Driving and my Dad

As I get older, I feel modern cars are just crap. I mean, they look dull, sound dull and make you seem like a dull person. At least, this is my rationalisation of trying to console myself that I have to use public transport these days. Trams can be sexy, right?

All the same, cars seemed more exciting when I was a child. I used to love long journeys down to visit family in Milton Keynes (English viewers may be raising an eyebrow here at the idea of anyone being excited about going to that place) for the reason that I would see lots of cars on the M6 and M1. Credit to my pop to keeping his patience when we were stuck in a 15 mile tailback at Birmingham and I was bopping around in excitement at having seen a BMW 2002.

In the years before I was arrived, Dad had owned a couple of VW Beetles, the second of which had to go as you couldn't fit a pram in the front boot. Therefore, he made the insane decision to ignore further dabblings in German engineering and buy British. Only weeks before my birth, he picked up one of these (pics nicked from Wiki):

Check out the curves on that baby. Wow.

Yes, a Vauxhall Astra. Except he chose one in brown, and we all know the connotations of that colour. My principle memory of it was during a holiday down to Torquay. Along with my recently arrived brother and my parents, my older cousin accompanied us on what seemed like a 15 hour drive down to the English Rivera, where we met my aunty, uncle and their three daughters, who had entrusted British Rail to get them there. At one point, all of us managed to squeeze into the Astra. That's four adults, and six children, aged from 12 to one. If anything had happened, the social would have had a field day.

At some point, I think dad realised the British generally knew fuck all about making a half decent family car. I can recall the day at some point in the late 1980s where we went up to some garage near Maryport to pick up a new set of wheels - a Fiat Uno.

Compact Italian quality. Or something.

To this day, I'm unsure why he traded in for a smaller car. 1000cc of raw power got us from 0-60mph in around the same time it took me to get out of bed on a schoolday. In hindsight, I wonder if my dad was having a bad time at work, which makes me feel bad for all the times I hectored for a new set of football boots. Still, it cannot be said it was a nice car to look at. Or hear, as on the rare events it seemed to get to some kind of "top" speed, it screamed like a bunch of woodland creatures trapped in a blender, to which it's somewhat dubious "stereo" system would fail to drown out.

Luckily, needs eventually necessitated a bigger car - that being my brother and I had inherited some "tall" genes and were growing to the point that being crammed in the back of the Uno was going to result in some kind of bone deformations not seen in this country since the Victorian era. And so, the Ford Mondeo entered our lives.

Made in Genk, Belgium. What a great name for a city.

Now, this was more like it. Sure, it looks fairly functional, but it was comfortable enough to have two lanky teenage lads in the back, with enough room for them to swing a few digs at each other and our mother to turn round and whack us both for misbehaving. My dad said it was the best car he'd ever had up to that time and actually kept it going for a decade with no major problems - in fact, it was offered down to me after I'd just moved to Manchester, but I couldn't afford the insurance.

Nowadays, my ma and pa scoot around in a Ford Focus diesel, which is very pleasant and efficient, but I find myself unable to give it a personality the way I did 20 years ago.

So - readers, did any of your folks own a particularly dreadful set of wheels that made you cringe when they stopped by to pick you up when you were out with your mates?

Space Issues

Perhaps the first game that showed me the possibilities of video games as a storytelling device, and therefore one of the most important games in my life ever, was Wing Commander, released in 1990 as a project from the mind of one Chris Roberts.

It was originally released in 1990, but I came to it a few years later. Despite that, it still took me back with it graphics and the way the action held together. In brief: you were a rookie pilot doing your bit for the people of Earth in a huge war in space against the ruthless Kilrathi, who were anthropomorphic cat folk with a tough line in tradition and honour.

In hindsight, the story was incredibly linear, but by simple virtue of being able to choose your own name and "callsign" it offered a layer of immersion that was very rewarding for the time. You were thrown right onto the front as part of the crew of the Tigers Claw, most the "storyline" taking place in the bar.

Drink helps with the space shakes, I'm told.

Here, your fellow pilots would offer advice and inform you of the how the war is going, while the old guy behind the bar would regale tales of his own days of action. The chalkboard kept track of your kills, while medals and promotions were up for grabs if you showed your style. It may seem all very quaint from this distance, but it was well-written and offered new opportunities for the medium.

The success of Wing Commander meant a sequel quickly followed in 1991. In this, our hero finds his hero status relinquished due to odd circumstances, and he's packed off for ten years doing nothing work. Obviously, he finds his way back to the action to earn a chance to clear his name and save Earth, again. I can only assume Roberts got a bit excited, as the storyline offered more depth, with romantic interludes (yuck!), a Kilrathi defector on the crew and a human traitor in the ranks. Larks!

Instead of denying it, why not embrace death? It is your only friend now.

There was a fair bit of skill needed in the games: one hand on the joystick with a finger and thumb needed for guns and missiles, with your other hand on the keyboard ready to issue commands to your wing partner, swap weapons and chose targets. The different mission types, ships and colleagues all added variation and during the debriefs, it felt good when the Chief offered congrats for a job well done.

Unfortunately, for the third instalment, Chris Roberts fancied himself as George Lucas and wanted to make the scenes between missions all Full Motion Video. FMV had the double issue of being incredibly expensive and it took bloody ages to load up every scene. Also, within a few years as technology moved on, it all tended to look a bit ropey. Another of my favourite games, Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers, went down the same path with the second in the series, The Beast Within, which has dated ten times worse than the older game.

At least 1994's Wing Commander III managed to snare some decent acting talent: Mark Hamill, John Rhys-Davies and Malcolm McDowell all rocked up to do credible jobs to the degree there were additional sequels. I had lost interest, though - the appeal of the first two in the series was that the main guy had MY name and I read his lines in MY voice. Suddenly, he looked and sounded like Mark Hamill and was called Christopher Blair, which is a frankly shite name for the hero of a space war hero.

Back in space again, eh? Bloody typecasting!

There was an attempt to launch a film franchise, of which we'll say no more.

Rock of Aged

Freaky Trigger, a music website, has been doing a running blog of reviewing UK #1 singles for some years now, and on the most recent entry (Discotheque by U2, which I hated then and still do), one commentator noted that 1997 was the year that rock died. For him, at least. 

In a way, I get where he was coming from. Emphasis on the individual, as I'm more than aware there's plenty of folk younger than me who got a whole lot out of bands like, for example, Muse. Personally, the first decade of this millennium - in which I was mostly in my 20s and should, in theory, have been most hip to what was going on - I think I only really engaged with British Sea Power and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (first two albums only) in terms of acts whose albums I deeply loved. There were people like Idlewild and Doves who I dipped in and out of, but very little I got obsessed about the way I did about the XTC, the Cure or the Psychedelic Furs, whose extensive back catalogues I was gobbling up around the same period.

It's part of getting older for a lot of people, the losing of interest in what's going on today in music. I've wondered if, for me, it's a resentment of seeing people coming up to be young enough to be my children (in theory) jumping around. 

Then again, I was avoiding the contemporary from a young age. As a stroppy teenager in my bedroom, I pretty much ignored grunge (too loud for me, at the time), Britpop (bunch of Southern ponces pretending to be working class, I thought) and anything like rave/house/techno (didn't take the drugs). From the three Danny Baker BBC4 music shows this week covering the 70s/80s/90s, it was the last that struggled to hold my attention. A passing mention to Chapterhouse aside, only the KLF brought a feeling of "yeah, that was pretty good".

In my own life, it was only a decade later, with access to the internet, that I was able to dig out the pearls from the age. Catherine Wheel, Slowdive, Giant Steps by the Boo Radleys, World Party... I remembered I owned Mansun's first album and a relisten prompted me to pick up a cheap copy of their follow up Six, leading to having my mind blown by one of the most adventurous "rock" albums to make the UK top 10 in the decade. 

As I said, last year I bought no "new" albums, which strikes me as a sad state of affairs for someone who claims to have an interest in music. Last summer, I watched footage of the UK festivals where the bright young things did their thing, and mainly thought "shite". They say we all turn into our parents eventually - but then even my then 45-year-old father found value in Rage Against the Machine back in the mid 90s. 

To signpost my decline into old age, the two best bits of music news I've had in recent weeks have been that Tears for Fears are planning to release new material this year, and that Slowdive have reformed. I'm really quite excited about both.

Pole Axed

When people find out I had a short-lived Journalism career, they tend to ask "so why did you pack it in?" to which I reply "because I wasn't a big enough arsehole", and we all have a jolly good laugh.

Actually, the truth is that I was sick of the crap money and long hours. By the time I was about to hand my cards in, I was a Sub-Editor and was offered a promotion to Production Manager. Granted, this was for a small publishing company, but even then I knew it would provide contacts and experience to move up in the world: the guy who had vacated that role had done so to essentially take a dream job with a famous English sports team. But I'd decided at that point that I preferred being home for five in the evening every day, rather than seven some days and past midnight on others.

That said, the "arsehole" point stands when you check out a number of the prominent "columnists" that work for the leading UK tabloids. This is a position a journalist tends to rise to when it is proven their willingness to spout any old objectionable bollocks is matched only by how much of a fuckwit they are. Yet the rewards can be significant - take Richard Littlejohn, for example. A man who made a habit of spouting "you couldn't make it up!", only for it to be found out that he usually does. A man who shrugged off the murder of prostitutes by the serial killer Steven Wright because "none of them were going to cure cancer". He still calls women "birds" in the style of his beloved 70s TV shows, derides Health and Safety as meddling and is generally a total bellend.

Currently, he lives in gated community in Florida, paid for the huge sums of money he's paid by the Daily Mail. Thus, many look to follow in his steps. One such chancer is James Delingpole, who comes out with total arse discharge like this. I wouldn't recommend clicking that link if you get wound up too easily, and also because it probably helps him get paid. Needless to say, his views can perhaps be best summed up with this picture:

Men shouldn't play with dolls, it seems. And girls like pink. Let men be men, and let women get on with the important work of having babies and looking pretty. Evidence? Pah! He has anecdotal proof to back up his watertight assertions. The same way I can say my kid brother loved his My Little Pony dolls as a young lad. And he's not even gay, James! All the same, curse my parents for not smashing those dolls and insisting he play with a toy gun instead. It certainly explains why he's fucked up in life, being a respected teacher with a PhD and a stable relationship that's lasted over 10 years. But the bad news is, he's a teacher, so he can pass on his VILE POLITICALLY CORRECT views onto another generation. Oh, the horror.

See, I can do the whole "anecdotal evidence" thing too. Where's my column in a national newspaper?

Another reason Journalism wasn't the bag for me is my lack of patience with idiots - people like Sunny Jim, essentially. And my horrific spelling. Luckily, there are many other folk better than me for this. One such is this blogger here, who does a wonderful job of dismantling the article and the man himself. Even when he tries to be a smartarse on Twitter, she keeps her cool when I would have been banging on his door asking if he'd like to repeat himself to my face. Then to the pavement.

2013, We Hardly Knew Ye

A much delayed piece, this, as I struggle to get my writing mojo together in the face of all manner of issues, none that important, but all combining into a huge ball of apathy. Which is a bit like life, when you think about it, isn't it? No?

English viewers will suggest Charlie Brooker does this kind of thing x100 better with his TV show that I help pay for, but let's face it, he's not as pissed off as he used to be since he hooked with with Konnie Huq and started a family. You used to be one of us, Charlie: bitter, alienated and raging at a world that simply wouldn't listen to any inarticulate rants. I bet you're gunning for a Knighthood. Yeah. You and your chum David Mitchell, with your glamorous wives and personal happiness. How dare you!

I digress.

Footballer of the Year
Once again, my choice of 2012 proved to be something of a jinx, as van Persie suffered a short spell of bad form and more recently, has been a total crock with numerous rumours stating he's spat the dummy about Alex Ferguson retiring.

With that in mind, perhaps I should pick Ashley Young, in the hope that the under-performing clogger is quickly sold back to Aston Villa. But no: honesty demands I say David de Gea, who over the course of 2013 went from derided by the media to earning plaudits galore. His form across 2013 was superb, and in a season where we've been frequently laughable, he's saved the bacon on numerous occasions. One particular save up at Sunderland was straight from the Peter Schmeichel playbook.

Watch now as either his performance level crumbles and/or he's sold to Barcelona.

Album of the Year
Actually, I've not bought a single "new" album for ages. Getting old, perhaps, but nothing is really grabbing me. Instead, I've continued to raid the past, buying classics by Catherine Wheel and Graham Parker.

However, I did go to three storming gigs this year: World Party, Bob Mould and Bruce Springsteen all put on amazing shows. World Party was the most intimate, it just being Karl Wallinger with two other musicians in a small venue, on which I was at the front. Mould wins the prize for loudest - again, being at the very front helped, but my ears were still ringing four days later, amazing the volume created by a three piece band. He played a great mix of Husker Du, Sugar and from his great last album (2012) Silver Age.

The Boss, though, was the most epic. Despite being in a stadium, a fair distance from the front, you managed to feel the guy's energy. Something like three hours on stage, with no pauses and no let up, Springsteen proved to me why he's always up on those "Must See" lists for concerts. Into his 60s, with more energy than any of the pretenders could dream of.

Game of the Year
Obvious choice, but Grand Theft Auto V wins the title through the amount of enjoyment I got out of it. There was plenty of enjoyment to be had from The Last Of Us and Remember Me, but GTA takes the cake. Best part of 50 hours spent to get through the story, and I'm pissed off I lent it to a mate now, as I want to take a spin round the city with Kenny Loggins DJing some classic rock. I never was one for the Steve Miller Band, but hearing Rock'n Me while cruising down the coast was a pretty cool moment.

What do you mean, it's not real?

Absolute Aching Arsehole of the Year
My kid brother is a teacher, and so is his wife of six months. With that in mind, this year's winner is again Michael Gove, whose single-minded road to fucking up generations of the country's youth through his own refusal to budge from his own dogma continues unabated.

So, in the unlikely even googling your own name has lead you here: Michael Gove, I hope your ballbag goes septic.

"I found this photograph... tender face of black and white"

I don't head back to my hometown very often these days, but when I do, and I'm in the bedroom where I spent far too much of my childhood, I have had the same ritual over the last six years.

When my paternal grandfather died, we found a cache of old photos in his flat, maybe 100 or so black and white pics. I go through all of these when I'm back. There a lot of him when he was a kid, and it's strange to see the stern old man, made so by experiences of war and personal loss, as a smiling young boy alongside his kid sisters.

There's also a few documents, one of which is my great-great-grandparents' wedding certificate, from 1907. Perhaps appropriately for this time of year (just about!), they were called Joseph and Mary and it feels strange to hold something that symbolises the beginning of their lives together. As I recall, he lived just about long enough to see Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon.

There's also their youngest daughter's wedding certificate. Her name was Jane, born in 1911, and her death in 1989 was my first experience with loss. From the photos, there are plenty of her, as she was close to just about everyone in my family. When my dad lost his mother, she kept him and grandpop from totally falling apart by making sure they actually ate - men of the time being totally unable to cook.

Again, it's a surprise to see the sweet old lady I knew in her younger days, wearing shades and smoking cigarillos. There's a pic of her wedding day too, in 1937.

Cool lady

Getting married in a black dress - fantastic. Maybe it was common back then for all I know, but it seems pretty damn hip to me. She still lived in the house in that pic by the time I came around, and I spent many a happy weekend there and playing in the ruins of nearby Penrith castle with her watching and warning me and my brother not to climb too high up the medieval walls.

What always frustrates me is all the pictures is those with people in whom my father and I have no idea about. Are they relations? Friends? What's the story? I can only wish my granddad had shared when he was alive and filled in the gaps.

I am directly related to somebody in this picture. 

Take this one, for example. Where is it? What's the occasion? Loath as I am to reduce to cliché, but it is tremendously evocative of a world that no longer exists, especially when I consider the people inside are somehow connected to me. Though I go back maybe twice a year tops, Cumbria remains a huge part of me and I think always will. Grandpop's pics remain a reminder of why this is so.

Take a Rocket Ship to Mars

Tags are so often misleading. I love a lot of the Shoegazing bands of the early 1990s: Ride, Slowdive, Lush, Pale Saints... but one band is often lumped in with them, with no real reason beyond journalistic laziness.

Sure, on a casual listen, Catherine Wheel's first album Ferment almost fit in with that. It had loud guitars that droned at moments and Rob Dickinson's vocals could at times be a little dreamy. Yet, there was plenty to separate them from that whole scene, which may explain why they outlived many of their contemporaries and also the relative success they enjoyed in the States that others didn't.

For starters, the band were from Great Yarmouth, Norfolk - hardly rock and roll heartland, and miles away from London or the then-hip Manchester or Thames Valley heartlands. Dickinson at least was well into his mid 20s by the time their debut came out in 1992, having spent time working designing for Lotus prior. Perhaps this prior experience came out in the song Black Metallic, the video for which got some play on MTV and was lyrically written about the love of a car. 

Where the quartet, Dickinson alongside Brian Futter (lead guitar), Dave Hawes (bass) and Neil Sims (bass), had was the ability to properly rock out from the dream status of their contemporaries. It also helped that in their quieter moments, they were guided by Tim Friese-Green, who had helped Talk Talk make some of the most amazing music of recent history. 

The band were huge fans of Talk Talk, and under his guiding hand made a wondrous entrance to the world. I Want to Touch You showed the band could do sexy and the title track put down their abilities to create quiet/loud dynamics. I've long been keen on putting that song on compilation albums for people, chuckling to myself that the innocent receiver will crank up the volume, only to kill their ears at the moment the sonic assault cuts in. 

As they would frequently do, the band toured North America extensively, and perhaps toughened up their musical muscles as 1993's Chrome shoved the band as far away from any perceived roots - though those paying attention to their b-sides including covers of Husker Du might not have been surprised. Producer Gil Norton wiped away a lot of the density of their earlier work in favour of a more, well, metallic sound, though Show Me Mary was a great hit single that never was. 

With the double hit of Ursa Major Space Station and Fripp, the band hit heights that surely blew any competition out of the water - Dickinson sighing that "I'll follow you through time, 'till it's not worth living" over a crescendo of guitars and drums that demand to be heard loud is a frankly sublime moment . That it never crossed over to a bigger audience seems unjust beyond words. 

1995's Happy Days had a very American Alt-Rock edge to it, much more in kilter with bands like the Smashing Pumpkins. Opener God Inside My Head featured some very heavy playing and some uncharacteristic metal-eseque grunting from Dickinson.

At it's best, it was magnificent, as with the quietly fuming Eat My Dust You Insensitive Fuck, the funny Shocking and the hook-filled Judy Staring at the Sun, which featured Belly singer Tanya Donnelly on vocals, and might have done better as a single not for the fact it was about a drug addict. Another single, Waydown got some MTV notice with a somewhat literal air-crash themed video, but mainstream acceptance remained out of reach.

A tendency to place as many "new" songs as b-sides had created a fair old amount of non-album material over the years, and the compilation Like Cats and Dogs was released to warmer reviews than Happy Days. Featuring most pastoral material, it set the tone for the next album, which would turn out to be their masterpiece. They even made Pink Floyd sound good, with a version of Wish You Were Here.

Adam and Eve, out in 1997, should have been "the" album. As usual, it didn't work out that way. Not that they were getting much help - legend says Rolling Stone were all set to give them a high score in the review, only for it to get marked down in the edit. Quite why remains a mystery, as in terms of music in 1997, for me, only Mansun's Six comes close. OK Computer looks like a bunch of teenage angst in comparison, as while both have a hint of prog, Adam and Eve manages to keep things interesting, even when all but two of the 13 songs clock in at over five minutes.

I simply cannot emphasise how essential the album is. If you have an interest in rock music, alternative or mainstream, seek out Adam and Eve now. It is perhaps a complete a piece of work as can be imagined. The entire band is on top form and I can't write anymore than to suggest you go listen to it in one sitting and wonder how you did without it beforehand.

But, when all came down perhaps they knew the chance had gone. It wasn't until 2000 before they reappeared. When the band took up things again, they had dispensed with bassist Hawes and got Friese-Green back in the producer's chair to make Wishville. Sadly, it was a lax effort and not long after, the band went on a hiatus from which they have not yet returned. 

Subsequently, Dickinson released a solo album (Fresh Wine for the Horses) in 2005 but more recently spends his time with his Porsche 911 renovation business in Los Angeles, going back to his original trade. Video footage suggests he looks annoyingly good for his age and takes great pride in his work. On a more musical tint, he appeared on two tracks of the 2011 album These Hopeful Machines by US electro artist BT.