For as long as I can remember, they were friends. My father and Bill Ford both went to high school in Rushworth. This, in my own view, is a claim to fame available to far too few people. For the life of me I couldn’t tell you what classes they took or the score-line of any of the football matches they played. Those stories would surely have existed once, but have failed to survive the years. Instead, all we ever heard about was the different kinds of trouble they managed to make for themselves in their youth.
Continue reading “Vale Bill – Convenor of the Men’s Camp, Jaguar Enthusiast and Pig Wrangler”
I have always wanted to make a name for myself. Sadly, that name is Poncho Zenmaster Jones. Granted, it still needs a tonne of work to be much use, but you’ve got to start somewhere. Frankly, all the good names are already taken. William Shakespeare? Used up, it seems, by some sixteenth century scribbler. Leonardo da Vinci? Long gone – occupied by a Renaissance-era paint-spiller. For pity’s sake, even ‘Engelbert Humperdinck’ is owned by two people already. I can’t say I’m all that happy with Poncho Zenmaster Jones. It’s therefore likely that I will have to stick to the name I have and do the best I can. It is, of course, simply the latest failed attempt to become cool and hip.
Continue reading “The Tragically Hip – My Life In Acid Wash”
The world is full of instruments. There are surgical instruments, instruments in the cockpit of an aeroplane and instruments of the state. Then there is the oboe. I hesitate to call it a ‘musical’ instrument, because I never once succeeded in coaxing anything from it that sounded remotely like music. It was more akin to an instrument of destruction.
Continue reading “The Oboe and I”
For those of you who genuinely believe in your heart of hearts that Twitter is important and a legitimate part of our broader social fabric, look away now – for no earthly good can possibly come from reading any further. If you think that the ‘Twitterverse’ is greatest thing to happen since people stopped eating sliced bread, pack up your eyes and take them somewhere else without delay. Shoo! Shoo, I say to you! As for everybody else, huddle up, come close and listen – I think Twitter is a colossal waste of time that threatens to undo much of the good work evolution has done up until now. It’s stupid, it’s nasty and it’s narcissistic. It’s a medium that not so much pitches itself to the lowest common denominator as it does plunge headlong beyond zero and deep into negative territory.
Continue reading “Twitter: How I Loathe You”