I was diagnosed with ADHD in 2015, when I was 51. My assessment went along the lines of that I-Speak-Your- Weight machine gag, where the voice says ‘One at a time please!’. Ironically, the penny dropped for me when I was attending a workshop for psychotherapists on ways of working with ADHD clients, run by the ever-so-good Dr Phil Mollon. I was writing a blog which was to be published after the workshop, and the main notes I made were ‘Oh fuck’ and ‘Finally!’ I wouldn’t be writing this if I hadn’t experienced an Executive Function meltdown earlier today, which resulted in aborting a train journey to visit my daughter in Bristol. I say Executive Function, because I reckon Executive Function Deficit Disorder is a better description for what does (and doesn’t go on). I wept on the platform at Three Bridges station this morning, because after a week of having to chop and change my route, there were further delays, and my ability to strategise, ie plan ahead was shot to shit. Some might be starting to sigh now, thinking ‘Yeah, no-one likes delays, we all have to adapt and cope. Fail to plan and you plan to fail. » Continue Reading.

Economics is one of my blind spots: I’ll briefly understand a concept, and then need to go over it several times to regain a sense of it. I loved the Yanis Varoufakis book ‘Talking To My Daughter: A Brief History of Capitalism’ for its accessibility. This, though, truly is bang on the money in at least two senses. A young bloke who looks and sounds like he was in East 17 telling it like it apparently is…

That I saw Altered Images at Concorde2 in Brighton. I’d last seen them in September 1981 at an under-18s matinee show at The Venue in London, and tonight Amidst all the whatever it is that’s happening in this land right now, the gig was a joy, the band equal parts male and female and bang on the money. The shift from the jagged scrawls of those Siouxsie & The Banshees fan club members to the dance pop sheen of the Bite album was there in abundance, Clare Grogan was magnificent, and was delighted to be there and that we were all there.

BUT

She sounds so like Bart Simpson. Not a bit, but the whole kit and caboodle. I know this has been pointed out before, but it’s only really struck me now. It’s like when I realised that Mick Jagger was helping out on vocals on You’re So Vain, and can’t not hear him when the song’s on. Any road, here’s the apogee of it…

I’m typing this with the fingers of one hand. Nothing libidinal should be inferred from this. This is long, but there is a music ‘section’ towards the end that’s amusing. I’ll attempt to do a ‘connives in comments’ thing, but no guarantees. At around 11.30pm the Sunday before last, my right index finger started swelling and becoming painful. I went to bed but couldn’t stay there because of the increasing agony. I did the NHS 111 thing, and tried to sort an earliest possible appointment with my GP, but nothing was available. A&E didn’t seem an option as there’s typically a 6-9 hour wait, plus I’d have to somehow get there, so my option was a walk-in clinic which opened at 8am. Thankfully the sun rises around 5.30, so I paced around, this affording some respite (sitting or lying were non-starters). At the walk-in clinic, though I was third in line, the wait was nearly 2 hours, during which I was at times weeping with the pain, but the response of the receptionists was of the ‘computer says no’ variety. I finally see a practitioner, I lay it upon them just how bad it feels, and they respond with a » Continue Reading.

I had a funny turn at a Stiff Little Fingers gig in Bexhill on Wednesday evening. During, appropriately, State Of Emergency, my vision became ever narrower and I was close to blacking out. Luckily my pal helped me to get sorted with a chair and some water, and 10 minutes later we were back in the auditorium enjoying the gig, though with none of that youngster moshing nonsense. Overheating was certainly a factor, and there was something of a ‘just desserts’ element to it, as me and my pal had quietly pointed out that we were in considerably better shape than the other attendees. I’ve been given the all-clear by my GP, but having reflected on it, I’ve a strong sense that I have, or rather can suffer from, vertigo. My balance can often feel a bit off, not to the point of falling over, but palpable nonetheless. Anyone here able to share experiences/advice?

Apologies if this has been done before, but oh boy, what a show. The perfect counter to Squid Game.

Yesterday my stepson and I took my daughter and her stuff in a rental van to her hall of residence for the start of three years at University. They have the same mother, but she’s been as present and maternal as Thomas Pynchon, though, I suspect, with considerably more violence. So it’s been pretty much me raising my daughter from the start – the discovery of free babyccinos at the Starbucks in Borders where she learned to read; those primary school years which make Motherland look like a sanitised documentary; the switching secondary schools which made such a goddamn difference; the ferrying her to band practice which opened up new worlds; I could go on. I’ve known yesterday was coming. I’m already prone to tearing up at the passing of time: I was going to link to Abba’s Slipping Through My Fingers, but even just writing that title took me twenty minutes. So here’s the thing, the zinger. Because of the covids, she’s had the equivalent of two gap years, and in that time, gloriously, her independence has grown exponentially. Big circle of friends, out and about all the time, all marvellous, all the age appropriate developmental stages, though poignant » Continue Reading.

I’m sure, lestways I think I’m sure, that there’s a lot of love for OC here. I’m liking the new series very much, and even find myself getting some of the ones the contestants are flummoxed by (usually the music ones – two of ’em last night). The rounds I plump up the cushions for, and narrow my focus, are The Wall and Missing Vowels. I even sometimes pause the telly for The Wall and try to do it myself without the wittering of the teams. Missing Vowels, though, that’s the zinger. Look away those who haven’t seen earlier episodes of this series, but one guy on one team pretty much got the whole lot right, bringing his side up from the Isthmian league to top of the premiership. Here’s the heretical bit. I find myself fast forwarding through VCM’s intro and especially the outro, with its Michael Portillo gags. Soz. A thought – an Afterword team would do pretty well.

I was out walking this morning, wearing my Brighton & Hove Albion bobble hat so as to stave off the chill. The Albion were knocked out of the FA Cup last night by Lei-chester, and a passing (not in the football sense) old boy made a remark about the cup not mattering these days. I told him that I’m from Sunderland, and that my first experiences of going to matches was the FA Cup run of 1973. Before I’d finished, he said a single three syllable word, just as several others have done over the years. ‘Porterfield.’ No Jonathan Pearce hysteria, no drawn out enunciation, just the original David Coleman utterance. And here’s the thing. I was at Wembley that day, so I didn’t get to hear the commentary until many years later. Blimey, it’s powerful, though. It’s about 1-05 of the way in here, but do watch the whole thing.

In recent years, John Rawling and Barry Jones’ commentary during the final round of the first Tyson Fury vs Deontay Wilder is a true joy (‘I » Continue Reading.

Aged 86, the mighty Fred Willard, scene stealer in Christopher Guest’s folk mockumentary A Mighty Wind, has died. He also pulled focus, in a very good way, in Guest’s Best In Show, the dog show, um, mockumentary, as the TV commentator with nary a clue about canines. Oh, and of course he was in This Is Spinal Tap, in the airbase scene.

Whilst repeats of Mrs Brown’s Boys seem to be the BBC’s main ENSA offering, I’m increasingly loving ROHOG as my go-to haven from the madness. The Suede bassist’s amiable younger brother is the perfect host for the daily tea-time quizzer, which tends to be won by comedians (and Stuart Maconie, who cantered home with the demeanour of Freddie Trueman in his Indoor League presenting days), and which (for me anyway) hits just the right level of difficulty. Bizarre cameraderies develop over the course of a week, though Samantha Womack (formerly Samantha J. Anus) is finding it hard to warm to the marvellous James Acaster this week. It’s a joy. Then again, I’m starting to slightly worry myself in my familiarity with all the teams on Only Connect and University Challenge.

Oh my goodness, it’s magnificent. Anyone who’s seen the documentary in which he was reunited with old teacher Mr Pigden might have an inkling what to expect. What a guy.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m000fdxw

I went to a Mick Houghton book talk hosted by Ben Thompson, and with a top notch guest appearance by David Balfe, and I think there’s a Hepworth podcast or some such with MH. And now there’s this report of an evening, or 40 minutes of one any road, hosted by Bill Drummond…

https://thequietus.com/articles/26896-bill-drummond-mick-houghton-unhalfbricking

This’ll mean bog all to those that haven’t watched Stranger Things season 3 on The Netflix, and because some who are watching won’t have finished yet it’ll have to remain unexplained. BUT to those that have completed the series, I hope/imagine you share in my love of the final episode, especially the deeply moving speech by Hopper. There was a thread on here about gangs recently. The Stranger Things gang: that was the one to have been in.

Prior to bingeing on season 3 of Stranger Things, I’ve been pigging out on episodes of Jonesy’s Jukebox, all on the youtube, in which the former Sex Pistol chats and connects with various old muckers and associates. The one with Paul Cook is a joy, ditto the Brian May, Midge Ure and John Cooper Clarke editions. There’s not an ounce of showbiz nonsense or of a script to be stuck to, just a curiosity and camaraderie that results in great tales and connection. Not a fucking rotter.

I was saddened to hear of the sudden death, yesterday, of veteran music press writer David Cavanagh. His Creation Records book, My Magpie Eyes Are Hungry For The Prize, is beautiful and definitive. He lived near me in Hove, and I kept meaning to go up and have a word, most recently after his Ian McCulloch piece for Mojo. Wish I had, now.

Not a misremembered Bow Wow Wow lyric but the Netflix 6 part documentary about the Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh cult and their attempt to set up a commune in the US in the early 80s. All’s I’m saying is it’s a cracker, and I could’ve watched more. The Bhagwan later rebranded himself as Osho – you’ll find yards of his books in the ‘spiritual and self-help’ section. Anyone else watched it?

I imagine this may go down the tumbleweed route – maybe with a ‘why would civilised people watch young men whaling the tar out of each other?’ side order – but there was an intriguing match-up last night, in which George Groves, quietly but confidently spoken, a master of self-regulation in press conferences when others talk trash (not that he was always like this…), schooled, as they say, Chris Eubank Jr. Eubank Jr and Sr made a big thing of the young man not being trainable, i.e. he’s a force of nature, 100 instagram friendly punches in 20 seconds, and knows what he’s doing, but this came unstuck against Groves, who has the necessary constellation around him – Shane McGuigan the trainer, a physio, a nutritionist, training buddies. It struck me that Eubank Jr is a little like Spoilt Bastard, the Viz character, who simply won’t be told and is indulged and told he’s Charlie Big Potatoes. For all Eubank Sr’s talk of instilling The Warrior Code in his son, last night demonstrated that we need people alongside us along the way. And/or maybe Jr just isn’t that good anyway – Groves wasn’t great – he didn’t have to be.

There are those who’ve been saying that Bob Mortimer became ‘funnier than Vic’ some time ago. Whatever, his appearances on Would I Lie To You have a warmth and humour that are priceless, and this, from his Athletico Mince podcast is one of the most poignant comedy offerings I’ve encountered in yonks.

Great feature about about the feller who called himself ‘Jesus’ and seemed to be omnipresent at festivals and gigs in the 70s and 80s. He always had fruit to hand out, and was very generous with his plums.

https://medium.com/@JPRobinson/the-mystery-of-jesus-the-naked-hippie-dancer-9822c0da8765

Almost along the lines of ‘I heard this song that goes ‘Help! I need somebody..”: does anyone know what it’s called?’…. The ridiculously familiar intro music that plays for about 30 seconds on this clip, before Stiff Little Fingers start their set: what is it? I was thinking some war movie, but a search doesn’t throw anything up in that area. Thanking you *hangs head in shame*

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e7cscRzAgpU&t=21s

The Leeds and Wales custodian of the onion bag departed today at the age of 71. Bundled over the goal line, ball still in hands, by thick-set Newcastle centre half John McNamee in one of the first games I attended, and trigger for a Kop rendition of ‘Careless Hands’ when he threw the Casey into his own net, he was, nonetheless, a quality stopper of shots. When it comes to Leeds keepers, though, it’s David Harvey who always raises a smile, mainly because of this glorious day for the team I actually followed… https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H6bYIy4deD0