Erase Rewind

Corporal Clegg, my next door neighbor, has a wooden leg; he won it in the war, in 1984.

 

The Falklands to be precise. (Yes I know it was 1982 but that didn’t scan right).

 

Picture the scene, Goose Green, Officer’s Mess. Clegg, originally a chef from Mile End was bored out of his skull as the only action he was experiencing was watching ‘Prod the Squad’ the chief ‘washer upper’ diving into his pie and mash and retrieving lucky sovereigns like an overzealous walrus with sea kelp for brains.

‘Join the army and see the world’ he muttered. ‘Ha! What a load of bollocks! Join the army and see an overweight psycho bury his blubbery fizzog into reconstituted potato starch more like!’

 

Suddenly and without warning Banksia Diego Menziesii, an Argentine sniper shoots at the canteen from underneath his pantomime sheep costume and a bullet whizzes through the serving hatch into Clegg’s kitchen and unfortunately ricochets into his leg. The bullet embeds itself into the leg of Clegg in much the same way that Ragge Omar embeds himself into Iraqi Launderettes for all ‘the goss’ on the street’.

 

Upon waking from pitch-black dreams, a beleaguered Clegg soon realized that they’d had to amputate his leg above the knee due to lead poisoning and the fear of G.G. ie.Galtieri Gangrene. Shortly after this traumatic experience he left the army and immigrated to South Africa where he gained employment in one of the many gold mines within the Transvaal. The temptation to discuss another one legged gold digger here is almost too much to bear but I’ll desist.

 

Since that fateful day Clegg has always remained stoically detached from events but still carries the bullet which did the damage in the first place in his left breast pocket. A lucky totem and talisman if you like to ward off bad luck and bad vibes. I know this because he told me one day in the street whilst I was polishing my steps in true 1950s fashion.

 

‘I was walking down Maidstone High Street absentmindedly humming Walking Down Madison when a bible accidentally falls out of an eight story window,’ Clegg explains rather theatrically, ‘and heads directly for me. The heavyweight religious tome hits me smack bang on the breast bone and were it not for that Argentine bullet I’d not be talking to you today.’

 

‘Blimey!’ I exclaim, ‘that’s incredible!’

‘I know,’ replies Clegg ‘why I wasn’t humming A New England is anybody’s guess. A far superior song altogether if you ask me.’

‘Ha! So you enjoy listening to music then?’ I ask.

‘Oh yes, can’t get enough of it.’

‘What sort of stuff are you into then?

‘Well I’m an avid fan of the radio.’

‘Oh right, what type of shows you into?’

‘Gilles Peterson’

‘Nice one. Anything else’

‘No, only Gilles Peterson.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Can’t get enough of the type of tunes he plays’

‘Nice one. How long have you been listening to GP’s radio show?’

‘Back since the year dot’.

‘What, since his Vibrazone shows on Kiss?’

‘Oh no, much further back than that. I started listening when he was doing his pirate radio shows.’

‘Wow, a real fan.’

‘Yes. And I’ve recorded every single one of his shows.’

‘What, every single one?’

‘Yes, every single one. Come round to my house and I’ll show you.’

 

I leave the polishing and completely intrigued, follow Clegg. We enter an unremarkable Larkin style semi-detached house, ‘Wipe your feet before you enter please’, he says in a polite manner so I follow his wishes and eventually find myself stood in a typically orthodox hallway with all the usual accoutrements; phone, coat pegs, shoe rack, painting of the Haywain etc. ‘Come, come follow me.’ and he beckons me towards a cheap looking pine door. ‘In here is where I do all my recording.’

 

‘It must be huge to house all the recordings you’ve made over the years? I remark surpressing my excitement at what should prove an Aladdin’s cave of musical treats . He ignores me and fusses with a heavy looking bunch of keys. ‘There, that’s the one!’ he exclaims and opens the locked door. ‘Come in, please do come in.’

 

It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the light and when they do I am surprised and a little unsettled at what I see before me.

 

There is nothing in the bare white room except a wooden table with a reel-to-reel tape machine sitting on top of it. A digital radio is rigged up to the reel-to-reel tape machine. A loop of tape is threaded through the mechanism. The machine, it seems is switched to ‘record’ and the two spools are rotating. Clearly it is picking up some ‘sounds’ because the coloured LED display is bouncing up and down, signifying that something – a GP production presumably - is being recorded.

 

‘There you go’ says Clegg, ‘I’ve recorded thousands and thousands of shows on that.’

 

On closer inspection I realize that the ‘loop’ of tape is literally just that. It’s fed from one spool through the machine onto the other spool and back again, much like the fan belt of a car. ‘But surely’ I say in bewilderment, ‘when the machine is recording the loop turns, and being a loop, the tape is erased every time new material is recorded?’

 

‘Precisely!’ answers Clegg looking suitably impressed with my detective work. ‘Record and erase, record and erase, record and erase! It relies upon the probability that some information will be recorded but its effectiveness is not dependent upon the preservation of content’.

 

‘I’m a little confused here Mr Clegg. So you’re saying you’ve recorded thousands of shows on your reel to reel, but have no ability to listen to them again?’

 

‘Why would I want to? For me it’s all about the ‘live’ experience anyway.’

 

I nod in agreement.

 

I thank him for his time and say I think I understand what he means. He kindly shows me out of the house makes his excuses and returns to listen live.

Every Little Helps Can Jog On

Shamed into taking appropriate measures after reading the two consecutive pieces today on Global Warming and self-service checkouts, I decided upon the following course of action.

 

1. Walked to my local Tesco instead of the usual trip down there in my gas guzzling Sherman Tank. Decided to take my wireless-network laptop for company; logged into Gridskipper, that online bastion of ‘hip snark’ as I walked. Clearly Bexhill’s Tesco was not perceived by the ‘hip young gunslingers’ at Gridskipper, as a place you’d find ‘erotic coffee’ unlike Seattle or where you could spot, Blackie Lawless of WASP fame buying his organic cod pieces down the fish isle, but at least I was powering the laptop with a converted bike dynamo and using the neighbourhood wireless broadband as I walked. And besides if you believe everything that those insecure smug pug ugly backpack Bloggers write you may as well change your name to Sputum Duyvil and ‘get into’ Hootie and the Blowfish. CO2 emissions = 3.21 tons

 

2. Shot a homeless person with Organic bullets on the way. That blanket can now be donated to a Textile start-up scheme in Ho Chi Minh City. CO2 emissions = 0.01 tons.

 

3. Arrived at Tesco three and a half hours later and headed straight to the corn and bunion section of the shop. Bought ‘Organic Yak Gut Foot Balm’ made from recycled Yak Guts. Feet now look like an extra in Saw 2 but at least I’ve offset a natural catastrophe in Tibet. Truly inspired I bought the Dali Llama’s new book, ‘Buddhism 2 Electric Boogaloo.’ Proudly displayed my recycled plastic bag credentials on the trolley’s hook like a true eco-warrior. ‘Yeah! Check me out Mr Business Man, in your ill-fitting exploitative ‘Made in China’ Burton suit and your snail killing Optrex bottle! I mean it man, I’m gonna destroy passers by, erm by shaming them into a new green future! That means you, you smelly little old looking witch lady, rooting through those reduced kumquats and Mangos. Don’t you realise that each time you buy a ‘Reduced Yellow Label’ Balalaika Cabbage for 10p a butterfly colony in Papa New Guinea perishes? You selfish bint. Natural balance is only restored if Papa the Guinea Pig is given Viagra and allowed to shag to his heart’s content with a load of ‘Ho’ Guinea Pigs in the safety of an Eastbourne butterfly sanctuary. So get with the programme, and stop looking at me like I’m some sort of conquest which you last had on VD day you mental minger.’ CO2 emissions = 0.03 tons.

 

4. Threw a shed load of Cheapo CDs into the trolley. Wicked! Lilly Allen, The Killers, Mika, The Best of Bread and The Neil Diamond Collection all for a fiver. David Bellamy hands out awards to caravan parks that protect habitats as well as CDs that offset the decline of red squirrels, badgers and deers. Bet he’s not got The Best of Lenny Henry (oxymoron) on vinyl though. The do-goody bearded lispy twat. CO2 emissions = 0.54 tons.

 

5. Whilst perusing the Aislabeck Jams I phone Billy Smart’s Circus for a lift home. Four wheels bad but four legs best. They’ll take a rain check on the elephant they say. Fall to my knees and cry, ‘What Can we do?? What can we really do to help??’ Suddenly remember I’ve left the iron on. Bollocks!! The static charge of cold commotion, I take out a ‘wrap’ of Beechams Powder, chop it up with my Tesco loyalty card and snort it to high heaven. Mmm! Still stressed but at least that sniffle’s gone. CO2 emissions = 1 ton

 

6. After a swift phone call to Polga, (our ‘not so’ exploited) Slovakian Au-Pair (she gets 30 quid a week and free use of broadband between the hours of 4 and 5am) I realise that I’ve averted an environmental catastrophe so treat myself to a Bernard Matthews Turkey. Yummy. CO2 emissions = 000.6 tons

 

7. Complete the rest of my shopping – Wine, The Daily Mirror (purely for their green ‘goss’), Wine, Lizard Point Margarine, wine, Polperro bleach, wine, Gozo Spam and a Skelwith Ford Caravan Park map – and make my way to the DIY check out. CO2 emissions = 25 tons

 

8. ‘Place first item on the belt’, says the removed mechanical voice after I’ve scanned it for the umpteenth time. I place my bag of organic Lake District Apples onto the belt and get ready to scan the next item.

 

‘Place item on the belt’ says the cold clinical disinterested voice. ‘I’ve just done that I think.’ I attempt to scan Lily Allen’s latest opus.

‘Place item on belt’, the voice continues. I wander down to the bag of apples and bring them back to the beginning. A minion has clocked my moves. He approaches. ‘Did you scan the apples sir?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Ok, sir, I think it’s just got stuck.’

‘What has?’

‘The apples.’

‘There I’ve cancelled it.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome sir.’

I notice some chav like dole-scrum hanging around at the end of my checkout. Surely they’re not going to nick anything? They’re probably employed by Tesco to pack bags. What a philanthropic service. Full respect to Tesco.

 

I watch the man in the bobbled Berghaus fleece run away with my bottle of Gerard Bertrand.

 

I scan the next item. And the next. We’re cooking on gas. The bag of Orkney Organic carrots provides a problem though. I roll the barcode on the plastic bag around the scanner like a 19th centaury dandy waving a hanky. The minion returns.

‘You’ve got something stuck on the belt again sir. There I’ve cleared it for you.’

‘Thanks for nothing.’ I mutter under my breath. I attempt to scan the hemp hammock from Hempton Manor. Nothing. No Peep. Nothing.

‘Did you scan your apples sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well according to this you’ve only scanned two bags of apples and you’ve got four at the end of the counter.

 

Brilliant! I’ve attempted to wait for the ‘beep’ at the end of each scan and now this employee who looks like an even stupider version of Rod Hull than Rod Hull ever was, bearing in mind that the original Rod Hull fell off his roof trying to sort out his TV reception whilst watching a Man U(re) game, that’s pretty fucking stupid.

 

‘Here, I’ll scan them for you,’ says the man, looking at me as though I’ve just stolen the crown jewels from his Grandmother’s house. I’m perturbed. Clearly this man now thinks I’m attempting to nick two bags of apples and he’s just sussed me and his role in the Bill is now assured.

 

He ‘Peeps’ the apples x2.

‘Thanks.’ I mumble.

Suddenly I feel ashamed. Like I’ve just stolen several Bob The Builder Rag Dolls from a Manali Orphanage.

I mutter something to the minion about ‘attempting to scan’ and take out my card and slide it into the slot. I stab in my numbers and wait for authorisation. The receipt whirrs out.

‘Wait a FUCKING MINUTE!!!’

‘SIX BAGS OF APPLES!?!?’

‘SIX BAGS OF MOTHERFUCKING APPLES!!!!’

‘I’VE BEEN CHARGED FOR SIX BAGS OF MOTHERFUCKING APPLES WHEN CLEARLY I’VE ONLY GOT FOUR!!!’

Deep breaths. Deep Breaths. I’ve just been ‘sneered’ at by the bastard son of Rod Hull who thinks I’m nicking two bags of bloody apples, when clearly I was right all along and it’s him who has made a mistake.

No apology from the woman as she refunds my extra apple bag payment.

Carbon emissions = F-ck off

9. Walk out the shop feeling self-righteous and the innocent victim of a terrible miscarriage of justice. Begin to empathise with The Guilford 4, The Birmingham 6 and The Bexhill 1.

10. Three wine bottles fall out the bottom of the cheap shitty recycled bags I’ve brought down to the shop. They splinter onto the tarmac splashing my Goa hemp flares with burgundy liquid.

11. Go for a McDonalds.

Music As Weapon

Certain high street retailers have had enough of ‘Yav-Chobs’ (Chavvy Yobs), hanging around outside their establishments and intimidating their customers with Burberry clad Jack Russell’s, that they have adopted extreme tactics. What are the draconian measures that they have introduced I hear you ask? Robocop security guards with stun guns? Cameras with all seeing laser eyes? Dogs with teeth the size of garden shears? Nope, none of the above. They are actually playing Muzak at them! Airport Muzak in fact. The assumption goes something like this; the yoot of today will not wish to be associated with classical muzak as it is an affront to their ‘street’ credentials, preferring instead R+B, D+B and A+E, that they will leave the vicinity altogether.

 

I found all this very interesting and decided to delve a little deeper into the history of ‘music as a weapon’. We all know the USA blasted Noriega out of his compound with Heavy Metal but I bet you didn’t know that The Welsh Assembly blasted Harry Seacombe out of a canteen with Cradle Of Filth when he embarked on a one man sit-in protest at the price of their Cherry Bakewells. In an effort to ‘dumb down’, the Truro Workers Art Tavern played the Jet album non stop for twenty four hours at their members and in a bid to stave off insomnia the residents of Nelson Lancs booked Keane at their ‘Sleepless in Settle’ winter conference.

 

Aphex Twin famously played a sanding disc in order to terrify his devotional flock, but it backfired when they all stood there stroking their chins and making comments like, ‘Really bitchin’ tune dude, need it!’ and ‘Like wow, he’s really pushed the envelope out with this slice of sonic genius.’

 

For the Tantric Minstrels of Bengal, who take music to the people as a weapon of God the divine is something you find within. For Rabindrath Snowball, spiritual Busker to the stars of track and field, the divine was something he found on the road to Domestos, and a spiritual awakening ensued. Later he opened up The Order of the Jiff Ashram but was arrested for Bleach of the Priest.

 

Rembrandt and Velazquez could create the appearance of material with relatively few brush strokes. Beddingfield and Beddingfield can create the appearance of pop material with relatively few skills. Surely a secret weapon in their Arsenal?

 

Things were going well so I decided some fieldwork was in order. I took my My Little Pony Ghetto Blaster to the local farm along with a bunch of tapes inside my Wu Tang Clan Bread Bin. A herd of cows were munching grass innocuously so I decided to try out an experiment. I stood the Ghetto Blaster on the wooden fence behind a little shower curtain and, slid in a Kenny Dixon JR cassette. I pressed play and the field was filled with Detroit deepness. After a few minutes the cows were nodding their heads and going, ‘MMMMOOOOOOOOOODY MMMOOOOOOODY!’

 

Filled with excitement I moved to another part of the farm. Overseeing a field of sheep I changed the cassette and pressed play. This time as ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet’ drifted out of the speakers the sheep all looked up and nodded. After a few moments they all began crying out, ‘BAAAAAAAAAA BAAAAAAAAAACHHMAAAAAAAN’. I tried ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’ in the stable and Dobbin the horse goes, ‘NEIGN NA, NEIGN NA!’. Tried much the same at the pig trough with some hardcore hip hop. ‘OINK ONYX OINK ONYX!’ Tried the Re-edit of ‘Sky Can You Feel Me’ at the little red rooster, ‘COCK-A-DOODLE-YAM-WHOOOOOOO!’ came the response. Finally dropped the Whiffenpoof song next to Old Shep. His ears pricked up and he howled, ‘WOOF WIFFEN WOOF! WOOF WIFFEN WOOF.

 

I’m approaching the Polytechnic of Battersea with my findings in the vain hope of funding for a Phd

Madman Running Through The Files

An elderly record shop buyer was ready to retire. He told his employer of his plans to leave the vinyl purchasing business and live a more leisurely life with his wife enjoying his extended family, embroiling within capes and playing plenty of deck quoits. He would miss the pay cheque, but he needed to retire. They could get by.
 

The record shop owner was sorry to see his good worker go and asked if he could buy just one more collection of very rare vinyl as a personal favour. The record buyer said yes, but in time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work anymore. He resorted to shoddy workmanship and bought inferior records. Instead of rare Sun Ra ‘Horo’ pieces he bought Steps; instead of Mellow Candle’s Swaddling songs he bought Leo Sayer; instead of Jason Crest’s Turquoise Tandem Cycle he bought, The Best of Jim Reeves; instead of The Madman Running Through the Fields by Dantalian’s Chariot he bought Mrs Mills; instead of Fire’s Father’s Name Is Dad he bought Now That’s What I Call Music 16, and instead of Rainbow’s Ffolly Sallies Forth he bought Chris de Burgh ‘A Retrospective.’ It was an unfortunate way to end a dedicated career. When the record buyer finished his work he placed all the pieces in a flight case and the employer came to inspect the vinyl.
 

His boss handed the flight case back to the record buyer, and said, ‘My Gift to you’. The record buyer was shocked! What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own collection, he would have done it all so differently. So it is with us.
 

We build our record collections a day at a time, often putting less than our best into the construction. A bit of mediocre Nu-Jazz here, a Charity shop Funky House 12” there; A bargin bin badly pressed bruk comp here and a dull ambient noodle there. Then with a shock we realise we have to live with the collection we have built. If we could do it over we’d do it differently. But we cannot go back. You are the buyer. Each day you nail a tune, score a piece of vinyl, or erect new shelves for more pieces. ‘A Record Collection is a do-it-yourself project someone has said: ‘Your selections and the choices you make today, build the collection you’ll live with tomorrow.
 

Let’s be careful out there.