The policy is ideologically driven and founded on a shaky evidential base. The prototypes, ‘Free Schools’ in Sweden, ‘Charter Schools’ in the USA, follow the same model of autonomous management and state funding. Neither, however, has produced any convincing evidence that these institutions lead to any discernible improvement in standards over the municipally or state managed systems (1). Indeed, there is some evidence from the Swedish experience that the Free Schools experiment may have led to a fall in standards (2). Nonetheless, ‘free schools’, unproven as they are, suit the ideological priority of the Conservatives – reducing the role of the state and the introduction of market principals to previously public areas of British life. Regular readers will know I’m no big fan of ‘the state’ myself but, being a pragmatic libertarian, I prefer a side order of evidence to compliment my main course of liberty.

Of course not even this Government really subscribes to the oft-peddled notion that a group of random parents or activists will just set up a ‘free school’ in an empty office building. The reality is that people in the education ‘business’ will create these new institutions, if not for ‘profit’ to expand their empires. So it’s is in East Reading, where the  Oxford and Cherwell Valley College (OCVC), which picked up the corpse of Reading’s FE provision when Thames Valley University (TVU) (now the University of West London) pulled out, are consulting on their 14-19 ‘Reading Technical Academy’ proposal.

The Reading consultation meeting, held last night (Monday 23 April), was reasonably attended despite a 6:30 start and a wet night and proved to be quite revealing. It is fair to say that the proposition of a 14-19 school has not proved popular in east Reading, not least because of the missing 11-13 element in a situation where school places in the area are to come under serious pressure in the next five years. Added to that is the fact that the proposition is not and will not be a ‘Reading’ school. The catchment on which the consultation is based advertises 30% of places for Reading post codes. This amounts to 45 places each year for Reading children – it could be more, but that would depend on take up in the remaining catchment, that stretches out in a 15 mile radius, not filling the remaining places.

The meeting was told, by OCVC Chief Executive, Sally Dicketts, that the DfE “would not approve” the 11-19 institution OCVC had first proposed and that the DfE insisted on the ‘sub regional’ nature of the school and therefore the principle, if not the precise formula, of the wider catchment. What will interest the local community most is the arrangement the DfE seem to be allowing to take place to provide the site to OCVC.

The intended site, at Crescent Road, has been in educational use for many years. Ironically in fact it belonged to the predecessor Reading College before the take-over by TVU. When TVU pulled out of Reading they retained the site which they had effectively closed. Now, according to one of the answers given by Ms Dicketts, part of the site is being purchased from TVU (The University of West London) on behalf of OCVC by the DfE for the new ‘free school’. The remainder of the site, which includes one of the most significant open spaces in east Reading, Ms Dicketts said, was to be “sold to a developer”.

This will horrify most people in east Reading. The ‘Alfred Sutton field’, as the site is known, first came under threat in the late 1980s when Conservative controlled Berkshire County Council floated the idea of a ‘science-based business park’ on the site. Ten years later a series of land swaps involving the demolition of redundant college-owned buildings and their replacement by housing nonetheless protected the green space which has become an ever more important community resource hosting youth football clubs, tournaments, fetes and festivals as well as meeting Alfred Sutton Primary School’s needs. A dozen or so years further on and it would appear that this important green space is directly threatened by a project championed by among others, Rob Wilson, the MP for Caversham. OCVC first denied the suggestion of plans for housing development and Mr Wilson, who recently launched a blatantly ideological attack on the LEA, accused Labour of “grubbing around in the dirt for votes” when they suggested that plans for development were likely  (3).

The proposal for the Reading Technical Academy would seem to enjoy little support in east Reading. It is the wrong solution to the wrong question. While the notion of an institution that provides a specialist education in computer science and engineering may have some merits, the OCVC proposal is neither fish nor fowl. And while the notion of changing school at 14 certainly has merits the ‘middle school’ system, unfortunately in my view, does not operate locally. It is hard to see exactly who this will be marketed to and to whom it will be attractive, nor how it will succeed without becoming in some way selective. The meeting was asked how the likely gender imbalance of the school, given its specialisation, would be addressed. The panel said they were aware of the potential problem, though the irony that their academic partner is the Reading (boys grammar) School seemed lost on them. It is an indication of narrow ‘tick the box’ thinking – there is an equally worthy girls grammar school or any number of successful co-ed schools they could have picked.

Though whatever the opposition to the school, the likely opposition to the prospect of the concreting over of a key green space in east Reading’s urban environment, one which Labour politicians including myself and the former MP, Martin Salter, in his time as a local councillor pledged to protect is likely to be even greater. I wish east Reading residents well in this battle and certainly hope, whatever the outcome on the Technical Academy, the current generation of Labour politicians will honour the pledges of their predecessors.

Notes 

(1)   There have been numerous studies of Charter School performance in the USA. The outcomes are contradictory which some, notably CREDO (Stanford University, 2009) shows a negative outcome while others, notably National Bureau of Economic Research (2004) suggest a positive impact – though mostly on their ‘competitor’ schools. It is worth noting that even in these cases the effects were found to be marginal either way.

(2)  Evidence from Sweden is also contradictory though OECD studies suggest a marked decline in the country’s educational ranking (2009 Programme for International Student Assessment) and studies at Stockholm University also suggest a negative impact. Needless to say the ‘for profit’ providers contend otherwise.

(3)  Reading Chronicle, 2 April 2012.

Over the past fortnight we have all had good reason we believe that we had dropped off and awoke mid Silly Season. It is tempting to look at all of it, perhaps later, but for now Bradford, lest I be accused of only writing about by-elections where Labour does well.

I had actually forgotten the by-election was happening. Coverage had not been so much low profile and no profile, so much so I had no idea Mr G was a candidate. When I hit the sack on Thursday I had mislaid the mental note that there was an election to watch. I awoke to a text from a friend saying “OMG Galloway”. It took me a few minutes for the relevance to click through my drowse.

I was surprised initially, but not exactly shocked.

The usual post by-election articles attempting to ‘explain’ from the usual partisan viewpoints the significance of the result for me missed the central point.

George Galloway won Bradford West because he was the best candidate by a country mile. That doesn’t mean he will make the best MP, of course. The two things are very different. And for the terminally warped trolls in Web World who think that means I agree with Mr G on lots of things – it doesn’t.

A little thinking and all the ingredients for an upset were present. In brief here’s why:

• Mr G has form. He pulled off the same wheeze in 2005 at the expense of the hapless Oona King. She didn’t see it coming till it was too late either. This sort of result should be HARDER to pull off at a General Election when a Government is being chosen than at a by-election when an MP is being chosen. If he could do it then, he could do it this time.
• Bradford is, by all accounts in a bit of a state, having suffered a series of unfortunate economic blows. The occasional construction placed on ‘the North’ by the Conservatives and their friends in the media (who generally don’t live or go there) that Labour’s time in office failed to benefit it’s heartlands is mainly wrong but it may, to a degree, fit in Bradford.
• Some communities from the 50s-60s wave of immigration engage or otherwise with UK politics on a UK level, but in many Pakistani populations the politics of ‘the old country’ and the Muslim world still matter a lot. It is all a somewhat complex and volatile mocktail. There is also a significant degree of resentment between the generations, particularly in their relationships with ‘community leaders’. Mr G has tailored his politics, or at least his presentation, toward this audience.
• The traditional repository of by-election protest votes – anti-war, anti-government, anti-whatever, the Liberal Democrats, has made itself unavailable by being in Government with the Conservatives.
• Bradford West’s community politics is by no means unfamiliar. Having represented an area with a substantial Pakistani population myself, I would question whether a candidate being Pakistani embroiled in the internal politics of the ‘community’ is necessarily an advantage? Not always.
• It is also a sad fact that there remains, though some don’t like to admit it, a section of the white population who prefer not to vote for a Muslim. The former MP, Marsha Singh, was a Sikh.

So the fundamentals were ideal for Mr G: discontent to be exploited, community tensions, generational resentment, ethnic division, block votes, deprivation and decay.

It is also worth taking note of some points about Mr Galloway that his opponents, blinded by a mix of distaste and loathing, fail to recognise:

• Though frequently dismissed as “loony”, “egotist”, “not very nice”, etc., Mr G is, in many respects, a class act. He can manipulate the media extraordinarily well, he is a seriously good TV performer who always gives as good as he gets, he knows he will be attacked and he is superb at dealing with it.
• Mr G is an opportunist in the sense that he spots opportunities. Many politicians try to. Mr G is good at it.
• Mr G is a former election organiser and he knows his stuff.
• Mr G is a minor celebrity in a country mildly obsesses with celebrity.
• Mr G is not without charm ‘on the doorstep’.
• Mr G is also famously litigious, dismissive of journalists who notoriously ‘don’t like it up ‘em’ and seen is by some as rude and aggressive – others would see it as honest and passionate.

But despite all this, the situation required something more to give it a push in Mr G’s direction. There had to be an opportunity he could exploit. A TV debate handed it to him. Appearing alongside the other candidates on The regional break out of BBC’s Sunday Politics show Mr G stood head and shoulders above the other candidates. The cannon fodder turned out by the Conservatives and LibDems and the usual jokers from UKIP and The Green Party provided a plateau of dross above which Mr G could tower. But his real opposition was Labour and the contrast couldn’t have been worse for Mister Ed’s party. Mr Hussain may be a decent man, I don’t know, but on this programme he was incoherent and inarticulate, nervous and shifty. He made fundamental, quotable political errors. Mr G simply ate him for breakfast. The video became the central feature on Mr G’s campaign website, Labour’s refusal to participate in other hustings were another stick with which to be beaten.

So Mr G was perfectly placed. A ‘friend of Muslims’ playing to the ‘Brothers’ but not involved in ‘community’ in-fighting, a White guy who other White guys can vote for instead of voting for a Muslim, an outsider focussing on simple but obvious problems, an experienced MP with celebrity and name recognition, a shark among political minnows and, crucially, ‘not from the usual three’.

I am in no position to know whether Labour’s campaign got to grips with rebutting Mr Galloway’s attack or mounting a counter offensive, I suspect not but if it did it clearly failed.

There are few real lessons from Bradford but several reminders.

• First, ‘Respect’ are not going to surge ahead next time. There’s only one George Galloway (as they may or may not sing at Valley Parade) and, as cloning seems to be off, Respect is will remain a one trick pony.
• Second, at a by-election the candidate matters. If you select a stinker and they are exposed it will be the death of you.
• Third, what it means for the two point five main parties is limited: the Conservatives are not wildly popular, their vote crashed here but there is probably little long term significance, the Lib Dems were once again nowhere – their ‘anti-politics’ appeal is shot for the moment at least, and Labour, well as the incumbent they were always the party with most to lose. What it says about Labour? It does not necessarily mean that Mister Ed is bound for the knackers yard, but there is a limit to how long the jury can remain out. Apparently his personal ratings have taken a knock, but as they were already swinging lower than a dachshund’s tackle it hardly matters. It does, however, say very clearly that Labour, whatever snapshot polls may suggest, is not in a place from which it can yet hope to win the next election. Opposition parties that look like alternative governments don’t lose seats at by-elections. If, however, Labour’s Flat Earth Tendency interprets Bradford as an endorsement of a significant shift to the so-called ‘left’ and their view gets any traction then Labour is doomed – not just at the next election but at the one after too.
• Fourth, the temptation of something ‘different’ when the electorate is not choosing a government has always been strong is today even stronger. In today’s climate of mild contempt for the two big parties and utter contempt for the Liberal Democrats someone viably offering ‘different’ is onto a potential winner.
• Fifth, when under attack from a viable fringe candidate there has to be an effective counter attack. Ignore them and they prosper. Labour needs to firmly dispense with the lunatic idea that the best way to fight election campaigns is merely by “knocking on a lot of doors” as a substitute for having something coherent to say.

What may prove more significant than anything about Bradford is the early silly season madness of a Prime Minister and his sidekicks orchestrating the panic buying of gasoline for their own political purposes with mindlessly tragic consequences. Mr Cameron’s personal ratings had been running ahead of his party, it remains to be seen what permanent damage may have been done by the outbreak of March Madness.

13 March 2012

Groove Armada

Tom Findlay and Andy Cato have produced some interesting stuff, technically and musically. Despite finding “At The River” rather dull and “I See You Baby” more than a bit crass, which is why the ‘big hits’ from the otherwise brilliant “Vertigo” are absent, I can always rely on GA to lift a mood. C has not called yet. I need something bright right now.

What Have We Become?
From “Northern Star”

If Everybody Looked The Same
From “Vertigo”

Superstylin’
Frogma
From “Goodbye Country (Hello Nightclub)”

The Groove Is On
Remember
From “Lovebox”

Song 4 Mutya
From “Soundboy Rock”

I Won’t Kneel
From “Black Light”

_________________________________________________________________

Sue stayed till Monday morning. She had bought some new things while we were shopping on Saturday instead of returning to her house for a change of clothing. We set the alarm so that there was plenty of time to walk to the station. Sue worked then in central London and the 6.56 was part of the Monday routine. I walked with Sue. I wanted to extend the weekend for as long as possible. I even bought a platform ticket. I’ve still got it somewhere.

“Jericho’s where I want my house”, she told me.

“I don’t mind Jericho. I’ve not stayed here.”

“Handy for the Station, handy for town, close to everything, places to eat, a cinema, acceptable pubs and cute Victorian terraces – very fashionable right now.”

“In fifty four hours you haven’t told me where you’re living.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Well, I’m asking now.”

“Bullingdon Road.”

“But …”

Sue laughed loudly.

“That’s just round the corner. So why the new clothes? You could have walked round in five minutes.”

“And where was the fun in that, Martin Madison? Anyway, I wasn’t missing a moment.”

“That’s the nicest thing …”

“Stop. Let’s just say it was mutual.”

“Was? Is? I’m having a real problem with tenses here.”

“Was, is, will be. I hope.”

“You’re kidding? No hope about it. Will be, definitely. if you …” 

“I’ll see you Friday.”

“That’s sooo long.”

“It will be better for it. And anyway, I’ve no choice, I’ve to travel all week. I’m coming back this afternoon to get my things and I’ve to catch a train to Manchester, then Liverpool, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Newcastle, Leeds, Birmingham, Cardiff and Bristol.”

“Wow.”

“More like ‘ow’.”

“I can meet you.”

“There won’t be time and you’ll be at work and it will pass in no time. Really. I’ll write.”

“Write. Right. OK.”

Her train was coming in. The platform was crowded. She pulled me close and kissed me long and deep.

“I’ll miss you. See you Friday,” she said, turning to get into the carriage without looking back.

I couldn’t see her in the carriage as the train pulled away. Not exactly like in the movies, but near enough. I walked back to College just above the pavements of Jericho. I looked at the terraced houses from a new perspective. Buildings that had symbolised the past now felt very much part of my future.

To be continued

© Copyright

12 March 2012

Songs About Gambling

Some tenuous connections here as ever, though the gambling themes or references somehow make for eight great songs. There are so many great songs. They all mean something, they have something for every situation. Listening to them again is keeping me sane. C had to pull out. Not happy.

Tumbling Dice
The Rolling Stones, from “Exile on Main Street”

Close to perfection, very close.

Pretty Green
The Jam, from “All Mod Cons”

Long before it was a clothing label.

Ace of Spades
Motörhead

I don’t much like Motörhead, but it’s the ‘big hit’ isn’t it and one track doesn’t hurt.

Dogs
The Who

Good song – can’t think of anything more boring to do though.

House of the Rising Sun
The Animals

A perfect record – no time to explain why, but it is.

Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts
Bob Dylan from “Blood on the Tracks”

Love the lyric, though a key change or something somewhere might not have hurt.

Poker Face
Lady Gaga

Not so much about gambling, but still brilliant.

Do It Again
Steely Dan

Studio perfectionists of legend – must have been a nightmare to manage.

________________________________________________________________

Part of Sue’s power is that she just assumes she has the right and usually the power to get others to do as she wishes: whether it is spending money on clothes, moving to a better apartment, or changing plans to fits with hers. It extends to getting journalists to run a book reviews and getting broadcasters to put authors on their sofas. Resisting Sue’s will is way too much effort for most situations and it was certainly too much for me.

I met the Parents soon enough. I’d not ‘met the parents’ before and I have to admit I was terrified. I need not have been. Duncan and Grace were the sweetest people – I can’t think of a word that better sums it up – just really sweet. They put me at ease, as Sue did that first night, if not quite in the same way. I could see where she got the charm. She was the image of her mother who was also small, slim and who carried the years well. If people become their parents as they age the future held few worries for Sue.

Shopping was not something on which I had spent a lot of time, ever really. I bought clothes as those I had worn out and in the functional manner of the male of the species. As we had grown apart in out teenage years it had been Pete who went to the West End or window shopped the King’s Road with mum. Pete followed fashion, which I dismissed as pointless. I had better things to do with my time. How could it be enjoyable? What was the point? But with Sue shopping wasn’t a drag. It was a laugh. Though on 16 March 1984 I would have followed her anywhere or done anything she wanted so long as she stayed with me.

After shopping, cake, more shopping and beer we returned to my place at Marston Street. It was Saturday afternoon but seeing the football results didn’t enter my head. That evening we dined in bed on take-away from Cowley Road and the next day, which was a bright spring day, still cold at times but with the significant hint of optimism for warmer days ahead. Feeling different in one of my three new outfits, I walked with Sue by the Cherwell and around the colleges with no more purpose than being together in the place that had become home to each of us.

“We’re spoilt with all this, do you not think?” Sue asked me as we passed by the Bodlian.

“I don’t know, a lot of the time I think all the tradition gets in the way,” I replied.

“Something more functional for the scientist, then?”

“Maybe. Can functional have gargoyles?”

She laughed.

“So why Oxford, Sue? Pressure from your mum, or what?”

“No, she wanted me to go to Cambridge. She thought, still thinks, that Oxford is, and I quote, ‘a champagne swilling cess pit, not to be confused with an educational institution’, which, quite frankly ma darlin’, made it all the more attractive.”

“She has a point to some extent, though I don’t see why Cambridge is any different.”

“In Mum’s suburban left of centre, middle class head there are fewer Prime Ministers and Tory cabinet members from Cambridge, urgo Oxford must be worse. There is a logic to what she thinks, even if it’s a warped logic.”

“In Fulham Oxford was best and that’s what they wanted for me – the industrial aristocracy’s world view. So it was your choice, not theirs?”

“Yep, all down to me. It was here or somewhere in London.”

“And so I ask again, why Oxford?”

“Brideshead.”

“The TV thing?”

“The book silly. The TV series didn’t screen till I was here, ’81 remember.”

“I suppose, I remember them making it round here. Covering up the double yellow lines with grey sand, if you were up late enough to catch them. “

“Well, I read books, I love books and now I work with books, but I especially love that book. I read it when I was fourteen, it was my favourite book and I wanted to come to Oxford with my teddy where they were lots of pretty foppish men to ogle.”

“And did it live up to you expectations?”

“Off and on. Right at this minute very much on. With the right haircut you could have been Charles. We’ve got to do something about the haircut. Maybe next weekend.”

To be continued.

© Copyright.  

11 March 2012

8 Fruity Songs

I’m in a fruity mood. Rehearsals progress well now that I’ve got the birthday thing out of my head. And I’ve C2C on a promise. Woo hoo.

Strawberry Fields Forever
The Beatles

Look at the pretty colours, man, etc. I was 10, or 11. But not doing acid.

The Lemon Song
Led Zeppelin

Squeeze my lemon baby …

Peaches
The Stranglers

Not really about fruit.

Orange Crush
REM

Wouldn’t be in my REM lists really, but makes it to this frivolity

Raspberry Beret
Prince

Not at all about fruit, but a brilliant pop song.

Half Cut Lemon
Animistix

More diggery do-ings.

Tangerine
Led Zeppelin

Lame lyrics, but somehow it works.

Black Horse and the Cherry Tree
KT Tunstall

She’s got a great voice and this is a clever track and we all loved that first performance on Later, didn’t we. Well I did.

__________________________________________________

16 March 1984

I didn’t need an alarm on the morning of the inquest. I had lain trying to sleep for what was at least 90 minutes before I eventually dropped off. Despite all that I woke at five. I lay awake fearful. Sue slept curled with her back to me. Most nights for nearly thirty years we had slept entwined, at least some of the time. That night there was not even an attempt at physical contact.

As the morning of 16 March 1984 turned to afternoon Sue and I remained entwined. I wondered how I had got so lucky and wished impossibly that the moment would never end. I feared it was just that, a moment, I was feeding off that moment. I needed no other sustenance.

“I hate to strike a practical note Dr Madison, but all this rolling around is making me hungry.”

“I made toast. I can make more.”

“That’s sweet, and toast is good, but a girl’s really got to eat and so have you. Come on. Get dressed, were doing lunch,” Sue must have sensed something, adding, “Oh Don’t worry, ma darlin’ I wouldn’t change the sheets just yet.”

Over lunch that day I learned Susannah Michelle Ferris had been born in Nottingham four and a half years my junior. Her father, Duncan, and mother, Grace, were respectively an accountant and school teacher, ‘solidly, boringly middle class’ as she put it. She was the youngest of three with an older brother, Phillip, and a sister, Margery. Sue agreed Margery was a terrible name and considered herself lucky to be a ‘Sue’.

I got the feeling Sue was fond of her brother and not so fond of her sister and at the time I was right. When I later met Margie I couldn’t really see Sue’s problem. Over the years the sisters found ways not to squabble, though it was admittedly much easier once Margie and her husband Norman had emigrated to New Zealand. Phil, the oldest, my age, was an academic like me. Earth sciences – basically a botanist. He retired last year from his post at Edinburgh, indecently early if you ask me. He now spends his time climbing in the Highlands and anywhere else he can scrounge some guest pontificating. Pompous man, Phil, but Sue adores him in that baby sister way.

Parents Duncan and Grace were in their late forties then. Today they are still around in their mid-seventies and, happily, in decent health. Sue called them D&G – a reference completely lost on me at the time. She told me that Duncan and Grace had started their family when they were absurdly young, still teenagers, in fact. I indelicately questioned whether the marriage was a shotgun job. Sue insisted it wasn’t, but conceded that the possibility had occurred to her more than once. Duncan and Grace had certainly wasted no time conceiving Phil. Margery had followed hard on his heels with Sue coming along three years later.

“I think I’m a mistake,” Sue smiled, “But they never made me feel that way.”

Her maternal Grandmother, Sue called her Grandma, had been closely involved with her upbringing, enabling Grace to complete her training and establish her career. We had that in common if not much else, even if by then my Gran was by then long gone.

Sue had been born in Nottingham and lived in its more affluent Carlton suburb, until she was ten. Duncan moved his job to Leeds, then five years later to the City, settling the family in Enfield.

“Enfield. It’s London, Jim but not as we know it,” I said, and told her a little about my growing up in Fulham. I defined ‘real London’ as inside the North and South Circular. The rest was the suburbs.

“So working class boy wins a free pass to Posh School and gets into Big Posh College.”

“I suppose. What about you?”

“Mum’s against private schools full stop. She’s against selection full stop. She’s against lots of things full stop. So it was down the local comp for us.”

“Despite Daddy being a successful Accountant.”

“She gets her own way. Full stop.”

“And what does Daddy think.”

“I think he just wanted a quiet life. Now he says it all worked out fine. It’s hard to argue, I suppose. One university lecturer, one teacher and then there’s me letting the side down with the trivia of PR.”

“Is that what he thinks?”

“No. Daddy’s fine. I think he understands that PR’s quite important commercially even if he doesn’t really understand how it all works. But I’m not sure Mum entirely approves. She says education is a ‘noble cause’, so Phil and Margie wear the shining armour in the quest for the Grail: universal literacy and the appreciation of ballet by the masses. Don’t call her Marge by the way, she hates it. Mum will approve of you, though. Education and social mobility in a shapely pot!”

“I bet they sent you to ballet. Dead cute in a tutu, I’ll bet.”

“I still do. I loved it, the dancing and the tutu. I’m not really into going to see it. But it makes your legs fat.”

“My legs aren’t fat”

“OK. It makes one’s legs fat, smartarse. Cake?”

“It makes my legs fat. Must have been strange moving to the suburbs after being up North.”

“Are you kidding, Leeds was soooo boring and I got to London when I was coming up 16 in ’76 – perfect timing, not that Mum thought so but I got the grades so she was prepared to put up with the hair dye and bin liner tops.”

“Safety pins through the ears?”

“Not likely mate. I drew the line at hair dye and eye liner. A lot of eye liner.”

“I didn’t get into that stuff, Pete did.”

“Who’s Pete?”

“My brother. My twin, actually, but we’re not identical.”

“Oh my God. Is he at Oxford too?”

“No. He went to art school and now he’s a roadie. I think he’s in Japan right now.”

“Wow. I don’t know any twins.”

“We’re completely different. It’s just like having a brother, genetically, but we do have a connection. We sort of know things.”

“That must be very special.”

“I don’t know any different.”

“You’re not going to demand strange sexual practices involving your twin?”

“Hardly.”

“Well that’s reassuring, sort of. I just thought I would ask that’s all.”

“You almost sound disappointed.”

Sue giggled and blushed a little.

“Well, you never know from a woman who drags older men into bathrooms and fucks them senseless,” I added.

“You didn’t complain.”

“Show me a man that would, but what would Mummy think?”

“I don’t give a fuck what anybody thinks. Come on, if we’re not having cake yet let’s go to the shops, we’ve really got to do something about those clothes.”

To be continued

© Copyright.

10 March 2012

Disco

A couple of Fridays back BBC4 ran a night of programme on the golden age of Disco. I didn’t love disco at the time. I was into rock, Bowie and so on. But I had enough tracks I liked, or like now to make an eight. Three of these featured on last week’s shows.

Don’t Leave Me This Way
Thelma Huston

My personal favourite version of this song is Thelma’s original – mainly for it’s killer bass line.

You to Me Are Everything
The Real Thing

Hand actions and daft dancing and the pick of the bunch.

Young Hearts Run Free
Candi Staton

A fine sentiment in this one – though it might have been nice to know what being trapped in a loveless marriage was like. On the other hand …

Right Back Where We Started From
Maxine Nightingale

You know I always thought she was American, but she was actually from up Wembley way. Pretty cool record.

You’re The First, The Last, My Everything
Barry White

I hated this back in the day, but I was wrong.

Heart of Glass
Blondie

Post punk disco done to a turn.

Lady Marmalade
LaBelle

Now I loved this, and despite or maybe because of a whole lot of bad covers I still think the original stands out as one of the finest dance numbers

I Feel Love
Donna Summer

There was a point where disco pop became modern dance music and, I suggest, this was it. Today it wouldn’t be Donna Summer, it would be Georgio Moroder feat. Donna Summer – and rightly so.

__________________________________________________________________

16 March 1984

“So this is how a young chemistry Don lives.”

Sue smiled as she ribbed me, my duvet wrapped under her arms concealing her breasts. I put the cafetiere on the chest of drawers and poured two mugs of black coffee.

“I changed the sheets yesterday.”

“I won’t ask if that was in hope or expectation.”

“Don’t. It was neither.”

Sue giggled as if to suggest otherwise.

“Honest!” I protested.

Sue giggled more. Sue giggles a lot. It is part of her charm and helps ensure her underestimation by her rivals and men on higher rungs of the corporate ladder. Her determination is masked by a sense of fun that was and remains both infectious and captivating. Even after two children, which is enough to knock the stuffing out of a lot of people, and a career in what I view as a pretty cynical world she retains that special ability to see the comic in just about any situation. A bit of a strain lately, I admit, but that morning in ‘84 it was a blinding light that had installed itself in my shabby lodgings in Marston Street.

“You have one essential and very real talent,” Sue told me, mockingly earnest after we had made love for the second time that morning.

“And what might that be?”

“You make excellent coffee,” she laughed.

“Thanks, well, it’s good to know I’ve provided some pleasure.”

“Well there is that.”

“Do you laugh all the time?”

“When I’m happy.”

There have been unhappy times, but nothing we failed to ride out. Most things that would get to me Sue took in her stride. When her grandmother, the only grandparent that she knew and to whom she was very close, eventually slipped away in her sleep Sue grieved but still laughed at her childhood memories preferring to celebrate Grandma’s long life. When her close friend Jenny was taken by cervical cancer Sue took it hard, but she kept her mate smiling till the very last. Sue then poured her immediate grief in taking charge of the funeral arrangements and organising a “massive fuck off party” as Jenny had instructed. Everybody cried but we all laughed too. Sue seemed to have death in perspective – ‘you do what you can and think about the living’, she would say.

She was rarely disappointed by work. Even though she seemed to take it all with a pinch of salt, she got the jobs for which she applied – all of them as I recall. She found her level and was good at what she did. The people she worked with admired her humour.

She even giggled when Juliette and Josh were born, as soon as they were handed to her she was laughing gales. I had been terrified but she just allayed my fears and we laughed together through the months of drizzle that follow the storm of childbirth. We would cope, it was a certainty. That’s what’s so remarkable. Not just her determination but the confidence, no, the certainty she exudes.

“I don’t know where you came from,” I said. The kind of gauche thing you say when you’re trying to be romantic and don’t know any better.

“Nottingham,” she giggled.

To be continued …

© Copyright.

Chapter 6

9 March 2012

8 from 2001

Reveal
REM

A personal favourite among later REM which yielded a few live standards that are still a joy to play. in many respects it is Mike Mills record.

Outrospective
Faithless

The difficult third album that marked their coming of age as the best live act in dance music. Pick – Tarrantula.

White Blood Cells
The White Stripes

I’d not caught much of Jack and Meg before Hotel Yorba. What a fine player he was to hold attention with such a minimalist format.

Get Ready
New Order

One of the great comeback records with a) a couple of good singles b) the usual standard of dancable rhythms c) a cool cover and d) a genuinely moving final track.

Fever
Kylie

Aficionados argue about whether this or Light Years is the ultimate Kylie album. Actually I like X, but this is clearly among her best work.

Is This It
The Strokes

Great band, great album, great pity they weren’t subsequently more productive.

Laundry Service
Shakira

I could drone on about why she’s an important pop artist, but I won’t. It’s mainstream and it isn’t at the same time, which is all I’m saying for now

Beautiful Garbage
Garbage

Another difficult third album and following a killer second, but enough quality to merit it’s inclusion in the year’s eight. Just.

__________________________________________________

27 February 2013

Sue is a remarkable woman.

Most husbands say that of their wives at one time or another – if only at their wedding. But at middle-class dinner parties it seems not the done think to think of your wife in any other way. It goes without saying that not all these ‘remarkable’ women are remarkable at all. Some of them must simply be ‘ordinary’. A world filled with ‘remarkable’ people would be a contradiction in terms. Where ‘remarkable’ is the norm it becomes ordinary and therefore not remarkable in the slightest.

I may be a physical scientist rather than a social anthropologist but I do observe a modern tendency to exaggerate. Broadcasters let rip with hyperbole at the slightest opportunity. Nothing that happens these days is less than ‘awesome’, few events are short of ‘unbelievable’, and every celebrity, however minor, would seem to be ‘amazing’ when they ‘quite literally’ are not.

But despite all this quite obvious nonsense I stick to my contention that Sue is indeed a remarkable woman.

From the morning after the party at which she had seduced me with the directness and subtlety of a brick through a plate glass window she was never in doubt that we were an item. There is a determination about her, a singularity of purpose. Sue is rarely indifferent to anything and once she had made her mind up it is phenomenally difficult to dislodge her from her view. Most of the time I don’t even try.

That first full day together I started to get an insight into the force of nature that was Susannah Michelle Ferris. We had not been especially drunk nor was our mental state altered by any other substance. When we left that bathroom after what seemed like an hour but was, I expect, much less, we slipped away from the party into the misty quiet of the Oxford night. Neither of us said much. I don’t even remember having the ‘your place or mine’ discussion. We just walked, her arm around my waist, mine around her shoulder. Her head nestled into the right armpit of my ten year old duffle coat. We were a good fit, comfortable in that respect. Our slow, wordless progress punctuated by occasional giggles took us down St Giles, along Broad Street past Baliol and through to the High Street as we headed to Cowley Road. She brought us to a stop on the bridge where we looked pointlessly at the Cherwell and the moored punts.

“I’ve never been in one,” I confessed.

“Really?”

“Not much of a swimmer, sadly.”

“You’ve more important talents,” she said, her head against my chest.

I lifted her chin with my index finger and we kissed.

To be continued …

© Copyright

8 March 2012

All Time Favourite Male Voices

The rules being they have been/were around for some time and it is all about the voice and the singing rather than the material. I could spend ages talking about why the near misses are the near misses – Rogers, Stewart, many others. Some, who would make it as singer-songwriters don’t make it here, others would make it as vocal stylists don’t get there either. Some undoubtedly have great voices, but I think they are naff or do lift music, so I don’t care about them. I hear they have picked Humperdink to do Eurovision – yet another reason not to watch.

Robert Plant

The best blues-rock vocalist of all time, I contend, but capable of so much more as he proved again and again with and after Zeppelin. Still going strong now bearing the face of a life lived.

Tom Jones

He made the contemporary list too and deservedly so. He can sing anything and has. Mind bogglingly powerful.

Roger Daltry

A lot of debate in my head between Daltry and Paul Rogers. Daltry wins as his was more than blues rock and his voice has, in my opinion, lasted better.

Peter Gabriel

Maybe his range is more limited than the others here, but his power is still special and his live presence stunning. Another old guy who makes both this and the contemporary list.

Johnny Cash

The finest voice of his generation or possibly of any generation and one which just kept getting better.

Liam Gallagher

Some would argue with this one, but the voice has a quality that no matter how irritating the antics of the man and how overrated at time were the band, Liam could turn his Brother’s material into world beating stuff with an exceptional raw quality.

Rob Halford

The second of the eight from the Wild West Midlands. A versatile voice of extreme range and one of those who re-invented rock vocal for heavy metal as opposed to blues rock. The greatest of the screamers nudging out Ronnie James Dio, Ian Gillian and David Coverdale. Maybe I’ll do metal vocalists a list of their own.

Bryan Ferry

Not everyone would agree, but Ferry’s voice has a special quality. He brought a different approach, a different kind of singing to pop music. Does a good job interpreting covers too. The voice survives into his later years, though with a wife younger than his son whether he will survive much longer is a moot point.

____________________________________________________

“Marty you said you were going to leave it for now,” Sue’s voice was barely in control, exasperated verging on anger.

“I did, you are right, but then I thought, ‘no’, and so I called Josh and got him to send me the screen images.”

“You are doing exactly what you said you were not going to do. You’re letting it take over your life.”

“How?”

“You were going back to work to get away from it, at least five days a week. Have you done any actual work?”

“Of course.”

“What?”

“I’ve taken have a dozen classes.”

“You’ve not done any research and that’s what they really pay you for.”

“That’s a little unfair. I did a whole lot of reading last week.”

“So did I.”

“Good. So what’s your point?”

“Fine. Have it your way.”

“Sue.”

“No Marty, you just don’t listen to me. You always know fuckin’ best. So just fuck off and fuck yourself up.”

“Sue. Oh come on, I love you, you know that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, you know I do.”

“Well fuckin’ show it.”

“I do.”

“When it suits you. The rest of the time you obsess.”

There wasn’t any point in arguing or even in answering. I decided to let it go. Sue wouldn’t see reason when she was angry. She wasn’t angry often. I struggled to see a way round this one, it was a done deal that Josh would send the stuff through.

The rest of dinner was silent. Eventually I spoke again.

“I asked Josh because if there is evidence of Pete’s state of mind I want it for tomorrow. That’s all.”

“Whatever. I’m going to bed to read,” and, as Sue often did when I had upset her, she did.

Not that she was upset with me often. We’d had a pretty good show for nearly 30 years together, but if I said one thing then did another it was guaranteed to get a reaction. No matter that I might be right, or could have a point. It was more that I had ignored her advice or appeared to deceive her, even slightly.

It was an hour later That my phone buzzed with a text from Josh letting me know he had sent the screen captures.

I logged onto my Gmail and downloaded the five images. I started with the most recent according to Josh’s listing. Incurring Sue’s displeasure had been worth it.

Pete Madison

Setting up the new system is taking longer than I had imagined. I’ve been wrestling with cables for six hours and having to play my iPod from the kitchen for company. Have to finish off tomorrow. Irritating. Grrrrr. Still dinner with C tonight should soothe me. Looking forward to it.

Like – Comment – 4 January 2013 at 16.32.

Pete Madison

Well, it’s out of the box. A bunch of cables to make up and a little bit of wiring – should be done this afternoon.

Like – Comment – 4 January 2013 at 9.47.

Pete Madison

The new sound system has arrived.

Like – Comment – 3 January at 11.52.

He had sent the earlier posts from Twitter. I had seen them as the last of his personal tweets. Pictured in a separate post was a stack of the newly delivered boxes that I had seen at the house opened and their contents half assembled.

It was exactly what I had wanted, confirming everything I had imagined. These were not the thoughts of someone in despair. These were not the writings of someone contemplating suicide. Pete hadn’t killed himself.

I scanned the other pages – mainly music video links to YouTube, personal trivia and the occasional observation on current events. It wasn’t the only mention of C. He had “received an interestingly inappropriate card from C” on 23 December. Who was C? How could I find out? I printed out the screen captures and went to bed. Sue was already asleep. I lay restlessly awake, my mind energised by my newly acquired knowledge. 

To be continued

© Copyright

7 March 2012

Trance

Probably no surprise that a bassman in a New Order tribute band likes a bit of trance. Nothing complicated about trance – just about major keys, feeling good and dancing. Mind you the dance music nerds define their genres with a bloody slide rule (or whatever it is that does whatever a slide rule does these days). I’m not sure about any of these things myself, 125bpm – 150bpm, yawn. If it sounds like trance I call it trance – I think I know it when I hear it and I think for some reason it thrills boys more than girls. Pete’s boy Josh knows his trance from his Europop. Another session with No Order later and through most of the following week. Seems we’ve sold some tickets, enough, maybe.

The Riddle
New York City
Paul Van Dyke

Zocalo
Armin van Buuren

Strobe
Deadmau5

Purple
Paul Oakenfold

Sander van Doorn
S.O.S. (Message in a Bottle)

Sweet Things
Tiesto

Spiritualised
The Olmec Heads

___________________________________________________________

26 February 2013

As it turned out I was wrong. Pete was far more careful with his passwords than I had  thought he might have been. I went through a dozen of so likely options all bearing variations of 29.2.56. All of them were plausible, but I had reckoned without Pete being careful and without five years growing apart. Who knows what had happened to him, what relationships he had struck up, what special friends there now were to provide material for personally significant details like passwords and PINs. Later Sue pointed out that it was probably something more simple than that – a judicious use of upper and lower case mixed with numerals that, obviously, makes passwords far harder to guess. Even when one gets the basics right, the chances are you will still get the exact format wrong.

There was only one sure way to get into this stuff, which was to go to the house and go in through his own computer where in all probability the passwords would be remembered by Windows – assuming he had PCs. I guess Pete would but was even that sure?

I called Sue. She told me to let it go for now – we should cross that bridge when we came to it. I acknowledged she was right, told her I loved her then called Josh again.

“Hi Dad, it’s just like being sixteen again.”

I had to laugh.

“I know, it’s embarrassing. Have you got a minute? I promise this is the last call for a day or two at least.”

“You’re in luck. I’m killing time between classes.”

“Good. Look, I thought I would be able to get into Pete’s Facebook, but I can’t because I think he has done something funny with the password.”

“How would you know his password?”

“We’re twins. I don’t know for certain, but I can make a pretty good guess what it will be, but there’s something – capital letters in odd places or something. That’s not so important if you can do one of two things for me.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“I could either go into Facebook as you, then see Pete’s stuff – I’ll wait till I get home so Mum can help and make sure I don’t look at anything you might not want me to see, or you can go in and do a screen capture of the last stuff he put on there and send me that.”

Silence.

“Josh.”

“I’m still here. I’m thinking.”

“OK. You think. Do you want to call me back.”

“No. I really don’t want to let you into my Facebook. Not Mum either. It’s a bit like having you go through my underwear drawer. I’ll do the screen grab thing. What do you want?”

“Anything you can get from the last couple of weeks he was alive. Can you do that?”

“Yes, but it might take me a few screen grabs, probably. I’ve not looked at it since he died you know.”

“I know, and I do appreciate you doing it.”

“I’ll send it to your Gmail, OK?”

“Yes, that’s great. But you will do it today, Josh, won’t you. I need it for the Inquest in the morning.”

“Yes Dad, I’ve got the message. Now chillax will you.”

To be continued

© Copyright

6 March 2012

Pink Floyd – David Gilmour

A fine player and a creative force to counterbalance the less affable Waters. A resurgence of late, with the Orb collaboration. Not everyone loved it. I enjoyed it very much. 8 from this birthday boy:

Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun
From A Saucerful of Secrets

The Narrow Way
From Ummagumma

Mudmen
Childhood’s End
From Obscured By Clouds

Fearless
From Meddle

Money
From Dark Side of the Moon

Wish You Were Here
From Wish You Were Here

Metallic Spheres
With The Orb

_______________________________________________________________

26 February 2013

“OK, so Pete had three Twitter feed things that we know of,” Sue talked as she did her hair. “@PeteMadison56 where he was himself. @PeterHookeyNO where he was being the man from New Order and @MikeMiller65 where he was being the man from REM.”

“Not Crowded House.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, just a private joke we had.”

“Right. Now the last one, MikeMiller65 has put out nothing for a while, since October last. Repeat Eye Movement toured last summer but don’t appear to be doing anything at the moment. There was quite a lot on Peter Hookey in late November when they did a few shows and announced the tour they were or are supposed to be doing in April, then pot boilers and plugs for the shows every few days.

“So then I searched for NO Order to see if there was something from the band and, of course, there is. The band’s Twitter was plugging tickets every day until everything stopped on 6 January. So it’s pretty clear that Pete ran the No Order Twitter and probably ran the band too. His own Twitter also stopped, obviously. I haven’t had time to look for the other band members – you might want to do that if you get the chance.”

“What about the other band, did you look for them.”

“I did. There was the same. They are just in cold storage, I think. We can’t get into his Facebook with passwords and stuff. So park Facebook just for today, though we might get more from that than from Twitter eventually.”

“Why?”

“It’s a different sort of network. Twitter is not really about friends and such, more for broadcasting what you are up to, and you don’t learn a lot about the ‘followers’, but with Facebook you have a group of friends and the odds are that most of the People Pete was in contact with will be on his Facebook.”

“That could be very useful, depending on what they say tomorrow.”

“Yes, it could, but you know what, Martin? I don’t think the other band members know that Pete’s dead.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They haven’t said anything about it.”

“I’m not sure that’s true – what evidence says they don’t know?”

“Well, there’s nothing on Twitter, there’s nothing on Facebook according to Josh and there’s nothing on either Band’s site. Now you would think there would be something.”

“I don’t know Sue, there’s no good reason why it should be mentioned. Won’t they just get somebody else?”

“That all depends how close they all are and, being somewhat cynical there’s nothing sells records and gig tickets like a dead rocker. Oh, I’m sorry love, I didn’t mean …”

“Ah don’t be, it’s doesn’t matter. Look though, you said we couldn’t get into his Facebook. How is it done?”

“email and password.”

“Does it have a ‘lost passwords” thing?

“Not sure. if so it’s very small. Why?”

“Cos if it does I can get us in, but Sue.”

“Yes.”

“What is the point of Twitter?”

To be continued

© Copyright