Mnemonicus

It's the 4th of November again - which means that in six days time it'll be the 10th. Ha ha! Just kidding! Bonfire night tomorrow, though really this year it's been celebrated on the 3rd - being a Saturday. There have been loads of fireworks going off already; for several nights there have been the small explosions of rockets, bangers and the like going off outside. It'll be a miracle if there will be any left over for the actual 5th! I have a mnemonic (an aid to memorise certain things) which I have partially ripped off from this time of the year. It goes: Remember, remember, remember, remember, remember, remember Wednesday. Or was it Tuesday? Another one goes: Fireworks are alright On bonfire night But if they set your clothes alight It's shite

A POSTCARD FROM CACOPHONY

I live in a lovely little room in central Bristol; I've been here for about twelve and a half years - having moved in here in January 2000 - it's handy to town, all the shops, the bus station and Temple Meads railway station. My room looks out over the beautiful Brandon Hill Park - a magnet for tourists in the summer - and I am lucky to have many friendly neighbours living the length of the street. I've been a fully paid up member of BHRA (Brandon Hill Residents Association) for the past three years or so and, being a Bristolian, I consider myself to be extremely lucky to be living here. The history of this city fascinates me, and I am building a collection of books on the subject.
So why, do you ask, is this post titled 'A Postcard From Cacophony'?
Well, the problem is that I live in a shared house - or an HMO, as my fellow BHRA members refer to it (House of Multiple Occupation) - and, unfortunately, my room is currently sandwiched between an alcoholic below, and a young chap above.
The aforementioned alcoholic frequently comes in in the middle of the middle of the night - slamming his door repeatedly and playing his records very loud. This often wakes everyone in the house and, rather unsurprisingly, makes him very unpopular!
The young chap who recently moved in above my room has one recording - and one recording only - which he plays over and over. It's the sort of thing that you'll quite often hear being blasted from boy racers as they pootle about in their motorcars. The bass is very loud and intrusive, there is no tune, and there is an emotionally disturbed robot on drums.
Last night I had boy racer 'music' coming through my ceiling, and a truly sorry mixture of what I can only call 'total & utter shite' coming up through my floor at the same time. After I banged on my floor the alcoholic came up and knocked my door, asking why I was banging on his ceiling. When I pointed out that it was because his stereo was so loud I had hoped that he would take the hint!
Not only did he not turn it down he INCREASED the volume and played many of the same stuff over & over & over again. This went on into the small hours.
I'm a musician myself, and I am sure that there is a law against USING MUSIC AS A WEAPON.
I'm sure that it must be awful for the poor chap to be so terribly afflicted with alcoholism, but I do wish that he would find a nice hole in the ground to crawl into and leave me alone. I don't like having to bang on his ceiling, but I won't be dictated to by a total dickhead. It's as simple as that.
The young chap upstairs is also a bit of a lost cause. Myself & Martin (an old friend of mine who works at the theatre) have spent the entire duration of the young chap's tenancy cleaning up after him and, when I pointed out to him where the dustpan & brush and the broom were located, he got very upset, swore at me, and then threatened me with physical violence!! The funniest part of this was that he threatened me and behaved badly while Martin was present - so I have a witness!
It's Saturday, the 29th of September, 2012 as I write this so, if anything should befall me between writing this and sometime in the near future, you can rest assured that my assailant would have been either Tristan (I don't know his surname) from upstairs, or Adam Martin, the poor, deranged alcoholic from downstairs - or maybe even both!
Ironically, what with my constant backpain and the sometimes unending duration of the NOISE POLLUTION, it is I who is having murderous thoughts! I do not, however, want to have to go through the unpleasant, sticky and complicated business of killing these assholes myself; it would result in the loss of my freedom, and I wouldn't be able to live in this wonderful neighbourhood anymore.
Ooooh! It's just gone quiet!
How lovely!

On The Threshold of a Dream

So it had come to this. All his life, it seemed, had just been nothing more than a protracted preamble to this. He tried to search his memory for a clue, but the oxygen was low. So very low. He peered through the little window with glass so thick that it distorted the view outside. Just visible was a range of curiously-sculpted mountains in a colour that made him think of the sweets he bought when a child - four for a penny. And that was an old penny. Two hundred and forty to a pound. A thought idled its way through his mind; what would those mountains taste like? Would they be sweet? Four-for-a-penny sweet? A spacecraft. That was it! He was in a spacecraft. He was in a spacecraft on a distant planet. Something had gone wrong, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what it was. His memory was bombarding him with sights, sounds and tastes of his childhood. But his recent recollections were hidden from him. How long had he been here like this? He listened to his breathing as it struggled inside the confines of his space helmet. Then he recalled one of his father's Moody Blues albums that he used to listen to in his teens. He recalled the feeling he got whenever he heard the opening track of this album - this old vinyl record album. He remembered that he fancied that the long, even electronic drone that began the first track would sound like being in a spacecraft on a distant planet. Was it In Search Of The Lost Chord? His father had that one as well, but it didn't seem to fit somehow. Blinking away a trickle of sweat from his eye he looked wearily around at the interior of the spacecraft. What he was hearing didn't tally with what he was able to recall of that music from so long ago. All he could hear was his own laboured breathing as he slowly suffocated in the tiny little room on this nameless world so far removed from his own. He realised, somewhat abstractedly, that he was hungry. Very hungry. And thirsty too. He thought of a glass of sparkling limeade he'd enjoyed so much as a child. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was a piece of old, cracked leather; his mouth an equatorial tomb. Glancing again through the window at the candy mountains and the drear, alien skies - devoid of any meaningful sunlight - he sighed, the sound reaching his ears like some early Pink Floyd sound effect. From the Atom Heart Mother album, perhaps. The window suddenly rose upwards, being replaced by the dull, featureless expanse of grey that covered the walls as his legs gave way beneath him. His breathing was drowned out by the roar of his helmet scraping down the wall. Huge, purple flowers blossomed in front of his eyes. Just before he died he remembered the name of the Moody Blues album. It was On The Threshold Of A Dream. The first track was called In The Beginning. How appropriate, he thought to himself.

Dare2connect

Thanks to the ceaseless efforts of my friend Francis Kirkham I now have a new blog thing where I'm hoping to be able to post some of the music videos that I'm uploading to YouTube. It's called dare2connect and, although it doesn't seem to want to have anything to do with my iPad at the moment, I'm confident that I'll be able to get it to do the things that it's meant to do. I'm absolutely amazed at the millions of things that it is possible to do with computers! If you'd told me a few weeks ago that I would soon be able to upload my photographs and videos to a website I'd have looked at you as though you were completely bonkers in the nut! So please visit my new bloggy thing at dare2connect, look at my photographs, see my videos and, above all, enjoy!

Deus ex machina

June has been a wet and miserable month and, now that it's almost done, I've realised that I've been neglecting to add to my blog. By the way, I now have an iPad, so if this is in a different font or something it's because of that. That having been said, here it goes... My dear Mum bought me this truly wonderful piece of kit recently (it's a birthday/Christmas present combined for the next five years as it was so expensive) and I'm striving to get the maximum amount of use from it. It's about a million times better than my old steam-powered laptop, fast and, after an hour-long free lesson at the Apple store, I've already learned quite a lot about what it is possible to do on it. And I've even managed to use it to film myself playing tunes - and posted said tunes on YouTube! It did take quite a few trials, and a whole plethora of errors, but I did it in the end! Am I chuffed to bits? Well, actually, I am! Well chuffed! Of course, it took me so long to successfully post the videos that I haven't really had any feedback yet. When I (mistakenly, as it transpired) thought I'd posted the videos onto my Facebook page some of my friends got back to me to say that they weren't able to see them. As it is now two days later and I haven't had any more feedback I'm assuming that my friends maybe aren't expecting me to have mastered the technology yet. Can't say that I blame them really. It'll be July soon, and I hope the weather perks up a bit. It's the start of Wimbledon this week so, for the love of blithering crikey (thanks Hils), let's have some sort of Summer this year. Was going to add an image to this post, but I don't think it's going to let me. That's something else to try to figure out. Watch this space...

Welsh National Opera pictures

More pictures of the crew from daze of yore...

Mothers Day

Though I never saw any of his live shows, the legendary & amazing Frank Zappa used always to play a gig on Mothers Day. I more or less grew up listening to his music; I'll never forget the time that my Dad (the equally legendary & amazing Johnny Randall) brought home a copy of Hot Rats that a colleague at the Bristol Hippodrome loaned him.

I was quite used to finding strange records on the kitchen table during my early-to-mid teens; Hendrix's Band of Gypsys; the Moody Blues' In Search Of The Lost Chord; the Rolling Stones' Through The Past Darkly to name but a few, but seeing the picture of the demonic looking lady peering out from the edge of an empty swimming pool was startling - to say the least! But when I put this big vinyl disc on the turntable of our old Ferguson mono record player and listened to it I think that I can honestly say that that was a life-changing moment.

It blew me away.

And it still does all these years later. Having already heard quite a lot of Jimi Hendrix I was always going to learn to play guitar because of all the really interesting planets that his music took me to. When I heard Frank do his stuff I realised that there were several large and fantastic universes available to tour. Just pick up your guitar and off you go!

Of course, I had to learn to play first; and I always will be learning because there's so much to learn. Forty-one years later and I'm still doing it.

Thankyou, Jimi. Thankyou, Frank. Happy Mothers Day!

Major West Country Theatre Centenary Year

On Monday the 16th of December, 1912 The Bristol Hippodrome theatre opened its doors for the very first time with a show named: Sands o' Dee. Ever since then it has remained the Number One West Country Venue for nearly all the major touring theatre companies.
It survived the Blitz - but lost its backstage area to a devastating fire in 1948. The Front of House, however, remains pretty much the same as it was at the beginning of the 20th Century.
A huge proportion of the population (not just local) have come to the Hippodrome to be entertained, and I'm sure that I am not the only person to have precious memories of this wonderful building.
My grandmother (as a one year old child) went to see the Sands o' Dee show in 1912; I went to see my first ever Pantomime there when I was a child in the 1960s; in the late 1960s my father, Johnny Randall, started working backstage there and soon became one of its most beloved Stage Managers; in 1971, while still only 15 years old, I began working backstage. Many of my relatives (my Mother, sister and various uncles) and many of my friends have worked there, so you could say that I grew up in the place.
Thanks to my experience working on the stage at the Hippodrome (and also to the nationwide reputation of my father) I soon went on to work in many other theatres all around the world during my career which narrowly fell short of three decades.
Most of these other theatres were marvellous places, set in far-flung, exotic (and not-quite-so-exotic) locations, but none of them could come close to the Bristol Hippodrome - where I quickly learned to take pride in my work.
Ironically, it was while working backstage in the Hippodrome where I sustained my lower-back injury that would (after two-and-a-half years of agony) eventually ensue in the demise of my long career.
Despite the fact that I received only a small amount of compensation for the injury I still love the Hippodrome; I still have many friends there and, as I have friends from many different touring theatre companies, it is still a place where I can periodically catch up with them when their show comes to town.

I have really only begun to scratch the surface as regards my warm feelings about this dearly beloved theatre.
So you can imagine how much I am looking forward to seeing how the people in charge of the place decide to celebrate this truly momentous & important occasion.

My Dad taught me how to really enjoy my work during the times I was there with him and, since he sadly passed on in 2003 of cancer, I am sure that he is still in there somewhere; and I'm sure that he too would want this anniversary properly marked.

Magic

By the time that he was four years old Michael Hunter was getting more & more familiar with the world. By the time that he was approaching his fifth birthday he was sure that he pretty much knew all there was to know. The world was no longer just a huge, vaguely indistinct thing that seemed to revolve around his parents.
There was the house; the shops; the playground; and there were other kids and their parents he would see from time to time.
There was also the television and, though he still wasn't quite sure how all the people & things actually managed to squeeze inside the screen, it really had begun to give him a few ideas about what he would do with his life when he'd grown up a bit more.
He saw a programme about people singing and, though he was quite pleased with the songs he made up for himself to sing while in the bath, his mother soon forbade him to sing them to her. So much for being a singer.
Then he watched a programme about cowboys & indians which he found profoundly interesting in a strange kind of way. When he told his father about his latest idea he was told that people didn't 'become' horses as a job. Michael sighed and, forcing himself to accept what his father had told him, he tried to re-cast his mental net.
A month later he was eating his dinner while a sports programme was being aired - zygote! He would be a javelin thrower.
This lasted for almost a week, when he became interested in comedy programmes. Although almost all of the humour was incomprehensible to him he liked the way that the person telling the jokes made everyone in the audience happy. His parents laughed too and, for a long time afterwards, he was certain that he would one day mature into a popular comedian. When this happened he was positive that he would be so popular that he would soon be allowed to stay up much later, have lots of sweets & chocolate to eat, and be given all the latest wonderful toys to play with as a reward for being so good.
This phase lasted right up to a few days before his fifth birthday. His parents had asked him if there was anything in particular that he would like as a birthday present. He wanted a comedian kit: a shiny suit, a microphone and a book of jokes.
His mother and father were nonplussed. Though his request was straightforward and unambiguous they were sure that if he unwrapped what he'd asked for on his birthday he would be terribly disappointed.
Then, two days before the big day, his parents had come back from shopping with only a joke book towards Michael's present. They were still uneasy about buying him the shiny suit & the microphone.
After dinner they were sat in the lounge watching the early evening television when a programme came on about the life of Tommy Cooper. Michael was entranced. Not only was this man funny in a way that he was able to understand and appreciate, but he also did magic tricks as well! Also his parents laughed uproariously throughout the whole show.
When the programme finished and Michael was told to get ready to go upstairs for his bath, the little boy had an idea. He was sure that his suggestion would not be taken seriously, but he asked his mummy about it as he sat in the warm, soapy water.
" Mummy. Is there such a thing as a thing that could help you to do magic tricks?"
His mother brightened, pausing as she was about to wash his hair. "Do you mean like a Magic Set?"
"I think so," said Michael, staring thoughtfully at his plastic yellow duck that bobbed up & down among the bubbles as he used a sponge to bombard the toy with water. "If I had one for my birthday would I be able to do tricks like that man with the funny red hat did?"
The next day, Michael's father rushed around the shops after he'd finished work and, although he'd been told by friends & colleagues that a conjuring set would be available from practically any shop in town, everywhere he went either didn't stock them, or had only recently sold their last one. Feeling terribly defeated, he realised that all the shops were closing up for the night and, crestfallen, he wandered along to the bus stop, wondering what he would say to his wife when he got home empty-handed.
Deep in thought he wandered along the street and, purely by chance, saw what he had been looking for in the window of a charity shop. The box looked a little tatty and old fashioned in the display, but he had a good feeling about it.
There was, however, the fact that the shop was in darkness. It was closed.
Looking up, he saw his bus coming down the road towards him and, as he was about walk resignedly to the bus stop, the door to the shop opened. In a dilemma as to what to do, he went to the door and, displaying his best smile, he asked the lady who was about to lock up and go home if she would sell him the set in the window.
A little dithery, and with no idea of his sense of urgency, the lady looked completely confused.
"But I don't know how much it is." she told him. "Can you come back tomorrow?"
Explaining as quickly and as gently as he was able that it was his son's birthday the next day, Mr Hunter finally persuaded the woman to let him have the set for £20.
By some miracle he was able to board the bus with the magic set and, as he was taken back to the suburb where he lived, he opened the box and examined the contents to make sure that there was nothing in there that could harm his son. The picture on the box showed a Victorian looking man with a moustache & a top hat, smiling triumphantly as he wielded a black wand with a white tip. When he removed the lid he was struck by the musty smell that, for some reason, made him think of his own childhood. He checked the inside; finding no sharp edges or anything remotely dangerous looking. There was a somewhat dog-eared little book included with a smaller picture of the conjuror from the box lid on its cover. He made a mental note to have a quick look through the book before he wrapped it - then promptly forgot. Putting the little set of three parti-coloured cups (Cup - ball. Ball - cup. Thankyou very much!) back into the box with the wand and the various other odds & ends, Mr Hunter carefully replaced the lid. Though the set looked as though it had seen a fair amount of use sometime in the past he was satisfied that Michael would not be disappointed with it when he unwrapped it in the morning.
Before he wrapped it up that night he showed the set to his wife, expecting her to balk at the secondhand look of the thing, but she seemed fairly happy with his purchase. He breathed a sigh of relief; now all he had to do now was see if Michael would like it.
　
The present turned out to be exactly what Michael had wanted. He didn't seem to care that it wasn't brand new and, taking it up to his room, he explored the contents for most of the rest of the day. He did ask where the funny red hat was, but didn't seem too upset when he was informed that there wasn't one included.
It was a week later and, as his father settled down for a quick glance at his newspaper before setting off for work, Michael appeared next to the breakfast table, breathless and with an excited look on his face.
"Daddy! Watch me do a magic trick!" he pleaded, setting the box down next to the teapot. "Nothing up my sleeves!" he added, displaying his bare arms.
His father glanced at his watch and, seeing that he had about fifteen minutes before the bus, he acceded.
"Alright. But you'll have to be quick!"
Without further ado, Michael opened the lid of the box and, removing the book, a twelve inch square gold-coloured satin cloth and a smaller version of the wand that the man on the box had in the picture, he turned to smile up at his father.
"I'm going to make your watch disappear! Give me your watch, please, Daddy!"
Sitting down next to her husband at the table, his wife smiled as she saw the watch taken from his wrist and laid on the table. Helpfully, she removed the empty plates from around it to give their son plenty of room to perform his trick. Michael's lips moved silently as he referred to a page in the book. After a few moments he took his fingertip away from the words on the page and picked up the cloth and the wand again.
"Now, I put this cloth over the watch and tap it three times with this magic wand." Enthralled, his parents smiled to see Michael so obviously enjoying himself.
Twenty minutes later, Mr Hunter was on the bus, travelling to work as usual. Only today he had everything except his wrist watch. Silently he cursed himself every time he looked at his bare wrist. All the way along the journey he went back over everything that Michael had done at the breakfast table - from the time he had covered the watch with the cloth to when he said the magic word ("Just like that!") and removed the cloth to reveal - no watch.
After a frantic ten minutes interrogating their son about the disappearance of the watch, and searching frantically all around the kitchen for the missing item, Michael's parents had to call off the search.
Michael quickly decided that he no longer wanted to be a magician. This was not the reaction he had hoped for. Maybe, he thought to himself, maybe the funny red hat was important after all.
"Where is Daddy's watch, Michael?" said his father.
"Daddy needs it for work." insisted his mother.
Close to tears, Michael simply repeated, over & over & over: "I magicked it away! You watched me do it!"

The Weigh Foreword?

I have been listening to the news on the radio recently about the high speed rail link between London & Birmingham. Once constructed, this new line will enable folks to travel from London to Birmingham in only 40 minutes. I expect that it will also be possible to get from Birmingham to London in a similar amount of time.
What I don't understand is why anyone would want to travel so quickly between these two cities. I've been to London and I've been to Birmingham and, while they are both fine places, I can't help but think: "What's the rush?"
Eventually the plan is to cover the entire country with these high speed railway lines; but the way things are going these days there won't really be anywhere worth going to see - especially at high speed.
I think the ultimate plan is to make the whole island so dour and overcrowded that people will simply abandon the desire to travel anywhere else in Britain at all. This will free up spaces in the already overcrowded & overpriced trains.

Hopefully, I am completely wrong.

On December the 16th, 1912 the Bristol Hippodrome theatre opened its doors for the very first time. As it is such a dearly loved venue I wonder how the people currently owning the theatre plan to celebrate this truly momentous occasion at the latter end of this year?

Let's hope that they do it justice.

Merry Christmas!

I'll be off to spend the festive season with my Mum in Somerset tomorrow, so I'm taking this opportunity to wish all my readers a very Merry Christmas!

The last time I looked, I had

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readers, so I hope that you all have a wonderful time while I'm away!

Missing you already!

Guitar Maintenance

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.

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.

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.

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...

Fun Things You Can Do With A Bad Back

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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.

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.

The Mystery

A moment in the forest
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

more beautiful than mortal tongue can tell

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

And from the highest window
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!"

At once your blood - it quickens
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

The steps go on forever
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

But when this door is opened
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

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