Rong radio.

Rong radio.

Loved this. Scooched over a precariously ambitious serving of curry after circuits tonight, cloyed sweat still matted to me like mango chutney to a naan, FourDocs played out an award-winning Three Minute Wonder. Hip poet Benjamin Zephaniah doing a sterling performance to a cam in a cab:

http://www.channel4.com/fourdocs/film/film-detail.jsp?id=65565

Great stuff. We've all been listening to the Rong Radio, Benjy. We've known it for years, of course, but we don't seem to be doing much with the knowledge. In fact, I do rather think I'm getting comfortable with my status anxiety. After twenty years of idly enjoying myself, I still have no idea how to make much of a difference to anything, of course, and am still clinging to the vain hope that something, some day, will make its mind up to happen for me. So I won't have the on going agony of having to choose.

Attaboy - make a difference. It's rather beginning to seem that my values are degrading as I get older; too much rong radio. Fatness grows in the head, as well as the tee shirt, I think.

But, while I'm killing time in my thickening womb tank of apathy, if there's one immaturity I am fairly stubbornly happy to have carried from the beginning, it's weirdly introspective joy of making music and daydreaming about the Next Album Project. And, by jingo, it's happening. After six years.

Had an impromptu dinner at the revamped Spyglass the other night, to celebrate Caroline's handing in of the latest epic installment of diploma work. Mark and Sarah joined us round the table, as part of their Real Blummen' Actual Week Off celebrations and as the evening lengthened we found our table rounded by a whole number of folk.

Tim Colthup and I spent the whole night talking music. He's back into it - finishing a long-awaited album in the same freakin' apartment we locked ourselves into twenty summers ago to go music creative mad. We're both as excited now as we were then. Nothing's moved on and I couldn't have been happier than right then, jabbering with grins in the old Ocean. Why do we lose ourselves in it so?

All thirteen tracks I've decided on for my own new collection are up and spinning together here in the studio - around Actual Paid Work - and I'm just loving being in the right place again. That's just what it still feels like. However stupendously pointless that right place has always always appeared to be.

No, don't be nice. You've not heard the rubbish I'm recording yet.

It's never going to get on the radio, that's for damn sure.

Gay.

Gay.

Interesting that, in a week where the word 'gay' was polled by UK teachers as by far the most used term of casual abuse in the playgrounds of Britain in 2008, I found a rather interesting comment on a BBC web article.

I couldn't sleep lastnight for some reason. Ended up getting up to write down some ideas that came to mind, unhindered by the normal daytime crap. Haven't looked back this morning to see if they will turn out to be the usual night time crap. But before the ol' bean turned to creative matters, I had been randomly thinking about this little post, left by someone called 'Sam, a Brit abroad', in answer to a piece about the Bible's attitude to homosexuality. It was a neat summation of the two views held by believers on the subject - a subject otherwise seen as absurdly moot by most people in the country.

This morning, in a not-surprising late starter for us, we were listening to the Radio 4 joy that is In Our Time and they were discussing the philosopher, Kierkegaard. And jeepers, we even understood it. More than that, it even appeared to make sense to us. But this 'father of existentialism' actually had a very personal view of Christianity... no, I'm not about to reveal he was gay. He saw the need to sometimes embrace opposing ideas if we are to attempt to understand things beyond ourselves. A necessary tension.

Trying not to behave like too much of a smug arse because, after all, I have no study to back this up at all, it did make me think how much I've thought over the years that faith is a long succession of impossible balances. That, if you feel impelled to make a declaration of faith in something - atheist or believer - the road you'll have to walk is a daily one of tension. Of holding a long series of impossible balances in tension. If you care. In simple terms, could be desire/duty. Fulfillment/sacrifice. Certainty/Open-mindedness. Hope/Reality. Responsibility/Submission to events. Trust/likelyhood. That's the high-wire act of faith. ..It rather comes down to what you're choosing to put your faith in, but when that distinctly un-impirical idea starts to make a bonkers kind of sense, you're beginning to get it. I think.

I can only measure to the end of my nose. Beyond it, I need to accept things may sometimes look contradictory in plebby human language, that aren't in the bigger cosmos. We surely have to keep measuring what we can, to enlarge the world of certainty as wisely as possible - Duh. I want to know what the hell a graviton really is, baby; we might finally get proper flying cars and stuff. But accepting that even a long-awaited Theory Of Everything, will in no way tell us everything, is just honest. What we choose to think beyond the nose ruler is another, very personal, matter... Oop - there I go again, holding my impossible philosophical tensions with casual diffidence.

..Yep, I agree. Impressively deep stuff. I think I thought a lot of other deep stuff at three AM too, about how the spectrum of sexuality is not simply about desire but identity, of course. Interesting how our desires can be our labels, outwardly and inwardly. "Hi, I'm Bob. I'm a transexual Star Trekker. That's me. What I want is who I am. And it demands a LOT of wardrobe space, let me tell you..."

I think I also came up with some clever analogy about how that sexual spectrum could be seen as a circular colour wheel - but a cylinder of brightness as well as a flat rotation of inclination.

See? Smart-sounding at three in the morning. I suspect it's as helpful to daily life as a pair of men's jeans three sizes too small - all bollocks - but there we are. Not about to devote a lifetime of study to it. But I did go back to this comment here and think, after reading the usual cartoon like responses to a religious article, this one somehow had the tone of voice of someone who in some way actually got what a God attitude might be to being gay:
"I'm 37 years old, an evangelical Christian(the kind who that believe you can "know" God personally/for real), and a struggling celibate. I knew for sure I was gay at 13. Unmistakable gay feelings etc when still a pre-pubescent junior. I became a Christian at uni, and then two very real worlds collided. No doubts about the person or reality of God. Nor of his love for me. Nor of my sexuality. My spirit (and mind)has always leaned towards my staying celibate - but my heart and emotions want what most do, a settled, loving relationship. I read the Bible several times - all of it,and as a student too - none of the points raised are new to me. Following that collision c20 yrs ago, daily I try to work through the reality of my own personal 'collateral damage'." Sam, Brit abroad.
You might have no idea where Sam is coming from here, but to my mind, there's nothing playground gay about it.

News travels fast.

News travels fast.

So many giant things seem to vie for attention if you ever have the misfortune to turn on the news, but it's often the small things - or the individuals - that seem to really affect you. Or you feel able to respond to meaningfully.

I wanted to chew over the situation in Gaza one more time; find a way to shake the tree of it. Throttle the frigging life out of it. But somehow the will seeped out of me.

I wanted to explore why I'm so instinctively hoping for Obama - despite his conspicuously vague Actual Policies - for the indefensibly trivial, worldly, dreadfully politicianal reason that he's such a natural orator. He's black, and he's funny. Aparently. But is it enough? Why does it feel like enough? Please let it be enough.

I wanted to cry for little Shannon when they actually found her alive. But there's nothing more to say there, is there.

I wondered too about the untimely - call it early - loss of Anthony Minghella. He surely had so much creative work still ahead of him. Someone who championed British film and British creative talent - what a sudden loss. What a fabulous selection of films to leave mankind in your wake. Makes you think too.

And, considering I've just sent another shipment of artwork to Shanghai, I'm sure I could certainly be exploring the growing challenge of China - Tibet and Ten Downing Street's moral vaguery, or the world's new favourite trading buddy's backdoor to Burmese oppression. It's a tickler, isn't it?

Hey, and where would anyone even start with the state of the economy in America, or Still President Bush's declaration that the war was worth it, or... or a thousand other stories. Big and impossible.

Nope, much as you may wish higher things for yourself - a nobler application of one's self - your brain will always tell you what's really important to you. The ol' subconscious lets you know, you know? Makes clear what you're really giving a fig for.

Lastnight I dreamt I was offered a lift by Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson, on the lookout for a new presenter for... oh, shite. I'll just leave it there; you get the point.

I need to get OUT...

Beer.

Beer.

Zot. Brugge Zot - that's the stuff. Zot means 'fool' in Flemmish Dutch, apparently, so I took to it instantly. Though, I should confess straight up that I only took a couple of sips; we may have just spent the weekend in a beer Mecca of sorts, but I clung to a series of trusty stems of vino while we were there. I didn't even make myself sick on chocolates - though they are in fact currency in Bruges.

Yes, we made it. Spent the whole time wandering around cobbled streets, gazing at gables and cornices and public spaces. I think I should basically be doing Caroline's Urban Design diploma with her, I so obviously know so much. When we weren't ambling, we were sleeping the said of the undead in room.

Nothing more interesting than that to say. Everyone with a vaguely Dutch disposition seems to be unambiguously friendly and effortlessly tri-lingual. But I couldn't even be bothered to do my bad accent comedy routine.

Traveling by train is kind of cute and St Pancras is a joy, especially compared to Bruxelles Midi, which is a sort of apocalyptic bunker.

And now we're back. Planning ways to spend money we just don't have on going on holiday for the rest of the year.

Bugger.

Bugger.

Won't go into it. Just won't. Silliest, most inexplicable bloody thing. But we didn't go to Belgium. Or bed.

Went to Boscombe.

(see title.)

Pantsman pax 'em out.

Pantsman pax 'em out.

I'm just trying out my ability with tabloid headlines. Not a bad one there, maybe. The reason I think of the gussett troubles of the Beeb's biggest news anchor is twofold:

1, we were remarking only moments before we heard the news of Jeremy's already-infamous letter to the hitherto-be-shining-armoured Sir Stuart Rose – branding smarty-pants – that my recent purchases from the M&S Symmetrical & Only Vaguely-Defined Men's department were worryingly thin of fibre. Soft, I mark you. But disturbingly opaque. Bad timing to have tried white ones for the first time in twenty years…

2, my energy levels are pants. And thin. And worn-through.

A deadline-buried weekend just about floored me by the time Caroline and I were driving up to Horsham yesterday. The road was a blur. I found no reserves of personality to offer loved ones as we entered the crowded church in the old town. And as the funeral of another member of our wider family rolled past us in the pews, I wondered how to contribute anything to those we were standing with. I could barely stand for sudden fatigue.

David was an inspiration. A big smile of wisdom. To be there felt like a great privilege – but I felt only there in body.

Now, back so soon with another deadline to battle through before tomorrow morning, I am dreaming of time off. Time free. Time to think. Time to regenerate some creativity. Because I can sense things to be done coming our way – perhaps good things. But I just want to crawl under a rock at the moment.

Just a few days of french cafés and sketching. No deadlines. No schedule. That's all it might take. Because I still feel a little overwhelmed by the people around me; their care and love.

So I guess, after all, I'm saying that I don't think I'm in need of any extra support – I just don't want to be quite so on show for a little while.

Back to normal.

Back to normal.

Are we? Don't know, really. Momo's ramped up to speed this week, which is good, I guess. And Caroline's back at college; the upshot of both being that we locked ourselves into the studio again lastnight with Pete, Annie and a fruity Rioja to try and Stay On It. Or perhaps, Get Down On It. All very nice; very funky and productive even, but we had to draw the line at Kissy Sell Out, who kept shouting at us how much the tunes he was playing from only about a year ago reminded him of school… Yep, I'll concede you can only listen to Radio One for so long, even on a Friday night.

So we're knackered. And feeling a bit old. And in need of time away; I've found myself trying not to cry at episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine this week – emotion that should not speak its name but be simply bundled off to Brugge for a recouperative weekend, I think. Working on it.

But right now, we're having to work all weekend, despite pained eyes. Umpteen deadlines all at once.

Still, two nice things to wake up to: my first ever collection of Django Reinhardt plopped through the door this morning, and Fi Gawdblesser Glover made a joke to a cultural hero of mine on my behalf – "Nitin Sawhney is our studio guest star this week and listener Tim Peach tells us that someone once said it is easier to list the things you can't do than those you can. He'd like me to ask you what they both are, respectfully…" He chuckled and said simply: "Cooking and driving."

Hah! Knew there had to be something.

Hmm. But he also feels no need to write into radio shows and then blog the results.

..Don't care, Fi Glover spoke my name to Nitin Sawhney while I lounged in bed. An auspicious start to Saturday…

New Year.

New Year.

Amazon have declared our weird Christmas finally over, with two new CDs arriving in the post. New music helps to make a new chapter – but while I fug around to Herbie Hancock and swashbuckle Momo's inbox, I think of last Wednesday and what a bizarrely good thing it was.

Dad would, I feel sure, have been bursting with pride. I was. Our family of friends were fantastic – thankyou for helping to give us a love-fest that was the best send-off we could have managed. The stories and the smiles around the sadness filled us up. Just thankyou.

Mum is in okay shape, and so is Melly. We're all doing okay. But we could have talked for days to describe Dad properly.

Thinking of you, Dad. We all have been, very very fondly.

x

Arrangements

As you might imagine, it's been a weird Christmas. Large helpings of lots to do and nothing to do. And an uncomfortable amount of Normal – none of us know how to stay under a black shroud for long, it seems.

For info, Dad's funeral will be Wednesday 9th January 2008, 11.30am at Richmond Hill URC, with a short time at the crem at 12.30 and a social time at Highcliffe Golf Club afterwards. It's an open door all round, in keeping with Dad's life – all welcome.

All is odd. But okay, I think. I just think of this: we've unearthed a ton of photos from the length and breadth of Dad's life for the memorial and it's hard to find one that doesn't make you smile.

Happy New Year, Dad.

x

Arrangements.

Arrangements.

As you might imagine, it's been a weird Christmas. Large helpings of lots to do and nothing to do. And an uncomfortable amount of Normal – none of us know how to stay under a black shroud for long, it seems.

For info, Dad's funeral will be Wednesday 9th January 2008, 11.30am at Richmond Hill URC, with a short time at the crem at 12.30 and a social time at Highcliffe Golf Club afterwards. It's an open door all round, in keeping with Dad's life – all welcome, if you knew him.

All is odd. But okay, I think. I just think of this: we've unearthed a ton of photos from the length and breadth of Dad's life for the memorial and it's hard to find one that doesn't make you smile.

Happy New Year, Dad.

x

Dad. And Dad.

Dad. And Dad.

He had been making remarkable progress. They had taken most of the lines out of him and were daring to contemplate life at home for him. Mum had finally been let out of hospital and had a few days at home at long last, ready to start thinking about the future of care for my Dad. But in the end, he'd fought for long enough.

We had a call at 4.00am this morning. Dad died soon afterwards.

We're okay. We're all kind of okay. Wish I could say more – there's much I could, but it's only twelve hours in and this is just a blog. But my Dad is no longer suffering.

..Wish it was a neat as that, however. Sixteen hours before that call, we'd had another one. My brother in law's dad, David, died one night previous. In the space of a day, Caroline and her sister had both lost their fathers, because that's what both men really were to them. A personal thing to say, and a testimony to both of them. The first of many.

So we're juggling families. And feelings. And practicalities.

Will let you know more details here in time; the blog's been useful to let friends know the news for our folks. And everyone's texts and thoughts have been very kind, very helpful and no surprise at all. Bless you guys for being our family – Mum and Dad were always so pleased you've been there for us.

A little more when we have time.

x

WARNING! WARD CLOSED.

WARNING! WARD CLOSED.

My Mum now has C-Dif. Or similar. The point is, they've closed her ward entirely and moved her to a side room where she can feel completely lousy in bacterial privacy. Can't see her.

The hospital looks like M*A*S*H. Yellow warning stickers all over wards; crooked bits of wood nailed over the doors. Blood on the lintels. But, amazingly, Melissa and I managed to see Dad this afternoon. We sat and chatted and I tried to put my finger on what was weird about him. Then I twigged – as ill and unhappy as he is, he looks more like himself than I've seen in a month. I figured he must be getting better because he'd been grouchy with the nurses in the night – they'd tried to make him lie down and he took umbridge at not being able to breathe.

We're still not thinking beyond tomorrow, however. Dad's medical condition is as complicated and vulnerable as ever. But they have moved him to a ward tonight.

So we got through today. Seems my parents will both be in hospital until next week at least.

Stop me when this gets boring.

Family.

Family.

So, er, what a few days. I have five quiet minutes to scribble an update here, so here is where my family are at:

Kind of okay, today.

After Mum was taken in unexpectedly on Thursday morning, the two of us did what we could to be with Dad and ensure he was looked after; there was just no way for him to be left alone while so unwell. They finally diagnosed his stomach bug that afternoon and prescribed some anti-biotics – so, as Friday rolled through, he seemed to be making progress in some small way at last. I told Melly to sit tight and not come down; Mum too was making slow but sure improvement.

That evening, we popped out together for half an hour to get cat food and one or two other things we don't understand and, when we returned, found Dad looking worried and feeling unwell again.

"I've just had a call from the blood lab" he said. "They're sending a doctor round now; I need to go back to hospital…"

We prepared and waiting and eventually opened the door to the doctor on call that night. A while later, we were wheeling my heartbreakingly frail father into A&E.

The bottom line, in short, is that he was subsequently diagnosed with a combination of very serious stuff – combination being the real point. It took them a couple of hours of testing and hooking him up to things and going through a bound tome of medical records that looked like the Book Of Kells, but eventually faces were grave enough to usher us into a side room. It was very gently done, but we were Given The Talk.

How much do I say about seeing Dad like that?

Nothing really here; you get the point. We had to leave him and go home to try for some sleep. We had to leave him.

----

Walking in again the next morning we knew two things – Dad was in a serious way and Mum didn't know. What we didn't know was how far Dad had come or not during the night.

Y'know, there's plenty of story here to go into at another time but, again, maybe not now. Amazed to say that as Saturday wore on, Dad's vitals began to do the distinctly unexpected – rally. Bloody rally. The senior doctor on Friday night had said to us: "I love it when my patients prove me wrong, but…" and 24hrs later, Dad was adding another 'but' to her statement. I honestly quite can't believe it. But, almost can – my Dad is my Dad everywhere. Seeing him then, that lunchtime, he was still thanking the medical staff and, I began to suspect, warming hearts a little on a frazzled ward. That's him, in that situation.

We spent much of that day at the hospital, of course. By the time Melly had joined us, we'd actually managed to grab a kip on the sofa at home, as ward infections were barring us from seeing Dad much. But before we came home that tea time, we'd managed to do the one thing I'd most prayed for – get Mum down to see Dad. Touching, and kind of funny. Oh my lord, my blummen' parents. Having them both in the same hospital does start to feel like a Carry On farce…

----

Since then. Well, Dad is still in a very bad way. No one is talking about what to do, medium term – and by that I mean anything after next week. It is hour by hour, day by day. I'm running Momo at half speed and not travelling out of town at the moment. But Dad's vitals are on a very slow climb in the right direction. After three days.

Thing is, farce fans, we had some more news about Mum yesterday. Looking very much herself – thankfully enough for me to be facetious to her again, though this admittedly needs little more than a pulse showing on her ECG – and bored daft, she was not let out yesterday as planned. And here are her consultant's words:

"Well, Mrs Peach, we hardly want to let you out of here if you're cooking up a heart attack."

Subtle.

So we have both parents in there for indeterminate lengths of stay. ..Now, do I add here or leave it 'till later? Their elderly cat doesn't half look dicky at home too…

Anyway, there we are. On call. But okay. Today. Strangely grateful for how things have fallen to help us deal with things so far. And grateful too for the wider family's kindness. ..That's you guys.

Caroline is making for London today, to hand in an essay. I'm trying to get a presentation out of the way and Melissa is getting some more things down to Mum. Each day, we're waiting for a call and hoping for progress.

Let you know when we know more.

x

Up and down.

Up and down.

It's becoming a leeeetle bit of a tragic farce now. Phone rang this morning, not long after my alarm had gone off. Early. In fact, I was still dead to the world and didn't hear the phone when Caroline leapt out of bed.

It was Mum. Badly out of breath. Being carted off to A&E.

She'd woken up unable to breathe and Dad had called an ambulance. Four of them plugged her into things and carried her away, with my Dad left behind, wondering what was going on.

We got over there pronto and realised we'd better imagine settling in for the day. I left it an hour and rang the hospital. Turns out Mum had run out of some of her meds and this caught up with her rather suddenly. So, assuring Dad we'd both be on hand, Caroline unfolded the laptop to try and make headway on an essay, and I began a multi-pointed dash through the south coast rain to run errands – main one being, to see Mum.

She'd been moved to Acute Admissions by the time I arrived, and she was stable. But under a mask and drowsy. Various tubes in her arm. As I sat with her a while, I looked at her and thought: this is Dad's primary carer?

It seems likely she'll recover fine once the missing meds balance out in her system – but she'll be in for at least a night and possibly two. Think we'll have to stick around for Dad all night. We're waiting on some test results today from a sample from Dad that Mum managed to get to a lab yesterday, smart lady. If it's not the rampant Norwood bug, or whatever it's called, they'll admit him to hospital to start trying to get some food and fluids into him at last. He's had a month of sickness and diarrhoea now; a month.

Mum and Dad live at the top of the hill. At the bottom of the hill, meanwhile, just a skateboard ride away, a rather different major medical moment is overdue – Kev and Fee's tiddler. They both keep scaring me with emails and texts, but so far these have been all about dancing elves.

So it's all a bit up and down here at the moment. Good job I'm not trying to run a business single handed, eh?

Waiting.

Waiting.

Saw Dad again yesterday. Things are in a bad way.

He's not improving his ability to eat or keep his stomach settled. A month of this in his condition is… not good. The virus seems too hefty for him to shift, which sounds like the bug that hospitals across the UK are apparently struggling with. Don't know.

All I know is, Dad is basically very ill. And we all feel helpless, while waiting for tablets to work and doctors to call.

At the same time, I think of my brother-in-law's father, pastor of their big Baptist church. The chap who married us, in fact, and a big part of our family in Sussex. He's currently in hospital awaiting a delayed re-bypass operation to try and stop an infection in the original valve replacement, done a few weeks ago. Doctors have had serious expressions around his bedside over the last two weeks. Another larger-than-life man in a grave condition. Another family trying to get on with normal stuff while waiting around for news. And praying.

Thing is, this is normal stuff. And under the circumstances, so is praying. Let's just see how today pans out.

Growing up and getting down.

Growing up and getting down.

Number of reasons to feel old this week. As usual, I don't really – but I really should. Because, apart from anything else, they tell me it's exactly twenty-five years since Thriller was released.

I queued for that record when it came out. Or at least, I kept having to go back to John Menzies in Christchurch to get new copies of it because there was a whole funny batch of them badly pressed that made Billy Jean jump. ..And with a courageous stiff upper lip that would make one of Queen Victoria's finest cavalry front-liners proud to stand next to me, I admit that I bought this fabled Michael Jackson epic along with George Michael's beat combo debut – Wham! Fantastic! I did. I just admitted it, there. What have you got now?

So Thriller seems both quainter and sweeter second time around. Found it in a bargain bin at Borders on a rain-lashed Friday evening, after a Goodbye Old Chum drink with Kev; little baby Marshall is scheduled for much-anticipated poolside entrance tomorrow. Jeeeeepers. There again – a reason to feel old.

Another reason to feel old is watching your Father do enough aging for both of you in front of your eyes. We went over to help mine celebrate his 73rd today – but there's no escaping how his current illness has given him extra years. I won't put into idle words here how it feels, but he and Mum seem to have everything queuing up against them. And I love my Dad, and my Mum.

When I cycled from school to spend my meagre Advertiser delivery money on Thriller the first time, I was enjoying a very happy end of childhood – and looking forward to a very groovy adulthood, thanks in giant part to my groovy parents. Though 'groovy' in the Eddie Izzard sense, rather than the would-honestly-ever-dance-to-Thriller sense. Like most people's parents back then.

As an aside, today – against the natural order of things or not – most of my be-parenthooded friends seem to be doing a remarkably good job of being groovy in a way that wouldn't have made sense twenty five years ago – ie: still reasonably sexy young Got Its. As much as any of them ever had it, they still seem to have the funk for getting down –no different to two and a half decades ago to my eye. Is this right? Or am I old after all? When do we all become Real Adults?

But look at us as a generation – we still bang on about blummen' Star Wars and Stardust and Atari home video games and Thriller – and refuse to fully accept we're no longer that age, even as our heroic creatives and everything else we love slide into mediocrity and decline.

And a bloody good thing too, after all. Maybe. All I know is that, full blast in the earphones, Thriller is making me fug round the studio like a disco zombie – I am doing the dance, yes. Damn right. Do it too. Get the record and do it too, with me.

Because, however grown-up life is trying to make me, I'm still going to fight it. Somehow. And help my Dad fight it. ..Somehow.

Though I'm not sure suggesting a moonwalking class to Michael Jackson would say it right for him – or assure him I've taken up the mantle of responsibility at last.

Which would probably reassure my Dad after all.

Moi je croix.

Moi je croix.

What do you take comfort in? I think that most of the things humans take comfort in are – if analysed with that most unfair of scientific tools, honesty – flimsy notions. Impressions. Brands, if you like – ideas of things that fit our view of the world and that we want to buy in to, to reinforce it. Romance, in other words.

Think of places. Caroline and I were contemplating the idea of city brands – every famous place on Earth paints an instant impression in your mind when you say the name – Egypt, Rome, New York, London. And straight away you know how much you identify with that place or not. Have you always been a London type of person? Does Marakech open a door of exotic comfort for you? ..If so, where the hell did that come from – you live in Bournemouth.

Both of us, for example have long taken a strange and well-known comfort in Paris. The idea of Paris. Don't know why, but we do bang on about it. We were each asked once, separately, what our Favourite Place On Earth was – daft parlour game – and we both said the French capital.

Now, to a flimsy dandy like me, a place as ponsed-up as the city of lights is an obvious choice – a perceived lifestyle of loafing in cafés talking lightweight philosophy as a basically-not-veiled-at-all excuse to watch aloof french birds swing up and down the leafy boulevards. All safe in the knowledge that some of the finest creative names in history came here to do and to champion, even, exactly that.

..But Caroline? Perhaps the least pretentious human alive? She chose this place?

Don't get me wrong, I doubt either of us would want to live in a world where you could never actually leave your Favourite Place On Earth – Greek inlets, Swiss Mountains and Scandinavian forests are all worth a visit I hear – but our joint admission just goes to show what a strong impression places create – usually despite the facts.

It makes no dent on my romantic daydreams of the Left Bank, for example, to be all-too aware that most Parisians live outside the Periferique and have a fairly unromantic view of the French police and their identity in Gallic society – that much-photographed Haussman-ploughed city centre still gives off an intoxicating vibe. And I don't mean the dog shite.

But who remembers the city's attempt to publicise itself – 'Paris, c'est la Peche'? And, for that matter, how many people remember that The Big Apple was so christened by an ad campaign? At the beginning of the 21st century, at least, these iconic locations appear in our minds as fully formed brands, without an ad man or a local community influencing us either way. Don't they?

Perhaps. But I'm not sure it's quite so simple. What's your view of Berlin? Black and white Nazi propaganda backdrop – or Lily Von Stüpp in fishnets, drawling 'I'm so tired…' on a back-turned chair? Or maybe you think of the wall and wonder what all that was about. I've not been yet – 'yet', note the brand impression already formed in my mind – but I think of a dynamic place of creativity and regeneration – art galleries and forward-thinking music. How right will I turn out to be when I go?

Places can change their brand then – perhaps when they fall out of the world's consciousness a little and have to make a new statement. But how do they get inspired, these grand new statements? You may be able to – and have to – stump up umpteen million euros to re-imagine the Pottsdammer Platz, or to create La Defence, or Canary Warf, but who inspires creatives to get together and be really inspired somewhere? They probably put the soul, or at least the brand, into a place – but what puts the soul into them when they go there?

I couldn't answer that without really thinking about it, which I can't be arsed to now – it's midnight, for Pete's sake. But it makes me think of another idle notion that I've long taken great comfort in: the idea that British people are united by their use of humour. It's the one thing that Middle Englanders quietly think they're still allowed to be collectively proud to be British about – perhaps the one remaining thing.

On Fi Glover's show last Saturday morning, there was a very nice lady sharing her Inheritance Tracks – pieces of music of personal significance, passed on from parents to children, and children to their children. She was a charmingly unshowy sort, who came out with a pearl I've not been able to forget all week. Because it's something I think I've clung to as a very conscious philosophy for very many years.

The track she felt that her father impressed upon her was by Peter Ustinov – Mock Mozart. The gigantically talented Mr Ustinov is a comfort to many people, I think – a brand he would, I suspect, feel bemused at and unworthy of. But the fact that his enormous-seeming humanity expressed itself so often in sheer sillyness is something to make romantic Britons weep for joy. And Mock Mozart is a prime example. It's what I do in the shower most mornings. On this record, he has basically multi-tracked his own voice as a series of strangely convincing operatic enunciations of random Italian words, to a Mozart-like score. It's a piece of class daftness.

But what this lady, Anna, said it made her think of was her father's strongly-held philosophy – if nothing is sacred, then everything is sacred.

If nothing is sacred, everything is sacred.

That's it. That's why it's so bloody important to be funny. It's defiant. It's victorious even, when you've little other reason to feel so. And it shows what true value every little moment has.

Call me a daft romantic, but this is something I believe. And I find it a great comfort indeed.

Pneu pneu – da-daahh de-dada.

Pneu pneu – da-daahh de-dada.

A whole week has gone by without having a wife around. Given that we're normally both living and working around eachother here in the flat, it's been a strangely un-strange week for me; think we've both just gotten on with things. And I rather think Caroline's week has been more intense than mine, which is a cruel twist of fate given that I've been working and she's been on a sketchbook field trip to Montpelier. Still, I'll have to work up the sympathy a little when she returns, as right now I think she's likely to be in a café in Paris, diverted to the city of lights by the current French rail strike. I've had FIP on round the house all day, listening to a bonkers-eclectic playlist and Parisian traffic reports in solidarity.

Lastnight, it was French music too. Though I've yet to decide if Air's fashion sense is the future or not – it wouldn't be the future of a family, if I did adopt their tight white jeans as my new look du jour.

I'm beginning to wonder if the Opera House has pants acoustics. Can't say lastnight's mix was any better than Pendulum's a week ago – and what a dreary technical way to start a review of one of Pop's most enjoyed left-of-centre groups. But trying to pull off electronic music live is a tricky one, I feel prompted to say again, and though the boys did an admirable job with their band, a combination of fizzy synths, live vocoding and a middle-aged audience did little to create a seething Zion in the mosh pit.

Still, as an inadvertant Air nerd, I enjoyed playing air keyboards along to their back catalogue and it was nice to hear so much from their least commercially successful album, 10,000htz or whatever it's called. It was a likeable, tuneful show with a fabulously over-egged, arpeggiated finish, even if they'd cleared off with a friendly 'bon soir' by quarter to eleven. They obviously figured their demographic would need to get home sharpish to relieve the baby sitter. Never mind.

I did have a bit of a Pavlovian reaction to some of the tunes from Moon Safari though – I've had so many darned dinner parties to that album over the last decade, I was desperate for the main course by the end.

So, to celebrate a night out properly, we turned a joke into an action plan and Andy, Mark, Mike, Emma and myself hotwheeled to the Chick King and ate mushroom burgers in the seafront carpark.

Health kick starts tomorrow, when Caroline is back. I had better get the hoover out; if I still haven't cleared the washing up by the time she walks in later, I won't be humming french lounge music, it'll be something from The Muppets.

Afrikaans apricots. Sort of.

Afrikaans apricots. Sort of.

Alas, I am left alone. Couple of days in, and Caroline's absence from the home for a whole week is a darn shame on a cold winter's night, but we are both being remarkably grown-up about it. While Caroline is drawing flick-book stick men with berets, while pretending to fill a sketchbook with intelligent elevations of eighteenth century Provence, I've already watched enough Top Gear on Dave to split my head gasket and indulged in splendidly serious World Cinema with Mark.

And that's the interesting thing. Most of my finest chap-mates would furtively turn on Cold War documentaries and The History Channel and BBC Four World Music specials when live-in loved ones are away or not looking. If you are interested in another perspective on the Palestinian debate, for example, watch Sundance-applauded Paradise Now, about two young men from Nablus facing the prospect of becoming suicide bombers. Simply very good and very subtitled.

To be fair, I can't think of much that my lovely wife and I don't enjoy critiquing together. But one Top Gear a week would be enough for her, I think, and I've yet to convince her to snuggle up and watch Downfall, the much-acclaimed cinematic dramatisation of Hitler's last days. I have too, I notice, left Tarkovsky's original epic Solaris lying around conspicuously this week, two years after borrowing it from Jamie. Am I kidding myself?

Interesting thing, sitting here alone in the flat, little nose going blue as I refuse to put on the heating for a day with just me here, in the absence of the loved one, I've made some new friends quickasaflash, thanks to the superficial influence of the internet.

I promised myself I would restrict my Facebooking to real friends – actual people I interact with. However, today I had a friend request from a chap in Capetown that made me bend my rules.

Jaques Maclárn Peach wonders why he's never heard of the name Peach outside his own circle, and why he's an Afrikaans-speaking Boer with Scottish grandparents and a huge family peachtree crest with a mysterious motto in an alien tongue tattooed all over his arm. He pretty much seemed to be asking me: 'any idea how I got here?'

I looked at the ribboned words around the crest on the picture he sent me. Not English. Not anything South African either. With huge communicatio-lingustic instinct, I immediately divined it to mean: 'I abide in hope and abandon fear' – or, as I broke it down knowledgeably for Jaques: 'I live in hope, not fear.' How cool is that?

I then immediately thought of having this crest tattooed all over my arm.

And then I looked into some Scots Gaelic, which I discovered this is likely to be. As poetic and noble as I'd like this hither-to unheard-of Peach family crest vision statement to be, it turns out it could equally mean: 'Keeping myself in beer up in the glen, and enjoying the odd shank of heffer, stops me shatting myself'. And you think I jest.

What the hell was I doing looking this up? I was in the middle of a press production and trying to translate Scottish mottos into South African Dutch!

Thing is, Jaques' story didn't half sound like a story waiting to be unfolded. A series of buried links across the world. Perhaps a sort of Jason Bournemouth. And when I saw how many other Peaches he'd collected from round the globe in his quest to find a family, I felt I could do nothing but welcome him in.

He said: 'it must be nice to have so much family'. I sheepishly replied that I didn't bother with the rellies much – but my friends were as much family for me as anyone.
So make Jaques feel welcome in the UK, especially if you're a Peach. Timewasting so sociably with the snapping social reflexes of the idle fickle is what we do best, so let's keep it in the family. 'Whether on the south coast, the south of France or South Africa, my circle of friends are all Peaches' I assured him warmly.

Buff-diff, baby.

Buff-diff, baby.

So, lastnight we went out. Just for fun.

I know – mid-week madness for two hard-working poppets like us. And we were, of course, already sleep-deprived from Caroline's usual Wednesday late-nighter from London – and Mike, who's idea it was, had to be up at five the next morning to do his morning radio show (gratemate), the crazy boy. But when you discover that stadium drum'n'bassers, Pendulum, are doing a live show right in your back yard at the Academy – sorry, the Opera House – it's not so daft to give your slumbers a bit of a dent for such a big beat treat.

The band's debut album, Hold your colour, is as much rocked-up, riff-tastic fun as it is sophisticated style statement. Sort of Apollo 440 for the naughties, if that means anything; all very nicely put together and so hot right now. But I did sort of wonder how they'd make it work live – I know from bitter experience how hard it is to make electronic music mix well in concert. Especially when you're trying to create an atmosphere in a mostly-empty church hall to your mum and a stray dog. It either sounds like a backing tape with you doing karaoke over the top (which it probably is after all) or it just sounds like a clamorous mush. Which is a total cow, because the idea of mega soundscapes filling the night with sonic possibilities is a seductive one – electronic music should be the biggest kind of live music event, to my mind. Never mind, eh, you can always enjoy it properly on your iPod afterwards.

So, as we queued to get into the recently revamped venue and gazed around inside to see how they'd refurbished the Victorian space, I think Mike, Emma, Caroline and I all secretly wondered if everyone else buying tickets thought we were there to drive the youth group minibuses. But we continue to live in faithful Post Rave Nostalgic denial, as dictated by our demographic, and just enjoyed the DJ set – Noisia (I think – who knows what Mr or Mrs Noisia actually looks like, given that no-one ever introduces a DJ set) played some great mixes of electro tunes new and old along with a comfortable blend of lovely drum'n'bass buff-differy. Justice and The Prodigy and all kinds of things I vaguely recognised – all proper electronic music to my mind; groovy and cleverly built. We were all jigging about and grinning a lot as the vaulted old theatre filled and filled.

I looked at Mike and smiled. He and I were swapping musical reference points as usual and I suddenly thought how nice it was to be still doing so after nearly twenty-five years. Then I dropped my smile when it occured to me these reference points hadn't changed much in twenty-five years.

Eventually, the floor below us was a heaving mass of hormonal youth. As the stage finally dimmed and everyone went bonkers, Caroline thought it looked like a renaissance painting of Dante's hell – a dark sea of writhing limbs and red light.

It went off, proper. People were crowd surfing all night and being proudly pulled out of the front by bouncers, while Pendulum's MC did what all MCs do – which was basically: wander around saying 'Are you having a nice time? Sorry, what was that?' loudly, while the musicians who were obviously all too nervous to do any of this themselves, just made a wall of energetic noise.

The two guitarists clearly thought they were simply in a rock band – tight-trousered Mossop & Keenrick ball-stretching oratory stance and all – and the keyboard chap/undoubted production brains of the outfit sheepishly pushed buttons between Axel F-style synth riffery. Meanwhile, the drummer just sucker-punched the 165bpm tempo all night.

It was just very cool. And very ramped. And very enjoyable fun, thanks chaps. It's true, sadly, that you'd have had no idea as a newcomer to Pendulum's oeuvre that they actually made finely-crafted electronic soundscapes of melody and poise, and you'd be hard pushed for some of the tracks to even pick out the face-slapping big fat riffs they're famous for – the mix was mostly a wall of noise. Everyone kind of looked like they were miming in a sea of midrange for much of it, apart from the drummer and the MC who both sounded energetically clear, cool and bang-on. And really, this was all anyone wanted.

Top show; brilliant music hidden in it, with a couple of particularly nice musical moments breaking through the mix. Had a great time.

And best of all, Caroline is finally converted. She finally gets Drum'n'bass. I said: "Yes, darling, the genre's double-time reggae heritage creates an irresistable hip-swinging hypno-saucery that builds the kind of wild-eyed build-ups, break-downs, switches and releases that the rest of Dance music can only aspire to."

She just grinned and said: "Buff diff, baby."

Autumn colours, winter blues.

Autumn colours, winter blues.

Weird. Worrying? Welcome; Momo isn't a frenzy of screams and clamours and phone calls and general jumpings up and down. I don't think I've had such a civilised week in two years.

Of course the studio never has nothing happening in it. I'm still trying to think of a proper ending-in-o suffix for the new branch of the business that Caroline has established – she's annexed half the space, technology, time and effort of the company to studying Urban Design but I'm blowed if I can make it fit the brand properly. I will – have no fear – this kind of creative time-wasting is what I'm clearly best at.

But despite her mad deadlines and my pile of things to do at all times, we took off a whole day on Sunday. Just sort of happened. And what a day to go for a walk in the forest. Just think:

Reasons Why We Live Here
(absence of mountain vistas and a decent music scene not withstanding)
1: People who are prepared to look past our character flaws and invite us in for tea live here.
2: We own a flat here and it makes sense to live in it.
3: The New Forest is cycling distance away and eye-wateringly pretty at this time of year.

Yes, it's true. We went for a walk in the Autumn sunshine from Standing Hat near Brockenhurst and the trees and the colours and the light and the air and the relaxed beauty restoredeth the souls. I just so bloody love living here sometimes. Most times. Been grateful since I was a kid, in fact. Because all this niceness never takes you far from a shop or a rail link to London.

Sad to say that Mum and Dad, however, have been feeling more wintery than back-to-school chirpy. Mum has been badly ill since Dad came back from hospital. Been a cyclical thing all year and the doctors don't yet know what it is. Poor things are so down about everything and I don't at all blame them. They were hoping to get out into the forest themselves this week but I suspect it didn't happen. Shame. They need a little soul-restoring more than many at the moment.

Going round there now, in fact. Because, obviously, they're a pretty big reason why we live here too.

Musical mirth.

Musical mirth.

(Before I start – what a smug title that is. I mean, it's like something a retired, specialist magazine contributor would come up with; imagines it's clever and wry but is actually a bit up itself in a fairly boring way. I apologise, if you care; it was conveniently lazy.)

ANYway.

Two quick thoughts related to music and maybe worth some mirth. One: saw a fab title for a band at the weekend. Was actually a Daily Echo newsagents' headline hoarding all over town but I'd pay to see this undoubtedly hairy, sullen, noisy outfit if they appeared on the rosta at Mr Kyps – Sex Trade Police Raid. STPR to their fans. Not that I instantly bipass concern at local social problems for amusing myself with words of course.

Two: WHO, I mean WHO thought that the King of Saudi Arabia should be heralded onto British tarmac – as he and forty tons of baggage and entourage streamed across our robustly upholstered diplomatic red carpet all afternoon – WITH DARTH VADER'S THEME FROM THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK! Did you HEAR? (I'm running out of typographic enhancements to convey my disbelief.) Jeepers. Is the royal band of the Coldstream Guards trying to make a walloping satirical point before they're hastily dispatched to the Falklands indefinitely? 'Here comes the sinister leader of an evil Empire' music ? I mean ?

I would like to launch into a detailed debate with myself about the rights and wrongs of this visit of course, but I just know I'd never get past the patently fake facial disguise issues that distress the international diplomatic community so. Besides, I need to talk to my wife as she walks the lonely late night streets of London. Poor sausage sounds exhausted.

Perhaps STPR will turn out to have a social conscience and put sarcastic satirical lyrics to an angry indie version of John Williams' tune for Mr Vader.

Crikey, I should just set this up, shouldn't I?

Auditions in a fortnight people. Not being funny.

Dad is home.

Dad is home.

Simple headline, to the point – I've just spoken with Dad who has been finally let out of Bournemouth hospital this afternoon. He said to me on Saturday that the rather more walloping meds they'd started him on already seemed to be having an effect, but a chest x-ray this morning apparently confirmed it – he's improving. Slowly.

He's tired, of course. Hospital is all at once a long time in bed and a long time without proper sleep. People all around you are off-puttingly sick it seems. Falling over noisily and re-enacting Sean of the dead in the middle of the night with little consideration for others. And, as far as I can tell, the tea trolley visits the ward on an hourly cycle, morning, noon and night.

Still, the significant answer to many people's prayers appears to be that they've properly diagnosed and prescribed, at last. I'm hoping it will give Mum a little mental rest too. But, of course, Dad is home – so maybe we need to pray for the woman all the more.

Will keep you posted.

x

Late words, old tunes. And the old man.

Late words, old tunes. And the old man.

No, I shouldn't be up. Amazing how hard it can be to knuckle down during daylight hours sometimes, but the late-night glow of the studio jelly lamps has enticed me to keep going with a particular job that needs sending to press tomorrow. Daft. But the wife's away for a second night.

One reason I'm at the Mac late is that I saw Dad again tonight. Yesterday he was looking almost chipper – rested, tested and no, not bare-breasted, a little reassured that the shadows on his lungs were probably not nearly as sinister as the GP's suspicions that had shocked him into hospital. However, today, on the phone, he sounded very down after having had a Funny Turn. One of the nurses had to help him back to his bed from the washroom and I think he was pretty worried by it.

By the time I saw him in the evening, though, he seemed more himself again. Frantic ECG's and blood pressure tests and yet more blood tests showed his heart and system in bizarrely fine fettle.
"You're in good shape, Mr Peach" said the young doctor, staring quizically at the the machines strapped to my pale-looking Dad.
"Good shape?" I can hear him saying, "Good shape? But I feel like I'm about to meet my maker?"
"Yes I know" replied the doctor with a cursory smile, "– odd, isn't it?"

I wasn't there, of course, but this was the gist. What did come out of it though, is that they've ascertained that the shadows on his lungs are likely to be a build up of fluid – and that's what's causing his funny turns. Probably not directly a heart thing. This might be progress.

Mind you, a potentially life-threatening condition is a potentially life-threatening condition, I guess – who cares what they'll end up feeling confident about putting on your coroner's report?

And this does nothing to pin down exactly what is wrong with other issues he's dealing with. One thing I'd like to see really is hospital consultants actually consulting one another…

---

Funny, as a nice diversion, I had a note from Tim Colthup last week telling me he's been listening to an old album of mine – Outrider. What a mate, eh? I mean, what a mate. Made me pull it off a forgotten shelf and listen to it – sat there in bed last night, headphones on in the dark like a teenager. 1995 I recorded that album; a dozen years ago. And, though I've always had a special, vaguely prophetic-feeling affection for that album in particular, it does now seem like another time and mindset, listening to it.

Not to be put off such splendidly distracting whimsy, however, it made me dig out the follow-up album, Worship the system – 1997. And then a couple of live recordings from the same time. And then a couple of old DATs of random stuff from as far back.

I can't help feeling a strange affection for all of it, actually; for the small truckload of tunes and songs I laboured over in the pre-Momo years. The confidence and the creative youth mixed into those pieces; bless me. I had more of a different head on my shoulders then than I had previously realised. Plenty of worthy work along the way I think, but it certainly belongs behind me, paved into the little track I've tromped through the daisies.

You see? Whimsy.

I'm not a big look-backer. Prefer to look forward, generally. But, as I prepare to hit the sack at last, I am distressed to consider that the finest revelation tonight was from a DAT from '98 or so – and the coolest version of the Knight Rider theme I've ever heard. I'd completely forgotten it. I arranged it, I recall, for guitar legend chum Greame – had a funny thing about it at the time it seems.

So there you are. My father is pondering lying in state and I'm wondering if my finest musical hour in the first twelve years of my ignominious recording career was an electro cover of the Knight Rider theme. Goodness, my Dad feels proud for good reason.

Think I'm ready for some new tunes now.

Late night cooking.

Late night cooking.

It feels like we're both students. Or both running our own businesses. Whichever, we're drinking so much tea it's a wonder we're not saving for a dialysis machine; our kidneys must be overheating. We neither of us leave our Macs to cook or clean or see the outside world.

So, tonight, I decided to make sure we ate something fresh. Caroline had mused about pizzas so I set-to while she continued doing things I'm normally doing while she entices me with food – PDFing, EPSing, InDesigning and Photoshopping. She said to me tonight: "In the last five weeks I've traded being a planner for being an urban designer, graphic designer, accountant, project manager and some kind of professional traveler." All I know is, we need a cleaner. And a travel agent. And a benefactor.

It's all good. And, having visited Dad this afternoon, I'm happy that he's stable and okay. Tests and more tests and waits and hopes that an ultrasound will prove his lung shadow to be less threatening than his doctor had made it sound on Friday. People are helping him feel loved. I'm hoping Mum can feel some of it too.

So the pizzas looked divine by the time they emerged from the oven at nine tonight – worth the wait. But Caroline is burning the midnight it seems, in a very Momo stylee. And I have much to push on with too, if I could only find the will after so much late night pizza. We're okay. But we both want a cup of tea.

Tolkein and trophies.

Tolkein and trophies.

I've written the first To Do list and I've batted away the first emails but, as I start a new week, I can't help wondering how last week might affect it.

The beginning.
I've mused many times about how strangely Silly tends to rub shoulders with Serious – and this week had them quietly sashaying together for sure. It saw both of my parents called into hospital unexpectedly at either end of it, while Caroline and I found ourselves sitting in a VIP area of an awards ceremony in the middle of it.

Dad called early on Sunday morning sounding uncharacteristically worried.
"We're in trouble," he said quietly. Quietly is always worse. Mum had woken up with some kind of bad reaction to something and was looking very odd; "Can you come over?" he said.

With the industrial cocktail of medication they're on between them, it's impossible to know what might be liable to react with what in their groaning pills cabinet, but this looked like some kind of allergic response; Mum was clearly anxious about what had confronted her in the mirror that morning. As I opened the car door to take her to the out-of-hours GP at the hospital, I could tell, however, that she was almost as anxious about leaving Dad to worry about her.

Dad's health over the last fifteen years has been a complicated folder of doctors' notes. Any one of his deteriorating conditions would be trial enough, but this formally active, kinetic man has been steady tied down with complications and random health discoveries. I won't list them here, but we try to laugh about how ridiculous it sounds when you do.

Thankfully, his sense of humour is one organ that's still functioning, though it's taken a beating.

Caroline stayed with him that morning and was the perfect soothing company, while I tried to distract Mum in the terrible tedium of an unexpected medical waiting room with stories about the casting for the new Star Trek movie and the timeless joy of reading The Lord Of The Rings. Mum is still gutted that she had no idea Tolkein spent the last three years of his life right here in Bouremouth, during the first three years of mine. A literary hero, just across town; I think she'd have forced her way through his front door and had him bless my forehead if she'd known.

Two hours of trivia calmed down her allergic reaction. Her breathing never seemed to be threatened, thankfully, and by the time we saw the doctor she seemed herself again. Turned out to be the antibiotics she'd been taking for something else. A slowly growing relief on a Sunday morning, but it would need more tests for other health matters and these were potentially serious developments for her.

But not for today. We went home. We finished the dinner and relaxed together, all in one piece. Then Dad said to me: "Are you doing anything Friday?"
"I don't know." I said.
"Only, it's the one day next week that your mother and I aren't have hospital tests somewhere, so we're looking for some good ideas to make the most of the time off."

The middle.I looked at the clock and hmmmed. If I was going to go, I'd really have to go now.

I looked at the mobile and wondered about calling Mike again. In the middle of trying to sign off a particularly large print job to be delivered overseas, I'd agreed to pop up into London to catch up with Mike at a little music event thing that he'd been involved with. Doing so, though, would also afford me the chance to have a drink with good chum Julian, who was not only account handling said large print job's client, but who was and is also kindly offering my wife some regular accommodation in the capital; he and Angela have been lovely about looking after her. The idea was that I could show off the shiny new brochures to him, share a little tangential banter without having to explain to to anyone else, and then wander across Milly bridge to meet Mike in Oxford Circus afterwards. Later on, Caroline could join us there after her studies and we could all get a late-night falafel from some Obese By 2050:SIgn Up Here takeaway. Good plan.

Well, it went according to plan but with a bit I hadn't expected. I picked up the mobile that afternoon and called Mike and basically said: "I'm up to my eyeballs, do I really need to meet you tonight?" You know, subtle and friendly like. He paused and said: "Mate, I think you should be at AKA tonight."

London looks at its best at twilight. The river looks almost planned, although as we've long known and as Caroline is learning in detail, we shouldn't be so cavalier with such a silly notion. Still, it's relative calm put me in a good mood as I tubed up to Holborn and wandered in search of this little bar or whatever called AKA. "Two blokes and a dog" I said to myself; "if there's that many people in the audience, we'll up to par, I think."

There was, as I rounded the corner off Drury Lane, a queue of queuers and a small throng of hangers-on outside AKA. People with clip boards on the door; a throb of noise inside. I joined the queue and found myelf at the front of it suddenly.
"Name?" the lady asked.
"Tim Peach" I said, "from, er, Momotimo."
She scanned the sheet and then brightened quickly.
"Oh, right – come on in."

In was a wall of hairy young musos. A typical wall of humanity at the bar; another queue of fancy-dressed hopefuls up the stairs to the VIP area. What was it – could I put my finger on it? – an actual atmosphere of sorts. I checked the phone and scanned for Mike but no contact. So I bought a San Miguel and wandered around wherever I could actually move, feeling a little like someone's dad.

"Welcome!" boofed the PA after a while, dimming the music.
"Welcome to the Glasswerk New Music Awards 2007."
Rumbled cheers.
"We're celebrating all types of music tonight, the brightest and best – with me, some bloke from Fame Academy or somesuch, and him, a bloke from Actual Band, Terravision."
These aren't his words verbatim, you understand, but gist enough.

I found Mike downstairs somewhere, out of signal range. We chatted as the ceremony began overhead. Cheers, bumps of sudden music, then quiet, then applause; someone was evidently receiving something for something.

After a while, we decided to wander upstairs again into the back of the crowd. As I rounded the bar, a sea of backs to me, I saw something odd. My band's name across the large screen at the front. Now, when I say 'band' I don't mean 'band' because I have no band, and when I say 'my band's name' I don't mean that either because they hadn't spelled it right. But I'm pretty sure they meant me in some guise.

"Is he here?" said the PA. "Is Mom Timo here?"

I paused. Then found myself raising my beer bottle and calling forth from the back in my best stentorian tones: "Yes! He's here. Halloo! I'm here…"

The crowd parted. They just moved aside and I found myself down the front all of a sudden, San Miguel in one hand, trophy in the other and a copy of Jerome K Jerome still in my pocket. Camera rolled.

"Say something good" said the bloke from Terravision with a smile. Or was it the other bloke?

I approached the mic. "Er, gosh." I began confidently. "Er, blimey. I don't know – you pop into Town for a little light dinner, maybe take in a show or something, then someone hands you an award for something."

A sea of quiet faces. Rock and roll events –not the place for gentlemanly wit and whimsy.

"Thank you anyway. Can I get this gift-wrapped?" I turned and asked as the Get Off music faded up. I looked at the plaque: 'Best Dance Act – Mom Timo'.

So, by the time Caroline hauled her massive Life In One Bag through the door of the VIP area upstairs, squeezing past back-combed teenagers and surly middle-aged music types, I'd already been cosying on a couch with a shiny lady from Avenue 11 Entertainment TV, trying to explain what this award would do for me. "I'll let you know, just as soon as I discover what this award I'm holding actually is" I tried not to say through a five-minute smile.

Something to do with Momo's place on a music website. Though I suspect my good friend Mike had a fair deal to do with this, the fact remains that Britain's most unpromoted Electro Pop outift now has a gong. Or at least, Momo:timo is looking after it until Mom Timo appears to collect it.

The end – of the week.
Coming back from a printers on Friday, I received a call from Caroline.
"It's Dad. He sounded pretty shaken up. The doctor called him and told him to get to A&E straight away; they think they've found a clot on his lung."

So, what do you do? You make some calls before you can get anywhere and work out what's going on. Back in the studio I spoke with Melly and she said Mum and Dad had already gone to the hospital. Dad was fine really – this was perhaps a precautionary thing by the doctor. She seemed okay.

I wrapped up a few things and, after hearing no news, went down to Casualty to see if I could find them.

Waiting around is the hardest thing in a hospital. It was clearly hard on Mum especially and by the time Dad's blood test results came through, the magical blood test machine had managed to fail the samples – so they'd need to take more. It was obvious that Dad would be in at least over night and that there was nothing to be done there in Acute Admissions. On another day, I might ponder what kind of admission might be desperate/illegal/embarrassing enough to be termed 'acute' – "OkayIadmitit! I'm not really a doctor' for example. And for similar issues of tone and gravitas while my father lies in hospital, I'll not explore the idea of ever visiting the Discharge Lounge just down the corridor.

As things stood, he was tired and unsure but immediately okay. I spoke with the reception nurse and ascertained the procedures lining up ahead of Dad and it was clear he'd be there for a while. She suggested what I'd been thinking – take Mum home.

Saturday rolled round and it sounded as if Dad had slept fine and been finally seen by a few people. That morning they seemed to think he had a small clot on his lung that might be dispelled by drugs. Better than the GP had imagined.

However, I spoke with him on the phone that afternoon and they'd changed their thoughts.
"We, ah. We, er – don't know. Could be a, er, thing. We think." they apparently said. Dad seemed concerned again, but reasonably okay. More waiting.

We went in that evening and he was still reasonably okay. Moved to a bed with a working TV. But it was clear he was finally giving in to the emotional weight of it all. My poor dad just feels like we'd most of us feel – useless. And unsure of what to expect. But we left him looking forward to the rugby final and praising the kindness of the nurses as he always does.

Sunday was more waiting without news. No one working any machines on a Sunday, of course. I found myself asleep on the sofa in front of Star Trek or my layout pad or Jerome K Jerome for most of the day. Caroline continued to work all hours on her college project. Somebody should really come in and do our washing up for us.

Today? Awaiting the news from Dad's tests. I'll be popping in after lunch. Will he be coming home or staying in? Who knows. But I do suspect I'll be re-writing my To Do lists a fair bit this week.

Shaving and mixing.

Why this might seem interesting, I don't know. But, around rather larger matters and to take my mind off them, I've found myself thinking about something that men have to (allegedly) do every day they're alive and which I have been attempting half-heartedly since I was about thirteen. I am, of course, referring to shaving.

I say half-heartedly because, being a creative, I don't really have to or want to shave every day – looking slightly unkempt between client meetings makes me feel slightly cooler than I am and this is a comfort – and, like most of the finest comforts, based entirely on self delusion. Perhaps because of this lax approach to facial grooming then, I have never developed much of a shaving regime. No fancy equipment, or foams, or gels, or creams or contraptions to see my pores up close – nothing. I have now, however, finally let my old Gillette GII technology slip from the sponge bag in favour of some flimsy new thing called a Mac 3. I think.

I mean, bleedin' shaving marketing. It's all got to have batteries and decals to make it look like it goes really fast – even though you really don't want to be dragging anything sharp across your face really fast when you're half awake – and it all looks like Transformers or something. All I want to do is reduce my facial rubble without blood and sweat. I was worn out just getting through the packaging. And I'm not altogether sure, but think they might be trying to tell me it's digital rather than analogue. (I'll believe this when I can Undo a nasty nick.)

Which is all very well, but am I supposed to not shave with good old soap any more either? They'll be telling me not to rub sheep fat on my face afterwards next.

Anyway, to add to the dizzying speed of change around here, I also went mad and bought a new mixing desk, Let's hope this one doesn't blow up in my face any time soon. Or I'll have to grow a beard to hide the shrapnel scars.

Gigging for old people.

Gigging for old people.

So I actually went out of the studio for a bit the other night.

It's been so full-on for so long I forgot that people do this kind of thing. In particular, to go watch music being made live, in front of your eyes. No tricks. Just odd-shaped gizmos called 'instruments' to help the people on stage all make this music at the same time.

Thursday was John Peel day and it coincided with a monthly new music event at our pretty-much-only live music venue in Bournemouth and Poole – Mr Kyps. Three bands entertained: Sancho, The Hats and Acoustic Ladyland. And the joyous thing was that all three were comfortably creative. Or even uncomfortably by the end of AL's set.

Sancho were pleased to wheel in as many people, influences and musical machines as they could think of, creating a playful, carefully erratic performance full of theatrical vocals, medicated posturing by the front chap and gleefully confident tune-making. Fun. Silly-cool.

The Hat seemed every inch a Brighton band; spoken word coolness over creative music scapes, all done very simply with guitar, double bass and one or two xylophones. The sort of thing you appreciated someone creating live, but that you knew you really needed to here in headphones afterwards to get what the hell they were actually on about. Nice stuff.

Acoustic Ladyland, on the other hand, were very immediate. Demonstrating a very singular musical vision, they hit you straight in the face with their energetic stomp which quickly began to convince you they were extremely qualified to show off. A kind of Ska-jazz soundtrack to a Tarantino movie, by the end I felt medically mezmerised, and somehow bitch-slapped intellectually – like they knew most of us were convincing ourselves we enjoyed it to feel clever. Still, I may have been craving an actual melody in a deeply musically-immature way by the end, but enjoy it I did – the frenetic and masterful sax lead and the syncopated but effectively simply keyboard work created a genuinely mature music pallet that gave real qualification to an in-your-unprepared-face energetic show. Genuinely impressed and humbled.

But, at the end of the evening, though there had been a laudable selection of ages mixing amiably around the obvious love of music in the air, I couldn't help feeling that we really need a music venue with sofas and coffee. We may all be getting old, but standing around nodding for three hours isn't what it used to be.

Moving blog.

I think I am going to move blog. You know, move into a new apartment. The old one at MySpace is just so old and studenty. Fun but a bit crap - and some days you just wake up and want a clean apartment.

So why the hell am I doing this at 9.30 on a Saturday night?

Jeepers, Momo knows no sensible working hours.

Un-blissed.

Un-blissed.

 

So, it's here. One minute it was Spring, the next it's Autumn.

I like the seasons. I respect them enough to give them capital letters but I think the one I usually react most to is Autumn. I embrace it; feel it's backtoschool freshness and have a tidy up in the studio. Iron the blazer, buy a new pencil case.

And all that is definitely on the air here now. But here's my problem: I don't feel ready.

I mean, if you live in the UK, do you? What the hell happened to Summer? It just didn't. The weather we're having now is gorgeous but it's still an Autumn sun beginning to droop in the sky out there. I feel cheated. Un-blissed.

Hey, but here is my problem really. I think I AM ready for it. I think I'm giving in. Look out of the studio window – it's stunning. Beguiling. Telling you to start a new term and do some new stuff.

Okay, I accept it. Doesn't mean I don't wish I'd taken a holiday by now. Doesn't mean I don't wish-oh-wish I'd finished everything I'd hoped to as my fifth year of Momo draws to an end. But I'm getting happy to move on.

Yep, my sixth year of running a funny little creative studio by the sea will start in a couple of weeks. Websites still to complete, an album still to wrap up and accounts still to understand. I wish it was all done so I could wander out there and do what I secretly most look forward to every year – say a hearty hello to the season of change.

Fry day.

Fry day.

 

Have you ever watched Channel Four News?

It's almost a sort of cult to a lot of the middle classes because it actually still seems to care about news. John Snow in particular is a contemporary hero; deserves a large New Year's Honour so he can politely turn it down. Jim Gray, the long-standing editor, should have one too.

But perhaps the least-honoured-but really-should-be person on the C4News team is the bloke or bird who writes the commercial break headlines. Whoever they are, they are a master craftsperson of delightful punnage and most nights, as I get up to take my dinner plate out after John has told me what's happening when we come back, I find myself wondering if they pay this person a full-time wage to think of three good one-liners per show. They must do.

Anyway, I have no examples to hand but I was feeling like this person as I came to write a subject header.

This one is lame, obviously. No news interest or relevance other than it's Friday here and gorgeously sunny. I have a suited meeting this morning after a week that rattled along like a runaway train again and I have loads to try and rope down quickly before the start of next week.

Bloody hell I'm getting dull. But, as Ferris said, life moves pretty fast. I'm trying not to miss it by blogging too much.

In particular, we finished the score to Sign Language. It's cute. Ben's done a nice job with it, so I'll post a link as soon as there is one. And somehow, I managed to persuade him to let me do a big-band-style swing number on the end credits. Yep, with me crooning. What were we thinking?

Anyway, that and any other tracks from the film's EP I'll post on the timo website as soon as they're in shape.

I've run out of interest. Have you? There are more stories to tell here in the Momo studio, but I can't be bothered to think of suitably entertaining words to explain them right now.

I should pay somebody to do it for me.

Cakes, baubles and baps.

Cakes, baubles and baps.

 

So I've just been into the bakery at the top of my road. It was a wonderland.

I love the local shops. There's a very pleasant parade of them closeby and over the last few years I must have become another of the Local Regulars that I see up there. The Green grocers, the Post Office and the Bakery are my favourite haunts, along with the bank and a couple of the now-soulless supermarkets, one of which used to be delightfully stuck in the 1970s - drab decor, higgledy-piggledy kind of feel, lots of old people in there and just about any food item or obscure household need you could ever dream of. Never obvious, but I never once came out of there without what I'd been looking for. It's now starchly lit like a midnight garage, displayed with zero warmth, and I rarely come out with everything I was looking for. Progress.

But the bakery next door is still the real deal, and this morning I strolled up to the Grove in the December sunshine to look for odd-sized envelopes for the Momo christmas cards but found myself standing in the middle of a sea of cakes, loaves, cream puffs, mince pies, iced finger rolls, oozing jam things, plump, swollen Belgian buns and more dustings of icing sugar and flour and general Christmas garnish than you could eat in a whole holiday season. I bought a humble tin loaf, but mainly because I couldn't decide how best to start over-eating to celebrate the end of the year.

So, yes, Christmas is approaching. And for the first time, I feel ready for the end of the year. Not in that I've Bought All My Presents way - don't be silly - just in terms of workflow. There's plenty for me to be getting on with, but I feel ready for a break. We declared the Bayley's Season officially open on Saturday, and the tree is already up and twinkling. Plus, we seem to have loads of booze in. Must be Christmas.

As the year ends, I'm mainly thinking of the people around me and the different things they'll be dealing with at Christmas. But I'm still of the opinon that the best thing we can often do is take a little trip to the bakery, buy yourself something nice to go with a fresh cafetierre of something Italian and stick on some friendly lounge jazz while you work.

These are the little things that get you through the big things.

Why the hell didn't I buy a Belgian bun?

Something old, something new.

Something old, something new.

 

Technology is great, though, isn't it?

Yeah. Hm. But.

It iiiiis, but it also tends to, well - make you its bitch.

If you've been making music for more than ten years, you'll know what a bottomless pit it was to invest in a home studio not so long ago. At my (still relatively taught-skinned) age, you were in fact not only exactly the right age to have to pay the UK Poll Tax as a student, but also just old enough to have scraped together the money beyond your graduation Poll Tax Debt for a brand new reel-to-reel eight track - about twenty minutes before digital became good enough and cheap enough to take to the bosom of your amateur studio.

There was no Undo in my day. ...And I know, >sigh< it shows.

Making it aside, listening to it is an even bigger chance for technology to pimp. I swore at the time that I'd never buy any music albums on cassette. (Oh for pete's sake don't laugh; how am I supposed to give this straight faced history lecture if you keep pointing at my sideburns? Cassettes really did exist and yes we managed to live back then.) Yet, as a steeowdent, away from the bulky homliness of my second hand hi-fi cupboard, I had no way of playing LPs... (What now? What about my 'rationing card'? ...No I did not Dig For Victory. Blighter.)

The point I'm making, sounding considerably older than I look – no, really – is that technology makes you buy your own stuff again. And possibly again. There are old gems on LP and even cassette (because it's groovy, okay?) that I may have to purchase again for the modern world.

To this end, I recently rediscovered something. My teenage years were wallpapered sonically with various electronic bleeps and wooshes but for a long while it was dominated by one particular collection of second-hand LPs from the late seventies - Tangerine Dream.

Well, this week, thanks to the good people of Amazon, I have been rediscovering what it felt like to be 17 and driving for hours in a dangerously old car to see some girl or other. A particular girl, in fact. And now it's our car, in fact. And it's a bit better. And we live in the same town these days.

It was inspired by catching a moment or two of Risky Business late one night. We smiled and stayed up a little longer to marvel at Tom Cruise's diminutive youth. But I found myself taking worryingly more notice of the reeeeally cool bit from Force Majeure playing over the top than of the fact that Rebecca Demornay had just slipped her dress off.

Just how old am I feeling? I'd like to say this was actually down to moral fibre - but it had more to do with air drums. The point is, I went to bed remembering how The Dream Is Always The Same and Love On A Real Train are classic examples of Tange' at their height - and how much this stuff lit my fire to make music with bleeps in it. I knew the band's albums inside and out (well, as many as any human could collect, anyway) and hearing them again - I started with Dream Sequence - was weirdly nice to hook up with old friends.

But you know what? Creatively, it's not a great idea to look backwards. Not sure there's been a time with more creativity going on around the world of music; I think I want to get back into today. And possibly even tomorrow.

So I took the plunge and bought an iPod. Yes, I know, yeeeeeeeeears later than the rest of humanity. There are people who's governments still can't plumb in a water supply who start the long walk to the municiple tap with a shuffle. Hardly needed one, did I? I'm at home all day or in the car all day - these are things that come with music-making devices built in. But it's shiny and nice and I've mainly just stroked it and rubbed it with a soft cloth to get off the instant fingerprints.

Thing is. Yeah. Will it ever let me out again, or am I condemned in manner of greek mythology to forever be loading my album collection onto the damned thing? And am I supposed to re-buy all my albums, so I can have the album artwork appear on the screen?

Rannygazoo.

Rannygazoo.

 

Word of the day. Say it with me: "rannygazoo".

Who knew? All these years enjoying the finest radio feature produced by eight decades of BBC output, Swannycazoo, on I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue, and I'd missed that there was an extra layer to it. Not simply the timeless format of reproducing popular songs and melodies using only a swanny whistle and a cazoo, but a play on words. Silly and cerebral, how marvellous.

Use it today .. rannygazoo. It means a jape. A joke. A prank. In the style of, say, posh edwardian chaps pulling the wool over a chum's eyes for comradely hilarity. It's origins, unsurprisingly then, are in PG Wodehouse or thereabouts.

Not to be confused with Hullaballoo, Runnyaspoo or Fannymcgrew. But try it out for size - as long as you remember health and safety.

Just divine.

Just divine.

 

Heros, by and large, are just you and me with better luck or makeup. ...Okay, or talent. I'm not being cynical here, it's part of growing up to grasp this terrifying reality - everyone's just someone like you, making it up as they go along, right? Which makes heros all the more important, ironically. (Apologies for spelling out any irony there, it's just that I hate to think of people missing it and thinking I've just lost my way from one end of the sentence to the other. Which, given the much-comma-ed length of many of my sentences would hardly be surprising. ...Where was I?)

Heros. One of mine is Neil Hannon. Not because I've stalked him anything like as much as I should have done to imagine I know much about him, but simply because of who I hear in the songs. The blissful, romantic, slice-your-arm-off-witty wonderful, many-level-lyrical songs of The Divine Comedy. And at last, on Tuesday night, I finally got to see him live.

Say 'The Portsmouth Pyramid Centre' to anyone who lives nearby and they'll snort. Mainly out of derision, but quite possibly to simply clear their synuses - for the Portsmouth Pyramid Centre isn't simply a down-at-heel spare room for live music, it's also a public swimming baths. Neat, huh? An afternoon AND evening out. With showers to go home post-gig clean.

Wandering in, still unsure we'd found the right venue, Caroline and I looked around at the modest hall and hand-made stage at the far end of the carpet and beamed. Really, what could be a better place to see one of your heros perform? We'd almost be on stage with him. The gents were opposite the dressing rooms and for one gloriously delerious moment, as I pushed on the smeery door, I imagined I'd be standing next to Neil before he'd had a chance to dab and do up, asking him enthusiastically if getting the word 'peripetetically' to scan and rhyme successfully into My Imaginary Friend really was responding to a bet by a friend as we've always imagined it must be. Sadly, I relieved myself without the company of stardom. Possibly this was a better outcome.

Neil's music doesn't fit the usual categories that turn me on. It's not beat-driven or production-driven. It's about songwriting. But the key thing to remember is.. well, the three key things to remember are:

1: The songs are shot through with that rare commodity in popular music, wit, whilst also being hopelessly romantic.
2: The melodies are flow-perfect. Gorgeous. Lush. The string arrangements, stop me if I get dull, are just what I would do. Given the talent and the budget.
3: Neil is a baritone, which means I can sing his songs much more easily in the bath.

So, nerd of nerds that I am, I couldn't help myself cheering like a teenage girl when TDC's main man sauntered onto the stage with a wry grin and flung his arms open in perfect time to a huge cymbal crash fanfare in his huge, camp, orchestral Sauntering Onto Stage music. I then proceeded to bellow every last syllable of his songs into Caroline's ear for an hour and a half, adding some nice harmonies and generally enhancing the whole marvellously entertaining experience for her.

He had a sickeningly talented, well-orchestrated team around him; all of them multi-instrumental and making an amazingly effective live arrangement of his album tracks. A violinist, a cellist, a percussionist, lead guitarist, two key board set-ups, plus drummer and bassist - and it sounded just great. He banged them out and we cheered louder every time. And he finished with National Express and the crowd went home grin-ache happy.

Talent. Right there. Everyone in the little audience there was undoubtedly some sort of fan, so that he only had to look at us for long enough and we were poised to laugh. I'd hoped for a sort of Dylan Moran with a guitar and a string section and that's pretty much what we got. And what more do you need?

We first picked up a copy of A Secret History six or seven years ago and embedded it into our memory of driving round Tuscany than summer. Ever since, it's been hard to get the Divine Comedy's words and melodies out of the happy place in our brains. We whooped, we sang along, we imagined ourselves buying him a Guiness one day and being a showbizz chum. Well, only I did the last bit of course. But hurrah for a whole evening of sumptuous Between The Wars Cabaret. I think that's how he describes it.

A little bit of inspiration makes all the difference to a dreary Tuesday evening. They might be making it up as they go along, just like you and me, but it's WHAT they make up as they go along that makes heros heros.

The Divine Comedy's songs don't just put a smile on the face, they work rather like a comedy in the original sense of the word - they make you think everything will one day work out okay.

Cheers for the heavenly noise, Neil. You're a bally hero.