Technology moves on with inexorable speed and nowhere more so than in flight and warfare. As some will know my dad, always known as Taff, was a pilot in the RAF during the period when the Cold War threatened to warm up.

When he was very old a few years ago, (but very compos mentis) I sat down with him to talk through his flying days. He was extremely accurate on places, dates and times and the facts that I could verify through his logbooks and newspaper reports always checked out.

He died not too long after these conversations and I’m struck by how incredibly …well ‘quaint’ is the wrong word, but how his flying days feel most definitely like they have now long gone, never to return.

He flew in the RAF from 1952 to 1974 then in civilian aircraft for ​a further twelve years. He flew the English Electric Canberra during the Suez crisis and then moved to Vulcans from 58 to 64 - the height of the Cold War. After that he flew Comets and the VC10.

The minutiae of being an operational pilot, chosen for what would have certainly been a suicide mission in the early 60’s, still fascinates me and brings me up short. Anyway I’ve stitched together some of his conversations from the notes I took….. I’ve left out most of the technical stuff which he would include for me. It was a compliment, but most of the time I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about!

But here’s the other stuff. Hope it’s of interest. Don’t be put off by the slightly techy beginning - it’s necessary

​Gareth: So, listen, I’ve been wondering about the Canberra, I know the Vulcan was very maneuverable, was the Canberra too?

​Taff: Oh yes it was a very good aircraft, but it could bite you. It had a problem with its gravity feed fuel pumps, which could starve the engines. I remember Jack (Jack Tallis – Dad’s Navigator throughout his time on the 3-man Canberra) and I were acting as targets for fighters to practice attack runs. Sometimes we were allowed to take evasive action. One time we were over the North Sea to the north of the Thames estuary, we watched a fighter closing in behind us and then I really pulled as hard a turn as I could. The pumps couldn’t manage the 'g' force and both engines flamed out! (Basically, they died).

​Gareth: What did you do?

​Taff: Well, it all went very quiet, which was extremely disconcerting! We were quite high about 25 to 30,000 feet, and the Canberra had huge wings so it could glide well. I still had control of the surfaces (Flaps etc.) so we started to glide back towards Upwood (their home station in Cambridgeshire).

​Gareth: Couldn’t you just restart the engines?

​

 Taff: Yes, but I didn’t want to too early because the generators might only give you one chance and I wanted to be low enough to ensure there was plenty of oxygen for that start.  So, I waited as the plane lost plenty of height.

​Gareth: How low did you let it go?

​Taff: I don’t remember. It would have been under 10 thousand…. Jack had identified a couple of alternate airfields for us to attempt to reach, but when I hit the start buttons the engines sparked up no problem……

​Gareth: That must have been a big moment!

​Taff: Yes, but Jack would have got me into somewhere even if they hadn’t. Forced landings used to happen quite a lot then. The key thing was not to do them in the North Sea!

Side note: Post-war aircrew were taken into the North sea on a launch and thrown into the sea with a life raft. They would then be left to get on with it for several hours before being rescued. It was something Dad hated with a passion!

​

​(The UK in a classic case of imperial overreach, decided to invade the Suez canal area after Col Nasser of Egypt nationalised it. America swiftly put a stop to things.)

Gareth: Do you remember much about Suez? It was the only time you ever actually got shot at I guess.

​Taff: Oh yes, but that was mainly because the powers that be decided we should fly straight and level at 25,000 feet for the bomb run, which made us a nice target. I could see the anti-aircraft fire puffs of smoke around us, most were pretty inaccurate though. At first it was strange to even see the smoke and identify it as anti-aircraft explosions.

​Gareth: So how many sorties did you do?

​Taff: Three I think. (His logbook shows the three in early November ’56)

​​​Gareth: Anyway, you moved to Vulcans not long after that didn’t you. What did you think about carrying Yellow Sun? (This was a high yield nuclear weapon. It had a flat front. Black RAF humour called it “The bucket of sunshine”)

​Taff: In what way?

​Gareth: Well - could you actually have dropped it?

​Taff: I could, yes. I had thought about it quite a lot when I got transferred to the Vulcan. In Suez one bloke on our squadron pulled up the landing gear on the runway as a protest before the first mission. I thought that was ridiculous. What did he think the deal was… he could pick and choose when to do as he was ordered?  

Anyway, on the Vulcan there was more at stake…..I decided that I would definitely drop the bomb if the UK had been attacked. I might have had some hesitation if we had attacked first, but the whole idea was that the Russians knew that if they invaded West Germany using conventional weapons we wouldn’t have been able to hold them. We would have pulled the trigger at that point. It made it a no-win game for everybody. It worked too.

At Waddington the thing was that even if we had managed to get the planes off the ground, we would have had nothing left to come back to anyway. So, that made up my mind.

Subsequently Dad was proved to be spot on in his assessment in terms of damage in the UK at least. After the Cold War ended millions of classified Soviet documents were released, including one listing UK targets for Soviet missiles. Near the top of the list with two missiles aimed at the runway, was RAF Waddington, our station. Our married quarters were less than a mile away from the planned impact point.

​​Gareth: Were you very worried during the Cuban missile crisis?

​Taff: No, not really and now I'm not quite sure why! We got down to 5 minutes readiness at one point, which meant we were in the aircraft ready to go….. I was much more worried personally when Kennedy was assassinated. I thought he was a really good, strong, steadying force. There was a period of time when there was a suggestion the Russians may have done it. I seem to recall spending some extra time on QRA then and worrying that Mum wouldn’t know what was happening.

​(QRA or Quick Reaction Alert was the plan to get as many aircraft as possible into the air before any surprise Russian attack hit the UK. This meant within the 4-minute window before launched missiles landed on British soil. It involved pilots sitting in caravans next to their planes, or in them in times of great tension).

​Gareth: So anyway, what’s this thing I’ve read about eye patches for Vulcan pilots?

​Taff: Yes, my co-pilot and I had an eye patch each. We’d fly on instruments most of the way there, with anti-flash curtains pulled down on all of the windows. As we neared the point of bomb release one of us would pull up their curtain to be able see out ahead. It was thought though that there would be nuclear explosions all around us and any of the flashes from those would permanently blind us, so we wore an eye patch. When we were blind in one eye, we’d swap the patch over to the blind eye. When we had seen two explosions we’d pass command to the other pilot, who’d do the same. It meant we had four chances to deliver the bomb.

​Gareth: Jeeesus!…..

​Taff: (Smiling) Well yes. You see, we weren’t mucking about….

​Gareth: Yes…..So, tell me something else. I looked up the Vulcan range recently and it was about 2,500 miles. Moscow …

​Taff: Mine was one of the better rated crews so our target was always Moscow. I was never targeted anywhere else.

​Gareth: …. right, but Moscow is 1,500 miles from Waddington.

​Taff: Yes

​Gareth: So, doing the sums, you could get there, but you couldn’t get back!

​Taff: Well yes that’s true, but don’t forget that we would have had nothing left to come back to.

​Gareth: So, what were your instructions after you’d dropped your bomb?

​Taff: We didn’t have any! We could make it up. It wasn’t something we talked about…My plan was to head south putting on as much height as I could. If we were lucky, we might reach the Med or Turkey.

​Gareth: Crikey. (Pause)

 Gareth: So why did you get sent to Borneo in ’64?

​The UK was involved in a “Police Action” against rebels in Northern Borneo. It involved extensive operations by Ghurkhas and SAS, supported by RAF helicopters and transports.

​Taff: They needed a pilot on the ground to run the air support operations and I was just finishing my second Vulcan tour.

​Gareth:  So, they spent millions training you to fly bombers and then stuck you in the jungle directing Whirlwind helicopters!

​Taff: Yes. Never make the mistake of thinking the RAF was entirely logical!

​Gareth: You got a cancerous ulcer on your face quite early on…...

​Taff: Yes, Mum wasn’t impressed at all. I was "medevacked" out. I was supposed to be there for a year, but only ended up doing 5 months, then back to Comets at Lyneham and then ‘10s at Brize (Vickers VC10 at RAF Brize Norton)

​Gareth: Must have been odd flying a civilian airliner after those bombers?

​Taff: Yes, but the ‘10 in RAF spec was a lovely aircraft. It had a standard body but the uprated engines from the larger Super VC10. We used to do climbs out of foreign airfields that were not far off the Vulcan’s. But only when there was no one down the back!

​Gareth: Yes, that might have been a bit of a surprising take off for passengers. Do you remember when you flew through a thunderstorm in a VC10 that knocked the front of the nose off?

​Taff: Yes, I do. it was a shame but we just couldn’t get out of the way. Big bang and the Radome on the front stoved in. We lost most of the instruments and we had to get a fighter up to escort us back to Brize calling out airspeed and so forth.

​(A report on this incident is below. It’s terrible quality, but shows the damage to the front of the VC10)

​ 

Gareth: I’m always interested about your only accident, if that’s the right thing to call it, right at the end of your career when you were flying exec jets for Shell out of Heathrow. Your HS125 even made the papers!

​Taff: Yes, it was just a bit of fun really. We’d taken off from Heathrow for Amsterdam but when we got there the port landing wheel wouldn’t descend. We did all of the usual tricks to try and shake it down. I even bounced the plane off its good wheel on the runway to shake it loose. Finally, I decided that if I had to do something potentially hairy I’d rather do it back at Heathrow, so I set off back. It also burned off some more fuel. When we had stooged around for a bit, and were almost empty, Heathrow decided we’d use a taxiway to land, rather than the runway, to avoid disrupting the airport. I didn’t mind. So, I landed the plane very gently and kept the wing off the ground for as long as possible. Eventually it hit, but didn’t do much damage.

​Gareth: The plane looks a bit sorry for itself in the pictures. Did they give you a gong (a medal in RAF slang) or anything?

​Taff: No. I got a nice letter from the Chairman of Shell instead, but that was OK. It was what I was there for. The plane was OK, it was scraped, but nothing too bad. …….

​I’ve extracted this article from a website I put together for my Dad after he died. It has more tales from his unusual life it’s at www.taffwilliams.com. It tells how a farm labourer from South Wales ended up piloting the most sophisticated aircraft of the mid-20th Century

One huge negative arising from the wealth of online content is the shortening of our attention spans (alright my attention span). I find these days after a lifetime of reading books, that I now frequently can’t seem to get past any single page where my interest dips even slightly. This sets the bar absurdly high for any book, be it fact or fiction. So it’s a testament to the authors below that I have read and enjoyed (nearly) all of these this year.

Don’t worry about the ‘nearly’ we’ll come to that.

Here then are 10 books that have held me rapt this year, like days of yore. Some are old favourites and others are new, but all of them (bar one) have been so immersive I’ve managed to leave my phone in my pocket for whole minutes at a time. First though, a warning. In order to keep you on your toes they jump about a bit, topic-wise!

1)      Bomber                              Len Deighton.

A long-standing favourite, this novel continues to blow me away every time I reread it. Telling the tale of a fictional air raid on Germany from multiple perspectives, I can’t think of a book that better highlights the horror, the terror, the dumb luck involved in warfare. It’s told through people whose existence you completely believe in and whose survival you are desperately rooting for, sometimes in vain.

A great page-turner it would be in my list all-time top 10 novels and near the top.

2)      Unreliable Memoirs    Clive James

A few months ago, I was horrified to realise that somehow my copy of Unreliable Memoirs had disappeared. It was the work of a moment to rectify that and it gave me an excuse to reread it when Amazon did its thing the next day.

I was quite cross when James’s public image became primarily about his TV work. I thought he was a much better writer than presenter, and what a great first book this is. It contains some of the funniest writing in the English language, while at the same time managing to be moving and beautiful.

Sitting here now I recall at least three episodes that make me laugh just thinking about them. If you haven’t read it for a while you are in for a treat.

3)      The 100 Year Life           Lynda Gratton and Andrew Scott

Bearing in mind I’ve mentioned this book already in these pieces you won’t be surprised to see it in this list. This book had a seismic effect on me when I first read it a couple of years ago. It contains nothing less than a personal roadmap for the future for all of us, based around the undeniable fact that life expectancy for us, and even more so for our children is now pushing three figures.

It starts with the untenability of the current three stages (Learn, Earn, Do nothing) of our approach to life and proposes alternatives. Worth a read? It was powerful enough that it literally made me change my approach to retirement so I think so, yes!

4)      Sweet Dreams                Michael Frayn

Frayn likes to try and answer the big questions and in this delightful little novel he explores the biggest one of all.

Starting from an event that usually signifies the end of a life, he wonders what happens next and especially addresses that nagging question that’s as old as time ….

“If we are supposed to get an eternity in the afterlife isn’t it all going to get a bit… well… dull?”

The tale unwinds quickly. It’s hilariously funny and perceptive and mildly comforting. I can’t think a better way to spend an hour or two than immersing yourself in the liberal afterlife.

5)      Japanese Maple and Prufrock

Off piste slightly for two poems about age and dying! I’m not a massive poetry fan (or an aging fan either for that matter) but these are two that deserve attention and I’ve read them again this year.

We are back with Clive James for Japanese Maple, from his small book of poems Sentenced to Life. When he knew he was dying in 2014 he didn’t want to start another novel, fearing that it may remain unfinished, instead he concentrated on poetry, including these magnificent short poems. Japanese Maple especially garnered worldwide praise.

Then on to Prufrock.

T.S. Eliot has become almost a cliché these days, appearing mainly on exam syllabuses, but he continues to have a big impact on this old schoolboy. The Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock especially. The opening gives it to you straight between the eyes:

Let us go then you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Pow! So not just another moon/june poem eh!

It also contains possibly the saddest couplet I know:

I have heard the mermaids singing each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

Go on - pour yourself a stiff one and give it another read

6) Experience Martin Amis

I was considering writing a piece on the best memoirs of modern times, and I was trying to decide if this is the one was the winner, but then I reread it and decided that it was pointless to create a ranking system. There’s no way this or Unreliable Memoirs could be a runner-up.

Like his father, it seems that Martin Amis was a tricky character, but by gum he could turn a phrase.

The memoir is a firework display of images, memories and reflections. It is excellent on the impact of growing up in the long shadow cast by another great author, Kingsley. In addition, there’s a further unsettling theme running through it, created by the appalling fact that one of his cousins was a victim of Fred West in Gloucester. He tells Lucy Partington’s tale alongside his own, to devastating effect.

7) The Long Tail Chris Anderson

This book when it first came out encapsulated how our move into the digital age created enormous new markets and decimated others at a stroke. When the cost of production and storage moves close to zero there is no reason for firms not to hoover up the infinitesimal sales right at the far end of the demand curve.

In my own case it means that I am now deeply affronted by the fact for example that online vendors don’t have the latest album by The Bevis Frond. It feels like a deliberate decision, because there are no longer any stocking costs associated with it.

Its an interesting paradox though, that even now we still love a physical book or an LP. We’ve discovered that consuming the digital element alone does not give us quite the same frisson as turning a physical page or holding an album cover.

8) Going Infinite Michael Lewis

I finished this one last week. Michael Lewis tells tales of the modern world better than anybody, rendering comprehensible elements of life that are usually little more than gibberish to the rest of us when stumbled across in the papers.

This one is about Sam Bankman-Fried. He started a crypto currency exchange that in the space of a couple of years made him the wealthiest person under 30 in the world. Then overnight it fell down around his ears. And put him in gaol.

Lewis’s genius is to recognise that the story here is not how B-F did it and what the crypto exchange was, but more how such a decidedly strange person had such a huge impact. Obviously sitting on the autistic spectrum, his undoubted mathematical genius, when coupled with massive digital trading opportunities, made him uniquely dangerous. But it leaves open the question as to whether he actually intended to break any laws at all.

It’s compulsive reading.

9) I’m OK you’re OK Thomas Harris

This is a hell of a book if like me, you go through life being more than slightly perplexed by the behaviour of your fellow humans. It’s a great introduction to the world of the relationship approach called Transactional Analysis and when I was recommended it on a course a couple of decades ago (See last week’s article!) it gave me more “Oh, now I see!” moments than anything else I can remember.

I won’t go into TA too far here, but if you aren’t familiar I thoroughly recommend this book as a way in. It’s a kind of a toolkit for helping to deal with situations and people where you just can’t get on the same page.

10) Universal Economics Jerry L. Jordan

Cop out time…. I HAVEN’T READ THIS BOOK.

To explain. About 3 months ago I read an article somewhere that reviewed good books to use as an introduction to economics. This piqued my interest because economics was my topic at University and I used to enjoy the way that it tried to make sense of the world. Since The Dismal Science gets such a bum rap these days I thought it might be an idea to see what had changed over the last 40 years. This book was the article’s recommendation, so I pressed buy….

Bloody Hell. It is, let’s say, challenging. It’s a paperback and tipping the scales at over a kilo, it runs to 700+ pages of closely typed script. It’s interleaved with incomprehensible diagrams. I have opened it several times, but when I see for example, that the forward alone runs to 25 pages I close it again.

This is a true test of whether my concentration span has entirely gone.

I may report back. Or I may not…….

Times change and nowhere more so than at work. Back in the dim and distant past when I wasn’t such a world-weary cynic I used to be allowed to go on courses that weren’t exclusively based on the idea of amassing a few letters after my name. At the time it was thought that these courses would be of benefit for companies and their staff. The hope was we’d be made better managers… or leaders. Or just better.

Of course, firms soon discovered that the revolving door policy for staff, made possible by changes in employment law in the 80’s, cuts both ways. It resulted in the practical death of that most weird phenomenon looking back, staff loyalty. Henceforth staff would ply their skills wherever they were best paid, making these courses much less justifiable for businesses. After all, why spend thousands on a junior manager only for them to disappear to use their new skill somewhere else?

Anyway, I can remember going on three courses, none of which could happen today. They had a huge impact upon me, but perhaps not all in the way intended. They are worthy of discussion for different reasons, but I’ll start this week with the most memorable of the three.

Around 1989-90 the financial sector had reached a peak in terms of money sloshing around and a company called General Portfolio placed a ridiculous advert in the Times for office managers, because they were sinking under the weight of all the new business they were winning. Ridiculous, because they were offering large quantities cash. Basically, they needed digging out of a paperwork morass, and rapidly. The regulator was sniffing around as a result a few instances of possible mis-selling. You know the sort of thing, 90-year-old widows being sold 25-year savings policies, that sort of minor infraction. In fact, unsurprisingly, the wheels fell off the business in fairly short order, consigning many of us to the unemployment queue, but for a couple of years it was a fun place to be…..

Anyway, having hired approximately 20 new managers, they decided to try and bond the group into a team through the medium of a “Leadership Course”. It was residential and run near Wells in Somerset and we all attended for a week (a week!). In preparation we had to answer a questionnaire with a load of odd questions that as far as I could tell had nothing whatsoever to do with leadership. For example, “You are faced with a choice of two routes off a mountain. One is to abseil down a rock face, the other is to descend via a pothole. Which would you choose?”

I didn’t give that one too much thought. I hate enclosed spaces but don’t mind heights so I ticked abseiling.

Anyway, the course started, the food was good and not all of the team were idiots so it was a congenial affair. We did the usual stupid exercises involving raft making and orienteering….. But on the Wednesday afternoon the tightly controlled weeks’ activity list showed a blank.

We assembled after lunch and the course leader appeared, smiling slightly malevolently.

“You remember the pre-course survey with all of the strange questions in? Remember the abseiling/potholing question? Well, it’s time to put your money where your mouth is. You are going to undertake that activity this afternoon….”

This sounded like fun.

“…..except we are going to mix it up. Those people who said potholing will do the abseiling and vice versa”

This, most decidedly, did not.

Can you imagine this happening today? The risk assessments alone would take a year, the waivers that would need to be signed, the legal actions that would ensue following the “bullying” to make people do the task. Even at that time, it was fair to say the news was met with a sort of collective nervous gulp.

An hour later I found myself with eight others standing on a hillside near Wookey Hole. Nearby was a shepherd’s hut. The rain was falling steadily as we trudged up towards it. Our leader for the exercise was a large young chap with the sort of well-upholstered build that in those days might have been termed, well, fat.

“I’ll be leading this and it will be fun” he started, sounding like this was not open for debate. “If you think you can’t get through a gap don’t forget - if you can’t see me it means I’ve already gone through it. The route we are taking is the one we in the local potholing club do for our Christmas morning challenge. We do the whole thing – there and back in under 30 minutes so it’s really easy. Don’t worry”

The man was clearly in the grip of a psychotic episode.

We entered the shepherd’s hut. It was devoid of sheep. In fact it contained nothing. Then I noticed a sort of misshapen manhole in the floor. The lid was taken off and I peered in. About eighteen inches below was a solid sheet of rock.

“OK, the way in is to lie on the ground and then slide yourself between the cover and the rock. Go in feet first and on your back. After about 20 feet the passage curves downwards with a four- or five-foot drop at the end”.

And so began two of the most, let’s call them “mentally challenging” hours of my life.

The urge to start screaming and crying started at that point and was never too far away.

Memorable low points were ….

-          The first time I realised that the passage I was crawling along face down, was so narrow I couldn’t actually lift my head up enough to see forward.

-          Standing at the top of a 30 waterfall and discovering that the route was downwards through said waterfall using a small, unfixed metal rope ladder with 6-inch rungs.

-          In another narrow passage realising that the person in front of me in the crawling queue had panicked and frozen, meaning I in turn could go neither forward nor backward.

At the bottom we stood in a cavern looking at the stalactites and stalagmites illuminated by head torches, trying not to dwell on the fact that we were a few hundred feet below the fields. It was a gymnasium-sized area, filled with the sound of running water.

“Well done everybody, shall we go back now? Oh, and don’t forget, it’s uphill this time”

Another bad moment. For the first time it hit me that so far we had been working with gravity. Now we’d be climbing.  Being a ruffty-tuffty bloke of course I smiled at the female members of the group as they began to appreciate the enormity of the latest task in this torture. I was however far from sanguine at the prospect myself. If nothing else there was huge opportunity for massive loss of face. I’d managed to get myself significantly out of shape in the few years before the course and I was already completely knackered….

The nadir came at the waterfall. Climbing up using an unsecured swaying ladder under a torrent of very cold water was not fun at all. It took me several attempts to get more than a rung or two up, but finally something approaching a technique came to me and I inched my way to the point where I could pull myself onto the ledge at the top.

Interestingly while the rock was, well, rock hard, it wasn’t jagged. Water had smoothed the surfaces. Finally, after about two hours underground, the light from the manhole appeared and we were pulled out one-by-one.

Even now, thirty plus years later I can remember the overwhelming sense of relief as I climbed out and the feeling of my limbs shaking from the effort of the preceding hours as I stood in the shepherd’s hut. The sky remained grey and the rain still fell steadily, but the view was unsurpassable as far as I was concerned.

Of course, I would never have done the exercise if there wasn’t a compulsion, arising mainly from peer pressure. That was a real factor, maybe because of the fact that we were all still keen to impress our new masters. In fact, not a single person had refused to undertake their allotted activity. I do remember though that at least one person had tears in their eyes just before we started.

Me, I hated every minute of it, bar the sight of the sky when we emerged at the end of the ordeal. And yet…. I can honestly say that in retrospect I got a huge kick from having done it at all. I learned that sometimes the fear of something can be much worse than the reality. Which thought came in unexpectedly useful 18 months later when I, along with a significant number if the other managers on the course, was made redundant…

So, looking back, I am truly grateful for being forced to do that afternoon’s exercise. It pushed me to the limit physically and most definitely mentally. Plus, it created a memory that will remain with me forever.

But what, you might ask, did it have to do with leadership or teamwork?

Not a bloody thing that I could see.

I thought this week I’d dip a tentative toe into the mire of political correctness and wokism….. But by way of a contrast, I thought I’d actually report on a particular element that people (who generally know nothing of which they speak) like to cite as a prime example. The staff hiring policy of public sector bodies.

You know the bar-room blowhard’s view already “Oh yes it’s all jobs for the boys, doesn’t matter whether you are any good or not, that’s why everything is so crap”. If it’s not that argument, it’s “Oh yes everybody they hire has to be a cross-dressing, one-armed…..(Insert prejudice here) you can’t get a job unless you are a member of some kind of minority”

So here is an insight into the hiring process of the most visible of all public sector organisations, the NHS. Except I do know how it works and from both sides of the interview table.

You see for the last 10 years or so it just so happens that my business has had a sequence of contracts within the NHS. During those contracts I have on several occasions sat on interview panels for roles. So, I’ve seen the process from that side, however up until a couple of weeks ago I hadn’t seen the candidate’s angle. But a role appeared on the NHS jobs website (www.jobs.nhs.uk ) which I liked the look of. It was local and had a lot of scope for me to bring a bit of my relevant knowledge to bear. I thought if nothing else it would be an interesting exercise to apply.

So started the application process. I had to declare lots of the usual stuff. Am I a criminal? Am I an employee of the NHS? (No jokes about the two answers being linked please) Am I an immigrant and if so do I have a visa? Then straight into employment history. There was also the usual Equal opportunities statement, to which I divulged the usual answers…. Male/pale etc etc. There was also a lengthy opportunity to explain why I thought I’d be so bloody wonderful in the role (my words).

I hit send and forgot about it.

Now we will cross over to the other side of the fence. Because the selection process is where it’s interesting. The selection panel (I’ve sat on a couple that were five-strong and one of three from memory. The candidates (according to NHS jobs in my case there were 204 of us) were down selected initially to weed out any that had inadequate hard qualifications or were obviously unsuitable from the relevant experience perspective.

The details of the remainder of about 20 I recall from my time, would then be passed over to the selection panel. BUT the candidates are completely anonymised. It is impossible to tell the age, sex, ethnicity, or disability of any candidate. The candidate’s applications are then scored by the panel according to a predetermined set of criteria (This is created by the panel in advance). The scoring system is created solely on the basis of suitability for the role. The panel complete their scoring and then a selection panel meeting takes place.

The intention is to select the candidates who go forward to the interview cycle. Normally there are perhaps 3 or 4 who are obviously strong contenders, but I’ve sat on panels that interviewed 10 candidates. But it will be the top 10 best scores always. No bending of the selection rules.

Something worth saying here is that ALL candidates whether internal or external go through the same process. Which explains the comment of the leader of the panel when she came to pick me up in reception for my interview:

“Oh, I thought it might be you!”

Of course, the interview process reveals everything physical about the candidates. The cover is blown, but the underlying principle here is fairness and that explains why before the interviews happen the interview questions are set in advance. Each candidate gets asked the same questions and this highlights something else worth bearing in mind. The Public Sector in the UK has to be seen to be fair and part of that is that any candidate who feels they haven’t had fair treatment can challenge the process and their failure. This means that the process has above all else to be transparent. Note taking of candidate answers and the minutiae of the interview process is utterly comprehensive.

The interview panel members then hand in their own notes from each interview for filing.

Therefore, the modern Public Sector interview is light years away from interviews of the past. I reckon if you throw in my contract interviews for my consultancy work into the mix I’ve probably had north of 200 interviews over the years. Up until about 5 years ago I regarded myself as an expert in winning over interview panels, joking and creating a rapport, you know….. charming the socks off people. The job itself was quite frequently almost secondary. I’ve got jobs that I (literally) couldn’t actually do because I was much more expert in interview technique than the people actually interviewing me. I would always think of Manuel in Fawlty Towers when told his English was hopeless… “But I learn, Mr Fawlty, I learn!”

However, the sheen appears to have come off the bullshit these days (Can bullshit have a sheen?) I reckon that’s down to the lack of manoeuvrability in the interview process.

And it’s a good thing.

Finally, then, there is the selection meeting. Scores are totted up and discussion takes place. Notes are read back and agreement reached on the successful candidate. Minutes are taken of this meeting too.

The point is that if the NHS is challenged and can’t explain why a person was appointed to a job, with documentary evidence, it can get sued.

So, it was clear to me that when I heard I was in fact runner-up for the role I had applied for that I could blame many things, but what I couldn’t blame was a biased selection process. The successful candidate was announced (I am working via my company in the NHS Trust at the moment so I found out) and it was an internal candidate who sounds like she has more experience than me (dammit!)

Bear this tale in mind when you hear some ass declaiming about jobs for the boys in the public sector.

Now I could move on at this point to the Public Sector procurement process (sadly, one of my ‘core competencies’ as they are nowadays called) But I can hear your cries for mercy from here.

Too much excitement eh? Understandable….

Cars are doomed.

Let’s be honest. They are becoming consumer durables like any other and we are moving inexorably to the point where they finally rank alongside microwaves as a device providing a functional service and not much more. The newest generation of drivers are apparently no longer in love with their cars and I kind of understand why, with the strangulated driving experience these days.

The affair still burns brightly though for we boomers and millennials. Like many veterans of the 60’s and 70’s I have many car-related tales of derring-do. One of my earliest ever memories is sitting on my Dad’s lap while he attempted to get his Sunbeam Rapier over 100 mph.

I’ll stop there though. I do know that everyone has their tales of car-related madness from the olden days.

But, since the age of 17 I’ve always had a car and thinking back, they give a kind of running commentary to my life that is about as insightful as almost anything I can think of. Three in particular have tales to tell.

Firstly then, let me take you back to the Summer of 1975 when I was given my very first car, before I had even passed my test…..

Mum and Dad had made the decision to move to Bahrain for Dad’s flying work, while my sister and I would remain in education here, Lynne at University and me at Boarding School. The problem was that we needed to get to Heathrow under our own steam for the holidays. So, Dad bought us both a car. We both got used Austin/Morris 1100s. Given the (then unique) nature of my circumstances, school granted me permission to keep the car there and one of the masters let me park it in his garage.

The car rusted rapidly and was horrendously unreliable. I became adept at pushing it out of the garage and onto the road where there was a gentle slope. I’d heave away, then as it gathered momentum, jump in and bump start it when it had reached adequate speed.

It was a dog. But it was my dog. I’d trundle home and then on to Heathrow, where it would sit in the Excelsior Hotel car park while I was away. The arrangement at the Excelsior was redolent of a time long past. Basically, the parking attendants were running an extremely profitable ‘sideline’ providing an unofficial long-term parking service for aircrew based overseas. All of my Dad’s fellow pilots and he had their UK cars there, sliding a few tenners over (or under) the counter, whenever they came back to the UK.

The Morris was also the only car (so far of course) that I’ve properly crashed. I chose a somewhat unusual location to mark the occasion. Almost exactly in the middle of the old Severn Bridge.

 I blame Steely Dan.

As with every teenager in possession of their first car I had made some additions, including a cassette player, mounted very low down under the dash. It was a windy night in November 1978 when I was returning from home to university.  They always closed the outer carriageways for safety reasons. I was listening to ‘Countdown to Ecstasy’ by the ‘Dan and for reasons that remain a mystery, the traffic was stationary. As it began to move and we gathered speed ‘King of the World’ faded away and I looked down to flip the cassette over to ‘Pretzel Logic’.....

I looked back up just in time to register that the traffic was stationary again.

I significantly rearranged the back of a doctor’s Vauxhall Ventora. He was apoplectic when he got out and surveyed the damage, but happily his wife was a nurse who spotted that I was somewhat shaken up and called him off. The Morris was a write off, but we bought it back from the insurance company, patched it up and it lived to rust another day.

Fast forward 8 years or so and we are into the world of work and I am living in Kingston upon Thames and working for an Insurance company. My boss wore braces and drove a 2.8i Capri. I had aspirations to yuppiedom too, but not the funds. However, I’d bought a flat (deposit raised by selling my car of course) and had been thrilled by the inevitable property valuation rises, mainly because it meant I could buy a new car with my unearned wealth! Guy Salmon Honda had in its showroom a delightful little red Honda CRX which I would go down and lust after for weeks, to the point where I became good friends with the middle-aged lady receptionist. Eventually I threw caution and currency to the winds and bought it, the only time I’ve ever bought a new car. The receptionist was almost more thrilled than I was on the day when I went to pick it up.

The Honda was a wonderful, chuckable, thing and it gave me my best driving experience ever. One Sunday morning I had to drive from Kingston to the Welsh Borders for a family ‘do’. I set off deliberately very early and left the motorway at Oxford in order to drive ‘over the top’ of the Cotswolds as my Dad and I called it, from Burford to Tewkesbury. I had done the trip multiple times a year to go to school and knew the route well. That Sunday the roads were empty, the weather sunny and the Honda in fine fettle. I remember the thrill of throwing the little car into corners, listening to the chirrup from the tyres, then flooring the accelerator out of the bends.

Anyway… family life intervened. A two-seater won't cut it then of course, so the Honda disappeared and for the next decade or so car ownership took a back seat. Things like large Saabs and Accords came and went. Job success and income fluctuated as they are wont to do. My family had probably a dozen Hondas, but the next really noteworthy car came from Germany in the noughties, in the shape of an S-class Mercedes.

Owned by the Finance Director next-door neighbour of my sister, it had already racked up an impressive 125,000 miles in two years ferrying him (chauffeur driven) to and fro from Birmingham to London every day. My brother-in-law bought it and a year or two later we agreed terms for the battleship to change hands again. By this time I was self-employed. My first contract was at Heathrow and I had decided I would stay in a hotel during the week. (I stayed at the very same Excelsior, now a Radisson Blu. Sadly, the parking ‘arrangement’ was but a fond memory).

The stay overnight idea lasted only 3 nights. I hated it so much I decided I’d rather drive home every day than stay in a hotel, eat hotel burgers and stare at a wall. So, for the next 7 or so years the Mercedes continued its motorway mile-munching . It was a paragon of reliability. I happily took any contracts that I could drive to in two hours, knowing there would be no pain accruing from time spent in the old barge. The car never once hiccuped as I took the mileage from 130,000 up to 290,000.

Then one summer’s evening as I was driving home from Cambridge, the unthinkable happened. The engine tone of the car changed, the dashboard lit up with warning lights, some of which I never even knew existed. I pulled immediately onto the hard shoulder, becoming aware as I did so of smells - burning rubber, oily steam and the unwelcome sound of metal clattering against metal. The old lady then had to suffer the indignity of a transporter ride back to my local Mercedes specialist at home.

The next day I went to see the patient, by this time sitting in the workshop, its bonnet in the high ‘service’ position.

The mechanic had the look of a doctor about to give a relative some upsetting news….

“It’s the alternator. It’s just reached the end of its life and broken up. That’s snapped the timing belt and the water pump has gone too.”

“Right. But you can sort all that though”

“Oh yes, but look, you might want to think about moving it on. These components all have a standard working life and I reckon you are about to hit the end of most of them. I may be wrong but I’m pretty sure the reliability will start to deteriorate from here.”

This guy had 30 years Merc experience and would have stood to make a fortune from me as the old lady deteriorated. He had nothing to gain with the advice. So, regretfully, I took it. When I bought the car it looked like new and it left me in the same condition..... I still miss it.

Since then, I have had many cars. After my first, and it subsequently transpired, greatest, experience of the brand, Mercedes’ have come and gone, including one, a GLE Hybrid which, while a technological marvel, was the worst car I’ve ever owned from any brand, by country mile. It would break down practically every time I drove it, always with something related to the underdeveloped hybrid system.

Audis, Teslas, Range Rovers.. BMWs, MGs, Citroens. All have reversed up the drive in the last 30 years. But not a single one of the dozens has come close to providing the memories given to me by these three.

Proust had his madelaines, Eliot his coffee spoons. Me, I measure out my life with second-hand cars.

Generation Z will never know what they missed.

My social media accounts seem to be filling up with contemporaries who have decided that enough is enough. They are calling a halt to their working life.

Me, I’m ambivalent about this retirement thing.

There are positives to bailing out in some cases. If I were perhaps commuting into the City of London daily, as I did for many years in a previous employment life, I can see the attraction of stopping, especially now that travel in almost any form has become such a horrific test of endurance here in the UK. Likewise, the whole idea of having to report to some useless nonentity on a regular basis would be like being hit over the head with a mallet – bliss when it stops.

But I do wonder whether everybody has completely thought this through.

In my experience the nanosecond after you question anybody about their retirement decision you receive a jocular, yet slightly over-vehement response along the lines of “Oh no I’ll have no trouble filling my days. It will be all I can do to find the time for all of my golf/fretwork/birdspotting, you mark my words.” I have a feeling that in fact a huge aspect of the decision to hand in the ID badge is based around the wish to stop the current horror of employment, rather than to get stuck into the next phase. It feels less like running towards something and more like the opposite.

Likewise, the state decrees that a certain date shall be the point where one starts to receive a pension. The inference being that that is the date when one should stop doing anything to actually earn an income. In the UK today you get your pension at 66. Now I don’t know about anyone else, but I really don’t feel in the least like I’m now so decrepit and spavined that I can barely type on a keyboard. On the contrary, I feel no better or worse than I did 20 years ago.

When the state pension age was reduced to 65 in 1940, said 65-year-old could expect to live another 11 years (A bit higher for women). Now the equivalent expectation is pushing towards double that. Indeed, those of us who have had the good sense to be born into a family with reasonable genes, who’ve avoided the ciggies and done the odd physical jerk etc, can expect to draw breath well beyond the actuarial check-out age.

The point here for me is that stopping work about, say 10 years before one is expected to hand in the old dinner pail, feels about right in terms of still being fit enough to do a job. For me I’m working on the assumption that 90 would be realistic, so 66 feels way too soon whatever the exact number.

But of course, there’s the obvious question that overshadows all this. Just because I’m physically capable why would I want to continue?

Well, there’s another attraction to work that I almost dare not mention….. I, um, well, quite enjoy it if you can believe that. Indeed, there are some elements that I enjoy because they are challenging and not necessarily in a positive way at the time, to the extent that they verge on the masochistic.

I enjoy, partly because I know it’s good for me, having to deal with the useless nonentities (see above). The intellectual challenge of getting them to understand my point of view and what’s good for them is fun, provided you don’t invest too much in the outcome.

I work in my own consultancy and the high point of the process of getting new clients for me is the meeting/interview prior to starting the contract. When it comes to actual delivery of the terms of my engagement I know I’m not outstanding, but I do know that give me 45 minutes of somebody’s time in an interview situation and I am in my comfort zone. I really enjoy the buzz of success after one of those sessions.

Additionally in recent years I’ve been partaking in an intellectual battle to avoid being seen as some kind of office elder, a.k.a. “the old guy in the corner”. I can remember old-guys-in-the-corner down the years in my own past. They had been kept on in businesses normally because they had some arcane, yet necessary nugget of knowledge that was useful. Or they were competent at doing some element of business that was deemed too expensive to automate. Whatever, they would appear in the same shirt, yellowing under the armpits, every day and follow a routine that was timed down to the minute, often carrying their lunch in a Tupperware container. Any request for information would always be preceded by an anecdote describing how things were 20 years ago, but was now supremely irrelevant.

So, I’m hyper-vigilant these days when talking to my younger colleagues, looking out for the internal eye roll that means they are thinking “Oh God, here he goes again”. I keep myself technically up to date and studiously avoid any topics that could possibly end up at the point where I might say something about how much better things were in 1995.

So for me, the challenge of work is enjoyable, plus it’s also overwhelmingly good for me.

Naseem Nicholas Taleb wrote a book that makes eminent good sense to me. It’s called ‘Antifragile’. It points out that a degree of stress and strain for almost any entity you care to mention, far from being a problem, is actually a very good thing. I thoroughly recommend searching it out. For humans the saying “use it or lose it” hits the nail on the head. We seem to be happy enough to acknowledge and even follow this mantra for our corporeal bodies, but rather less so for our minds. Doing the Times crossword I’m afraid doesn’t tick the stress-and-strain box in the same way as, say, dealing with some moron at work without actually losing your temper, does. It’s the element of compulsion that is missing. If you volunteer for an intellectual challenge you aren’t forced to push yourself as hard. The neural pathways don’t get utilised and they start to gather cobwebs.

Pointless of course, to deny as well that I like the things which having a reasonable income can buy. While we won’t starve when I stop, I do know that the coffers are being augmented while I’m continuing to work. The idea of having to become a bit more “careful” gives me the heebie-jeebies.  

The other trick which I’m trying to pull off at the moment is to work out how to more fully integrate work and home life. Susie tells me she likes to see me around now and then (I know… weird), so I need to ensure that staying at work doesn’t mean long absences. Of course, Covid shifted the needle significantly in terms of whether a physical presence at work was necessary. These days I work from home almost exclusively, so from that perspective things have moved in the correct direction quite nicely.

And finally, there’s another question to answer. I might want to continue working but will I be allowed? Age discrimination no doubt does exist. But in all honesty, I think the generations below mine are much more vigilant about discrimination in all its forms. They don’t like it and I’m all for that. Anyway, I’ve not encountered it yet and frankly I’m happy enough to be considered the token geriatric, if that’s what’s needed.

So, as my erstwhile colleagues and my friends start to haunt the pubs and golf courses I’ll stay at my desk if you don’t mind. Thereby fulfilling a role I’ve often hankered after. I’ve been rather attracted to the idea of being thought of as eccentric since I could first spell it. Maybe this is the way to achieve that rather singular aspiration.

So, as that eminent philosopher Pinocchio nearly sang:

“Hi diddly-dee, it’s the outlier’s life for me”

Oh dear, I boasted last week that I was hitting my stride in terms of banging out 1,200-1500 words every seven days, I should have known that such vainglory was bound to be punished. And so, this week has flown by, non-essential things like eating and earning a crust have been getting in the way of me concentrating on this week’s missive. So as an experiment, this week I have decided to allow a guest author to entertain you.

I asked them to write me a short piece on the way mobile phones run our lives now. And without further ado I will hand you over to them:

Thanks Gareth,

Remember the days when the only phone in the house was attached to the wall by a curly cord, and you could wander no further than the kitchen counter during a chat? Or when being unreachable simply meant you were out living your life? Fast forward to today, and that quaint idea seems as distant as dialling up the operator. Mobile phones have not just entered our lives; they've taken up residence, rearranged the furniture, and declared themselves the new rulers of our daily routines.

 For those of us who’ve witnessed the dawn of the digital age, the transition has been nothing short of revolutionary. But, with every revolution, there comes a mix of excitement, trepidation, and the occasional longing for simpler times. Mobile phones, those pocket-sized marvels, are the epitome of this technological shift. They’re our alarm clocks, calendars, GPS systems, entertainment centres, and, lest we forget, the way we communicate with others.

 But let’s face it: mobile phones are both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, the convenience is undeniable. You can confirm a lunch reservation, check the weather, and send a photo of your cat—all while waiting in line at the grocery store. It's like carrying a Swiss Army knife that also plays your favourite tunes and provides access to all the knowledge in the world. Who wouldn’t want that?

 Yet, with great power comes great responsibility—or, in this case, great dependency. Remember when knowing a phone number by heart was a point of pride? Now, we’d be hard-pressed to recall more than our own. Our phones are so ingrained in our lives that losing one feels akin to losing a limb. We panic, not just because of the expense of replacement, but because our entire world—contacts, photos, schedules—vanishes into the ether.

 There’s a certain irony in how mobile phones, designed to keep us connected, often drive us apart. Family dinners are now accompanied by the soft glow of screens, each person wrapped up in their own digital bubble. Texting has become the new talking, emojis the new facial expressions. We laugh at the absurdity of autocorrect blunders, yet we’ve also accepted a reality where face-to-face conversations take a backseat to the endless scroll.

 The omnipresence of mobile phones also brings with it an odd pressure to be constantly available. Gone are the days when you could disappear for a few hours without anyone batting an eye. Now, if you don’t respond to a text within minutes, people start to worry—or worse, think you’re ignoring them. We’ve traded spontaneity for the convenience of instant communication, often at the cost of our own peace of mind.

 Yet, despite these quirks and complaints, we wouldn’t give up our phones for the world. They’ve become our lifelines, our connection to both the mundane and the magnificent. Mobile phones are the modern-day equivalent of the Swiss Army knife, only more versatile, more personal, and infinitely more addictive.

 In the end, it’s all about balance. Yes, mobile phones have changed how we live, for better or worse. But it’s up to us to ensure that they remain tools for enhancing our lives, not dictating them. After all, the power isn’t in the device itself but in how we choose to use it. So maybe, just maybe, the next time your phone pings, you’ll take a breath, look around, and decide that it can wait—at least until after dessert.

 Well, what did you think? Enjoy it? Should I just hand over the password to my Newsletter now? I promised to publish it unexpurgated and so I have.

For me, well, I found it dull. Yes the article made some reasonable points I suppose, but I did stress to the author that it should be entertaining and witty. Actually I didn’t tell them that I would be reviewing it, but what the hell, why shouldn’t I? Especially as the author has the skin of a rhinoceros.

Of course I’m sure you are ahead of me by now.

The article was written by Chat GPT in response to this instruction from me:

“Please write a 500-word essay on the ubiquity of mobile phones in modern life. The essay should be light in tone and aimed at an educated audience aged around 50. It should be witty and make several cogent points about how we have become dependent upon phones in life.”

It seems to me that we can see in those 500 words, examples both of the huge strength and potential of AI, while also laying bare its current, enormous, weakness at the same time.

Pluses are that it was reasonably written and the tone wasn’t bad, but by God it was dull wasn’t it? There is not a single thing about the essay that I can remember now having finished it one minute ago. The thing about a rules-based system like language is that you have to be really at home before you can bend the rules a bit and it’s the creative bending of the rules that are hardest to replicate for AI.

Um, actually now I come to think of it it’s not quite true, it wasn’t completely forgettable. I do remember two things.

Firstly, nobody sentient would have used “Swiss Army Knife” twice in 500 words in this context would they? Ha! Let’s all have a good laugh at the bag of chips struggling to bend its non-biological brain to produce something worth reading. And failing.

But ….. but…I also remember something else.

It came up with the pleasantly alliterative, “the mundane and the magnificent” which is pretty damned good as epigrams go, don’t you think?

But I mean it’s basically boring rubbish really isn’t it? It’s something I guess a moderately erudite 14-year-old could produce. But there’s the rub. AI is now able to replicate the tone and output of somebody nearly of school leaving age. By the time another two calendar years have gone by, when a pupil could in fact leave school with GCSEs, this particular pupil will already have the equivalent of a doctorate in quantum mechanics. We should be seeing human-level quality and more importantly, the appearance of originality will be getting baked in too.

At this point I suppose we should all be running around screaming and rending our garments at the thought of such an outcome, but I wonder whether things are really quite so terrifying. It’s inevitable that the work currently undertaken by those who depend for their livelihoods on learning and applying abstruse knowledge then making it mean something to us (Lawyers, Accountants, that’s you), might find a cold wind blowing down corridors of their City offices fairly soon. Same goes for technical authors and the ubiquitous ‘content creators’ online.

But this is not a new phenomenon. It has happened since the dawn of the industrial age. Industries have risen and declined as technology has changed. This time though it is the turn of the middle classes to feel the cold chill that comes with change. Computers that learn take away the advantage of humans in the professions where study is a critical prerequisite for success. Digital systems are so very good at studying. They do it at the speed of light.

So where does the human advantage lie in the future?

For the next fifty years I’m guessing that we will still be driving the technological changes and that will be a source of many careers.  But those people who display originality and flair, who surprise us, make us laugh, show skill and originality will be quids in. Those who have skills in craftsmanship and sport, in entertainment and the arts should be fine. In the professions things like architecture that meld creativity with technical skill stand a chance. Also, maybe those who have abilities to help others in terms of mental well being could be well placed.

So that’s the next fifty years. After that – who knows.

After 17 weekly newsletters I thought I’d pause and attempt to answer the one question that I’m sure lurks in the back of your mind when you see that I’ve polluted your inbox with another diatribe…..

Why?

Why am I doing this? What’s the purpose of these meandering, fundamentally useless screeds of undirected verbiage? What do I hope to gain from subjecting folk to this nonsense?

Well, I’m glad you asked…..

I’m going to start by taking you back fifty-five years to my old school (Who said, “Not again”?) and a practice that I have come to regard as one of the most perceptive, far thinking and wholly beneficial aspects of the way that place was run. In particular I’m talking about one aspect of the punishment regime. Yes, there were the normal panoply of boring, sadistic and frankly illegal ways that miscreants were taught the error of their ways, but in addition, especially in the boarding houses, there was also one punishment that stood out as a beacon of enlightenment in the otherwise stygian gloom of the 70’s dark ages.

It was called ‘Pages’.

Basically, a monitor (we had monitors, not prefects, no idea why) could punish wrongdoing by awarding up to six pages. The ne’er-do-well would then have to fill six pages of A4 on a topic chosen by the monitor. Of course, there was the inevitable competition to find topics so abstruse or frankly weird that filling a paragraph could be fiendishly difficult. There were subjects that went down in legend for their high degree of obscure, yet original thinking, “The sex life of the ping pong ball” was one that sticks in the mind. It might have been an apocryphal topic and I never knew the poor unfortunate who was awarded it, but you get the gist. This was way before any phone-based aids and the Encyclopaedia Brittanica was as far as any research could reasonably go.

Of course there were further layers of pain associated with Pages. Firstly, you hoped that the awarding monitor had a benevolent side, because difficulty could be layered upon difficulty by allowing a short time period for completion. 24 hours was a minimum but if it stretched into a weekend it would put a real dampener on your Saturday.

And the ultimate pain would come after completion when, upon handing in the pages, you could be subjected to the torture of standing before the monitor as your words were read, occasionally out loud. Sadists would instruct pages to be redone if your efforts were untidy, misspelled, boring, repetitive. Even just a rubbish piece of writing would mean starting again.

But the thing was, as punishments go, it was inconvenient and used up a load of time and it got in the way of things. It could be nerve wracking, but it was also quite stimulating and made you think. It actually improved your brain and in those days that made it a rare and unusual thing.

I remember my first Pages very well. I don’t remember why I got them – it was in my first term so I wouldn’t have been doing anything particularly terrible. There just wasn’t the scope aged 11. Talking after lights out – something appallingly shocking like that. Anyway, I was given four pages on America. America!  In retrospect it was such an easy topic I wonder why the Monitor bothered, to be honest. I like to think he was being kind. Anyway, I set to and 20 minutes later it was done.

And finally, we have arrived at my point. I came to quite enjoy the exercise of writing pages on a topic at the drop of a hat. I got quite good at it (after some non-voluntary practice). I have always thought I remained competent and yet when does one ever get presented with that requirement when you reach, ahem, senior years? This exercise of writing a newsletter, performed weekly is produced under the same conditions, or as near as possible, to those of 55 years ago. (Though I don’t think I’ll carve my name into this particular desk, thank you). I sit down in front of the keyboard, my mind a blank and wait to see what comes into my head. The reason for publishing it is that it means I have to keep my standards up and the exacting deadline puts me under a bit of pressure especially if, like today, it’s the evening before Friday publication.

The next question is how to select topics to write about. This week I was described by a subscriber as obsessed by music. Obsessed? Well, I suppose there just may be something in that and it’s certainly true that I could easily just drone on about music from the last 60 years for week after week, but in the end I think I’d bore myself and you, dear reader, rigid.

Plus, it really isn’t that much of a challenge. Therefore, I’ve allowed myself to write a few more personal pieces which made me think quite hard and became quite a minefield in some respects. I do however love to indulge that deeply British penchant for understatement and cynicism, which means that serious writing isn’t ever really going to be possible. The other thing I’ve attempted to do is to make the newsletters at least a little diverting. I know I have to earn my subscribers.

Finally, what of the future for this…thing? Rather worryingly for you all I have now got into something of a groove, to the point where I look forward to the mental exercise. I’d be slightly less that honest if I didn’t admit that at least some of the point is an experiment to see if I could cobble anything together that might suit a wider audience on a paid basis. I haven’t pursued anything in that vein at all, but well, who knows….. maybe one day, eh?

Meanwhile six pages on the sex life of the ping pong ball coming up…….

You may recall a few weeks ago I was flagellating myself because of an impulse decision to buy a really cheap phone. Well, it turns out I wasn’t just a gadget freak with an expensive habit after all. In fact, I was a tech guru surfing the leading edge of the hardware device zeitgeist. Or something.

 Apparently the world of Tech (I’ve read about this obviously – I’m in IT too, but I’ve seen zero evidence myself) has decided that phones as lifestyle accessories have peaked. Now they are just consumer durables like hairdryers and ‘fridges. So, I am actually reporting back to you on the hottest phone on the market right now and this might just be the first occasion where I have inadvertently bought exactly the right device at exactly the right time.

The phone in question is the CMF Phone 1 (CMF stands for Colour, Material Finish btw) and it’s made in India and China. I’ll talk a little about the phone itself in a sec, but we should talk about its USP straight away, because it’s a game changer.

It’s the price.

My other phone is the probably the flagship Android phone at the moment, the Samsung Galaxy Ultra. It costs £1,200 and the equivalent Apple is about the same.

The CMF Phone costs £179. That’s 85% cheaper.

So, I mean it’s going to be a pile of poorly assembled crap of course, I mean, how could it not be?

Well let’s have a look.

Right from the off it starts to defy expectations. It comes it a rather pleasant box which reveals your standard rectangular black slab, except the back has exposed screws and an accessory wheel (Can’t think what else you would call it). It has a sort of utilitarian feel to it. The screws are there to look good, but also to help make it easy to take the back off, swap for different colours or add accessories. I’ve swapped my black back for a sort of Teal-y blue colour but left I left the black bits and bobs unchanged.

And this is the second idea – namely that they have managed to actually design a phone that looks a little different, which I think is the first occasion in a decade where that has happened.

Now we come inevitably to the slightly Techy stuff. But I’m not going to bore you with all that. Except to say that there is nothing special about the experience whatsoever. It’s almost the same size as my Samsung, the screen’s nice and bright. It feels good to the touch. No lags or locking up. It’s all perfectly good.

And by that I mean perfectly good by flagship phone standards.

For £179.

I can only find 2 areas where it’s less than great. Although it takes perfectly respectable pictures, the camera is rather deficient when compared to an Apple or Samsung. Also, it doesn’t have Near Field Communication (NFC) and payments by phone need this. I use my watch (or my ring when I’m feeling brave) so this is no great issue for me, but I can see it would be a deal breaker if you do only pay by phone.

So I’m now back at the question I had a couple of weeks ago. What should I use it for? Well at the moment I’m trying it out as a sort-of weekend phone. It’s so much slimmer than the Samsung, because it is designed not to have a bulky cover on. It’s a better in-jeans proposition. Plus, at this price it’s really not the end of the world if it gets dropped. Apart from anything else you can just replace a damaged back if needed.

Believe it or not I do have the semblance of an IT hardware guiding principle and no, it’s not “buy a much has my bank balance will stand…”  It’s to try to avoid carrying around anything more than I really need. My watch has replaced my wallet. My phone has replaced my camera (That was the biggest deal of all for me and before you start, I have taken the best pictures of my 50-year photographic life with phones), my notebook, PC etc.

So, should I just flog my Samsung and go with the CMF? Well because of my photography passion I don’t think I can drop the Samsung fully, but if I say I would seriously consider doing so if they had spent another £50 on its camera.

Here’s the thing. If phones of this quality are available at this price point, I think the “phone-as-commodity” world is definitely with us. Yes, like a hair dryer, you will always be able to buy premium expensive phones, but I expect a fully featured, full-sized, really good quality phone (current flagship standard) to be with us at, let’s say, £300 within the year.

You heard it here first.

An album review?  Well, it had to happen eventually I suppose….. so I thought I’d do something slightly different.

I’ll explain. If you have an interest in such things you may have seen that the John Lennon estate have just issued a huge box set retrospective of his fourth post-Beatles album ‘Mind Games’. Now in the way of such things these days, it was the topic of a lengthy article in the Sunday Times, which broke new ground. But not in a good way. 

It didn’t have anything much to say about the album itself, but delivered such a fawning hagiography even the most ardent fans must have felt slightly bilious reading it. My take on John Lennon is that the man was one half of the greatest song writing partnership ever. But they did need each other and after the team split neither member achieved such heights separately. There were some moments of genius from both of them, but they were intermingled with work of, let’s say, variable quality.

Anyway, as I read Sean Lennon’s (hopefully) jokey and history-aware comment that at least his father had lived longer than Jesus, I thought back to the Mind Games album itself and realised I hadn’t listened to it for decades. I did recall though, that I had a copy at the time and wasn’t overly enamoured.

So as Loki, the juvenile Labrador needed a walk, I loaded the album up, cranked up the earbuds and set off across the fields. Those who know the album know the tracks and those who don’t won’t be enlightened by a track-by-track review, so I’ll cut to the chase.

This album is a huge, strutting, gobbling, turkey.

As I crossed the fields listening to the mantra-like title track (which I’ve always thought was a bit of a piss-take, consisting of the same 4 notes covered in Spector-style strings, even if he didn’t produce it), I waited patiently for the moment where I could bring my now more mature appreciation to these long unlistened-to grooves from the Master. But it just didn’t happen. Words like ‘anodyne’ and ‘schlock’ came to mind. It’s an album of peaks and troughs, only without the peaks.

Right at the last there was a glimpse of the great man. I had forgotten about ‘Meat City’. It is really good, but that’s the only decent thing on the entire record unless you like the winsome, Yoko-love-in, version of John Lennon and there’s loads of him on here. This was his third album of the stuff. He got away with it on Imagine because of the simply stellar tunes, but once they aren’t around underpinning things, it’s pure corn.

One idiot described the album as “Imagine with Balls” I’d correct that to “Imagine without Tunes”

As I reached the halfway point of our walk Mind Games drew to a merciful close. So I thought I’d try something else of his that I’d not listened to for years, to see if I was, in fact, on the verge of some kind of midlife reappraisal/nervous breakdown around all things Mop-Top. I went back to the very beginning of solo Lennon, The Plastic Ono Band album.

And he was back. That cynical, funny, aggressive, artistic risk-taker that we knew from the previous decade. He was in his Primal Scream therapy phase when this was recorded and we get plenty of that here right from the beginning, but it’s OK because we also get the sure-footed, experienced tune-smith and the fabulous song structures. Despite Spector’s presence in the studio, it’s pleasingly raw, with a notable absence of that murdering psychopath’s mad, slathered strings. And especially welcome is the fact that we get to hear rock’s greatest vocalist giving it the beans on several tracks.

Standout tracks on this listen through were ‘Mother’, which still retains a shock value in that he was willing to put such intensely private stuff out on a record. I know ‘Working Class Hero’ gets ‘ivory tower’-based criticism, but it’s still a snarling beast of a protest song, plus ‘God’ with its stunning lyric ‘I don’t believe in Beatles’ and the moving ‘the dream is over, I was The Walrus, but now I’m John’.

So where does this leave me in my love affair with the Fabs? It gets ever harder to distinguish the reality from the myths and legends and it’s certainly not helped by the willingness of the news media to indulge in the sort of ridiculous nonsense seen in the Times last weekend. What pisses me off hugely about the fluff piece is that a person not versed in the Beatles music (and shockingly, there appear to be more and more of them) might think, reading this dross, that ‘Mind Games’ might be a back door into Beatles world. They’d then listen to it and understandably resolve to move onto something infinitely less worthy, like Coldplay or (God help us) Ed Sheeran .

No, the Beatles stood alone as Pop music’s greatest band, but no band is perfect and they wrote some garbage, both when they were together and solo. But that’s the flip side and it goes with the territory. For every ‘Band on the Run’ and ‘Eleanor Rigby’ you get a ‘Bip-Bop’ for every ‘God’ and ‘Strawberry Fields’ you get a ‘Bring on the Lucie’. It’s just silly to pretend that they were infallible. They don’t need the assumption that everything they did was perfect and that they couldn’t make mistakes. They had quite enough era-defining triumphs to take the odd slating.

It’s often instructive to go back and see what the reaction was when the albums were first released. As a rule, the ones that got slagged off were probably fairly treated.

Mind Games was panned.

What is wrong with me?!

Last week I was reading an article online which trumpeted the imminent launch of a phone. ‘Wow!’ I hear you say ‘not a phone? Don’t new ones come out every hour, on the hour these days?’  Well yes, but this one was different. It was highly rated…. and cheap too. Really cheap.

Anyway, one minute later I’d ordered it. It was £170, which is cheap for a phone, but still £170. Why did I do it? I already have a really good phone that’s less than a year old and does everything that a phone can do at this time. Why buy a slightly less good one, even for a lot less money?

I don’t know.

Welcome to my gadget hell. Now admittedly if gadgets are my hell I seem to be in the grip of something like Stockholm Syndrome because I am in love with the damned things. The hell is that it seems like I have an almost primeval urge to explore, to read about, to try out gadgets.

So, this week I have been wondering what in my past has given me this terrible affliction. After a day or so musing, a memory from long ago returned.

It was the memory of what was easily the best toy I ever had.

I was about 7 and I was rootling about in my dad’s toolbox in the garage, as a small boy will do when trying to find an unusual way to cause himself a bodily injury. I came across a small stock of switches. Now Dad trained as an electrical engineer, so he had some interesting stuff in that box…. and the switches especially spoke to me

There were 6 separate toggle switches, all of them identical. I flicked them on and off. They had a completely perfect action, firm, but easy to select with a deliberate movement of an index finger.  I appropriated them in a flash and took them up to my bedroom, where I looked around for something on which to mount them. The 6”x 6” plywood lid of a travelling chess set? Perfect!

It was with me the work of a moment to rip off the picture of a boy and girl studiously (and boringly) considering their next move, leaving a plain black wooden surface. I got out my penknife (Yes of course I had a penknife at seven – every boy had one at that age in those days … it was a law I think.) and opened up six holes, evenly spaced in the lid, then secured the switches with their … securing ring?

And there I had a perfect tool for every superhero game, every fighter pilot scenario, every James Bond fantasy sequence. I could flick the switches to engage the afterburners on Thunderbird 2, to fire the missiles on my Lightning interceptor, to explode the bombs I’d hidden under the chair of Mrs Smith, my nemesis at primary school.

This also explains at least partly why I love rewatching the unsurpassably brilliant black comedy Dr Strangelove.

You will recall as the B52 reaches the last stages of its bomb run, the electronics engineer (A very young James Earl Jones) flicks the (toggle) switch to open the bomb doors.

“Uh Captain, Bomb Doors are Negative Function”

He flicks the switch off and on several times, we see the “BOMB DOORS CLOSED” light remain on….

“Still negative function”

“Engage emergency power” says pilot Slim Pickens

Switches are flicked

“Still negative function”

“Fire the Teleflex bolts”

“Firing the Teleflex bolts”

More switch action.

“Uh ….Still negative function”

Etc. etc.

I realise now that that dialogue is a very close approximation of what I would be saying inside my 7-year-old head as I flicked those switches on that chess box lid.

What a toy!

From this root I am sure the branch of my gadget addiction has grown. I still love flicking a switch on a well-designed, preferably chromed, item. From Coffee machines to Mercedes Benz dashboards. It’s an addiction and I’m not sure I want a cure for if I’m honest, even if my bank manager does.

Those switches still speak to me today and I know I’m not alone in this. More pertinently so do the designers of our consumer devices.  For example, you only had to see the dashboard of the relaunched Mini in 2006 to appreciate what I mean. Sitting in the middle of the dash, nestling under the trademark single dial, my childhood switches are perfectly reproduced. I have no desire to own a Mini per se, but by God I have a huge wish to throw some of those switches.

Bravo Mini!

And finally, returning to the cheap phone I mentioned at the start I can see now why it has a greater appeal that your standard run of the mill, black rectangle. Yes it’s slim and yes it’s black too. But it has some exposed screws on the back as well, with some sharp edges and a metal scroll wheel in one corner. It looks more utilitarian…. It looks like there may even be a switch behind the back cover.

I think I may need help….. Also, please don’t ask me about cameras.

Well, the UK general election is over and we can fairly safely say, given the majority the Labour Party won its unlikely we will have another one for a little while. That’s great, because frankly the idea of a parliamentary democracy as I understand it is that we delegate our decision making to people who theoretically have access to the facts. When we indulge in stuff like referenda we get, let’s say, suspect decisions.

But it does place the emphasis on us voting in people who are passably capable and display a basic level of competence for making decisions on our behalf. Now the trend of the last 15 years or so, probably encouraged by reality TV, is for folk to get elected who are probably not fit for the task but have a “Characterful” personality to make up for it. We elect people on the basis of whether we find them engaging as a person rather than whether we actually think that the policies they espouse might be any good for us and the country. Things have been moving that way for a while, but the last parliament was (Hopefully) the nadir.

Boris Johnson, the consummate conjurer, the master of misdirection, had an effortless ability to employ distraction to cover over his inability to master a brief or stick to a predetermined line. When he first appeared, he had a superficial attractiveness and novelty, based on the fact that he didn’t sound like other politicians. His bumbling-yet-glib shtick meant he could sometimes verbally dance his way out of sticky situations. A few TV appearances where he could demonstrate his ‘look’ and he was off to the races.

Which brings us on to the fact that he was also the possessor of the character politician’s ultimate tell.

He had “Statement” hair of course.

All of the usual suspects had a thing about the upper reaches of their head that was beyond strange. Yes I know in Johnson’s case it was supposed to be a personal brand identifier, but that’s the whole point. Politicians shouldn’t need that stuff. My thesis here is that because they knew that they were hopeless at their chosen profession they moved the goalposts to pretend they were actually in another one. They hoped we’d think they were in showbusiness. That’s borne out by all the Jungle appearances and Rees-Mogg’s willingness to allow a reality TV series to be made about his family.  

Of course, the one thing we know about the show business game is that – if you are a personality you need an instant identifier on your head. Cooper – Fez, Morecambe – Glasses, etc.

Which is how we had:

Boris Johnson – Insane hair

Rees-Mogg – The entire head of The Beano’s Lord Snooty

George Galloway – Stupid Fedora

David Cameron – Greasy 50’s teddy boy

Michael Fabricant – his dead granny’s wig

Penny Mordaunt - 80’s beehive

I need hardly say that when people who need these types of props find themselves in charge, no good comes of it.

However, with sublime skill and good sense, the electorate has shown the door to all of the above.  (Cameron doesn’t count – he would have gone anyway since his seat was lost even if he wasn’t in the Lords).

So where do we go from here? Well, the incoming Labour Government looks appallingly dull. Like a bunch of middle managers at a plastic box conference. Their leader appears to have had a personality bypass and not a single member of the cabinet appears to sport anything more controversial on their head than slightly bright hair.

Isn’t it bloody wonderful!

Who knows maybe they might be passably good at what they are paid for, you know, coming up with practical solutions to the country’s manifold problems. Early signs look OK. But even if they turn out to be less than stellar, they at least look like they are serious, unlike the last bunch who above all gave the impression that they thought “it was all such a laff” to quote Jarvis.

However, our fingers should be hovering over the eject button if any single person on the Labour benches starts making ‘Statement’ clothing choices or appearing with Timmy Mallett glasses.

Interestingly we see that, as in so many things, the US is different to us. They still show an alarming propensity to ignore the evidence of their eyes and vote for a candyfloss-topped satsuma. One can only hope that the Democrats realise that having Grampa Simpson as their choice may not be the best route to success. They should do something different. Like get someone who looks like a normal average working human being for a start

.

Occasionally life wants you to notice something and it tugs gently at your sleeve to get your attention. Alternatively, sometimes it sneaks up behind you and clips you behind the ear with the proverbial coin-filled sock.

Here’s what I mean. In this election week the UK has had to focus some attention on the far right “they-come-over-here-with-their-foreign-ways” brigade. This crew would like nothing more than to pull up the drawbridge so we can stew in our own, rather rancid, Anglophile juice for eternity, free from the taint of the foreigner.

Then on Friday evening I was struck by the symbolism of an event in our tiny wee hamlet in rural Northamptonshire. You see we have a small pub in the 600-strong village. It has an outdoor performance area. Sunday afternoons see the local bands run through the usual stuff, culminating, with horrendous predictability in ‘Sweet Caroline’. Sometimes it’s listenable. Sometimes not, but it’s not optional for us, what with our house being 25 yards away.

Last Friday evening though was different.

You see some years ago we were lucky enough to have people in the village with links in the music business. They had contacts. Which last Friday resulted in Massy Ferguson playing the Three Horseshoes in Ecton village for the second time.

Now I’m guessing that you are thinking, being named after farm machinery means they are some kind of Worzels ‘Brand new Combine Harvester’ tribute act. Well, there are bands that could conceivably be further from that truth, but these guys are literally 4,723 miles from it, hailing from Seattle, US. They play sort of Country-infused rock, that has, like complex wine, many facets. A hint of The Boss, The Drive-by Truckers are closer if you are familiar. Early Doobies or The Hold Steady, certainly. And here they were - in Ecton!

Susie and I set off for the gig, arriving some 15 seconds later to be met with the utterly mind-boggling sight of singer Ethan Anderson, playing the flute, wearing a truly colossal suit (see pic), standing with our 13^th Century church tower behind him, singing of his mother telling him that ‘sometimes you gotta to roll the hard six’. That image alone took your breath away.

The band’s huge professionalism shone brightly, honed from I’m guessing approximately 2,000 gigs over their years together. But the wonderful, exceptional thing about these guys was that they seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves. They drank the beer, laughed with the locals in the breaks (They played three sets) and never once took a sly look at their watch. I loved the incongruity of it all and the music was bloody excellent too.

And here’s the thing about people from other lands. They expose us to unusual things here in the UK. This time it was music, but there’s fabulous food, wine, thought, creativity, technology too and in return we give them our history, culture, sports, fashion. The exchange is a great thing and everybody benefits. The idea that in some way British culture needs protecting from these aliens with their non-British ways would laughable if it were not already so obviously silly, not to mention against our own interests.

To expand on my original point though, this is where the sledgehammer symbolism gets kind of surreal. Some 400-odd years ago a candle-maker from Ecton village decided he’d had enough of the grinding poverty of the pre-industrial Midlands and headed west. In fact, he headed about as far west as it was possible to go at that time and fetched up on the eastern seaboard of the Americas, where he raised 17 children.

His name was Josiah Franklin and his 15^th child was called Benjamin.

We got Massy Ferguson, they got one of their Founding Fathers. Make of that what you will. Me, I think the world is richer for the swap!

Aaaanyway….. I was going to show some gig footage, but I fear I may fall foul of copyright rules, so I’ll box clever and add a link to one of their albums to give you a feel, plus of course some pictures of possibly Ecton’s greatest ever suit.

Happy 4th July, y’all!

Oh and here in the UK, to quote another famous American, (in this case Al Capone): vote early and vote often!

Music-wise, the YouTube link is here

Spotify is here.

In both cases I recommend the track “The Hard Six” if you want a sample.

I had a great deal of fun with the playlist this month and I think it might be the best one yet. It’s certainly diverse. Look out for the best live track ever (You won’t have heard it before) and that’s not hyperbole.

Usual access routes via YouTube here:

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLNL96RUhY75TqHuRa_hmkraZML1sKNL36&si=h6_hHAPjA8WSYqkD

And Spotify is down below BUT before you switch over can you read the notes? It would make me feel this labour of love is useful…. I’d still do it but I can see that you are looking for music rather than words….

Anyway here’s Spotify

and here are the words…..

Lowdown                                           Boz Scaggs   

Well, that’s the wonder of music – you don’t play an artist for 20 years, then he’s the first to get a second play on Heading for the Ditch. Not a surprise I suppose, since the first time begat a listen to the second and a retrospective appreciation for the sheer smoothness of this 70’s track

Sick Day                                             Fountains of Wayne

A spectacularly good band who should have become globe straddling megastars, but instead ended up best known for something approaching a novelty song, “Stacey’s Mom”. As proof they deserved better, have a listen to this from their first album. It’s an evocative marvel, conjuring images from the petty, sad office life that many of us lived in the 90’s.

Cuyahoga                                         REM

Often REM feel like the Stipe Buck Band, but for me Mike Mills is easily their equal, if not superior, at least in the songwriting melody stakes. Here’s something from the early days to illustrate. The bass leads everything as you might expect, but the melody and the soaring chorus especially, are something special.

Suit of Lights                                   Elvis Costello

Elvis Costello is a poet. A poet with a massive talent for a tune. You can take any couplet from this song and immediately you are onto lyrical Gold, viz:

“In the perforated first editions                                                                                                                                              where they advocate the hangman’s noose”

That’s a 2-line joke with a 2-word punchline

Or:

“Outside they are painting tar on somebody                                                                                                          It’s the closest to a work of art they will ever be”

Inspired and craftsman skilled. Jaw-dropping

Jolly Coppers on Parade          Randy Newman

When the ‘Big Adding Up’ happens and the King of Music is declared, somewhere near the top of the deity’s shortlist for Regent will be Randy Newman. He just has that ability to create such wonderful songs with narratives that are contentious, funny, evocative. This one is the tale of a police parade told from a child’s point of view, but the beautiful descending melody sets it apart. 

North by North                                               The Bats

From the rich vein of the Dunedin Sound in New Zealand came The Bats. Yet another example of the fact that something unique and magical was going on down there in the 80’s and 90’s. This was from the first full album they produced and this track is a great introduction. It’s definitely worth digging out more of The Bats if you like North by North

Hard Headed Woman                Cat Stevens

The early 70s was prime time in the Cat Stevens era. Those who weren’t around would have trouble believing how popular he was. Like many pop and rock stars of the time Stevens was a spiritual sort of cove, but nobody else from Harrison, Lennon, Townsend downwards gave up everything for their religion like he did. Before that decision his albums were ubiquitous wherever teenagers congregated. This track is a lovely representation of his genius.

Water from a Vine Leaf              William Orbit

Been looking to get some 90’s dancey stuff into the playlists so here’s one from the godfather of techno, Wiliam Orbit. He wrote this with Beth Orton and it’s a slower paced example of his craft. He of course, later became the go-to producer for many established stars. When Madonna wanted something that sounded different from what had gone before he came in for “Ray of Light.” He did the same for U2 and most notably produced ‘13’ for Blur. Damon Albarn described him as “like a psychiatrist”.

Midnight Sun                                  The Strawbs

Early 70’s album tracks often flow one into the next, as here. And after that we have the singular voice of The Strawbs’ Dave Cousins. This is one of the tracks that are known by aficionados of the Progressive (not ‘Prog’) Rock pantheon as “That quiet one…..you know.”  Anyway, it’s lovely whatever you call it.

Come back Baby                           Steely Dan

They had to appear at some point, the one ever present throughout my musical life since 1973. This is a never-released track from the earliest years. Just imagine being so chock-full of music that this never appears on any official releases. Oh, and there are at least another 20 of its ilk floating around on the www.

Jimmy Bell                                        15-60-75

So, you’re in Ohio in 1975 (bear with me) and decide to call in to the Cleveland Agora Hall to see a Bob Marley gig. Opening for them is a local band with a name that’s just numbers. So… do you stay in the bar or go through and catch the warm-up? If you had made the right decision you would have heard this very recording. This is possibly the best live track I’ve ever heard bar none. Go on… turn it up loud and be prepared to be amazed. The muted applause at the end I like to think is because the audience have their mouths gaping in astonishment. Mind you it's Marley I feel sorry for… imagine following this!

Too Rolling Stoned                      Robin Trower

Robin Trower has played guitar with two truly magnificent, now sadly departed, vocalists. Gary Brooker in Procul Harum and here he’s with the dark brown voice of his bassist James Dewar. This is one of those tracks that sound as if all involved had a great time recording it. Trower stands with the greats of British guitar but never quite got his due, as is frequently the way.

In a Room                                         Dodgy

You could argue that Dodgy came from Division 2 of the Britpop League. But like many in that position they are capable of upsets on their day. This is a great track from the album Free Peace Sweet. Listen out for the drumming of Matthew Priest, it’s the closest you are likely to get to hearing Keith Moon reincarnated! Not surprisingly Priest fills his time in these days as a drum tutor.

The High Road                                 The Feelies

In 1986 the Feelies produced this lovely song which sounds both reminiscent of other things, but unique at the same time. I love the off-kilter vocals and especially the percussion throughout which really keeps things motoring on in a most pleasing fashion. REM’s Peter Buck was a big fan and you can hear they are from the same stable.

Tired of Toein’ the line                Rocky Burnett

I know. This is one of those tracks that’s resides somewhere in your subconscious only surfacing once a decade or so, but then you can’t stop humming “Baby I’m… tired of toein’ the line” for a week afterwards. It’s a killer earworm, that’s what it is, and I make no apologies for it.

My White Bicycle                          Tomorrow

A full house of Psychedelia here: Backward phased guitars and drums, naïve lyrics, driving rocky underpinnings. Tomorrow had obviously drunk deep from the Walrus Well, deciding that anything John did couldn’t fail. They didn’t chart with it. Nevertheless Steve Howe (yes, that one), Keith (‘Grocer Jack’) West and co deserve an honourable mention for itin the Psych history books.

Love in Flames                               Be Bop Deluxe

Be Bop Deluxe are revered these days mainly for the Sunburst Finish album, but in my book Drastic Plastic is far superior. Wakefield’s own axe hero Bill Nelson reins in the pyrotechnics ‘til the last minute or so, but then can’t hold back any longer which leads to an exuberant end!

Shine On                                            The House of Love

Guy Chadwick was the original songwriter and vocalist for The House of Love and when Alan McGee signed them for Creation this track was one of the early results. They went on to produce some of Indie rock’s most melodic tracks. In 2005, after a lengthy hiatus, The House of Love reformed and released an album “Days Run Away” that stands as possibly the best example of a reformed band keeping up the quality, despite the passage of time.

Crash                                                  The Primitives

Astonishingly, a few years ago Johnny Marr beamed down from planet Rock Star to Northampton’s Roadmender Club, where Susie and I had tickets. A fab night was had by all and I even took a good pic!  (Below.)

Anyway, the encore Marr played was this, he played it with his son and band and an excellent version it was too. Subsequently one of my faves.

Kite                                       Nick Hayward

Fresh from Haircut 100 Nick Hayward went out on his own and exhibited a genius for the 3-minute single almost unmatched in 80’s and especially on his album ‘From Monday to Sunday’. This is such a stupendous example of the type that it has appeared on many covers albums. But the original’s sheer simplicity puts it head and shoulders above the rest.

Those bastions of privilege, private schools are in the news again….. I have my own views, not to mention first-hand experience…

But before we go a step further, yes I know these days the schools think of themselves as models of care and compassion and that may be so. But the fundamental fact of boarding hasn’t changed. Children leave their homes and families for prolonged periods to be placed in a group environment with other children of a similar age.

In 1968 my Dad learned that the authorities funded places at Boarding Schools for RAF officer’s sons. He was desperate for me to have the education that he had been denied as the son of a farm labourer. Additionally, he was conscious that I had already changed schools four times by the age of 9 as a result of his career. Going to Boarding School would kill those two birds with one stone.

And so, with unimpeachable logic I was asked if I would like to go away to school. Being an avid reader of the Jennings books of Anthony Buckeridge I was happy to agree, imagining midnight feasts and 24-hour fun with my friends. With that I was “put down for” several schools. I failed the entrance to Monmouth School the following year but passed the Entrance exam to Hereford Cathedral School and a couple of others in the west of England early in 1970.

So, in September 1970 aged 11, off I went to Hereford.

Now rather than give you a blow-by-blow account of the next 7 years it might be more interesting to answer the questions that people often ask when I tell them I was ‘sent away’ to school. Additionally, a few years ago I wrote a longer piece about my first day which I can remember in detail even now. You can read that from the link after the Q & A.

Here we go:

How could your parents have done it to a little boy?

I know, I know… but as I mentioned my Dad hated the fact that he had left school at 14 and felt his lack of formal education very keenly. The narrative about Williams Minor was that he was bright, but lazy and so despite loving me dearly, they decided that the best thing for me on all counts would be to go away to school.

Dad was a reserved man with an iron determination to achieve. As a result, he thought my absence from home was a price worth paying. I knew then and know now that he did it with the best of motives. On that basis the worst that can be said is that he may have had his priorities (more than) a little skew-whiff.  

My Mum doted on me but doted on my Dad too. She trusted him implicitly to make the big decisions and always deferred to him, so while I know she hated the idea she followed along.

Was there bullying?

Yes there was, but I honestly don’t think it was worse that it was at any school in the 70’s. Me, I was never bullied because I was tall and fit and when the fists flew could I acquit myself well enough. A much more interesting question would be, did I actually do any bullying myself.

Well, I did. I remember I challenged a boy from the year above me to a fight. I reasoned that I could not be bullying him if he was older than me. It was an unfair fight and I knew it, but I went ahead. In the changing rooms where such events always happened, there were about 15 observers as I hit him once on his ear and I immediately felt so abjectly terrible that I stopped. I should never have done it and even today still feel bad thinking about it.

I hate bullies but can’t ever claim that the impulse isn’t buried in there somewhere.

Was it posh?

No! A common picture of public schools is of strangely-suited toffs looking down on the locals. That didn’t apply at all. The Old Deanery, was my boarding house and it overlooks Hereford Cathedral Close. It looks absolutely beautiful. Inside though in the early 70’s it was a decrepit pit. For some years we slept on horsehair mattresses in dorms, some of which were unheated. The furniture was always falling apart. I visited many other boarding schools for sports fixtures and I didn’t see any that were materially better.

The boys (when I went it was boys only, but went co-ed shortly after. Only boys in my year though ‘til the 6^th form) were the sons of the middle classes, junior officers, accountants, solicitor’s boys. There were no rich children from overseas either, a staple income source for Private schools these days. The facilities were not great. The food was so appalling initially that the school made national headlines when we went on strike for better food in 1971.

When I went in 1970 I caught the tail end of the “fagging” era. The youngest boys were basically the unpaid servants of the senior Monitors, (but the word has no links with it's modern meaning). In practice this meant cleaning their studies and doing their washing up at lunchtime. It wasn’t particularly onerous, but it reinforced the rigid hierarchy of the school. It stopped the year after I had done my two years servitude. I was livid!

Where the school was good was in the quality of it's teaching. There was a core of teachers who were genuinely excellent at their job.

Was there sexual abuse?

I was never abused. Likewise, I don’t know of any boys who were either. But that doesn’t necessarily mean it didn’t happen. A much-lauded author who was a master at the school, was imprisoned after being caught in bed outside of school with an under-aged boy (not from the school). Likewise, on Facebook groups recently there have been comments about masters present at the same time as me being a bit ‘handsy’ with the boys.

I suppose it wouldn’t surprise me if it did happen and the opportunity, as with all schools of its type, was certainly there. But I would say probably not. In this regard I count myself extremely lucky and I have huge sympathy for the poor sods at other schools who were abused. In this regard at least it could have been so much worse for me.

Did you enjoy it?

There were some aspects of it I loved. I built my life around rugby for several years (See photo above) and was fortunate enough to be in a year with a bunch of really, very good players. My happiest times were when I was on the pitch. But I truly hated the first few years at HCS. Especially the times at the end of holidays when back to school day would loom ever larger on the horizon.

Psychologists point to a logical bind for the boarder which runs: I know that my parents love me, but even so they believe it best for me to be here at school. It feels like a punishment and I must have done something really bad to deserve this terrible experience….. I didn’t feel like that at the time, but there is something in it, looking back with this much perspective.

But in my own case there was another issue.

As a boy I was always desperate for approval from the grown-ups and became so well-behaved and adept at an outward display of maturity that I seemed to become the default choice at school for leader-type roles. Basically, I was Captain of Rugby, Head of House, Head of School, the lot. But this, truthfully wasn’t something I wanted (I even attempted to refuse one title but was told not to be so stupid by my Housemaster).

Much more than the titles, I wanted above all to be liked by my peers. The titles, together with my perception of my responsibility for rule enforcement etc, created resentment. I was very unpopular indeed. To the point where several years after I left I remember being taken aside in a club in Cardiff by a drunk ex-pupil to be told at length how much I was loathed by all. This wasn’t solely the school’s fault though. My inexhaustible desire for popularity and approval started earlier, closer to home. All I can say is, to quote Dylan… I was older then, I’m much younger than that now.

Surely there must have been some good things

Aside from Rugby I would cite the music. Having the privilege of access to the noise of a professional choir giving it the full beans on a regular basis in the Cathedral was something I only appreciated after I’d left.

More than that though, was the informal exposure to the music of the early 70’s via the senior boys in the Deanery. It became an intrinsic part of the fabric of my character, which has never diminished. I can remember the first time I heard almost all of the big albums between 1970 and ’74. I often caught them by eavesdropping outside the monitor’s studies. Some of my more ‘esoteric’ musical loves happened there too. Van der Graaf Generator’s magnum opus “Pawn Hearts” was, and still is, a major passion, but I acknowledge that this isn’t a universally held perspective.

Were you scarred by the experience?

Boarding School in the 70’s was a tribal, sometimes even violent, place where displays of emotional weakness were dangerous. Having a cycle of family life, followed by the complete opposite was a disturbing experience, certainly for this adolescent. Consequently, one learned very rapidly to have a steel-strong shell wrapped around one’s feelings. That became the default way for dealing with relationships and pain.

However, the impact of this dissociation from one’s own feelings was enormous. It has been observed in numerous psychological studies, and it took me about 15 years to allow the barrier to drop at all. Even today, like many boarding school attendees, I am frequently unmoved by some emotions. Departures from loved ones especially are still greeted almost with equanimity. The school was one factor in this behaviour, though not necessarily the only one.

And of course, I have never spoken to any of my male contemporaries at school about any of this (I mean - after all I’ve said are you in the least bit surprised?)

Would you send your children?

Are you mad?

Anyway, I should introduce the longer piece.

It’s about a ten-minute read. It describes my arrival at the school. An event which, to put it mildly left its mark on me. Today I can recall every single detail with complete clarity, so none of it is fictionalised and there are no gaps I’ve filled in or made up..

My oldest friend who has read it wondered why I used the 3^rd party to tell the tale. I should explain that when I wrote it some years ago I wanted it to be like reportage, a series of events. Misery memoirs were a big thing at the time and I didn’t (and still don’t) want that poor-me vibe. The point of view may be a distraction, but hey ho.

Finally, I have included a pictorial Dramatis Personae in the form of the House photograph taken that first term, together with one of my tuck box, which had a huge symbolic importance for me and which remains with me still.

The piece is here

Finally, I don’t think I’m unkind to any boys in the piece (they were inmates, like me!) and the adults are all gone. However if anybody would rather this were not on public view contact me and I’ll sort it.

A feature of the post-industrial landscape up to about 15 years ago was the junkyard. Full of metal… things. Cars and ‘fridges, water tanks and oil drums, enormous coils of wire. The ground was inevitably black with pools of oil. And it was a rule that if ever you found yourself in the vicinity it always drizzled.

Of course, it’s different now. There is money in those piles of scrap, which has made the multi-purpose junkyard a thing of the past, especially as they have come under environmental pressure too. We don’t like all that nasty stuff on display, much better to pick it up from the roadside where it’s been fly tipped and stick it in landfill instead (Sorry, I’ll just get that old cynic back in his box)

Nowadays we live in the digital world and the impact of our old virtual garbage is less visible. But we’re still the same people and the digital detritus is all there, skulking quietly on corners of hard drives and the internet.  I have had a look around online recently, doing a kind of virtual stock take.

It’s not good news.

From the top, here are some of the contents of my digital scrapyard. Stuff which I don’t throw away now because storage is almost free and instantly available and well, because I’m a lazy bugger.

Website addresses

I live a life broadly free from addiction. Yet residing in my account on a website called 123-reg.com is a guilty secret.

You see I’m forever thinking of wizard schemes and hard on the heels of the thought is the deed. The inevitable enquiry to see if a suitable web domain address is available. Then a feeling of powerlessness overcomes me, like a gambler reaching for the slot machine lever. Which is how I’m currently the shamed-faced owner of over twenty domain names including such showstoppers as sellingmyexperience.com and newworklife.org.

I should say now, before you think that 20 isn’t so bad (oh… you weren’t), included in that number are only the currently licensed domains. I’ve had more, many more, in the past, but my one redeeming attempt at control has always been never to tick “Auto renew” when buying. This means I am forced to confront my folly 12 months later. But at that point I frequently experience exactly the same feeling as when you are cleaning out the attic and you come across that crumpled photo album or that old stamp collection. It’s a combination of “it would be such a shame to throw it away” and “this might actually be worth something”

Which explains for example, why I renewed for several years www.illgetthose.com. I mean, who can’t imagine a site targeted at impulse purchasers which wouldn’t make zillions with that address! Well, eventually I managed, shaking, to avoid pressing the “renew” button.

It’s still available if you want it, I’ve just checked. You’re welcome.

Music

Now I do love my music. Like many of my vintage I had an extensive record collection in the 70’s, replaced by CDs on the 80’s and 90’s (Most of the LPs sold to pay for the new media. Why?…Why?)

Then, around the millennium, when digital music and playback properly arrived I indulged my collecting mania all over again. Today, on a separate hard drive in my desktop I have a folder. It apparently has 27,000 tracks in it. In slight mitigation there are some curios in there which I love. Bootlegs (Beatles Reeperbahn is a particular favourite, as well as a Japanese band playing “Hey Joe” punkified, the words incomprehensible, because although sung in English they don’t actually speak the language. As Fluff Freeman would have said, Marvellous!)

But now 99 percent of the albums and tracks are online. I don’t need them stored on disc as well.

I especially don’t need that additional copy of the 107 gigabytes stored on the backup hard drive next to it. Or the one in the cloud on OneDrive, or the copy on Google Drive. I’m afraid offhand I can think of a couple more copies too, but it now sounds a bit silly.

Just a bit.

Well, I told you I do love my music.

Oh, and in the manner of a criminal asking for other crimes to be taken into consideration, I have done the exact same with my photography. Except worse because the damned photos have steadfastly resisted any attempts at curation over the years. The idea of photos being instantly available to me wherever I am evokes with me only a hollow laugh.

Websites

Having ‘fessed up to rampant domain addiction, we now move on to websites which do actually exist. Not quite such a lengthy roll call, but there they are, all up there on the www, mouldering quietly.

Starting with the least offensive. I created my own business site during The Great Hiatus, www.gswilliams.co.uk. I don’t mind that one too much. It has a purpose and I managed to rein in my compulsion to over complicate things. Plus, it has a nice picture of me on the front page. So there’s that. I did one for my Dad too when it became obvious that his contemporaries were all too frail to attend his funeral and relatives were dispersed to the four winds, www.taffwilliams.com. That one’s OK in a sort of amateurish way.

But…like the contents of that suitcase in the corner of the attic which turns out to contain things of great value, I am genuinely ashamed to confess that Susie’s website (www.susieloveoriginals.com)  is a bloody disgrace.

It was one of the first I created using a photo site called SmugMug (!). We both spent hours when Susie was selling her glass creating a rather splendid showcase of painstakingly photographed pictures. But subsequent site upgrades forced on unwitting users has robbed it of it’s functionality. You can see the pictures still but it’s not good. Not good at all. I will move the site away from its current home when I get a minute, well a day (I’m no good at this stuff!). Honest.

Bringing up the rear a couple of sites that also arrived with Covid-induced cabin fever.

My photography site www.gwimage.com Has some nice pics on it, but like so many millions of other sites, it needs curation and maintenance, which I haven’t done. For nostalgia fans there are plenty of lockdown references and the blog was last updated in 2020. Worst of all there’s a rather po-faced insert about my deliberations when buying a new camera (which got sold in turn not too long after). Now as a service I will share Gareth’s iron law of website creation: Never never, include a blog page on a site unless you will suffer physical or financial pain should you fail to post at least one a month. No exceptions.

And finally, like the rotting starling under the eaves, comes a last, rancid-smelling emission from the Covid era. While the world was working from home I thought “Now there’s a segment that could use it’s very own website”, and so www.WFHwork.com spluttered into being. What can I say. I was bored… very bored. And you will be too if you spend too long on it. It represented an attempt to get into the world of websites which become a respected resource for those times when, say, you want to know how to dress for a virtual meeting, all the while generating me advertising revenue. I know - Stupid!

So, there you have it.

What a mess… but I know I’m not alone in this digital oily puddle in the corner of the yard. I suppose I could stage some kind of virtual intervention, but really, you never know when you’ll need to hear the Stackridge album “A Victory for Common Sense”. Or see that blurry picture you took in 1978 of that girl you went out with for a few weeks, but whose name you can’t now remember.

But in reality there’s only one conclusion to be drawn. In true Stockholm Syndrome style, I may have come to love my digital captor and so I’ll happily take the downside.

Oh, and you will notice that there is one website missing from the scroll of shame, www.workingalternative.co.uk . The site consolidates all the newsletters posted so far and has one overwhelming advantage, namely its creation happens automatically, courtesy of Substack and I am powerless to balls it up. Yes, it’s a great way to recommend the newsletter to anyone. (See what I did there……)

In one darkly comic scene Messinger attempts to trade with the local tribe by offering them some brightly coloured clockwork mice. When he sets the mice on the floor the tribesmen panic in front of the apparently possessed, magical beings and disappear into the jungle.

This feels not dissimilar to the attitude of some folk these days when confronted by the latest gizmo to hit the tech market. But there is a germ of truth in their reaction. Technology may as well be magic when it has the apparent ability to perform miracles. Being a second-half boomer is to be in the perfect position to bear witness to the delights of technological advancement. We can still reap the benefits from said gizmo’s abilities, while also, conveniently, being able actually to afford the odd one ourselves.

Especially, we can also still feel sheer astonishment of the apparently supernatural properties these things possess. Millennials have grown up with this stuff and treat these everyday miracles with an insouciance I can’t begin to feel. I have had “Bloody Hell!” moments several times in the last few years, but since the Millennium there have been three devices which have stood out for me as being, well, magical:

Nikon D100 Camera

I’ve had dozens of cameras over the years, from high end SLRs to tiny pocket film cameras that wouldn’t have disgraced James Bond’s dinner jacket, but the Nikon was a redefinition of what was possible when capturing images. I bought it for my business, when I had started to do some commissioned photography. It arrived at my unit on 22^nd August 2002. I unpacked it, charged the battery and took a few snaps, then went home with it. It was the first fully digital camera I had owned, and I wanted to show it off to Susie (partly it must be said, to justify its high cost to myself as well as her).

In our kitchen I raised it to my eye and with the eleventh exposure using the Nikon I took this picture.

I claim no photographic skill here, other than spotting the sun setting through Susie’s hair, but I can still remember the feeling that, for the first time ever a camera had reached inside my head and pulled out the picture I had wanted to take, rather than the slightly disappointing rough approximation all my previous cameras had managed. These days of course I would get onto Photoshop and lighten Susie’s face, but this is as it appeared on the back of the camera that day.

It kept performing this miracle too (Plenty of its results are on my www.gwimage.co.uk website btw plug, plug), but this was an unforgettable, and yes, magical, moment.

Samsung Frame TV

As with many things techy the rate of change seems to be accelerating, with new wonders appearing seemingly daily. Nevertheless, when our new telly arrived last year it was a moment when I remembered TVs of the past. The ridiculously small black and white boxes of the 60’s. The faux wooden drinks cabinets of the 70’s (they had doors, kiddies!). The huge, almost-cube-shaped silver plastic boxes at the end of the cathode-ray era.

Then this, a slender wall mounted wonder that, when switched off becomes a 55” picture, displaying art. It has freed up cubic yards of the room. But for me, the “bloody hell” moment came when it sank in that the only wire required for connection, power, everything, was a small, thin, strand that you can just see below the frame.

I mean it has to be magic doesn’t it?

Remarkable Tablet

This device arrived a couple of years ago and was a moment when mysterious aliens tapped into my brain and extracted the precise requirements I had for a digital notebook.

These were that it had to be impossibly slim and light. It had to be able to store my notes in multiple folders in the cloud. It had to have a long battery life and above all else it had to be indistinguishable from a paper notebook when writing.

Which describes the Remarkable to a tee.

For forty-five years I have used paper notebooks for work. I create a daily to-do list each morning and write all of my other notes on separate pages during the day. Nowadays there is the added complication that with several different fingers in separate pies, I need to be able to switch seamlessly from one category of work to another. Before this tablet I could manage two work streams, one at the front of the notebook and one working from the back! Currently I have four, plus my to do list, all of which are immediately available.

But there are two traits of this wonder that make it possibly the greatest gadget I’ve bought this Millennium.

The first is that it assists with my lifelong inability to concentrate. It does this by restricting my online access to my cloud documents only. I never disappear down the doom-scrolling rabbit-hole when I’m working on this device. Now I know it sounds like I’m describing one of the Remarkable’s possible weaknesses as a strength, but until you’ve spent up to an hour (an hour!) without once checking what’s happening online, or who that email that just came in was from (always Majestic Wine in my case) you can’t really appreciate what a big deal this is.

The second trait though is where this sliver of glass displays its true magical properties. When I write on it the feel is the same as if I was using a ballpoint on a piece of foolscap. To be clear it’s not nearly the same…it’s exactly the same. This means that the technology recedes into the background in a way that no other device I’ve owned has fully managed. I am experiencing the same physical feedback that I have always experienced when I’ve scribbled stuff for the last sixty-odd years. It’s jaw-dropping.

I can concentrate.

No, it’s not perfect for everything (I have a keyboard for it that I never use) but at the thing I need it for, it is.

All three of these three pieces of hardware share one trait that moves them from the merely technologically advanced, to the essential and that is their ability simply to enable the activity, but then fade out of the process for which they are designed. They are there to do a job and their only function is to complete that job.

One of the great irritations of modern technology is the wish of creators to try and be all things to all people:

“Oh yes you want a car to drive from A to B? This car can do that but look! It can also make you a cup of tea as well and it will helpfully sound a chime every time you get in to remind you to restock the teabag holder”

Each of these three is a specialist. It does its task extraordinarily well, but then disappears. It’s the ease of integration of modern technology that is the ultimate measure of its usefulness. That is why the phones we all carry don’t hit the heights of these three. My Samsung phone is now capable of taking pictures that are technically superior to those from my Nikon 20-plus years ago, but to raise a snap to the same level as the SLR requires a series of adjustments and menu accessing that just weren’t needed back then.

Tech firms frequently fall into the trap of failing to distinguish between a feature and a benefit. They shoehorn bucketfuls of features into tech simply because they can, without asking whether the vanishingly small number of users who might actually use the feature are worth appeasing, at the expense of all the other users who quite frankly just don’t need yet another sub-menu to negotiate when trying for example, to turn on their car’s cruise control.

These three haven’t fallen into the trap and in these distracted times that is true magic.

Perhaps I should explain first that I do know of which I speak, having seen a shrink for 5 years a couple of decades ago. I thought it might be diverting for those who’ve never sat in a room with a stranger, a clock, some slightly ethnic-looking ornaments and a malevolent box of tissues, to know what the mechanics of the process are.

But first I’m afraid those expecting lurid tales from my background involving drugs, drink and abuse (self- or otherwise) are doomed to disappointment. I’m afraid my visits happened, more prosaically, as a result of a feeling of gradually escalating gloom and hopelessness arising from…. nothing. I couldn’t explain why I felt so shit, so I thought well, perhaps somebody else could. With Susie’s agreement (She had to live with me being a miserable bugger, so not surprising she was on board) and safe in the knowledge that she was certainly not the cause, I started looking for somebody….

I found Debra, who described herself as a Jungian Analytical Psychotherapist, online. In a directory of Psychotherapists, believe it or not. She had 30 years’ experience so I thought - well that should mean she’s seen plenty of people like me - shouldn’t take her too long to sort me out.

It took rather longer than I anticipated.

I’ll explain the mechanics of the process, because it never varied one iota in the five years, twice a week, that I went. I’m sure that was the idea.

Debra ran her practice from her home, a fairly large modern house in a suburb of Northampton. She shared it with her husband and I think, one or two sons who may have been at University. (astonishingly I visited her house on about 450 occasions and never once saw anybody else, just occasional sounds of a quietly closed door or an occasional muffled voice talking to someone in their drive). She never volunteered any information about herself. She wasn’t unfriendly at all, just extremely adept at setting boundaries.

She was, like her house, a very very neat woman of about 55. Maybe a couple of times over the five years she mentioned something domestic, say an apology for the (rare) noise of distant drilling, but nothing else. It was effectively a part of the terms and conditions of our sessions: I spilled my guts about all my deepest, darkest fears, phobias and memories.

And she didn’t.  

Anyway, I would park my car in the drive, always at exactly the right time. The closest things got to a rule was that I showed up on time, neither early nor late. I would ring the bell and Debra would answer about 10 seconds later and we would start an unvarying gavotte, whose steps were that she would take one step backwards while quietly saying hello. I would smile and nod and go straight up the stairs and into the front room, which had a long black sofa two easy chairs a cupboard and a few ornaments, which, like the whole room, were intensely, absurdly, neutral.

The sofa was an option for lying, but I tried it once but found it inhibiting and clichéd. It was the easy chair with the window behind it for me. On the windowsill In Debra’s eye line but not mine, was a travel clock. A coffee table to my left with the terrifying tissue box. I’d sit down then Debra would sit down, a closed notebook on her lap. She’d smile at me and…..

Silence.

Then more silence.

The silence would last until I said something. The thing about these types of sessions is that they are not led by the therapist, to the point where Debra would literally wait and wait, minutes sometimes, for me to say something. In the early days I was profoundly uncomfortable with this, to the point of finding it irritating, but gradually caught on that it forced me to look backwards to the previous session and overlay my thoughts from the intervening days, then I would start in on what I had been feeling and thinking in that time. The sessions would last 45 minutes and in the early days the sessions would be split 95:5 in terms of who did the talking. Maybe Debra might ask one open question, but that would be it.

Things started like this and went on in the same vein for maybe a year. As an aside it does take a considerable effort of will not to write off the whole exercise as a colossal waste of time and money during this phase. With the benefit of perspective of course, I can see that I began to talk myself into a bit more self-awareness and I think Debra began to get some information on what was going on inside my head. But she never came to a ‘diagnosis’ as such and I never asked her for one.

After about a year of this apparently futile, expensive waste of time I began to notice something. During the sessions I began to wonder if some of the stories I had told myself about my past might not be quite so cut and dried.

To explain, we all have an internal narrative of our life that explains how we ended up here and got quite as screwed up as we are….  (well, that last bit may be just me). It’s deep-rooted and could follow on from the phrase “We hold these truths to be self-evident”. It’s a source of comfort and makes us feel like we have made sense of the world and ourselves. My narrative began to get a little less linear and a little more open to debate.

In the second and third years of the sessions I began to glean that Debra’s odd open question were carrying a bit more freight than just enabling me to talk some more. We started discussing my dreams, not in an interpretive way, but more as a tool. I’d say what nonsense had come into my head and then with Debra’s subtle prompting I’d look for explanations as to why I’d had the dream. The point was the dream itself meant nothing, but it was what I thought they were about afterwards that was interesting to me. Gradually the narrative began to change. My idiotic self-criticisms and opinions began to become, if not improved at least explicable. Some of the bad guys and girls in my tale seemed to be less appalling. My grudges and anger seemed to be somewhat overstated. My internal story still had good guys and girls and bad guys and girls. But some of them had changed identity.

I had some time off, but I restarted the sessions after my Mother’s death had sent me quietly bonkers for a bit. At this point Debra began to add an occasional observation and sometimes she would throw in an astonishingly perceptive insight. After 4 years she kind of knew me pretty well.

In the sessions, invariably, just as we would be getting into some deep shit, Debra would announce that the time was up. I would, also invariably, find the strict timekeeping intensely irritating, but would slowly stand up and lead the way out of the room. We would walk, usually silently down the thickly carpeted stairs then Debra would open the door and say, “I’ll see you next time”. I’d answer “Yes” and I’d get, sometimes dazedly, into my car and reverse out of the drive.

Eventually, after 5 years I said I wanted to stop the sessions. I still found them an oasis of calm and reflection, but I felt as if the urgency had gone out of things a bit. Debra agreed.

So…the obvious question: Was it worth it?

Yes.

I started unhappy and ended feeling significantly better, with a some clear insights into why I am like I am. That knowledge means these days I can sometimes understand myself a little more and it hopefully means I’m not quite such an arse to be with for those I love.

Oh, and that bloody box of tissues. I’m not sure why I disliked the whole “I’ve got things ready for you to have a good cry” thing, but I really did. I cried, of course I did, on many, many occasions but I never once reached for a tissue!

The obvious question though is - why the hell didn’t I tell Debra how I felt about that?

Here’s my second trawl through songs Ancient and Modern, looking for the songs that pass the Old Grey Whistle Test for me (Now that I’m old and grey.) Can I suggest that, rather than sit down and listen to them with furrowed brow thinking “What the hell is this?”  You stick the playlist on your phone (You can play either Spotify or YouTube playlist without membership) and maybe try them in the car on in the background on Saturday morning. I give you my word that at least one of these will get you smiling in remembrance or delving for the phone to remind yourself of the band….

The list this month evokes in me a slightly more sombre feeling, because of the fact that the people of genius seem to be lining up for departure these days and a couple are on here. Rest assured, the music itself though is far from gloomy.  

Go on! Whack it on the HiFi (Whoops, nobody calls it that any more do they!), you’ll be glad you did. More choice cuts coming along soon…… Meanwhile I’ve done a para for each to add to the fun.

Here’s a preview of the playlist for Spotify users. Press play for the whole track:

And the link is here for Youtube music

Mayor of Simpleton                     XTC

When Andy Partridge wrote this song in 1989 he created a magnificent walking bass line for Colin Moulding and overlaid it with typically quirky, funny and romantic lyrics, creating a nailed-on classic. It’s one of many in their oeuvre. It feels like XTC are sometimes a bit overlooked and it could be because they sound a little …sort of …. “spikey” to me. They suffered a bit from typical 80’s over-bright production, but underneath that the songs are grand.

On the Beach                                  Boz Skaggs

Neil Young recorded the album On the Beach, a ragged majestic epic, in 1974. After ‘Harvest’ had put him in the middle of the road he hoped it would point him back towards the ditch. He then proceeded to bury it for decades for reasons which have never been made clear. The LP was deleted and the cassette likewise. It became a cult item, finally being released on CD for the first time in 2003.  I had a muddy-sounding cassette recording of it in the mid-70s, from a girlfriend of unimpeachable musical taste (evidently not carried over to boys.) To add to the weirdness, this is Boz (“Lido Shuffle”) Skaggs’s version of the title track. Which is, rather unexpectedly, terrific.

Tangled up in Love                                        The Rifles

One of those instantly recognisable tracks beloved by clip editors on the telly, this is a really good, euphoric love song of the kind that surfaced every 10 minutes in the Britpop era. The Rifles have a ‘by royal appointment’ from the king of the Mods himself, Paul Weller and it’s no surprise to know that Ian “Lightening Seeds” Broudie has produced them in the past.

Bus stop boxer                                               Eels

Mark ‘E’ Everett is a singular talent. He has his own pretty traumatic backstory which he frequently mines, but this tale actually came from an engineer who said his world view was formed by his father, who would encourage him as a boy to pick fights with people at the bus stop to ‘toughen him up’. Go figure, as they say over there. The song unfurls like a therapy session, but with mesmeric music.   

Only love can break your heart             St Etienne

When Indie dance troupe St Etienne released their first album “Fox Base Alpha”, it had a Neil Young (Yes, him again) song on it. Young’s version registers a solid 9 on the slush-ometer, so it seemed a quixotic choice for St E at first glance. But it all made sense when you heard it. NME at the time said, “It should nark a few old hippies”. The album and this single were nominated for various prizes when released and you can hear why. It was the soundtrack to the so-called Second Summer of Love™.

I don’t believe you        The Magnetic Fields

I do love a clever lyric. This track is full of them. Here’s one of many:

You tell me I'm not, not cute
It's truth or falsity is moot
‘Cos honesty's not your strong suit
And I don't believe you,

But its more than just words. It has a tremendous ‘cello (!) line and a really memorable hum-along tune, picked out on the banjo (!!). Stephen Merritt, Magnetic Fields leader enjoys his themes and this track comes from an album called “i”. All of the tracks feature the word I in the title. They’ve also released an album called 69 love songs consisting of, as you might guess 69 songs about love. Anyway, this is a great track. 

I Hate Hate                       Ian Hunter

As we crawl dazedly from the shelters after Armageddon we will be greeted by a very tall, very thin, shape in shades emerging from the mist. It’ll be ‘Untah’ and he’ll be looking for a recording studio. This track is from last year’s album Defiance (He’s just released another btw…. it’s very good). As you can hear on this typically ranty track, in his 9^th decade he’s sounding, well, just like Ian Hunter. A very good thing.

Pitch the baby                Cocteau Twins

By 1990, Grangemouth’s Cocteau Twins had been releasing albums for 10 years, culminating in the career peaking ‘Heaven or Las Vegas’. On this track from that album vocalist Elizabeth Fraser’s beautiful voice joins with the chiming guitar to soar over the big beats from the ubiquitous Roland 808 drum machine.

Medicine Bow                 The Waterboys

I do a blow a bit hot and cold on the Waterboys, but the album ‘This is the Sea’ (Karl Wallinger’s last with the band btw, see below) is really good. This is a big old slab of noise driven by loads of percussion and the extended version (here) has a piano break that renders the original edit a pale substitute.

The Oaks                           Gaz Coombes

One of the high-point albums of the 90’s, Supergrass’s “In it for the Money” put the band onto my “bands whose albums are an automatic buy on day of release” list. I never regretted that decision once. Gaz Coombes inherited the berth after the group’s demise and he continues to produce cracking tunes. The sound has softened a little over the years (I mean he’s old now. He’s …. looks up Wikipedia…. Oh…48, so not old at all.) Anyway, this is a cracker from the album before last.

Jean the Birdman          David Sylvian and Robert Fripp

Sometimes with collaborations they can be a bit, well…. crap. This track shows how it should be done. Featuring the mellifluous voice of early ‘80’s fops Japan in the form of David Sylvian, teamed up with needs-no-introduction King Crimson lead Robert Fripp. They both throttle back the pyrotechnics to produce something super-smooth and altogether rather wonderful. Listen out for the fade where Fripp’s guitar sound runs backwards. Lovely.

Gullwing Doors             Fruit Bats

I remember when I stumbled over the album ‘The Pet Parade’ one Sunday afternoon. It produced an immediate reaction, “Bloody hell, this guy’s listened to a lot of Dave Cousins from the Strawbs”, but then I listened again and heard a really good LP full of melodies to cherish. It’s one of those lockdown albums which was produced by three individuals in different States in the US. Not that you’d know. Modern technology, eh? What will they think of next?

Skeletons                         Brothers Osborne

Coming essentially from a Country stable, the Brothers Osbourne are not normally where you’d find me panning for gold, except this track seems to have snuck up (Can you use the word ‘snuck’ if you don’t come from Texas?) on me. It’s a 3’30’’ loud, brutal, rock song which I can imagine going down a storm in those roadside bars in the States where Tommy Lee Jones is permanently in the shadows and a shooting is permanently on the agenda…… as always it deserves significant volume.

Stoned Train Driver                     The Bevis Frond

Back to the Frond for this classic track from 1995’s album “Superseeded”. The evergreen qualities prized by the disgracefully tiny following Nick Saloman has amassed over 40 years and approximately 30 albums, are all here - namely a great hook, memorable lyrics and stupendous guitar work. The astonishing thing about Saloman is that as he has aged his album quality has, if anything improved. Do I like the Bevis Frond? Let’s say that I rank them as highly as any band from the 60’s onwards and yes that does include the…. well, you get the gist.

Nylon Strung                   Underworld

When the Underworld album “Barbara, Barbara we face a shining future” (No, me neither) it came after a hiatus that had lasted 6 years. But the guys have still got their trademark sound, electronica and big beats with avant garde lyrics and strong melodies. This track is the album closer and ends things very nicely.

All come true                   World Party

It feels like we are approaching the eye of the storm for music-related death announcements, and a certain resignation creeps in when you hear that another big name has handed in their lunch pail. Notwithstanding that, Karl Wallinger was an unexpected left-field shock. As World Party he released two or three classic albums in the early 90’s. His first album after leaving the Waterboys was Private Revolution in 1987 which contained the almost perfect “Ship of Fools”, but I’ve gone here for the track after it. A wonderful, melancholy example of his genius, it feels more apposite in the circumstances.

The Numbers                  Radiohead

Radiohead have a marvellous knack of unsettling you. You never know what’s coming next, they are the Bowie of the current music business. When A Moon-Shaped Pool was released it received almost universal approbation, skewed as it was towards the more tuneful end of their songwriting spectrum. Thom Yorke’s voice is as clear as a bell on this track and I love the way the almost Indian-sounding strings crank up the menace at 3’33”. We are lucky to still have them.

Tunnel 13                           Mark Knopfler

This is from Mark Knofler’s newly released album “One Deep River” and is a good example of where he is these days. Broadly it’s in the space exemplified by ‘Six-Blade Knife’ on the first album rather than ‘Sultans of Swing’. No flash, not a note is played that doesn’t fit perfectly and his softly spoken rich voice is perfect. All in all, a treat

Madman across the Water      Elton John & Mick Ronson

John and Taupin knew they had something with this track in 1970, but they allowed it to steep a little before the final version came out on the eponymous album in 1971. That version is splendid, but here I’ve gone for an earlier one which features the stupendous guitar of one Mick Ronson, rather than the strings of the later version. At over 8 minutes long, in some ways it’s a bit less coherent, but boy, could he play guitar, as someone later sang.

Four in the morning                    Ivy

And in memory of another egregious loss, I’ve included a track to stand as a memorial to Adam Schlesinger. He died in the first wave of Covid so I’m a little late. He was one of those, slightly below the radar, songwriters who nevertheless had a stunning way with a tune. He was one of the two prime movers behind The Fountains of Wayne, but before that he had formed Ivy with a couple of friends. They produced several albums, all worth investigation. This track is a good representation of the sound. Smooth French-inflected vocals and a magnificent melody underpinning it. What a talent and what a loss.

We are told that perfectionism is not always a good thing. That “Perfect is the enemy of good”. The Pareto 80:20 principle is fast becoming the most inappropriately overused semi-scientific quote of modern times.

For this week’s post I’d like to crave your indulgence and take you briefly inside the strange nether world of software development. Stay close though - weirdos abound in this neck of the woods, but it won’t take long, promise and it is relevant …

Those of us earning a crust in the digital world (as well as most people under 35, tbh) are aware of one of the last stages of testing of software applications. This is Beta testing and it’s where your new phone app for example, is supposed to be tested in real world circumstances to confirm that it performs as expected. It supposed to mean that some spotty developer sitting in his vest in Cupertino doesn’t release software that only he has used, thereby automatically meaning that 85% of the stuff normal people in the real world use remains untested.

Beta testing is supposed to happen before the release of the software, so that the finished article released to a panting audience is in tip-top shape. However, about 20 years ago something changed in this process.

Modern technology is tribal. We are all aware of the great Apple/Android schism, where the fanboys would rather die than admit there is anything positive to be said about the other sides’ products. These disciples will happily join groups to assist with Beta testing for free. Indeed, it’s far from unusual for anybody with a passing interest in tech to get several invitations to become a beta tester for new releases each year.

Additionally, the development mantra in Global software giants like Facebook and Amazon has always been ‘Move fast and break things.’  “So what, if things don’t go so well in the early stages of a software release? Fix it and move on. Obviously we know better than the customers themselves what they want and critically, we know they will stick with us while we sort things out.” This approach is forgiven, even when it’s inconvenient, by the fans, because their champion can do no wrong.

Which brings us to today and a firm called Sonos.

Now Sonos flogs HiFi systems. They are in the same line of business as say Bang and Olufson, or Sanyo used to be in the 70’s. Unfortunately, because they play music digitally, via a wireless network, they have committed what wordsmiths call a category error. They, incorrectly, believe they are in the computer business. This sorry state of affairs was highlighted earlier this month when they decided to roll out a major change to the phone app with which users control their Sonos systems.

They let loose one of the worst updates I’ve ever seen in 20 years exposure to this type of thing. It's so bad that they have effectively broken a great many of their customer’s expensive HiFi systems (mine included). Not to put too fine a point on it, the update is so spectacularly bad, the user experience is so inexpressibly awful, the now-missing core elements so fundamental, that Sonos may have actually not just ruined my audio system, they may have ‘bricked’ their entire company.

If it isn’t already obvious I am something of a music hobbyist. All of my life I have collected LPs, then cassettes, then CD’s and then LPs again. Then around the turn of the century digital media became the big thing. I embraced it enthusiastically. I bought Sonos.

When the Sonos system works well it’s a very good thing. That it has occasional nervous breakdowns is an intense irritation to me, but it could possibly be caused by the shape of our house (Long and thin, which means lots of opportunity for signals to get dropped etc.) I am reconciled to the fact that this happens from time to time.

This week though was a fresh hell.

I first knew something was amiss when I logged in to check the exact name of a track I was intending to add to my “Heading for the ditch” post (Here next week – Subscribe now!) ….. I got the helpful message reproduced in the screenprint above. I couldn’t play anything at all or even communicate with my system.

Oh great. “What’s causing the interference this time?”  I thought. But hang on… the screen itself looked different. I went online. Oh dear. Software update.

The update in its current state might have been accepted had they been a small tech business operating in a sphere where the digital technology itself was the product and whose customers were enthusiastic evangelists for their cause. But Sonos passed this point years ago. Their customer base is now one that enjoys their music reproduced at tip top quality, while not giving two hoots about the process by which the sound arrives at their speakers.  Buyers like me want something that just works and plays their music seamlessly and consistently. That Sonos doesn’t get this has been confirmed in recent days by a ridiculously portentous, self-important statement released by them when the predictable angry noise erupted from the owners of the kit:

“It takes courage to rebuild a brand’s core product from the ground up, and to do so knowing it may require taking a few steps back to ultimately leap into the future”

If I may translate. “Welcome to Beta testing, suckers. We know you didn’t ask to join, but we expect you to help us get this sh*tshow back on the road… because you love us …right?”

Oh, and notice that the statement refers to the app as a “core product”. No… the speakers in this instance are the product, the app is what enables them. The app is a mere component.

This all leaves me, and presumably many other Sonos users, in a quandary. I’ve bought myself some time by removing the new version of the application and reinstalling the old one. Now I need to decide what to do next….

I have totted up the cost of my Sonos system… about £5k give or take, excluding all the third-party amplifiers, turntables and speakers. Having been the victim of such an egregious mistake, the only sensible decision is to cut my losses and move on to a competitor who understands their customer better. This may seem like overkill, but it’s such a spectacular own goal it suggests that at root there is a fundamental misunderstanding of their customer base and it will only be a matter of time before it happens again in some form.

My point here is that perfectionism has its place still in today’s world. Especially when your livelihood is dependent upon understanding who your customers are and what they are looking for from your products. Of course, perfection is unattainable in many circumstances but your aspiration to achieve it is what’s important.  This half-assed update from Sonos makes it clear that they don’t seem to understand this.

Sorry, rant over. Happily, it’s music week next week! And don’t worry, the playlist’s arrival is entirely unaffected by those wankers at Sonos.