A thought struck me the other day. I've never actually liked the word 'blog' it's naturally modern but as word I find it a bit clinical, and it certainly doesn't demonstrate the splendid array of words that can be contained in them like a novel or short story does. It's my love of these things called 'words' that has made me want to write one.
I've always preferred letters over numbers. There's just something beautiful about how you can bundle them together to create wondrous words, the wonder being the power they actually posses. Dependent on where they sit in a sentence, they can ether tickle your funny bone or pull at your heartstrings. I don't think numbers have that affect (well there's the recession) but it's not the same reaction. I can't remember anyone gripped with laughter repeating the number 26, or indeed anyone ever remarking 'I haven't heard that number in years.'
Words do indeed fall out of fashion, but that's nothing but the by-product of time, and indeed part of their charm and the picture they can paint. It's all about context. Such words as 'Divine' or 'languid' that now conjure up images of Twenties opulence, the sipping of a cold Gin and Tonic in between puffs from a cocktail cigarette, were once new and only so as they were uttered by these bright young things.
Naturally this is all subjective, although I am assuming you are a fan of the written word if you have got this far. As I am a fan, I have favourite words, such as marvellous, idiotic and vinyl. Discombobulated is a very good one, but perhaps I have always really favoured frivolous. It's because I like being it. I remember being in a temp job and being asked where my boss was, to which I said I was trying to get him to sober up before our next meeting. It's actually on occasions like that where I could do with a sign that said 'frivolous' so people at least know to laugh, or not take me at my word. Although sometimes I wish they would. I did really want those two connecting meeting rooms changed to 'Sly', and 'The Family Stone' respectively.
To avoid being frivolous for a second, I did actually start this blog (there's that word again) by talking about words and why I favoured them over numbers. I am aware that they are beautifully different, but for me, the fundamental difference is that while both of them can be manipulated, the numbers always have to add up. Words aren't like that, they don't have to add up, and they have so many different meanings.
So whether you like to listen to your favourite voice on a page, or out of your home speakers, take a moment to actually listen to what that person has done with those letters. They are indeed only words and you've probably used quite a few yourself before settling down to this. Go and use a few more. Start with frivolous.
I have (at the time of you reading this) seven hundred and ninety two albums in my collection, with a spattering of around a hundred singles. Let us concentrate on the albums. The range is incredibly eclectic, rather like some calamity has happened in a record shop and no one's cleaned up yet.
If you're reading this with one ear on Spotify, while I will be turning a kind blind eye (more on that in another blog) you will be laughing at how stupid a statement like that is, as you can certainly get way over the seven hundred and ninety two albums I have. But they're just the songs and that's my point. There's no album art, no mysterious sleeve notes to ponder over and most importantly, you're not listening to it as it is designed to be heard. This isn't necessarily to do with it being on vinyl, more about who is singing or playing, as it was their choice where that song should sit on the album; what it will sound fantastic to follow, or more importantly, what to begin with. You don't get any of that and have completely ignored the point of them making that record.
Everything is contextual so if it's buried in a play list or presented to you via a logarithm, then you're clearly not showing that singer or band the respect they are due. From the painstaking ponder over the exact words to say, to the gruelling sweat over nailing that chord. That's even before they recorded it.
I'm certainly not saying there's never any room for a playlist, but compared to the original home of that song, it's like telling Mr Holmes that you don't need a poo. Also, where's the Chase? Not the tv programme, but the actual hunting down of that record, where the hunter finally gets their game, whether its finally spotted in a dusty crate or excitedly unwrapped at Christmas. While my taste is incredibly wide, I'm a massive Sixties and Seventies freak, so I get to hunt properly; looking for musicians who could only record for Vinyl, who, when spotted entrapped and captured (most records come quietly) is played on the equipment of the time.
While I do have technology that goes past nineteen seventy eight (I don't write this with a quill) it really should sound like it was supposed to sound. Obviously with the records I like its been quite a few years since they were brand new, but no ones record collection is ever pristine, as we've all had that clumsy knock as we put it on or get up to skip the next one as it's too scratched. It's all part of your collection, and if you never experienced that, then I can only assume that you were the one that kept the box the toy came in.
It's all about the music, and can be perfectly summed up by John Peel's defence of Vinyl over CDs (remember them?). When challenged over the better quality, he said “Listen mate, life has surface noises.” These 'marks', whether on the record or the album's artwork, are the marks of lives left behind are what I love, whether it's the original owner's name or their insistence to rate each song and list its length (again, more on that in another blog)
I wrote about a good deed I did for someone else last week, so it's only fair if I write about a good deed that was done for me. Plus it stops me from sounding big headed, and I wrote about what happened to me last week because it happened and indeed got in the way of me being able to write about records or books or other things that make me say 'oh a bit of wee has come out.'
So the year is 2011, and I was at the Edinburgh Festival with my show, Stuff and Nonsense, a celebration of my love of charity shop discoveries. I had been there just over a week and it had been treating me immensely well as the diary I kept at the time told me. What follows next is inspired from that diary, with little flurries of context as I only hope you wouldn't have read the previous entries. It is still true.
It is around 1am on a Saturday night, relatively still early early for the Festival goers with shows still going strong and the exuberance of a weekend showing no signs of fading fast. I had just left the marvellous company of Shazia Mirza (We had just seen a show) and as she walked in the direction of her flat, I reached into my pocket only to find I had lost my keys. I did the obligatory tap every pocket known to man, before the sad realisation kicked in that they really were misplaced.
So, I was technically homeless. The friend who's flat I was staying in wouldn't want a phone call at this time of day (especially as she was in Bristol) and so any chance of a spare key would have to wait for a postbox. Only knowing comedians, I frantically searched my phone and desperately texted hopeful kind souls. I pondered popping in to the nearby venues with the chance of seeing anyone I know, and then resorted to frantic phone calls of comedians who I knew would still be up.
It was at that moment that Joe Wilkinson appeared and became my knight in shining armour. The answer to that simple question 'are you alright?' was rather lengthy than usual, and thanks to this splendidly kind soul (and equally his girlfriend) I managed to have somewhere to sleep that night.
The three of us went to the flat they were staying in via the chip shop (It was around half one after all) and Joe kept asking me if I wanted anything. I wasn't hungry, yet Joe was incredibly insistent he got me something to eat. I did try to explain that while I didn't have a flat, I did have money on me. I compromised by saying he could make me cup of coffee when we got in, which he was obviously true to his word.
The next morning I had got up as early as possible and headed into town. Joe had secured my homeless status further by buying me a can of shandy bass. I reluctantly wandered towards my venue and told them the news. As the key hadn't been handed in where I thought it could be, I had to try and accept that there would be no show.
To kill time, I met up with some friends who were visiting Edinburgh, ambled through some charity shops, but it just wouldn't lift my spirit. We went for something to eat and while on the surface I appeared OK, I was deeply saddened by my state of limbo. I left them to go to my second roof over my head, in the form of fine friends, Margot and David. I had stayed with them on my previous visits, plus I had an address for the spare key to be delivered.
The next morning I got up at 8, of which there was no need as the postman didn't come till 12. In rapid time, I made it to my flat, had a quick change, and raced back into town (in a taxi that played Bowie's Five Years) to carry on regardless. It turned out to be a splendid show, despite the natural panic I had tried to suppress through the whole experience.
Looking back, it was a weird experience to feel homeless, as it was without the poverty and lack of choices it has associated with it. I had just been locked out of the flat I was staying in, yet it did suddenly affect my whole world. It was then a delight to be taken in by a kind soul, have the marvel of being looked after, and a great pleasure that I was in the right place at the right time to indeed be rescued.
On a break from thinking about rapiers, I was heading to the shops when I spotted something odd on the pavement, which on closer inspection turned out to be an elderly woman who had suffered a fall. By luck, I wasn't alone and thankfully my girlfriend had done some nursing so expertly leapt into action, ensuring her head had some rest from a folded coat and comfortable enough on the kindly donated blanket that she now lay on. I had dashed back to the flat to secure a coat to drape over the slightly frustrated maiden.
I can't speak for you, but the age in my head doesn't reflect the physical age that everyone sees. It was exactly the same for our stumbled granny, disgruntled at the pensioner legs that wouldn't line up with her independent thinking. She aired more puzzled frustration at the now sadly regular examples of will and body not working in harmony as we waited for the ambulance. If I was to be sensible, she shouldn't have left her flat, but then again, who are we to question or dampen someone's thoughts? No doubt she'd pulled this caper off countless times before, returning unscathed to the oblivious sleeping cat.
Imagine reader that you are reading this story in real time and there was still no sign of those sirens, despite several queries as to its arrival. This was the case and so with the maiden having stumbled no more than 500 yards from her flat and stating that she wasn't going to lie on the pavement any longer, the only humane thing was to help her walk back to her flat. It was a slow, methodical walk, steady steps, a little slower than when someone is drunk.
So with the good deed done and the formerly crumpled maiden now secured on her comfy sofa, all that was left to do was for her to wait for the ambulance and the heroic duo to take their leave.
One of the main things I learnt from this is that people are either incredibly kind or incredibly selfish. The latter was sadly highlighted by what can only be described as a moronic dad. I use this word (and would sadly use a nastier one) as he freely let his toddler cycle near to us as we tried to walk our maiden back to her flat.
Obviously I wouldn't want to spoil this tale by focusing on him, nobody can factor in a gene pool oddity, but it just goes to show that this life is really all about perspective.
Even if you've never been to the Edinburgh Festival, you'd have to be a bit of a numpty not to think that any show you see there, from Theatre to Stand Up, has not been pondered, written and rehearsed to within an inch of its life. Obviously my shows are, but then again, I'm a Virgo. That said, with all the prep and sweat I put into every single sentence, it's real life that triggers the laughter and you have to be ready to accept it, just like when a kid plays with the box over the toy, or an album is only affordable as a reissue. I've given you a couple of these moments below, things that genuinely did happen to me whilst offstage, and I hope they make you realise that sometimes, you can't write stuff like this.
I think I had only been there a couple of days when I bumped into a panicked comedian I knew. She was doing her show in forty minutes and with a reviewer in, could do with a friendly face, so would naturally sort me a ticket. As I didn't have enough time to sit down to eat, I hurried to the chippy and with fish and chips in my hand, promptly sought out a bench on The Meadows to satisfy my appetite.
The Meadows is a green stretch of Edinburgh, equally populated with performers, tourists and drunks. As I enjoyed my grub, a couple of minutes passed before a man sat next to me and pulled out a guitar. I glanced towards him, was informed that I wasn't in his way, so went back to my munching and left him to his tuning. He then launched into a song, singing and everything, which was when I realised I was now sat next to a Busker. I remember thinking, if anyone stops to watch, they're going to want to know what the fella with the chips is gonna' do. How long before he sings? Let's just say, they were the fastest fish and chips I have ever eaten and I have only just stopped taking the Rennies.
Earlier on, I had been in the pound shop (as you know, most comedians are doing well) to furnish my temporary accommodation with such delights as coathangers, mug, plate and emergency toilet roll. As I was in a queue, I saw an elderly gentlemen stop at a display and pick something from it. He ambled over to an assistant and asked “Is this a chocolate bar?” to which he was told “No, that's a DVD.”
As I said, those were just a couple of things that happened to me whilst I was there; I haven't even mentioned becoming briefly homeless, but maybe that's for another time...