What's in a name?

I’ve been touched and moved by reports of the recent deaths of the remaining
two serving servicemen from the First Word War. Henry Allingham and Harry
Patch both lived for over a century and came to symbolise and represent the
generation that was laid to waste on the battlefields of France, Turkey, at
sea and in the air in the four years between 1914 and 1918.

Both of my grandfathers served, one in the Royal Engineers, the other in the
Royal Navy. The soldier was wounded by shrapnel while constructing a bridge
behind the front in France and was invalided out in 1917.

The sailor served in the Home Fleet aboard a fast patrol boat in the Dover Straits. They both died in the 1960’s and now, with the passing of Henry and Harry, the last living link with ‘the war to end all wars’ has gone.

Old soldiers, sailors and airmen do die. It’s war that doesn’t.

I think the party on Saturday went well. And for those who may read this blog and ask -‘Why wasn’t I invited?’ - strictly speaking, although it took place at my place, it wasn’t my place to ask. It was thrown to celebrate my sister-in-law’s birthday. Now she happens to live in Cornwall, a long way for her up-country friends to travel, so it was held here. The miracle is it didn’t rain, some feat for this month, especially as we’d planned to stage the event in the garden. I’m glad to see that the met office has revised its prediction of a ‘barbecue summer’, though they’re insisting that it’s not over yet and things still have time to improve. We can but hope.

With the weather on our side, all who were invited showed up and it was good to see so many old mutual friends, many of whom hadn’t seen one another for years, two making the effort to travel from their homes in France for the occasion. It’s hard to believe that many friendships stretch back over forty years and although waistlines expand, chins double, hair changes colour or disappears, the voices remain the same and eyes still twinkle behind unfamiliar specs. The hours flew by and all-too-soon, after months of planning and weeks of preparation, the last guests took their leave.

When, next day, the final houseguests waved a cheery farewell there remained the inevitable feeling of anti-climax. But collecting up the empties, washing the glasses, dismantling and packing away various gazeboes and bursting balloons soon dispelled any lingering ennui. Probably time for a blast of Dame Shirley: The party's over, it's time to call it a day, they've burst your pretty balloon, and taken the moon away… But then again, where’s that half-full bottle of red that I just found? Just the job with some leftover cheese.

Rolling thunder fills the air outside. From my seat in front of the computer screen I can see the next wave of dark clouds rising above the distant hill on their way to drop the next deluge. July in England. What happened to the good summer that the weather pundits promised? Two weeks in June doesn’t fulfil that prediction in my book. In compensation the garden is looking green and lush, the growth verging on tropical. The forecast for tomorrow is for sunny intervals. Just as well as we’re expecting 30 people or so for a bit of a do in the garden. Which reminds me. Must clear some space in the fridge for the white wine and beers. Cheers m’dears.

Just back from a couple of days in Suffolk. It’s good to get away for a change of scene, no matter how short the stay. Managed a walk through the fields to the woods with the dogs, a trip to the sea, a pub lunch, a chilled white wine in the garden in the evening sunshine, dinner with old friends, a stroll around some galleries and a lie-in. Doesn’t get much better than that.

It seems that Aussie captain Ricky Ponting is a little miffed at what he sees as unsporting behaviour by the England team in the 1st Test. What he considered to be time wasting tactics on the last day were not in the spirit of the game, he whinged. Does he not understand that our boys need all the help they can get? Anything goes, from voodoo dolls to rain dances mate. Live with it.

Years back, the joke used to be that when you wanted to prompt overstaying guests to leave a party, it was time to stick on some Leonard Cohen. Oh, how times have changed. Yesterday, on a cold, mournful, grey, wet July evening in Weybridge, Leonard Norman Cohen, the one–time prophet of gloom, held an audience of thousands in his spell and had them on their feet calling and stomping for more as the rain dripped from their smiling faces.

At 75, Cohen was at the top of his game. Backed by a band of sublime musicians and singers, his golden voice tracked the history of what began as a reluctant life in song. Already a published poet, in 1967 he released an album titled ‘The Songs of Leonard Cohen’, which sought to join the bandwagon that had been set in motion by the likes of Baez and Dylan around the time Cohen had completed his first novel. This first collection of his songs divided opinion, that to those who were around at the time, can still persist today. The question, ‘Do you like Leonard Cohen?’ was loaded. ‘Yes’ meant that you were a sad, suicidal depressive who stayed in a lot. ‘No’ meant that you hadn’t really listened.

The technology of the day didn’t help. When I first bought a copy of ‘Laughing Lenny’s’ greatest hits on CD, I discovered an audio experience that had been denied me from years of hearing his music as a thin, scratchy, treble sound that strained through the tiny speakers of assorted clapped-out Dansettes. At the same time that CD’s revolutionised listening habits, Leonard also began a musical renaissance. With the high baritone voice of earlier years evolving into a bass baritone, he encompassed pop, cabaret and world music into new songs that were accompanied by electronic synthesizers and female backing singers. The album ‘I’m Your Man’ signposted this turning point.

Twenty years on, no longer a man of middle age, Leonard could have been forgiven for seeking quieter times. But with the discovery that his amassed pension pot had been systematically ripped off by his once trusted manager and agent, he finds himself back on the road, working for a living. But if he’s bitter, it doesn’t show. Last night, with a smile, he sang his songs for over two and a half hours with the rain pouring and chill wind blowing. The drenched crowd besought three encores. And when they finally let him go, Leonard Cohen, novelist, poet, musician and songwriter, skipped like a boy from the stage to claim his rightful place in the tower of song.

Alvin Stardust was in my local Tesco this morning, in negotiation with his young daughter over some purchase or other like many other Saturday shopping dads. He’d wisely left the black leather outfit in the wardrobe, preferring to blend in with sporty casual and there was a glaring absence of glove on his microphone wielding hand as he guided the trolley along the central isle.

Seeing him, seemingly happy to be going about the everyday business of a life more ordinary, reminded me of previous shopping encounters with celebrities of rock and pop.
I once brushed shoulders with Morrissey in the Kensington High Street branch of M&S as he browsed the rail of gentlemen’s belts, occasionally holding one aloft for closer inspection. I left him there in decision mode, for all I know silently running through potential lyrics for ‘Shoplifters Of The World Unite’.

Then there was Noel Gallagher trailing after his then missus Meg, who appeared to have been on a mission to clear Nike Town on New York’s 57th Street of ladies trainers. Poor Noel followed her to the cash desk, a column of boxes balanced under the chin down to cupped hands located just above his knees. As Meg’s own hands were already full of bulging bags of previous purchases I can only assume it was left to the sales clerk to relieve Noel of his burden, leaving him free to access the wallet in his back pocket.

It was also in New York that I happened upon composer Laurie Anderson in the Broadway branch of homeware store Crate and Barrel, in her basket a few domestic necessities for the Reed household. Hubby Lou had presumably chosen to skip a trip to the stores on this occasion. Maybe he’d had to wait in for the man.

A couple that were very much together on a shopping expedition when I encountered them back in the late 60’s, were Keith Richards and Anita Pallenberg. With their own exotic take on a basket on wheels in the shape of an antique Victorian pram, they appeared as a reflection in the window of Mr Freedom, a clothes boutique in the King’s Road. Turning around, I managed to peek into the pram as they passed me by to push open the door. All it appeared to contain was an oversized feather boa. I recall Keith wearing a knee length velvet coat and having the whitest face I’d ever seen, framed by jet black hair. Anita wore swishy satin and a bipperty-bopperty hat. At the time, even David Bowie would have been pushed to do better than that. A year or so later I also spotted Mick Jagger on the same street, all alone, speedily weaving his way through throngs of Saturday afternoon shoppers and tourists. Probably on his way to the Chelsea Drugstore to share a cherry red soda with Mr Jimmy. Either that or he was popping out to Boots for some aspirin.

Finally there was Phil Collins in my local High Street on Christmas Eve. When our eyes met, there was a fleeting recognition of being in the same predicament. Him; yes I know you know me, but please don’t say or do anything to hold me up, I’m in a last minute shopping emergency situation. Me; yes I know you know I know you, but even if I liked your music I wouldn’t stop now to say or do anything to hold myself up, as I’m in a last minute shopping emergency situation.

The highlight of the day at the Maverick Festival 09, for me at least, were The Groanbox Boys, a trio steeped in the traditions of American roots music, blended in the melting pot of New Orleans: a real romping, stomping, hollering, good-time band of roving troubadours.

The percussionist was a sight to behold, hammering out rhythms on just about anything apart from a conventional drum or cymbal, even at one stage wielding the thigh bone of a large mammal to beat a wooden palette. His band mates played accordion, guitar and banjo, vocalising with guts and soul, guaranteeing a splendid time for one and all.

Another pleasing set came from The Haley Sisters whose dialect was south Yorkshire rather than Louisiana, more than ably assisted by their guitarist Brian, who sat modestly to one side and turned in some blisteringly dexterous guitar runs as the girls sang songs in sweet harmony from a selection of country greats.

Didn’t stay for headliner Al Perkins, the legendary guitarist who in his time has plied his trade for the likes of Gram Parsons, Emmylou Harris, Bob Dylan and The Stones. A pity to miss him, but it’s a long drive from Suffolk.

Off to the Maverick Music Festival today in sunny(I hope) Suffolk, jointly organised by Ken, an old mate and colleague. It's home for Alt-country, Americana and the New Tradition. Yee-haw.

As she set off for Windsor, the Queen was heard to say, 'At least one doesn't now have to give up one's Sunday afternoon to watch a game of bloody tennis in SW19.'

So, as I pound the keyboard, the Murray, Roddick match has gone to a tiebreak, Roddick leads 5-3 for the match. The television’s on downstairs while I watch on the computer upstairs. The television is ahead, so I hear the crowds reaction at a distance before it appears on the screen in front of me. It’s now 6-4 to Roddick, no 6-5. Still match point. Roddick wins upstairs, 7 or 8 seconds after he won downstairs. Isn’t technology marvellous?

I once lived a tennis ball's throw from Wimbledon in the Borg, McEnroe days. When a Heathrow bound plane went over the flat, it could already be heard simultaneously on the television commentary, we were that close. Stereo TV before there was such a thing. We always said we'd go along one evening after work to catch a doubles match or two, but we never did. You don't though, do you?