we could leave right now

I still don't know what I was waiting for

And my time was running wild

A million dead-end streets

Every time I thought I'd got it made

It seemed the taste

was not so sweet

So I turned myself to face me

But I've never caught a glimpse

Of how the others must see the faker

I'm much too fast to take that test

Sometimes I think I've had a charmed life. I don't mean that in any glib way - there have been plenty of problems and hard time a-plenty, don't worry. Still, to get to this grand old age and feel that I could possibly make some major ch-ch-changes that could make things seem a little better suggests to me that, at least, there must be someone up there smiling down on me occasionally.  Mind you, it's probably the same smile I've witnessed over the years from students that pass me in the corridors. It's the beaky nose, isn't it?

Still, Life changes at certain points in our lives and this month we've reached one of those points.

Earlier this month we paid off our Mortgage and felt that we were able to start thinking about the future as a less frenetic and busy time. Okay, not quite retirement but an easing of responsibilities and less hours spent standing in classrooms wondering why I'd ended up as one of the teachers I used to torture with poor behaviour back in the early seventies. What goes around comes around, I suppose. Mind you, we were much more clever in those days - so much more subtle.

Ah well, this could all be for another time- perhaps when I've hours to spend thinking and writing. Retirement.  Not quite there but decisions have been reached. I'm going to try for three days a week next year and drop English teaching as much as possible. Perhaps there'll be plenty of time to experiment with writing and actually bothering to learn how to play one of those things that hang on my walls properly.

Maybe.

But suddenly, as of today, things are looking up.

diamonds on the water

when you’re running on empty

and the road has no end

when you’re caught at the border

and no man is your friend

when you reach out for comfort

and there’s nothing but despair

there’ll be diamonds on the water

and music in the air

There was a slight mist that seemingly drifted up from the sea and hung about at the bottom of our road as we loaded up the car ready to drive off up to Snape this morning. The sun soon burned it off I guess but we were bombing along the A14, off onto the A12 and enjoying the countryside whilst all that was going on.

When we got to Snape Maltings dead on the BBC pips for 10 o'clock, we found that we were the first there. Still, after a few frantic phone calls eventually six of us were ambling along the Sailor's Path which connects Saxmundham with Aldeburgh. We were going for a gentle ramble by the river and across the marshes and along the sea front at Aldeburgh to sample the "best fish and chips in Britain".

Along the way we passed The Red House, which is where Benjamin Britten lived and evidently Jimi Hendrix visited as he wrote a song about it. That last bit might not be quite true. Anyway, we came upon it as a bit of a surprise - I'd been reading about it a week or so ago and here it was. The signs around it were written in Greek, German and French. The signs all suggested we should "Beware of the Dog" but it all seemed quite quiet.  And we wandered on. The size of houses in this area reminded me that no matter how much access we have to wander this green and pleasant land, most of it is still in private hands:

From the men of property

The orders came

They sent the hired men and troopers

To wipe out the Diggers' claim

Tear down their cottages

Destroy their corn

They were dispersed

But still the vision lingers on

Anyway, following in the footsteps of greatness, we continued the way Jimi did in his search for the "Best Fish and Chips in Britain©" and we quickly found our way to the beach at Aldeburgh where Fag-Ash Lil Hambling's great masterwork is on show for all. I don't know much about Art but I know what I couldn't care less about. But we had bigger fish to fry and a pint or two in The White Hart whilst waiting for the queue to die down in the next door Fish and Chip shop beckoned. Yes, that's the "Best Fish and Chip Shop in Britain©". And, guess what, the fish and chips were wonderful. I hope Jimi enjoyed them and gave him some comfort after realising that his key no longer fitted the lock at Ben's place.

On the whole, then, a pleasant albeit brief yomp across some of the best of Suffolk's landscape with some great weather. We came across those rare Polish Konik horses that

it seemed necessary to be introduced into Suffolk but nobody knows why. It just seemed like a good idea, I guess. Evidently you're not supposed to go near them but as they were standing idly around in a field next to the path we had to go quite near to them. They seemed to enjoy being stroked and someone tried to force-feed one some grass they'd ripped out of the ground but it's all right, the horses weren't interested - obviously they haven't bothered to learn English whilst in the UK. No comment. Anyway, whilst wandering along there were certainly diamonds on the water and, from an early skylark, music in the air.

Which brings me to a brief point about how easy it is to please one such as I. Last night I went to see the Oysterband at Colchester Arts Theatre promoting their new album, Diamonds On The Water after watching a fabulous sunset (Damn! I'd left my phone at home) and then today we walked across a familiar landscape that was making the first forays into Spring.

And who knows what tomorrow may bring? The first proper - but early - day of spring according to the BBC. Oh yeah, decorating the bathroom . . .

blowing in the wind

 

I've just thrown my red pen down in disgust. I feel like breaking it in two just like at the start of Branded. Perhaps that's what I should do next Year 8 English lesson - call the child out and break there/their/they're pen into pieces. Then throw them out of the class, never to darken the classroom again.

What do you do when you're branded?

No matter how many times I try to get pupils to check their work and correct with a green pen (alright, quiet at the back - a green ink pen) which, believe me or not, they are required to do (I'm not a Gove* supporter so don't blame me), they just won't do it.

"Sir, I've finished, what do I do now?""Have you checked your work thoroughly?""Yeah, yeah, of course.""Are you sure? Definitely?""Yeah.""Have you . . ""Yeah.""Okay, have you swapped it with another student and checked each others?""Yeah, yeah, of course."

So how come I end up reading ill-edited, poorly written stories told in dialogue with no indication of who is actually speaking . . . ? Well, truth be told, it's because nobody cares any more. Perhaps they never did. They're just not hungry enough for it.

Recently, I have read books published - usually by independent publishers - and magazines that are sold throughout the English-speaking world (around five quid a head) that contain the most poorly edited script that I despair. I am fully aware that blogging and writing on screens for many of us (me especially) is not conducive to the best grammar - we always need to check our work. But, surely there should continue to be standards. As an English teacher who messes about with guitars, I am aware that there are many kids that are guitar players that are studying English.Surely, it is an important, and easy, point of order to continue the need for good communication? Kids that are switched off from education but play guitar (for instance) may read such magazines? So, if they were spelt correctly etc, etc, surely by basic osmosis, they'd start to read/spell/communicate properly? It seems to have worked the other way - over the twenty years of teaching I've gone from being a pretty good speller into being someone who has to read and re-check everything thoroughly in an almost OCD way before - and after - publishing even simple pieces of writing such as this.

So, here we are: I am now at the grand old age of 58 and beginning to think that the world has moved on so much into some sort of inarticulate, illiterate place that has no need of me that I really need to be moving on.

Retirement beckons. I am now five years younger than my father when he shuffled off this mortal coil. The fact that I never had to go and fight for my country or that I had a fairly good crack at being educated and have had a far more comfortable ride than my parents ever did is neither here nor there. With the constant underlying context of poor (and, by god do I mean poor) management and lack of parental, public and media support I really feel that it is time to think about "quality of life".

For the first time in my life, I now look at older people who retire, leave it all behind and think, "Lucky bastards . . ."

Deep breaths. Pass us that bottle, will you?

*okay, I can't support any of them!

 

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have you seen the old man who walks the streets of london

You know London can make your brain stallThe streets get coldand empty on a rainy night, so you duckInto the subway station, you can hear the trains call, they wannaTake you to theEarl's Court Road but it don't seem right

Whenever I find myself in London I tend to be a creature of habit. I'll visit Denmark Street to poke around a few guitar shops, spend some time in Foyles and Fopp and most likely have a pint in the Dog and Duck. So it was rather pleasant to break the habits of a lifetime and do something different.

Having a few days on my own as Mrs Dave had gone to Germany to visit old friends, I found myself wandering the streets of London alone. First stop, the British Library to peruse the Georgian Exhibition. I've always tended to think of the Victorians as being the biggest influence on Modern Britain but it would seem that we owe a lot to the Georgians. It would certainly seem that much that we don't like about the modern world we owe to them. The consumerist culture and economic booms and busts were typical of the era. As much as I enjoyed wandering through the exhibition, I was a day too early for the Beautiful Science exhibition. Ah well, never mind.

I also went to the Natural History Museum to visit the Darwin Centre Cocoon which is well worth going to - try going at a different time to the half term break. There were far too many screaming kids even an hour before closing time. At least I managed to get in to see the large mammals without too much hassle as most people were still queuing up to shuffle past the dinosaurs. The whales and sharks remind me of Kathleen Jamie's essay in Sightlines about the Hvalsalen Natural History Museum in Bergen. I know the blue whale is only a model but it does tend to make you realise how small we are really. I can't say that we're insignificant because, as Jamie points out, most of the creatures there met violent ends at the hands of mankind. In the altruistic need of our forefathers to educate us about the natural wonders of the World, they left a lot of destruction in their wake.

I wandered back to the tiny basement I was staying in at Earl's Court to listen to the underground trains passing and decide what to do next. I couldn't swing a cat in there as it was far too small but I could have gone to the Troubadour to see a blues band I'd never heard of or go to the Half Moon in Putney to see Andy White. Somewhere upstairs in my extensive pile of vinyl albums is his debut album from 1986 (Rave On Andy White) but I was getting hungry and a tenner and a few journeys on the tube meant I would have to stay and I was already feeling shattered. I like the Half Moon and I've had occasion to enjoy the Home Service and Richard Thompson there back in the day. Well, last century to be precise. I decided to Google Middle Eastern restaurants in Earl's Court and it threw up a corker. The Orjowan was just around the corner and had some excellent reviews. No contest, so off I went. The best smokey aubergine dip - Moutabal - I've ever had and I love the type of flatbreads they serve. A glass of genuine Lebanese beer and one of red wine alongside a mixed grill later and I was rather full. I decided to have a little walk through the streets of Earl's Court and came upon a not very wonderful Fuller's pub but, hey, it was Fullers - a pint of the pride of London later and I was back in my basement room with my needle and spoon tv remote and glass of wine.

Before I set off for the city I'd tried to blag a ticket from a friend's relative to go to the Radio 2 Folk Awards at the Albert Hall but to no avail. I ended up watching it all on the red button tv service. It was great to watch but I'm afraid that bloke out of Bellowhead really can't sing very well. Perhaps I should have tried my luck in the clubs after all - Shane MacGowan, bloke from Bellowhead, Bob Dylan and me.

On Thursday, it was supposed to rain all day in London according to my BBC Weather App, which is quite accurate normally. However, in the words of George Formby, it turned out nice again. I went to the cafe at Southwark Cathedral to sit amongst the Christians and have a cup of coffee and then wandered around the Borough Market. By the time I'd walked down to my rendezvous with soem Gothic films at the Mediatheque at the BFI the sun was bright and it didn't seem like Winter at all. A couple of hours researching the Gothic - a great documentary by Christopher Frayling on The Hound of the Baskervilles and some mid-70s kid's programmes - soon made me hungry. So back to the Borough Market. As I passed the Tate Modern I wondered whether or not to go in to the Richard Hamilton exhibition but my stomach was complaining by now. By the time I got back to the market I was starving and the Indian street food on offer looked too good to miss. The Moong Dal Dosa I had was prepared in front of me - it seemed to involve rather a lot of chick peas: spread out and cooked like a flatbread, some mashed ones fried for the filling, all served on a bed of rice, onion and coriander. Gorgeous. I sat in the grounds of the Cathedral and munched my way through it ravenously. I'm sure the gargoyles were salivating above me.

I must admit that I didn't realise how close Southwark is to Liverpool Street Station. I crossed the London Bridge as I felt a little thirsty by now and I fancied a pint of London's finest and found myself five minutes from the station. As I was originally planning to go home after the peak hour and this was just before the peak hour, I decided I might as well get on a train. After a pint, of course.

So, a few days wandering about London hardly talking to a soul but enjoying my own company made me feel like a teenager again. At least I got beyond the bar at the station. But that's another story from those bad old days . . .

 

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stringing all day

". . . word had got around about the way US players were stringing their axes, Duane Eddy and Eddie Cochran had told of how players would buy a regular set of strings and an extra first or banjo string, move them one over and throw away the bottom string. This opened a whole new world to us." Albert Lee (quoted in 17 Watts? The Birth of British Rock Guitar)

Once a secret has been given away, everyone can take advantage of it. Rock'n'Roll changed the World - for better or worse we'll never know. However, the guitar has always been a prominent part of the sound - and, indeed, look - of it. Whilst many jazzers continue to string their guitars with telegraph wire, strings for most players seem to have got ever skinnier. Perhaps there's a correlation with ties but that's for another time.

As a youngster in school, like many others before and since, I sat in lessons bored to tears. I would sit drawing wild designs for improbable-looking guitars on every scrap of paper and most exercise books much to the chagrin of my exasperated teachers. At home, I would cut out the images of guitars from the Bell Guitar Catalogue (I must have sent off for hundreds of them from the adverts in the back pages of Melody Maker) and carefully stick them to equally as badly cut out pieces of cardboard from various Cornflake packets. I would adorn my Action Man with them and vicariously imagine myself looking like them on stage in some future Rock'n'Roll World. They probably looked much like the mid-1970s Glam years did anyway. Eventually, I managed to convince my parents that I really did want a real one and that I would learn to play properly. Well one of those came to be.

I was once advised (or read somewhere) that Strats should be strung with gauge .10 as the highest (E) string. For many years I have used what are called "Light Gauge" but about two years ago I decided that as I never perform and only play at home - not that often, truth be told - why don't I just string my guitar with light strings? So I've tended to use .09s mostly and these ageing fingers have found them more pleasant to play. So, I'm happy with the gauge I use now. But the main problem - the perennial musician's* Holy Grail - is the sound.

Up until about 10 years ago I was able to buy "Vintage" strings by Danelectro which were wonderful. They felt nice to play and genuinely sounded different - they certainly had a different feel to most "Slinky" strings. Unfortunately they stopped making them a few months after I was offered by a shop in Ipswich to get me a box of ten sets. If only . . .

Nowadays there are all sorts of new-fangled materials and ways of making strings. Many musicians hanker for what is considered a "vintage" sound. I'm definitely one of those. I know it matters little to anyone else but as a bad musician, like a bad worker, I blame the tools available. It's obvious to me that I don't make much improvement in my playing because my guitar doesn't have decent strings on. What is worse, I can't find any decent strings. The last set I had on until this afternoon were actually Fender Bullets. These are strings that Fender designed especially for Stratocasters but no, not good enough for me.

I've found the perfect strings for my Fylde acoustic guitar, new-fangled covered Elixir which last for ages. I recently re-strung my 12 string - and that's not a task undertaken lightly - using D'Addario. The damned thing stays in tune now! But why oh why can't I find any decent vintage sounding strings for my electric guitar?
Well, Holy Grail found.

I spent the afternoon keeping out of mischief (and the kitchen) whilst Mrs Dave was making a cake for someone's birthday and decided to try a new set of strings. These are supposed to be handmade pure nickel and round core and boasted a wonderful vintage sound. Okay, let's go for that then.

. . . and what a difference. Blimey, they really feel lovely to use and they sound great. Okay, I've only tried them through a tiny Vox practice amp but they sound great. Finally, some nice vintage-style strings that have replaced my affection for the old Danelectros. At last. Now I can no longer blame the fact that I haven't got decent strings for my lack of progress. Now that the guitar feels better and sounds better I should have no reason to pick it up and play it more often.

*Yes, I know I'm not really a musician.

Old men of rock and roll

Came bearing music

Where are they now?

They are over the hill and far away

But they're still gonna play guitars

On dead strings, and old drums

They'll play and play to pass the time

The old wild men

Old wild men

Old wild men, waiting for miracles

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weather forecast: bare, gloom and mis'ry everywhere

You don't need the paper to tell you all the news
If you stand by the reds or you're true to the blues
Lift up your eyes instead of looking down at your shoes
You might see what a state we're in

And I'm alright Jack - pull up the ladder
Alright Jack - I'm safe on the wall
Alright Jack - and if you climb just a little bit higher
But the higher you climb the further you fall

Our lords and masters are playing politics again. The Education Secretary is singing the praises of teachers - he looks more and more like Kaa the snake from Disney's The Jungle Book every day. I know which one I'd rather trust.

Yes, they're gearing up for an election next year. They're all at each other's throats, sharpening their knives and stabbing each other in the back. As always, we're the ones who'll suffer. This time, though, we have Mr Farage and his band of dangerous clowns to worry about too. Today's news about the Thatcher government being involved in the Amritsar massacre in 1984 could be very awkward for the Tories. 430,000 Sikh voters upset. There are approximately the same number of teachers in the UK (2011 figures - the latest from the government) too. Hmm . . . I suppose we live in interesting times after all.

Isn't that an supposed to be ancient Chinese curse? Although according to Wikipedia it should actually be: It's better to be a dog in a peaceful time than a man in a chaotic period.

 Still, at least the sun's been shining for a few days so it can't be all bad. What's that Sweep?

gaudium

I hear the rhythm of the rain begin
A shining broadcast on the silver wind
Will you receive these programmes deep within your soul . . ?
The moon is melting in the blazing sky
I hear the flames sing, but I don't know why
I hope that only shadows see me cry (for you)

As I wandered in to my local, quite a few members of the English department were there having been there for a fair while. Several may have already been less than sober. Patrick, the previous landlord of my other local, sitting on another table, wanted to say hello and shake my hand (such a Gentleman). I knew his drinking partner too. His mate is a "friend" of one of our neighbours who happens to be an older single lady (say no more, nudge nudge). Anyway, these two gentlemen shook my hand and said hello. All of a sudden I seemed to be trapped in a Carry On film: "Phwaar, you and all that crumpet*"; "If you need a hand, give us a call" etc, et al.
Anyway, there I was with the English Department - I've been the only male member** of the department for many years now. We left after a while to go for our Christmas do - late/early (delete as necessary) - to another restaurant. Truth to tell, I had planned to leave early as Mrs Dave and I were supposed to go for a walk around a part of Suffolk we didn't know well. Well, gentle reader, as you may be able to guess, that didn't happen.

Up around the bend . . .

Mrs Dave woke feeling a little "under the weather" whereas I felt a few centimetres above her. Just about. Suffice to say, we didn't wander around Woolpit and I think she's going to have an early night between you and me. However, I was afforded the opportunity to wander down to the beach - well, the bit at the bottom of our road - and realised that after all the rain and poor weather buffeting the land, it was actually a rather nice day. The photo is a quick snap of the end of our road looking away from the beach. A bit breezy, yes, but still glorious.
Whilst allowing normality to seep in we have taken the day easily - a wander up to the butcher here, a drive to Waitrose there and a steady attempt at a chore here and there. Real Ale, keg bitter, white and red wines from various suppliers doesn't really work as a game plan. But hey! Who cares? Gradually the day has unfolded into one of absolute joy.
Yep, I'm not joking. I, unlike many of you lot out there, am not really a member of the "Digital Revolution". I find the whole digital experience to be a difficult one - I'm Sgt Howie to your Lord Summerisle, I tell you. However, today I managed a feat that many before me have slipped upon:
That is a step
On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap,

That's right. Moving your whole iPod library to another computer and then synching it all together.
Oh yes, I have actually managed it. I ain't even lyin' or nuffink. I'm not joking, I really did spend ages - months - trying to learn how to move an iTunes library from one computer to another. Evidently, it's impossible - or very difficult. I kept reading about free software that would do it, but they never seemed to work. But I chose to download everything onto a hard disk and go from there.

Now, gentle reader, I'm not sure if you feel that anything you ever did for your parents was worthwhile (and I'm struggling as to whether or not anything I ever presented to mine was worth a sh . . .) but Third born sorted it all out so easily. Hang on! I did manage to get all of my 7600-odd songs from the iTunes library on the old computer to save on to a hard drive and then transfer on to the new one.

Now, I was going to come over all technical but to be honest, I'm so happy that I can't be bothered. When my son told me that the laptop would "wipe out everything on your iPod and then replace it with what you've put on" I'm sure you could empathise with me when I felt that if it all goes t. . . up then me and the digital world need to part company forever. But . . . it only bloody well worked!

No downloading of crap free software that doesn't work or lead you anywhere beyond madness or self-loathing. It works and can be so easily rectified that I wonder why I've spent so much time checking it out (to no avail) when I could just get on with it and save months.
Suffice to say, I've spent most of the evening uploading "new" albums on to iTunes. And just in case you're wondering, yes I do have a glass of red wine in the other hand.
The digital world can go on unabated but the Old World is still there in the background. Hmm, a bit like the Wicker Man, then.
*Yep, "Crumpet" was the term used
** phnaar phnaar - yes, you're the only person who noticed

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