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  Mon 19th September 2011

Lytham Soul Weekender 2011

Modern Soul music, (none of my friends ever know what is meant by this, guessing at Motown or Northern, thus the example in the previous post) is one of the friendliest and most enjoyable things I have ever been involved with. The cherry on the cake--who may perhaps turn out to be called Cherry--that of meeting a woman who likes dancing as much as I do, remains to be set down, but that aside, the weekend left me with a resolution to do more of this.

Simon, who has laboured through the saga of this blog for several years, and shares both my musical tastes and those contained in a pint or six of real ale, generously made the long journey up from Berkshire to Lytham. Having punctuated the weekend with a couple of visits to some first rate pubs, it was a relief to wake up in the late afternoon after an indulgent doze, to find that he too had fallen asleep. I corrected my slack face and wide open gob, checked for dribble, and thought that it was probably a good job I hadn't met Cherry that particular afternoon.

My least successful conversation of the weekend involved going up to someone who I thought was a DJ and saying "Hello, are you on again?" He looked at me uncomprehendingly. "I'm not a DJ," he said eventually. "Oh, I'm sorry, I got you confused - it was just your shirt, your shirt looks similar to one a DJ who was on earlier was wearing." Every word I said made things worse as I fell unstoppably into idiocy.

Before I left I wanted to quickly pop into The Town House, a pub whose lack of character can't erase some vivid memories associated with it. I was a TEFL teacher in Lytham many years ago. I had a secret and I hope completely invisible crush on two of my 15-year-old pupils, Fabienne and Morgane, who beguiled me with their girlish Frenchness. Partly their Frenchness. They had other attractions as well, but as Wittgenstein said in his well-known meditation on TEFL teaching, "of that which we cannot speak, let us remain silent."

Hoping to revive something of Fabienne and Morgane's presence, I walked in and ordered a pint of the only real ale, Abbot Ale. I will repeat the barman's reply verbatim. "I'm sorry, that's a recently terminated transaction". He went on to offer me a piss-coloured pint of liquified agrochemicals and diglyceride esters. Even with the possibility of something of Fabienne and Morgane lingering in the air, that was too much Newspeak, and I left.

I took my daughter Jenny to the dentist today. She's going to have braces as her teeth are a bit of a jumble sale at the moment. Whilst waiting, she told me of a new way her friends have found of confusing chavs.

British readers will recall that a couple of years ago, young female members of the chemically oranged classes started bearing gaudy bags and T-shirts which advertised the girl's love for someone called "PB". It turned out to be a clothes and accessories brand which provides a slatternly way of dressing to be matched with false eyelashes and unattractively short skirts on girls too young to be sexualised, although I realise that a man who used to take two 15-year-old French girls he fancied down the pub might appear somewhat inconsistent in saying this.

Jenny said, "We ask them, 'do you love lead?'"


While individually it would have been a crime, 15 + 15 = 30. So as long as you can get them together, no harm, no foul.

Mon 19th September 2011 @ 22:50
Comment from: [Member]

Not sure the Cumulative Age Defence works any more after that famous orgy involving the Doncaster Brownie Pack in 1977.

Tue 20th September 2011 @ 07:59
Comment from: Jonathan [Visitor]

What, are you saying the chemically-oranged classes lack even a basic understanding of the ‘O’ level Chemistry syllabus? A sad indictment of modern-day comprehensive schooling if ever I heard one, and the sort of thing that would have Michael Gove and his cronies hotfooting it into town proclaiming the virtues of Free Schools. Let’s hope they’re not reading…

Fri 23rd September 2011 @ 23:20
Comment from: [Member]

I don’t think they do Chemistry any more. It’s been ousted by “Learning to Learn” and Smoking Cessation Programmes.

Sun 25th September 2011 @ 08:01

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person

M / 57 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.

There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek

Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner

La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes

Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity would be able to use the word again.
John Whale

One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011

The Comfort of Strangers

23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning

If your comment box looks like this, I'm afraid I sometimes can't be bothered with all that palarver just to leave a comment.

63 mago
Another Angry Voice
the asshat lounge
Clutter From The Gutter
Eryl Shields Ink
Exile on Pain Street
Fat Man On A Keyboard
gairnet provides: press of blll defunct, but retained for its quality
George Szirtes ditto
Guitars and Life
Infomaniac [NSFW]
The Joy of Bex
Laudator Temporis Acti
London's Singing Organ-Grinder
The Most Difficult Thing Ever
Strange Flowers
Trailer Park Refugee
Wonky Words

"Just sit still and listen" - woman to teenage girl at Elliott Carter weekend, London 2006

Bristol New Music
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Golden Pages for Musicologists
Lauren Redhead
The Rambler
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Sequenza 21
Sound and Music
Talking Musicology defunct, but retained

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