a start, and he needs his talking computer (and it would be hilarious if somebody reprogrammed it to talk like Yoda - something I once heard in a Radio comedy program) and the world would be a much poorer place without him. No, what really scares me is things like lifts and pay on foot machines that talk to me.

I think this thing goes back a fair few years for me. I've had a horror of human bits being transplanted into machines for some time now. There is a science fiction novel I read years ago called Karma, where a blind man is given the opportunity to get his sight back and then has his brain transplanted into a guided missile. He can see then, but it is not quite what he was expecting. I found that particularly disturbing. Then there is the Doctor Who episode, I think it is Revelation of the Daleks where the daleks transplant a man's head into a new super-dalek. That made me jump too. I even find Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends mildly distasteful.

But talking machines are a double-edged sword. Yes, there is the remote possibility that some mad scientist has transplanted the brain and vocal chords of some poor sap into the pay on foot machines at our local car park on the promise of restoring his/her sight but these machines also make me feel decidedly schizophrenic. My brother-in-law is schizophrenic and he hears voices. Four to be precise and they are very balanced. Two say good things about him and two say bad things. The nasty ones talk more, which is a shame because he's a great bloke and I think the world of him. He knows that they don't exist but they really distract him from daily life and make conversations with him interesting, if not positively challenging.

These machines sometimes feel like voices in my head and I often want to answer back. When the car park machine says "Please insert money", I get the urge to say "Hold your horses, I haven't even got my wallet out of my bag yet! You should try getting my wallet out of my bag, it's not easy you know." When the lift says, "Doors closing," I want to shout "I know! Leave me alone!" and then cower in a corner, trying to block out this mad world. It might perhaps be a little easier for me if the lifts imitated the ones in Are you being served? and said "Going up!" in a friendly voice but then again, maybe not. I really don't know how the machines in the car park could improve their service. Probably, the only way would be to shut up.

My Life in Music, Part 2

2007-07-03T06:39:00.000Z

My disillusionment with Pop/Rock lasted some time but in the late 90's I became aware of Indy music and decided it was time to try listening again. I was bought Shine 3 as a Christmas present. The tracks that stood out for me then were Marvellous by the Lightning Seeds, What do I do Now? by Sleeper and Angel Interceptor by Ash. Shortly after that I got Shine 1 and heard Green Day for the first time. It was probably the best Green Day track I could have heard for my first taste of modern punk, Welcome to Paradise. It was fresh, energetic and, most of all, punky. I loved it.

At roughly the same time, we got a Playstation 1 and bought Tony Hawk 2 for our son, Harry. This game had a great soundtrack including You by Bad Religion - again modern and punky. Every time I went into a games shop, I would hear this track. A Sega Dreamcast game would be on and the song started with a "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah..." I loved it and asked my son what the song was. I told him it was on the Crazy Taxi soundtrack and sang a bit of it. He told me it was by The Offspring, a West Coast punk band. He then borrowed the CD Ixnay on the Hombre from one of his friends for me. I made a tape of the CD and listened to it endlessly. My favourite tracks were Gone Away and Amazed.

My children were by now developing their own tastes in music. My son was tending further and further towards Metal and Prog and my older daughter was listening to Nu-Metal: Linkin Park, Slipknot, Rammstein, Limp Bizkit. I found myself liking songs like Wait and Bleed by Slipknot, Sonne by Rammstein, One Step Closer by Linkin Park and preferably as loud as my eardrums could take.

I had started going to gigs again. First off, it was Bob Dylan at the Sheffield Arena in 2000. I can remember waiting for him to come on stage but thinking that the longer it took for him to come on, the longer it would be before the gig ended and I really did not want it to end. He was fantastic even though he was nearly 60. My feet were freezing because we were sat in the Arena itself but I loved the gig. There was a good mix of people there too, from their late teens to late middle age.

In early 2003, I took my two daughters and two of their friends to see Inme. I tagged along because I was worried about the two girls, who were 14 and 12. I did not expect to like the band. I had heard a few of their songs, including Underdose, and had not been impressed. Inme were fantastic live and I had a great time. They managed to make so much noise for a 3-piece and the noise was good. I didn't even mind being the oldest person there. I felt alive again.

In 2004, went to see Yes at the MEN Arena with my husband, son and his friend. This was a similar experience to seeing Bob Dylan, although I did not know as many songs. Again, I really enjoyed myself but I realised that I far preferred the smaller venues.

I was now finally listening to Rock music again and I particularly liked The Foo Fighters. I first saw them on Kerrang! Television. It was the video for Big Me. Melody and humour in one video. I liked it. A little later, I saw The One from the Orange County soundtrack on the same TV Station. This time I was hooked. I think it was the tear falling down Dave Grohl's face at the end of the video that did it for me. I bought the single version of One By One because it had The One on it. It also had a great version of Danny Says by the Ramones. That Christmas I got All My Life by the Foo Fighters and Nirvana's Greatest Hits. I had already heard Smells Like Teen Spirit and Come As You Are but most of the rest of the tracks on the CD were completely new for me. It was like hearing a child playing really well in a school concert. These bands were the heirs to the music I had liked as a Teenager and they were worthy heirs indeed.

I continued to listen to what I considered to be modern music: At the Drive In, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and one of my favourites Alice in Chains. I also started listening to The Ramones and other bands from the past.

On 14 December 2005, I saw the Foo Fighters at the MEN Arena. I went with my older daughter, Charlie, her friend Emma and my friend and colleague, Natalie. I had rung the ticket line as soon as the tickets went on sale and had finally managed to get through 25 minutes later. All the standing tickets had gone and we were going to be right at the top of the 2nd tier of seats. I didn't mind, I was going to see my heroes live. The gig was fantastic, even though it was like watching Foo Fighter shaped ants performing miles away. A defining moment of the gig was when they went into The One and Charlie and I looked at each other and screamed. It was a miniature bonding session for the two of us. I spent over £100 in the merchandise shop too. I really do like the Foos.

In late 2005, I rediscovered Punk. We finally went online at home and suddenly a whole world was out there for me. I discovered that my old friends, The Straps, had reformed and were gigging again, mainly in London and the South East. The Buzzcocks and Stiff Little Fingers were still playing and I got tickets to see both bands. First it was The Buzzcocks at Manchester Academy. They were supported by Gear, who I thought were great. After that, it was Stiff Little Fingers at 53 Degrees in Preston, supported by Goldblade. I have written about Goldblade since but that gig was the beginning of my love affair with the band.

In August, I went to Wasted in Blackpool and saw bands I hadn't seen in years, including The UK Subs and finally, after many years, The Straps. Seeing the Straps on the Friday night was a really special moment for me, especially when Jock came out to the audience and shook hands with various members of the audience, including me. I saw bands I hadn't heard of too: Outl4w, a young 4 piece from around here, who are fabulous, Viva Las Vegas, who do punk Elvis Covers, Argy Bargy, Deadline and bands I had heard of but had not seen: 999, The Damned, The Cockney Rejects. I saw TV Smith play Gary Gilmore's Eyes on the acoustic stage (yes, they had an acoustic stage at Wasted). I met old friends, like Dave from the Straps, and new ones. It was a great time and a life-changing experience for me. I felt like my life had gone full circle.

After Wasted, I started going to gigs again. I have seen Goldblade 5 times now, which isn't bad for a space of 14 months. I have seen The Rejects again and Deadline, The Damned, Anti Nowhere League (who I missed at Wasted because they clashed with The Cockney Rejects), the Buzzcocks again and most recently, Goldblade and Anti Nowhere League in Amsterdam. I am going to Rebellion in Blackpool in August and hopefully Anti Nowhere League in Manchester in October.

This was the end of my original blog about my life in music but, as I said before, things have moved on. Last September, I went to see Kate Rusby, a folk singer, with my husband. She was very good indeed but I was in my second honeymoon period with punk and so it did not really register that strongly. In April this year, though, I joined a Border Morris Team. I have since soaked up folk music and tradition. Suddenly, my interest in Kate Rusby and old favourites like Steeleye Span has grown again. I haven't lost interest in punk at all - I keep saying I'm going to form a Punk Morris team - and I know it would work, the music would adapt so well to Morris dancing (it would have to be Border Morris, I couldn't imagine punks waving hankies around). Punk and Morris, that's me at the moment.

So that's my life in music. There is plenty I have left out, including Lindisfarne, Supertramp, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Dave Edmunds, Robert Palmer and many others. I frequently finish my blogs with a video and this one will be no exception. There is one video and one alone that I can possibly put on this blog and it is The One by The Foo Fighters. Enjoy.

My Life in Music, Part 1

2007-06-30T20:51:00.000Z

A while ago, I posted a blog on one of my MySpace Profiles. It was an early effort but I was proud of it at the time. My original idea here, was to re-post it on this blog but then I thought better of it. My life has moved on in the intervening time and there is more music that is meaningful to me. I might even be able to do some cleverer stuff with this blog, for instance videos, so I decided to start from scratch, well scratch-ish.

So back to my earliest memories. I have really vague memories of a song called Arabella or Anabella but I have never been able to trace it, so it may be a figment of my childish imagination. I also seem to remember a song, which might have been sung by Frank Sinatra and had something to do with changing the world but again, I have been unable to trace it, despite feverish Google searches. If there is anybody out there who knows what I am on about, please put me out of my misery. I need to know what these songs are

The first songs I remember that I can positively identify are Blackberry Way by the Move and Daydream Believer by the Monkees. Daydream Believer was released in 1967, when I was four and Blackberry Way in 1968, when I was five. We owned 7" singles of both of them and I sang along to them from an early age. Our vinyl Blackberry Way was warped, which led to a rather strange warbling sound during the chorus. It would sound like Roy Wood was singing "Goodbye Blackberry Wa-a-a-a-a-a-ay", with the pitch wavering during the word "Way". For years I thought that that was how it was supposed to sound and even now my CD version sounds all wrong. Ah the delights of vinyl.

My father had a reel to reel tape recorder and he recorded a tape of practically all the Beatles songs. I was not particularly technophobic and the machine held no fears for me, so I would often play the tape for my own delectation and delight. I learnt most of the Beatles songs by heart and learnt to sing in harmony from singing along. I tended to prefer the earlier songs when I was younger and would favour that part of the tape. Now, this is embarrassing for me but I'm feeling a bit confessional at the moment. I used to have two dolls, cheap versions of Sindy or Barbie. I cut the hair on one and turned her into a boy (an early gender reassignment experiment for me). I used to enact I Saw Her Standing There with the two dolls (now, that wasn't so painful after all, was it? Well, actually, it was). Here are the lyrics. You will have to just imagine a young (7 or 8 year old) Punky Rennie with the two dolls. Just to help, he had short brown hair and she had blond hair and her head would come off very easily indeed.

Well, she was just 17,
You know what I mean,
And the way she looked was way beyond compare.
So how could I dance with another (ooh)
And I saw her standin' there.

Well she looked at me, and I, I could see
That before too long I'd fall in love with her.
She wouldn't dance with another (whooh)
And I saw her standin' there.

Chorus:Well, my heart went "boom"
When I crossed that room,
And I held her hand in mine...

Whoah, we danced through the night,
And we held each other tight,
And before too long I fell in love with her.
Now I'll never dance with another (whooh)
Since I saw her standing there

Guitar Solo

Chorus

Repeat last verse

Move on a few years and we come to Glam Rock. I would be between 7 and 12 or 13 when it was in its heyday. I did like Gary Glitter (few people will admit to that nowadays) and I loved Wizzard, The Sweet, Slade, Mud and Suzi Quatro. At the time, I did not like The Rubettes but I think I was too young to spot their tongues in their cheeks. I think the appeal of glam rock was that you could dance to it (even somebody as clumsy as me) and they were, or at least appeared to be, young and cool. My Mum was a very sensible woman, who bought me sensible shoes from Clarks, with heels no higher than ½ inch. I used to admire the likes of Brian Connolly, Gary Glitter and Dave Hill in their huge platforms and weird and wonderful clothes. Also men wearing make-up - that was brilliant.

When I was 10, I got to go to a Quaker Summer School in Sibford. I was the youngest one there. Most of the kids were 12 and above (I think 12 to 14 but I'm not sure now). One lad of 14 came over to talk to me on one of my first days there. He told me his name was Simon Tilley but I could call him Timon Silly, which amused me greatly. He asked me what sort of music I was into. At that point I could have said The Bay City Rollers but my two older sisters had spent about a week brainwashing me a couple of weeks earlier and I wanted to impress, so I said ELP. He was highly impressed. A 10 year old who likes Prog Rock - amazing. I actually knew very little ELP at all at the time and I don't know much now, either. The band did not interest me at all. The bands I do like, though, due to early sororal influence are Jethro Tull (specifically Aqualung), Procol Harum (specifically Exotic Birds and Fruit) and early Genesis.

The two songs that really remind me of that Summer School are Lay Down by the Strawbs and Life on Mars by David Bowie. I met a 12 year old boy at the Summer School and I got on very well with him. He wasn't bad looking too and we spent most of the week hanging around together, holding hands, me trying to persuade him to kiss me and him telling me we were too young. In the evening, there would be a disco and we would go and waltz around the dance floor madly to whatever song was playing at the time. The two songs above got played loads of times and they stuck with me for life. Bursting at the Seams by the Strawbs was the first proper album I ever bought and I got it not long after I had returned home from Sibford. A few years ago, I bought it on CD and I still listen to it from time to time and feel very proud of my 10 year old self for having such good taste in music. I never had a recording of Life on Mars for years but every now and again, I would hear it on radio or in a shop. It would take me back years. I eventually got a CD of David Bowie's greatest hits and then I felt it necessary to ration myself. I didn't want the song to lose its power and it hasn't done.

After Prog and Glam Rock and the Strawbs, it seems a very short jump indeed to my enduring musical love - Punk. My parents sent me to boarding school when I was 11. An unlikely place to find a punk. I remember the seminal moment for me when I realised it was my destiny to be a punk. Mum and Dad were taking me back to school after a half term break. I had found an old nappy pin while I was at home and for some reason, I had pinned it onto a woolly hat of my Mum's. I was wearing the hat and pin in the car when we were driving back to school and a car overtook us. In the car were 3 or 4 punks. They looked very sharp and spiky and they noticed me and suddenly the back window of the car they were in was full of grinning faces and pointing fingers - they had seen me and were evidently amused. It was my Road to Damascus moment and I decided then and there that I would be a punk.

My first Punk record was My Way by Sid Vicious. I was a bit of a late starter with Punk and missed the early years. I can't say in what order I bought my other records but I slowly built up a small but interesting collection of 7" singles, including Hybrid Kids EP, Where's Captain Kirk by Spizz Energy, I'm in Love with Margaret Thatcher by the Not Sensibles, Simon Templar by Splodgenessabounds, Girl on the Run by Honey Bane and various others.

I started going to gigs when I was 16. My first gig was John Cooper Clarke at the Marquee in Wardour Street. I later saw the UK Subs at the Music Machine supported by my great friends, The Straps, and an early precursor of New Romanticism, Martian Dance, who I hated. I saw Stiff Little Fingers, The Boys, Splodgenessabounds 3 times and The Straps another 2 times.

I used to go down the Kings Road most Saturdays and meet up with other punks there. I also used to stalk Jock, the lead singer of The Straps, an enterprise which was made easy for me because he worked at Boy - a punk boutique on the Kings Road. I got stopped by the police with a group of punks I was with one day. The boys were frisked by a couple of policemen and the girls were asked to turn out their pockets by a policewoman. I asked if I could go over and be frisked with the boys but she said no. A girl I was with had two wristwatches on. The policewoman seemed to think she had stolen one. She could not understand why she would wear two. One was broken anyway. It made perfect sense to me. If you were a punk, you wore weird combinations. I frequently wore:

Pink Leopardskin Trousers
A short Royal Stewart tartan kilt,
T-shirt
Woolly Stripy Jumper if it was cold
Leather biker jacket with Siouxsie Sioux' face tippexed on the back, UK Subs tippexed on the sleeves and loads of badges, including, I'm proud to say, a Morris team badge.
Hankie tied round my neck, western style
Black Beret

My hair would be either black, bleached or something in between. One day and for one day only, it was green.

For some reason, I became disillusioned with punk. I briefly flirted with the idea of being a skinhead and then I'm not sure what. I started going out with a Teddy Boy, though, and got my first taste of Rock'n'Roll.

I'd heard songs by Elvis Presley and could recognise Buddy Holly, The Everly Brothers and Bill Haley and his Comets. Pete introduced me to stuff I hadn't heard before, like Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, The Cascades, Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens, Connie Booth and loads of others. We used to go to The Hampton Court Palace in The Elephant and Castle. Upstairs they would play music and people would dance - jive, bop, stroll. Downstairs, there was a pool table and the main part of the pub. Pete would take me upstairs and I'd join in the dancing as best I could. Downstairs, we'd play pool and inevitably, I would lose and get mad. One time, after I had lost a match, I threw my pool cue away from me in disgust. It hit a Hells Angel. He was a gentleman and handed it back to me and suggested that I hide it because I had broken it. It wasn't mine, you see, but the pub's.

Afterwards, I went to University and split with Pete. I now come to the most shameful part of my life, musically. I got into music that was, frankly, trendy. It was 1980's, self-concious, pretentious shite. Everybody wore cropped jeans, plimsolls and long baggy coats, including me. I must have looked an absolute prat. The music was mainly electronic. We used to go to a night club in Birmingham called the Powerhouse. You didn't have to wear smart clothes there and they played trendy music and also other post punk and some pre-punk music there. I danced to The Passenger by Iggy Pop there and Mexican Radio by Wall of Voodoo. Those were the better tunes. The shameful stuff is Matt Fretton, Blancmange, Wham (yes, Wham!!!) I shudder to even think of it. The trendies used to do a dance, where they would shuffle their feet slowly, all the time looking at the floor. I called it the dog-shit shuffle because they looked like they were checking their shoes. At the end of the night, they would play New York, New York by Frank Sinatra. I would always dance with my then boyfriend's good mate, Dave. The boyfriend is now, incidentally, my husband.

Sometime during the 80s I stopped liking Pop Music. The last record I remember liking was Rush Hour by Jane Wiedlin. Anything after that does not register. I started listening to Classical Music more and to Opera for the first time. For a while, I was a big fan. I preferred lighter stuff, like Bizet and Puccini. My first tastes of Opera were from the French film, Diva (featuring the skinhead who does not like anything "J'aime pas les ascenseurs" etc) which featured Ebben Ne Andro Lontana and from a Spitting Image version of the Pearl Fishers Duet.

I think I should stop here now. I had a look for a video of the Pearl Fishers Duet on YouTube but I found this offering by Jussi Bjorling instead. It is not a video, just a still photograph but his voice is so good that I decided to go with the photograph accompanied by some of the most beautiful music I know instead. Close your eyes and enjoy.

Middlewich Folk and Boat Festival, Sunday

2007-06-24T08:44:00.000Z

On Sunday, I got up feeling remarkably fresh considering I had not slept particularly well. I went to the shower block and had a shower, using only Simple Face Wash. I had come particularly badly prepared. The showers are communal and it was a bit like being back at school. I'm not particularly embarrassed about my body but I think I would have preferred cubicles.

After my shower I went back to my tent and a fellow Crow, Jean offered me a coffee, which I gratefully accepted. Jean and various other Crows also offered me breakfast which again I gratefully accepted, being just a little bit hungry after my exertions the previous day. I had bought some batteries for my camera on Saturday so I put them in and fastened the case to my belt. I had been really impressed with the other teams the day before and I was determined to get some pictures this time.

Our first date was the Civic Centre, where we were to participate in a Morris Display. I snapped freely during the other teams' displays and here is a small selection of photographs for your edification:

From the top there is: Redbournestoke Morris Men, hankies aloft (left), the Ironmen (right), Mr Hemmings Traditional Abingdon Morris (left), The Earl of Stamford's youngest Morris dancers (right) and the awesome Stone Monkey (centre).

I danced a White Ladies and got it wrong (ouch!). My excuse was I was number 3 on the right and I usually dance number 2 on the left. The other Morris Teams were fantastic but I would like to make a special mention of Stone Monkey. They left me absolutely breathless with their Rapper. Each team danced 2 dances. Mr Hemmings danced one dance where a young lady stands in the middle. They chose somebody from The Earl of Stamford's Morris. The poor girl appeared to be traumatised afterwards.

Stone the Crows' second dance was Skirmish. I absolutely love Skirmish and I am dying to learn it. It's a brilliant showcase for the team and when it's danced well (and I've only ever seen it danced well) it's a show stopper.

After that, we had another dance on the Festival Ground and I danced Ragged Crow yet again. I was beginning to feel really proud of myself. Sharing the festival ground with us was the Earl of Stamford Morris Team, who dance Cotswold. At the end of the display, we had another massed Tinners. I really enjoyed myself yet again. I was beginning to feel I could get used to this.

Things were drawing to a close and I went off to remove my "make-up" in the car. Then I went to find two friends and fellow team members, John and Gill. I knew they would be in the Boars Head, not because the beer is good (although it is) but because there would be a massive jamming session going on and I don't think much would keep G & J from such a musicians' paradise.

The bar was packed and I missed them at first. I went and got myself a drink and then came back to the front bar, where most of the playing/singing was going on. There in the thick of it were Gill with her melodeon and John with his whistle. I dragged up a chair (with some difficulty, the bar was so crowded) and sat down behind them. Then I sat back and enjoyed the music.

The standard of playing and singing is amazing. I expressed a wish that I played a portable instrument fairly early on in the proceedings. I play the piano but there is no way I would have fitted it in the crowded bar, even if I could have brought one. I can sing a bit - usually in the car, very loudly and along to various punk songs - but I was a bit embarrassed. Some of the women who sang were breath-takingly good.

There were fiddle players, melodeon players, concertina players, an accordion player, various guitarists, whistle players, banjo players and bodhran players, one of whom also played the washboard. One or two would start a tune and one by one others would join in. I was mesmerised. One of the gents present started to sing "The Leaving of Liverpool" and I joined in the chorus with enthusiasm, confident that nobody would be able to hear me.

We had our tea in the pub and then left for the final concert of the weekend. The main act was Show of Hands with special guest Miranda Sykes and they were well worth the drive home late at night afterwards. I hadn't heard the band before and I had been nodding off during the support acts (sorry!) but I became wide awake when they started their set. I can't name most of the songs they performed but I do know they played "Roots", a passionate song defending the English folkmusic tradition. I also know that they were very good indeed and I thoroughly enjoyed the concert.

At the end, while we were leaving, we were treated to the spectacle of a streaker climbing one of the central poles of the marquee (I believe there was another but I never spotted him). It was an amusing end to a good evening. I went back to my car, said goodbye to Gill and John and set off home. The journey was uneventful and I didn't fall asleep at the wheel, which, in retrospect, is a little surprising considering how tired I must have been.

I sometimes finish off a blog with a video but this time, I'm going to finish with two. One is of Stone Monkey doing a rapper dance and the other is of Show of Hands. You can watch one or the other or both if you prefer.

Middlewich Folk and Boat Festival, Saturday

2007-06-22T07:31:00.000Z

I went to the Middlewich Folk and Boat Festival on Saturday 16 June 2007. Some of the team had gone down on the Friday and bagsied a decent pitch. I went down early on Saturday morning and got there quite early because, to be frank, I had been pretty excited and was too hyper to sleep or wait around. I arrived at about 8.45 after a brief detour via Tesco to get some toothpaste because we didn't have any spare at home. I rang my contact, Carol and her husband John answered the phone and said he'd come and find me. I didn't want to drive my car across the field because it looked so muddy at the entrance and my car is only small and it doesn't even have any wellington boots. I was terrified it would get stuck.

I'm going to have to keep this brief so:

1) I drove up to the tents and the car did not get stuck.
2) John and Ann of Stone the Crows put up my borrowed tent with a little help from me.
3) I got changed and blacked up ready for the procession and got my photo taken with Lizzie. Here it is:

The batteries in my camera then gave up the ghost so I didn't get to take any more photos until Sunday. We walked down to Somerfield for the procession and we discovered that we were to bring up the rear. It was a bit stop and start but I loved dancing in it. You get the chance to rush at the crowd and scare children. Well, that's what Border Morris is all about isn't it? During a couple of the stops, we danced a short Tinners Rabbit, which allowed the teams in front to move on a bit and give us room to go back to our procession dance. At the end, we danced through an honour guard of other teams, which was a wonderful experience and made me feel like John Terry when Chelsea won the Premiership in 2006.

After that, we went to the bullring for our first dance. It was one of my favourites, Ragged Crow. What am I on about? I don't have a favourite dance - I love them all equally. I do like Ragged Crow though, because it looks so good. I sat on the sidelines and watched because I didn't know it... yet! Other teams were dancing on the bullring too so we got plenty of rest between dances. Now, I'm not absolutely sure but I think we danced White Ladies next and I know I danced. At the end of the "show", Murray persuaded some other teams to join in a massed Tinners Rabbit. With all the dancers and all the musicians together, it was a wonderful sight and sound and somebody has put a video on YouTube which features it. Not sure about the music though but here it is:

Then I went off with a couple of young Crows, Rachel and Lizzie and a Crow's daughter (sorry, I don't remember your name!) to look round the festival and get some food. I was told off by a man who had a birds of prey stall because of my hat. Evidently, the birds would have got excited by the sight of the feathers in it. I took it off shamefacedly. I bought some souvenirs for friends and family from some of the stalls - a couple of friendship bracelets for my daughters and a fridge magnet for Sammy the Shark.

We then got some dinner - I got a sausage barm which tasted fine, amazingly - and then we went onto the next pitch, the Boars Head pub. Unfortunately, it had just started to rain, so we did what any sensible Morris side would do and went in. There are a number of rooms in the Boars head and all contained dancers and musicians. We went in a room containing a pool table and I witnessed possibly the longest game of pool I have ever seen.

Now, I don't like to cast aspersions on my fellow Morris dancers and I do not pretend to be a good pool player but I can hit the white. This was the most amazing display of pool playing I have ever seen! It was "two shots!" all round as the white failed to connect with a colour or the white went in the pocket. The only thing not done was to pot the black before time. I took two goes (it was a team effort in every sense of both words) and the first time, I actually managed to pot two balls and of the right colour. I did say I'm not a good pool player. The last shot was down the table and I missed the pocket (but not the ball). I blamed it on not wearing my glasses. This was a deception because I am long sighted.

Anyway, one team won, the rained cleared up and we went out to dance. It was Ragged Crow again and this time I learned the dance. Ragged Crow is danced in sets of four. Usually 2 sets but 3 other Crows made up a third set with me and took me through the dance. We did another dance (I really should have taken notes because I've forgotten everything) and then another Tinners.

After that, more mooching around until we were to dance at the Festival Ground. At the Festival Ground, I danced Ragged Crow properly for the first time. It was great!

The rest of Saturday is a bit of a blur really. I had a couple of beers from the beer tent and I bought a leather Morris Dancer badge from the clog maker. I also went to look at didgeridoos with Brent and Fiona and I had a look at some other weird and wonderful musical instruments. Later I went to look at rings with Lizzie and I got myself a ring for my little finger (so I now wear 8).

We went back to the campsite at the end of the day and Brent and the lovely Fiona went to get a curry (I still owe them a fiver for mine). I was getting colder and colder and I was beginning to feel sick and I was really tired (I had done loads of dances during the day - I'm really not used to the exercise). Somebody noticed that something was wrong - especially when I didn't eat my curry - and took action. I was put in John and Gill's motorhome and wrapped up in blankets and a quilt. John put on the heater and people kept looking in and asking if I was okay. I think my embarrassment slightly outweighed the cold and tiredness.

Eventually, most of the Crows went off to the evening shows and ceilidhs and Ann brought me a hot chocolate. I was really tired and once I felt properly warm again, I ventured out to the campsite toilets, returned Ann's cup to her and went to bed. I did not get cold again but I didn't sleep too well either but what the heck! This was the first time I'd camped in 24 years so what did I expect?

To be continued...

Rennie, the LSH, Bobbie, Sammy and Morris Dancers

2007-06-10T07:18:00.000Z

We danced out at the Ship Inn at Freckleton on Thursday 31 May. This was a momentous occasion for me because I was accompanied by my Long Suffering Husband and my youngest, Bobbie. We couldn't persuade Charlie to come along and we didn't even try with my eldest, Harry. There were two other team members when we got there and the LSH suggested they might be trying to avoid me etc but people kept arriving so I went and blacked up and the LSH got me, Bobbie and himself a drink. Sammy had also arrived and came out and gave me a hug. Her friends from Freckleton were there too so I waved at them through the window. Here is a picture of us before proceedings got underway. I'm on the right and I might look like I'm having a sneaky puff on a cigarette but I assure you that is not the case. I gave up 2 years and 8 months ago and I have not smoked since.

When enough dancers had turned up, we danced our first dance, Ragged Crow. I don't know this one and I have to watch from the sidelines, so I grabbed a tambourine and provided some percussion. You can actually hear me on the video, jingling on the upbeat and before you shout "Which video?", here it is.

I'm not absolutely sure of the order of things but we danced a Tinners Rabbit and I went third, a position I'm comfortable with. We also danced White Ladies, which I actually managed to do faultlessly. I hold my partner entirely responsible for me not going wrong. He has this way of keeping me on the right track at all times. Here's a picture from that dance. We also danced Ashpole and I managed to go wrong loads and loads of times. In mitigation, I must plead that I was not dancing in my usual place, but then a good Morris dancer should be able to dance in any position (within the dance, I'm not talking about dancing doing a handstand or anything silly like that). During the dance, there is a hey with swings. This photo is as I am about to go into a swing with Brent.

We also did another Tinners with audience members and Sammy and her two friends were dragged into the dance. I went first this time and felt very important and very experienced! My "civvy" dancer was one of Sammy's friends from Freckleton, Jackie. She actually wants to join the team, which is great, and apart from nearly having my eye out with her stick, she did very well indeed. At the end of the evening, we had a team photo taken and then we went into the pub and the musicians started playing. A couple of the team sang songs and we all joined in on tambourines, marracas and various other percussion instruments, including the LSH and Bobbie. I took this picture and I particularly like it because of all the top hats on the tables.

Bobbie tried on my hat at one point. Brent asked her if she knew what happens when a non-Morris Dancer tries on a Morris Dancer's hat. She said no and he replied "She becomes pregnant." She hurriedly took it off again. After a fair few tunes and a few pints and two songs, we left and went home. By the way, none of the Morris Dancers had to pay for our drinks, which was very kind indeed.

Finally, here is one more video and it is us dancing Tinners.

More Dancing

2007-06-07T06:29:00.000Z

Since I got back from Amsterdam, I've danced out twice more. On Tuesday, 22 May, we danced out at Runshaw College in Leyland for a Lancashire Evening at the Catering Department. Now purists would say, "Wait a minute! Border Morris originated in the English/Welsh Borders! That's not a Lancashire Tradition!" and I would say, "I'm afraid I have to agree." I will concede that Murray did point this out but I can safely state that we are a Lancashire Border Morris team, so I think it's allowed.

We started with a Tinners Rabbit and I went third, which is easiest for me. I'm not sure of the exact order of the dances but I know I danced a White Ladies - not particularly well this time but I am a beginner, aren't I? I think there was also a Ragged Crow and one or two others and then we repaired to the Foxholes Restaurant for a beer and a chip butty (well, two chip butties in my case).

Then off to the Eagle and Child in Leyland for a couple more small bitters and some chit chat. There I learnt of a ladies' Rapper team based in Horwich. Of course I was interested! I'm still in the honeymoon stage with Morris Dancing and I want to try all the variants.

I went home surprisingly early for a Thursday night. I'm still using the Team Coat because mine is still a work in progress and I borrowed blacking for my face that day. I have now bought my own face paints and sponge and baby wipes and I have been working steadily, if slowly on my coat.

Tulips from Amsterdam - Sunday

2007-05-27T20:08:00.000Z

This time, I was up first and I showered and then went out for a walk and some breakfast. Amsterdam is a beautiful city and I loved it. It was so quiet. I bought some fresh fruit salad and ate that as I walked along. I then found a cafe and had a coffee and a waffle. I then started to walk back to the hotel because we had to be out of our room by 12.00 and I wanted to make sure Sammy was awake. She met me in the doorway as I was entering the building. We went and got a coffee for her and then went back and packed our bags and left them at the hotel so we could do some final sightseeing without being burdened with heavy bags.

We went to have a coffee in a cafe and sat outside. Sammy had something to eat - a basket of chips - and because she has such a small appetite, I had to help her. While we were sat there, a police car drew up and I felt compelled to take a picture for my husband, as I knew it would be of professional interest to him.

Then we went to a shop we had identified the evening before, where Sammy bought herself a little Buddha. I bought presents for two of my three children there - a cuddly Jesus for my son Harry (he looks a little like a Muppet Jesus and I think he's great [so for that matter does Harry]) and racing grannies for my older daughter, Charlie. I also got myself a fully poseable action figure of Sigmund Freud - a must for every person in a stressful job (or indeed every psychologist)! I was really taken by the cuddly Vincent Van Gogh with a detachable ear but I am going to leave him until my next visit.

During our perambulations around this beautiful city, (we were en route to the flea market by then), I found a rather wider canal than I had been previously used to. It had this beautiful bridge and I felt compelled to snap.

Next, we came to the Red Light District, this time in daylight. There were still some girls posing in shop windows, one of which was almost certainly a transvestite or lady-boy. We went in a Sex Shop (because it was there) and browsed through the leather, latex and other gear and the large variety of sex toys. One of the men who worked there kept asking if he could help but also seemed to be offering some kind of other service. He did not specify and we did not press him. We left empty-handed.

We then found a shop that sell clogs and lots of them. Here is Sammy sitting in a clog. Now, I know she's smaller than me but this is ridiculous! It's a Size 6 and would fit me! Sometime before this I had bought a smaller pair of clogs for my younger daughter, Bobbie. I think they're about a Size 1. She fits Size 8 so obviously they don't fit her.

The Flea Market was shut and we then made our way to the Anne Frank House. It started raining on the way and I was glad to get inside. Sammy has been there loads of times and chose to have a coffee at a cafe nearby instead. This was the first time I'd done anything really serious in Amsterdam. I am sort of familiar with the house and characters from the book and television programmes that I have watched but actually being in the house really brought it home to me. The most significant impression I received was how small the Annexe was. It is unfurnished now but the rooms are still claustrophobic. The exhibition that shows the eventual fate of Anne and those who lived with her in the Annexe was truly heart-rending and reading excerpts from letters her father wrote after the war brought a tear to my eye. It was a very sobering experience for me. I went into the Free2choose exhibition at the end and voted on a couple of issues before Sammy texted me and I went to join her.

Eventually, we went back to the hotel, retrieved our bags and set off for the airport. Once there, I bought some tobacco for my long-suffering husband and then we got a drink each. I got a beer and Sammy took a picture of me imbibing - one final souvenir of our visit.

The plane left on time and we actually landed a little ahead of time. Sammy drove me home from Blackpool Airport and that, my dear readers, is the story of my birthday treat in Amsterdam. Roll on next time!

Tulips from Amsterdam - Saturday

2007-05-27T10:05:00.000Z

The next morning, I was hungover. Sammy went out for a coffee and some breakfast and I got out of bed gingerly and showered. Then Sammy got back and showered herself and we hit Amsterdam. First, we went into a piercing/tattoo parlour where Sammy and I looked at belly bars and what not. I decided that I wanted to have my tragus pierced and I wanted it done there. First though we walked down to Central Station.

On our way there, we met some punks. One of them had an Anti Nowhere League t-shirt on and I complimented him on it. He returned the compliment about my Goldblade t-shirt and told me they were playing that night. I decided I would love to see Goldblade play and Sammy was fine with the idea because it was my treat after all.

First we went to the Sex Museum. I had wanted to do 2 things in Amsterdam. Smoke some dope and see a sex show. Sammy didn't fancy the sex show but she was kind enough to let me visit the museum instead. It was a strange collection of erotic, disturbing and sometime hilarious exhibits. Sammy took my photo outside it after we had been round. It had been an eye opener for me.

We then went to an Internet Cafe to look for Clog shops and I checked out exactly when Goldblade would be playing and where. I noticed that the Anti Nowhere League were playing straight after and I suggested we see both bands and then leave.

I then went back to the piercing shop to have my tragus pierced and Sammy went to look for clogs. The piercing was an interesting experience. It took about half a second and no anaesthetic was used. It didn't start to hurt straight away and when it did, I was sat in a coffee shop drinking smoothies and using a good analgesic for the pain (the analgesic also reduced my ability to text my sister with any speed but, then again, it reduced my ability to care about it.) Here's a picture of the coffee shop.

Sammy joined me some time later - at least 2 smoothies later. I finished off my drink and analgesic and while I was doing this, she went to a noodle place for her tea. I joined her there and sat down to eat my noodles.

We then started off in the direction of the Melkweg to go to see Goldblade, who were to start their set in about an hour's time. We stopped off at a bar to have a beer on the way and I watched Chelsea win the FA Cup on the television there.

After that, there was no stopping me and as we drew near, my heart was gladdened by the sight of punks and skinheads. We went and got our wristbands and went in. We went into the Old Room first and saw the last couple of songs of (I presume) Church of Confidence (I have since checked the running order – I had no idea who they were at the time).

We then went into the Max Room and I went straight to the front so I could get liberally showered with John Robb's sweat (it has magical properties, I can assure you). Their first song is arguably my favourite - "Fighting in the Dancehall, F***ing in the Street" and I screamed along at the top of my voice, pointed vigorously at the band and jumped up and down and generally danced like a loon.

Part way through the set, I turned round and saw my great friend Anna. She loves Goldblade and so do I. We gave each other a big hug and then set to the serious business of dancing to them. Various people had got up on stage and John, as he invariably does, invited some more girls onto the stage. Anna got up. I thought about it for all of 3 seconds and decided, what the hell. I may not have been a girl for about 30 years but I'm still female. I got a leg up from a couple of gentlemen just in front of the stage and there I was. On stage with one of my favourite bands. Wow!!!! At one point, the audience was lit up and I saw Sammy waving at me with a huge grin on her face. Here is a picture of my view from the back of the stage. Not very good but I'm not a particularly good photographer at the best of times...

That's John Robb's naked, sweaty back there so don't get too excited, ladies! Well, the rest of the set passed in a haze of exhilaration and complete star-struckness. After they had finished and I had had my big sweaty hug off John Robb (I'll never wash my t-shirt again!), I got down off the stage and found Sammy. We went out for a breath of fresh air and then back in to see the Anti Nowhere League.

As we were going back into the Max Room, I saw Charlie Harper. I did what any sensible woman would do and tried to persuade Sammy to have her photo taken with him (he's always there in the crowd at these dos). She was too shy though so I had to do the necessary! As you can see, the alcohol I had so far consumed plus the analgesic I had purchased at the coffee bar had had a bit of an effect on me. Charlie looks suitably embarrassed. I think I look a complete loon.

Then back in for Anti Nowhere League's set. The crowd were a little rough for my liking but I got right up against the stage and took the buffeting from drunken punks with particularly bad grace. Especially when one gave me whiplash (ouch!). There was a young Russian guy called Pavel in the crowd and he got up on stage with Animal. I took his picture and I've now e-mailed them to him. I think that really made his weekend.

When the band had finished, Pavel and I swapped e-mail addresses so I could send him the photos I had taken of him and Animal. Sammy and I then went off to the Red Light district. After walking through it and me marvelling at the girls in the shop windows, we saw a coffee shop and we went in for a drink and some more analgesic for me.

I think I finally managed to have one analgesic too many and Sammy had to get me back to the hotel after that. I can remember feeling completely dissociated from what was going on around me but finding the experience completely fascinating (although I would have preferred to have been able to shift for myself better). Sammy got me back successfully and I slept like a baby.

To be continued again...

Tulips from Amsterdam - Friday

2007-05-22T06:43:00.000Z

On Friday 18 May I went on a weekend trip to Amsterdam with my great friend, Sammy the Shark. Sammy had booked this for me as a birthday treat and it was my first real trip abroad for 24 years. We were supposed to fly from Blackpool Airport but as we were checking in, a rep from the airline told us that we were going to be bussed to Manchester and fly from there because of essential maintenance on the aircraft. Not a particularly auspicious start but, as Sammy pointed out, Manchester Airport is a bit of an experience in itself.

More auspicious was the presence of a sizeable contigents of punks and I remembered that it was Rebellion weekend in Amsterdam. On the bus we were treated to free entertainment by Louis, a punk who was clearly drunk. Manchester Airport was big but, to be honest, I would have preferred the more hassle free Blackpool. The plane was small and I had no legroom but what the hell, the flight was only an hour long.

I was like a small child on the plane. I have flown before but it was 24 years ago. I spent a lot of the time looking out of the window in wide-eyed wonder and I thought take off was brilliant. I had a Stella during the flight and then read an interesting scientific magazine I had brought with me.

Schipol was fine. We went through passport control, got our baggage and then Sammy went out for a smoke. I sat inside guarding our bags. Then a double decker train to Central Station in Amsterdam (Wow! Whatever next!) and then a tram to our hotel. The hotel was gorgeous and here's a photo of it.

We got our key, took the luggage into the room and then hit Amsterdam. A couple of hours and a few lagers later, we were sat outside Cafe Nasty (the name really appealed to Sammy). I've even taken a snap of that one too.

We were approached by an extremely drunk Dutchman. After presumably ascertaining that we were not dangerous, knife-wielding psychopaths, he called his younger brother over and we were treated to the full force of his charm. His younger brother did not speak much English but then again, we did not speak any Dutch. They were in Amsterdam for the weekend with their 3 other brothers (their mother must have been a superheroine!) and while we were chatting to them, these brothers joined the party in dribs and drabs. I'm not absolutely sure but I think they were called Theo, Martin, Tony, Mike and Teus.

After a while, they went off to pastures new and Sammy and I headed off to another bar. Now, my memory is pretty hazy but I do remember chatting to a guy in a Motorhead T-Shirt in one bar where the doorman was as camp as a row of tents. The man in the t-shirt was from the east of Holland and the camp doorman kept strutting around speaking in german, which was hilarious. According to the gentleman in the t-shirt, he was taking the michael because he comes from a place very close to Germany. Sammy then proceeded to talk to them in fluent German. I sat there drinking my beer and not understanding much of what they said. After a while the bar closed and we set off to find another, still open, bar.

We ended up back at Cafe Nasty and Sammy went off to strut her stuff on the dance floor. I had drunken conversations with a number of people. Then Sammy hooked up with a young New Zealand woman (hooked up in a platonic way) and we wandered off to find a Coffee Shop which was still open. We didn't find one but we did find three young (very young, they were all in their 20s) brazilian gentlemen, one of whom took a real fancy to Sammy. For some reason I was feeling protective (or maybe jealous). He was really keen but they disappeared after a while, we didn't find a coffee shop and we eventually repaired to our hotel at about 5am. I was pretty pissed and very knackered.

To be continued...

My First Ever Dance Out

2007-05-13T08:10:00.000Z

Oh yes! I danced out for the first time ever on Thursday. I've managed to learn three dances in the two practises I have attended (of which I'm very proud) and I was looking forward to putting all this new knowledge into practise. We danced at the Malthouse pub in Chorley and when I arrived, most of the team were already there and ready to go. I don't have a hat or coat yet (actually, I do have a hat but it was untrimmed. I have since trimmed it and I love it!) so the team lent me a spare coat and I borrowed the hat of an absent member.

One of the ladies lent me some face paints and I blacked up and went out to join the rest of the team. The hat was a little bit small for my but I was ready to go.

First we danced Tinners and I insisted on going third (easiest for me). It's great dancing at practise but it's fabulous dancing in public. Then, while we were having a break, I went and got some money and bought myself a drink. I had, by then, been given some bells which I laced onto my boots. It was really strange walking up to the bar, jingling away, with my face blacked and a be-feathered (and studded) top hat on. Still, I got served and I walked outside with my half of Fosters in my hand.

Here's my first photo. I'm pretty sure the dance is Skirmish and it is brilliant. I have explained to the team that I need to learn this one. I can't explain why but I know that my life will be a sad and pitiful existence until I learn the dance.

Next, it was Ashpole. This is one I've learned and now danced twice in practise. I suppose that makes it "my" dance and I get the feeling I will always insist on dancing it (and I will stamp my feet if anybody tries to gainsay me) whenever we dance out. Somebody very kindly took my camera and took some snaps while I was dancing. Most are blurred (we dance very fast) but this one shows me quite clearly, waiting to start.

Ashpole went well and I managed to get it all right. I like Ashpole and I think it must look great to the audience because the figures (at last! I've remembered the word) will look so intricate but it is relatively easy for the dancers to remember (although one seasoned dancers took a wrong turn at one point!)

Next, I had to have my photo taken with Brent, our Father Christmas lookalike.

I love the way my fringe flops over my eyes in a totally emo (but in a totally gone wrong emo) way. I think I am going to have to pin it back somehow because it gets in my way when I'm dancing.

Well, we danced White Ladies and, although I'd only practised it once, I asked if I could dance and they said yes. I took a wrong turn once (not too bad) but my partner was very good and kept me on the straight and narrow for the rest of the dance. She was also very kind because I wanted to go on the left (which is the position I learnt it in) and she has a dicky left shoulder, which is awkward because there is a double hay in the dance (I'll let you imagine what a double hay is if you don't already know). She let me go on the left.

Well, there were more dances, including Crow's Nest and probably others, and it was getting dark. I took a few more pictures including this one:

We also danced Tinners twice more and dragged bar staff and audience members into the dance. That is something I love about this team - audience participation. They even got the landlady out of the pub and she danced too. I had to leave early (just gone 10.30) because I had work the next day.

I got home and uploaded the pictures onto the computer and went to bed. The next day, I put them on my MP3 player (the internet was down so I couldn't e-mail them) and took them into work and proudly showed them to anybody who would look at them. Somebody asked me who Big Foot is. I'm sure Brent won't mind!

Another Thursday, Another Practise

2007-05-04T06:30:00.000Z

It has to be said, I love Morris Dancing. Stone the Crows very kindly held an extra practise for the beginners of the group yesterday, this time at the Railway Pub in Leyland - the school was being used as a polling station. When I got to the pub, I saw that the majority of the clientele were what I would refer to as Chavs. I have nothing against Chavs. Well, actually I have because they are rude to my emo/scene daughters. I saw them through the window and walked into the pub armed with only a bottle of water and my handbag. Inside were two of the Team and one, a true gentleman, bought me a drink. Morris is thirsty work after all. I was introduced to the other Team member and as the others drifted in, reducing the Chav:Border Morris ratio somewhat, we went to a room in the back and made room by pushing some of the chairs and tables out of the way.

After a warm up, we danced Tinners, which, fortunately, I had not completely forgotten. Then we went through a number of the "moves" that make up the dances. I'm sure there is a word other than "move" but I tend to be a bit excited at Morris practises and many of the words I hear go right out of my head afterwards. What I do know is, I learnt/practised the Hay in some of its various guises and others, whose names I have completely forgotten now, although I think I remember how to dance them.

I also learnt a new dance - White Ladies (quite complicated and great fun) and had another go at Ash Pole, also quite complicated but I'd done it once before. The amount of energy I expended is evidenced by the amount of water I drank - nearly a litre. Usually, I'm a bit of a camel and don't drink for days.

Afterwards, we repaired to the pub (this is getting a bit of a habit now), where I was starstruck by the presence of a well known northern comedian. I didn't have to go through the pickled egg ceremony, even though I had admitted to my deceit in my previous blog and then invited the whole group to read it!

Our Father Christmas lookalike told the same joke for the third week in a row (I remember it from last week):

A scouse is coming out of Asda with a piece of meat under his coat.
"What are you doing with that?" says the security guard.
"Oh, some potatoes, carrots, peas..."

I told this one:

Did you hear about the man who lived in a tyre?
He moved out when he got a flat.

BOOM BOOM!!!!!

Next week, I get the opportunity to dance in public. They are going to lend me a rag coat for the occasion. I'm really looking forward to it.

Stone the Crows

2007-04-28T13:48:00.000Z

I started this blogsite with the intention of showing what a silly old fool I'm turning into (hence the name). However, it seems to have turned into a mixture of ramblings and reviews of gigs (and the occasional walk). Just as I realised that I do some really daft things nowadays and they may be a source of amusing and entertaining blogs, they suddenly seem to have dried up. I have not locked my keys in the car again (see 24 hours) and temper tantrums on mountainsides seem to be a thing of the past.

Aah, you're thinking, she's finally managed to do something really silly and lose all her dignity and she's dying to tell us. Well, I'm not sure on this one. I sincerely believe that what I've done is actually very sensible indeed but it seems to have such an aura of silliness. I don't think I ever had any dignity to lose but if I did, I irretrievably lost every scrap of dignity still clinging precariously to me on Thursday evening when I turned up for my first ever practise...

at Morris Dancing.

Most people think of ribbons and bells and maypoles when they think of Morris Dancing. This may be the form known as Cotswold Morris, although I'm not sure about the bells. The sort I'm into is Border Morris, which is really boisterous and involves enthusiastic use of sticks and where the dancers tend to dance in black costumes decorated with tatters (rags) and/or feathers and black their faces.

My first experience of Border Morris was seeing the Flag Crackers dance on the Flag Market at Preston a few years ago. They wear clogs (if you check the link and look at the photos, you will be able to see this) and I was mesmerised. Last year, I saw another Border Morris team at Ludlow and again I was mesmerised. This was entertainment indeed and I stood and photographed them for some time. Here's one of the pictures I took. Sorry about the ice-cream van and park bench.

I have a profile on MySpace, where I've used a picture of two of these Morris Dancers as my profile pic and recently, I got some messages and add requests from bona fide Morris Dancers. One of them suggested I might like to participate. She assured me it is a great form of exercise, although the beer may be somewhat counterproductive. Well, the more I thought about it, the more I thought it a superb idea. So I went online (I was probably already online) and did a Google search and found a promising name, Stone the Crows. I rather like Crows and it seemed to be a good omen, so I e-mailed them and waited for a reply.

Which came last Monday, telling me where they practise and suggesting I go along on Thursday. I went along and it would be under-stating the case to say I was extremely nervous and almost at the point of driving away when I saw somebody walking towards the school where the practises are held. I got out of my car and shouting "Excuse me, excuse me" like the insignificant little ant in an advert for a Trades Union from a few years ago, ran after her. I caught her up and she confirmed that she was a member of the morris team and introduced herself to me. I reciprocated and we got talking. A good start.

The rest of the team were fantastic and they made me feel at home straightaway. They taught me the step first - a bit like what a boxer does when he skips. I practised during the warm up and then they taught me my first dance, Tinners, which is relatively simple. I was knackered after it but it felt soooo good! They practised various others, including one called The Black Widow and I learned 2 others, including a procession and I was really pleased because I seemed to be picking it up quite easily. Finally, we danced Tinners again and I joined in with enthusiasm. It was great!

We went to the pub afterwards and I was supposed to eat a pickled egg as a rather bizarre initiation ceremony. I jibbed and told them I'm allergic to eggs (I'm so ashamed of myself now!) but we sat there and talked and told jokes (including my favourite, what did the fish say when it swam into a wall? Dam!) and I drank diet coke until it seemed like a good idea to go home.

They're doing an extra practise for novices next week and I'm definitely going, this time with a bottle of water - it's hot work is Border Morris. Then they will be dancing out because the Morris season is now well and truly underway. I hope I'll be able to dance outside pubs with them soon until I'm up to speed and have my costume sorted and then hopefully, I'll be able to dance at festivals etc.

Yes, my costume. I need to get:

Item: 1 pair of black trousers
Item: 1 black jacket to be trimmed with mainly black tatters with a few blue and green. The tatters have to form wing like extensions to the sleeves and a tail like extension to the back of the jacket.
Item: 1 top hat to be decorated with black feathers

Oh and possibly some burnt cork for my face. I'm really, really looking forward to it.

Finally, I managed to find some footage of Stone the Crows dancing at the Chippenham Folk Festival on YouTube and I really want to share it with my readers. They actually practised this dance last Thursday and watching it brought back great memories. I can assure you, Border Morris is good for the soul.

Goldblade at Manchester Academy 3

2007-04-14T23:21:00.000Z

I'm hot, I'm sweaty, I'm wearing three t-shirts and my hair looks like a bush but I'm happy, very happy indeed. The reason for my happiness is that a large proportion of sweat on my arms, on my hands, on my face and in my hair originated in the sweat glands of John Robb, lead singer of Goldblade.

As you may have guessed, I have been to see Goldblade tonight. The evening started well. Although we set off rather late, we got to the venue, Manchester Academy (3), in good time. There, in the foyer, was John Robb himself. He is a real man of the people and is happy to chat to people. Even better, he is happy to admit that he does not remember your last encounter with him, which is admirable honesty on his part.

So I walked in accompanied by my older daughter, Charlie, and she went off to the toilet. John was chatting to a fan/friend (it's hard to tell the difference when it comes to John), so I loitered and waited. Charlie came out of the toilet and started to go upstairs so I went over to John and eventually spoke to him. I mentioned that I had talked to him at Wasted and he said he didn't remember me. I have no problem with that because there were a lot of people at Wasted and loads of them spoke to John.

Then Charlie came back downstairs and I introduced her to him. She was wearing a Towers of London t-shirt so he mentioned the gig and we said we had been there. We talked about the Towers: John appears to have a quite high opinion of them, which I'm glad about because I think they are a badly underrated band.

Then we went upstairs and into Academy 3 and I got drinks in. Vodka and Coke for me and Vodka and Orange for Charlie. The first band, Kamikaze Sperm came on soon after, the lead singer dressed in a rather nice halter neck dress.

They played good, loud, obnoxious punk, so how could I complain. They also had a nice touch, a girl on an alto sax. It would have been very Xray Spex had the lead singer sounded anything like Poly Styrene. He didn't but I loved the sound and bought a CD and t-shirt after the gig.

Next, rather unexpectedly for me, was a comedian, Ted Chippington. I thought he was fabulous and even chipped in (sorry) on a couple of occasions (shouting "Blackpool" when he wanted us to shout names of towns in Lancashire for instance). He also sang strange versions of "She Loves You" by the Beatles, "Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree" by Tony Orlando and Dawn (I found myself singing along to that) and finally D.I.S.C.O. by Ottawan, accompanied by a lone drummer. Bloody marvellous!

There was then a bit of a wait for the main attraction and we were fooled into believing it would come a little sooner by what must have been a light check. Someone backstage asked me what time it was (I had been right at the front since Kamikaze Sperm had started their first song) and I rather foolishly told him it was five to ten. I should have said five past and Goldblade would have started early.

Minutes before Goldblade came on, I spotted a familiar face from Wasted. The familiar face comes with a Wolverhampton accent and I stated the bleeding obvious to him - something along the lines of "you're from Wolverhampton aren't you?" He confirmed that he was. I then admitted I don't remember his name. He said he didn't remember mine but remembered that I'd been with Dave from the Straps when he first met me. I introduced myself and I'm sure he did the same but I didn't hear him so I still don't know his name. I also introduced Charlie to him.

Then Goldblade came on to a huge roar from the crowd. There was also a huge surge forward and I found myself pinned against the front of the stage. That didn't worry me because John Robb came and shook my hand and they began with probably my favourite of their songs - Fighting in the Dancehall - and I immediately began the jigging, shaking my hair everywhere (an innovation for this gig), pointing my finger at the stage (well, actually at various members of the band in strict rotation) and singing along at the top of my voice that I always do on these occasions. To my bitter disappointment, John did not hold the mic out for me to sing along into but never mind. I got over it.

Charlie took this picture of John and I really, really like it:

It's clearly very early in the gig because he still has his shirt buttoned up and his quiff is still a bit in place.

I really do not know the order in which they played their songs because I didn't nick the set list. I do know they sang Psycho and I'm pretty sure I sang into the mic for that one, also Power of Rock and Roll and I shouted "I believe!" into the mic when John Robb laid his hand on my head and shouted "Do you believe?". They sang Black Sheep Radical, Rebel Songs, ACDC, The Decline and Fall of Ancient Rome. They had girls dancing on stage and then about half the audience. They also had what I can only describe as a mad monk. The band had had placards made to help us with the songs and the monk used one to fan us in the audience.

Not at this stage. By this time he and the band were whipping us into a frenzy. I was certainly frenzied and when they went off after Kiss My Ass (something I will remember at work on Monday, John, I promise), I feverishly chanted Gold-blade, Gold-blade along with everybody else there.

They came out and did the encore, Home Turf. I absolutely love Home Turf but I had t-shirts to buy and a train to catch so we had to go. Charlie got a Goldblade t-shirt, I got a Goldblade t-shirt, a Goldblade badge, a Kamikaze Sperm CD and a Kamikaze Sperm t-shirt. Then we went back to Oxford Road Station and caught the last train back to Preston.

I put the extra t-shirts on along the way for extra warmth and when I got home, I put the kettle on and switched the computer on. That's why I'm hot, I'm sweaty, I'm wearing three t-shirts and my hair looks like a bush but I'm happy, very happy indeed. Oh and for ladies of a certain age, here's a picture of John Robb without his shirt on and I'm sure his sweat has magical properties.

Argy Bargy in Manchester, Punk, Skins and Mosh Pits

2007-03-25T09:11:00.000Z

I went to see Argy Bargy on Friday. The first person I have to thank is my LSH (long suffering husband) because he persuaded me to leave my poor, ill little girl (okay, she's 16 and taller than me but she's still poor and ill) at home with him and go out and enjoy myself. I suppose I also ought to thank my poor ill little girl (previously blogged about under the name of Bobbie) for allowing me to leave her in the capable hands of her Dad when she was feeling so ill.

So I got a return ticket to Manchester and got on the train to Piccadilly by myself. I don't usually go to gigs on my own. I think my taste in Oi Punk is quite specialist and I could not find anybody in my immediate family or circle of friends who wanted to go. Fortunately, I did know a couple of people who were going to be there so I was reassured that I wasn't going to be completely isolated.

So I got off the train at Piccadilly and went out to where the taxi rank is. I knew the pub was opposite the train station and my older daughter had given me quite specific instructions on how to leave the station so I wouldn't be wandering around for ages asking people how to get to the pub. I checked the buildings immediately opposite the station and realised that the pub I was heading for is not quite opposite. In the distance, I could see a building that looked like the picture on the Net and I walked towards it. It was the Star and Garter, so I walked in and paid my £6 and went straight to the bar.

I got my half a Fosters and while I was being served, I looked around for familiar faces. I didn't want to stand around on my own like a complete lemon - that would have made me miserable. Fortunately, I spotted a couple of friendly faces I've seen before and I went over to talk to them. Once they realised I'd come on my own, they became knights in shiny armour (not very punk, I know, the armour should be tarnished and held together with safety pins) and took me under their wing.

We went up to see the first band, the Bullet Kings. When the gig was over and I was walking back to the station, I chatted to one of them. I'm pretty sure he was the bassist but I know I was quite pissed by then so I'm not absolutely certain. He did wear a UK Subs t-shirt, I know that. I asked him twice what the name of his band was and told him I'd blog about the gig. To my shame, I forgot almost immediately and I had to look it up before writing this blog.

Well, the Bullet Kings played good, fast, loud punk and I enjoyed the set. My KISA (Knights in Shiny Armour) bought me drinks and we chatted. If I remember rightly, I think I told one of the KISA that I love it when punks get old and fat - sorry! I was having a great time. I also went and bought myself a t-shirt (an Argy Bargy one) which has the words:

Argy Bargy
HOOLIBIRD

on it. This appealed to my inebriated self a great deal and I showed it off to all and sundry before putting it on. I hasten to add that it has continued to appeal to me since I sobered up yesterday and I will wear it with pride at every opportunity.

The next band were The Great St Louis and I can't blog about them because I didn't see them. I was too busy chatting to people in the bar and admiring their tattoos (an annoying habit I have). It's amazing how much time I can waste talking to complete strangers and admiring their tattoos once I've had a few beers.

3CR were great. I've got a picture of Boggy on my phone. I didn't know who he was when I took it. I was just admiring his mohican and decided to take a picture of it. I think I asked him first, I'm a polite sort of a person. Now I know who he is, I proudly show it off to all and sundry, interested or completely uninterested. Don't ask me to name any of their songs, I can't but I enjoyed the set and will catch them at the next opportunity.

Finally, Argy Bargy, the band I'd come to see. I largely ignored the Oi bands when I was a teenager. I knew a couple of Sham 69 songs and I like the UK Subs but much of the movement passed me by. I think it was a bit too hardcore for my young ears. Now, I love Oi. My taste in music has moved more to the extreme and the louder and harder it is, the better. I don't own any CDs by Argy Bargy so I can't mention individual songs (although I picked up the set list from the stage at the end of the gig and I will get some stuff on CD now) but I can say that I enjoyed myself enough to dance in the rather weird way I do dance to punk and stand on the edge of the mosh pit. I love the violence of the mosh pit too (that's a word I've had to import). It's a friendly sort of violence, people get knocked down but everybody helps them back to their feet, and I got soaked by someone's drink when he was pushed into me. Something quite sweet but not cider. Not good because my hair goes wavy when it gets wet. I moved right to the front at the end of the gig and that's when I picked up the set list.

Oi is credited with bringing punks and skinheads together. I remember an incident many years ago when my sister, one of our friends (a lad whose name escapes me now) and I were walking through Churchill Park in Bromley. We were all punks. Some skinheads attacked our friend and were really putting the boot in. Me and my sister shouted at them and pulled some of them off him. I was very scared at the time and I was pretty shocked too. It was the first time I saw anybody beaten up.

Later, I became good friends with a few skinheads, very good friends with one in particular, who used to walk me home late at night after gigs. I've never really been scared of skinheads, well not since my friend was beaten up, and nowadays I find the look very attractive indeed! I texted my good friend from the gig. The message said and I think this is word for word:

"I'm a bisexual. I like punx and skins."

Now, because I like doing it, here's a nice video of Argy Bargy singing "Read all about it".

All Hard and Sharp Places

2007-03-18T15:41:00.000Z

I've just got back from a weekend away with my long suffering husband. We were actually away for two nights and one full day only but it did me good. We went to Keswick, which I now believe is the best place in England. We stayed in a nice B & B and I was able to get myself re-habilitated from my humiliating and traumatic experience on the Pap of Glencoe.

Right, lets start with our journey up to Keswick. It was only remarkable because we were overtaken on the M6 by a Ford Focus ST or, as Jeremy Clarkson would have it, a Ford ASBO. Okay, that's not remarkable, we get overtaken by all sorts, including bicycles, but this Ford ASBO owner has a registration plate that reads ASBO from a distance. We were debating whether this is owned by somebody who works for Ford or if somebody had seen the chance early on and had got the car and registration plate of his dreams. We were probably debating it until we got our first view of Windermere.

When we drove through Ambleside, my LSH (long suffering husband) pointed out The Glasshouse Restaurant. I have to admit, I'm only interested because I watched the episode on Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares and I still cringe at the Chef saying "Sex on a spoon!" - yeuch, horrible!!!

Some more magnificent scenery later and we drove into Keswick. After a little farting about and a brief visit to Castlerigg Stone Circle (see below), we checked into the B & B.

After that we went to see the Bowderstone. I really like the Bowderstone. It's like a bumble bee (follow the link); it doesn't know it should not be able to stand on an edge so it does it anyway.

I had to take the picture from the "B-side" because there was a lunatic climber trying to claim up the overhang and I didn't want him in the picture. I did get a rather nice Border Collie in though - he's on the left about halfway up, by the way. Completely by accident but I think it makes the picture more charming.

Then we went into Keswick and got me a hat (absolutely necessary to stop my hair blowing in my face all the time) and a new rucsac (not absolutely necessary but we wanted it).

Well, after that, we went back to the B & B and later we walked into Keswick and had tea and a few drinks. We ate in the Bank Tavern, which I can recommend heartily. It has a good selection of Jennings ales; I had Cocker Hoop - 4.6%, light ale and absolutely brilliant (Sex in a glass?), LSH had Sneck Lifter - 5.2%, dark and delicious (drunkenness in a glass). I had Cumberland Pie with a huge salad and he had Cumberland Sausages and Hickory Smoked Sausages with mash and veg. The food was very, very good; the beer was magnificent. At the end of the evening, we walked back to the B & B, me giggling inanely and telling him rubbish jokes and him not laughing at them. What Larks!

The next morning, I was hungover but still game for a bit of fell walking. We had a hearty breakfast, courtesy of our hosts at the B & B, and off we went. He had decided to go up Castle Crag and, in view of my bad head, this did not seem a bad idea.

It was a great walk.

First there was the river Derwent, which feeds Derwentwater.

Then after some climbing, we came to a part of the walk where the landscape almost looked alien. It was all jagged and inspired me to come out with the phrase that gave rise to the title of this blog: "I love this bit, it's all hard and sharp places".

We had already had a view of Castle Crag earlier on in the walk but I managed to get a picture of it just a bit further up the hill. Now, I apologise if it looks wonky (it does to me and I've done a bit of editing and rotating but I can't get it to look right) but I suspect that Castle Crag is just that - wonky. But then, you wouldn't want it to look all straight and uniform. That wouldn't be natural now, would it?

The views from the top were spectacular. I just wish my photos were but it was windy and most of them are blurred or plain camera shook, which is a real shame. I did manage to find this amongst them:

The views at the top were not spectacular. This one is of me and I've made it very small because I am pulling the most ridiculous face imaginable. I'd like to pretend it was the wind and the cold that made me look like that... It was the wind and the cold that made me look like that. I had my new hat on so you can't see the blue streaks in my hair, the new rucsac on my back and my trusty walking stick in my right hand. It was very cold indeed but I was happy.

You will all be pleased to know that I made it down again in one piece and I did not once sit down and refuse to move until I was rescued by Mountain Rescue. My left knee hurt a bit (it always does) and I noticed that I have a left hip and left elbow - that side of my body is wearing out faster than the right side - but otherwise I reached the bottom in full health.

One thing I did notice is when I'm going uphill - especially scrambling (a mild form of climbing), I'm very much left-legged - I lead with my left. Coming downhill and doing the reverse of scrambling, I'm right-legged. I'm not sure if this is because my left knee can't take too much jolting and I've made allowances for this since my fell-walking career began or if I've always done that but not noticed. Hmmm, interesting.

Well, after that, we went back to the B & B and then went into Keswick for our tea and another drink. This time I drove so I stayed on the fruit based drinks. We ate in another pub, The Oddfellow's Arms, which also sells Jennings (but not my favourite, Cocker Hoop - I had Mountain Man instead) and the food there is very good too. I stayed sober, my LSH did not and he fell asleep in front of Match of the Day later.

So, I'm glad to say that the weekend went very well indeed and I'm not longer a wimp when it comes to fell walking. Sharp Edge, here I come!

The Towers of London

2007-03-13T08:15:00.000Z

Last night I went to see The Towers of London at Academy 3 in Manchester. This is not going to be a standard review with a list of songs because I won't be able to remember them in detail and I'm absolutely rubbish at "musical criticism". First, here's a picture of them. As you can see, they're all nice clean cut boys.

Now let me tell you about the mix of people there. Well, I was there and I'm an ageing punk and my older daughter was there and she's a complete emo. There were the obligatory Towers Clones but fewer than last time. I really do not understand people who feel the need to dress and wear their hair like their musical heroes. There were some youngsters with Mohicans, so I'll class them as punks and some who I could have sworn were skinheads, although they were not wearing the usual skin clobber. There were more emo-types and long haired gentlemen. I'm not sure what I would call the latter but I do like the term metal head. Then, there were assorted unclassifiable types who have the individuality not to wear a uniform and good for them I say! Oh yes and John Robb from Goldblade was there. Now I'm not usually particularly observant but I spotted him. I just hope one of the Towers reciprocates at the Goldblade gig I'm going to next month.

A quick word about the support band. They were called the Courteenas and they played enjoyable loud pop and they have a small but loyal following (have I said that before?) The lead singer was to my ageing eye total eye candy and I feasted my eyes for the full 45 minute set. He could sing too and they had one of those drummers I particularly admire. He can drum and sing backing vocals as well. One of the hard men of rock say I!

The Towers started off with I'm a Rat and, well I couldn't help myself, I went into full ageing punk mode, throwing myself around, pointing at the stage and screaming along to the lyrics at full blast. I kept this up through the second song and in to the third and then my dodgy back and knees told me they'd had enough and I moved over to the side away from the shoving of the mosh pit (a particularly frenzied and violent one) and danced slightly more sedately. I should emphasise the word slightly. Some songs evoked a more passionate response from me than others but there was only one I didn't know, a new one called The Bible. The songs I jigged about to, sang along to and pointed at the stage with most energy were How Rude She was, Air Guitar, Fuck it Up, Good Times and what must now be my personal favourite, Kill the Pop Scene. I love the sentiments of that song.

At one point Donny said something along the lines of "I'm glad you're all here, some people fucking hate us". Really sad that; I know there are plenty of people who do hate them. I think part of the problem is the lads' youth and they are rebelling big time so when they come out with things like the Sex Pistols aren't fit to suck their cocks (daft buggers) they are bound to rattle a few cages. I think the comment about the Sex Pistols was ill-advised. Without punk and therefore by extension, the Sex Pistols, The Towers of London would be at best a very different band and at worst they would not exist at all. Still, I don't expect humility and I like a bit of rebellion. It makes me feel young again.

Well, I've tried to keep this short. I really enjoyed the gig and I mean really. I think the Towers are under-rated and too frequently written off as either talentless yobs or jumpers-on of bandwagons. That's not really fair. They have masses of energy, they can play their instruments, they all have stage presence and Donny is a born entertainer. I love the mixture of the Ramones dress sense and the Rod Stewart hairstyles. Musically, the Rev is reminiscent of Steve Jones (I hope I don't offend either of the two gentlemen by saying that) and Donny has a bit of a Johnny Rotten snarl (ditto to those two gentlemen). I tend to watch them with an indulgent "that's my boy" kind of look in my eye but I'm pretty certain they know what they're doing on the whole and I take my hat off to them. Seeing as I like to finish off with a video, here's one I found on You Tube and I think it's rather charming.

I don't wanna be someone like you

2007-03-12T12:24:00.000Z

I've been thinking a bit recently. I know thinking is very dangerous especially in the political climate we have at the moment (ooh! Rennies being all political) so I try to keep my thinking to nice superficial and unimportant subjects. Well, here's one such.

I've been wondering recently why it is I have such a negative reaction to people who drive cars like Beamers, Mercs, Audis, Jags. You know the sort I mean. I would call it resentment rather than envy. Envy suggests I want to be like them and yet the over-riding feeling I get is best summed up by the chorus from a fantastic Cockney Rejects song:

I don't wanna be
I can't stand to be
I don't wanna be
SOMEONE LIKE YOU!

You see, I don't want bleached blonde hair, sunglasses (probably very expensive ones), long talons, I mean nails (probably acrylic ones) et cetera, et-bloody-cetera. I really don't want to be someone like that. Those cars and looks are what I would call ostentatious displays of wealth or their husbands' wealth. So I resent them. No idea why, I just do. I would say that I'm the opposite of them. I can't pretend to poverty. I'm not poor, I'm comfortably off and I can afford the necessities of life plus a few luxuries, like my computer and the Internet. I like to show off my moderate means and my 2004 Hyundai Getz is a nice way to do it. It was the second cheapest new car available when I got it. The cheapest felt horrible to drive so I went for the second cheapest. It is pretty no frills, although it boasts electric windows and a CD player. However, when it's raining, you can hear how thin the roof is. The raindrops make a plonking noise on it.

So I don't aspire to big cars, holidays abroad (not even in Cambodia), designer handbags, shoes or clothes. I aspire to more tattoos (two just don't seem enough), more piercings, blue hair, lots and lots of punk gigs and a thoroughly Rebellious weekend in Blackpool this August.

Oh and I suppose I wouldn't mind a Honda Civic Type R, preferably about 7 years old but in MINT condition. I know I could have so much fun in one of those. I already do in Gran Turismo.

I can't get a video of the song I quoted above so here's another little clip which should amuse all like-minded people. Enjoy:

Read and Weep

2007-03-08T07:36:00.000Z

I was just adding a few more interesting blogs to my Blogs of Note box and I have just read three of the most depressing blogs ever. All on the same subject. They can be found in Police Inspector Blog, The Policeman's Blog and Mr Chalk. Here are the links to them:

Police Inspector Blog
The Policeman's Blog
Mr Chalk

I am married to a policeman myself and I know what a dangerous job it can be. I'm lucky because in nearly 21 years in the job he has sustained no more than a couple of bruises. This young man's life is over at 21 years of age and the thugs who put him in this state will be out of prison in a few years' time. It sickens me. Read and Weep.

Tight Jeans, Romance and Sid Vicious

2007-03-05T19:11:00.000Z

This is a picture of me at 17. I've recently bought a scanner which will scan slides (or transparencies) and this picture is from a slide. It was taken with a Praktica LTL 3 or perhaps a Praktica MTL3 single lens reflex camera. My Dad gave me his old camera, the LTL3 when I was 16 or thereabouts. It got stolen when our house was burgled and my Dad very kindly replaced it with an MTL3. I took loads of pictures with those two cameras and because my Dad swore by the quality of transparencies, I used transparency film. So I now have a fair few pictures from that era and later that I took. Some of the slides went missing because my two daughters were unable to treat my property with respect when they were younger but I still have a fair few left.

Anyway, back to the picture. I can't get over how skinny I look in the picture. I'm very slim now - I inherited my Dad's metabolism amongst other things - but not as skinny as that. I have a little more meat on me now but not much more.

Finally, look at those jeans. They have very special memories for me. I was wearing them when I saw Splodgenessabounds at The Star in Croydon. That was the night when Dave, the guitarist of The Straps, grabbed my leg and jumped higher than I did. I'd taken those jeans off minutes earlier because I was so hot and he'd grabbed bare flesh. Earlier in the evening Steve Slack, the then bassist of the UK Subs, signed those same jeans. I had a moment when I thought I'd never wash them again but eventually hygiene prevailed and his signature was washed off. What a shame. It is also a shame that for years afterwards I remembered him as Paul Slack. I really don't know why!

Those jeans were hand-me-downs from a friend of my big sister. They were Wranglers and were nice narrow leg jeans. I wore them for a short while and then when I was 15, I decided that they needed punking up and I took them in. I put zips at the bottom of the legs (I was very handy with a sewing machine back then) so I could get them on and off and Lo! A pair of punk jeans were born.

I took them to France with me on a camping trip when I was 15. During the summer holiday that year, my Mum asked me if I fancied going to France on holiday. Mum was a probation officer and one of her colleagues had a daughter about 18 months younger than me. We had met previously, I knew her Dad quite well already as Mum used to take us to work with her in school holidays and I sort of knew her too. Her friend was supposed to go but had come down with chicken pox and I was asked to stand in at short notice. I did and off we all went including those jeans and my pride and joy at that point, my 7" vinyl single of "My Way" by Sid Vicious.

The first half of the holiday we spent at a place on the Atlantic Coast called St Brevin les Pins. I remember remarkably little about those 10 days except eating pistachio ice cream for the first time in my life and finding it strangely delicious and being stung by an ant - ouch!

We then went to Paris. We drove all day and got to Paris late in the evening. I am going to give the protagonists of this story some pseudonyms now to make it easier for me to write this blog. Mum's colleague will be Peter, his wife will be Ann and their daughter will be Kate from now on. Well, Peter and Ann decided to have a kip in the car and Kate and I went for an explore. I don't know to this day where we went but we ended up in a bar. I'm not sure if we bought a drink. We were very young - I was 15 and Kate was 13 - so I doubt we would have been served. I'm pretty sure we spoke to somebody but again my memory might be playing tricks. My French was poor and Kate's was practically non-existent. We eventually went back to the car and we must have slept.

The next day we went to the camp-site in the Bois de Boulogne and set up the tents. Peter and Ann were in a big tent with a couple of rooms. Kate and I shared a two man ridge tent. We had inflatable mattresses to sleep on and sleeping bags to sleep in. Kate and I went off to explore Paris.

One day I decided I wanted to see the Bastille. I know now that the Bastille was pulled down during the French Revolution but at the time I didn't know that at all. I worked out that we had to go to La Place de la Concorde and off we went on the Metro. We got there and to my bitter disappointment there was no Bastille.

Another time we went to look at Notre Dame. It was in front of Notre Dame Cathedral that I fell in love for the first time (ahhhh - vomit!) Actually, I expect I fell in love a little after that but I fancied him at first sight. He was gorgeous. I'm really racking my brains now because I don't remember what he looked like and I've lost the only photo I ever had of him. He had dark wavy hair and was wearing red jeans, a navy blue polo shirt and a green jacket. I really fancied him and he was sat with another man. I will name these two; they were called Amer and Dino. I fancied Dino and fortunately Kate fancied Amer. So we sat down next to them and Dino and I talked in broken French and I don't have a clue what Kate and Amer did because Kate could not speak French and Amer didn't speak English.

It turned out that Dino was from Algeria and he was at college in France. He was learning French and so was I. He was better at it than me. Dino was half Italian and I can tell you that an Italian/Arab combination makes for the most amazing good looks! He was stunning and he seemed to quite like me too. I couldn't believe my luck. I told him I was 18: he was 21 and I didn't think he'd be interested in a kid of 15. He believed me, bless him!

The four of us hung around together for the remaining days we had in Paris. I have happy memories of Le Jardin de Luxembourg, travelling on the Metro with them without paying the fares (we ran out of money fairly early on in the proceedings) and going to Dino or Amer's room in their digs. They sneaked us in risking the wrath of the concierge. Their intentions were not honourable but then again, neither were ours. I won't go into detail here but will only say Dino and I didn't "make it".

As the date for our departure grew near, Dino asked me to marry him. I then told him I was only 15 and I couldn't. I was distraught but to his credit he was upset too. I said I'd come and join him in Algeria when I was 18. On the day of our departure, I stayed with Dino for as long as could, no doubt crying my eyes out and eventually we left to catch the ferry back. I hadn't eaten at all that day and I was seasick on the crossing back to England.

We wrote to each other. I sent him four letters. He replied to three. In his last letter he asked me about colleges for "strangers students" in England. I laughed at that. He didn't reply to my fourth letter. I seem to remember asking him what colour pants he was wearing in my last letter. I was just a kid really.

Finally, here is a video of Sid singing My Way. It reminds me of my very own, personal Summer of Love.

Bobbie, Drunkeness, the Buzzcocks and Boredom

2007-02-24T13:39:00.000Z

I am proud to announce that my youngest daughter takes after her Mum. I'm getting a bit old now so I like to get to bed early and get my eight hours so I was verging on pushing out the zeds last night when my husband came upstairs and told me that he had just received a call from one of Bobbie's friends. Bobbie was in a pub called the Crazy Muskrat or some such name and, more specifically, was in the toilets puking up and could we come and collect her?

Now, Hubby Dearest had had a few drinks and so we decided that I would have to do the driving and because I was still a bit groggy, he would accompany me. We got to the pub, he got out of the car and rang Bobbie's mobile. A few minutes later one of the girls emerged from the pub and spoke earnestly to my husband. Then our 16 year old daughter, Bobbie emerged arm first (that's what I saw first, anyway), slightly the worse for wear after 4 pints of Stella, followed by her 17 year old boyfriend, Raj.

Bobbie got in the back of the car with her Dad and snuggled up to him and Raj sat in the passenger seat and we took him home first. Then we took Bobbie home and she went to bed with a glass of water. She was a little bit hungover this morning but otherwise well enough. She's actually rather charming when she's drunk. A bit giggly and silly but still charming.

I got very drunk two weeks ago today but I didn't end up being sick or having to be brought home. It did mean, however, that I was hungover the next day and the hangover persisted until well into the evening. I went to see the Buzzcocks in Preston that night and I wouldn't recommend going to a gig with a hangover. It spoils it.

We saw three support bands. The first were not memorable at all. The second were called the Aclyrics and I enjoyed the set. The third were great. A young punk band called Middle Finger Salute. They have a loyal following, including a young and quite small skinhead called (if I remember rightly) Danny, who made a bit of a prat of himself directly in front of me. Still, he is young and was probably drunk so I'll make allowances for him. I usually make allowances for skinheads; I can't help myself. They (Middle Finger Salute) were pretty good. Good enough for me to go and buy the CD after their set and add them on MySpace and keep sending them messages. I will go and see them again. I really rather liked them (praise indeed from me!)

Then the Buzzcocks came on. I was still hungover and my feet were beginning to hurt (my docs are not the most comfortable boots I own) but nothing was going to spoil the main act for me. They played a lot of stuff I don't know but it was fine. I'm more a connoisseur of the classic Buzzcocks - Ever fallen in love, I don't mind, Orgasm Addict, Promises and, of course, my favourite, Boredom. They played most of the classics in the encore and in true Rennie style, every time they played one of these an expression of beatific rapture came over my face, I shut my eyes and bellowed the lyrics at the stage. Happiness indeed!

This put me in mind of a minor incident that took place at home a few years ago. The kids were still quite small back then and we still had a record player. I was playing some of my singles to the kids (building the foundations of good musical taste for later life - none of my children like R & B and other such rubbish) and, inevitably I suppose, I put my favourite Buzzcocks song on. The kids started bouncing up and down on the sofa and I told them to stop jumping up and down on it. At the time, I was in my punk wilderness years and trying desperately hard to be respectable. Then I realised to my horror what I had done and I told them to get back on and start jumping again. You can't keep an old punk down, can you?

Here's a video of them performing it in Blackburn recently. Buzzcocks and Boredom that is, not kids and sofa. Enjoy!

Rennie and The Insurance Broker

2007-02-21T09:10:00.000Z

I've adopted a dual approach to anonymity in this blog. Paraphrasing and the Classic English Literature approach. I've paraphrased some names, for example "Pigton" and I've used the classic hyphen in others, for example "N-". It was great fun. This blog could be also entitled "How not to make a complaint".

Sometimes it's great fun working in a complaints department. Especially when you have to make a complaint yourself. I recently had a run in with a prominent high street insurance broker and took it upon myself to write in to complain. Now, I didn't really have a justified complaint. I brought this situation upon myself by failing to pay a cancellation charge for an insurance policy that I simply should not have taken out and, when I changed my mind, should have cancelled a lot sooner but I didn't. I became liable for a cancellation charge, which I forgot to pay, which led the prominent high street insurance broker to allegedly send me two reminders, which I did not receive, and then pass my debt to their debt collection division, which incurred a further charge of £25.

I paid that immediately and then wrote the following letter to them:

Rennie Antacid
3 Oliver Road
Madeupton
Madeupshire
MU14 6YY

Your ref: XXXXX
26 January 2007
Pigton Group Ltd
You Get
The Picture
......shire
Whatever

Dear Sir/Madam

I just wanted to let you know that I have now paid my debt to you. This was settled with your debt enforcement division N- over the phone by debit card.

I now would like to let you know exactly what I think of your company. I did not receive one reminder, even though the amount was due over the Christmas period and therefore was pushed to the back of my mind. You did not receive the money within the specified period of seven days (a very short period) and I received a letter threatening me with a County Court Judgement if I did not pay within 10 days (your bold, not mine).

You made me feel like a criminal and a habitual non-payer of debts. I'm actually not that bad at all and I hate owing money. It simply slipped my mind because of the time of year. I am therefore not at all impressed with your company.

So please make sure that you and all your subsidiaries and all third parties operating on your behalf never contact me again by telephone, in writing, by e-mail or even by bloody pigeon post. I would be happy if I never saw the word Pigton again in my life. If I receive any post from you in the future, it will be returned to you and don't expect me to pay the postage. Any telephone calls I receive from you or anybody calling on your behalf will be terminated immediately.

Yours faithfully

Rennie Antacid
Extremely p-ed off private citizen

I got my reply from them on Wednesday (which will be mailed back to them without a stamp on Monday):

Dear Mrs Antacid

I acknowledge receipt of your letter dated 26 January 2007 and received today. I note your comments regarding your policy that was held via our branch in Penwortham. You have informed me that you were dissatisfied with the service provided in connection to a balance owed following cancellation of your policy. I confirm the following...

[I have cut out the part of the letter which tells me they have removed me from the relevant databases and cut to the bit which really wound me up.]

For the reasons stated above I cannot uphold your views that the branch are in some way responsible for the situation in which you found yourself. I have spoken to N- who have confirmed that your account is now cleared in full...

Here's my reply in full. I don't pretend to be reasonable. Most of the people with whom I deal at work are not and it is nice for the boot to be on the other foot:

Rennie Antacid
3 Oliver Road
Madeupton
Madeupshire
MU14 6YY

Your Ref: RXB
My Ref: AL*&$*!!

01 February 2007
Rennie X Bollard
Customer Assistance Team
You Get
The Picture
......shire
Whatever

Dear Rennie

Thank you for your smug letter of 29 January 2007.

First of all, I would like to point out that you have once again failed. This time on all counts:
I specifically and explicitly requested that no further correspondence be sent to me by either Pigton or anybody acting on its behalf, whether by letter, telephone call, e-mail or, if I remember correctly, pigeon post.
Your letter does not contain even a hint of an apology. I am not sure if you are aware but the Financial Ombudsman Service states that an apology does not constitute an admission of liability. It can, however, be a simple way of mollifying angry customers, even if their complaint is unjustified. It is therefore a very useful tool in the Customer Service sector.
You did not get the point, did you? I am not after compensation, a goodwill gesture or any form of redress. I simply do not like your company and I wanted to let it know. I did not want a letter saying: "You were wrong and we were right". I couldn't give a toss about the rights and wrongs of the case.
You say that you sent me 8 letters in December asking for proof of no claims bonus. I don't dispute that. I did not, however, receive any letter reminding me to pay the cancellation charge. Not one! So you weren't even able to answer that point, were you?
The letter from N- was unpleasant in its tone. The attitude of the people to whom I spoke there was worse. I'm sorry to use such an unpleasant simile, but they spoke to me like I was dog dirt.
So I remain a dissatisfied ex-customer. However, I would like to save you the trouble and bother of replying to me. As I said in my previous letter, I do not wish to be contacted by your organisation ever again in my life or by anybody acting on your organisation's behalf. So please file this letter in the round file after you have read it and do not act upon it.

Yours sincerely

Rennie Antacid
A still extremely dissatisfied ex-customer.

I think I was more annoyed because she had the same name as me but was much, much worse at her job than I am at mine. She makes me ashamed to be a Rennie.

My life as a punk

2007-02-18T15:01:00.000Z

Seeing as I chose to call myself Punky Rennie, I describe myself as a 40 something punk and I have blue streaks in my hair, I thought I would like to elaborate on my 30 year love affair with punk.

Please, never call me a punk rocker. It sounds all wrong. I don't even remember being a punkette either, although the term was widely used for female punks at the time … but I digress.

Let's go right back to the beginning. I was a 13 year old at boarding school and my parents were taking me back after one of the school holidays or half term breaks. I had decided to relieve my mum of one of her woolly hats and for some reason I had pinned a nappy pin to it. As we were toodling down the motorway (you could never do anything other than toodle in our car – a Hillman Husky), a car overtook us (again, not an uncommon occurrence). As the car drew level, a seminal moment in my life was approaching (probably at 70 mph although it could have been much slower as my father tended not to go above 40 or so).

In this other car were two or three punks. My memory is a little hazy with regard to numbers but there was definitely more than one. I am really not sure what they noticed but something about my person amused them and I would assume (and did then) that it was the nappy pin in my hat. They were close enough to have seen it. They laughed and pointed at me and at that moment, I knew it was my mission to become a punk. It was my Road to Damascus moment.

Becoming a punk was not that easy for a middle-class thirteen year old girl at boarding school and at first, I did not really embrace punk fully. I didn't really know how the music sounded although I had heard of the Sex Pistols (difficult not to in those days) and I had little or no idea of how to dress but, as punk spread out, even into the little market town where my school was situated, it became easier for me.

I first dyed my hair black when I was 15. The dye did not take well and it looked a bit purple but I didn't mind. That was punk, after all. I had had a perm (the last ditch attempt of my "normal" side to take control) and with it dyed black and a bit woolly, I claimed I was emulating Adam of Adam and the Ants. By then I was the proud owner of Young Parisians/Lady and almost certainly My Way by Sid Vicious. I have very few pictures of me from the punk era and all but 3 are on slides. I have, however, used one of me at 15 as my profile picture.

I read Sounds voraciously and once read an interview with Hugh Cornwell (then of the Stranglers). My semi-formed feminist feelings were incensed by what he said so I wrote to Sounds and also to him. Sounds never printed my letter (why should they have printed the incoherent ramblings of a 15 year old after all?) but Hugh (at least I think it was him) replied. He referred to the Stranglers as the Strangs and signed the letter Hugh Strangler. My little heart jumped when I read it and I was in his thrall permanently after that (I still am). I don't remember what he said, I must have been delirious when I read it for the first time and the second and the third and the fourth and the fifth…

I used to hang around in the local café (a wonderful place called The Mocha, still there the last time I visited the town). This café had a jukebox and the owner very thoughtfully put punk and new wave records in it. That way I was able to listen to Top of the Pops by the Rezillos, Holidays in the Sun by the Pistols and Denis by Blondie, to name but three. The punks from town used to hang out there too and I used to chat to them. There was one I fancied called Bobby. I used to sing Denis about him but I changed the words to "Bobbeee Bobbeee". Yes, slightly embarrassing to me nowadays. The poor lad really didn't seem to like me at all but was forced to "marry" me in a ceremony in the café when one of the older, bigger lads literally twisted his arm. I cringe at the thought nowadays. He refused to kiss me when we were married though.

I left school and the town at 16 and for the first time used Nestle Lite to bleach my hair. This was not particularly successful the first time and I ended up with patches of blonde, ginger, orange and light brown hair. I looked like a tortoiseshell cat had fallen asleep on my head but I was very pleased because it looked so punk. I also was wearing more and more punk clothing – altering jeans, tearing and vandalising t-shirts.

I bought my first pair of "proper" punk trousers from the Last Resort – a pair of pink leopard skins and a leather jacket second hand from somebody, I don't remember who now. I bought a kilt from a charity shop and was given Docs (again, I don't know by whom). The look was complete – pink leopard skins, a short kilt, a butchered t-shirt and a biker jacket with a picture of Siouxsie Sue in Tippex on the back, UK Subs written above and badges galore on the lapels. Marvellous!

I started seeing a boy of 15, my first boyfriend, and we went to see the UK Subs at the Music Machine. There were 2 support bands. The first was called the Straps. I thought they were absolutely fantastic and I was hooked. I recognised one of the Straps. He had played bass in a band that I had seen at my boarding school. Then another band called Martian Dance played. I remember them as a sort of precursor of New Romantic and I hated them. Then the Subs played and they were fantastic. Unfortunately, they came on after the last train left the nearest Tube Station and I thought we were not going to be able to stay to watch them. Fortunately, my boyfriend had been chatting to some lads and it turned out that they lived near me and had come in a van. We went home in the back of the van that night and saw the Subs.

I used to go down the Kings Road on a Saturday. You would meet punks from all over and we would just walk round, sit in the pubs, look in the shops and get searched by the police. That was a very good way to spend a Saturday. I remember once when we got stopped and searched. The lads got the full pat down the body treatment from the policemen. I had to empty my pockets for a policewoman. I was so disappointed; I really wanted the pat down the body business from the man. The girl with me had two watches and the policewoman thought that was really suspicious. It's a punk thing really, though. Perhaps not something an outsider would know.

I used to hang around in Boy, a punk shop on the Kings Road. Jock, the lead singer of the Straps worked there and I stalked him in a major way. The manager was called Charlie. I didn't like him at all. He was also the Straps' manager. Once, I sat with the Straps in a pub, discussing their most recent gig. They said that they had been awful but I refused to accept that. I just could not grasp the concept that the Straps could be bad. I fancied the drummer, Cliff, and finally ended up kissing him that day. Now I don't know what I saw in him but back then he was an Adonis to me.

Once I was in Seditionaries with my sister. We saw Billy Idol in there. We were behind a rack of clothes and saw him through them. My sister swears the conversation went something like this:

Sister 1 – "That man thinks he's Billy Idol."
Sister 2 – "That man is Billy Idol"
Sister 1 – "Let's get out of here, then. I hate Billy Idol."

Again, haziness of memory prevents me from verifying the accuracy of the dialogue but I do know that I didn't have much time for Billy Idol, we were rude about him in his hearing and we did leave the shop as soon as we saw him there.

I used to go to a pub in Croydon/Thornton Heath called The Star. Loads of punks (mainly underage) drank in there and it had a good jukebox. The only record I remember on it now is Love will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division – still a big favourite of mine. Sometimes bands played there and sometimes not.

Once I was sat outside in the beer garden with a group of local punks and there was a lad there who I didn't know. He called himself Germ and he was very nice indeed. When I saw somebody I fancied, I tended to go for him and Germ was no exception. He got the full treatment and even if he hadn't been a willing partner, I would probably have pinned him to the ground just so I could tickle his tonsils with my tongue. I had absolutely no shame back then.

Another time, in the Star, I saw Spodgenessabounds. They were another massive band for me. Max Splodge was a hero, Miles Flat a poor sap who broke his guitar string and got berated by Max while he changed it and Winston Forbes was a Keyboard Virtuoso (the keyboard part in Simon Templar is brilliant). They had the wonderful Baby Greensleeves who made such fantastic contributions including her part in "I've got lots of famous people hidden under the floorboards of my humble abode". You couldn't fault them.

At this gig were Dave, the Straps' guitarist and Steve Slack, then bass player for the UK Subs. I already knew Dave reasonably well and asked him to introduce me to Steve. They'd supported the Subs a few times and it seemed the obvious thing to do. Dave was not a Preux Chevalier at the time (he's improved since then, I can tell you) and he wouldn't do it so I had to go and introduce myself. I came out with the immortal line: "You don't know me but I'm famous, really." Corny or what? Fortunately, Steve was a gentleman and signed my jeans and we had a lovely chat. Later, I was hot so I removed the jeans. I had a large t-shirt on (punk t-shirts came in 2 sizes back then – XL and XL) and I used my dog lead (which went nicely with the dog collar I used to wear) to belt it so it looked like a mini dress. I went back to watch the band and Dave came up behind me and grabbed my leg. We both jumped. He was expecting me to be wearing jeans and I wasn't expecting him to get so intimate. He jumped higher than me – that's official.

I used to hang around with the Bromley Punks. We all used punk names (like Germ, mentioned above). There were Menace, Sparrow, Turtle, Spittle, Ellie and various others. One who I should give a special mention to was Groper. We didn't get on at all. We used to fight on the bus to and from Croydon and we fought in the Star. I never worked out what Groper had against me or for that matter what I had against him. We just didn't get on. Sparrow had pillar box red hair and Turtle's room was painted black. Menace was a cocky little bugger but I liked him. Ellie turned into a skin girl and went back to using her real name. I called myself Rene but everybody called me Rennie. My sister was Panda.

I should also mention the Coppice Skins, who used to walk me home from Bromley Common after I'd been to the Star. They would walk me through the Coppice Estate and occasionally one or two would take me all the way home. I remember my Dad being up when I got home with a couple of them once. Dad is incredibly cool and just sat and chatted to them. The thing about Skinheads is they do look very thuggish indeed but that didn't worry my Dad at all.

I fell for one of them hook, line and sinker. His real name was Paul but they all called him Big Ears because he had sticky out ears, which, of course, were accentuated by his shaved head. He was the one who took me all the way home on a few occasions and he was always there when I was being walked through the Coppice. Eventually (it seems to be inevitable with hindsight), I ended up kissing him before continuing home with my sister. His brother, who was not a skin, was with us and insisted on Paul sharing me with him so he got a look-in too. I wasn't too worried; there was plenty of me to go around.

Well, I think I've pretty well come to the end of this particular incoherent rambling. I was a punk for about 18 months and pretty rebellious during that time. I succumbed to the ultimate rebellion in the end and rebelled against punk. It was already becoming a bit too glamorous for my liking. Some punkettes' hair was getting too big and they were wearing heels and shit like that (my nose is wrinkling as I type this). It was time for a change so I went and bought myself a Fred Perry t-shirt, some red braces and retrieved some jeans that I had not butchered. I turned them up so they were just resting on the top of my 6 hole brown Docs, had my hair cut in a feather cut and became a Skin. Very briefly. I quickly realised that I could not afford the clobber but for a short while I felt wonderful. I saw Groper in Bromley and walked up to him and said Hello. I stopped calling myself Rene and went back to my proper name. After that I really don't remember what I did. I was a lost soul and never really recovered. (Not actually true. I had a fine time after but being a punk was superb.)

I always say that the best time of my life was when I was a punk. It was a fantastic time and I'm really glad I had those experiences. It's a time that I look back on fondly and I still smile when I think of those wonderful people, their wonderful haircuts and clothes and their great personalities.

Just a postscript to this. When I originally wrote this blog on another site I did not count myself as a punk. Since then I've realised never actually stopped being a punk, I merely went respectable for a while. I have now rediscovered my punk roots; my nose is repierced and I have blue streaks in my hair. My poor husband and children despair of me. I've even bought some Docs - second hand and black and white tartan but docs nevertheless. I love going to gigs and hanging around with punks and skins at them. I've rediscovered many of the bands I loved back then and found to my delight that getting older has not diminished the music's attraction for me. I also now realise that there were plenty of bands back then that I ignored that are fantastic and I'm really enjoying discovering them. In short, I've undergone a punk renaissance and I'm thoroughly enjoying myself.

24 Hours

2007-02-17T09:48:00.000Z

My own, personal, 24 hours is nearly at an end now. I should take pains to point out that at no point during this narrative was the world as we know it in any danger and I look absolutely nothing life Kiefer Sutherland but I've had an eventful last 24 hours and in true true-confessions style, I'm about to tell anybody who cares to read this blog what an absolute pillock I can be.

20.49: 24 hours ago, I was sat in a large room in Chorley while my son (who should be getting himself there at his age) played the piano. He still takes piano lessons, which is laudable at his age, and I take him because I like the fact that he does. He's very, very good. He has already got his Grade 8 and the stuff he's learning now is impressive. Well, he was sat there 24 hours ago and I had no idea what was in store for me in the next few hours.

(While we were driving to Chorley yesterday, my petrol light came on. Normally I ignore it and carry on driving for a couple of days until it is not going off again but I decided to be sensible and so on our way home, I stopped off to put some fuel in the car.)

21.10: I got out of the car and left the keys in the ignition. Thos was in the passenger seat so I thought nothing of it. I filled the car and then went into the shop to pay for the petrol. Thos joined me in the shop and so, being a sensible sort of a person, I asked him to get the keys out of the ignition. He asked me with some incredulity if I had left the keys in the ignition and I confirmed that I had. He then told me he had locked the car from the inside. Panic Stations all round!

21.13: Having paid for the petrol, I got my mobile phone out to ring my husband, who was at work at the time. The call diverted straight to voicemail. "Damn!" I thought, "he's got it switched off". I then asked the lady in the petrol station if she knew of a local taxi firm and asked my son if he had any money. I was about 7 miles from home, the keys were locked in the car, I couldn't raise my husband, I had a grand total of £7 in my wallet and I was beginning to feel like a bit of a fool.

21.16: Having ascertained that my son had some money on him, I rang a local taxi firm, explained my predicament and asked them to send a car as soon as possible.

21.22: I realised my husband's phone wasn't switched off at all, it was simply not working because he had dropped it in the washing up water a few days ago. I made a mental note to buy a new one at the first opportunity.

21.25: The taxi driver arrived. I left my son to keep an eye on the car and we set off for home. The taxi driver was incredulous that my car, a new car, would allow me to lock it with the keys in the ignition. I explained it was a basic model with no frills.

21.35: We arrived outside my house. The taxi driver switched off the meter and told me he would charge double the fare so far - £12.00 - which would make a total of £24.00. I ran in the house with a hurried and shouted explanation to my two daughters and went to look for the spare key on the hook on the back door. It wasn't there. Panic stations! I checked inside the pantry - not there either. Now I was getting extremely worried and working my way through the house, I spotted it on the hallway window sill. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, I picked it up, kissed it and keeping tight hold of it, ran back to the taxi.

21.38: I got into the taxi and triumphantly exhibited the spare key. The taxi driver turned round and started the journey back to the petrol station, my car and my son.

21.48: We arrived at the petrol station. My car was looking very frightened and very alone. My son had not even bothered to keep it company and instead had lurked in a dark corner of the petrol station like the surly metal-head he is. He came over to me while I was still in the taxi and we cobbled together the fare, which I gladly gave the taxi driver.

21.50: I opened the car door and put the spare key in my pocket. Knowing my car was now safe, the kind-hearted taxi driver drove off to collect his next fare. My son and I climbed into the car and we drove off.

22.01: Emotionally exhausted, I drew up outside my house and parked the car on the roadside so I could use it again in the morning. I went into my house to find my son telling his two little sisters that under no circumstances whatever should they relate the evening's events to their father.

22.30: I decided to go to bed and took my mobile phone with me to use as an alarm. I set it to a timed silent profile so nobody could disturb me.

07.49: I checked the time on my mobile, thinking it was about 5.50am. I jumped out of bed screaming silently. This is the time I'm usually setting off for work. I had forgot to set the alarm the night before.

07.51: I rang my manager to explain that I had just got out of bed and I would be late for work.

07.55: Whilst having a shower, I noticed my watch was still on and was getting very wet indeed. This is not one of these fantastic waterproof watches so I removed it pronto, hoping I hadn't broken it.

08.05: I got out of the shower and found to my relief that my watch was still working. I got dressed.

08.10: I went downstairs, made myself a cup of coffee and put some weetabix in a bowl. I checked my e-mails etc.

08.32: I set off for work in my still traumatised car.

Actually, the rest of the 24 hours was pretty uneventful but those few at the beginning more than make up for it.

Temper Tantrums on the Pap of Glencoe

2007-02-17T09:19:00.000Z

I would introduce myself but you can check my profile so there is no point. I would, however, say that I think I was designed to be laughed at. Tall, thin and incredibly clumsy, I trip over my feet all the time and spend more time on my arse than is decent.

I probably don't have to look far to find some incident in my life that is entertaining but I thought the best time is back in July when I went on holiday to Scotland with my husband and two daughters and we decided to climb the Pap of Glencoe. Now I was severely mentally scarred by this at the time and I have only just begun to come to terms with what transpired during the day and that is why I have chosen now to blog about it.

The Pap of Glencoe was across Loch Leven from Tiramisu Lodge (where we stayed) and is a beautiful mountain. I've included a photo so you can see for yourselves.

Yes, not the clearest photo but I hope you get the picture.

Well, we set off, relatively early, full of hope and expectation. Butties and drinks in the backpacks and a spring in our step. Actually, we went in the car, so any springs were in the shock absorbers. We parked up and my husband consulted his trusty map, pointed back towards the road and said "This way!" Actually, he didn't but it sounds good, doesn't it?

We hiked along the road a little way and then after further consultation of the map, we struck off left onto a footpath. We did a sort of large zigzag - more a z-shape than a true zigzag and started climbing. To my horror, my older daughter started getting short of breath and she had not brought her inhaler. I was sympathetic to her for about 5 minutes and then lost patience and struck off up the slope like the intrepid climber I am.

Here is another picture. I can assure you my husband and two daughters are going uphill, not down. I'm just a poor photographer.

So we carried on climbing for a while and at nearly midday, my hard taskmaster of a husband allowed us to stop to take a short break and to take on some fluids. The view was getting good by now and it was pleasant to stop but I was feeling more and more like a mountain goat and was anxious to be on my way. Our daughters on the other hand were both moaning volubly, complaining about their asthma and generally being wimps. (I would like to reassure you at this point that neither had an asthma attack on the mountain and both got down again in considerably better shape than I did.)

Time for another slide, methinks.

This is the view back down to Loch Leven on its way out to the sea. Beautiful, isn't it?
By this time, my husband had been able to convince the girls that he wasn't impressed with them and anxious as they were not to cause any more friction, they carried on up the hill like a couple of rabbits with rockets up their arses. We carried on at a more leisurely pace.

At the top of the hill is the Pap, apparently shaped like a nipple (actually, I can see the resemblance). This is harder rock projecting above the softer material that has eroded away over the years. It makes a nice scramble... most of the way. Time for another slide. This time it is of the view up the Loch towards Kinlochleven, which is the small settlement just above the centre of the photo at the right hand side.

Unfortunately, we are coming to the point where things started to get nasty. First of all, I had to negotiate the Pap, which, as I said before, was mostly a nice scramble. There was one moment where my fear of heights got the better of me and I froze on what seemed like a sheer rockface. It wasn't. I was just being a wuss. My husband very kindly talked me through getting across the gap (it seemed more like a chasm at the time) and even offered to catch me if I fell. I took my courage in my hands and stepped across. One little victory for me.

From there, it was a relative quick and easy scramble to the summit. At the top of the Pap, we found shelter amongst the rocks and ate our dinner. Always a favourite part of a walk for me. I find that the further I go, the hungrier I get. After I've eaten, the further I go, the more my knees hurt. That is actually very significant to this story.

It is at this point that my husband made a serious error. He completely under-estimated my wussiness and decided to come down the sheer north wall of the Pap of Glencoe. This was actually previously uncharted territory and even the sheep saw it as a no-no.

At first, it was not too bad. Steep, yeah, but I could handle it. I just couldn't keep up. I've never been able to keep up coming down a mountain or hill. My knees are just not as efficient as those of the other members of my family. My husband seemed to take delight in disappearing into the distance and try as I might, I could not lessen the distance between us.

We then came to a part which might be called a scramble by a dangerously over-optimistic rock-climber. I call it potential homicide/suicide. The rocks were sharp and well and we all suffered cuts. Some stupid bugger had forgotten to pack any plasters and I let my cut bleed... everywhere. Eventually, after losing about 2 pints of blood, it clotted.

After the sharp rocks came the waist high heather and bracken, the pot holes and hidden streams. I was beginning to feel the strain quite badly now as the hillside was still horribly steep and I was losing my footing all the time.

By this time I was wallowing in despair and wishing I could break my leg or something so that Mountain Rescue could come and rescue me and give my husband a good ticking off into the bargain.

I didn't break my leg and I had to carry on down unassisted. I kept slipping over and from time to time, it seemed a better option to slide down on my arse. At one point, I not only tripped but also rolled down the hillside by a full 360 degrees. My husband very heartlessly shouted "What has she found to trip over now?" I started planning his murder immediately.

After much crying (yes, I cried like a baby, sat down, refused to go on, got up again, fell over again, slid down on my arse again and generally felt and looked a complete arse) we got to a path. I thought my ordeal was at an end and maybe if I had listened to my husband and walked the relatively short distance to the road and sat down, it might have been. Instead, I didn't trust him not to leave me there and take the girls home, I walked along the path back to the car. I should point out at this point that my knees were still in good shape. The rest of me was in dreadful shape.

This was not a short path and there were some very steep bits in some woods where I nearly gave up again but eventually, after what seemed like years, we got back to the car. I took my boots off, vowing that I would burn them to ashes when I got home, and put my trainers on. I ratcheted my back up to upright again and sat down in the passenger seat with the intention of never getting out again.

My husband is a sadist and made me go into a convenience shop in Glencoe to get some stuff for tea. I got some cheap bubble bath there as well. I should say that when I got out of the car, I was so stiff all over that I looked like an elderly and disabled woman.

When we got back to Tiramisu Lodge, I bagsied the bath and ran myself a bubble bath. When I stripped off to get in it, I found blueberry stains on my knickers and pieces of heather (definitely not lucky heather) inside them. I also ran all the hot water off (serve the bastards right for laughing at me). My husband cooked tea and had the temerity to hug me before I'd even finished plotting his murder.

After tea and probably the washing up and some telly and hopefully some wine (I really don't remember now) we went to bed. I was stiff and aching all over. The next day, we went on a steam train to Mallaig where I had the best fish and chips I have ever eaten. I was still stiff and still could have passed for an old lady with rheumatoid arthritis (my Mum had it so I know how it looks).

There is one final slide, taken on the way up when I was still full of optimism about the walk. We found a dragonfly on the path and my husband and I (how regal I sound) both took photos. Mine was much better because I'd worked out the macro setting on my camera. Here it is.

Okay, I wouldn't win any prizes but his was not as good as mine!

There we are then. My triumphant climb up the Pap of Glencoe and my positively embarrassing descent down it. I hope you enjoyed reading this more than I did doing it.