Geoff Travis: Alan Horne used to come in and play his Andy Warhol games. He was always a bit miffed with me because when he originally came down looking for a distribution deal and played me Orange Juice's 'Falling and Laughing'. I listened to it and quite liked it but didn't say it was the best single I'd heard in my life and that reaaly annoyed him. He went back to Scotland and Orange Juice made 'Blue Boy' and it got Single of the Week in Melody Maker. I read the review, listened to the record and loved it and said to myself that maybe I had been wrong about them. So I called up Alan and offered him a distribution deal. I think that not having embraced Alan's genius immediately counted as a big blow against me.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Before I forget . . .
Tags should include Hoddle; Ardiles; the Guardian's The Joy of Six; League Cup; Jumpers For Goalposts; . . . and does Gary Bailey still have that blond thatch?
It was that bastard Coogan film that broke my spirit.
I should stick to documentaries. I know where I am with documentaries.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
. . . Golazo de Yohandry Orozco.
According to his wiki page , Orozco is only 5 ft 4 1⁄2 in. The bloke should be playing for Falkirk.
And now that it's on my mind; Why haven't Venezuela ever had a decent national side?
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Sonic Youth, too young to be punk and too old to be alternative, is the key to understanding and appreciating what happened between then and now. In 1981 Sonic Youth formed amid the burnt embers of punk's explosion and No Wave's fizzle. In 1990 the band enjoined Geffen, its current label, with Nirvana, the group who changed it all. This book is an attempt to tell the story of the last fifteen or so years in rock-music history through a band that, although it has yet to sell a million albums or become an MTV or commercial-radio mainstay, somehow embodies a sea change in American popular-culture tastes.
Later, I called around and discovered that two other members of Scotland’s 1958 World Cup Squad had been in the same situation as my father. Archie Roberston of Clyde was dead; Hibs’ Eddie Turnbull had never bothered pursuing the SFA for a cap. I was inclined to agree with Eddie’s stoic acceptance of the rules as the rules, and the players simply victims of the period in which they’d played. Then I spoke to Tommy Docherty, who had gone on to manage the national team in the early ’70s, and heard the story of how he’d intervened to help get a cap for Bob Wilson. Bob, he told me, had played for Scotland but never against the home countries.
What? The Scottish Football Association, with its fear of floodgates and its respect for tradition, had been dishing out retrospective caps on a selective basis? It was only Tommy Docherty’s famous assertion that the best football managers are liars that kept me from calling Hampden Park there and then. Instead, I contacted Bob Wilson. He cautiously declared himself unaware of any intervention by Tommy Docherty on his behalf; but otherwise confirmed the story, which apart from the outcome sounded exactly like my father's. He’d written periodically to the SFA over the course of two decades with no success. It was only after Craig Brown took over as national manager that he’d got his cap. jim Farry had also been helpful.
I mentioned this discovery to Eddie Turnbull. ‘The English keeper? He got a cap? You’re kidding’ He was scarcely less incredulous by the time I’d outlined the sequence of events to him. ‘That’s ridiculous. That takes some believing, that Wilson got a cap.’
To many people, Bob Wilson - born in Chesterfield and a key member of Arsenal’s double-winning side of 1970-71 - was an English keeper and a very good one. In fact, he was perfectly well qualified to play for Scotland through his parents and turned out twice for the national team: in a European Championship qualifier against Portugal and a friendly against Holland, both in late 1971. His cap, inscribed with the initials P and H, finally arrived in 1996. That made it two years after Jim Farry had first written to my father, all sympathy and tied-hands, to say that it simply wasn’t possible, and four years before the SFA - following ‘some research into the circumstances’ - had turned him down for a second time.
The implication was clear: a well-known, well connected television presenter who could call on the Scotland manager to lobby on his behalf was worth an international cap in the eyes of the SFA; an older name frm a less spotlit era, sitting at his dining-room table with a ballpoint pen and some Basildon Bond, could be safely fobbed off with the official line.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Her hair always crackles with electricity. She puts hair spray on the brush, hoping this will cure it. George Harrison is her favorite Beatle. She never had to wear braces. She likes expensive, delicately scented soaps. Her hair is long and wavy. She was so thrilled when she got her own car, even if it was an old car. She got Bs in college. The first drink she ever tasted was at eighteen, a rum collins. Now she drinks scotch. She feels sorry for giraffes. She doesn't care what's on her pizza, as long as it isn't anchovies. She loves Caesar salad, however, and was surprised to find out that crushed anchovies were in it. She likes Jules and Jim. She thought about being a filmmaker. She saw Otto Preminger on the street. Of course she was sure. She stirred tiny slivers of meat, almonds, and vegetables in her wok, grew violets the same colors as her round, pastel bars of soap, showered in water too hot for him. She asked, once, why May Day was celebrated. She does not remember names or dates well and is not apologetic about it. She has big feet. Big, narrow feet. Butchers are kind to her, men in gas stations clean her windshield.
Friday, January 14, 2011
I stumbled across that wee bit of political fluff after clicking on the link in a comment in this thread over at Tendence Coatsey.
Poor old Tendence Coatsey Andrew. Even when he's trying to high-hat a common SPGBer-in-exile with patted head advice about " . . .this site is mainly about European Left. I’m afraid that the SPGB figures very small in this array", it still boomerangs back to the SPGB. (It was a post about the SPGB, after all.)
Shouldn't this post be in the 'Do They Mean Us?' section?
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Just spotted this book meme over at A Very Public Sociologist.
I'll let AVPS Phil do the explanation bit 'cos it's going to take me at least one side of That Petrol Emotion's Chemicrazy - Sides? I'm so 1970s. It must be the Cemetery Junction effect. - to format this bastard post:
"At the back of the book, [Stephen King's 'On Writing'] King provides a bibliography of best books he read during the composition of On Writing, From a Buick Eight, Hearts in Atlantis and The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon. This sounds like ideal meme fodder to me.
Of his list of 93 books how many have you read? Those in bold are books I've read. Those in italics are books I own. And if they're bold and italicised, well. I think you can work it out."
I've read 12 of the books listed and I own 9. 12/93 is par for the course with me and book memes . . . until some bastard pulls their finger out and finally creates that Gordon Legge Book Meme that some of us have been waiting too long for.
It's strangely reassuring that there is no book on the list that I own but have yet to read. And who is Peter Abrahams, btw? Surely it's not the same Peter Abrahams who co-wrote a couple of books on Orwell a few years back? I read those books during my last Orwell phase. Wiki will no doubt reveal all.
Phil tags people with these memes but, then again, Phil has readers. I just have people who stumble across the blog because they want to know more about Kevin-Prince Boateng's tattoos. It's official: Boateng's tatts are this year's 'Kika Markham + nude'. If that footie fan in Ulan Bator wants to take time out from poring over Boateng's upper torso - and wondering what the hell Viz is - please feel free to take the meme.
Now back to Stevie Mack singing vandal over and over and over again.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
That sound you hear over at Big Chief Tablet's blog is the sound of a grown man sobbing. I share his pain.
I guess I knew it all along. Mentioning the working class was the giveaway.
A fresh blanket of snow in New York overnight allows me to right a blogging wrong by posting this wonderful short film by the filmmaker Jaime Stuart on the blog.
'Man in a Blizzard' was filmed and edited in the space of few hours this past boxing day when New York got hit with that blizzard which resulted in Bloomberg's approval ratings taking a skid and, at one point, thirteen vehicles being abandoned in the road outside our apartment building.
Roger Ebert thinks it should win ". . . the Academy Award for best live-action short subject". One of the funnier trolls on the internet thinks that Roger Ebert should "see more movies". I just think it's beautiful.
That music? Yeah, I thought it was Blur, too, but it turns out that it's Trent Reznor.
Just realised that you really don't get the full experience of the film from my embedded YouTube link. You're better off checking the video out here over at Vimeo.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
Sunday, January 09, 2011
Saturday, January 08, 2011
'Clever people have long been aware that happiness is like good health: when you have it, you don't notice it. But as the years go by, oh, the memories, the memories of happiness past!
For myself I realise now that I was happy in that winter of 1917, that headlong, never-to-be-forgotten year of storm and blizzard.
(From the short story, 'Morphine'.)
Friday, January 07, 2011
Thursday, January 06, 2011
You'll want the blurb:
"It's Midsummer's weekend in Edinburgh. It's raining. Two thirty-somethings are sitting in a New Town bar waiting for something to turn up. He's a failing car salesman on the fringes of the city's underworld and she's a high powered divorce lawyer with a taste for other people's husbands. She's out of his league and he's not her type at all. They absolutely should not sleep together. Ever Ever.
Which is why they do.
Midsummer (a play with songs) is the story of Bob and Helena and a great lost weekend of bridge burning, car chases, wedding bust-ups, bondage miscalculations, midnight trysts and horrible hungover self-loathing misery.
Featuring Cora Bissett and Matthew Pidgeon as the ill-advised love match, Midsummer is a quirky, charming love story by one of Scotland's leading playwrights, David Greig and top Edinburgh singer/songwriter, Gordon McIntyre."
The Guardian's Michael Billington gave it a glowing review last year.
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
‘But how did you discover it? I mean, the docks?’
‘I read this Observer colour supp. piece, you see, and it said all the obvious piaces are finished, a house in Battersea even costs a fortune, but around the East India Dock area there were still some of these perfect little squares -’
‘Lived in by the peasants, no doubt, with a loo out at the back -’
‘Exactly, and there was this perfectly dreamy little house, just a cottage, and Fabrina said it’d got terrific possibilities -’
‘Possibilities, I should think so.”
He listened gloomily to the exchange taking place between a couple with long flowing hair, both wearing bell bottoms and bright pullovers. Did the absence of make-up indicate their masculinity or the opposite, were their voices male or female? He found it impossible to say. The pub depressed him. It had been done up by the brewers, and in honour of its name they had turned it into a kind of military encampment. Reproductions of battle scenes were around the walls, regimental flags and scrolls took up other bits of vacant space, what had once been public and private bars were now called Sergeants’ Mess and Officers’ Mess. It was certainly not what it had been in Holmes's time, and he would infinitely have preferred a few villainous Lascars to the trendy young creatures who mixed with the tough-looking dockers. Not that the dockers seemed to mind either the desecration of their pub, or its part-occupation by these aliens. From the large central bar which was actually called the Parade Ground, Sher pondered on the superiority of past to present. He was jerked out of this reverie by the words: ‘That’s Joey, just come in.’
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
It nearly pains me
nshevik to write it but a nice line in self-deprecating humour from the SWuppies in response to Laurie 'Chuckles' Penny's recent comment about how, " . . . It is highly likely that even after a nuclear attack, the only remaining life-forms will be cockroaches and sour-faced vendors of the Socialist Worker . . . "
Monday, January 03, 2011
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Going into the game I thought they'd get walloped and I was so, so happy to be proven wrong.
McCourt answered his doubters and showed that he could perform in a big game. His reverse pass in the first half that created a scoring chance for Forrest was the pass of the game . . . Miller went missing . . . Samaras should have got a hat trick (and deserved it) . . . Mulgrew was good going forward but scares the hell out of the spectator when called upon to defend . . . Ness looks like one for the future for R*ngers . . . . and Forrest still looks like he'd get carded if he tried to get into an over-12's youth disco.
R*ngers are still the favourites for the league, but this win makes it much more interesting.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
No idea when the January 2011 issue of the Socialist Standard is out so, in the meantime, a blast from the past with this Socialist Standard front cover from July 1979.
I know the front cover is referring specifically to the Tories but who knew thirty plus years on that Thatcher would still be the apple of the eye of so many tens of millions.
The Editorial Committee of the Standard certainly didn't.