Yesterday, the bombers came back to London and today it appears, Glasgow. For the past thirty years, they’ve hardly been away. Soon after I began working and living in London, terrorist attack became a very real and deadly part of everyday life. In the 70’s, during the first IRA campaign in the capital, I heard several bombs explode, one outside Selfridges in Oxford Street, where fifteen minutes before I had been waiting for a bus. Once heard, you can’t mistake the sound.

After each explosion, the thought, ‘not me’ would inevitably flash through your mind before thoughts turned to those who may not have been so lucky: Selfish, callous maybe, but a deep-rooted human reaction, a flush of short-lived elation, realising that, this time, you had been spared. Then, faced with the realisation that becoming a victim was a matter of chance, you played the odds and carried on. But, with the cease-fire in Northern Ireland, followed by the pledge from the paramilitaries to disarm, the threat subsided.

In 2005, came 7/7 and we once again walk with the shadow of death on the streets of our cities. But we must not abandon hope, however hard that may be, however hopeless, at times, it may seem. For without hope comes despair and despair can lead to anger then hatred, which in turn can drive some to commit desperate acts of violence. Only by recognising, addressing, then seeking solutions to the causes of the violence can it be stopped. Remain in denial and it can only continue. Impossible? Who, even a year ago, thought they would ever see Ian Paisley and Martin McGuinness standing together, side by side, talking peace? At one time, we could only hope.

There’s been recent talk about the death of the album. If evidence were needed, HMV’s latest sales figures for CDs and the fact that MP3 downloads are now included when compiling the charts, it hardly needs a Sebastian Shark to swing the jury. The download is fast becoming the preferred method of accessing music. Couple that with the shift towards selecting single tracks rather than a collection and the death knell rings ever louder.

Some say that the art of writing and performing an album has declined and this accounts for its imminent consignment to history. I wouldn’t know about that. Although I still purchase CDs - not as many of my age do, merely remastered reissues from bygone days - no, I buy a fair amount of new stuff. But not enough to confidently pass judgement on the quality of the majority of current releases.

I admit that I am biased when it comes to defending the album format. After all, I spent the first fifteen years of my working life doing little else but designing album covers, first at Decca, then EMI and after that as a freelance designer. But that’s only part of it.

The albums that I count among my favourites all have a theme running through them, musically, lyrically and in mood. Each song is like a chapter in a book. It has something to say in its own right, but links with the next to build an entity. What you end up with is a complete story. I’m not talking about the dreaded concept album or overblown pop opera, but a work that sounds like it was recorded sequentially, where musicians may use a variety of instruments, but leave their signature unmistakably stamped on each song. Again, the subject of each song, as contained in the lyrics, can be varied, but the language, writing style and texture, when coupled with the music, will bind the piece together. Listening to a well- crafted album is like reading a well-written book. There may well be highlights, flashes of brilliance, even genius, but they only serve to contribute to the whole.

So far, I’ve said nothing that couldn’t be attained by bypassing the CD album and going for the option of the download. But then there’s the small matter of the cover. Small, because once upon a time, in the era of the 12’’ vinyl LP, the cover was… well… 12’’ inches and a bit square. The arrival of the much smaller compact disc in its fiddly plastic case sent a shiver down the spines of those of us that designed record sleeves. The death of album art was pronounced, but, for the time being, turned out to be exaggerated. Cover art thrived, even expanded, with the need for the booklet insert. A reprieve.

A good cover can round off the perfect album. It can graphically represent the musical content and in some cases equal and surpass it, achieving an iconic status of its very own. If the CD is to disappear, the pleasure of enjoying a brilliantly conceived and executed adjunct to the music will, for me at least, be a sad loss, for not surprisingly, I have always made a connection between music and image. Each can add to the other, increasing the effectiveness of both. How powerful, if it’s done right, is the combination of image and music in film for example? It can be transforming for either, but especially the music. A piece or song, however familiar, can be made to sound like you’ve never heard it before.

I could name many, but for me, one album that pulls all the components together to make the perfect whole is Aimee Mann’s ‘Lost In Space’. Each song stands alone, but heard in sequence and as a complete work, they weave together to create a rich tapestry that has a haunting and lasting presence. The experience of listening is topped by the beautifully realised illustrations from an artist simply named, Seth. They capture the mood of the piece perfectly and then add to it.

But I’m not surprised that the album is in trouble. In a time of sound bites and instant gratification people are no longer willing, or intellectually able, to give something time, to work at it, to get involved other than on a superficial level. We live in a throw away society, influenced and driven by shallowness, loutish behaviour and mediocrity posing as entertainment and culture, to be paraded for maximum effect, then chucked like the trash it is. It seems to me a whole generation now lives its life like the characters of East Enders and the housemates in Big Brother. Life imitating art, or art imitating life? Or, life imitating crap, crap imitating life?

In the meantime… albums? RIP.

Much chatter on Radio 4 this morning on the topic of school mottos. This of course prompted by new PM Gordon Brown’s reference to his own during his statement in front of No.10 yesterday.

As I recall, my own school didn’t have anything as grand, though I may well be wrong. If it had one, what on earth would it have been? ‘Keep a clean nose, don’t use your sleeve and if you’re on your bike (at night), wear white’. No, that’s a little unfair. Although it what was then described as a Secondary Modern, my school did right by me and I it.

Aged eleven, I had taken the entrance exam for a private school called Greigs. Due to the limited number of grammar schools in Southampton where I grew up, places were limited and it was tough to get in. Concerned to give me the best secondary education outside of the grammars, my dad had arranged for me to try the private route. But having passed, he democratically gave me the chance to choose which place to take up - the private school, or the ‘grammar course’ at my local secondary mod. I chose the latter and didn’t regret it for a minute. If I’d gone elsewhere I would never have met Mr Jack, the art teacher, a man who, with the full support of my parents, was responsible for first steering me onto a course that would lead to a life-long career as a graphic designer. I owe it all to him, the bearded, red-haired Scot with the twinkly eyes who saw something in me and made sure I got onto the first rung of the ladder.

So, the school motto. If there had been one for Woolston Secondary Mixed (it was co-ed, another bonus) rather than latin, it would have probably been in ancient Norse. For Woolston, a later Saxon name, was first settled by Vikings sometime after the Romans had abandoned the port of Clausentum a mile or so upriver. The Norsemen settled both sides of the River Itchen, their chiefs with names like Eric the Red and Thor the Merciless. A likely school motto could well have been ‘Better red than dead' or 'Mercy mercy me'.

I recently learned that the school is to be demolished, the pupils relocated to other schools in the area. Progress I suppose, but another memory destined to be only that once the building is gone. Hearing the news a few lines from John Lennon came to mind, words that went through my head each time I passed by over the years:

After a while you start to smile now you feel cool,
Then you decide to take a walk by the old school.
Nothing has changed, it’s still the same,
I’ve got nothing to say, but it’s OK.

‘Anyone for tennis’. One of Cream’s lesser-known tracks. Fact is, I don’t think, to the best of my recollection, that I’ve ever heard it. But I did notice yesterday, whilst browsing the CD racks in the local Tesco, that it’s included on the latest remastered compilation by the trio of rock virtuosi. The cover features a black and white photograph of said threesome sporting the most outrageous perms; this, ten years before the great perm revival of the 70’s, favoured second time around by many footballers. Kevin Keegan to name but two.

The first perm outbreak was inspired by first, Dylan, and second, Hendrix, who himself was a Dylan aficionado extraordinaire. The curls of Dylan and Hendrix, were, of course, entirely natural. Teased maybe, but there through the family gene pool. Cream’s curls, apart from a slight tendency in the Baker family maybe, were not. Asked why he had taken the plunge, Clapton said that he loved the Dylan look. His hair, said Eric, ‘was like flames’.

A friend of mine, Dave, a fellow student at Canterbury at the time, decided he’d like some of that hot curly vibe too. He convinced a lady friend to do the deed, purchasing a home perm kit from Boots and retiring to her kitchen where the act was performed. Oh dear. Not a great success I’m afraid. Dave turned up on Monday morning looking more like Little Lord Fauntleroy than Bob, Jimi or Eric. Despite his best efforts to straighten himself out, he had to wear his embarrassment for a week or two. Not that we gave him a hard time of course. Well, not much. Okay, quite a lot actually.

Is the perm due a slight return? Anybody’s guess. If it does come back it certainly won’t be bothering me that much. Not at all in fact. My follicles are decidedly challenged. No, until the new day of the perm returns we’ll just have to make do with old photographs of Leo Sayer, Roger Daltrey, Tom Baker et al. For the real thing, try any matinee performance of a West End musical revival. There, in the stalls, the perm will never die.

And that’s the strange thing. It’s reasonable to suppose that amongst the perm’s traditional heartland – ladies of a certain age - its popularity would decline as the ‘new old’ gradually replace the ‘old old’. For after all, in the 60’s and 70’s it was young men who took to the style in a big way. Young women tended towards a different look, although the dark one in Abba did have a moment of perm madness and I’m not so sure Lulu didn’t flirt with the curls too at one time. But even today, once a certain age is clocked up, the perm continues to mysteriously appear on the heads of thousands of mature women up and down this land.

So on a day that saw Tony Blair quit as PM after ten long years, to be replaced by Gordon Brown, my preoccupations were on trivial tonsorial matters, not politics. Or floods. Not even Wimbledon got a look-in. Maybe Gordon should try a perm; ‘hair like flames’ might fire up his dour persona. And John McEnroe. Were those one-time curls genuine?

Perm anyone?

An article in the today's papers – the Sunday Times I believe - lamenting the decline of Royal Ascot from a toff’s day out to a chav’s piss-up. Some tale of a gang of ladettes who consumed four gallons of Pimm’s No. 1 or thereabouts during their stay at the racecourse without bothering to even glimpse a gee gee. The conclusion was that ‘collar and tie’ events are becoming a thing of the past and the future is in egalitarian gatherings such as Glastonbury, which can now be said to be an established institution.

In a hundred years time, will we have complaints about the undermining of the Glastonbury tradition following an invasion by those wearing collars and ties? Search me squire. Anyway, the site at Glastonbury will either be desert or a housing development by then and a suburb of Bristol, which, in turn, will be a postal district of the region of England in southwest Europa.

Saw the Arctic Monkeys on TV last night headlining at Glastonbury. Tricky wordplay. Clever even, according to others. Frantic strumming. Hands-a-blur, so fast was it. Cute front man. In a puppy dog way. A young pup. Addressed the sing-along crowd as ‘ladies and gentlemen’. What did I just say? Cute. Maybe too cute. For comfort. Overall? The Monkeys? Hey, hey. Left me cold.

Bjork? Didn’t see her. Can’t comment.

Somebody, an acquaintance, said they’d seen the Kaiser Chiefs. Not at Glastonbury. Somewhere else. Last week. Said the singer ran around a lot. On stage. Not a lot else to say. Really? Any good? Alright, he supposed. Accompanied by a shrug. And a pout. Cute. But maybe not cute enough. Or fast enough. To be a rock ‘n’ roll star. These days.

Attending the memorial service of a friend who died last week, I was given cause to consider the question of faith.

Although counted as a ‘friend’, Ros was really the friend of friends who I met only in their company. This being so, I knew very little about her other than the things that came to light on our occasional meetings and bits and pieces that were passed on second hand by our mutual acquaintances. Always content to sit back and observe, happy to make way for the more verbose members of the group, I always felt that nine-tenths of Ros lay beneath the surface and however long I continued to know her, that this mystery would remain just that; until yesterday that is.

It wasn’t so much the tributes that were paid by three former colleagues, which spoke of her dedication, perception and kindness as a head teacher, but the way in which she faced her death. The end had come quickly. Following rapid weight loss around Christmas six months ago, Ros was eventually diagnosed with cancer. Seeing her at that time was a shock. I feared the worst, but hoped for better. It was not to be. The condition was too advanced and once treatment was abandoned as having no further benefit, a rapid decline became inevitable.

Having received the verdict passed by the doctors, Ros took control. Having to decide whether to fight for life or prepare for death, she appeared to do both. She stated that, if possible, she wished to die at home. She bought an i-pod and loaded up her favourite pieces of music, some of which surprised even her closest friends - an indication of her private side. Her funeral and memorial service were planned down to the last detail. Hymns were selected, prayers chosen, readings bookmarked, speakers invited - all this done against a background of increasing disability and discomfort.

Ros’s strength undoubtedly came to her through faith. Her certainty in knowing the unknown took her to the end of her life. Although an inspiration, it is something that is beyond my understanding and I can only look on with awe and wonder at those who are able to keep the faith.

Yesterday it was back to the Festival Hall for an evening at the cinema. Or more accurately, an evening of movie soundtracks. To get really nit picking, an evening of film and TV scores written by veteran composer, John Barry. Our second visit this week to a concert conceived by Jarvis Cocker as part of his Meltdown residency at the freshly refurbished hall on the Southbank.

Barry stretches back to my youth. He always seems to have been around - in those days with his John Barry Seven. As arranger, conductor and performer of the James Bond theme, which was first heard in Dr No, he turned the tune into a commercial success. I still have the 45rpm 7” single in my collection, dating from the time the film was released in the early 60’s. Although he didn’t compose the iconic tune, that credit goes to Monty Norman who has been receiving royalties since 1962, Barry went on to score eleven Bond films in total. These include the classics, ‘Diamonds are Forever’, ‘Thunderball’, ‘From Russia with Love’ and ‘You Only Live Twice’.

With one exception, last night’s performance by The London Philharmonic Orchestra was strictly instrumental, with no singers. It was down to Jarvis to provide the one vocal and he wisely picked what is arguably one of the least demanding, choosing to stay well clear of anything touched by the explosive tonsils of the dynamic Welsh duo - Jones and Bassey. You don’t mess with Tom And Shirl’. But, that said, he was stepping bravely into the shadow of a legend – Louis Armstrong – who’s deceptively relaxed rendition of ‘All The Time In The World’ has become a standard, since covered by artistes as diverse as My Bloody Valentine, Iggy Pop, Fun Lovin' Criminals, Vic Damone, Amalia Grè and Tindersticks.

Jarvis gave it his best shot, after telling us, and the composer - who at this early stage had taken up the conductor’s baton – that he hoped he wouldn’t muck it up. I don’t think he did, crooning breathily through the song, moving only to push his specs back up his nose and clear his eyes of flopping hair. But from then on it was orchestra all the way, with Jarvis and John leaving the ensemble in the capable hands of Nicholas Dodd as they retired gracefully to take seats in the royal box.

There then followed a selection of some of the most memorable film music of our time for which Barry has clocked up five Oscars and four Grammy’s and includes, ‘Born Free’, ‘Dances With Wolves’, ‘Out of Africa’ and ‘Goldfinger’. Inevitably, the programme ended with the James Bond Suite, for which the orchestra, Dodd and Barry, beaming down from his regal position, received a standing ovation. For an encore, asked by Dodd what we wanted to hear, ‘something else or Bond?’ there was no contest. And so it ended with the one composition for which Barry cannot take credit for writing, a reprise of the ‘James Bond Theme’.

But for me, there was one glaring omission. A tune that John Lennon reputedly - on hearing it the previous night at the film’s premiere - couldn’t get out of his head during an interview with a music journalist in the back of his Rolls, dum-di-dahing the piano part over and over as he played with the electric windows. How can a tune so memorable have been left in the piano stool? I refer of course, to ‘The Ipcress File’.

‘Courtney, I’m going to play you the best theme tune you’ve ever heard’.

Royal Ascot. If I had gone expecting ‘My Fair Lady’, each lady resembling Audrey Hepburn, exquisitely dressed head to toe in Norman Hartnell, beautiful eyes flashing from the shadows cast by an outrageous chapeau, the gents all toffs, aristocratic in their immaculate morning attire, topped off with a topper, then I should have been disappointed. But I didn’t expect that, although secretly hoped for the faint hint of an echo, which is probably close to what I got.

Together with half-a-dozen colleagues, I received an invitation from a company supplier to a day of corporate hospitality at the right royal racing event. We were picked up at 9.30am from the office and whisked westwards in the June sunshine to the small Berkshire town, which, for a week each year, is afforded royal patronage during the world famous race meeting. This being my first ever visit to such an event – a day at the races - I had few preconceived notions as to how the day would go and what to expect.

On our arrival, following a two-hour journey through slow-moving traffic, we spilled from our people carrier, somewhat crumpled, onto the heaving pavement outside the main entrance to the racecourse. Within minutes it became apparent that Ascot 2007 was less of a gavotte -where everyone that SHOULD be here is here – and more of a cavort – where everyone that COULD be here is here. But twas maybe always so. For racing may be the sport of kings (and queens), but has long since been enjoyed and patronised by those of us far less privileged.

As we waited for our hosts to arrive and issue us with tickets, our small party had an ideal opportunity to study the form of the hundreds of race goers parading before us through the entrance gates. Naturally, there were hats a-plenty. For the men in their formal wear, grey or black top hats, some carried, but mostly worn on heads of all shapes and sizes. One gentlemen, sporting a topper that was only prevented from completely covering his eyes by his conveniently placed and generously large ears, could have walked straight out of the tea party with Alice, a dead ringer for Tenniel’s mad hatter.

But it was on the heads of the ladies that the real triumphs and disasters were to be found - though opinions as to which belonged where was strictly personal.
There were feathers, flowers, fruit, probably veg (though I didn’t spot any), no fur (but it is summer), or small living mammals (tricky to keep in place). Some hats were huge, others tiny, but not one stood out as being spectacularly original. Fact was, they were all a bit safe. Ah well. Maybe the big guns are rolled out for Ladies Day. Big guns. Now there’s a thought. A scale replica of the forward turret of the Graf Spee, that at intervals, would fire off a salvo. That would be worth the price of a ticket to the Royal Enclosure to witness. Probably wouldn’t make it through security though. Pity. Ah for those gay, carefree days as portrayed in the Harrison/Hepburn movie, before everyone was a potential suicide bomber and a real laydee was spared the indignity of having official prying fingers rummage through the intimate contents of her handbag in full view of the hoi polloi.

Walking down to the rail to watch a race, Helen, one of our group, summed up the day’s fashions perfectly – ‘It’s like being at the largest wedding you’ve ever been to’. ‘With occasional horses’, I added.

So, what of the horses? They were, after all, the reason for being there weren’t they? Well, yes and no, for it would have been quite possible not to set eyes on the real thing if one so wished. The hospitality rooms, where we spent most of the day, were at the rear of the massive main stand and the course was not in our sight. At the table, which was ours for the day, we were plied with an endless supply of food and drink. Champagne glasses were never empty. There was no real need to leave the spot, except to go to the loo, or place a bet, or collect winnings, or smoke a fag. The races could be viewed on a giant screen outside the window. Sorted mate.

We did choose to make our way to the rails to watch the field thunder past on their way to the winning post opposite the Royal Box. Some of us managed to win, others, me included, did not. But it’s the taking part that counts, I told myself. Just as well. After each race it was back to the table for a top up and study the card for the next one. Another two quid on the nose, or shall I go each way. Either way, the result was the same.

And then, it was over. We had to drink up and wait outside for the cabs that would carry us back the way we had come ten hours before. My remains of the day? Gangs of girls, straight from the pages of Viz, tottering around on heels, hats akimbo, avin’ it large. Big men in big suits and big knots in their ties, walking that big man walk, their knees destined never to meet, kept apart by big thighs. Toffs in toppers discussing ‘officer material’. Ladies in gaudily expensive outfits pulling other ladies in expensive gaudy outfits to pieces with their eyes. In other words, one big gloriously tasteless English – not British - pageant.

Eliza Doolittle – where was ya darlin’?

Well, Shane MacGowan did make it onto the stage… just. Along with all the other performers at last night’s music of Disney concert at The Royal Festival Hall, he lurched onto the platform an hour later than scheduled. This had nothing to do with Shane’s long-term love affair with glass and bottle but was down to electrical problems that delayed the proceedings, giving the Irish troubadour a little longer to indulge his liquid excesses in the hospitality room.

Jarvis Cocker’s idea to put on a two-hour concert that had a mixed bag of musicians performing songs and instrumental works that have featured in Disney films was ambitious, both in thought and on paper. The realisation was to confirm this. Due to the sheer scale of the undertaking and the ins and outs that took the confirmation of participants right to the wire, I had anticipated that the results were likely to be patchy. I was right.

The earlier technical difficulties didn’t take long to resurface. The first half of Roger McGough’s short contribution was lost through lack of volume from his mike. Shame. The second half – all two to three minutes of it - had him at his deadpan, funny best. After that things did settle down and the concert managed to ease into its stride.

And stride is what the long skinny legs of Jarvis did to propel him from the wings, or the place where the wings would be if the Festival Hall had them. Not mentioning the delay and probably getting away with it, he announced his first contribution to his very own Meltdown Sunday by saying that the song he was about to begin merely confirmed what we knew to be so, then launched himself – all legs, arms, elbows, knees and bums-a-daisy – into ‘I’m the king of the swingers’. Although sticking closer to the original than a lot of what was to follow, he managed to inject more than a hint of sardonic irony into the sing-along lyrics, especially the lines ‘Oh, oobee doo, I wanna be like you, I wanna walk like you, talk like you, too’, which he addressed directly to the full-house audience. Personally, I didn't believe him.

Other performers strayed further from the lighter side of a sunlit clearing, taking us deep into the dark, dark woods. Something that Disney repeated in passages in most of his animated movies, the scary bit that had us kids covering our eyes and ears. Not easy to do simultaneously, as I recall.

Nick Cave managed to turn Heigh-Ho into a Zola-like incubus, swapping coal for precious stones with miners trapped in a brutal capitalist regime of endless toil and exploitation: ‘We dig dig dig dig dig dig dig from early morn till night, we dig dig dig dig dig dig dig up everything in sight, we dig up diamonds by the score, a thousand rubies, sometimes more, but we don't know what we dig 'em for, we dig dig dig a-dig dig’. An adult nightmare indeed, old Nick's way.

Grace Jones, closing the first half, came very close to stealing it with her imperious rendition of ‘Trust In Me’ from The Jungle Book. When done, she swept from the stage on nine-inch heels, the ‘hurrahs’ ringing in her ears. If red roses for divas had been brought along, they would have been showered down upon her.

My own enjoyment of Act 1 was only marred by a frightful woman who was seated beside me. She talked incessantly to her partner throughout, hardly pausing for breath. Unable to stand it any longer, I was moved to ask her, in no uncertain terms, too kindly keep quiet. For about thirty seconds this appeared to do the trick. Then, off she went again. Short of strangling the bloody woman I was out of ideas. She was obviously deranged. Thankfully I was not forced to extreme measures as the pair failed to take their places for the second half - hopefully as the result of a fatal plunge from the terrace to the flagstones below during the interval.

In Act 2, Peter Doherty, as he was billed, turned in a touching and heartfelt version of ‘Chim Chiminee’, for once in his life, choosing to do it straight. Bravo young man. Then, there was Shane. He shambled to centre stage; each step planted uncertainly, as if to make sure that the floor was still there, the walk of a man blind drunk. With glass in hand, black suit rumpled, white shirt shining, he somehow managed to roar his way through ‘Zip-a-dee dooh dah’ from beginning to end. The crowd roared back, encouraging him through it and he took his exit, blowing extravagant kisses our way.

Other highlights included Beth Orton and several virtuoso players in the band. Due to the late start, we had to leave before the Cocker finale, ‘When You Wish Upon A Star’. A pity, as it’s a personal favourite. But, heigh-ho.

In half an hour we’re heading off to the newly refurbished Festival Hall for an evening in the company of Jarvis Cocker. It’s part of his ‘Meltdown’ residency and features various artistes, including Jarvis, interpreting the music of Walt Disney. Should be interesting, good even if we’re lucky. Can’t wait to see what Shane MacGowan makes of his selection – if he makes it to the stage that is.

The acoustics have been vastly improved following the re-fit, so I’m looking forward to a wall of crystal clear sound. Then on Thursday we’re off to the same location to spend a couple of hours or so listening to a full orchestra playing the film scores of John Barry- also part of Jarvis’s Meltdown. Should be a cracker. I’ll let you know.

Last night I spent the evening in the company of friends and colleagues who stretched back over forty years. The event, which took place at the 100 Club, legendary music venue in London’s Oxford Street, was billed as my ’60 not out’ party. It was an occasion filled with noise and mixed emotions as faces from the past appeared before me from the smoky gloom in a parade that tracked my progress from student days in 60’s Canterbury to retiree in 2007.

The venue was wholly appropriate, as music has played an important part in my life both recreationally and professionally and continues to do so and I’m sure, will go on doing so. Around the blood red walls of the club were fading photographs of many celebrated musicians who have trodden the boards of the modest stage; Keith Richards, Jeff Beck, Pete Townshend, Eric Clapton, as well as luminaries from the punk and new wave era and the urbane, black and white world of jazz. Apart from the row of air-conditioning units clamped to the black, cave-like ceiling, the place appeared as gloriously run-down as ever, like every self-respecting venue of character should. One other strangely out-of-place nod to progress and hygiene was the space-age hand dryer in the toilets - frighteningly effective in its efficiency.

The ‘band room’ too did not disappoint. It was really a cupboard with a stack of unused tables stored at one end, a narrow wooden bench along one wall and a stained mirror. If you took a cat in there, you couldn’t swing it, which in the world of rock and jazz, littered with ‘cats’ both cool and hot, this is a serious disadvantage for such a room. There was no sink, but it did have a tiny fridge with enough capacity for a couple of six packs and one or two bottles of water. Not nearly enough to satisfy the liquid demands of your average beat combo. The walls were covered with the scrawls of former inhabitants; names, obscenities and witticisms, in descending order. We meant to add our own, but in all the excitement, never did.

After all the weeks of rehearsal, the band pulled it off on the night. We started together, just about stayed together and ended pretty much together. What more can a rag, tag and bobtail collection of troubadours ask? Not much. The vocals were impossible to hear on stage, our voices carried out into the void and played back through a mush of static like some distant message from the far reaches of space. All one could do was open the throat and trust that something was coming forth. But the crowd cheered us on, didn’t spit, throw furniture or underwear (rather disappointingly) and applauded wildly at the end of each song.

The set seemed to be over almost before it began. Can that really have been the sum of seven four-hour sessions of sweat and toil in rehearsal rooms? It most certainly was, although we did cut out Elvis Costello’s ‘Alison’ on the night. It was the song the musicians were least sure of and although I enjoyed singing it, we decided not to risk a hesitant performance. I only forgot the words once, mumbling incoherent nonsense for the two forgotten lines, pretty certain that nobody noticed. Overall, a minor triumph for a bunch of geezers from the office, although we were lucky to have the semi-pro skills of a lead guitarist and bass player within the company and it showed.

Once the applause and buzz of amplifiers had faded, I was called back onstage and presented with a magnificent and totally unexpected gift - a 60th anniversary Fender Telecaster. What a gift. I have never so much as strummed a guitar, no nothing of chords or finger positions, but am determined to get to grips with the beast. This is not to be some expensive trophy hanging around on the wall, I want to play it. I shall invest in a beginner's book and DVD, get a lead, plectrum, strap and practice amp, retire to my studio and make up for years of musical inability. My aim is to turn myself into an average rhythm guitar player and my mojo guru will be the master of riff himself – Keef. Look out baby, I’m a comin’ to getcha.

Sue and I climbed the stairs of the basement venue two hours later laden with more than we had taken in. Outside the night was humid and the bright streets crammed with happy smiling people. The lights on all passing cabs were dark, so we staggered through the merry throng to the Underground. With my mock ‘access all areas’ pass slung around my neck and silver guitar case in hand, I was hoping to generate the odd curious and admiring glance from surrounding passengers, passing off for some aging muso on his way home from a gig in some smoke-filled sweaty dive, which technically, I was. But who was I kidding? This was London. Not a second glance passed my way. But that was okay. After all these years, I knew the score in the big city.

We made it on to the last train with time to spare and only one person vomited between Waterloo and our stop, with the guy sitting across the aisle taking the fallout. I offered him a tissue to wipe himself dry as the perpetrator staggered off down the carriage, jaws clamped tight in an effort to hold back a reprise. We arrived at our destination with a crowd of young men at the far end of the carriage casually attempting to set light to a discarded newspaper with a cigarette lighter. It didn’t catch and the train emptied intact.

I dreamed of coloured lights, and faces looking up as a crowd, conversations, hugs, kisses, the lyrics of a song repeating around and around in and out of sleep throughout the short, disturbed night. This afternoon though, I did sleep, fatigue finally overtaking me. The only dream was of a bright, shiny guitar and I was there on a stage at the end of a long, narrow, empty room. And lit by a single spotlight, I was playing.

It rained hard in the night. It was still dark, so it must have been early. Then as it got light, a bird began to sing, somewhere close, most likely from the ivy below the open window. My guess is that it was the wren that has been nesting in the thick tangle of foliage that clings to the fence.

The tiny bird has spent the past few weeks darting to and fro, returning with food for its brood. The other evening, in the dimming twilight, I spotted the wren giving chase to a moth, twisting and turning as it attempted to get a hold on the insect that was getting on for half the bird’s size; a feast for the young birds if the parent had managed to catch its prey. The pair took their deadly tussle beyond my sight, the outcome unknown.

An hour later the bats appeared, black against the pale sky, soaring and diving, disappearing against the dark trees, then there once more as they hunted down their targets, unseen by human eyes. They appear each summer, welcome visitors, surviving in times that find many species of our wildlife in crisis.

The foxes too have become bolder. It’s now not unusual to see them in daylight at any time. I stood at the kitchen window two weeks ago and watched as a young adult gave chase to a pair of blackbirds, taken by surprise as they listened for worms on the grass. A series of holes, tunnelled under garden fences, gives the foxes free range along secret pathways - a way in and a way out, ensuring that they are never cornered.

This season the crows have gone elsewhere to nest. A favourite site for the past few years has been the tall Scotch Pine in the garden. Noisy birds, they spend the summer months in constant conflict with a marauding band of magpies, which, unchallenged, has steadily grown in number, terrorising the neighbourhood with their cackling chatter and delinquent ways. The crows give chase when the black and white birds get too close to their nest, which is often, their cawing warning cries adding to the cacophony.

Occasionally a bird of prey will swoop silently from the skies, a blackbird or pigeon in its sights. Sometimes they get lucky. Last autumn a sparrow hawk took an hour to daintily devour a ringdove on the top lawn, leaving nothing but a sprinkling of grey feathers to mark the spot. There were not even any bones to be seen.

Another time a blackbird, caught completely by surprise, escaped death by millimetres as a brown streak flashed into view, tipping its wings vertically in order to pass through the lilac hedge, like a jet fighter dodging electricity pylons or enemy fire. The there’s the heron, gliding down to raid the surrounding garden’s fish ponds and a stag beetle, that for the past few days has taken flight at dusk, whirring around in the upper branches of the sloe tree outside of the back door.

Hang on a minute. Is that a Bill Oddie I see lurking in the laurels? Where’s that 410 single barrel?

Talking of Keith Moon, as I was, right up there as one of the best gigs I ever had the privilege to attend is a performance by The Who at the London College of Printing in the summer of ’68.

I was a student at Canterbury College of Art in that summer of love – or was that in ’67? – well, you know what they say about the 60’s, if you can remember it you weren’t really there. Was that what they say? I can’t remember. Anyway, The Who. My mate Gordon spotted the ad. for the gig in The Melody Maker – essential reading for Gordon in those days, along with Motorcycle News (no change there then) – and as big Who fans, a quick trip up the M2 to the Elephant and Castle was not going to deny us an audience with one of our fave raves.

Staged in the student bar on a Friday evening, the Shepherds Bush boys were on top form. The support act was The Alan Bown Set. Their sax player, John, was inducted without ceremony or debate into Gordon’s elite company of ‘heroes’. This exclusive band of misfits and icons included the bearded cyclist tramp who traversed the medieval streets of Canterbury on an ex-butcher’s boy bike with his beloved dog in the basket, to superstar motorcyclist and actor, Steve McQueen.

Before ‘Tommy’, The Who were a band known primarily for a string of immaculate singles. That evening they played them all with the aggression and flare that made them one of the best live bands in rock, ever. We were close enough to reach out and touch them in that confined space – no stadium this – and Townshend soon devised a system that had a human chain stretching back to the bar ensuring a regular supply of pints to the stage. They even encouraged requests. ‘Pictures of Lily’ was ours. Naturally, they played it.

“Pictures of Lily made my life so wonderful,
pictures of Lily helped me sleep at night…

Remember that illustration job I mentioned a week or two back, the subject of 'no more heroes'? - well, I'm still at it with the light still very far off and round the bend in the tunnel. And round the bend is what I'll be if I don't see a faint glimmer soon. 1.06 am and I've only just put my pen down. Thought I'd rattle off a quick blog as it's over a week since the last one.

Tomorrow night is band practice, which means that I can at least let off a bit of steam. Only a week to go and one rehearsal left after tomorrow before the main event, but last week's went pretty well so we're noisily confident that it will all come together on the big night. As long as we can keep the drummer off the beer before we go on.

Reminds me of a performance many years back when I was a member of the house band at EMI Records. Pete, the in-house photographer was our very own Keith Moon and attempted to emulate the dear boy when after a few too many vodkas he ended the set by falling backwards from his drum stool, completely demolishing the kit in the process. Ah, happy days.