Diary Of An Obo

You've Changed

2010-01-02T20:20:00.001Z

Happy New Year to you all.

Long term readers will know that I'm a bit of a Luddite at heart.

I've written on the evils of mobile phone ownership, dismissing one attempt to persuade me to get one, as it would be a boon to my social life by claiming I didn't want one! I never had (or wanted) a PC at home until becoming a late convertee to the internet and the very idea of taking part in social networking sites filled me with dread. Three years later and I feel forced to recant some of what I once held dear. I now have work and personal mobiles, Facebook, Youtube and Linkedin accounts. In accepting my invitation to be a Facebook friend, Calli rightly observed that I've changed.

Take my stance on the identity card scheme. The disadvantages seemed obvious; the possibility of government misuse, the likelihood of fraud, not to mention the inconvenience and expense. However, my main problem with it now is that it doesn't go nearly far enough. The idea has already been broached in such far-sighted forums as The X Files but surely the time has come to chip us all. It works perfectly well with dogs, our Barbie does not seem to have suffered any adverse reactions to it and we have the peace of mind if she ever gets lost. Certain concerned parents have done it with their children and, who knows, more forward thinking nations might be doing it already?

The advantages are there for everyone to see; a simple smart chip with a barcode installed in the back of our necks, together with the infrastructure to make use of it, would allow quantum leaps in areas as diverse as banking, burglar alarms, shopping and speed traps. A step further maybe, but mugging and knife-crime would be dealt with at a stroke by including Bluetooth or wi-fi technologies in the chip, allowing the last thousand (for example) people you've come into near contact with to be logged. The chip wearer would have an onboard USB port to allow access to the matrix where such modern ways are not common; off-licences or tobacconists for example, police stop and search even. Every one of the million different account numbers and passwords would be replaced by a single personal code, unique and incapable of being copied or tampered with, except by the most extreme and gory intervention. Think of the synergies! The possibilities are endless.

This is all very well but anyone who knows me will already have spotted this ironic right wingery as a pathetic attempt to gain some Facebook friends. I'm not too proud to beg! I only have five and three of them are (very welcome) family members; it doesn't look good. As a special incentive, you will soon be able to see a load of photos of sheep, taken on our Christmas holiday in Snowdonia.

Art

2009-12-30T14:21:00.001Z

An homage to The Beatles' Revolution No.9

(Not) The Last Post

2009-11-21T12:37:00.000Z

I'd like to thank my anonymous commenter for their kind words about my on-line disappearance during the last few months. The Noggin the Nog bit hit a chord, it was always a favourite (probably to do with my Scandinavian roots......).

The truth about my lack of recent output is indeed partly due to running out of things to say, although that never concerned me during the productive times! The main reason though is lack of time. Most of what you've read was cobbled together during idle moments; on the odd occasion this even spilled into office hours.

Tragically I don't seem to have the time at the moment; hopefully this will change at some point. In the meantime, expect the odd video message and other assorted footage; it's the future.

Philosophy Corner

2009-11-19T23:59:00.002Z

Diary Of An Obo joins the world of social networking with this superb piece to camera. Apologies for the lack of recent output, filming others might be the way forward.

Doesn't Mean They're Not All Out To Get You

2009-08-06T23:18:00.001+01:00

My typically even-handed appraisal of outdoor Tai Chi has elicited a supplementary comment:

I feel compelled to return to the subject of open air Tai Chi. I have witnessed this repeatedly over the past week and despite your guidance feel that this overt display can only be regarded as 'showing off'. At what point does standing out from the crowd become showing off? Your guidance would be appreciated.

Now call me suspicious, paranoid even, but it strikes me that a private war could be in progress, perhaps at a place of work or similar public arena, and the good offices of this (if you will) fine organ might be getting used for point scoring! I do hope I'm wrong.

Regardless of the motives for this line of questioning, I can only repeat my original view that as long as no harm is done to others, people should be allowed to get on with their own business, however weird or contrary to the norms of decent society. If making curious windmill movements at a snail's pace is your bag, then so be it!

Pfeuds' Corner

2009-07-26T18:18:00.002+01:00

My last musing has drawn comment from a like minded culinary soul.

With this in mind, I may renew my occasional reporting of the more out there aspects of my diet. Please feel free to contribute your own.

Revolutionary stuff, I'm sure you'll agree.

Pseuds' Corner

2009-07-25T14:35:00.002+01:00

When left to fend for myself last week, I made do with a simple artisan's meal of pasta with peas, capers, squid in its own ink (from a can but it was an emergency), topped with cheese, basil from our own herbarium and black pepper, completed with seeded bread.

The artisan was furious when he found out I'd eaten his dinner but it's a dog eat dog world out there.

Food For The Soul

2009-07-23T20:46:00.002+01:00

My opinion has been canvassed again, this time on the thorny issue of standing out from the crowd:

Is it ever acceptable to do Tai Chi in the open in the UK?

Now I know very little about Tai Chi but believe it to be an ancient combination of martial art and yoga style relaxation, often practised at the crack of dawn in public squares by millions of Chinese. This is all well and good, as it is clearly forms part of their cultural framework and I'm all for this sort of thing being disseminated to far off lands.

However, I feel that alfresco Tai Chi in dear old blighty needs careful research and preparation. Many issues have to be considered but two stand head and shoulders above the rest: location and numbers. High up on Glastonbury Tor would be suitable, as would private gardens or maybe the beach; the middle of The Trafford Centre would be less acceptable; the public bar of some of our fine city centre pubs at closing time certainly would not do. As with so many things though, there is strength in numbers and I'm sure that the general public looks upon groups of Tai Chiers more kindly than individuals. The general public's opinion can go hang as far as I'm concerned but there you go; I was once informed by a former colleague that Madonna was too much of an individual, which is obviously the last thing you want in a pop star.

For another route to inner peace, music has always worked for me. Just been listening to the immortal Search And Destroy by Iggy and the Stooges from their classic Raw Power album. I will always be indebted to an old school friend, Mark Derby, for introducing me to this fabulous album. Indebted but slightly guilt ridden, Mark had a copy on cassette and for some bizarre reason absolutely hated it; I had a copy of some rubbish sub-Quo British boogie band and Mark thought it a fair swap. How could I refuse?

Over to you then. Tai Chi or Raw Power? The choice is yours.

Commissioned

2009-07-05T17:30:00.002+01:00

I am indebted to my reader for tempting me out of retirement, by suggesting a new feature for Diary Of An Obo, in which I can address matters of the day. If you want to take part in this, use the comments feature at the bottom of each posting; I'm sure there are smart, modern ways to accomplish this but my webmastering skills don't yet run to it.

Anyway, the first one relates to two former Liverpool greats, Kenny Dalglish and Michael Owen. The questions were:

'What are the Obo's views on the return of King Kenny? Also how should one act if one were to be introduced to MO in a social or business situation?'

As you may remember from a previous missive, Calli and I met King Kenny many years ago to have his autobiography signed as a present for my father; he called Calli 'pet' during the course of our meeting. I am delighted that he has returned to the club and think he will do a marvellous job at the academy and in promoting the club worldwide. If only the club had honoured Bill Shankly in a similar way.

In the case of Michael Owen, I wish him well and hope he plays in every game but scores no goals. To my mind, his best years were already behind him before he left Liverpool, so I can't see him setting the world alight now. If I met him at some point, I would treat him in exactly the same way as any other Manchester United player and ignore him completely.

Thanks for the questions, I hope my thoughts have thrown some clarity on these issues.

North South Divide

2009-04-29T17:42:00.000+01:00

You southerners might only have a sketchy awareness of areas north of the Watford Gap, but this takes the biscuit.

I have on my desk an invoice, from a company in West Sussex, with a hand written delivery address to somewhere in Llancashire. It really is a foreign country up here!

Mary Whitehouse Lives

2009-04-22T23:15:00.000+01:00

It's good to see that ITV adhere so strictly to the 9 o'clock watershed as far as bad language is concerned.

As some of you may be aware, I fervently believe that The Beiderbecke Affair is at the very pinnacle of British TV (if not the world), and despite having watched it more times than I could possibly estimate, any repeat will have me sitting there, grinning like an idiot. We used to have regular Beiderbecke marathons and, although I didn't know the scripts verbatim, it wasn't far off. Sad but true.

Back to last night then. I was watching a repeat on ITV3 or ITV4 at 8 o'clock and noticed that when Trevor answered the crank call to the pay phone outside his flat, a few seconds had been chopped because he'd used the word 'b*gger' in the original. The same thing happened a few minutes later, when he repeated the offending word in a conversation with Mr. Wheeler, the headmaster. A less zealous viewer might not have noticed!

Fast forward an hour and switching to ITV1 for Ashes To Ashes. I'm not particularly interested in this show but it was on when I returned from my chores in the kitchen. Now swearing doesn't shock or offend me at all, I've even occasionally let myself down by using cuss words, but I was a little surprised that the first thing I heard was one of the category 'A' swearwords that many people really don't like. In fact, it was the one beginning with 't' and being an anagram of the unit of electrical power!

Just thought you should know.

To see the, if you'll excuse the expression, unb*stardised version of Trevor's reply to the silent nuisance caller, treat yourself to the complete trilogy on DVD. I know I've recommended this before but you'll be glad you did. And if you're watching Ashes to Ashes with anyone who has delicate sensibilities, cover their ears!

Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here

2009-04-07T22:46:00.002+01:00

In the spirit of investigative journalism that toppled the Nixon administration and revealed Freddie Starr's dietary habits, Diary Of An Obo proudly exposes the nether world of the 'Fun Dog Show'. Names and locations won't be revealed, as the event was in aid of a local dog charity but all other details are somewhere near to the truth......

Where else but in Britain could you witness such an early spring gathering: the desperation for the sun to put in an appearance, even if only for a few minutes; the barely edible barbeque food; the collection for poor Bonzo's operation (apparently something of a local celebrity); the agility and fantastic behaviour exhibition, complete with sanctimonious commentary that left any owner with a less than perfectly behaved dog feeling like the sh1t on the announcer's shoes; the sh1t on my shoes; the incessant feeding of treats to other people's dogs, together with futile attempts to dissuade the little feeders; the dog obsessives, if I hear anyone say just one more time that they like dogs better than people...... The event wasn't even licensed, for crying out loud!

Onwards to the main event. Waggiest Tail, Most Beautiful Eyes, Best Trick are all staples of the unofficial dog show. However, despite the dog world's governing body, The Kennel Club, washing its hands of such lowly gatherings, pedigree dogs swept the board. The announcer had informed us earlier that mongrels outnumber any proper breed but you wouldn't have known it from the distribution of prizes. Surely any official with half a brain cell, at a dog charity that depends on the good will of the general public, would have had a word with the judge to remind them that it wasn't Crufts. But no, 'and the winner is the Staffie, the Collie, the Poodle, the Long Coated Alsatian'......

Heart string tugging came next with Best Veteran and Best Rescue Dog; the shaggy dog story coming to the fore as the prized rosette and certificate depended on how old the dog was or how horrific the poor mutt's former circumstances were. Twenty one my foot and poor Barbie had nothing worse to contend with in her past than an old man who fed her too much!

Our last class came round, Prettiest Dog. They wouldn't send us home with nothing, would they? After an age of deliberation, fourth, third and second were awarded. The judge had described Barbie as 'absolutely gorgeous' on her parade round, so I was getting ready to accept the award. 'And the winner is over there to the right......' 'Here we go, we've won', I thought. '......the Pyrenean Mountain Dog'. Deflated, we trudged away to lick our wounds and try to raise poor Barbie's spirits.

Of course all of this bile has been let because Barbie didn't win anything. It was a cheerful community event and we had a good time, outdoors on a Sunday afternoon. What a carve up though!

And Your Specialist Subject Is......

2009-03-23T18:04:00.000Z

Sam displayed a scholarly knowledge of German beer the other night when, not only did she know of Berliner Kindl, the disturbing green beer, she also knew that the green stuff was woodruff flavoured syrup and that at least one other variety existed. It's this sort of dedication to a worthy cause that might just see us through these dark days.

Back then to our adventures in Eastern Europe; thanks for your patience. You left our two intrepid explorers last time outside an Irish bar in Warsaw, heading for the railway station and a midnight train bound for St. Petersburg.

Warsaw's main railway station is one of those vaguely menacing places, especially later on in the evening, so we were trying to appear confident, whistling happy tunes, stuff like that. The armed guard didn't add to the atmosphere either, at one point persuading the sleeping drunk to be on his way with the end of his boot! Eventually and not a moment too soon, although we probably hadn't been there more than an hour, it was time for us to board our train.

Although our journey to St. Petersburg wasn't part of the Trans-Siberian route that would take up our next couple of weeks, it was our first experience of the microculture of east European long distance rail travel: hundreds of people milling round on the platform, nylon bags bursting at the seams but exactly the right size for the luggage compartments, old women selling food and other essentials for the trip, the four bed compartments, the water heater at the end of the corridor, the lack of bathing facilities.

We shared our compartment for the first part of the trip with a quiet, middle-aged woman from St. Petersburg, Luda. Luda was a bit disgruntled, as she'd thought she was going to be on her own and sharing a room with two strangers certainly wasn't what she'd had in mind. She was very polite about it with us and spoke a little German (certainly more than I could), so we were soon getting on fine and the rest of the first night passed off unremarkably.

Around lunchtime on the next day, the first border crossing, into Belarus, was upon us. We hadn't been looking forward to this moment at all, as along with the various other visas we needed for Russia and China, were transit visas to get us through Belarus. After entrusting this to an agency in London, whose mantra to our concerns when time was becoming tight was 'don't worry about it', our passports were returned to us the day before we left Britain with the wrong date on the transit visas! The kind gentleman from the agency refuted any responsibility for this and suggested that we sorted the problem out ourselves!

We'd decided on the 'do nothing approach', to take our chances and play dumb when we got to the border. However, this didn't seem such a good idea when the frontier guard took our passports away into an archetypal grey concrete communist bloc and hadn't returned with them when it looked like the train was being made ready to leave. Luda and the carriage attendant (are they called providechics?) were doing their best to help us and see what was happening but we could see no other outcome than being told to leave the train and a return to Warsaw to get new visas.

Eventually, the guard returned and showed us the dates on the transit visas. In a dramatic change of plan, we showed him the correctly dated Russian visas, shrugged our shoulders, muttered that there had been a mistake and threw ourselves at his mercy. After a few seconds consideration, he smiled, handed us our passports back and wished us 'Good luck'! I've almost never been so relieved.

Shortly after this, our peace was disturbed by a Russian army officer, Clava, who would be our new carriage mate through to St. Petersburg. Luda was far from happy about this but had no influence in the matter. Clava was a standard Russian bear of a man, larger than life and extravagantly generous with the slightly rotting provisions that he brought! He also brought two plastic bottles full of vodka with him for the trip, which he was just as keen to share.

What I remember of that evening is hazy but Catherine has filled in some of the spaces. The oft repeated warnings against drinking home-made vodka, the threat of blindness or worse was completely ignored as the bottles began to empty; toasts were drunk, we persuaded Clava that 'chocolate!' was a popular English toast; we tried to drag the providechic in to join us; continued the toasting when boiling hot glasses of coffee arrived, narrowly avoiding a scalding; I demanded Luda's and Clava's e-mail address from them, despite their insistence that they didn't have one; waking up with my trousers immaculately folded over the bed rail!

I don't know if I'd been sick but Clava had taken me to the toilet at the end of our party. Catherine, who'd very sensibly decided that one of us needed to remain somewhere in the vicinity of sober, knocked on the door to make sure nothing untoward was going on! A similar blank spell befell an old work colleague who, when waking up from a drunken stupor in a strange man's house in Amsterdam, was able to vouchsafe to us that he hadn't been breached while he'd been out of the game! Fortunately, I am in a position to make the same assurance.

Miraculously, I felt pretty good the next morning, which was just as well as we were now approaching the Russian border and would soon be in St.Petersburg. The border crossing went without hitch and we reached our destination. Clava insisted that his relatives, who were collecting him from the station, would drive us to our hotel. Luda told us to be very careful, while the providechic said they were good men. As we didn't have any Roubles or any idea how to get there under our own steam, it seemed rude to refuse.

Clava and his two leather coated relatives ushered us into a large black sedan and away we went, accompanied by ear splitting techno. The railway station and the hotel must have been on opposite sides of the city, as the trip took forever. We seemed to cross the same river at least a dozen times and one street merged seamlessly into another; we could have been anywhere. I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't a little worried about where we were going but we eventually arrived and, with much bear hugging and other traditional farewells, they were off.

What a welcome to Russia!

Twitchy?

2009-03-22T10:28:00.003Z

Fulham 2 - 0 Manchester United

My only thoughts on this are (to the tune of Bobby Shafto):

Super, Super Dan
Super, Super Dan
Super, Super Dan
Super Danny Murphy!

Yesterday's penalty reinforced his reputation as one of the greats at the art. Apparently, it's all down to mental attitude and I remember reading something a few years ago, when he was still at Liverpool, that he steps up to take a penalty like he's taking a stroll down to the paper shop!

My real reason for posting on Manchester United for the second week running, was that the first one prompted a comment, which now looks eerily prophetic! Check it out.

To finish with, and to show that I have no personal vendetta against Manchester, we were there on Friday and I can report that the city is justly famous for curry if not football. The Al-Faisal Tandoori is a cafe in the back streets of The Northern Quarter; we walked past it at lunchtime and returned early in the evening to try it out. Both of our meals were fantastic, worth the trip in itself.

Careful What You Wish For

2009-03-20T09:22:00.000Z

My reputation for gluttony has been bolstered yet again recently.

Whilst on business in Berlin, the light lunch that Ed was expecting turned out to be mash, sauerkraut and a pork hock which was about the size of small whale. In an e-mail to us a few days later, he told us that he'd wished I'd been there to help polish off this gargantuan feast! After briefly feeling affronted at this totally unwarranted attack on my lack of restraint, I mused that he might have given me a call at the time; I could have easily made it over there by closing time!

This reminds me of a similar incident when we were in Warsaw a few years ago. What seemed like a sensible way to spend half an hour, turned into a rollercoaster of emotions: embarrassment and fear through to vengeance and relief.

We were wasting time in the evening, waiting for our train to St. Petersburg (as one does), when we noticed an Irish pub. We marched in, sat down and ordered two large Guinnesses from the waitress. Replacing the word 'Guinness' with whatever variety of beer is on sale is normally sufficient for the Englishman abroad, but not on this occasion. As the waitress returned, we realised that we were about to become the cabaret, our turn being the ritual humiliation of the unwitting tourist. We should have noticed the evil glint in her eye as she left us: two more lambs to the slaughter.

What arrived at our table were two frankly colossal vats of Guinness and not of the highest quality either! The glasses must have contained at least two pints each; I'd like to say that Catherine could hardly pick hers up but that implies that I was doing better than she was. Other customers hid smirks behind their hands as they sipped their delicate little pints!

It then occurred to us that we might not be in a position to pay for this ocean of 'orrible Guinness. We were leaving the country in a couple of hours and had been diligently spending what zlotys we had left all afternoon. After a brief spell of reassuring ourselves that we might just be OK, followed by the ridiculous idea of doing a runner (along with full-to-busting backpacks), reality kicked in and I went in search of a cash machine.

On my return with the smallest amount of cash that I thought would cover the bill, Catherine informed me that the waitress had been getting a bit twitchy ever since I left, a few minutes earlier. Anyway, we got ready to leave and Catherine went to the toilet, leaving me to settle up. This whole European thing of being served at the table has never sat comfortably with me, so I lugged two backpacks to the bar and waited to pay.

At this point, the payoff for our mildly traumatic time in this fine establishment made it all kind of worthwhile. Catherine returned and stood by me at the bar, just as the waitress came back in and noticed that we were gone. The look on her face combined panic and anger, as her head spun round looking for us. After a dash to the door to see if she could catch us, she noticed us and adopted a casual 'I knew you were there all the time' air. Schadenfreude!

The wait at Warsaw's main station and the trip through Poland, Belarus, Russia and onto our hotel in St. Petersburg allowed us to witness eastern European state apparatus (both good and bad), extreme generosity, disgraceful acts of drunkenness and a vaguely menacing car journey. I'll leave all of this for another day; I bet you can't wait.

To finish off where we came in, Ed brought us back a couple of bottles of beer from Berlin on his return. One of them, Berliner Kindl, can only be described as a Martian green fluid. Astonishing, alarming even, though it was, it didn't go to waste. An acquired taste perhaps?

That's Got to Hurt......

2009-03-14T17:43:00.002Z

Manchester United 1 - Liverpool 4

Long trip home, back to The Smoke, tonight then.

Can we play you every week?

Takeaway Heaven

2009-02-27T16:59:00.000Z

After a couple of truly spirit sapping trips to local chip shops, where all you seem to get served is reheated chips and curious fish of doubtful parentage, it's a real treat to be able to report that fine frying is alive and well in some areas.

The Village Chippy in Eccleston, near Chorley, is one of those specialist chip shops that doesn't stray too far from the core of our national dish but, then again, it doesn't need to. We happened upon it by chance, the chippy in Croston, where we were stopping for the night, was closed for a couple of weeks, so we had to spread our net a little further and what good fortune that we did! The fish of the day was haddock, which will always get my vote, and I've rarely tasted better; the chips were just right too.

Certainly worth stopping off if you're in the area around lunchtime or early evening, I predict a return visit there for us in the near future.

It's What Your Left Arm's For

2009-02-13T18:47:00.000Z

In a belated attempt to gain some strength in my arms, the left one at least, I spend a good part of my trip to and from work channel hopping on the radio. No fancy steering wheel mounted controls for me, so my poor weedy arm sometimes start to cramp up by the time I find a couple of minutes of respite in amongst the usual drivetime dross.

What a delight then, when you get a few songs worth listening to, concertinaed together like buses. Last night saw me home with Oasis's 'Whatever', 'Knowing Me Knowing You' and 'That's Way I Like It'. This rich vein was carried into this morning with Blur's 'Song 2', before we hit the mother lode with The Jacksons colossal 'Can You Feel It'; I defy anyone not to turn the radio up when it comes on. At the end of it, the idiot DJ piped up that the song 'goes on a bit at the end', probably as justification for talking all over it, but admitted that it was a 'good song' nonetheless. Talk about being damned with faint praise! Later on, there was The Killers 'Human', which seems to be one of those that everyone likes, and that was about it.

I wonder if the technology exists where the radio has a setting to scan for music as soon as a lone voice interrupts. This would have the dual purpose of blanking out DJs and cutting off songs with ridiculous talking bits in the middle. I think I'd pay a bit extra for that. After that, maybe there could be some sort of filter that slings out songs that nobody likes! I know everyone has different tastes but we all know which songs I'm talking about here. Whaddya mean 'see those above'?!

A propos of not very much, I'm reading John Peel's autobiography, Margrave Of The Marshes, at the moment and enjoying it very much. I probably wouldn't say anything different from the numerous reviews already out there, but his death caused me one of two (as far as I can remember) instances of in-work tears during my career, as I like to refer to it when I want to give myself a good laugh. Just a droplet or two, you understand, nothing too disgraceful.

The same cannot be said, unfortunately, about the first occasion. In my defence, this was many years ago and revolved around the news of the death of a dog. Mercifully, it was only witnessed by one person, who had the grace to leave me in peace and never mention the matter again. At this point, and to quash any misconception that I’m some sort of serial cry baby, I’d like to make it clear that I don’t think it does anyone any favours to blub in work and usually try to avoid it!

Thank goodness we’ve cleared that up. Can anyone remember what 'It's what your right arm's for' was advertising?

Wise Words

2009-01-07T23:24:00.000Z

Mugs away - an invite by one player to a potentially inferior opponent to start a game of darts (for example).

I think I'd heard this years ago but George brought it back during a particularly hard fought session of Round the Clock, while we were in Edinburgh last week.

Pop Quiz

2009-01-06T21:00:00.002Z

Go on, be honest now. Prior to the recent furore on the merits of 'Hallelujah' by Alexandra Burke, had you: heard any other versions of the song; known of the song during its twenty odd year's existence; heard of Jeff Buckley; been interested in his work; ever knowingly listened to any Leonard Cohen?

My score in that little quiz of my own making was two but I'm not particularly celebrating my ignorance here. I usually have a decent knowledge of music and imagine that most people would score pretty low as well. Why then has an obscure song by a half forgotten songwriter (beloved mainly by the very snootiest echelons of the condescenti), once covered by a relatively unknown, now deceased, singer and liked by several, been taken up as a torch in the battle against manufactured pop?

Not that there's anything wrong with that; Burke's rendering of 'Hallelujah' is a typically accurate warble by numbers, often mistaken for singing in some quarters, and should be forcibly suppressed! Even so, I actually feel a little sorry for her; all she's done is win a competition and sung what she was told to sing. Then again, she's been number one for three weeks and is now famous throughout the land, so I'm sure she can live without anyone's pity.

Rick Astley was the target a few years ago in a similar, much more populist uprising against the corporate machine, when he released 'When I Fall in Love' around Christmastime. I can't remember whether Nat King Cole's version beat his to the top but that's by the by. This year's army seems to have been drummed up through web forums.

As always in these cases, mainly to conform to another internet archetype, I suspect foul play. There are only winners here; Burke, Cohen, Buckley's estate, the producers of The X Factor, various record companies (are they still called that!) and the press all come to mind. However, a conspiracy between the music industry, the media and some shadowy battalion of on-line real music lovers is difficult to attach too much credence to. I makes you think though.

As you can see from this and other recent posts, The X Factor has been playing on my mind far too much and I should try to get out more.

Obituary

2008-12-15T23:49:00.001Z

This might come over as a bit snobbish and out of proportion. Bear with me though; I've had a terrible shock.

A few months ago, I praised an Oldham radio station, The Revolution, for brightening up dull trips to Hull. They had a 'we only play the music we want to play' approach and it was a blessed relief from the usual dross. A few weeks ago, however, during another drive over to the east coast, I noticed that it seemed a bit mainstream but thought no more of it at the time. Tuning in again on-line last Saturday and it still wasn't up to much.

I noticed that the website looked different too; photos of the presenters had been replaced by an advert for Steve Penk, of all people. Then I remembered being dismayed at hearing a jingle for his breakfast show when I last tuned in. I now discover that he has bought the station outright and relaunched it in his own image. Lest we forget, Penk is responsible for all manner of rubbish, lowest common denominator broadcasting, from 'hilarious' wind-up calls to TV's Naughtiest Blunders.

A bit of research has revealed that The Revolution had lost much of its core audience to XFM Manchester but do we really need a celebrity DJ's vanity station, indistinguishable from countless other purveyors of such drivel, dedicated to the X Factorisation of music? Where is the justification for giving airtime to Leona Lewis covering that Snow Patrol song or Amy Winehouse murdering Valerie? (OK, I know that one's a different thing entirely; don't get me started on ironic versions of good songs, although I often wonder if Oasis would have been as big as they were had The Mike Flowers Pops not covered Wonderwall!)

This disgraceful act of vandalism took place in September, so it hasn't really impacted on my life that much. It may even turn out for the best, before it all descended into self parody, with presenters vying to outdo each other with obscure, tuneless stuff that nobody is bothered about any more; rather that than what replaced it though.

A sad loss

Wise Words

2008-12-02T19:31:00.000Z

'I could make neither moss nor sand of it.'

This was said to me in work today; similar to 'neither one thing nor the other' but much better.

Whatever Next

2008-11-22T12:44:00.002Z

At a little after ten this morning and at the age of forty four years, ten days and a few hours, I sent a text message!

Bell......

2008-11-17T19:21:00.001Z

...... or cycling a suit to Skipton

This is a true account of a remarkable journey that took place over six days last month. That we came through it practically unscathed is a testament both to determination and good luck. It seemed such a good idea: combine a wedding in The Dales with a cycling holiday on the canal. Little did we know a combination of underestimating the difficulty of the trip, poor diet and immoderate drinking would push us to our physical limits.

The preparations had gone well: we'd decided where we were going to stay, done a decent amount of training, read up on the subject, kitted ourselves out with the best Lidl and Wilkinsons had to offer (including a bell with 'I love my bike' on it!), performed some rudimentary bike maintenance. Perhaps the training had gone too well; we'd picked similar routes along canals and cycle routes, increasing the distance each time, to places like Haskayne, Frodsham, Lymm and the Sankey Valley path. We felt ready.

Our destination was a guest house in Skipton, which was too far to consider doing in a day, so we headed off early that first morning for our staging post in Burnley. The early miles were unremarkable, passing through Liverpool and West Lancashire and on towards Wigan. We passed the JJB stadium, where, years earlier, I had smugly started answering Catherine's question about the structure with 'Well, speaking as a graduate mechanical engineer......'! Shortly afterwards, a dog downed Catherine by dancing in front of her; no harm was done but was this an omen?

We were now heading towards lunchtime and the first doubts about how much we had in front of us surfaced. The canal does a funny switch just after Wigan Pier and we spent a frustrating quarter of an hour working out where it had gone! The locks up out of town slowed us down too; it was hard enough going anyway but the ridiculous gates along the way that only grudgingly allow bikes through made it worse. About halfway up, we had a chat with a couple of cheerful Geordies, who were heading down the locks in their narrow boat and had just cracked open their lunch, so the swift half in a pub at the top was very welcome.

Between there and The Top Lock at Wheelton, we made decent progress and seemed to be back on track. The Top Lock is a great pub, by the way. We found it by accident when living in Darwen: great location on the canalside, loads of real ale and curry as the staple of its bar menu. Could it be better? I foolishly estimated we'd be in Burnley in about two and a half hours; fortunately I kept this to myself.

Soon, we passed under the M65 into east Lancashire; inevitably events lurched downwards. On the way into Blackburn, Catherine was grumbled at by a man who seemed too intent on getting to The Navigation to pay any attention to his surroundings, let alone the sound of a bell. After the man veered into Catherine's path, we discovered that 'cut' means 'canal' in the local dialect, as the man claimed to have nearly fallen in it (he wasn't even close). If it's possible for bells to be rung sarcastically, Blackburn heard it for the next few miles as we made sure we didn't mow anyone down.

We had walked the canal from Burnley to Rishton several years ago and it has stuck in my memory as a bit of a slog, so why I thought the reverse journey would be simple is anyone's guess. The tortuous couple of miles around Church had put a flight of steps and a plank to cross a small morass in our way. Joining the TA was mentioned but rejected as being too leisurely. Then, just as the light was fading, along with our energy, I spotted a motorway sign; must be here, I thought. That wasn't so bad: hot bath, a couple of pints and an early night to recuperate.

As we got nearer, my spirits fell. We were still two junctions away from Burnley! A horse in a particularly muddy field looked like it was going to commit suicide, by jumping from a low wall into the bog, as a mark of solidarity. The light really was going now and concentration was lapsing. After a day of cycling, it was difficult to do much more than turn the pedals; the ability to avoid hazards was vanishing in a haze of tiredness. I nearly fell off and then did fall off, not noticing the combination of mud and rock underneath me.

By some hidden reserves left in me, I managed to keep both myself and the bike out of the canal. As is customary on these occasions, Catherine went into a fit of laughter! I'd first witnessed this reaction to my near death when we were on holiday in Italy. We were doing a coastal walk in the Cinque Terre, along a rugged, steep, quite narrow part of the path. I stood aside to let a couple pass but foolishly went for the open side of the track. The ground underneath gave way and I fell about a foot but managed to stay upright. As I stepped forward for safety, what I was standing on vanished down the cliff and I fell another three feet! Fortunately, there were roots and other things to grab onto, so I didn't go any further.

By this time, the man was shouting 'Give me your hand!' and his companion told him to get down onto his front, so that I didn't drag him over. This seemed a little dramatic but, in the circumstances, I thought it better not to comment. Anyway, I was pulled back onto solid ground. After much thanking and checking that everyone was OK, we noticed Catherine, a few feet away, doubled up in pleats of laughter! I digress, as Ronnie Corbett would say.

Back to the evening in question and, perhaps as a reaction to what had just happened, I suffered a twinge of cramp masquerading as a major health emergency. Catherine was up ahead, leaving me leaden footed in her Mercury heeled wake, and the sensation around my left shoulder was making me come over all dramatic; I was trying to decide if I wanted her to stay with me as my life ebbed slowly away or to send her away for help! I seem to have recovered.

It was now night time and we were pushing more than cycling, even with the lights on. To add insult to injury, a posse of three keen cyclists, kitted out with lamps on their heads and other such nonsense, flew by to do battle with the terrain that had so recently and emphatically defeated us. We finally made it to Burnley, just about in time for the adverts in Coronation Street. A couple of pints and some stodge to eat and we were ready to rejoin the fray.

The following day was a breeze; a mere twenty five miles over to Skipton. After taking in highlights such as the iconic Foulridge tunnel and the lovely, peaceful section high in the Pennines between Barnoldswick and Gargrave, we found ourselves on a bench outside the Co-op, eating chip balms. Gargrave was, of course, the scene of another (almost forgotten) personal disaster. We were staying there on holiday and, during a walk along the canal, we noticed a few people pushing for all they were worth against one of the lock gates. I thought they were trying to open it so a boat could go through, so went over to help. As it turned out, they were joggers, stretching their legs after their run! I'll get my coat then.

Skipton is only a few miles on from Gargrave and we were there by mid-afternoon. To counteract the health giving aspects of exercise, I went for the belly pork when we ate at The Narrow Boat that evening. None of that sliced stuff, mind; a big, fat slab of it, about as big as a paperback with the crackling on top! It was up there with the roast suckling pig in Puerto Pollensa and what a pig I made of myself!

The wedding was the following day. It had been a feat in itself, which the finest military minds would have quailed at, to get our clothes and shoes there intact but we did it. Plan B had been a dash around Skipton in the morning but that wasn't necessary and we both cut quite a dash! The wedding and reception went well, with talk of old friends, what a small world it is, relatives from Darwen and cheese sweats!

A day of rest in Skipton was declared on the Saturday and we took in all manner of cake shops, museums, charity shops, pubs, ate chips (cooked in lard!) and dodged the traffic. After a couple of days off the bikes, we were ready for the return trip.

On the way back to Burnley, we noticed an A4 sheet pinned to a post, with a message to cyclists from a concerned member of the fraternity. He (I assume it was a he) had taken it upon himself to publish a code of conduct, so that cyclists could continue to use the canal and live in peace with other canal users. The fact that it was aimed mainly at those sports cyclists who would hurtle past without even noticing it is a bit sad but it set me thinking about the different groups we'd met: the fishermen, dog walkers, ramblers, narrow boaters (what do you call the people who travel on the canal, rather than next to it?). The following day, we had a conversation with a dog walker and came to the conclusion that it takes all sorts and that some people want to compete for the limited space while others are happy to coexist with each other, even the fishermen!

The final day, Burnley to Liverpool, ended up being just as tough as the first. This was despite our confidence that we were fitter and knew the route, so would be better prepared. The pints in The Brun Lea and Ministry Of Ale the previous might have offset that though. The treacherous first few miles that had so nearly seen us off on the first evening were tough again, with wind and rain to deal with for the first time on the trip.

Nothing really noteworthy happened on the trip back, although we did some more yomping around a lock at Wheelton, where the towpath was being dug up. We chatted to a one-legged cyclist, near Parbold, who I don't think quite believed how far we'd travelled; he was doing better than us by the time we got there. Once again, night had fallen long before we got home, so we took to the roads for the last few miles to get home quicker. Door to door took us twelve hours.

To finish with and to continue the theme of making a fool of myself, we took the dog for a walk in Botanic Park the following evening, after it had been raining all afternoon. I was throwing a tennis ball for her to chase. After a few good throws from the path, I ventured out onto a football pitch and set up to hurl the ball a good long way. I took a couple of steps, drew my arm back and launched. At that moment, both of my feet flew backwards to counterbalance the forward movement of the ball! I flew forward so quickly that I didn't even have chance to put my arms out and did a perfect belly flop into mud soaked pitch!

Perhaps you can guess what Catherine was doing a second later.

Wise Words

2008-10-01T19:09:00.002+01:00

A quick reprise of one of Diary Of An Obo's early features, here are some Lancashire sayings that have made me laugh. Stop me if you've heard any of these before :-

Spun up - a mill term meaning you've run out of work.

Out of flunter - an obscure expression, similar to 'out of kilter', apparently specific to a few streets in Darwen.

If he had a plaster, he'd cut himself - someone who would get the value out of something, even of it's not worth the bother or even unpleasant.

Wise words indeed.