Looking after your guitar is well worth the effort. When, in my late teens, I was presented with my first acoustic guitar one of the first things I did was to cover it with stickers and use the soundhole as an ashtray.
Needless to say, that guitar never sounded right again.
But, over the long years since then, I gradually realised that looking after my guitar was a much better bet.
And in recent years I have found a few inexpensive accessories in my local HobGoblin music shop to help me keep my instruments in good order:
Lemon oil is good for cleaning the fingerboard; it treats the wood and gets the muck off that invariably builds up during use of the guitar.
Guitar polish is well worth the price; it keeps the body of the instrument looking good and, when rubbed into the neck of the guitar helps your chord hand move freely back & forth.
Fast Fret is another equally inexpensive product for cleaning the strings after playing. Not only does it clean the strings but it also, along with the other products, keeps your guitar playing well - just like it did when you first fell in love with it in the shop that day you decided that it was now worth your while to spend a few bob on a good quality instrument.
These things really take a lot of the hard work out of playing your guitar - leaving you free to concentrate on being creative.
For a demonstration of how to use these products - and how to restring your guitar - check out the video on guitarmaintenance.
Monday 21 November 2011
Horror Story
It's really spooky.
Every time I go online I get the same picture appear over & over again. It's scary, it's frightening and I'm finding it hard to sleep at night as a result of it.
I know you're going to find this hard to believe, but the picture is of a woman who stares calmly into the camera as she pulls the skin from her face in one big, huge ghastly piece. It's horrible.
How can anyone, in their right mind, put this kind of thing on the internet? It's sick.
Every time I go online I get the same picture appear over & over again. It's scary, it's frightening and I'm finding it hard to sleep at night as a result of it.
I know you're going to find this hard to believe, but the picture is of a woman who stares calmly into the camera as she pulls the skin from her face in one big, huge ghastly piece. It's horrible.
How can anyone, in their right mind, put this kind of thing on the internet? It's sick.
Friday 18 November 2011
Where All The Money Went
Here is something to consider:
In this age of "amazingly advanced scientific technology" everything has become so quick that if a thing does not happen instantaneously there is a public outcry. Messages arrive moments after they've been sent. It is now possible to buy things - online - from the comfort of your own home, almost before you're aware of it.
In order to facilitate this process money is converted into numbers - in the case of a computer into zeros and ones - and, as your money gaily disappears into the ether, what becomes of it then? Answer: someone else converts those numbers either back into cash or they, in turn, buy something online using those numbers.
Fact: The whole world is in the grip of a recession. All the money seems to have disappeared somewhere.
Are you still with me?
Fact: This online internet world is constantly being hacked into by people. If you do not pay these people lots of money they will turn your computer - you know, the one you worked long hours of your life for and saved up for for ages - into an incredibly thin & lightweight piece of shit.
Never mind that it's costing you a lot of hard-earned cash to run your computer anyway - these greedy, worthless people are more than happy to bleed you dry.
Look out for these people. Listen carefully to how they justify their crimes. See if they can look you in the eye. Ask them where all the money went. Listen carefully to their answers.
In this age of "amazingly advanced scientific technology" everything has become so quick that if a thing does not happen instantaneously there is a public outcry. Messages arrive moments after they've been sent. It is now possible to buy things - online - from the comfort of your own home, almost before you're aware of it.
In order to facilitate this process money is converted into numbers - in the case of a computer into zeros and ones - and, as your money gaily disappears into the ether, what becomes of it then? Answer: someone else converts those numbers either back into cash or they, in turn, buy something online using those numbers.
Fact: The whole world is in the grip of a recession. All the money seems to have disappeared somewhere.
Are you still with me?
Fact: This online internet world is constantly being hacked into by people. If you do not pay these people lots of money they will turn your computer - you know, the one you worked long hours of your life for and saved up for for ages - into an incredibly thin & lightweight piece of shit.
Never mind that it's costing you a lot of hard-earned cash to run your computer anyway - these greedy, worthless people are more than happy to bleed you dry.
Look out for these people. Listen carefully to how they justify their crimes. See if they can look you in the eye. Ask them where all the money went. Listen carefully to their answers.
Sunday 13 November 2011
That Was Then - This Is Now
I've just noticed that my recent posts are getting older & older & older. I'm going to take this recently discovered gem of knowledge to be a prompt for writing something else.
And this seems to be an ideal opportunity to perform a practical, scientific experiment in the process.
If I type this out fast enough will it still be the 'Present Time' when I've finished? Or will the text be doomed to be almost instantaneously consigned to 'The Past'? There's only one way to find out!
The timer is set on my mobile phone; my fingers (both of them) are feeling up to the task; neurons & little bits of chemically-electrical string are humming away at the ready in my head as I try to decide what I'll write.
Here we go!
Hmm. Not bad. Only 5 seconds - but is this still in the 'Present Time'?
It is!
Well. It was.
I'm not so sure now.
There it goes again!
Too late - it's gone...
And this seems to be an ideal opportunity to perform a practical, scientific experiment in the process.
If I type this out fast enough will it still be the 'Present Time' when I've finished? Or will the text be doomed to be almost instantaneously consigned to 'The Past'? There's only one way to find out!
The timer is set on my mobile phone; my fingers (both of them) are feeling up to the task; neurons & little bits of chemically-electrical string are humming away at the ready in my head as I try to decide what I'll write.
Here we go!
Hmm. Not bad. Only 5 seconds - but is this still in the 'Present Time'?
It is!
Well. It was.
I'm not so sure now.
There it goes again!
Too late - it's gone...
Thursday 10 November 2011
Monday 7 November 2011
Modern Acronyms Explained
HTML - This is one that your partner may well be nagging you to read up on. How To Make Love.
LOL - This can mean many things, but I have it on good authority that it stands for Leg Of Liver.
OMG - Most people are familiar with this one. Obviously it stands for Outrageously Mental Goat.
SEO - Very popular with people who like the water. Sexually Enticing Oceanarium.
USA - Lots of people get this one wrong. Unrealistic Space Adventures.
EU - Politicians use this a lot. Expenses Unlimited.
FTSE - Some folk think this is something you play under the table. Finances Taken Somewhere Else.
BP - Despite everything you may think, this means Best Pal.
BAA - Doesn't actually stand for anything - it's just a sound that a sheep makes.
TV - No. Not that at all. Originated during the Grocers' Riots of 1898. Troublesome Vegetables.
IMF - No prizes for guessing this one. Improper Maid Fondling.
BBC - Coined at a recent party-poopers convention. Balloon Bursting Ceremony.
OTT - Another one invented during the Grocers' Riots of 1898. Obliterate The Tomatoes.
UK - Again, not an acronym. This one is used to describe the sound you make just prior to vomiting.
UKBA - Used to describe the sound that a sheep makes just before it vomits.
FCUK - The sound that a football club makes just before it collectively vomits.
WWW - Used to denote marsupial-friendly territory in Australia. We Welcome Wallabies.
MOD - Someone likely to have been a smartly dressed, scooter riding Who fanatic in the 1960s.
APR - No. Nothing to do with loan companies. Aardvarks Prefer Redheads.
ITV - Those Grocers' Riots again! Intolerably Troublesome Vegetables.
FX - Frantic Xylophonists. Used to denote percussion players who are late for a rehearsal or concert.
FIFA - The sound made by a high-flying executive when he is caught redhanded in a compromising situation.
BLOG - Used instead of RSVP on Rastafarian party invites. Bring Lots Of Ganja.
LOL - This can mean many things, but I have it on good authority that it stands for Leg Of Liver.
OMG - Most people are familiar with this one. Obviously it stands for Outrageously Mental Goat.
SEO - Very popular with people who like the water. Sexually Enticing Oceanarium.
USA - Lots of people get this one wrong. Unrealistic Space Adventures.
EU - Politicians use this a lot. Expenses Unlimited.
FTSE - Some folk think this is something you play under the table. Finances Taken Somewhere Else.
BP - Despite everything you may think, this means Best Pal.
BAA - Doesn't actually stand for anything - it's just a sound that a sheep makes.
TV - No. Not that at all. Originated during the Grocers' Riots of 1898. Troublesome Vegetables.
IMF - No prizes for guessing this one. Improper Maid Fondling.
BBC - Coined at a recent party-poopers convention. Balloon Bursting Ceremony.
OTT - Another one invented during the Grocers' Riots of 1898. Obliterate The Tomatoes.
UK - Again, not an acronym. This one is used to describe the sound you make just prior to vomiting.
UKBA - Used to describe the sound that a sheep makes just before it vomits.
FCUK - The sound that a football club makes just before it collectively vomits.
WWW - Used to denote marsupial-friendly territory in Australia. We Welcome Wallabies.
MOD - Someone likely to have been a smartly dressed, scooter riding Who fanatic in the 1960s.
APR - No. Nothing to do with loan companies. Aardvarks Prefer Redheads.
ITV - Those Grocers' Riots again! Intolerably Troublesome Vegetables.
FX - Frantic Xylophonists. Used to denote percussion players who are late for a rehearsal or concert.
FIFA - The sound made by a high-flying executive when he is caught redhanded in a compromising situation.
Sunday 6 November 2011
2011 BC (Roxy Music - Strictly Confidential, For Your Pleasure)
The wind howled as the last of the thin, watery daylight drained away towards night. It was growing colder; the rain returning time and again like a predator - coming back to see if its prey had stopped moving.
Having reached the top of the ridge alongside the west side of the valley - not far above where a colossal outline of a horse had been carved down to the chalk below, the boy and his father had been ambushed by a group of six warriors from the enemy tribe and, although they had successfully driven them off, his father had received a deep wound from a thrown spear. When he tugged the crude iron tip from his abdomen the blood had gushed forth in a torrent.
The boy, only 15 years old, had fought valiantly alongside his father as they battled the group and, having seen the last of them run helter-skelter down the slope in retreat, he turned to grin at his father. His grin of victory, however, quickly changed to one of fear as he saw his father's expression. Though still tender of years, he had the presence of mind to help him stagger across to where a small outcrop of rock formed a natural windbreak before his legs gave out from under him.
Fraught with indecision, the youngster sat next to his father, giving him what body heat he had as the older man grew colder.
Slicing off a length of his animal skin tunic, he held it against the hole, but the blood still seeped steadily through. He gazed into his father's eyes - alarmed to see them glazing over; unable to help him himself, he stared around the uninhabited wilderness for aid.
But the wind continued to blow with a frustrating indifference; the night dropped steadily, robbing the boy of the last sight of his living father's face.
They had set off from their village at dawn, armed with spears and crude swords as they walked off to join with the warriors of their own tribe a few miles beyond this valley. Skirmishes with their neighbouring tribe had been common for as long as anyone could remember, but there had been an outrage committed, and the call had gone out for a massing of able-bodied men.
Despite his father's insistence that he was still too young for fighting, the boy had kept on until his father reluctantly armed him and gave him a rudimentary lesson in hand-to-hand combat the night before. Had they not been ambushed by the small force of enemy warriors they would have reached the rest of their own before nightfall.
Not knowing what to do, he huddled closer to his father as the rain came back for another foray. It was getting colder now and, although the outcrop sheltered them from the worst of the wind, the cold rain found them all too easily. Tears spilled helplessly from his eyes as the severity of the situation came back to him with increasing rapidity.
The melancholy sound of a horn made him cast his gaze around feverishly but, although it rang out several times, he could neither make out whether it was blown by friendly lips nor discern from which direction it came from.
Sleep came to him intermittently, occasionally disturbed by the calling of another distant horn; it's note in a slightly different pitch to the first - sometimes overlapping to form a strange, otherwordly melody - colouring his troubled dreams and reminding him of how cold he was.
Having reached the top of the ridge alongside the west side of the valley - not far above where a colossal outline of a horse had been carved down to the chalk below, the boy and his father had been ambushed by a group of six warriors from the enemy tribe and, although they had successfully driven them off, his father had received a deep wound from a thrown spear. When he tugged the crude iron tip from his abdomen the blood had gushed forth in a torrent.
The boy, only 15 years old, had fought valiantly alongside his father as they battled the group and, having seen the last of them run helter-skelter down the slope in retreat, he turned to grin at his father. His grin of victory, however, quickly changed to one of fear as he saw his father's expression. Though still tender of years, he had the presence of mind to help him stagger across to where a small outcrop of rock formed a natural windbreak before his legs gave out from under him.
Fraught with indecision, the youngster sat next to his father, giving him what body heat he had as the older man grew colder.
Slicing off a length of his animal skin tunic, he held it against the hole, but the blood still seeped steadily through. He gazed into his father's eyes - alarmed to see them glazing over; unable to help him himself, he stared around the uninhabited wilderness for aid.
But the wind continued to blow with a frustrating indifference; the night dropped steadily, robbing the boy of the last sight of his living father's face.
They had set off from their village at dawn, armed with spears and crude swords as they walked off to join with the warriors of their own tribe a few miles beyond this valley. Skirmishes with their neighbouring tribe had been common for as long as anyone could remember, but there had been an outrage committed, and the call had gone out for a massing of able-bodied men.
Despite his father's insistence that he was still too young for fighting, the boy had kept on until his father reluctantly armed him and gave him a rudimentary lesson in hand-to-hand combat the night before. Had they not been ambushed by the small force of enemy warriors they would have reached the rest of their own before nightfall.
Not knowing what to do, he huddled closer to his father as the rain came back for another foray. It was getting colder now and, although the outcrop sheltered them from the worst of the wind, the cold rain found them all too easily. Tears spilled helplessly from his eyes as the severity of the situation came back to him with increasing rapidity.
The melancholy sound of a horn made him cast his gaze around feverishly but, although it rang out several times, he could neither make out whether it was blown by friendly lips nor discern from which direction it came from.
Sleep came to him intermittently, occasionally disturbed by the calling of another distant horn; it's note in a slightly different pitch to the first - sometimes overlapping to form a strange, otherwordly melody - colouring his troubled dreams and reminding him of how cold he was.
Saturday 5 November 2011
The Mystery
takes on the faded image of a face
a quality of shadow
rewinding to a long-forgotten place
where locked in an enchantment
her body frozen by a magic spell
lay sleeping there a damsel
You stumble on a clearing
not far from where you hear the traffic roar
to find an ancient tower
and marvel how it was not seen before
though smothered all in ivy
for nigh-on almost forty thousand weeks
rising higher than the trees
a legend of which no one ever speaks
the lilting of an unfamiliar tune
comes down to draw you closer
as you become the tide before her moon
beside an oaken doorway
a rusted nail supports a silver key
and as you reach to take it
you hear her call: "To me, my love! To me!"
the handle, under protest, starts to turn
and so, inside the tower
to gain the stairs is your one true concern
but here the light is golden
while outside tumbled foul acid rain
entranced, you hardly notice
for such is the enchantment on your brain
as you begin to lose track of the time
and onward, ever onward
her lovely voice still beckons you to climb
until you reach a landing
all bathed within the same unearthly glow
before another doorway
this way, it seems, the only way to go
and unseen hands have led you then inside
you realise with horror
that long ago this fair young maiden died
and, kneeling by her deathbed
alongside others drawn through history
you join a row of statues
forever twined within the mystery
Thursday 3 November 2011
The Crumbling and the Crack
When another day draws to a close;
when the centuries seem even further back -
in the blink of the eye of the memory
the failing light hints at the morose;
seemingly the unlikely future will lack -
all the wonderful things from a memory
And we search through the night for the ghost;
in every empty room and corner black -
the spirit to recreate the memory
Yet we scheme and then we just suppose;
that the coming days' happy fulfilment lack -
the vibrant jewels of golden memory
Passing over a once-perfect rose;
oblivious to the crumbling and the crack -
blind to the genesis of new memory
Time marches ever onward with those;
forgetting to recall or just losing track -
neglecting to maintain precious memory
When another life draws to a close;
and there seems no way to ever bring it back -
rapidly blinking your eyes at the memory
too late to act or so it goes;
unable to protect them from Time's attack -
in the blink of an eye just a memory
when the centuries seem even further back -
in the blink of the eye of the memory
the failing light hints at the morose;
seemingly the unlikely future will lack -
all the wonderful things from a memory
And we search through the night for the ghost;
in every empty room and corner black -
the spirit to recreate the memory
Yet we scheme and then we just suppose;
that the coming days' happy fulfilment lack -
the vibrant jewels of golden memory
Passing over a once-perfect rose;
oblivious to the crumbling and the crack -
blind to the genesis of new memory
Time marches ever onward with those;
forgetting to recall or just losing track -
neglecting to maintain precious memory
When another life draws to a close;
and there seems no way to ever bring it back -
rapidly blinking your eyes at the memory
too late to act or so it goes;
unable to protect them from Time's attack -
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