Author: kevinrevell

Blogging that is in imminent danger of disappearing into its own middle aged, middle class, middle England hole...

There goes Rhymin’ Whassisface

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There’s a danger that this blog ploughs the troughs of predictability, but bear with me, do.

I made the huge mistake of venturing ‘up the city’ last weekend. It was of course, late November, but no reason not to have every single shop dolled up like a Vegas Elvis, with the shop assistants all wearing those hilarious festive caps. And every shop I went into* was playing a loop of jolly yuletide songs. Cue the grumpy old man blog about Christmas coming far too early, completely missing the point of being festive, and feeling suicidal every time Sir Noddy yells ‘It’s Chriiiiiistmas’.

But no, I am nothing if not unpredictable, as my wife remarked a few years back when her birthday presents were all centred around a golfing theme. For this is a short blog about rhyming couplets.

I don’t really get the whole rhyming thing, to be honest. If you really strip it down, the idea of expressing yourself in the form of rhyme is really weird. It means that every time you say something you immediately limit yourself on the second line. And yet we’ve all had a go in our time, and usually to disastrous and embarrassing effect.

My personal trick with this, incidentally, is to start with a really more obscure word on the second line, so that from a distance, it looks like you have contrived the whole thing out of nowhere. So:

‘For you I would defy temptation, or mastermind matriculation’

has got a lot more hope of getting through the censors than

‘It’s only a matter of time before you, become the doo be doo be doo**’

Anyway, you get the general idea. The point of rhyming to express yourself is just mad. And sometimes, in a bid to just make a song rhythmic in the most contrived way, it all goes horribly wrong. Which brings me back to the shops. A fantastic example of the ouvre*** is my personal favourite at this time of the year:

On a worldwide scale, It’s just another winter’s tale

(Winter’s Tale – David “Bard of” Essex)

And, if you care to look, almost every line in this song is a similar appalling lyrical crime.

And let’s knock up a quick top five while we’re here:

2. I’m serious as cancer, When I say rhythm is a dancer

(Rhythm is a Dancer – Snap!)

And they say there are no taboos left….

3. Giant steps are what you take, walking on the moon, I hope my legs don’t break, walking on the moon

(The Police – Walking on The Moon)

From the group that brought you ‘Da Doo Doo Doo’, and other great classics. You could easily have had “You don’t ever want to see me again, And your brother’s going to kill me and he’s six feet ten”, but I prefer the idea of Sting/NASA worrying themselves about breaking their legs. On the moon.

4. And fiery demons all dance when you walk through that door, Don’t say you’re easy on me you’re about as easy as a nuclear war

(Duran Duran – Is There Something I Should Know)

Err, yes. That lyric is an embarrassment. You’ve let yourself down, you’ve let your school down, etc etc

5. There was a little old lady, who was walkin down the road, She was struggling with bags from Tesco. There were people from the city havin lunch in the park, I believe that it’s called al fresco

(Lily Allen – Ldn)

I would hope that in future songs, ‘Our Lil’ will manage Lidl/Fiddle, Aldi/Mouldy, and very possibly M&S/Hedonist.

So that’s my pre-Festive gift to you. If you want to populate numbers 6-10, please do let me know. Almost any Bob Dylan songbook from the ‘lost years’ would give you a good start.

Until we meet again. (Don’t know where, don’t know when.)

*And reader, sadly there were many. My bid to get ‘something special’ for Mrs Emu at this time of year extends my patronage well beyond my normal haunts of Thorns the Ironmonger and Chadds the Gentlemen’s Outfitter.

**You can insert a number of endings here. Blue, True, New, and even, in the right circumstance, Glue. The only really great example of this rhyme in pop music that I can think of is:

‘Alison, I know this world is killing you, Alison, my aim is true’

***Get you!

A disastrous musical weekend

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I’m hoping that this will be a cathartic experience, because I can’t remember ever feeling quite so low about the world of popular music.

Let me explain.

Following another challenging week, Friday evening found me curled up on the sofa, snoring lightly after couple of pints of home-brew. When I awoke, it was to the sounds of the cast of Eastenders ritually murdering the best of Motown. Even in the relative clarity of sobriety two days later, I still can’t understand why anyone thinks that having a group of unconvincing actors being less convincing on the singing and dancing front is in the least bit entertaining. Unless it’s in the name of shameless self-promotion (which I think is pretty much what celeb cheridy passes for these days). Anyway, it was horrible.

In my more structured daydreams, I’ve often thought that the one possession which I would cherish for the rest of my life would be a 200 play jukebox (probably an Ami Continental, if any of you are reading this with a view to that special Christmas present). 50 of the singles will be Motown, the other 50 will be the Stiff back catalogue, and frankly, I’ll need for nothing else in my life. Although after Friday, I’ve added an Ian Beale voodoo doll to my wish list. The point is, where something is good, be careful about messing it about. And if something is great, leave well alone.

Which brings me to Sunday night, when it was time to catch up on the immersion in popular culture that is the X Factor. And, as you may have seen, the return to the stage of everyone’s favourite misfit, the fairground exhibit that goes by the name of Susan Boyle. Who was singing ‘Wild Horses’. And frankly, reader, I wept for her. Well, I went to bed early, anyway, which in our house counts as about the same.

I will find it hard to describe to you how fantastic I think Wild Horses is as a song. It’s constructed brilliantly. It has flawless and yet relaxed guitar work on it (using Nashville tuning, fretboard fans). It manages to point Jagger’s louch public schoolboy sneer in a perfect embodiment of decadent self loathing. Crikey, any more of this and I’ll be writing for the Spectator. The point is, it works, in a way that ‘Angie’ and ‘Dead Flowers’ do, because on their day, the Glimmer twins could write songs that were just perfect rock and roll. And as such, it needs to be approached with caution. And putting Susan Boyle on the job, in a sapphire evening dress, singing tremulously in the style of Judy Collins with full orchestral accompaniment is Not The Way To Do It*.

As a result of this shenanigans, there are generations of people who will think that this is the way that ‘Wild Horses’ is supposed to sound, as a saccharine drenched sub-standard song, complete with sloppy timing and over ambitious wailing**. It makes even less sense than the cast of Eastenders frankly, but I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. After all, it’s only a few months since the same crew took Leonard Cohen’s finest round the back of the X factor studios and kicked it to death in the company of our very own Alexandra Burke.

This is popular music we’re talking about, so it’s really really really important. Something must be done.

Sorry, that wasn’t cathartic at all. I’m still very cross.

* For an example of The Way To Do It, see The Sundays version of Wild Horses. And if you’re really into this sort of nonsense, listen to Neil Young’s ‘Powderfinger’, back to back with the Cowboy Junkies cover. That (as Mr Punch might say)’s the way to do it.

** Hello, this is the Spectator…

Norwich Shadenfreude

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I’ve become a citizen of the fine city of Norwich pretty much by osmosis. I arrived here almost 30 years ago, finding it very awkward to get to, and, unsurprisingly, as awkward to leave. Many of my friends arrived here about the same time, intending on staying for about 3 years, and we’ll all pretty perplexed about why the road out of Norwich is as trampled as the one in*. Norwich has many many wonderful qualities, one of the key ones being that the local characteristic is not to get too excited about how wonderful it is. Which means that they get to keep it to themselves.

Part of the responsibilities of a citizen of Norwich, is to naturally be very dismissive of anyone from Ipswich, particularly where football is concerned. It’s not exactly the Auld Firm rivalry, but there is an agreed assumption that if you come from Norwich (City) you should just dislike Ipswich (Town). (Sorry about that, but we have got a cathedral.)

And vice versa. Over the years I’ve played a few gigs in Ipswich, and everyone I’ve met has been perfectly charming. Until they ask you where you’re from. My friend Chris got into this situation in a pub once, and a bloke at the bar stared him out, saying that he hated Norwich so much that he’d removed all the yellow and green cables from his plugs.

So just hold that thought, while we consider the enigmatic force of nature that is Ipswich Town’s manager. Roy Keane is a long time stalwart of Manchester United, who is well known for stamping on his rivals in matches and for walking out of the Ireland World Cup team mid-tournament because he didn’t like the manager. So…that’ll be three good reasons to not like him terribly much. He’s got a fearsome reputation in the game, to the extent, I fear, that even journos don’t really like to criticise him too much in case he turns on them. So, possibly four reasons. And we’d probably be up to five if he was still playing for Ireland in last night’s match against France – how scary would that have been?

So, even though Norwich (City) are now in what we all agree is still called Division Three, playing against the legends of Bristol Rovers, Wycombe Wanderers and Tranmere Rovers, there is still a an immense sense of satisfaction to see Ipswich (Town) and Roy Keane go into a sharp and direct decline in the division above. Especially as it’s extremely likely that the club won’t sack Mr Keane as they’re too scared of him. Tee, and to a large extent, hee.

So, this local (and frankly, mildly xenophobic) schadenfreude is actually quite enjoyable. Apparently, if you’re any sort of person at all then this should be at best a guilty pleasure. But every now and again, all of your stars line up in the sky and you may as well enjoy it. After all, in a couple of years time, Norwich (City) might have a bad run, and the club could appoint a new manager, and it could be…

*Actually, it’s the same road, and it’s called the A11. A very strong campaign still exists to prevent it being converted to dual carriageway, as this would make the journey in & out a little too easy.

Paternity Sweet

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I read in the Daily Telegraph last week* that there is a move for men to ‘stay away from childbirth’ as their presence make the process more difficult for women.

And, “… some women prefer their partner to be standing next to them at eye level and giving support there rather than putting pressure on them by peering at the business end which is not always the nicest place to be. ” Nicely put DT. Although it then goes on to quote a father-to-be, who found himself at (as we say) the business end, and described it as like seeing your favourite pub go up in flames. All of which does start to say something about your typical Telegraph reader these days.

Anyway, I’m not sure at all that I agree. Certainly, (and especially for first-timers,) a man’s visit to a maternity ward while his partner is in the throes of labour is a pretty daunting experience. But there are many many things that you learn for future visits :

– You are not the most important person for the next few hours. In fact, you won’t be for several years. More importantly, as a couple, your ‘special time’ is fairly old news to most people who work on maternity wards.

– The birth plan that you lovingly produced after reading Dr Miriam Stoppard’s books** on childbirth is completely and utterly useless.

– Especially the bit about ‘no drugs’. Given this is one of the few times in your life where you can have an open mind on using drugs, you may as well. Note, these are not for sharing.

– And ‘Sarah Brown’s Healthy Pregnancy” is utter nonsense, cover to cover. Especially the bit about knocking up a quick fruit cake as you go into labour. As the youth of today say, WTF.

– And the soothing cucumber baby wipes that you packed to mop your partner’s fevered brow. What on earth were you thinking of?

– Slightly more useful is the snacks and chocolate. But remember that these were for sharing.

– When she says something like “YoucompletebastardI’mneverlettingyoucomeany- wherenearmeagain”, stand back. Don’t attempt to argue. In fact, if possible, avoid eye contact, but don’t go too far the other way and start reading a book.

– Speaking of which, even if there is a TV in the room, don’t ask if you can switch it on. Even if there is a really important match on***. And probably best to keep the Blackberry out of view.

– Remember, every hilarious observation in this situation has been made a thousand times before. Possibly on this shift.

Things to watch out for post-birth:

– If, post birth, your wife tries to walk around the ward, and someone asks when the baby is likely to be born, you are allowed to deck that person. It’s the law.

– When your baby is presented to you in a green blanket, it means that your partner has been in surgery, not that you’ve had your first Alien. Although we did wonder for the first couple of years.

– The nurses will insist on carrying the baby out of the hospital. All the way to the waiting car, which in the case of Emu#1, was a deathtrap, masquerading as a minicab. Which was a good way to demonstrate that from now on, you’re completely on your own.

And remember to feed, but also remember:

– The NCT is populated entirely by well meaning people. With an agenda. That isn’t necessarily yours.

– Sometimes things don’t work out right. And then, and possibly only then, you should be grateful that the Tesco’s down the road is open 24 hours.

*Now, I never thought I’d start off a sentence like that. But I also remember reading Bill Gates’ column on knowledge, where he said out of principle he would read information that didn’t interest him, to widen his understanding of the world. So I thought I’d try a fetid out of touch broadsheet. Also, there was a free bottle of water and I was thirsty.

** Pah! Pah! And Pah! Again.

*** For Emu#1, a comfortable 1-0 win vs Coventry City, just prior to beating Bayern Munich in the UEFA cup. Yes, that’s Norwich City. And Bayern Munich. In the UEFA Cup.

What I did on my holidays (that I regret)

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Five things:

1. Moving a very very very heavy stone bench up a hill, to get a better view.

2. In a very alpha-male way, keeping the resultant pain in my back quiet from Mrs Emu. Who is, by profession, a nurse. Specialising in pain management. And who had earlier advised that it was a stupid idea to try to lift said bench.

3. Trying to go for a run, to get the stiffness out of my back, a day later.

4. Not being able to sleep, getting up at 3.30 am, and making the mistake of looking at the Blackberry.

5. Discovering the source of our rodent problem in the kitchen at 3.35 am, and not being able to chase the little blighter, on account of my back not working.

All in all, not the best week to stop smoking.

However, am pleased to report that we now have a lovely and delightfully situated bench, upon which weary travellers can rest their chronic back problems. And we have tracked down the mouse to his/her hiding place in the cupboard with all the newspapers, where he/she had fashioned a splendid nest of supermarket receipts inside a shoe box. It only took 6 of us to catch him/her and encourage him/her into a cardboard box and away from the house. Whereupon Mrs E commented that it was by far the biggest mouse that she’d ever seen. Almost, in fact, the size of a r**.

The holiday continues…

Onto the Z-list

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Having our tea last night with the kids, and trying to have a conversation with Jr Emu #1 about GCSE results and A level choices, we realised we’d rather lost the audience when #3 asked:

“How many GCSE’s do I need to become a celebrity?”

I’ve mentioned Felix before here, and his enthusiaism for being, well, different. And of course, this could be a cue to go on (& on & on) about the vapidity of celebrity culture, and about how sad it is that our children have ambition borne of such low self esteem. Or I could bang on about the need for the International Baccalaureate to start including a ’15 minutes of fame’ module. Or possible dismiss the whole celebrity culture as an inadequate substitute for meaningful aspiration.

But instead, I thought I might just leave it as a quite funny thing that Felix said when he was 11.

Anti anti social Media

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Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this internet thing seems to be catching on. I really really ought to do more on this, and I will when time permits; in the meantime, here is every single statistic that you’ll ever need to prove why everything that we’ve learnt to date is wrong.

Joining The Norwich International Brigade

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I genuinely don’t like travelling on aeroplanes, and I really hate going from Norwich Airport. Most people I speak to feel the same…so let’s start with a stab at a top 5 peeves:

1. Norwich Airport charges £5 a pop…to use the airport. That’s in order to go through security into the departure lounge. Does any other airport do this? Actually yes, the massive commercial enterprises that are Knock, Waterford and Newquay airports. Now, only a cynic would say that these charges are simply there to attract ‘cheap’ flights.

2. Every time, and I mean every time, I go through security I get searched. Not quite as dramatically as last year in Schipol airport where I was, quite frankly, cupped, but still an early morning frisking I’d rather not have. And, while I’m on the subject, if I’m going to carry anything metallic onto a plane that’s a security risk, am I really going to put it through a metal detector?

3. I don’t use the car park, so I don’t really have a beef there, but don’t you think it’s a bit odd that airports are built on the outskirts of cities, yet the cost of parking is more than most inner city car parks? How does that get justified, other than because it can happen? And how does that make it right? And if you book a taxi, they have to wait outside the airport for you to call them, as they only get 5 minutes inside before they start getting stung as well.

4. The fact you can’t make your way into departures without going through the Eastern European style gift shop. Which is unmanned. And whilst well stocked with exorbitantly priced travel sweets and hilarious ‘bluffer’s guides’ books, does nothing for me about my life, as Morrissey might not say.

5. Cup of tea – £1.80. The fact you have to make it yourself – priceless.

But that’s far too easy, no? What would be harder/more fun would be a list of things to like about Norwich Airport?

1. Looking at the perspex box where confiscated items go to die. I enjoy this at any airport, and particularly enjoyed the box at Dublin earlier this year where there was a 5 foot long firework displayed. Again, hard to believe that anyone thought this would really work as hand luggage, but nowt so queer as folk and all that. Speaking of which, last summer, I noticed at Norwich, just before the weekly flight to Malaga, two confiscated tins of salmon. Which makes you wonder a) what sort of person considers tinned salmon as essential hand luggage and b) what sort of threat was actually posed to security…

2. Watching people shell out £5 for the airport development fee for the first time – hilarious!

3. There’s a ratio of around 1 staff per passenger. You may be ignored, but it’s not a bad ratio should you want a chat. As long as it’s not about the airport development fee. They don’t like talking about that.

4. There’s pretty much always somewhere to sit. The development fee has shelled out for a rather large lounge compared to the size of planes that go in and out of Norwich.

5. Norwich International. Words that go together like Polanski and childcare. The whole point of Norwich is that it is desperately non-international, so it’s all delightfully ironic to see the airport trying to be a hub of inter-continental travel, whilst all around is so incredibly domestic. More of this another time, but just be happy for now, that you can be in the car park of NIA and still not be able to see the terminal behind the smoking hut.

Felix – We continue to hold our breath

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Famously, on one of Richard Branson’s school reports, one of his teachers predicted that he would be a millionaire or end up in prison. Rather neatly, of course, he managed to achieve both. My prediction for Emu#3 is that he will end up as a national treasure (probably more Michael Crawford than Thora Hird), or as a dancer in a cage or on a pole at one of Soho’s seedier clubs. Probably not both though.

I am partly drawn to this conclusion by his latest reverse achievement, where he arrived home clutching his certificate that said that he’d taken part in a cycling safety scheme. This is what gentle readers of a certain age would call a cycling proficiency test, and in my day, upon passing, you got a little red triangular badge when you passed, that you could wear next to your Tufty badge, and henceforth, you pretty much had the freedom of the roads.

All good, though, on further questioning, we realised that a certificate saying he’d taken part wasn’t quite on a par with a certificate to say he’d passed. Indeed, he’d rather dramatically failed, which, as far as I’m aware, is only one notch up from failing at ‘Show and Tell’. Turning the certificate over, it appeared he’d spent the entire test cycling on the wrong side of the road.

‘Sorry Dad’ he said. ‘It’s just that I had a lot on my mind at the time’.

Still, he has a certificate. And it’s on his wall. We keep swapping it around to annoy him.

I’m Waking Up To Us

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One of the many, many perks of my job is the opportunity to travel at unearthly hours of the day through and to some interesting places, and whilst doing so, sharing my personal space with a diverse collection of fellow travellers. Or as, I like to call it, getting the 6am train to London.

This prevents me with a bit of a challenge personally, as I can no longer justify an early night. This has something to do with wanting to eke out every second of the day, and partly because I’m quite keen on remaining married. Mrs Emu has firm views on bed-time. She requires at least 2 hours of child free time in the evening, whether it’s spent slumped in front of the TV or, as we like to still call it in our house, becoming elegantly wasted.

And of course, the problem with this is that the children, insist on getting bigger and staying up later. Already this year we have had to extend both the house and our fridge capability, and now it’s the sleeping habits. Emu#1, for example, is now on a curfew of 11pm, which, assuming he has any vague idea of time (you really need to meet him), means that by Mrs E’s rules we shouldn’t be hitting the hay till around 1am. All of which means that with a 5am start, the train journey is a grand opportunity to catch up on a few missed z’s.

And this has some splendid side-benefits. Starting my journey in Norwich, which is not particularly lively at that time of the morning*, means that I can pretty much guarantee a seat. As the train gets busier, as we rattle towards Diss, Ipswich, Stowmarket and Colchester, the seats fill up, by which time I’ve settled back and very possibly have a small stream of dribble coming out of the side of my mouth. And the nice thing is that I wake up in Liverpool Street, genuinely surprised at who I’m waking up next to. I like to think of it as being a bit like a student, but without the constant threats of herpes and poetic regrets.

Most of the time it’s a fairly ordinary awakening; usually another bloke in a suit, putting away his killer suduko for the morning**, but there have been two remarkable highpoints in the last few months:

Highpoint one was the tall, and frankly, rather attractive, woman in her twenties, who woke me up by tapping me on the shoulder and whispering very gently in my ear:

“It’s time for us to get off”

Well, I very never, as you might say.

And the second highpoint was the bloke I woke up to a few minutes before getting to Liverpool Street. Although the train was packed, I still appeared to have plenty of elbow room, and even allowed myself a little stretch. All was clear when he stood up to get his jacket – his right arm was missing.

So, in the rather unlikely event that either of these two are reading this, please feel free to sit next to me again – you were lovely to wake up to last time and I’m sure you’ll be again. As for me, I’m thinking of playing a little game next time. I’ll wake up, not open my eyes, yawn, say ‘Morning Darling’ really loudly, then turn to see who I’m next to. Why don’t you try doing the same? After all, what’s the worst that could happen?

*Norwich last ‘got lively’ in 1985, when NCFC got to the Milk Cup final. People still talk of it in hushed tones, as the day when the city rather let itself go.

**Why? Why? Why?