Didn’t realise, until I heard it on the radio this morning, that Humphrey Lyttleton’s 1956 hit ‘Bad Penny Blues’ was produced by legendary pop producer Joe Meek, who later went on to have early 60’s chart success with “Johnny Remember Me’, ‘Just Like Eddy’, ‘Telstar’ and 'Have I The Right’.

With its rolling bass line and piano driven rhythm, Humph’s composition was also the inspiration for the Beatles’ ‘Lady Madonna’. The late jazz trumpeter and bandleader was said to be ‘flattered’ by the homage, too much of a gentleman of the old school to ever dream of suing. Alas, we’ll not see his like again.

So, in the fracas between a Chelsea groundsman and Manchester United player Patrice Evra at the weekend, the French left-back allegedly heard the words, “ you’re just a fucking immigrant”. If true, what, I wonder is the Chelsea workers view of his own team? Owned by a Russian, managed by an Israeli, coached by a Dutchman and that’s before we even get to the players.

Blue is the colour for Steve Bethell, but if the allegations of racial abuse are upheld, his colour blindness obviously doesn’t extend to those players not wearing a Chelsea shirt. What, if anything, does Mr Bethell shout when Didier Yves Drogba Tébily (born March 11, 1978 in Abidjan, Côte d'Ivoire – that’s in Africa Steve) scores for Chelsea? Whatever it is, I bet it doesn’t include the words “fucking immigrant". And Bethell? Is that an English name?

Couldn’t sleep. Too much restlessness. Fractured dreams, interrupted by waking moments, the storyline - such as it is in dreams, - continuing when snatched sleep returned, like some surreal foreign film, the characters appearing from different time zones spanning forty years, from past to present, their presence all too real and clear as day, some not altogether welcome, malevolent spirits out to make trouble - again.

A song also, spinning around and around like a soundtrack on repeat, playing on and on with no pause button to hand. Too hot, then too cold, this side, that side, over and over and over once more. Then cramp. Wakefulness now completed. Stretched the contracted muscle to ease the pain, cursing in whispers. Accepted defeat ungraciously. Turned on the light. 03.24. Stared at the clock unbelieving, but the hands didn’t lie. Tossed aside the duvet in a final gesture of surrender and swung my legs free of the rumpled warmth. Grabbed the dressing gown from the back of the door and took the creaking, darkened stairs to the kitchen. Closed the door behind me, flicked the light switch and filled the kettle.

Listened as the stuttering filament sparked into life and grew to a roar as the water heated up, all the while peering into the darkness beyond the window, the dull sodium glow of distant street lights through the trees the only sign of life at this witching hour. Reaching a crescendo – that really is the noisiest of kettles – the water came to the boil and I filled a mug. Cupping my hands around its warmth I creaked my way through the silence, back up the stairs to the room where the computer sits, blank screen dark, and turned it on.

The day finally sneaked up on me as I typed, beginning with birdsong, followed by the first pale signs of daylight, until next, the streetlights were out and the distant sound of tyres and passing jet planes filtered through the window glass bringing in the new morning. All night dreams retreated into the mysterious corners from whence they came and the remains of cramp lingered only as a fading ache. Outside, a heron flapped by at eye level, no more than ten feet away, coming to ground two gardens along. Or, was I day dreaming?

While down in Cornwall recently I happened upon a guitar shop. There, gleaming at me from the dark interior was a shining black acoustic bass. And it was reduced in the sale. The store was closed, so I was reprieved from making a rash decision. I slept on it. Next morning its seductive black contours returned as clear as day in my minds eye.

I walked back into town, swept inside the shop and made the purchase. I am now the owner of two guitars I can’t play. The first I can be forgiven for. It was an extremely generous gift. A Fender Telecaster 60th anniversary limited edition. The second is strictly down to a sudden rush of blood to the head. The difference is, I’ve always harboured the desire to play bass. Ever since I heard the bass-line to the B-side of the Beatles ‘Paperback Writer’. A true masterpiece recorded during the ‘Revolver’ sessions: ‘Rain’. Then there was Jack Bruce, thundering out those jazzy bass-lines (don’t tell Eric) with Cream, his head bobbing like a demented budgie. And John Entwistle, fingers flying as he played those blistering lead bass-lines on many a classic Who song. Since then, my ear has sought out the low notes in thousands of recordings, my fingers plucking along in thin air. Now, I have the real thing.

I’ve placed an order with Amazon for a copy of ‘Bass Guitar For Dummies’ and await its arrival with optimistic anticipation… “Mr. Bass Man, you've got that certain somethin’, Mr. Bass Man, you set that music thumpin' “

The chatter about selling property in Dubai was, inevitably, interrupted by the ring tone of a mobile.

‘Mekon. Hello Mekon. IS that Mekon? Hiya Mekon mate. Howya doin’ mate?’

The start of any phone conversation by a twenty-something male, with collarless zipped layers, heelless lace-free shoes, scrunched hair, two days growth, frayed easy fits, stuffed messenger bag, on any train, anytime, anywhere in the country where the language of Estuary is spoken fluently.

‘Yeah, I know mate, down to me. Tried to get you last night... yeah okay, you couldn’t pick up… shaggin’. Shaaaaagin’. (Pause). ‘I’m on a train mate, on my way back to Portsmouth. Scab’s off to China for two years so we’re all meeting up… Tozzer, Lord Lewie, Felix… everyone. My brother? No mate. (Pause). Back up tomorrow mate. (Pause). (Laughs). ‘Yeah, well that’s me; I march to the beat of my own drum mate. Yeah, okay. (Laughs). Catchya Mekon mate. Ba!

‘That was Mekon’.

‘Why Mekon?’

Oh, he used to work for a company called Mekon mate’.

Disappointing. Being from the ‘Eagle’ generation I imagined Mekon to be the arch-enemy of the comic book hero Dan Dare - a small green Mekontanonian man with an oversized head - hovering on a silver transporter as he spoke on his mobile phone: a device unimagined at the time of his creation in the 1950’s.

The train chatter reverted to the noughties with further talk of buying to rent, commission, luxury apartments, no alcohol and sun-kissed beaches.

I went back to studying the backs of houses as they flashed by, trying to imagine being known as an organisation I had once worked for. GPO (temporary Christmas employment), Westminster City Council (temporary summer employment), Decca, EMI (pronounced Emmy), Virgin (oo-er) and Clinic. Given my chosen blog moniker I should probably have once signed up to serve with the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia ('FARC' for short) to get my nickname.

A soldier’s personal account of World War 2 from 12th December 1939 – 2nd March 1946

Part Twelve –North of the border

L to R, The Author, Keith Priestly. Frodsham 1941

In mid-summer 1941 we left Frodsham and arrived at RAMC No.2 Depot at Dalkeith Barracks just outside Edinburgh. We stayed here about 2 weeks only because the depot was just in the process of changing hands and becoming an ATS Depot and from here we moved again to No.4 Ettrick Road Edinburgh. This large, requisitioned house in a wealthy residential area of Scotland’s beautiful capital city was to be our home for eleven of the happiest months I spent in the Army.

My reaction to Edinburgh was one of disappointment. After all I had heard about the ‘Athens of the North’ my very first impression was one of dull, grey drabness, but in time I grew to know it and by the time I left I was fully convinced that it is quite the most beautiful city I had ever seen.

In Edinburgh the war seemed a long, long way away. True there was a black-out and for the civilian population there was, of course, ration books and identity cards. Apart from this however the life of the City appeared to us to go on almost unimpeded. Edinburgh has numerous theatres, cinemas and dancehalls, beautiful streets and historic buildings and lovely scenery in the surrounding countryside. One of my favourite spots was at the top of Arthur’s Seat – a hill some 700 feet high that dominates the City. From here one can see Holyrood Palace, seat of the old Scottish Kings and still one of the Royal households, nestling at the foot of the hill. A clear view of the entire City, Carlton Hill, The Castle, Princes Street and the Scott Memorial and the triple spires of St Mary’s Cathedral away in the distance. In the other direction the panorama of the Firth of Forth and the Islet of Inchkeith partly shrouded in the mist that hangs over the whole city and gives it its nickname of ‘Auld Reekie’.

Here in Edinburgh there were more and better Service Clubs and canteens than anywhere else I visited during the whole of the war. In Edinburgh we learned the true significance of Burn’s Night and experienced the full Gaelic flavour of Hogmanay.

We were attached now to Edinburgh district of Scottish Command and my work took me to many of the border towns on numerous trips of several days duration. Here we opened a minor ‘Army School of Hygiene’ and ran courses for medical orderlies and sanitation personnel from all the units from miles around and there were almost always some dozen to twenty ‘guests’ sharing our billet, predominantly artillerymen from anti-aircraft regiments.

Whilst in Edinburgh I was sent on a temporary posting to Scottish Command Headquarters where I was employed as a clerk in Medical Branch and although it made quite a change I was not sorry when, after two months, I returned to my own unit. I had though, in any case, spent every evening and weekend when not on duty, with my pals.

We played quite a lot of football here and once had the thrill of playing on the famous Murrayfield International Rugby stadium where we our best ever victory by defeating a team representing the City’s NAAFI canteens by eight goals to nil. This game is particularly significant in my memory because it was the first time I ever played as a forward. I was outside right that day and became the hero of the match by laying on the passes for no less than five of our eight goals. I was the only forward who didn’t score however, although in the dying minutes of the game my fellow players conspired to ‘nurse’ me into scoring. As a result of their manoeuvering I was presented with a wonderful scoring chance with only the goalie to beat but blazed away over the bar from about six yards just before the final whistle blew.

Whilst in Edinburgh Major Wybourne left us to be replaced by a new Officer Commanding, Major Ross.

I was given - and grasped – the opportunity of being a spectator at my first (and at time of writing only) international match and saw and England team including such stars as Swift, Mathews and Lawton defeated by the odd goal by the Scots at Hampden Park, Glasgow.

It was with great regret that, in the summer of 1942, we left Edinburgh and travelled north to Aviemore, a small highland village in Invernesshire. On this occasion we travelled by road and I rode one of the motorbikes as an outrider to the convoy. Although I had been riding one of the unit machines since the early Frodsham days this was my first experience of convoy work – though by no means my last and the experience was to prove useful later on in my Army career.

Until that journey through the Scottish Highlands I had never before realised that it was possible in the British Isles to travel ten or twelve miles along a country road without seeing any other living thing or sign of habitation except for rabbits and shaggy, half-wild, highland sheep. When we were a few miles north of Perth I remember the exhaust pipe became detached from the cylinder block of my bike and Bob Sisson, also motorcycling, dropped back to assist me in fixing it. But we had a glorious belt along the almost deserted road at 60mph plus, catching up with the convoy.

L to R, The Author, Bill Stent, Keith Priestly. Aviemore, Summer 1942

The Army camps in the Aviemore district covered scores of square miles of country and the object of them was to provide a training ground for troops engaged in learning the arts of mountain warfare. We were to take over the hygiene arrangements of the entire group of camps. We lived in tents here – they were all canvas camps – and it was the first time we had done so since Aintree Racecourse. It was a very isolated spot. The village of Aviemore itself was no more than a few small cottages, with an hotel and a railway station so big as to appear incongruous in their surroundings.

The size of the hotel was explained by the fact that in peacetime it is one of the largest Highland touring centres because of its proximity to the Cairngorm Mountains and the highest peak Ben Macdui. The railway station is a junction of the Inverness and Thurso line and the Elgin and Frazerburgh lines.

Our camp was three miles from the station. It was situated in a really beautiful place on the banks of Loch Alvie and the sunrises and sunsets were some of the loveliest I have seen. The only recreation afforded in the camp was the NAAFI canteen in a very large marquee where bingo was a nightly feature.

After we had been there a while we had a long spell of rainy weather and the NAAFI floor became knee-deep in mud and the whole series of camps just one great quagmire. We organised, after a time, a fortnightly trip by 15cwt Bedford truck into Inverness – some forty-five miles away and the nearest town – on alternate Fridays. There were a couple of cinemas here which were always packed to capacity when the liberty trucks rolled into town, and, needless to say, the pubs did a fair trade too.

It was whist we were stationed here at Aviemore that I made my first acquaintance with Indian troops who had been sent here, with their mules, to assist in the general training and the use of the mule as a pack animal and an alternative and infinitely more suitable form of transportation in the mountainous country. I’ll never forget the day Dizzy Taylor and I accepted an invitation to sample a real Indian curry – and for some time afterwards became almost convinced that we had swallowed some of the hot coals over which it had been cooked!

Although we were not present in the camp actually to join in the general training, we did keep our hands in by going on periodical route-marches and some of them were pretty tough going. One in particular springs to mind when we were lost in a Scotch mist on the mountains and covered nearly thirty miles before we got home. This however did not prevent some of us, after washing our feet, changing our socks and having some tea, from walking the three miles into Aviemore, spending three hours dancing at a village hop and then walking the three miles back to camp again at around midnight. There was no doubt we were exceptionally fit young men.

To be continued

Back after a few days in Cornwall, with plenty of long walks in the spring sunshine, dodging the occasional heavy shower. The gorse and blackthorn are in full bloom and the wild garlic and violets flower on the roadside verges. Oh to be in Kernow now that April’s here…

What a disappointment life must be for our unelected Prime Minister. Following years of sulking around in Blair’s shadow, waiting for Tony to honour his promise and let Gordon step into his shoes, now he’s wearing them he’s feeling the pinch, not to mention the crunch. And, it seems, Brown's cabinet have begun the unseemly scramble to manoeuvre themselves into position for succession. A tale has emerged of the threat of fisticuffs between Jack Straw and Ed Balls in a post cabinet meeting spat. Both are likely candidates for the leadership should Labour lose the next election. Okay, I can just about imagine Prime Minister (man of) Straw, but Prime Minister Balls? A headline writer’s and stand-up comedian’s dream.

Naomi Campbell, the bad-tempered, foul-mouthed clothes horse, has been given a life-time ban by British Airways following her recent outburst at that monument of national embarrassment,T5. Rather than merely being given, the ban should have been awarded with full ceremonial. Naomi should count herself lucky to be spared from ever having to suffer the incompetence of the ‘World’s Favourite Airline’ until the day she dies. People would gladly part with cash for such an honour.

Speaking of honours, the Suffolk born artist Maggie Hambling wouldn't except one, even if her desire to be dubbed 'Sir' Maggie were granted.

So Arsene Wenger is unhappy at the ‘dodgy penalty’ awarded to Liverpool in last night’s Champions League game. We’re back to balls again.

Back garden, 8.45am, Sunday April 6

‘WELCOME TO HELL’ read the banner hanging from the bridge over the M23 on the western fringes of Portsmouth. This greeting was the welcome extended to Southampton supporters on their way to see their team play away at Fratton Park the last time the football clubs of the two towns met in the Premier League. That season Southampton were relegated and the joy that rang around the mean, terraced streets of Pompey at the news can only have been matched by the celebrations last night after Redknapp’s crew scraped a place in their first FA CUP Final since 1939.

The day any warm wishes for Portsmouth FC’s continued good fortune passes my lips is the day that Hell freezes over.