Best Of The Year - 2015 - Music....

Incredibly this is coming out BEFORE the end of 2015... incredible I know.

Anyway, as always, it's a mix of things I heard new this year and older songs I fell in love with. Enjoy...

CARAVAN PALACE - LONE DIGGER (2015)

Saw this on Jools Holland and immediately sought out the album. Love it, love it, love it. 20s vibe meets electronica. Who could ask for more?

DURAN DURAN - PRESSURE OFF (2015)

 

Ok, so the new DD album wasn't a return to all that was brilliant about the band (All You Need Is Now was that), but it was a damn good record, with a few killer tunes. This was the lead single and still a cracking track.

PUBLIC ENEMY - NO SYMPATHY FROM THE DEVIL (2015)

Chuck D really has still got it. Great track off a really great album.

MASSIVE ATTACK - DAYDREAMING (LUV IT MIX) (1990)

Now, back in time for a Massive Attack remix I didn't hear till this year, of the song that got me into the band.

LE TIGRE - PHANTA (1999)

 

From Bikini Kill to Le Tigre and on... Kathleen Hanna just writes some excellent songs. 

TAYLOR SWIFT - SHAKE IT OFF (2015)

Seriously, was there anything this year as simply bloody joyous as this? Molly got me into Taylor Swift, and there's so much going on in her stuff, great songwriting, brilliant pop tunes, never more so than this piece of perfect pop. Smiling.

SLEATER KINNEY - NEW WAVE (2015)

 

Sleater Kinney returned at the start of 2015 and proved they were just as brilliant, just as relevant, just as fabulous as they ever were.

JULIANNA HATFIELD - FLEUR DE LYS (1995)

 

Loved Hatfield since The Blake Babies, but revisited her stuff this year, and Only Everything was on heavy rotation during one really tough drive this year. A new-found love of her voice came out of that.

SINEAD O'CONNOR - JAMES BROWN (2014)

Well, here's a first... can I find this on You Tube? Can I fuck. So instead click on the pic for the Last FM page.

SUMMER NIGHT IN HARLEM - BILL WITHERS / THE FANTASY (1971 / 2012)

The Fantasy is a project to take some classics, well known or long forgotten, and giving them the 12" treatment that simple wasn't available when they were released. I heard this one this year and was completely blown away. Sublime.

VOODOO RAY (REMIX) - A GUY CALLED GERALD

It's rather an electronica lite year this year, so where the hell do I put this classic? Well, here seems okay to be honest. This is here because I heard a great new remix of it. Except I can't find that... so here's the classic.

PINK FLOYD - WISH YOU WERE HERE (1975)

 

Yeah, wish you were here. Pink Floyd. Why not. "How I wish, how I wish you were here.... "

FLEETWOOD MAC - YOU MAKE LOVING FUN ( 1977)

Weird link thing... my dad used to know Christine McVie (well, she was Christine Perfect back then). Small world. Great song.... and one of those where there's so few lyrics, but they're just perfect...

Sweet wonderful you,

You make me happy with the things you do,

Oh, can it be so,

This feeling follows me wherever I go.

I never did believe in miracles,

But I've a feeling it's time to try.

I never did believe in the ways of magic,

But I'm beginning to wonder why.

Don't, don't break the spell,

It would be different and you know it will,

You, you make loving fun,

And I don't have to tell you you're the only one.

You make loving fun.

You make loving fun.

LANA DEL REY - VIDEO GAMES (2011)

Another one you couldn't have told me in a million years I'd get into... but here we go, life's a weird thing. And this Lana Del Rey track just kicks me in the guts every time I here it. 

THIS MORTAL COIL - YOU AND YOUR SISTER (1991)

Kim Deal and Tanya Donelly singing a beautifully stripped down duet... such beautiful lyrics as well..

"so let me whisper in your ear

don't you worry they can't hear

all I want to do is to spend some time with you

so I can hold you, hold you"

TOM WAITS - SOMEWHERE (FROM WEST SIDE STORY) (1978)

It might be just me. It might be just the song. It might be just the situation. But you try listening to this without a tear running down your cheeks?

ED SHEERAN - THINKING OUT LOUD (2014)

A bit like Taylor Swift this.. young kid, incredibly talented, great songwriter, and one who never really connected with me. Until this. Wow. Wow. Wow. Beautiful love song, means so much X

20 + years in the making... Tattoo #4

 

Yes. All comic tattoos. All lovely and iconic.
The latest would be an Invisibles blank badge logo... and why not?

Richard's Best Music of 2014... just a little late..

Ok, so it's now SEPTEMBER. So I've meant to get this done for the last NINE BLOODY MONTHS. Which means I am crap at this. I never used to be crap at this. I used to be so shit hot at getting these things done. Maybe it's my age? Maybe it's just having a hundred and one other things to done at any one point in my life. I don't know. But I do know that I've made a point of getting this done this week, it found a place on the to-do list, which means it gets crossed off right now. This is a good thing.

The BEST OF XXXX CD has been a regular thing at Bruton mansions since way back. It's something I do for me and for a few friends, usually posting them their cds with their Christmas cards. But not this year, oh no.... Sure, I could do them as mp3 downloads, or as Spotify playlists, but there's something wonderfully old-school about making a cd. Which is weird in itself, the idea of a cd being 'old', since I can vividly remember that sense of 'the future' that came with getting my first ever cd - it was The Shamen, Pro-Gen, one of those ace 3inch cd singles that were all the rage when cds first came out.

My first proper cds were That Petrol Emotion's Chemicrazy and Ultra Vivid Scene, Joy 1967-1990. Which puts my first cd player as 1990. Now, seeing as TPE and UVS are still two of my favourite bands, and have never let me down, I reckon that's pretty damn good. As far as The Shamen go, they're one of those bands I love to a point, specifically about half of the Boss Drum album. After that it's pretty unlistenable.

So, as for this year...

Daft Punk & Giorgio Moroder - GIORGIO BY MORODER

I actually wrote about this earlier in 2015, where I called it  beautiful, powerful, the sound of the future. It still is, it always will be I reckon, the chill that shoots down the spine as the words come in, as Moroder talks so simply about the click track, about his choices, about the sound of the future. It's just a magnificent wonder of a track, capturing every moment of Moroder the pioneer.

Daniel Avery - DRONE LOGIC

For those that have the cd just be impressed with the seamless mix from track one to track two, for those of you without the cd you'll have to trust me on this, with a little bit of manipulation, the beautiful end of Moroder, with the click track leading out... click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click .... and the start of Daniel Avery's brilliant Drone Logic is just perfect.

Drone Logic is everything Moroder dreamed of or possibly everything he would have hated, a magnificent drone of a song, repetitive beats playing out so perfectly. The sort of track I put on here knowing some of you will absolutely hate it, but some will love it every bit as much as I do.

Brody Dalle - MEET THE FOETUS / OH THE JOY

Ex of Distillers, Brody Dalle delivers a fabulously loud, wonderfully shouty few minutes of song. Cracking.

St. Vincent - BIRTH IN REVERSE

New to me. Maybe not to you. Clever and inventive and interesting. And a great lyric in the process.

Ibibio Sound Machine - LET'S DANCE

Not necessarily an unusual sound, especially not when Peel brought the sound of Africa to my ears back in the late 80s and early 90s. But it's a bloody gorgeous sound, energy, energy, energy, a real happy piece.

Le Tigre - HOT TOPIC

I knew of Le Tigre. I heard Le Tigre back when they formed at the tail end of the 90s. But they dropped off my listening radar over the years. Just one of those things. But thankfully, I was brought back into the fold thanks firstly to Julia Scheele's Double Dare Ya! zine and secondly thanks to Spotify. The entire back catalogue hit heavy rotation and of that, this is the one that just stuck around in my head. And frankly, who doesn't love a good list song?

The Fall - THE CLASSICAL

Some bands are album bands. Some bands are best-of bands. I got into The Fall with a best of - the 458489 A-sides and B-sides. And aside from a few subsequent albums they remained a best-of band, the compilation covered much of the time Brix Smith joined and pulled the band and new hubby Mark E. Smith in a slightly different, more poppy, more accessible direction. And then a year ago I got it into my head to start listening to the whole bloody discography. It's necessarily patchy sure, but there's some incredible songwriting coming out of Mark E Smith.

Sinead O'Connor - THE WOLF IS GETTING MARRIED

Go on, admit it, you thought she'd stopped making music ages back didn't you? But you remember those first couple of albums don't you? That voice, that brilliant passionate powerful voice, alongside some great tunes made '87s Lion & The Cobra and the follow up in '90, I Do Not Want What I Haven't Go, just excellent. This is from How About I Be Me (And You Be You), a massive return to form in 2012.

Damon Albarn - HEAVY SEAS OF LOVE

I've more time for Albarn than lots of folk. Blur hit at just the right time for me, and Albarn's musical career since then has been eclectic and clever, and he does a damn good singalong tune as well. Which is just what this is.

Mick Harvey and Anita Lane - INITIALS BB

God knows where I heard this. Radio at some point in 2014 I think. A weird one, a Serge Gainsbourg cover where that lecherous French genius does his usual lecherous French genius thing over Brigitte Bardot.

As for Mick Harvey, well he's an Australian who came along with Nick Cave, forming The Birthday Party and The Bad Seeds, and this track is from the first of two Gainesbourg cover albums.

The Rolling Stones - TOO MUCH BLOOD (EXTENDED)

Another one of those Spotify 'lets listen to the catalogue' things, just like The Fall. I'd always had a hankering for some of the Stones music, but it tended to veer towards the more esoteric, Mother's Little Helper, We Love You, that sort of thing. But I also loved, always loved Undercover Of The Night, a thudding, throbbing thing. And when I got to that album I heard this and loved it. Absolutely daft beast of a track, all over the place in its way, Jagger doing something he thinks of as rap probably. There's even an Arthur Baker remix of this that ramps it all up another notch but loses a bit of the driving Stones funk in the process.

Elbow - NEW YORK MORNING

Another band who suffer like Damon Albarn does from an over familiarity in people's minds. Blame the massive success they had. But whether they're fashionable or not, Guy Garvey's voice and lyrics are typically lovely in this one.

Robert Smith - C MOON

Ok, it's cheesy. It's predictable, it's a strange idea, Smith doing a twee Paul McCartney song for the Art of McCartney tribute thing. But it's a ridiculously infectious song, and it guarantees a smile on my face.

Carter USM - THE MUSIC THAT NOBODY LIKES and THE ONLY LIVING BOY IN NEW CROSS  

This is from the final gig the band did in 2014. Well, it's meant to be the final Carter gig, but they've said that before. For a while they settled into a nice nostalgia package of doing a few gigs a year. But no, it seems a little more decisive this time.

But god, Carter were amazing, another band that have long been favourites, ever since I heard Sheriff Fatman. I'd seen them numerous times and always had a fantastic time.

So these couple of songs are just a selection from the whole set that was one the radio. The whole set's well worth listening to. You might remember them as a couple of strange looking indie kids with jangly guitars, crap hair and shite jumpers. I say look past that and open your ears to them, listen to some incredibly perfect pop songs, packed full of an energy that has you bouncing and a lyricist in Jim Bob who really does do the whole modern poet thing so damn well.

 

These two were picked because of a couple of gorgeously soppy moments where the 40+ me reached out to the younger me 20+ years back and said it might just be ok...

"Say goodnight Jim Bob....

".. goodnight Jim Bob"

and of course, from The Only Living Boy In New Cross...

"Hello... good evening ... and goodbye...."

Both still bring a slight, but very stupid misting to my eye. Dopey git that I am.

Anyway, that was 2014....

Oh, and here's the whole gig....

That was the summer of 2015...

Christ, it's over. 51 days of summer. A weirdly long summer holiday of seven weeks rather than six.

And if there was one image that summed it up....

 

Yep. Writing. Gin Martini. I'm still working on both to be honest. The writing's an ongoing thing. But the Martini is getting close to perfection. Currently on a mix of two parts Gin to one part Vermouth, mixed over ice, stirred (not shaken, sorry James), three olives, served dirty (with brine). But I'm working on the exact mix of Gin to Vermouth. I'll get it perfect before Christmas and shall report back.

Ok. There were other things that happened this summer holiday.  

Molly turned 16. It was ace. She also had her exam results. They were ace.
Molly and I went to Anglesey. It was ace.
I went to Dudley. It was ace.
There were other things. Oh, they were epically, wonderfully ace as well. I just can't tell you about them.
Because hey, you really think I tell you everything?

Dudley... my old home...

During my summer hols, I visited Dudley. Which might well seem strange to anyone who's ever been to Dudley, there's certainly precious little about it that makes it journey worthy as a holiday destination, that's for sure.

But I'm a product of Dudley. Born and raised there. Ok, so I left there and moved to be a Birmingham boy once school had finished, but still, Dudley is a place dear to me, or at least the memories of bits of Dudley are anyway. three places; Dudley, Birmingham, Yorkshire. Born and raised in Dudley, adulthood split between the big city and the small town of Birmingham and Pocklington. I've regularly gone back to Birmingham, both solo and with family, visiting friends and family, but aside from a quick drive-through a few years back, I've not been properly back to Dudley for the best part of a couple of decades.

Bloody hell. It's changed.

Granted, even when I did go back before, when ma & pa used to live there, it was a dive and had been for many years. Thing is, I only really went back and saw them, so all I really saw was the nicer end. (Yes, the posh end). But walking through the town centre it's scary how distanced I felt from where I grew up. The people and the places, all have changed, but my memories carry on.

So many wonderful memories, so many wonderful experiences this time round. Now, it might be a couple of years before I head back again, but when I do it will be with great pleasure once more. There's no way to reclaim the past, but you can certainly remember it fondly, enjoy the now, look forward to the future.

So...
First up... the marketplace. It's hardly the place I remember from being a kid, but it's still pretty much the same. Although at least Teddy Grey's sweet shop is still there - ice-cream cone with choc sprinkles thanks very much..

 

This I used to love as a kid. The bridge from Beatties to Fisher Street car park always looked so incredible to me as a boy, a playground of intersecting walkways, a maze of stairs and platforms. Sure, I know now it's a small thing, a few stairs and that's about it, but hey... childhood and all that. 

Oh, and Beatties isn't there anymore. Hasn't been for a fair few years though. I remember it so well, spending lunchtimes there, taken along by Grandma Bruton (paternal Grandma, very posh, spent money like no tomorrow, died of drink) to have lunch with a load of ladies.. all I really remember is an almost cartoonish level of fur coats smothering the young me. Yeah, it was that sort of group.

 

Fountain Arcade. Oh, this was a shithole when I returned, practically empty of anything but crap little half stores, too many boarded up shops. 

But there is one incredible shop still there, the Arcade Toy Shop. It used to be in two locations when I was a kid, both in the arcade, but now it's just in the one. But oh, the memories. Star Wars toys the first time round, back in the day when it was children getting excited about toys rather than a rather unfortunate breed of middle aged men-children (God, if I see one more post on Facebook et al with a 40-something chirping on about how excited they are for the new action figures, well, I'll probably roll my eyes and tut a bit)

 

And do you see that slash of blue there in the window... well it's this, a ride-in rocket that used to be in the arcade itself, but it's now inside... more fantastic memories...

 

And this is the brand-new post 16 thing that's sitting on the site of the Dudley School lower school. (iAdvance? Really?)

 

And here's the old Upper School, rebranded as Castle High many years ago, but always The Dudley School to me...

Now, this might be silly, but this was the architectural and nostalgic highlight of the trip... Dudley Library, beautiful, wonderful, spectacular building, the old revolving doors removed a while back sadly, but the marble steps are still there. It's changed a fair bit no doubt, but it's still structurally the same, and wandering around the place so many memories came flooding back...

The children's library where a love of books began, including the wonderful treasures of Asterix, Tintin and Raymond Briggs. The music library where some wonderful soul had a fabulous taste in music, which meant I could borrow so much good stuff, including Cabaret Voltaire, The Cure, Talking Heads... and so much more, good and occasionally bad. Borrow them, illegally record them onto tape. Home Taping was meant to be killing music at this point, but that's not my experience, not my experience at all. Those of us who loved music at that age could never afford to buy all we wanted to experience, not at the time, but when I started earning any money, it found its way very easily into the tills of many record stores. There are albums I first listened to from Dudley Record Library that I've bought in numerous versions... going from crappy Saisho C90s from Dixons, to buying the tape proper (I was a tape kid, never a record kid), to getting it on CD, then buying it again when the expanded editions came out, then buying the remastered, even more expanded versions. Over the years at Dudley I copied a load of music, but in the years since then, that beautiful immersion in the music triggered a love of music that payed back any debt from taping many, many, many times over.

 

Oh, and as I was wandering round, I happened to look up and couldn't believe this, a tapestry/artwork I'd long forgotten, but immediately recognised when I saw it up on the wall...

 

Other things... Priory Park, where I cycled, climbed, played, whether with Grandpa Bruton, who lived just down the road, or later on my todd, with friends. Many happy memories of this one as well...

Oh, and as for where Grandma and Grandpa Bruton lived... this was it. Well, it was smaller back then. When they died, dad extended it and it became a family home, for about a month or so, as that's all I really stayed in it after University.

Southfork was what friends used to call it...

And of course, what trip to Dudley would be complete without a trip to the castle and zoo. Although it's a damn sight steeper these days than I remember. Heaven forfend I go there if my back was any worse than it is, that would be a quite ridiculous thing indeed.

16 - How did that happen?

Seriously. How is it even possible?

16 years ago today little Molly Alice Bruton was born at Dudley Road Hospital, Birmingham.

Since then she's made the world a better place simply by being part of it, has amazed and confounded, surprised and delighted, entertained and thrilled all those she meets. But most of all, she's filled my life with happiness.

So Happy Birthday Molly Alice Bruton.

Enjoy your day. Love you. Even though you no longer look like this...

Molly Bruton - Proud, proud, proud, proud, proud.

GCSE results day today.

God, that was stress.

Because of various things. But at the end of the day. We are so spectacularly, incredibly, wonderfully, totally, utterly proud of Molly Alice Bruton. Exams all sorted, results great, and on to the whole next set of things to do brilliant at, namely A Levels; English Lit, Media Studies, Music Technology, Applied Science, General Studies (never underestimate the importance of a good General Studies A level. It got me to University, it got her Uncle David to University. And it's an easy, easy A Level.)

I try not to embarrass her too much on here (at least not anymore), but  let's just say we're so very, very, very PROUD of her. She turned out alright y'know.

One thing I have thought about today is that effectively, we're now utterly redundant. We've got her to (nearly) 16, alive, in one piece, pretty sorted for the future. In the old days this means we can quite cheerfully die now. But to be honest, I don't really fancy doing that. I've got A Levels to get through yet at least. Then there's University. Then life.... I plan to be around a fair bit yet.

But Molly Alice Bruton, SO VERY PROUD. OH SO VERY PROUD. Love You XXX

Happy Birthday to Mrs B, Happy Birthday to Mrs B....

It's the birthday of Mrs B today. A very important birthday (but aren't they all). I could tell you what it is, but I might as well let Molly's fabulous cake do it for me... Bake Off has nothing on Molly...

 

 

And that was her haul. Not quite the complete thing, as we're off to see Duran Duran later in the year... a proper treat...

Growing old... the ONE advantage...

Growing old is a crap thing. A really, really crap thing. Anyone tells you otherwise obviously fucked up the whole youth thing. (Yeah, youth is wasted on the young and all that.)

However, the one really bloody great thing about getting old is the whole not giving one whit what anyone else thinks of you. The joy of walking into somewhere new and just not really caring about a reaction, about wearing what you want, being how you want, saying ... well, Jenny Joseph said it best...

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph

How do you make a hardware store pretentious? Adventures on "Bishy Road"

Bedeck it in twee bunting, stick an old-fashioned market cart out the front. Pretend you don't actually sell nails. That sort of thing.

Anyway, I'm sitting here writing this looking out on a cafe patio watching two tables. The first is obviously a family, elderly mum and dad, just back from her morning gym session older daughter and VIth Form / just started at University son. Foppishly Boris Johnson-ish hair, thick rimmed black glasses, white shirt, blue velvet jacket, purple trousers, brown shoes, no chin.

The other table appear to be eating granola. In a plastic pot. With yoghurt to add. Which, yes, they're taking photographs of.

Next to me are a couple with identical white dreads, nose rings, ear extenders, all the best eco-friendly clothes mummy and daddy's money can buy. And behind me, there's a couple of recently graduated women having a business meeting with a bearded hipster type about their pop up wine thing they want to try. Thing is, they patently have NO idea about anything business. They just know they like wine.

Selected quotes...

"none of that fruity, heady sort of label nonsense that even Wetherspoons are doing now"

"before he started his own winery he managed a Danish thrash metal band. How marvellous."

Oh, yes. Welcome to the wonder that is "Bishy Road" in York. That's the last time I'll use the twee term the locals insist on using, with all the self-satisfied air of entitlement they can muster. It's Bishopgate Road. And it's hideous. (But at least the coffee's good). I'm here after dropping Louise in work and having never been here before but having heard Louise tell me how ridiculous it was, I figured I'd give it a go.

It's a scene no doubt replicated in cities around the country. The pop up "village" that isn't, the clever but oh so irritating rebranding of what was merely a few shops on the outskirts of the city in a sort of suburb. I've seen in with Harbourne and Moseley in Birmingham, no doubt you can add your own. Full of the identi-kit coffee shops. Where they display the identi-kit cakes on slates, serve the same sorts of meals... Eggs Benedict, Avocado on toast, Salmon, you can guess the rest. Where the noticeboards are full of mother and baby courses in French, yoga and choral singing.

Trouble is, the principle behind Bishopgate Road and your identi-kit "village" around the country is absolutely something to support. Of the shops, the majority of them are independent. The money goes into the local economy, it's definitely a good thing. But god, the people who patronise these villages are so damnably annoying.

And no, I did not wake up in a bad mood this morning at all. Why do you ask?

Welcome to the Brutons.... SCOUT

We've finally succumbed.

Molly's spent a long time pestering us over this. Pitiful notes left overnight "I'm lonely and would love an 'ickle friend to cuddle" was one of them. But various things got in the way, most obviously Molly's GCSE revision and exams (results are on the 20th August). But then a work colleague announced that their cat was pregnant, and due whilst Molly's exams were on, meaning the kittens would be ready to wean and rehome around now.

This was them a couple of days old...

 

Yes. Spectacularly cute.

Louise had always said there was no way she'd have another ginger tom after she had so many years with her wonderful boy Timmy (see here and here). But all it really took was a photo of the bundles of fur and she was sold. So today we went and picked up our new member of the family.

As for the name, Molly came up with SCOUT (from Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird) before we knew we were getting a boy. But it's just stuck. So Scout it is.

And here he is.... getting acquainted with life at Bruton Mansions...

 

 

Ranty, ranty, ranty. It was going to be Louise birthday related, now it's simply a down the pub, look at the privilege in action thing...

So, I just wrote a lengthy diatribe on something. Moany. Ranty. Moany. Ranty. As is my want. I cultivate the idea of the curmudgeon, the whole Warren Ellis thing without the talent (or the health problems. Get well soon Warren). And then realised I couldn't post it without Louise working out what her birthday present is. Because despite the paucity of posting over the last god knows how many years, Louise still uses this to look through the family history from time to time. And seeing as this is one of those **SPECIAL** birthdays, I'm not giving anything away.

So... instead, you'll have to cope with me ranting over things that happen down the pub. Because why not?

One of the strangest things that's happened to me over the last couple of years is that I actually have a local. In fact, I practically have two. One's a writing pub, the other's a Gin palace of a pub. The Gin Palace is only open a few nights a week but it's a lovely place to try a new gin or three. They have 20-30 on at any time, but the writing place is great, I sit and relax and write, and drink coffee early in the evening and G&T (Monkey 47) later in the evening. Hell, I even have a regular seat. Ridiculous I know.

It's all down to quitting the fags (three years plus now. May 2012. And yes, I still miss it every day). One of the biggest problems was the lack of a quick and effective mind hoovering of a break that nipping outside in the garden gave me. So instead I find it easier to concentrate when I'm somewhere else, writing in public means I have to concentrate harder on the writing and less on the surroundings. It works for me anyway.

The ONLY problem with the pub? Absolutely nothing to do with the pub itself and everything to do with the clientèle. There's a certain type of customer, and I'd be stereotyping to say they have children at the local private school, but well, they do.

Take the other day for example. It's sports day for the private junior school/prep school/mini indoctrination and privilege building centre (call it what you want). In walks a couple of families, kids about 5/6, hyper as hell. As for the parents, well... mums who spend their time at the salon and boutique getting everything exactly right because heaven forbid they'd be a social outcast due to an ill-chosen bag or the wrong shade of spray tan. And dads who genuinely think it's ok to wear blue/beige suits, shirts open way too low and deck shoes sans socks. Sure, the fashion mags say sockless with suit works, but not if you're a 30-40 something middle ager but a touch of the unsightly paunch.

Anyway. The party goes outside. Eventually. Not before the kids run around and practically bounce off everything in sight; chairs, tables, the bar, themselves, their parents, doors, walls, the waiting staff. But outside obviously isn't enough. Time to have a fun race through the pub, in the fire exit and out the front, screaming loudly as they go. Over. And over. And over. And over. And over. Parents of little Tarquin x 2 doing absolutely sod all except get another round of belinis. Which is when both kids climb onto the tall, revolving stools at the bar and stand up on them. Shouty, shouty, shouty. Spinny spinny spinny. Dad ignores this completely. Then they climb ONTO the dividing wall between ball and the rest of the room. So now, they're a good 5ft off the ground and nope, dad STILL hasn't noticed. Nor for that matter, has mum, who's at the bar now and has actually walked PAST the kids to get there. The level of consciously ignoring the kids to get to this point is something that's obviously taken years to hone to this supreme height of shitty parenting. Nor do they notice when the kids JUMP off the dividing wall onto the seats below.

Thing is, this isn't anything like an isolated incident. Nor is it limited to the private school. But seeing as it is my local, seeing as I'm there a fair bit, writing my stuff and drinking my coffee / G&T, my anecdotal observations suggest that there's a lot of really overly-entitled, rude, ignorant little Tarquins and Tarquinas running around here.

And.... rant over. Back to writing about nice stuff. In fact, tomorrow we have a fantastically lovely nice thing for you to look at.

In praise of the 4-day week.

Back in Birmingham, working as a Science lab tech at schools I used to work 5-days, 40 weeks of the year, with school holidays off. But I also used to work at Nostalgia & Comics, blessed comic shop in Birmingham, every Saturday as well. This pretty much meant I used to do a full-time job like regular people do.

Up here in Pocklington, working as ICT/Computing Teaching Assistant & Technician I started off doing 4 and a half days a week, holidays and weekends off. Oh, the bliss of a full weekend, especially on the rare occasions that I managed to actually leave school on Friday lunchtime, where it would sort of, almost feel like a three day weekend.

But then Molly grew up and started getting to school herself, which meant the reason for me needing to leave school at a time to pick Molly up was no longer there. Hence as soon as she got keys I found myself working later. And later. And later. Getting things done, filling the available time and more. You know how it goes. Eventually I realised I was easily working at least an hour extra every day and shuffled my working patterns around to stop this. Hence I now work Monday to Thursday. Have been for more than a year now. And bloody hell, it's a wonderful, wonderful thing. Seriously, if you can do it, you should do it.

It takes a while to get used to sure enough. Suddenly Wednesday is no longer the middle of the week, it's the day before you get that Friday feeling, and speaking of which Friday is now Thursday. Which means you wake up on Friday feeling a sense of incredible freedom, full of potential. Well, that is, if you wake up early enough. I'd be awake to see Louise out, and then Molly out, but all too often I'd head back to bed and completely waste the morning.

The solution? Start booking stuff for Friday morning. Doctors, dentist, deliveries, whatever I could, just arrange it for 9, stick all the alarms on and get out of the damn house. And getting out of the damn house meant it was a day full of potential. Or, more to the point, a day full of writing. Friday became, and is still, my favourite day of the week. A familiar pattern developed easily. Get up, do stuff, fulfil appointments, get things that need getting, then it's off to the local bar for coffee, copious amounts of coffee accompanied by similarly copious amounts of writing. The reviews seem to flow better there, less distractions, more focus. Before I know it, it's midday and I'm caffeined up to the gills. By then it's time for home and the afternoon. Some days that can be a trip to Burnby Hall, the local gardens. Some days it's jump in the car and head further afield for an explore (always with the laptop and reading material of course). Some days it's stay at home and listen to Mayo & Kermode's film review on Radio 5. But no matter what it is, the day always seems to be full of getting stuff done. And anyone that knows me knows what a joy it is to get things done.

So yes, if you can, switch to a 4-day week. It's so brilliant that I'm trying to work out if there's any way I can manage to swing a 3-day week. Unlikely, but who knows.

Of course, all this free time means I simply have longer to work on writing. I love it sure, but there's a bloody good argument to be made that I'm actually working a LOT more now than when I did do a proper 6-days a week thing!

Molly Bruton... her school days in pictures...

Incredibly, Molly Alice Bruton finished her GCSEs last week. I was going to say she finished her compulsory education, but the ridiculous state of education in this day and age means she has to stay on until 18, as does everyone else, whether they want to or not. Yes, fair enough, she would have stayed on anyway, but that's not the bloody point.

So. A lifetime in education... her lifetime at least. And yes, this is all being done because:

1) I love her dearly.
2) It's great fun embarrassing her this way.

So, here we go...

2003: The very first day at school, St Chads Birmingham. Doesn't she just look adorable?

2006: We move to Yorkshire, which means it's her last day at St Chads Birmingham...

.... and her first days at St Mary & St Joseph Pocklington....

 

After so many lovely years at St Mary & St Josephs, she had to leave eventually, so it's 2010 and she's finishing primary school. There were tears. Of course there were tears.

And leaving Primary School naturally means starting secondary school.... Sept 2010...Woldgate College...

 

And now it's 2015. Which means she's 15, and she's just finished her GCSE exams. She's got 12 weeks off. And these were her last days at Woldgate College....

Oh FFS, not another apologetic "I haven't posted here for a while" post....

Yep.

Yep. It is.

Still. At least it's something.

In all truth, I had big plans to roar like a lion into 2015, new year, new regime etc etc. But resolutions are made to be broken eh? As it is, all I can promise is a determination to put something on here every so often. Where every so often is a time period somewhat less than annually and somewhat more than daily. In between those two goalposts I reckon we'll hit a mark.

The big problem with any return to blogging here is that it's been so bloody long that I had a sense that the return post should be SOMETHING, have a sense of importance, gravitas, not just waffling about shite.

Then I realised that this is nothing more than me talking to me on a public forum, so fuck the idea of gravitas and I'll treat it like a monologue between me and me and see how that goes.

So. How has life been recently Richard?

Well, thanks for asking Richard. It's been shit and great and all points in between, just as I imagine everyone's life has been. (Find me someone permanently happy and I'll show you a moron or a madman).

ME: Well. I'm still working in the same primary school I wrote about a long time back. It's still fun. I'm still doing the computers there. I'm still wracked with self-doubt about my capabilities in this role. I still know being wracked with self-doubt is silly, as the head knows just what I'm doing and knows my teaching kids about Computing is far more important than sorting everything out about the server and getting to the bottom of Active Directory et al.

I'm way more involved in the whole comics thing as well now. Really, really involved. Looking bac over the Fictions archives I see many references to the idea of getting the review queue down to zero. It still hasn't happened. I doubt it ever will. But the sensible bit of me realises that it's not such a big deal to do that anymore. It's fine to have more people wanting you to look at their cherished work than you have time to. It's a compliment dammit. So yes, I keep writing about comics, keep reviewing comics, day after day after day.

Family.... well, that's a bit more complicated. Not because much has changed, not at all, it's still me, Louise and Molly here at Bruton mansions, but you may be aware of the rules regarding me writing.... I can talk about me till the cows come home but I'm not really allowed to talk about Mrs B all that much. And now that Molly is (amazingly) 15 and heading towards GCSEs and adulthood in a few months, I'm not really allowed to talk about all the endearingly embarrassing things my lovely daughter does anymore.  Suffice it to say this year she was a nightmare, a wonder, a marvel, a terror, a delight, source of many worries, source of so much pride.... and frankly any parent who tells you it's all fantastic is a downright bloody liar. Would we have it any other way? Are we incredibly proud of the sterling young lady we've somehow managed to bring up? Will we support her in any and all forms her life takes? Bloody hell, yes. Are we telling you it's all been fab these past couple of years? Hell No.

Mom: Well, she's not exactly getting better. Seriously, what did you expect, the poor woman's got Alzheimers, has probably had it for decades before it was properly diagnosed, it would certainly account for all manner of weird behaviours during my teen years if she did actually have the dread disease. It's merely a matter of time right now before we get the call from the care home to tell us she's gone, and frankly all of us are wishing it to be sooner than later. That includes the pre-Alzheimers mom as well. All those people who talk to you about the amount of care and solace and comfort we can give to Alzheimer's patients, feel free to treat it with a grain of salt. Mom's been lost to us all, to the world, for a good year plus now. There's no comfort we can give here, no communication she recognises, no touch see finds relaxing. Nothing. A blank. Nothing at all. She's simply gone. The saddest thing is we can't simply let her go, can't acknowledge legally that the best thing for all concerned, most importantly her, the woman who always said, quite genuinely, that we should shoot her before she became like this, would be to end her life. A mercy killing.

You want to argue with me about euthanasia? Come see my mother. That should cure you of all your keep 'em all alive as long as possible.

It's certainly made me contemplate my own end. If it happens to me I plan to have so many checks in place that me and mine will be able to recognise the signs. Once we do I'm planning on taking up smoking once more for a few months whilst I still can, sorting out all my effects, travelling a bit if I'm physically able, doing a few things I always fancied, and then finding some way of checking out early. My own terms, my own time, still in relative control.

Okay. Seeing as it's late. Real late. I should really shut this damn thing down and go bed. Go sleep. Forgive the spelling mistakes. Frankly I don't care. Oscar Wilde said it best; you don;'t pay me enough to spellcheck my words. Actually, Wilde said nothing of the sort. But he would have. He really would. And if he didn't I'd still quote him as such.

One eye has just closed. I imagine that's some sort of strange biological subtext for "get the fuck to bed moron". My body commands. I merely do it's bidding.

Next time I tell you all about the secrets to life.

Nah, probably in six months I'll be back talking of how it's been another six months where I haven't done much here. Hey, fingers crossed it's not, eh?

Lauren Bacall RIP

Well, yesterday we lost Robin Williams at the age of 63 and through suicide. (See here)

Today we lose Lauren Bacall. First laughter now beauty. Cruel couple of days.

The only consolation is that Bacall's life was longer and I hope happier. Bacall was the epitome of beauty to me, has been since I was in my teens. It wasn't all about the looks, although she was incredibly attractive, but the attitude, the personality, the strength of character, the intelligence. All of it, young or old. You can keep all of your models, your modern day stars, she was one of a kind.

 

More music... the new Elbow single / album....

The new Elbow album is magnificent. Beautiful. Melancholy. Uplifting, Emotional. Wonderful. Downloaded it tonight, been on continual rotation all night. The single New York Morning has all the anthemic, festival pleasing stuff going on, but I think by year's end it will be some other fabulously mellow track gracing the end of year list....

Dementia and me....

My mother.... Christmas 2005... at our house, Christmas, well groomed, loving being with her family....

My mother... Christmas 2013... a shell of her former self. If she had any idea I'd be showing this photo she'd be mortified....

Is it wrong that I wish my mother dead?

Is it wrong that I see her, at best, every six months?

Is it wrong that she's effectively dead to me already?

My mother has been suffering with Alzheimers for many years now. She's two and a half years in a home, my dad (almost) finally free of the guilt putting her there caused, finally getting some distance from her.

It's the long goodbye.

My mom and I were never that close, the relationship fracturing in my teens, never really to recover. Looking back I start to question how much of the intractability, the fury, the obsessive nature that I remember so well when I remember who she was, was actually merely early signs of the dementia to come. In some ways I'm grateful that our relationship became toxic, as it saves me from the pain and guilt of seeing her this way. In other ways, it makes me sad and guilty that I'm not deeply affected by seeing my mom laid low by this horrible disease.

She'd seen her own mother go through it. I remember Grandma Hancox suffering from dementia, seeing mom go to her house, get upset, chastise grandma for doing all the stupid, illogical things dementia sufferers do, all the lost clothes, al the boiling kettles dry stuff. And I remember how upset she was by experiencing it.

She always said, only half joking, that if ever she started showing those same signs, we should put a pillow over her face and end it all then. Thing is, I knew she meant it.

God knows, when I say the same to Louise and Molly, I know I bloody well mean it.

Suffice it to say, Louise and Molly already know my wishes.

I do hope by that time wiser heads have prevailed and we have a reasonable assisted suicide route in this country. My wishes are simple, as soon as I start showing signs, Louise is instructed to thrust fags, cigars and G&T into my hand (fuck it, I'll hopefully have been quit 30/40 years by that stage, but lets make those final years pleasurable eh?) and let me get on with it.

The key moment is when I don't function properly, stop enjoying reading, find my cognitive abilities restricted. Louise will be the best judge of that. And then it's simply a case of booking me in to the clinic, feeding me gin, and fags, and cigars until the end, one last night to see the stars and then goodnight. Terry Pratchett may want to see a final sunrise, I've always been a nightowl, I'll be happy seeing the stars when I go out.

If they can cope with it I'll have Louise and Molly with me at the time, both of them reading from Richard Bach's Jonathan Livingstone Seagull.

If they can't cope with it (and no guilt if they can't) a nurse will do the job instead.

An overdose of whatever is legally (I hope) mandated will see me to sleep. God knows that is so much better than the hell I see my mother go through whenever I see her.

I wish my mother dead. I don't think that makes me a bad person.

What makes me a bad person is that I don't walk into her care home tomorrow and do the bloody deed myself.