Long Distance

I am writing this from the train, a train riding the unexpected green of the north of England through to my final destination of Glasgow. It is here that my band’s three week tour of England, and the occasional other, will kick off in about four hours time. I am apprehensive, touring is not my bag. My mother’s kindly parting words to me yesterday were “remain strong and calm, Matt“. I’ll try, Mum, I’ll try.

Today’s train ride up hasn’t been the greatest omen for the weeks to come, however. The seemingly endless fuck ups of Virgin Trains have meant that the relatively straightforward journey from my house to the gig in Scotland has in fact been a story of three chapters (London - Birmingham, Birmingham to Stafford, and Stafford through to Glasgow). While the second leg was uneventful, the first and third have provided (and are still providing) much food for thought. In London I set next to a man who was to be condemned. An overheard phone call revealed to all in close attendance that this crammed train ride was to be his last, at least until 2012 (tomorrow’s sentencing, for god knows what, was likely to be four years behind bars, “at best“, he said). The more northerly I travel, however, the lighter things seem to get, and I now seem to be stuck on the same carriage as the set up for a children’s TV show, with cameras and zealously camp presenter included. Perhaps I should be worried about crossing the border.

The reason I am travelling today (the other feller’s having made the trip already) is because yesterday I graduated with an Mphil in Divinity from the University of Cambridge. Two degrees Edmonds, that’s right… The day was brilliant, the weather shining like the faces of all those who have ever attended these unashamedly happy occasions. Specific to Cambridge’s ceremony is the over over-dressing, the processing to the senate house to hold the hand of an old drunk who speaks Latin and doffs his cap to all and sundry, the bizarre spectacle of a sort-of fervent kneeling on behalf of the graduate before a man or woman dressed in Henry 8th’s hunting apparel, and the giving out and receiving of a blessing in the name of the Trinitarian formula with all the trimmings. All this for nine and a half months reading about Ghandi and his Christian friends. Not bad.

I’m getting into my flow now, and while I’m switched on and writing I should and can mention that the band did another Radio One session at the also soon-to-be-condemned Maida Vale studios last week. It was a session for the oily voiced Steve Lamacq (Lamo to his producers) and though this time no one was allowed in to cheer us on, the session went well and was enjoyable. One oddity must be mentioned, however, namely the head engineer’s slightly disturbing small talk. His raison d’etre, it seems, is not in the recording of some of the greatest musicians past and present in one of the greatest studios ever built, but rather in the evangelisation of the perils of milk. He didn‘t stop there, no, he also insisted that as he could accurately guess what blood type each of us were, and as certain blood types should not be drinking milk in any shape or form, he could also accurately tell us whether we were wrong to be going anywhere near the white posion - semi or fully skimmed. My blood type, he opined, HAD to be A - He got this from my mangled responses to his own less than stringent personality test, which consisted of questions like “Are you an extrovert or an introvert” and my answers of “sort of…well, either” - and surprisingly, after his first diagnosing, the second followed: I should stay away from Cow juice. I consider myself warned….

Well the train is coming nearer to its inevitable end, and so I must unplug my computer and get to the taxi rank, but I just wanted to say quickly that I have finally heard the band’s album finished, mastered, polished and all of that stuff. It is really special, not just to me but objectively, I think. It works as a record, and I am really excited about people hearing it. Listening to it was an odd dead of night experience; emotional, joyful, sometimes sour, but never confusing. It is the closing of a chapter, and I am pleased to have perceived that as clearly as I did when I listened to it.

News from tour and some actual proper writing soon.

Over and Out.

Some Of My Favourite Crisps (For Future Reference).

Barbeque Hula Hoops
Salt and Vinegar Discos
Lamb and Mint Walkers Sensations
Ready Salted Walkers
Skips
Salt and Vingar Walkers
Flaming Hot Monster Munch
Kettle Chips (If they count)
Sweet Chilli Walkers Sensations
Quavers
Cheese and Onion Squares
Those ones in Aldi which have far too much salt on.
Space Invaders/Tangy Toms

The Art Of The Mimic

I went to see 'The Art of Laughter With Jos Houben' at the South Bank Centre today. As my laziness knows no bounds I will, instead of writing it up, quote from http://www2.warwick.ac.uk/fac/cross_fac/capital/about/masterclasses/jos/.
So, Adam Alston, a student present at the Masterclass, describes it thus: It’s difficult to put your finger on precisely what format this wonderful event adopted. I’d venture to propose it was a lecture on the art of slapstick comedy with live performance to inform the content. ‘Inform’ perhaps conjures the wrong essence of the piece: it sounds too constricting or bland. This was anything but. Entertaining, amusing, enlightening and great fun would be terms far more apt. Houben began by analysing, in detail, the human body and its idiosyncrasies. Something common to every performer, spectator and human being is the body: it’s a universal trait. Houben studies how minor adjustments to its structure can produce comic results. An example is the way that the body automatically adjusts to a movement by providing a counter movement to maintain balance. But what happens if the counter movement is eliminated? We fall. And the spectator falls with you. The result: comedy.

I concur. Houben's lecture was brilliant. A lot of what he said was illuminating, and not only for comedy performance. His comments on the body and our obsession with verticality, that is our association of dignity with verticality (of not falling over, of standing up straight, of our use of phrases like 'climbing the social ladder', of building buildings taller the next) was particularly interesting for me in light of my work with people with disabilities. I hope that I will save some headspace in the next few days to think about whether this obsession with uprightness is a core factor in the ubiquity of social prejudice against those whose usual state of being/meeting is sitting down.

Worryingly though, at the same time as thinking this rather preachy piece, I was also acting as an accessory to a rather disturbing case of disability fraud. Donal, my friend and Jos Houben fan, couldn't get a ticket for the event. He looked on the website and it had said it was sold out. However, there were still spaces left for wheelchair users and carers. As no one else had booked them up, Donal, being Donal, strangely took the option of paying to get his leg and arm put in plaster (sum of £40) so that he could pretend to have broken his appendages in a freak skiing accident necessitating the use of a wheelchair (borrowed), thus allowing him into the show. Things went to plan, sort of. You see the electronic ramp at the Southbank Centre didn't work, and so the staff stood face to face with Donal apologetic and guilt ridden, enough to make those of us in the know squirm with similar apology and guilt.... K A R M A..... I personally wanted Donal to stage a miraculous recovery towards the third quarter of Houben's performance, leaving the chair for dead as he tangoed up and down the aisle, but wisely he sat there and kept nervously quiet. Donal enjoyed the talk, he said later, although perhaps not enough to warrant the effort and immorality of the day's rouse.

Finally I thought it would be nice to mention that I saw my friend Tom Ross today and his new girlfriend. She is Italian but as they met in Jordan (where Tom has been living for the past few years), their Lingua Franca is a formal variant of Arabic. Very sweet, if odd.

Oh yes and I am acknowledged for some slight research I did for my friend John Schad's book - Someone called Derrida: An Oxford Mystery. Its my second book acknowledgment, and I am proud and thankful. The book (which I am reading at the moment) is unbelivably good. Non-linear, inventive and worthwhile. Perhaps I'll post on it later.

I go on tour soon for three weeks. I hope it will be fun, fun, fun. Its a headline one, so no excuses.