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.

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...

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?

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!

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.

42

I have become a Douglas Adams plotline. Oh hell.

Blogging again - maybe not....

As is the way of this blog, it's become more of a guilty pleasure to write here. It became a bit of a chore a while back, and things came to a halt. There was simply too much to do, work, home, wife, child, sleep, writing about comics ...... suddenly the writing here came a distant last, something that kept falling off the to-do list.

But now, hopefully, we're at a different place, and writing here has developed. There's no pressure anymore for me to be writing here, so it becomes simply something to do when I feel like it, in fact it's become the diary I never kept as a child, a way of recording everything for posterity. (Yes, yes, it's all backed up - I know Google can yank all of it as quickly as I can click back up everyting).

So no, don't be expecting anything regular. I may drop it for months aat a tiem, before splurging like this. Or I may fall into something really a touch more diary based, recording stuff - although to be honest I have no idea who actually reads this now. Used to be a place for friends, and comic folks to come and read, but all of the comic stuff is now subsumed into the FPI Blog, and there's less to write about personally here. Because whilst 6 year old Molly was a dream to write about, the current 13-year old iteration is a little more self-conscious and would object loud and long if I started writing about the everyday goings on in Bruton Mansions once more.

So this is it, a temporary return to a few blog posts, a promise, or maybe a hope, of fairly regular updates after this.

Although lets be honest about it, I've said this all before, and it's not quite worked out right. We'll see how it goes eh?

Meanderings.... gin.... a post review glow.... of writing....

You'll have to forgive me for this, I know it's been awhile.

The sad fact of the matter is that I don't have the drive to keep writing here. So many other things are taking my time. I'd love to spend 10 minutes a day, maybe at the end of the day, documenting all the minutiae of Bruton mansions here. But it's not happening, hasn't happened for a long time.

There's many reasons for this. But probably most pertinant amongst those is the sheer amount of time, the sheer amount of writing time my work over at the FPI blog takes up. I get to the end of the night and it's too late to even contemplate writing anything else.

Take September. DC had this new thing where they relaunched every comic with a new number 1. And I decided, in a moment of all too frequent madness, to review all of them. Then, halfway through, I felt guilty at not balancing these DC reviews with some Marvel review. And of course, I had to do the usual reviews of things sent to me for review over at the FPI blog as well.

Which meant in September I reviewed something like 80 works. Now some of these were mere paragraphs. But as anyone doing this sort of thing will tell you, sometimes a paragraph to summarise a work is hell to write. Better occasionally to go to 2000 words than 200.

So I'm exhausted. It's back to school and of course I've picked up some delightful bug or other from the returning children, who seem to spend the entire six week holiday incubating viruses to inflict upon my person in the weeks we come back.

And I'm doing incredible work, review after review after review spews forth. And then I hit a wall.

All it took was one book that I really loved to bring me to a grinding, frustrated halt.

My way of working is a perfectionist's way. I have a rule that says I know I can't get to 100% satisfied with anything, so 95% satisfied is what I aim for. Yet occasionally even this isn't possible, usually with something I really loved, yet somehow can't find the words necessary.

And that's where I've been for the last week. Every night I thought I'd nail it tonight, the words would come, the review must write itself, after all I loved the book, so the words will just flow.

Sadly, not a bit of it. But somewhere in the rational side of the brain,. I've reached an accord. If I can't manage 95%, then maybe, just maybe, 80% will be okay? I think it might, I really do. Which is why I'm here. Right now I'm in that warm glow of post review happiness. Something that's taken a week to write only needs a final edit, a few pics added, and then it's done. Time to turn to the other books on the review shelf. But only after a celebratory G&T, and a sleep.

Oh Dear..... at what point do I just give up?

Sadly, I haven't been here since May. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.
Apologies. I shall try to do better.

I've just got a few comics to review first.....

I'm not a reluctant gardener, I'm just banned from helping

Well, the sun is out, Molly has been out most of the weekend with friends, Louise has ventured out into the garden for the first time this year with intent on kicking it into shape and I have been having a great old time writing stuff. I've done reviews, articles for the FPI blog, stuff for the school website and blog. Hell, I've even found the motivation to write some stuff here.

The gardening thing – yes, I am banned from helping. Absolutely, there is simply no argument. Louise has made it quite clear that my help is not required.

The totality of my gardening involvement is getting the lawnmower out, putting it away and taking the garden waste to the recycling centre.

You see, the problem is that I have a very minimalist view on gardens in general. Or rather, I have a very minimalist view on gardens that I have a hand in. Other people’s gardens – they can be as complicated and exotically overgrown as some suburban version of the Hanging Gardens Of Babylon. I love sitting in gardens, love relaxing in them, very peaceful.

Unless it’s my own. Then my mentality to do things kicks in, I see things that need doing, cutting back, tidying up, and the relaxation is lost. Hence my gardening routine was very simple; if I cut it back by X and it takes Y weeks to grow back, surely if I cut it back by 2X it would take 2Y to grow back. Can you see where this naturally leads me?

Start of the gardening season used to be devastation in our garden. Cutting everything back to within an inch of it’s life, often passing over into an inch of it’s death to be honest.

I may have done less damage if I’d have just carpet bombed the garden with DDT.

Louise also likes the garden. Louise likes the relaxing aspect of sitting in the garden. She’s also quite partial to the relaxing aspects of getting a garden looking right. Having a garden that looks like it’s been attacked by an indiscriminate chainsaw does not relax her at all.

End result; around March or April, when the sun comes out and the garden wakes up, Louise makes it quite clear to me that SHE will sort the garden out the first chance she gets. She also makes it quite clear that I am not to attempt to help in any way.

Which is why, right now, I’m upstairs, listening to Kraftwerk, with a big mug of coffee, writing lots of things and Louise has just finished mowing the lawn for the first time.

Five Years Old today!!!!

Fictions turns FIVE today.

I would celebrate, but realise I've been a bit rubbish at updating recently (ie most of 2010 and all of 2011 so far). I will try harder, I will, I will, I will.

Well that was a quick two months.....

Nearly the end of February. And, as usual, blog activity here at Bruton mansions has been pretty much zero. There are many and varied reasons for this;

Work's been very, very busy - the school has a new library and somehow I've managed to fall into the role of librarian. It fills a load of time, but it's a great way of filling my time - planning, organising, shelving, the works. And the payoff has been great - a stream of children eager, desperate even, to start using the library.

The comic writing has taken up a lot of time as well. The review pile has been beaten down to single figures and hopefully, by the start of March it's going to be reduced to the magic zero.

And then there's Molly. Wonderful, marvelous, lovely Molly. Who's now completely settled into secondary school and having a great time. But I'm increasingly aware that she's not going to want me talking about her on here in great detail.

And then there's the innui. Instead of being the first thing I think of, this blog's become one of the last. Other things, at least for the time being, have taken precedence. Of course, within a month I could be back and blogging every day, and, as usual, just the act of this post has made me think I should really try just that little bit harder. Who knows.

40

Oh yes. That's me.

Am I at all concerned with hitting 40? Nope.

What bothers me more is generally getting old.

But in the short term, seeing as I'm writing this a few days ahead and I've got stuff needs writing before I go to be - what bothers me right now is getting another G&T and writing 500 decent words about a comic.

So that was the two thousand and ten show.....

2010. The year I stopped blogging here. (pretty much - less than 10 posts for most months of the year - terrible).

The year Molly stopped being an adorable primary school child and turned into an adorable secondary school child. Or at least she did right now, with the rose tinted spectacles that a reflective look back at the year always seems to provide.

The year when everything pretty much stayed the same, in all it's wonder and loveliness. Work was good, as usual. Computers, children and teaching suit me very well indeed. And the end of the year even saw me taking on a new, unexpected role - that of unofficial school librarian. Much more on that in the new year. Much more. Libraries, shelving, design, blagging huge amounts of graphic novels for the school library - this is going to be a great 2011 at work. As long as all of those lovely computers keep working.

Louise has had a good year, despite receiving very few mentions on the blog. Something she's both pleased about and annoyed about. As always when she complains that the blog sometimes reads like a single dad's memoirs I do remind her that she has always made it quite clear that she doesn't want her life talked about here.

And increasingly, as Molly gets older, I'm well aware that this blog is a quick google search away for any of her friends or school colleagues. Which means I may have to stop talking about her quite so much and in quite so soppy a tone. Which is a shame - and yet another horrible indicator of the fact she's growing up.

The secondary school experience has certainly been a wild ride. Not that the choice of secondary schools - that was so easy it was almost untrue. It was a big plus in moving up to Yorkshire in the first place - we still talk about the feeling of relief when we first talked to Molly's Pocklington primary school about secondary school choices and were told that she had automatic entry to not one, but because of the Catholic thing, two good secondary schools. That was quite amazing to us - and certainly not something we would have fall so easily into place back in Birmingham.

But once the decision was made - by Molly (although it was the secondary school we both hoped she'd pick) - then the problems started. Homework was the main problem. For September and October it was, frankly, utter hell. It took so long for us to fit into any sort of routine and only getting her a desk in her room rather than having to do her homework on the kitchen table seemed to sort it out. Or maybe it was just that she got used to it and I calmed down about it. But my top advice for secondary school - get a desk for their room in August.

It's a strange time, getting used to Molly growing up. But, just like every time she's changed, it's a wonderful experience, made all the more so by the fact she's a truly wonderful child. She's turning into a truly wonderful young person and Louise and I are continually amazed at what we managed to bring into the world.

On the comics front it's been a year of reviewing and more reviewing. For those few of you reading this that don't know, I'm a writer on the Forbidden Planet International blog. It's something that came about almost accidentally, as a result of many years working at Birmingham's Nostalgia & Comics store - read about me and N&C here and the taking Propaganda Reviews from the shopfloor to the FPI blog here and here.

The year started and ended with me desperately struggling to clear the review pile so I could actually do what I always planned to do - review the books as I got them rather than looking at the shelf next to my desk and deciding which of the oh too long overdue for review books I should look at next. And I'm still not there. But I still plan to be. Maybe if I'm writing similar moany words at the start of 2012 I'll just have to admit it's a futile aim and give up, settle down to my lot and just get over it?

The major problem is really one of success. Personally I think the majority of what I write is somewhere between not that good and oh my god I never want to see that again. But people seem to like what I write, my name's known in the (admittedly small) circle of comics in the UK and more and more I find I'm receiving comics and books in the post for review. Sometimes, I have to admit, too many. And because of my nature and my perfectionism, I feel I have to read and review everything I receive.

This means 2011 will progress much like 2010. Lots of comic reading, lots of comic writing. Luckily I enjoy it. I may not like most of what I write, but sometimes I'll finish something, some little piece of writing, and think it's a job well done. And that feeling is what makes it worthwhile.

The downside to writing more and more about comics is that something has to suffer. And that something is this here blog. Fictions has become a shadow of it's former self. I promise I shall try to do better this year.

Right, enough for 2010. A quick month by month and then onwards, onwards into the New Year..........

January - I started as I pretty much went on - apologising for not blogging as much as I should. A little on Molly's vomit and then straight into talking about the seemingly never-ending review list. Plus ca change eh?

February - almost nothing. Quitting mentioned. Didn't really work.

March - Molly chooses her secondary school - Louise and I profoundly relieved.

April - The Brutons went to Butlins. And incredibly, spectacularly, against all expectations - I absolutely loved it. In other news - pigs did fly, hell had a cold spell.

May - Molly's dreams came true - and she got "the boys". A beautiful pair of rats - Woody and Buzz.

June - There was a world cup. It was shite. And my dear little computer decided to sort-of give up the ghost.

July - Molly left primary school. Tears? Oh yes.

August - Bruton's holiday in Anglesey and Dublin. Molly finally gets to go abroad (or at least that's the way she was talking about it. fantastic holiday.

September - this was it - the end of childhood, Molly off to secondary school. Oh hell, the homework hell kicks in. As does the teenage-isms.

October - Computer stuff. And we discovered that the "boys" Buzz & Woody, Molly's lovely pet rats were actually the "girls". Pets At Home. Bless 'em. Plus British International Comics Show - great show, but more additions to the review pile.

November - Molly gets a desk for her room and finally, thank god, the homework hell seems to calm down just a little. Thought Bubble comic show was a great time but by god it adds to the review list.

December - That would be Christmas then.

Christmas traditions....

Watched Love Actually ...... Yes.

Cried at Love Actually ..... Yes.

Had that special G&T .... Yes.

Waited for Molly to get up, around 2am, just like she does every year, to go to the toilet ..... Yes.

Sitting up waiting for her to go to bed, so Santa can deliver her stocking to the end of her bed... Yes.

Merry Christmas. I shall be tired (as is the tradition) on Christmas morning.

Christmas Time.....

It's 1am, it's Christmas day.

Molly's asleep upstairs and Santa has been. Although based on previous years Santa may wait a while before disturbing her slumbers with a stocking of goodies.

Earlier tonight she did the Santa thing - and it looked like this - including a gin and tonic which is all gin and very little tonic. She's possibly decided to test the whole Santa thing by getting him really, really drunk and hoping he'll be passed out by the tree in the morning.

Does she still believe? Is she in that strange halfway place where she sort of knows the truth but doesn't want to actually admit it, just in case? Or maybe, just maybe, she's just going along with it because she's lovely and wants her poor deluded parents to have a great Christmas?

Whatever the reason, it doesn't really matter. It's been a wonderful Christmas Eve. Just like Kipper says in Kipper's Christmas Eve (something I think we'll still read on Christmas Eve when she's come back for Christmas from Uni - I can hope. I really can. Can't I?):

Christmas Eve is the best bit.

Here's our Christmas Eve in pictures:

Merry Christmas one and all.