Sad to hear that Glenn Ford, mentioned a few blogs ago as the star of 'Last Train to Yuma', has died, aged ninety. He could always be relied upon to turn in an impressive, thoughtful performance and was somewhat underrated I feel. A good screen villain as well as flawed screen hero. RIP Glenn.

This morning, Commuter Man of Misery - international boar, do-no-gooder, arms pit dealer, gerbil wringer, duck blaster, horse bleeder, dog skinner, Telegraph weeder, snot flicker, serial farter, rugger arsed spouse thrashing pile of pomposity – got into the next door along. Thus avoiding the damn good hiding he’s got coming from the petite blonde woman with the frown and specs on a chain. Either her, or the man with the neatly trimmed beard and a penchant for Michael Caine style blazers. Better still, the large belligerent Scot with the dodgy pins, always cursing under his breath and glaring. All three, simultaneously would be a sight to see. Everyone gathered around chanting, Fight, Fight, Fight, until the whistle-blowing, arm waving duty station manager appears, pulling the combatants apart by scruff of neck, bra strap and seat of pants, promising lines, detention and the rubber slipper. Mmmm. If only it were to be.

But I suspect that we victims of the platform bully and thoroughly bad egg will continue to rise to no more than a mild bout of irritation and an outbreak of nothing more physical than putting own tongue to roof of mouth to produce a really vicious tut or two. That’ll teach him, to be sure.

Who is that man that appears every morning from nowhere just as the train is pulling into the platform and by cunning, stealth and brute force manages to push ahead of those who wait patiently to occupy his favourite seat? He’s not the Lone Ranger. He doesn’t wear a mask. He’s not Tonto. No feather. He’s no caped crusader. You guessed it. No cape. He’s certainly not Superman. Green kryptonite has no effect. I should know. I’ve tried it. And besides, he doesn’t wear his pants over his trousers. Or under them, I shouldn’t wonder. But he does wear a Barbour jacket. You know the kind - favoured by people who go on marches organised by the Countryside Alliance, protesting the right to go into fields to hunt or shoot things. Preferably things that don’t hunt or shoot back.

Whoever he is, I don’t much care for him. A good slap would be appropriate I feel.

Brian. Wastrel, raconteur, artist, drinker, joker, cavalier, troubadour, philosopher, philanderer, husband, fibber, father and friend. He was all of these and much more. And still is for all I know, for Brian was never a great one for change. He acquired his habits and rituals early, adding rather than shedding any along the way. Remaining stubbornly true to his Walthamstow ways, nothing shook or shifted him from the course he was on. Not marriage, not work, not threats, not demands, not pleas, not family, nor the law of the land.

I first met Brian thirty-five years ago and haven’t seen him for twenty of those. We first met when we both joined EMI Records as graphic designers. That was back in the 70’s when excess in the record industry had reached its zenith. Waste was endemic and those responsible were frequently wasted. Hardly a day passed without a champagne reception in aid of some thing or another. Thousands were squandered on recording and promoting artists who were to be the next Beatles, or Floyd, or Queen. Alas, none of them ever were. Whatever became of King Harry? For a time, heralded at company conferences as the next monster band, sure to conquer the world. Courted, wooed, feted, groomed, pampered, crowned, only to be axed after the coffers were emptied, with no sign of the riches and glories that had been foretold. But hey-ho, maybe next time. In the meantime we attended every drinks reception, playback, press party, gig that we could blag our way into. When in Rome…

Brian had the desk facing and joining mine: semi-detached. The contents of his half would grow to an alarming height, until finally gravity would kick in and the pile would slide my way, engulfing all in its path like a giant lava flow. I was forced to erect a makeshift barrier, but only a structure resembling the Berlin Wall would have been strong enough to successfully withstand the next avalanche. I soon gave up, resigned to the forces of nature.

Each morning Brian would arrive late - by cab. Public transport was not an option. If he had been forced onto the tube or a bus I don’t believe he would have appeared at all. He dismissed any chastisement or threat regarding his time keeping as a ‘gypsy’s warning’, ignoring them with a casual disdain. His second ritual of the day took place before he took his seat. Reaching into the left-hand pocket of his much-loved cardigan he would produce a box of matches, which he would toss, with a magician’s flourish, onto the slagheap of a desk. Switching to the right hand pocket, he would retrieve a box of cigarettes. Once this had joined the matches, he would look at me and sucking on the corners of his moustache, his brow creased in concern, would say, ‘I dunno Dave. What’s it all about – eh?’ Each day, the same question. And each day I had no answer.

Ten or so cigarettes later, the smoking interrupted by a spot of work, Brian would look at his watch and say, ‘Twelve-thirty. Can’t hang about here all day.’ Collecting his ciggies and matches he would adjourn to the pub where he would remain until 3pm. These were the days before the licensing laws were relaxed and all pubs were obliged to close between three and five-thirty. Ahead of his time, Brian extended his own drinking hours by joining a private club. This was located in an ash-filled basement, and frequented by a grim assortment of old soaks with nicotine tans, thin greased down hair, stained beige slacks and broken teeth. Brian didn’t care and they took him in as an apprentice, thus ensuring a programme of succession for the day when booze and tobacco finally called ‘time, gentlemen please’, creating a vacancy for a younger man at the top table.

Always the possessor of a good ear, Brian was responsible for bringing to my attention much of the music I still value in my collection. He also played a mean slide guitar, but was always diffident about his talent. His great hero was Ry Cooder and he undertook a personal mission to track down and acquire every recording Ry had made, including many where he played as a session musician, years before his solo career took flight.

One of the last times I saw Brian was at a party in a studio we shared in Kilburn, both of us having left EMI to pursue independent freelance ventures. It was in the early eighties and the crowd boasted a sprinkling of recording artists, including the trio that was Bananarama. Even off duty, the girls stuck close, giving off an air that did not encourage the close proximity of strangers. They were scary. Especially the blonde, with the rows of large shiny teeth and big hair. Having hijacked the DJ to play their choice of music, the Bananas took to the dance floor. Entranced by this spectacle, Brian could contain himself no longer. Handing his glass to a friend, he said, "Hold this Sandra, I’m going in’. And, like it or not, the cool Bananarama’s were joined by a hot Brian, boogying on down.

Last I heard, he’d relocated somewhere down west and was painting for a living. That’s canvasses not ceilings. But whatever he’s doing, I wish him well. And Brian, I still don’t know. What is it all about, eh?

Yesterday I was looking through sheets of contacts, choosing pictures to print as part of an on-going series of photographs taken in New York City. I have made lists in the past, to save me from having to start anew each time. The problem is, I constantly change my mind. Each time I look, I find something I haven’t seen before - although it may not be about what I see, but rather more about what I feel.

It can be the same with movies or music. There are times when the content doesn’t get through, failing to touch or move. Yet, given a second chance on another day, the same film or music can appear or sound quite different, displaying a depth and meaning, that first time around, had remained undiscovered.

So when picking out pictures to print, I try to find the one’s that are more than merely an exercise in composition and technique. I go for the stuff that evokes the mystery that made me want to capture the moment in the first place. This means, that to the onlooker, the reason for the shot can be hard to recognise, because they were not around at the time the button was pressed. It’s therefore always a little surprising when a viewer sees and feels the same as I do.

I once exhibited a series of photographs of Cornwall – in Cornwall. One man, his own camera slung around his neck, studied each print in scary detail, his nose millimetres from the glass. After what seemed an age in front of a landscape, he turned to me as I sat in the corner of the gallery and announced triumphantly, a broad smile crossing his face, ‘There’s a hundred stories in there’. It was the nicest thing anyone ever said to me about one of my pictures. Because I only counted ninety-four.

I feel somewhat responsible. Ever since saying that I CAN stand the rain, it hasn’t stopped. Walking across Blackfriars Bridge this morning was an experience closer to that associated with early November. Although I think London is ill at ease with heat, more comfortably at home under what Morrissey described as, slate grey Victorian skies. Hot sunshine doesn’t become it somehow. Not like Rome or Athens. They were made for it. Even New York, in all its lofty concrete and steel glory, carries off sweltering humidity with a swaggering nonchalance. This assisted by the certainty that each summer’s going to serve up more of the same, which is why the subway trains are air-conditioned. Not for New York commuters, the 100 plus temperatures recorded on the Underground last month.

Mind you, it’s not all bad, this rain. My garden has undergone a minor miracle. The dustbowl Tucson back yard of July is once more on the way to being the lush, heavy-boughed, English idyll. Well - green again, at least. This weekend, the grass may need a trim for the first time in weeks. Even months. But I do wish weather forecasters stopped feeling like it’s necessary to apologise for this interruption to the long hot summer. They’re not responsible. Into each life a little rain must fall. Surely we can take it. Maybe not. In an age where the demand is to always apportion blame, someone has to take the rap. Even the messenger, it seems. Maybe John Lennon got it right: when the rain comes, they run and hide their heads, they might as well be dead, when the rain comes, when the rain comes.

Anyhow, the hottest location, and probably the driest I’ve ever rolled into is Yuma, on the Arizona/California state line. Deciding to rock up there in June didn’t help any. Between 8am and 6pm the place was a ghost town. Nothing moved. Not even a mad dog. Only the Englishman. Every other living thing had retired to the deepest, darkest shade it could find. Most stores had shut up shop until October. In the hardy few that were open I was greeted like a visitor from Pluto. Nobody, but nobody comes here in June, I was told suspiciously, as wide-eyed storekeepers looked for traces of white froth around my mouth. But I’m from England, I would say by way of explanation. In the main, this seemed to satisfy most folks and they would move a pace or two closer, a little less afraid, but still keeping a wary eye for concealed weapons.

I only made the detour down there on the strength of a movie title: “Last Train to Yuma’, starring Glenn Ford. And at the time, I hadn’t even seen it.

Nostalgia is death, said Bob Dylan. Not that it’s forbidden to talk or think about the past. Just don’t live in it. I’d go along with that.

Handed a book that listed every song he had sung – and in what order – at almost all of the hundred concerts he had given, Bob showed more interest in when his cup of coffee would be ready. Asked if he wanted the book as a souvenir, he handed it back and said, no, he’d already been those places and done all those things. He then added that if there was ever a book that told him where he’s going, he might be interested.

Not so sure about that myself. Never had a great desire to know what lay around the bend. Not a great one for planning ahead. Preferred just to go along for the ride and see where the path took me. But then as Bob once said – you go your way and I’ll go mine.

August. Not my favourite month of the year. It was different in school days, because that was when I would go down to Kent and stay on my grandparent’s smallholding; a few acres in Borden, a village on the outer fringes of Sittingbourne. As well as the land, where my grandfather grew vegetables, fruit, and kept pigs, chickens, ducks and geese, the family owned a dairy business with a shop in the High Street. For a young lad, from the age of five until eleven or so, this combination was something just short of heaven.

Each day, my cousin Phil would make the one-and-a-half mile trek from his house, cutting through the hop fields. Once he arrived we’d take ourselves off into the orchard, where we spent the whole day, only returning to the house for meals. These were taken on the dot, with no opportunity for negotiation. When it came to routine, my grandparents were strictly old school.

We set up camp in a disused pigsty, the headquarters for whichever game we were playing. These would involve acts of derring-do behind enemy lines, usually based on the last film we had seen at the cinema. Phil would keep a stash of penny bangers back from November 5th specially, allowing us to blow as many bridges, bunkers and railway lines as we chose.

Each evening, after tea - 5pm precisely - we would gather scraps of wood and light a fire. Remaining until darkness fell, we’d frighten ourselves with tales of ghosts and horror, until, too scared to leave the dying light of the fire to find fresh fuel, we would have to run for our lives to the house. This meant passing the run-down and empty stable block, where any number of imaginable terrors could be lying in ambush. Crashing through the back door, we’d pause to catch our breath in the hallway before opening the door on the adults, dozing in front of the television.

On Saturday mornings I would catch the bus into Sittingbourne and meet Phil in the shop. There, my grandmother would allow us to pick out our favourite chocolate treat. My choice was a triple bar - white chocolate sandwiched between a layer of milk and plain. But sometimes I would opt for a bag of salted peanuts, which were scooped, warm, into a white greaseproof bag. We’d then go on to the Odeon Cinema for the children’s matinee. The programme was made up of a couple of shorts – a cartoon and a cliff-hanging serial - followed by the main feature. The show was hosted by ‘Uncle’ Bob, or some such character, most likely the cinema’s manager, all jolly japes and forced bonhomie.

Once, Phil and I convinced my grandfather – with some energetic prodding from the adults - to accompany us to see Kenneth Moore in ‘Reach For The Sky’, the Douglas Bader story. Grandad hadn’t set foot in a cinema for over twenty years and within ten minutes was fast asleep. We had to wake him once the final credits had rolled.

Our last visit to the Odeon, a couple of summers later, marked the end of the golden era of our childhood. On the verge of adolescence, the teenaged years not yet begun, we went to see 'The Maverick Queen', a western starring Barbara Stanwyck. I remember walking to the bus stop with Phil, knowing that the next day I would be returning home to Southampton. The late afternoon sun flooded the street in orange fire, as if a glorious Technicolour finale to the innocence of our Fifties upbringing. Sensing this was the end of something, but not understanding what, I bid Phil a sorrowful goodbye and rode the 26 Bus into the sunset.

Nowadays, August merely appears tired and spent. The days hang around with nowhere to go, waiting for autumn to jump-start the annual cycle back into life. It’s the interval in a play, before the last act leads the audience towards a conclusion. It’s a waiting room, before the summons to – Please come in. It’s a train in the terminus, listening for the whistle and looking out for the signal to move. It’s a dog flopped in the cool hallway, knowing that in August, his day is but one long afternoon. Thirty-one dog day afternoons.

Turning out some drawers a week or so ago, I came across an envelope containing assorted photographic negatives and contact strips. The envelope was labelled in my hand – ‘odds and sods’. And they were just that.

They stretched back to college days in the 60’s and petered out sometime in the early 80’s. Among them were friends, family, places. Some remaining, others gone, either lost to place and circumstance or now silent, no longer part of this troubled world.

There was a set of locations I’d photographed as reference for an illustration: a barber shop, a newsagents, a pub and a fish and chip shop - shot around the Six Dials area in Northam, Southampton. All now fallen to the ball and chain, but still alive in scratchy black and white on the cover of Jimmy Cliff’s album, Struggling Man.

Two friends, photographed on the sunken sofa bed in 15E, the top floor flat in Theatre Street, Lavender Hill: Warwick, his head thrown back in blurred laughter and Gordon, eyes half-mocking behind new clear plastic specs, tie loose, waistcoat undone. Warwick now close to his roots in Devon and Gordon in France, content in his chosen exile.

Old snapshots, faded and bent, picture my mother, a girl with her two brothers, posing at playing cricket: kids growing up on the farm. Only one remains, Uncle Ron, living out his days ten minutes drive along the lanes from the place of his childhood; the same lanes that then echoed to the iron shoes and steel wheels of Miss Evans' horse and trap as it made the daily round-trip into town with its eight passengers. Above them, the open sky, in rain and shine.

Then there was Blue, in that high ceiling room in Canterbury; hair tight back, loose black ribbon around her neck, dark eyes with crouching tigers, without fear or favour, straight into the lens. All to end in that white room near the station.

Sue sits reading under the lamp in our flat in Wandsworth. Legs long and crossed in the soft light, hair in a halo glow, eyes turned down on a book at bedtime. And another, this time sitting in that old green chair, the woodwork painted orange, her hands pressed between her knees, her smile caught for all eternity with the power to cut clean to the heart: still.

Over to you Jackson:

Looking through some photographs I found inside a drawer
I was taken by a photograph of you
There were one or two I know that you would have liked a little more
But they didn't show your spirit quite as true

You were turning 'round to see who was behind you
And I took your childish laughter by surprise
And at the moment that my camera happened to find you
There was just a trace of sorrow in your eyes

An email from a friend said that having seen photographs of my son’s wedding, his wife decreed that I had the sharpest suit. Nice to know. She also thought that I resembled The Edge. Well, I’ve teetered dangerously close to it on occasions, I’ll admit to that. The edge, that is, with a small e.

I suppose there are worse comparisons. John Prescott and Norman Wisdom spring to mind. I don’t know why. They’re both clowns. They both wear suits. Is Norman still with us? If so, he’s been very quiet of late. Come to think of it, so’s John. Although he did pop up last week in his role as deputy PM, telling us how wonderfully stoic we’d all been in the aftermath of the disrupted terrorist plot - put the kettle on mother and pass the sausage rolls, a right how-to-do, and no mistake I shouldn’t wonder.

Where was I? Ah yes – Dave Evans. That’s The Edge to you. Mrs Raybould’s observation was probably less to do with the suit than the small, but significant beard that I currently sport. It certainly wasn’t the hat. I wasn’t wearing one. Oh come on, have you seen The Edge without one since 1983? No. He always appears in a chapeau of some description. Like myself - and I’m only speculating you understand - this is probably due to shortcomings in the tonsorial department. But hey, so what? He sure plays a mean guitar. I, on the other hand, or either hand come to that, do not. That’s fate for you. Fickle.

And to think. If I really was The Edge, I’d have spent most of my life listening to Bono. A fate, that as myself, I have thankfully been spared. Phew.

The queue winds back from the desk. Bunched at the front as usual, then thinning to two or three persons wide. Some remain seated. A few read on, heads down; others talk, crack a joke; some are lost in their headphones; an old man sleeps; a baby feeds from a bottle - her mother watches, weariness in the bones of her face, undisguised.

The line shuffles forward at last. Those in front hand over their boarding card and wait as it passes through the machine. The attendants check passports and hand back the ticket stubs with a Thank you, have a good flight smile - automatic for the people.

Small children are carried, their heads resting on strong shoulders, handfuls of creased shirt in tiny clenched fists as they hang on, fighting slumber. Lone businessmen check their phones for last minute messages from headquarters, their corporate shoes shining. Kids in raggedy chic play nonchalant, trying hard not to try at being grown, their eyes bright, not yet dulled by care. A man takes his wife by the arm in a sign of support that goes back five decades, silently understood.

Families move in groups, corralled against outsiders, keeping strangers at bay with small talk and in-jokes. Three hundred and nine people take little steps, unheard on the nylon carpeting, all going in one direction towards the gate. Straggling latecomers come running, trailing carrier bags, delayed by duty free or carelessness. The old man is shaken awake by a kindly hand and helped up to take his place at the end of the line.

At 37,000 feet a man reaches into the overhead lockers and takes out his carry-on bag. Two minutes later he walks to the back of the aircraft and joins the line for the toilet. Five more minutes pass. The queue shortens. A woman and child come out laughing and he enters. He bolts the door.

Three minutes go by before he blows himself straight to Hell – and not Paradise at all.

Unlike Ann Peebles, I CAN stand the rain. I love it. Always have. As a kid I would sit on the step of the open kitchen door and simply watch it fall from the sky. That was in the days when we had rain, before the climate in the southern counties of England became sub-Saharan. Back then we knew where we were.

Winters were cold and wet. It snowed heavily at least once between Christmas and March. All of us kids had sledges made by our dads, dragged from the back of the shed annually. The grass on the slope of the toboggan run in the local park remained flattened well into late spring.

Springtime was fresh with frequent showers. Daffodils didn’t dream of blooming until St. David’s Day. The darling buds of May were just that and our grandmothers didn’t cast a clout ‘till the month was out. Although I’m not sure if I would have recognised a cast aside clout if I saw one. I imagined a sickly pink vest-like garment with rubber buttons.

Summers were the length of the six-week school holidays and lasted for three months. The days were endless, the sun always shone and we children went to bed in the daylight to the sound of lawn mowers in surrounding gardens. Not the electric or petrol powered kind, but cast-iron hand pushed mowers, with the make embossed in type around the rim of the wheels.

Autumn began on September 1st and the trees were bare by mid October, by which time we would have stuffed our Guys ready for November 5th - guaranteed to be cold and foggy. Christmas didn’t appear in the shops until December. The day itself was frosty and clear. The country was closed for two days.

Today when I stepped from the house a fine drizzle was falling. Too little rain to penetrate the sun baked wastes of my garden, but wonderfully refreshing as it moistened my face and hands. Needless to say, the weak front soon broke up and the blazing sun returned.

I’m seriously considering planting olive trees this autumn.

Imagine my surprise as I surfed the net today, when I stumbled across a site called artnet.com. Among other things, they offer a service that monitors auction sale prices for artworks, worldwide. Nothing too remarkable in that you may think; a useful service for those wishing to buy or sell art. My amazement came when I discovered that I was listed as one of the featured artists. A bit of digging revealed the piece in question to be a painting I did way back in 1974 as one of a series that myself, and three fellow illustrators, completed for a restaurant in Manchester, run by the then Playboy boss in the UK. According to the information on the site, the work turned up as part of a ‘Playboy At 50’ auction at Christie’s in New York City in December 2003.

I’ve often wondered what had happened to the pictures. I completed about ten between August and December. Quite a rush as I recall as I was having to squeeze the commission into my spare time and Ben, my first son, was born in November, about half way through the task. The theme was various stars of stage and screen supposedly tucking in to their favourite food. The painting in question portrayed Humphrey Bogart, one hand holding a pistol, the other in a box of popcorn. But the first, and my personal favourite, was of the young Marilyn Monroe, smiling as she tackled a double scoop ice cream cone as it melted over her hand in the hot Californian sun. That apparently never made the auction. Hopefully it’s on a wall somewhere in the world. But works by fellow contributor, David Wedgebury, were included in the sale.

David was the staff photographer at Decca Records during my time there between ’68 and ‘73 and as well as painting in his spare time, was responsible for some iconic shots of 60’s pop stars, including The Stones, Small Faces, Them. The Who and Marianne Faithfull. Sadly David died some years ago, but left a published book of his photographs titled ‘As Time Goes By’ and deservedly had several shots accepted as part of the collection of The National Portrait Gallery.

I wonder what other ‘lost’ treasures from my past are out there floating around in cyber space? Quite a jolly bundle I shouldn’t wonder and no mistake.

The online photographic exhibition I mentioned the other week is now up and running. I got missed in the opening credit, but the rationale behind the work is in the intro (click on the 'i' icon to the left). Each pair of pictures is divided between France and the UK. Vive la difference.

Go to: www.london-photographic-awards.com/directory/gallery/index.php?id=3654

There were people all around me in a room filled with bright lights and they all seemed to be looking my way, waiting for some kind of sign. I just stared back beneath the bare light bulbs and cracked plaster, shifting papers around on a large table as if I was searching for an answer; the answer to a question that no-one had yet asked. But I knew it was coming and I went to the window. Outside it was dark and rainy, black clouds flying in a starless night. I turned and the room was empty. Beyond the door I could hear a clamouring in the hallway; voices echoed, my name was called. Back at the table I worked feverishly, drawing onto large sheets of paper, casting them onto the floor as I finished without pausing to review what I had done. On and on I worked, until I trampled over the growing mound of completed drawings that now covered the white painted boards. Behind me the door crashed open, the shadows of many people casting long shadows so that I could not see to carry on. I waited, not daring to move. All I could hear was the sound of my beating heart, racing, pounding in my chest. A hand fell upon my shoulder and shook, not hard, but with firm and steady grip.

Of course it was only a dream. But then I knew that all along, didn’t I? Because Johnny Depp was there in the crowd. And his father, Keith Richards.

I only saw Syd Barrett once. Pink Floyd played Canterbury Tech in ’66 or ’67. I can’t remember for sure. What is it that everyone says about the sixties? Something about being there and not remembering, or not being there and then remembering? I can’t remember.

Anyhow, Pink Floyd definitely played and I was definitely there. They were set up at one end of the cramped student bar and as I recall, it didn’t even have a raised stage. Floyd’s set involved a light show, a technically primitive affair that had globules of oily colour mixing and morphing into abstract shapes. This necessitated near darkness to be effective and two or three songs into their performance the local moddy boys, led by Donald, Canterbury’s King Mod, decided to contribute by throwing the main switches and flooding the hall with harsh electric light.

Everything stumbled to a halt, even the lone idiot dancer who had taken up position in front of the band and had kept us all amused with his highly original interpretations of the music. This involved much flailing of arms and a kind of bent-knee shuffle that was only interrupted when he made contact with the wall. Undaunted he would somehow manage to turn and set off for the opposite wall. The mods probably saved him from serious physical damage, but alas, I fear it was already too late for his mental wellbeing.

Roger Waters, a tall, slightly scary figure, approached the mike. We don’t want no trouble, he said, his voice communicating a cold, quiet menace - and behold, there was no light. Roger had spoken and Donald had obeyed. Fantastic. The Floyd struck up once again, the idiot dancer resumed his antics and we were happy, in a mellow kind of way.

All I really remember of Syd is that he was the one I watched and that he wore a huge silver kipper tie that hung down to his knees. God bless him.