An Update On What The Claremonster Has Been Up To

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Hullo. Haven't really updated since I went to see Bob Dylan, so I shall try to catch up on the last few days.

OK, the Dylan concert was really fabulous. I may well write in more detail about it soon, but as I spent quite a lot of the concert just standing there thinking "Fuck me, Bob Dylan's over there!" and "That Larry Campbell guy is a great guitarist" I'm not sure that I have anything near profound to say about it. It did make me want so badly to play music for a living myself. I wanted nothing more than to be on that stage with His Poetness... but I think Arena security would probably frown upon that.

What else? Well, I spent most of Sunday in bed recovering and reading the Enid Blyton books I got off eBay (the last couple of pages of the first book, the Island of Adventure are missing and I really want to know what they said) and realising what sexist, racist, repetitive bollocks it all is... and reading along just the same. There's something quite endearing about them... and sometimes I get the feeling that ol' Enid really wanted the girls to do more, but she couldn't quite bring herself to break out of post-war feminine stereotypes.



Anyway, I went to see my grandad yesterday. This is normally a very simple operation: walk into town, get on the next train to Kings Cross, get the tube a couple of stops and walk to his flat. It would've been that simple had it not been quite literally bucketing down with rain. By the time I got to town (a 15 min walk) water was actually dripping off my baseball cap and my wool coat was two times heavier than it had been when I put it on. I dried off a bit on the train and on the tube, got a bit wetter walking and arrived at my grandad's merely Very Damp. He was all concerned about it and I thought he might try to forcefeed me tea, but it was OK.

He was eighty-four on Sunday. He doesn't look it, or really act like it. I mean, he lives on his own, as I believe he has since 1972 when my grandmother died. Apparently the doctors wind up the med students by getting them to see him- they don't think he's 84 (some say sixties, but I think that's pushing it a bit) and of course, being the patriarch of the Worley Sense of Humour, I'm sure he winds them up something rotten. I love my grandad. Yesterday's topics of discussion ranged from the Welsh, to the British Empire (I didn't have the heart to tell him that I felt that losing the Empire was hardly a bad thing) and to John F Kennedy and his English-disdaining father. Not to mention of course, a bit about Errol Flynn (even my grandad gives me that 'Not him again Clare!' look) and other old movies and him complaining that the cable company are forever trying to get him to buy more channels that he doesn't want. I love my grandad, you know.

So, anyway, I leave my grandad at about four or so and go to the nearest station, where a train to my station is just about to leave- woo hoo- get on... Am so early that my mum & dad aren't home from work yet when I get to the station at quarter past five... so I have to brave the rain again to walk home... So I'm getting a third or fourth layer of rain... By the time I got home even rain-loving Clare was a little miffed.



Today I got up late but had to walk to town again, this time to get the train in the other direction to meet my mum at work so she could then take me to the music shop in Old Stevenage. She said any time after three, so I got there at like 4.15 when it was getting dark. While she got ready to leave (cos she works for the govt, she's in a high security building where I can't get past reception) I nipped into Tesco to get a bottle of Coke which I downed in about five minutes. Went to the music shop, a tiny little place stuffed full of guitars *sigh* and stuff. The people were v. cool, unlike the chauvinisitc bark at SoundWorld in Sunderland... and sorted me out with everything I needed, which was literally everything because my guitar didn't come with anything. Bag, guitar strap (purple!), capo, bottleneck (brass, a little big for my bony fingers), electric tuner (not essential but makes life easier) and some plectrums/picks. V. exciting to get home and I've only just put my guitar down cos my dad begged me to let them go to sleep. Fingers on left hand fucking hurt from bastardy steel strings. Want my classical, nylon-stringed baby! Seriously though, I think I'm getting somewhere, even though I've never used a plectrum before in my life- at least I'm not having to look up every single chord every single time I need to use it. Bottleneck was quite cool, got the intro to Zeppelin's In My Time of Dying sounding almost like it should.

One small step for Man, one pretty big leap for Clarekind. And I know you didn't need to know any of that in even close to that much detail, but I don't care!


Also, bookworm713's post got me thinking about a Rock and Roll Harem, because I'm clearly mad.



My Rock and Roll Harem will come as no surprise to anyone:

John Lennon as Harem Jester, to keep us all amused with witticisms. (On Safairy with Whide Hunter, for example)

George Harrison, Jimi Hendrix, Jimmy Page and Keef Richards would be my resident guitarists, and would amuse me by getting into cutting contests. They would be admirably backed up by the greatest rhythm section ever assembled: Ringo, John Bonham and Keith Moon on drums, John Entwhistle, Philip Lynott, Paul McCartney and John Paul Jones on bass guitars. Actually, JPJ would also be my resident Mandolin Man, cos I love the mandolin. I would of course, have to hire bouncers to keep these young maniacs in check. Possibly Dean Martin could be a bouncer-cum-entertainer cos he was a boxer in his youth. Hell, he's going to be there anyway, might as well make himself useful in between being forced to sing Oh Marie a trillion times by my good self.

Jim Morrison (circa 1967) would be my resident bard and would keep me amused by making up poems. He would be kept away from the bar by my beloved Dino. Whether he is only wearing his leather trousers can be up to him, I'm not fussed.

I would be served Diet Coke by Roger Daltrey (circa 1975). Don't have a reason, I just feel it would be something he would be good at.

And I know they're not really rock and roll, but I'd get Gene Kelly, Donald O'Connor and Sammy Davis, Jr. to come and the be the Clare Dancers, just to dance around for my own amusement.

There would be a cast of many very pretty, very talented sorts around merely to make the place look and sound nice and to cater to my every whim, including but not necessarily limited to: Philip Lynott and Scott Gorham from Thin Lizzy, Brian Jones the Rolling Stone, Steve Harley, Mick Ronson from the Spiders from Mars, Jeff Buckley and Roger Taylor from Queen.

I would put Freddie Mercury in charge of everything because he was a fabulous host but, well, there's not really a lot for him to do in my harem otherwise. *cackles*

Also, Errol Flynn would be there. Not for any reason at all, just because surely no harem would be complete without the most beautiful man to walk the planet?

They would all also be subject to any other whim that might strike at anytime- I'm aware that so far I've not mentioned the usual purposes of a harem and I'm also aware that my order of priorities is not the same as most people's (I put rock and roll above all things, movies just below that and everything else below, for instance). That said, my head harem boy is Robert Plant and I've given them all these jobs so they don't get bored waiting around, so maybe my priorites aren't totally screwed up. *snickers* Answers on a Les Paul to the usual address.

I've also probably forgotten someone totally essential, but it's quite late and i'm quite tired. And insane. Don't forget insane.

I'm aware I've thought far too much about this, but I've been unplugged for the night and have nothing to do!

Comments

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A class act? *blushes*

Only when it comes to rock and roll, sadly.