I have the best friends in the world. I mean that.
In one's life, "best" friends come and go. Right? Well, maybe not. If you search about on the internet, I'm sure that numerous sites and google hits will tell you that there's only a certain number of friend that a person may have. I'm not interested in those supposed facts. In the end, I might come up against that upper threshold, sure. But for now?
Rather than just 'make friends', I'm much more interested in building a community. I guess it's a combination of not just my Autism, but also the covertly (or perhaps overtly) Jewish upbringing I've had. On a good day, it's quite easy for me to make new acquaintances - high-functioning days can best well, almost anything; it doesn't matter where I am or who I'm with, there's a feeling... no, I know that I'm Indestructible. But this isn't about just that, is it? This is all about my friends, and what they mean to me.
Even from School, from my VIth form days, my best friends still stand. The Doctor, The Drum, The Royalty and The Bishop are all people I feel that are all at not just my beck and call, but also I am at theirs. They are definitive. After over half a decade, we can still come back together. Indeed, we are all well overdue a true reunion, and what I would do for us all to be together is... well, unthought of. My time in VIth form was a light prelude to what I am now, even after three years of university education and a small number of romantic relationships. I owe apologies to my friends who have already been named above as well; as much time as I have wanted to spend with them I have just been unable to do so, needing to spend my weekends in Truro means I can often not travel too far if at all, which can feel unfair. Also my lack of personal funds makes things ever so slightly difficult, and that nasty habit I have of blaming myself.
Leaving home for University can be a truly gut-wrenching experience, as I'm sure my readers might already know...and if you don't, that's what's in store - everything will change, one way or another. The implications may not be immediately apparent from this poor narrative, but eventually it will become obvious. Like the conversation I had with the Big Man about this time last year - before I applied I had never even heard of Truro as a city, let alone a Cathedral choir; all sorts of things have happened in the last two years, not considering the previous three at University, that I would not even have thought to have predicted, and that is what will happen to you, regardless of anything. If you do not keep your promises, you are done for.
I am still in contact overall with my best friends from school. I'm sure that in years, and perhaps decades to come, their friendship will prove to mean just as much. However, the cut and thrust of this post will be about the friends I made at University, and perhaps most about those I met in my third year, and just why they mean so much to me, and I hope to them as well. My third year was much more telling than perhaps my first year, possibly because so I felt that so much more was at stake: the repercussions of a terrible second year (in academic results alone, before anything else) and the social expectations I felt of being an old man in halls. It turned out to be a bumper year for both actually, and I will stand up for my flatmates beyond the pale in fact, seeing as almost all twenty of us between the two flats (linked by a common porch) actually had something to do with my success, even down to the very lovely girl who lived in the room directly opposite who very graciously allowed my use of her colour printer (a degree saving printing as far as deadline meeting was concerned, and some thing I am still grateful for).
But let's turn to that third year, to the people I am still in touch with, that I think about on a daily basis. The Admiral, Grasshopper, The Waltzer, The Chief, The Entertainer, and my Sensei. These persons, nameless though they may be, make up the core of what happened all in the end, when it really mattered. Sensei particularly was there for my dissertation, and his role at that time cannot be underestimated. Cider be damned. There is little need to detail their exploits in an episodic fashion either, quite a lot of what I have written before on here has been down to them... Why else is the 2012 archive so thin? There will be more posts this month when I'm done with the #BEDM challenge then were for the whole of that year. The inspiration of living with these amazing people can only really be felt when it is not there any more, like now. I cannot truly express how much I enjoyed living in halls with my flatmates in the academic year of 2010-2011. Everything about that year, the lows but also the highs that made up for them, were a real and lasting milestone in my life so far. What makes them special is..well, the fact that they are people who made a choice, not only to remain important to me, but to make me important to them as well.
I like to say that once somebody has become accepted to me and has become an important friend in my life, that they are always welcome at my table. This has echoes of Judaism, and the Passover meal, but really it means they will always be welcome, no matter what. I guess at best estimate there a re still less than 50 of these persons today, but I feel that this list grows every year. This is pleasing, in a way, showing that I can build lasting relationships with new people. It's not like I've bandied this sentiment about though; there are plenty of people who would not take me up on that sort of offer even if I dared breathe it near them. I wonder whether I should really name the names behind the nicknames, having always prized anonymity of other as a characteristic of this blog... I only broke that habit for my five favourite blogs, and I shan't be doing so again anytime soon. As I stated near the very beginning of this blog, names are changed not just to protect the identity of others, but also myself. What's in a name? One's identity balances so thinly on just names anyway.
But really now, just what do my friends mean to me? On the spot and at point black range, what do I say? Well, simply...everything. A lot of my friends mean as much to me as family does to you. Having grown up with a mother who suffers with a range of disabilities, a father who gives in to alcoholism, a brother who moved out way back in my youth, one can understand my minimal family when I was younger (coupled with my difficulties in making friends who meant, well, anything), and why I should want to cast deeper relationships than might usually be sought. And indeed, the older I have got, the more of a two-way street I appreciate relationships to be - either by the long haul or otherwise. My best friends are those I can rely on, often no matter what. Indeed, I often said that The Admiral was my handler, somebody who knew when to pull my metaphorical leash when I was getting a bit out of hand. My best friends are those I can trust; all of my best friends from VIth form, and even Mickey from Truro and The Loser from Norwich, have faith placed in them that I have difficulty expressing so is had to understand - they have earned it through means not measured in any rational way. Some of my best friends have been through one horror after another, and I like to think I have been their anchor, sometimes more actively than others (and this is done without hope of future reward, because, well, they're my friend and just because they need help sometimes doesn't make them any less of a person or worthy of any good treatment regardless). Spread about both the country and in some cases, the world, my very best pals are all over the place, as I'm sure many people's are too.
Sometimes we write to each other, sometimes we use short message servicing, or a telephone call, or maybe Skype, and sometimes we don't speak for months on end... But it doesn't often change how I feel about this community of mad men and women I have built over the years, whom not only allow me the honour of calling them friends, but also return it. I will back them all they way, just because my life is made so much better by having them there.
That's all. For now.
Showing posts with label Derby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Derby. Show all posts
Sunday, 19 May 2013
Sunday, 21 August 2011
Cdom7
I'm never one to do things in an orthodox manner.
Now, I've been playing the Tenor Banjo, off and on for some 7 or so years. I own an Ozark 2102T, the 2102 range being a range of beginner instruments, the Tenor model costing a mere £150 on average. I first took up the instrument after hearing the Banjo solo from the title track of the soundtrack to the Anime film Metropolis. Loosely based on the manga of the same name by Osamu Tezuka, widely regarded as the father of modern manga, can be found translated by Dark Horse Comics. Tezuka is also responsible for Astro Boy, Kimba the White Lion (the source for The Lion King) and Buddha, a 14 volume account of the life of Siddharta Gautama, of course the Buddha. Anyway, the film version, directed by Rintaro, has a shit-hot soundrtrack, which opens with a Dixieland number, on the opening credits. Once the dialouge starts, the soundtrack fades out, and it is at this point that a Banjo solo starts. I wanted to play this solo more than anything at the time. I immediately petitioned my parents for a banjo. I didn't let up, which especially pleased my father (SARCASM)
So for Christmas, I recieved a Tenor Banjo, in a CGI Banjo bag. Wow. Actually, the lining of the bag soon ripped, which caused the bass side tuning pegs to become stuck. The thing about the art and science of tuning a banjo is that the change in position of the bridge and the pressure on the skin head means that all the strings must be fine tuned at once, making a restring a long-winded excercise. The Tenor model is tuned in fifths, namely CGda, the same pitch and tuning as the modern orchestral viola. The first string should therefore be A440. As a 9 gauge string, this is pretty high. Guitarists may recognise the 9 gauge as their first string as well. I like to string mine with Martin Vega strings, where the d and a are silver. Lovely jubbly. It can be a real life-shortener to tune the a up though, so I only replace my strings should one go, or once a year for the whole set. I put aside the 14th of February for this arduous task. See, I can have a sense of humour. This wide tuning, however, after some experimentation, I soon discovered was wrong for my chosen goal. After a year of following the excercises in the Mel Bay Banjo Method I had bought for me, I tried to play along with the solo...to discover the inevitable. The type of instrument used in the recording is presumably the Plectrum Banjo, tuned CGBd, with a long, 22-fret neck. The Tenor only has 19 frets. Hmmm.
My Banjo has somewhat of a unique feature, that of a perilously high action. Grim. Approaching and excceding the 12th fret becomes a nightmare proposition, even 7th fret on the lower strings can get a bit hairy. It's a shame, because it's actually got quite a nice tone for saying it's just a small open back. Even seasoned guitarist Mr. G. Smith of Oakwood was terrified and dismayed by the action. Its a matter of tuning though. The bridge is far away down the head to keep the tuning right all the way up. And Jesus Harry Christ have my fingers gotten soft! It's very painful , and the blisters are forming under my fingertips already. Why have I dusted off my Baby?
I want to play the Cello Suites. I can hear Herr Bach rising from his angry grave now, but turns out it's quite popular for Banjo players to take on the first suite prelude, particularly the iconic prelude (you know how it goes). I'm sure Cellists, not to mention classical music buffs and pretentious jackasses around the globe are grinding their teeth at the thought of their master, Joh Seb Bach's wonderful suites for the solo Violoncello are being rendered on such an instrument. Well who cares. I mean, seriously. Some idiot is always banging on about the inexorable nature of Bach, that he and his music will live on pretty much forever (helped by the great availablity of it on the internet, natch) due to some ineffable and architectural quality that carries on for all time...blaaaaaah. Whatever.
The Cello suites, are, unsurprisingly, very hard. Of course, they're idiosyncratically composed for the Violoncello...or are they? Various conjecture (or, my friend and yours Wikipedia) leads us to the hitherto lost instruments Viola da Spalla (literally Viol on the Shoulder, a smaller violoncello held by a strap to the player's shoulder) and the Viola Pomposa, a large viola/violoncello with a fifth string tuned a perfect fifth above the top a. This is specifically for the last suite, the D major, that according to three of the sources is "a cinqe cordes", with only one giving the exact tunings. There's a wonderful free edition on the WIMA that has everything which I'm using.
The G major suite is the most covered because it's technically the easiest. The prelude is very well known, and its a nice bit of Bach to roll out as a party piece. However, you'll notice that the action height on a 'Cello is really very low, as it your average internet Banjo players'. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear. Keep telling yourself it's good for your technique, and get on with it. The extra height gives extra punch, which allowed me to cut through the whole band in a UEA Grad Bar Jazz night. Tremolo solos as standard, and then block chords in the finest Dixieland style.
It's hard, and it hurts, but ultimately, the Cello suites are great. Fiendish, yes. I might have to purchase a new Banjo specifically for playing them. And what a shame that would be.
And the title? My tuning chord. it goes 0-3-2-3. Just think about it.
Now, I've been playing the Tenor Banjo, off and on for some 7 or so years. I own an Ozark 2102T, the 2102 range being a range of beginner instruments, the Tenor model costing a mere £150 on average. I first took up the instrument after hearing the Banjo solo from the title track of the soundtrack to the Anime film Metropolis. Loosely based on the manga of the same name by Osamu Tezuka, widely regarded as the father of modern manga, can be found translated by Dark Horse Comics. Tezuka is also responsible for Astro Boy, Kimba the White Lion (the source for The Lion King) and Buddha, a 14 volume account of the life of Siddharta Gautama, of course the Buddha. Anyway, the film version, directed by Rintaro, has a shit-hot soundrtrack, which opens with a Dixieland number, on the opening credits. Once the dialouge starts, the soundtrack fades out, and it is at this point that a Banjo solo starts. I wanted to play this solo more than anything at the time. I immediately petitioned my parents for a banjo. I didn't let up, which especially pleased my father (SARCASM)
So for Christmas, I recieved a Tenor Banjo, in a CGI Banjo bag. Wow. Actually, the lining of the bag soon ripped, which caused the bass side tuning pegs to become stuck. The thing about the art and science of tuning a banjo is that the change in position of the bridge and the pressure on the skin head means that all the strings must be fine tuned at once, making a restring a long-winded excercise. The Tenor model is tuned in fifths, namely CGda, the same pitch and tuning as the modern orchestral viola. The first string should therefore be A440. As a 9 gauge string, this is pretty high. Guitarists may recognise the 9 gauge as their first string as well. I like to string mine with Martin Vega strings, where the d and a are silver. Lovely jubbly. It can be a real life-shortener to tune the a up though, so I only replace my strings should one go, or once a year for the whole set. I put aside the 14th of February for this arduous task. See, I can have a sense of humour. This wide tuning, however, after some experimentation, I soon discovered was wrong for my chosen goal. After a year of following the excercises in the Mel Bay Banjo Method I had bought for me, I tried to play along with the solo...to discover the inevitable. The type of instrument used in the recording is presumably the Plectrum Banjo, tuned CGBd, with a long, 22-fret neck. The Tenor only has 19 frets. Hmmm.
My Banjo has somewhat of a unique feature, that of a perilously high action. Grim. Approaching and excceding the 12th fret becomes a nightmare proposition, even 7th fret on the lower strings can get a bit hairy. It's a shame, because it's actually got quite a nice tone for saying it's just a small open back. Even seasoned guitarist Mr. G. Smith of Oakwood was terrified and dismayed by the action. Its a matter of tuning though. The bridge is far away down the head to keep the tuning right all the way up. And Jesus Harry Christ have my fingers gotten soft! It's very painful , and the blisters are forming under my fingertips already. Why have I dusted off my Baby?
I want to play the Cello Suites. I can hear Herr Bach rising from his angry grave now, but turns out it's quite popular for Banjo players to take on the first suite prelude, particularly the iconic prelude (you know how it goes). I'm sure Cellists, not to mention classical music buffs and pretentious jackasses around the globe are grinding their teeth at the thought of their master, Joh Seb Bach's wonderful suites for the solo Violoncello are being rendered on such an instrument. Well who cares. I mean, seriously. Some idiot is always banging on about the inexorable nature of Bach, that he and his music will live on pretty much forever (helped by the great availablity of it on the internet, natch) due to some ineffable and architectural quality that carries on for all time...blaaaaaah. Whatever.
The Cello suites, are, unsurprisingly, very hard. Of course, they're idiosyncratically composed for the Violoncello...or are they? Various conjecture (or, my friend and yours Wikipedia) leads us to the hitherto lost instruments Viola da Spalla (literally Viol on the Shoulder, a smaller violoncello held by a strap to the player's shoulder) and the Viola Pomposa, a large viola/violoncello with a fifth string tuned a perfect fifth above the top a. This is specifically for the last suite, the D major, that according to three of the sources is "a cinqe cordes", with only one giving the exact tunings. There's a wonderful free edition on the WIMA that has everything which I'm using.
The G major suite is the most covered because it's technically the easiest. The prelude is very well known, and its a nice bit of Bach to roll out as a party piece. However, you'll notice that the action height on a 'Cello is really very low, as it your average internet Banjo players'. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear. Keep telling yourself it's good for your technique, and get on with it. The extra height gives extra punch, which allowed me to cut through the whole band in a UEA Grad Bar Jazz night. Tremolo solos as standard, and then block chords in the finest Dixieland style.
It's hard, and it hurts, but ultimately, the Cello suites are great. Fiendish, yes. I might have to purchase a new Banjo specifically for playing them. And what a shame that would be.
And the title? My tuning chord. it goes 0-3-2-3. Just think about it.
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Industrial Action
So, in a week of rioting and economic uncertainty, I instead choose to write about my failing technology. Mainly.
I managed to keep out of the riots, neither participating nor being attacked. Looks like I missed out on a new pair of trainers, or a new telly, or anything else that has been lifted by the pillaging hordes. The closest I got was a phonecall off my brother on Tuesday saying there was "a massive police presence in Derby", and that "there are a load of idiots coming from Nottingham on the buses, on the trains, the police are getting ready for trouble"... And then there wasn't. The copycat riots in derby consisted of two lads running into Argos, committing theft, and then running back out again. This caused the staff of Argos to panic, and close the shop early, which had a knock-on effect of the surrounding shops. And...that was it. Then in the early hours of Wednesday morning, there was a gang roaming around Alvaston smashing cars up, which is pretty usual for Alvaston anyway. And then that was really it. Thankfully there was no wholescale looting, no firebombing of police stations, no mugging...Well, no more than usual. Town's been quiet for the whole week, which isn't especially bad for Derby. A few peaceful nights have probably helped the general atmosphere. Now, I'm not getting involved with the politics of this situation. Not here, anyway. Having friends who have memberships to both the Labour and the Conservative parties, I have heard quite enough from both sides to convince me that we're all doomed, doomed I say, to die screaming as the future ceaselessly arrives constantly in our faces.
Anyway. I finally bit the bullet and backed up my personal files and had my computer hard drive formatted. That's right. I've finally got rid of that awful plague that is Windows Vista Business edition. Turns out that there was a little bit more than just Vista wrong with my system, as well. Something about viruses or some such, I don't know. Instead of just reinstalling Vista again, my dear and most helpful mother has instead introduced Windows XP to The Boiler, and I can say that it's been like this for not eve 24 hours and I'm very pleased with how it ticks now. I was initially worried that the new (old ?) OS wouldn't recognise the touchscreen, but actually there is an edition of XP for tablets and that's what I've got. Nice. I can flip the screen around without the machine screaming "NO NO PLEASE I CAN'T COPE" and instead just rearranging the icons nice and quickly. The keyboard dock is activated from the task bar, and switches on and off without shouting at me, and the handwriting recognition is pretty good for saying mine is barely legible. It is running rather a little hot at the moment though. I wonder.
What I would really like to get installed in this though, is of course Windows 7. I can't afford a new computer with it pre-installed, but hopefully it can cope. If not, I should think that XP can perform all the vital functions that I employ, such as surfing the internet (already using Opera 11.50, a little sluggish but a billion updates are streaming in as I type), word processing, keeping up my library of ripped CDs/downloads etc. Hopefully with some stable processing, I might be able to do some more, such as musical composition, editing tracks, and keep my blood pressure lower than the steam pressure requirements. HAR HAR.
Actually, if I can sort out this computer, I might be able to sort out my phone. Ah yes, my next essay in my love of clapped out technology. I have the poor luck to be in possession of a defective handset, a Sony W995 to be exact. Poor show old chap. Other than that, I'm pretty happy with what I have, because I like having an old Sony Ericsson phone, thanks, and I don't care how much you may or may not like that. Anyway, I wanted to sort out a new theme with a lovely flash menu...but couldn't, due to one or another thing. It's a bit boring, I won't go into it. However, to correctly implement the theme, I would need to get into the phone firmware. When I'm in the firmware, I can do almost anything I like. Update the software version, change the camera and speaker drivers...and if I mis-step, I could ruin the phone. If I sink about three days into the forums, I can learn how to do it properly, so I will. I might wait a while before doing so, because if I can get the Windows 7 upgrade, I'll do it after I reinstate my data, but at this rate, I'll be filling my HDD on the XP Tablet OS.
Friday, 29 July 2011
Past The Post
So. I graduated.
Let it sink in. Roll it around, become familiar with this statement. I managed to cross the post, limping across in a blaze of deadline pushing insanity and first class performing. It happened, it's there, boom. I also happened to graduate at the bottom of the class. Ouch. I'm going to let that one sit for a little bit, even though it's stinking the place out. Obviously I should stop being upset about that and no longer care. I can, and always have been able to sing, an ability which is not for parading around and point scoring, but rather for the job of getting on with it and making music. I might be an unemployed waster as far as society is concerned right now, but I'll always be a self-employed musician. I'll always be my own boss at the end of the day, and how liberating that feels.
For the most part, I shall still be working for someone else. I haven't been able to find anything in Derby. I'm not surprised. I mean, if you look for a part-time job in the middle of June and can't find one then why are you even surprised? There's nothing til September. I even went in the Disney Store. The Disney Store! They get 10-15 people in every day in the summer looking for work. Imagine that! They don't hire until *drum roll* SEPTEMBER! And even then it's for christmas temp work. This is what will happen to me in Truro. I will apply for a job in September, and hopefully will have hit it at just the right time. Fit that in with my choral scholarship and boom! I'll be fine, for once. I'll be able to afford things like travel and books and music and CDs and drinks and driving lessons. I can feel like a worthwhile part of society!* But until then...the grind. Looking at my emails, every day. Looking at websites, looking at the job section of the paper, asking everyone I can, and handing CVs out everywhere. And all the same result. We'll put it on file. We've just taken on. We'll let you know. I guess it didn;t help that I was going around in a t-shirt, lumber shirt, sandals and cargo shorts with the pockets. Not exactly 'high-flying choral scholar postgraduate professional', eh? But anyway. I like that outfir. I have a lot of pockets, I can carry everything I need secreted about my person and not have to worry, because I know exactly where things are all the time. Yeah!
Anyway. Graduation. What the hell? I look like a right oaf. Not a bad term, but an Organists' term. I look brilliant, with my three piece suit and paisley bow tie. The hood is coral, thankfully an in-season colour...this season. God help me when it goes out of season. In fact, God help me when I hook it to my cassock, as Lord knows it'll clash dreadfully. Dear dear. Anyway. The ceremony was over in a flash. Spoiler alert for all those who are yet to do so, but it's really easy and you too will graduate smoothly if you just walk across the platform and shake the Vice Chancellor's hand. Done and dusted. Right. On to the festivities!
Only the human race could be so ridiculous as to celebrate a joyous occasion by ingesting large amounts of poison. Am I right? Alcohol, cigarettes, no to mention those who decide to partake in the use of recreational drugs (which may or may not be more harmful than the aforementioned alcohol and nicotine) all in the name of celebration. I personally managed to spend upwards of forty pounds sterling on alcohol alone, and that's just the Friday night, not to mention the curry as well. I also went out the night before (oh its not going to be a heavy one...), spending lord knows how much on Jagerbombs, Double Vodkas and bottles of...Carlsberg, yes, that was it. There is one photograph from that night, where I'm wearing a traffic cone on my head. On the other side of the road, two more of our party are on the way to liberating a sign advertising salsa dancing lessons. Out of shot, obviously, so there's no proof. Both of these items managed to find their way to that most infamous innercity Parish Church, that of St. Peter Mancroft. We managed to wind up getting ushered of of Havana at 4am due to the establishment closing, I mean honestly.
This was the end of the end. A non-valedictory event all the same, but still, the absolute finish to my undergraduate career. I'll never be an undergrad ever again, just to flash the blindingly obvious at you. All further study, even if I enroll on another bachelor's degree, will never have that profound sense of wonder mixed with seat-of-the-pants terror that accompanies the first steps in Halls. As a third year, I felt like king of the hill. As a second year, I was on the back foot. As a first year, I had no idea what I was getting into. I'll be back. Promises made to be kept, and I'll write.
Speaking of writing, updates continue to be sporadic. I apologise (of course), but things are always up in the air, and I am somewhat adrift of late. I spend my nights moping (natch), playing Killer7 (I haven't got a problem at all...), and watching videos of Alternate Reality Games. And then I don't sleep. These last two points may be connected. And this weekend we're going to Wales. It's all go, eh?
*This is rare.
Let it sink in. Roll it around, become familiar with this statement. I managed to cross the post, limping across in a blaze of deadline pushing insanity and first class performing. It happened, it's there, boom. I also happened to graduate at the bottom of the class. Ouch. I'm going to let that one sit for a little bit, even though it's stinking the place out. Obviously I should stop being upset about that and no longer care. I can, and always have been able to sing, an ability which is not for parading around and point scoring, but rather for the job of getting on with it and making music. I might be an unemployed waster as far as society is concerned right now, but I'll always be a self-employed musician. I'll always be my own boss at the end of the day, and how liberating that feels.
For the most part, I shall still be working for someone else. I haven't been able to find anything in Derby. I'm not surprised. I mean, if you look for a part-time job in the middle of June and can't find one then why are you even surprised? There's nothing til September. I even went in the Disney Store. The Disney Store! They get 10-15 people in every day in the summer looking for work. Imagine that! They don't hire until *drum roll* SEPTEMBER! And even then it's for christmas temp work. This is what will happen to me in Truro. I will apply for a job in September, and hopefully will have hit it at just the right time. Fit that in with my choral scholarship and boom! I'll be fine, for once. I'll be able to afford things like travel and books and music and CDs and drinks and driving lessons. I can feel like a worthwhile part of society!* But until then...the grind. Looking at my emails, every day. Looking at websites, looking at the job section of the paper, asking everyone I can, and handing CVs out everywhere. And all the same result. We'll put it on file. We've just taken on. We'll let you know. I guess it didn;t help that I was going around in a t-shirt, lumber shirt, sandals and cargo shorts with the pockets. Not exactly 'high-flying choral scholar postgraduate professional', eh? But anyway. I like that outfir. I have a lot of pockets, I can carry everything I need secreted about my person and not have to worry, because I know exactly where things are all the time. Yeah!
Anyway. Graduation. What the hell? I look like a right oaf. Not a bad term, but an Organists' term. I look brilliant, with my three piece suit and paisley bow tie. The hood is coral, thankfully an in-season colour...this season. God help me when it goes out of season. In fact, God help me when I hook it to my cassock, as Lord knows it'll clash dreadfully. Dear dear. Anyway. The ceremony was over in a flash. Spoiler alert for all those who are yet to do so, but it's really easy and you too will graduate smoothly if you just walk across the platform and shake the Vice Chancellor's hand. Done and dusted. Right. On to the festivities!
Only the human race could be so ridiculous as to celebrate a joyous occasion by ingesting large amounts of poison. Am I right? Alcohol, cigarettes, no to mention those who decide to partake in the use of recreational drugs (which may or may not be more harmful than the aforementioned alcohol and nicotine) all in the name of celebration. I personally managed to spend upwards of forty pounds sterling on alcohol alone, and that's just the Friday night, not to mention the curry as well. I also went out the night before (oh its not going to be a heavy one...), spending lord knows how much on Jagerbombs, Double Vodkas and bottles of...Carlsberg, yes, that was it. There is one photograph from that night, where I'm wearing a traffic cone on my head. On the other side of the road, two more of our party are on the way to liberating a sign advertising salsa dancing lessons. Out of shot, obviously, so there's no proof. Both of these items managed to find their way to that most infamous innercity Parish Church, that of St. Peter Mancroft. We managed to wind up getting ushered of of Havana at 4am due to the establishment closing, I mean honestly.
This was the end of the end. A non-valedictory event all the same, but still, the absolute finish to my undergraduate career. I'll never be an undergrad ever again, just to flash the blindingly obvious at you. All further study, even if I enroll on another bachelor's degree, will never have that profound sense of wonder mixed with seat-of-the-pants terror that accompanies the first steps in Halls. As a third year, I felt like king of the hill. As a second year, I was on the back foot. As a first year, I had no idea what I was getting into. I'll be back. Promises made to be kept, and I'll write.
Speaking of writing, updates continue to be sporadic. I apologise (of course), but things are always up in the air, and I am somewhat adrift of late. I spend my nights moping (natch), playing Killer7 (I haven't got a problem at all...), and watching videos of Alternate Reality Games. And then I don't sleep. These last two points may be connected. And this weekend we're going to Wales. It's all go, eh?
*This is rare.
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
Moto Perpetuo
I'm good at moaning. You know, it's a major strength, being able to poke and pick at my current situation and only see the worst. Like right now. In truth, I'm pretty comfortable, full of food that tasted delicious and 'relaxing' in front of the television. Although I never relax, it's endemic to...well, me. There's no such thing as casual Peb really, he's just a fabrication. Anyway. Moaning.
You'll notice that I spend almost all my time here moaning. I do it consistently, because I do it so well. Practise makes perfect, natch. What am I going to moan about today? Graduation? That'll do.
What is there to be unhappy about with Grad? First things first, it's the end of an era. This is the last time that almost all of us from the School of Music at the University of East Anglia who started in the September of 2008 will be together again. We had one who quit in the first week, one who had time out to have her baby and will subsequently return on the part-time course, and one who didn't qualify. But the rest? 2:30pm at Congregation Hall, 22nd of July 2011, together for the last time. It's the end of an era, the last time I'm guarenteed to be in Norwich. I've made my promises to who I hope turn out to be the right people, that I'll be back, but when that'll be is anyone's guess! Fare's expensive from the deep south, and I'll have to seriously book ahead, even with a railcard. Maybe I'm here to moan about the train fare. Not today, friend. Maybe another time. No, the distance is manageable and the fare is...well, it'll get me where I want to go, but other than that it isn't worth it, obviously. I rather like the train, actually. It isn't really that problematic, nice and quiet, nobody really bothers you, but it's the cost really.
Anyway. Grad. I have made plans. These plans are different to the plans laid on by the union. OH GOD I'M BOYCOTTING THE UNION. No I'm not, get over yourself. I said a very involved and emotional goodbye to the LCR on the last Tuesday of last Term. It ended at 5am, when I was driven back home by Kamei-san, after stopping off to fetch his camera. There is accordingly one picture from that night, on that very camera, funnily enough, where I look appropriately drunk, sporting my experimental chin warmer. I'm pretty attached to my beard, but not more so that it's attached to me. I need to give it a trim in time for the festivities to tidy up, but in light of my recent shearing it might be starting to suit me.
And pray, what are my plans? What do you think? Take a guess. Table for 8 at 9pm, The Spice Lounge, Norwich. Meeting at the Playhouse Bar at 7pm, and then onwards into the night afterwards. I think Vodka Revolutions, for copious amounts of shots, then a spell at Knowhere, and then to the inevitable location of damnation, Havan Bar and Lounge. Yes, the motto of my University is "Do Different", for all it's worth, and I'm doing everything the same as I ever have. I'm nothing if not consisetent, and therefore without it I am nothing. While I may claim from time to time to be a nobody, I am not a nothing. Sorry, got more self-esteem than that, but only just.
I am a little worried about the evening's entertainment. At the moment it feels like a bit of a knife edge, but that be exacerbated by my existing stress. I don't want any trouble, but I can't go anywhere without inviting it upon myself. There are 8 of us for the meal, and then who knows what'll quite happen afterwards. We'll see. But I will say this: I don't burn bridges.
And domestics? Still no job. No money. Not very much to go on. But...you know the drill. Keep going. There is no other option.
You'll notice that I spend almost all my time here moaning. I do it consistently, because I do it so well. Practise makes perfect, natch. What am I going to moan about today? Graduation? That'll do.
What is there to be unhappy about with Grad? First things first, it's the end of an era. This is the last time that almost all of us from the School of Music at the University of East Anglia who started in the September of 2008 will be together again. We had one who quit in the first week, one who had time out to have her baby and will subsequently return on the part-time course, and one who didn't qualify. But the rest? 2:30pm at Congregation Hall, 22nd of July 2011, together for the last time. It's the end of an era, the last time I'm guarenteed to be in Norwich. I've made my promises to who I hope turn out to be the right people, that I'll be back, but when that'll be is anyone's guess! Fare's expensive from the deep south, and I'll have to seriously book ahead, even with a railcard. Maybe I'm here to moan about the train fare. Not today, friend. Maybe another time. No, the distance is manageable and the fare is...well, it'll get me where I want to go, but other than that it isn't worth it, obviously. I rather like the train, actually. It isn't really that problematic, nice and quiet, nobody really bothers you, but it's the cost really.
Anyway. Grad. I have made plans. These plans are different to the plans laid on by the union. OH GOD I'M BOYCOTTING THE UNION. No I'm not, get over yourself. I said a very involved and emotional goodbye to the LCR on the last Tuesday of last Term. It ended at 5am, when I was driven back home by Kamei-san, after stopping off to fetch his camera. There is accordingly one picture from that night, on that very camera, funnily enough, where I look appropriately drunk, sporting my experimental chin warmer. I'm pretty attached to my beard, but not more so that it's attached to me. I need to give it a trim in time for the festivities to tidy up, but in light of my recent shearing it might be starting to suit me.
And pray, what are my plans? What do you think? Take a guess. Table for 8 at 9pm, The Spice Lounge, Norwich. Meeting at the Playhouse Bar at 7pm, and then onwards into the night afterwards. I think Vodka Revolutions, for copious amounts of shots, then a spell at Knowhere, and then to the inevitable location of damnation, Havan Bar and Lounge. Yes, the motto of my University is "Do Different", for all it's worth, and I'm doing everything the same as I ever have. I'm nothing if not consisetent, and therefore without it I am nothing. While I may claim from time to time to be a nobody, I am not a nothing. Sorry, got more self-esteem than that, but only just.
I am a little worried about the evening's entertainment. At the moment it feels like a bit of a knife edge, but that be exacerbated by my existing stress. I don't want any trouble, but I can't go anywhere without inviting it upon myself. There are 8 of us for the meal, and then who knows what'll quite happen afterwards. We'll see. But I will say this: I don't burn bridges.
And domestics? Still no job. No money. Not very much to go on. But...you know the drill. Keep going. There is no other option.
Friday, 15 July 2011
It's not your time
Once again, I'm concious of falling behind. It's been tough finding the time and the inspiration to write, and as my excellent friend, Mr. William Fergusson once said, "If you're trying too hard it isn't working." I had a half finished post...but it seems to have since disappeard off the face of the internet. Ponderous.
The biggest bug bear of late, just like this time last year, is trying to find a job. Now, I have a job for September. Yes, that's fine. That'll be my Choral Scholarship in Truro. But that is September. This is the middle of July. You will notice that there are at least six weeks between then and now. That's quite a while. In fact, that's a very long time when you're as deep into your overdraft as I am. I'm not in a position to disclose the numbers, but if you'd like to ask me in person I can certainly tell you that way.
Now. I'm one of the last people to say that money is the key to happiness. Far from it in fact. However, money is the key to...kind of everything else. Transport, food, drink...you know the drill. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Walking's free, but so's pain. See, this is getting pretty tenuous, because I'm pretty fucking fed up of being completely skint. Yesterday I did a CV run through Derby, just like last time, with my new and improved Curriculum Vitae, to much the same result. I don't want you to put my CV on file if you're not going to employ me! Why can't things be this simple? Either employ or not. Right? No. Sorry. Far too simple. And possibly fair?
Did I also mention that I went and signed on last week? Possibly the worst moment of my entire life. You know I've been rejected, insulted, dumped, drugged up bummed out ain't no one coming back for me, depressed, drunk, lost...ok, enough. But seriously, if you're a graduate, don't go to the job centre and sign on. Please, I implore you, this must be a last ditch option. There is no part of this...system...that inspires you to seek out decent work. In fact, it's pretty grim for staying on the dole. If I am to be met with the same patronising attitude that I was in applying for this 'benefit', I shall be throwing in the towel and hiding in a hole in the ground for the duration of the summer! Might be cheaper anyway.
I still haven't got in touch with the Organist at my local Parish. I'm not trying to, but effortlessly succeeding at putting this off. I know the guy, he's an old friend, I know the church, I know the instrument. No problem? In fact, the particularly acidic tone of the Gt. Trompette would be very helpful in this new French music J of N has st me. Not quite the Collins, but with plenty of body. In fact, speaking of J of N...
That man. That man and his politics. I don't know. I mean, I'm no 'treat-'em-mean-keep-'em-keen-Haggett' so I shall never truly understand, and I believe that his Modus Operandi is hidden even from himself, and certainly from that Contralto. Unfortunately, if I get asked a straight question I tend to give a straight answer. Whatever. He's still a good friend, even after his difficult if not impossible to consture blip at the end of term. He's putting us up at Grad weekend, and he's my co-architect of currying. I doubt there'll be another like him, especially down in the deep south. Also, curry in Truro is rather expensive. I'll be...oooo forced to flex my curry muscles and hone my skills. WHAT A SHAME.
I might yet still lose my temper. I haven't decided. I might try and stir up as much trouble as I can at Grad, I mean, it'll be my last chance for a while. Or maybe that wouldn't be cricket. Ho ho.
Anyway. Family Reunion is in the works. That'll be my tour for the summer, and a hard earned return it will be as well.
So. We'll see how this Vac goes. Just take it as it comes, eh?
The biggest bug bear of late, just like this time last year, is trying to find a job. Now, I have a job for September. Yes, that's fine. That'll be my Choral Scholarship in Truro. But that is September. This is the middle of July. You will notice that there are at least six weeks between then and now. That's quite a while. In fact, that's a very long time when you're as deep into your overdraft as I am. I'm not in a position to disclose the numbers, but if you'd like to ask me in person I can certainly tell you that way.
Now. I'm one of the last people to say that money is the key to happiness. Far from it in fact. However, money is the key to...kind of everything else. Transport, food, drink...you know the drill. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Walking's free, but so's pain. See, this is getting pretty tenuous, because I'm pretty fucking fed up of being completely skint. Yesterday I did a CV run through Derby, just like last time, with my new and improved Curriculum Vitae, to much the same result. I don't want you to put my CV on file if you're not going to employ me! Why can't things be this simple? Either employ or not. Right? No. Sorry. Far too simple. And possibly fair?
Did I also mention that I went and signed on last week? Possibly the worst moment of my entire life. You know I've been rejected, insulted, dumped, drugged up bummed out ain't no one coming back for me, depressed, drunk, lost...ok, enough. But seriously, if you're a graduate, don't go to the job centre and sign on. Please, I implore you, this must be a last ditch option. There is no part of this...system...that inspires you to seek out decent work. In fact, it's pretty grim for staying on the dole. If I am to be met with the same patronising attitude that I was in applying for this 'benefit', I shall be throwing in the towel and hiding in a hole in the ground for the duration of the summer! Might be cheaper anyway.
I still haven't got in touch with the Organist at my local Parish. I'm not trying to, but effortlessly succeeding at putting this off. I know the guy, he's an old friend, I know the church, I know the instrument. No problem? In fact, the particularly acidic tone of the Gt. Trompette would be very helpful in this new French music J of N has st me. Not quite the Collins, but with plenty of body. In fact, speaking of J of N...
That man. That man and his politics. I don't know. I mean, I'm no 'treat-'em-mean-keep-'em-keen-Haggett' so I shall never truly understand, and I believe that his Modus Operandi is hidden even from himself, and certainly from that Contralto. Unfortunately, if I get asked a straight question I tend to give a straight answer. Whatever. He's still a good friend, even after his difficult if not impossible to consture blip at the end of term. He's putting us up at Grad weekend, and he's my co-architect of currying. I doubt there'll be another like him, especially down in the deep south. Also, curry in Truro is rather expensive. I'll be...oooo forced to flex my curry muscles and hone my skills. WHAT A SHAME.
I might yet still lose my temper. I haven't decided. I might try and stir up as much trouble as I can at Grad, I mean, it'll be my last chance for a while. Or maybe that wouldn't be cricket. Ho ho.
Anyway. Family Reunion is in the works. That'll be my tour for the summer, and a hard earned return it will be as well.
So. We'll see how this Vac goes. Just take it as it comes, eh?
Friday, 13 May 2011
Decisions, Decisions
You may notice that after March and April's fiesta of writing, things have calmed down a little round here. A lot's been going off, actually! Unlike the end of March, when I was stuck in writing my dissertation, the natural reflex was just to keep writing, funnily enough. I'm so much better at dealing with things in this written fashion, as you will well know by now. But this is a tough time. You know. I've two weeks before my final recital, and I haven't sorted my program out at all. TCHAM! Ok. Shit. No, it'll be fine. I mean, since when have I done it any other way? See? It'll be just like the good old days.
However. In the last few days I have made my mind up. About a lot of things, actually. The biggest of these is that I won't be staying in Norwich next year. OUCH. I know. I need a rest from higher education, but I need to stay away from home, basically. If I go back to Derby, what will I do? They won't have me at the Cathedral, and there sure isn't anything more singing in Derby, especially for money. I can't go home for any great length of time. There's no time these days to plan in relative relaxation for the next step, and to be fair, I should have come to this conclusion before the end of last year. But we all know how that year went.
I am casting the net, and looking at the Chuch Times. Oh yes. Time to find a place on the stall and trade my Songman status for a Choral Scholarship. If I want to continue my musical studies in any serious way, I'll need experience. And to me, there is no greater experience for a singer except for singing every day, which pretty much leaves one place only.
I've been very unfortunate at UEA, mostly having the wrong sort of face, or certainly the wrong sort of voice. My characteristic pungency and projection are definitely unwelcome.
With settling on an exit from Norwich, we have to consider the next most pressing matter. What about a girl? Well. What about a girl. It's funny really. I've made so many consecutive bad decisions that I don't know whether it's worth bothering any more. However. Last night, I basically ran into what I consider to be an unofficial Fan Club, made up of a small cadre of girls who live just across the courtyard! I promise to always look to your window when I pass. Hilarious! I still feel too flattered to do much about it, but you know. There's a glimmer of potential. I might just heave myself from my self loathing and do something about it. There's no time like the present, but I'm genuinely worried! You understand all the usual things. Mine is to do and die, regardless of how much of a scaredy I am.
But...I no longer Dream of Spires, nor any other vapid specimen. I've spent a long time wasting my time on people who will not and never will return my affection. I've been very very angry over the past few days about that specifically. People who turn out to be, at the punch, completely useless and not interested, but don't have the wherewithal to say so for definite. Because I so do love wasting my time. I reached this new level of ground a little while ago, but was looking back somewhat. Now, I won't turn around. Not even like Orpheus, out of curiosity. Ho ho!
On a day to day basis though, I'm doing a little more. I'm piling on the pounds after the disaster that was the Easter holiday health crash, and have been eating very serious amounts of very good food. Only two days ago did I make a Pasta sauce from nothing but bacon, garlic, chilis and chopped tomatoes. Absolutely godly! It won't be long before the Captain's Curry House can add a Trattoria next door. I'm getting up earlier on a more consistent basis as well, probably due to the sunlight streaming in through the gap between my shelf and the curtain...and the incredible amounts of booze I have ingested lately. Drinking always helps me get up early, as many a sunday morning can testify...
Ok, not many. But a few. I mean, I'm only saving up my Alcohol unit allowance to one point in the week, right? That's ok? Isn't it?
No, on the whole I'm much more active. It is the sunlight, what with me being solar powered, and the fact that I've now got my bicycle back on the road always does me good.
Now. You will excuse me. I have a lot of washing up to do, and then I must sojourn to the first floor of this flat. I'm far too worried to go to anybody else's for starters, but I have a place here. And will for a long time.
However. In the last few days I have made my mind up. About a lot of things, actually. The biggest of these is that I won't be staying in Norwich next year. OUCH. I know. I need a rest from higher education, but I need to stay away from home, basically. If I go back to Derby, what will I do? They won't have me at the Cathedral, and there sure isn't anything more singing in Derby, especially for money. I can't go home for any great length of time. There's no time these days to plan in relative relaxation for the next step, and to be fair, I should have come to this conclusion before the end of last year. But we all know how that year went.
I am casting the net, and looking at the Chuch Times. Oh yes. Time to find a place on the stall and trade my Songman status for a Choral Scholarship. If I want to continue my musical studies in any serious way, I'll need experience. And to me, there is no greater experience for a singer except for singing every day, which pretty much leaves one place only.
I've been very unfortunate at UEA, mostly having the wrong sort of face, or certainly the wrong sort of voice. My characteristic pungency and projection are definitely unwelcome.
With settling on an exit from Norwich, we have to consider the next most pressing matter. What about a girl? Well. What about a girl. It's funny really. I've made so many consecutive bad decisions that I don't know whether it's worth bothering any more. However. Last night, I basically ran into what I consider to be an unofficial Fan Club, made up of a small cadre of girls who live just across the courtyard! I promise to always look to your window when I pass. Hilarious! I still feel too flattered to do much about it, but you know. There's a glimmer of potential. I might just heave myself from my self loathing and do something about it. There's no time like the present, but I'm genuinely worried! You understand all the usual things. Mine is to do and die, regardless of how much of a scaredy I am.
But...I no longer Dream of Spires, nor any other vapid specimen. I've spent a long time wasting my time on people who will not and never will return my affection. I've been very very angry over the past few days about that specifically. People who turn out to be, at the punch, completely useless and not interested, but don't have the wherewithal to say so for definite. Because I so do love wasting my time. I reached this new level of ground a little while ago, but was looking back somewhat. Now, I won't turn around. Not even like Orpheus, out of curiosity. Ho ho!
On a day to day basis though, I'm doing a little more. I'm piling on the pounds after the disaster that was the Easter holiday health crash, and have been eating very serious amounts of very good food. Only two days ago did I make a Pasta sauce from nothing but bacon, garlic, chilis and chopped tomatoes. Absolutely godly! It won't be long before the Captain's Curry House can add a Trattoria next door. I'm getting up earlier on a more consistent basis as well, probably due to the sunlight streaming in through the gap between my shelf and the curtain...and the incredible amounts of booze I have ingested lately. Drinking always helps me get up early, as many a sunday morning can testify...
Ok, not many. But a few. I mean, I'm only saving up my Alcohol unit allowance to one point in the week, right? That's ok? Isn't it?
No, on the whole I'm much more active. It is the sunlight, what with me being solar powered, and the fact that I've now got my bicycle back on the road always does me good.
Now. You will excuse me. I have a lot of washing up to do, and then I must sojourn to the first floor of this flat. I'm far too worried to go to anybody else's for starters, but I have a place here. And will for a long time.
Friday, 29 April 2011
Long and Winding
You know, perhaps I should apologise for dealing out details of my utter health breakdown. I lost a hell of a lot of weight as well, which, when you're me, but still, nobody really wants to know about vomiting and diarrheoa strictly but God damn it I did so there we go. Well, I mean, I suppose I could get rid of them now, but you know I spent a long time writing and editing and posting so I think they can stay. I was very ill after all.
The Wendesday, just a mere two days ago, I went to the Hospital for a Chest x-ray, after having been woken on Tuesday by creasing chest pain. Of course my immediate reaction was that I was about to die of a heart attack...unlucky though guys, you can't quite get rid of me. I went to see the Doctor and he happily (and I do mean very happily informed me) that it could be potential lung collapse (WHAT THE FUCK) with a huge grin on his face. Suffice to say whatever the cause was, it has seemingly resolved itself, and I haven't felt any pain since. Looks like if you need a lung reinflating then I'm your man.
Anyway, I'm getting much better. I'm able to eat, drink, shit and breathe without causing myself any undue pain or discomfort. Super duper! Keeping my public updated. I've been too ill to cast a shadow lately. I've been too ill to see my best friends, my keepers. I've been too ill to leave the house! I miss my friends in Norwich though. Very much so now I'm well enough to as well. I've made some real solid links and genuine friendships this year, and I am pleased and thankful for this.
This is not a roll call. There will be no valediction. I must hurry back though; a week to wait. Then I get to bring my battered old suitcase to that Hotel someplace that is Nelson Court.
As we all know, earlier today, the marriage of Prince Willam and Kate Middleton took place. There's been enough internet commentary already, there'll be a ridiculous amount of post-nuptual editorials...I don't care. I really do not care. I got up to watch the service, and found it a distinctly enjoyable. As wedding services went, it was altogether flawless. Fitting, for such a well-planned event, no? Also, the Bride walking down the aisle to I Was Glad? Inspired. Also, ridiculously epic. I thought it was going to be on the fabulous Harrison&Harrison dream machine they have there, but oh ho no, orchestral it is. Crisis inducing trumpets for the introduction? Oh yes. DEEP JOY.
Cwm Rhondda and Love Divine on the hymns is also deeply pleasing to me. Absolutely beautiful. Anthem...by John Rutter. John Milford Rutter. Actually...it wasn't that bad. Palatable. This does not, oh you naysayers, that I am changing my mind. Not at all. Just that Rutter's 'This is the Day that the Lord hath Made' is actually, after the last few years worth of dross, a servicable composition. Now, I can't remember who dealt the motet, on the classic theme Ubi Caritas, but actually that was rather nice as well. A very well accomplished composition. Hopefully some smart arse will correct me as to who it was.
Now, you must excuse me. I am on the road to recovering my health, bit by bit. Keep thinking of me. I'm watching Ashes to Ashes. We've just started the third series, and its really hotting up. All getting a bit tasty really. Odds on for tears at the end of the series. Right, good, smashing.
The Wendesday, just a mere two days ago, I went to the Hospital for a Chest x-ray, after having been woken on Tuesday by creasing chest pain. Of course my immediate reaction was that I was about to die of a heart attack...unlucky though guys, you can't quite get rid of me. I went to see the Doctor and he happily (and I do mean very happily informed me) that it could be potential lung collapse (WHAT THE FUCK) with a huge grin on his face. Suffice to say whatever the cause was, it has seemingly resolved itself, and I haven't felt any pain since. Looks like if you need a lung reinflating then I'm your man.
Anyway, I'm getting much better. I'm able to eat, drink, shit and breathe without causing myself any undue pain or discomfort. Super duper! Keeping my public updated. I've been too ill to cast a shadow lately. I've been too ill to see my best friends, my keepers. I've been too ill to leave the house! I miss my friends in Norwich though. Very much so now I'm well enough to as well. I've made some real solid links and genuine friendships this year, and I am pleased and thankful for this.
This is not a roll call. There will be no valediction. I must hurry back though; a week to wait. Then I get to bring my battered old suitcase to that Hotel someplace that is Nelson Court.
As we all know, earlier today, the marriage of Prince Willam and Kate Middleton took place. There's been enough internet commentary already, there'll be a ridiculous amount of post-nuptual editorials...I don't care. I really do not care. I got up to watch the service, and found it a distinctly enjoyable. As wedding services went, it was altogether flawless. Fitting, for such a well-planned event, no? Also, the Bride walking down the aisle to I Was Glad? Inspired. Also, ridiculously epic. I thought it was going to be on the fabulous Harrison&Harrison dream machine they have there, but oh ho no, orchestral it is. Crisis inducing trumpets for the introduction? Oh yes. DEEP JOY.
Cwm Rhondda and Love Divine on the hymns is also deeply pleasing to me. Absolutely beautiful. Anthem...by John Rutter. John Milford Rutter. Actually...it wasn't that bad. Palatable. This does not, oh you naysayers, that I am changing my mind. Not at all. Just that Rutter's 'This is the Day that the Lord hath Made' is actually, after the last few years worth of dross, a servicable composition. Now, I can't remember who dealt the motet, on the classic theme Ubi Caritas, but actually that was rather nice as well. A very well accomplished composition. Hopefully some smart arse will correct me as to who it was.
Now, you must excuse me. I am on the road to recovering my health, bit by bit. Keep thinking of me. I'm watching Ashes to Ashes. We've just started the third series, and its really hotting up. All getting a bit tasty really. Odds on for tears at the end of the series. Right, good, smashing.
Thursday, 21 April 2011
Batteries not Included
So, as the more astute of you know, I've been back in Norwich for a while. At 3pm on the 22nd of April, it'll be a whole week. Yes, that's right fact fans, an entire week. The weather has been nothing short of excellent, and I have spent a lot of money on...well, the usual, really! Food, food, some more food, lots of booze, a laundry trip, books...last but not least a Transformer as well (about bloody time), the Cybertronian Optimus Prime, made famous by War For Cybertron, a videogame I still aim to own and play.
This last week, and it's logical extension to Sunday night, has all been in aid of my Choral Scholarship at the Church of the Parish of St. Peter Mancroft. I refer to this establishment through a number of terms, usually focussing on the fact that the offical contraction is "SPM", just one vowel short of the name of a canned meat product. Oh yes. It's Holy Week as you know, which is of course christened "Unholy Week", to commemorate the fact that a) I needs must be here and b) it has been an official part of #Banter2011. I have been immensely amused by the visit of one Toon; the mini-Marian tour we took, the Seaside Visit, the Norwich Crawl and the Towering Inferno that all happened while he was here. Good show!
And of course, at the beginning of the Easter Holidays, I went home for four days. I actually broke line and went home because you know what? Because I bloody well wanted to. Hah! No, seriously. The long and winding road that lead to the eventual completion and hand in of my dissertation almost (but not quite) finished me off. I had to go home or I would have buckled under the strain. The bigger man knows when he's beat, and I sure am in retreat at the moment. I wrote a total of 12021 words for my dissertation, 1857 words for my project, and then notised the bullshit numerology game I managed to play, as 12021 is what you get when you multiply four thousand and seven by three, and if you add the separate digits of my project total together you get 21, which also happens to be my age. BONG. I am crazy.
Without those who believed in me and backed me up every step, I wouldn't have been able to do it. But also, if not for those who do not believe, care or indeed, actively look for me to have failed, I wouldn't have been able to do it either. One of the most dangerous things you can say to me is "I bet you won't..." or associated similes. I have some sort of psychological need to prove people wrong. I almost lost that last year and gave up on everything. And I mean, everything. How I feel about it, and the way I tell it is unsavoury to say the least. I am managing to recharge, however, and claw little bits of myself back.
Now, of course, the weather is on the up again. One of the funniest things about going back home was the climate difference: double figure temperatures and shorts in Norwich somehow turned into chilly evenings and closing the windows at night to keep the warmth in. Also, it rained. Not exactly copiously, but enough. Funny really, as I do love the rain. It's getting a little dry round Norfolk at the moment, so a small shower would be most welcome. Especially with the after-rain smell. Oh yes. I know this is asking for trouble, but touch wood it'll be fine! Right?
Right. Rain is only a problem if you don't want to get wet.
I'd love to segue into some sort of relationship commentary, but I think I could only do so by being vulgar. Looks like I just marked my own blog with blue pencil. I really want to buy flowers again. Like, a lot. Seriously! I don't know if I will before I go back. I mean, maybe I ought to, but then disappearing for a week and a half isn't exactly the best idea, um, right? And anyway, if I leave it til after I get back, maybe I'll have managed to talk myself out of it. Who knows? Maybe I'll even have decided. I mean, there are a couple of people I have some major crushes on, and things will stay that way if I use my time-honoured tactic of doing naff all. Maybe it's still not time though. This is positively the most laid back I've been about things For the Longest Time. Maybe I shall have the patience to wait for my very own Uptown Girl. Dinner? A film? Whatever. There's time. Flowers though. Oh yes.
So what's left? Well, the sun's finally come out, and the air temperature is finally approaching sociable. I've sat outside and soaked up the rays, sometimes with and several times without alcohol, to great effect. I've said for a long time that I'm solar powered. IF ONLY WE COULD HARNESS THIS ENERGY. I've managed to catch the sun on my face and arms, but my legs remain as white as ever. Ho ho! I'm wearing my 'long' shorts at the moment. While they are shorts, they keep the majority of my arctic-hued legs away from public gaze. Sandals are in full operation, and I managed to get away with wearing them at Eucharist earlier. Hey! I turn out in a suit for every service, so I think I deserve a little consession every now and again. When the summer comes properly though, I will turn out in my whites, just like last year. I much prefer white to beige linen, even though a jacket will actually cost me the Earth. Literally.
And then, after all is sung and done, I'm going home again for a week and a half, to get the real R&R sorted. I'm really tired, and I don't mean physically. Metaphysically. Emotionally. Technically. Musically. I am drained. I need to take time off, and step out of the game. Just for a little while. If I really remove myself from this dread arena, I will lose the pulse entirely. Hopefully I'll be able to reboot my brain while I'm at home. The week's almost over, and it's almost time to go home, and have an actual rest. Oh yes. Deep joy.
This last week, and it's logical extension to Sunday night, has all been in aid of my Choral Scholarship at the Church of the Parish of St. Peter Mancroft. I refer to this establishment through a number of terms, usually focussing on the fact that the offical contraction is "SPM", just one vowel short of the name of a canned meat product. Oh yes. It's Holy Week as you know, which is of course christened "Unholy Week", to commemorate the fact that a) I needs must be here and b) it has been an official part of #Banter2011. I have been immensely amused by the visit of one Toon; the mini-Marian tour we took, the Seaside Visit, the Norwich Crawl and the Towering Inferno that all happened while he was here. Good show!
And of course, at the beginning of the Easter Holidays, I went home for four days. I actually broke line and went home because you know what? Because I bloody well wanted to. Hah! No, seriously. The long and winding road that lead to the eventual completion and hand in of my dissertation almost (but not quite) finished me off. I had to go home or I would have buckled under the strain. The bigger man knows when he's beat, and I sure am in retreat at the moment. I wrote a total of 12021 words for my dissertation, 1857 words for my project, and then notised the bullshit numerology game I managed to play, as 12021 is what you get when you multiply four thousand and seven by three, and if you add the separate digits of my project total together you get 21, which also happens to be my age. BONG. I am crazy.
Without those who believed in me and backed me up every step, I wouldn't have been able to do it. But also, if not for those who do not believe, care or indeed, actively look for me to have failed, I wouldn't have been able to do it either. One of the most dangerous things you can say to me is "I bet you won't..." or associated similes. I have some sort of psychological need to prove people wrong. I almost lost that last year and gave up on everything. And I mean, everything. How I feel about it, and the way I tell it is unsavoury to say the least. I am managing to recharge, however, and claw little bits of myself back.
Now, of course, the weather is on the up again. One of the funniest things about going back home was the climate difference: double figure temperatures and shorts in Norwich somehow turned into chilly evenings and closing the windows at night to keep the warmth in. Also, it rained. Not exactly copiously, but enough. Funny really, as I do love the rain. It's getting a little dry round Norfolk at the moment, so a small shower would be most welcome. Especially with the after-rain smell. Oh yes. I know this is asking for trouble, but touch wood it'll be fine! Right?
Right. Rain is only a problem if you don't want to get wet.
I'd love to segue into some sort of relationship commentary, but I think I could only do so by being vulgar. Looks like I just marked my own blog with blue pencil. I really want to buy flowers again. Like, a lot. Seriously! I don't know if I will before I go back. I mean, maybe I ought to, but then disappearing for a week and a half isn't exactly the best idea, um, right? And anyway, if I leave it til after I get back, maybe I'll have managed to talk myself out of it. Who knows? Maybe I'll even have decided. I mean, there are a couple of people I have some major crushes on, and things will stay that way if I use my time-honoured tactic of doing naff all. Maybe it's still not time though. This is positively the most laid back I've been about things For the Longest Time. Maybe I shall have the patience to wait for my very own Uptown Girl. Dinner? A film? Whatever. There's time. Flowers though. Oh yes.
So what's left? Well, the sun's finally come out, and the air temperature is finally approaching sociable. I've sat outside and soaked up the rays, sometimes with and several times without alcohol, to great effect. I've said for a long time that I'm solar powered. IF ONLY WE COULD HARNESS THIS ENERGY. I've managed to catch the sun on my face and arms, but my legs remain as white as ever. Ho ho! I'm wearing my 'long' shorts at the moment. While they are shorts, they keep the majority of my arctic-hued legs away from public gaze. Sandals are in full operation, and I managed to get away with wearing them at Eucharist earlier. Hey! I turn out in a suit for every service, so I think I deserve a little consession every now and again. When the summer comes properly though, I will turn out in my whites, just like last year. I much prefer white to beige linen, even though a jacket will actually cost me the Earth. Literally.
And then, after all is sung and done, I'm going home again for a week and a half, to get the real R&R sorted. I'm really tired, and I don't mean physically. Metaphysically. Emotionally. Technically. Musically. I am drained. I need to take time off, and step out of the game. Just for a little while. If I really remove myself from this dread arena, I will lose the pulse entirely. Hopefully I'll be able to reboot my brain while I'm at home. The week's almost over, and it's almost time to go home, and have an actual rest. Oh yes. Deep joy.
Friday, 11 March 2011
...Bring me a Dream...
Funny things, dreams. And I don't mean funny like the preceding post where I talk about having technicolour dreams with force feedback. I mean hopes and dreams, fears and ambitions. I'm really quite the dreamer. I regularly dream when I sleep, and I have a lot of hopes. Many of these come to nothing; the longstanding dream of being able to ask a girl out on a date still escapes me.
One day, a long time ago, it was my foremost hope to move out from house and home and go to university, and get a degree. Now, I'm in the final and most fatal furlong of that journey. One slip now...and I'm done for! Best not slip then, eh? When I was 16, I told myself that I could teach myself to play the Organ. Well, I'm having lessons now on a deeply important and excellent instrument, which truly tests me to the very limits of my admittedly poor technique. A year younger than that, I wanted to play the Upright Bass in my school Swing Band. That came and, because I left school, went, but I still play, and I want to get back to a band. Also, I want to play my Tenor Banjo in a Dixie Band. I'm a rythym section kinda guy. I love it.
But why did I really work up the effort to come to University? It would have been a whole lot easier to have just...not bothered! It's kind of the same thinking behind Lent this year though; I was going to give something up but then I realised I'm not a quitter. ZING.
Unlike what you may think, I didn't come here to get depressed, feel alone or even write a dissertation about Organs, even though I'm doing all of those right now. I came here to sing.
When I was about...I dunno, maybe 9 years old, I decided that I was going to be an Alto. I was a probationer chorister of Derby Cathedral Choir, and I thought that being an Alto was the Bee's knees, not to mention that incredible solo that came around every year, Orlando Gibbons' This is the Record of John. SWEET. I had my heart set on that bad boy. So, when I reach that age in a boy's life (behave, no sniggering at the back) when one's voice changes, I had the summer holiday off and then got straight on to the back row! Pow! Guess what?! BAD IDEA.
I wouldn't say the damage was irrepreble. In fact, nobody has said that. Sometimes it feels that way, but it isn't. I just have a voice which works in a very peculiar way, still quite strong in the upper half of the compass, levelling off the lower it gets and then a huge gear change into chest voice. We have a reputation, my voice and I.
So.
What's the problem? Well, truth be told, I find it hard to find anybody who really wants me to sing around these parts. Harsh. Maybe it's all in my head. Or maybe that's what some people would like me to think!
I was involved in a Madrigal group in my first year. We didn't do terribly much, but we did at least one recital so that was good. Yeah, Madrigals! I wanted to sing early music when I got to University. I was told that Countertenors were wanted and were the in thing and I'd be well in.
When I arrived, I had a head full of idealism and knowledge of Early Music. I can still tune up a Viol Consort almost off the top of my head, and used to be able to rattle composer's names and dates off like a crazy man. Can you see where this is going?
Anyway, Second Year dawns (ugh) and there forms an ensemble, dedicated to Early Music...Invitation Only, bro. You know, like the top of the pops Early Music, the big favourites, including big Tom T's Lamentations. Oh well. Funnily enough, that's not the only ensemble formed with no small interest in Early Music. Once again, Invitation only and once again lost in the post. Funny, I can't really start being an arse about these things because a) It was their choice b) It's been and gone but 3) I'm always going to be annoyed about it. Thankfully I was still in situe in the Chamber Choir, much like I am now, much like first year.
Mistake number one has to be voluntarily choosing to get Spammed. The strange bi-polarity of being invited to have a scholarship and attracting the look of death and several pointed comments every rehearsal about "someone's pushing the balance" meant that quite basically I went home in tears every other week. Ok, that's not nearly descriptive enough. I believed that singing was all I was good at, but thankfully I was still good at it. Turns out I almost got convinced otherwise, and almost gave up entirely. If I can't sing, then what else am I good for? Stage Management? (Too soon?) Things aren't quite as bad this year, as my improved living and study arrangement has allowed me to regain some thickness. And you grumblers over there, if I can't write what I like in my tell-all blog, then where can I write it?
I basically gave up on early music. Seriously. I am reliably and repeatedly informed that we of the old Countertenoring type are too loud, out of tune, unable to blend effectively blah blah blah...The only thing I may be fit for is solo work, a little questionable since I only have ensemble experience these days, no connections and...seriously, how often do you think I get asked to sing solo? (Oh Woe is me? Get real. This is my true perception). That and in all honesty, I don't often listen to early music for the pleasure of doing so. It has to have the driving motor of North German Stylus Phantasticus, or the Organic counterpoint of Weelkes and the avant-garde members of the English Madrigal School, or John Bennett's lusty fugal style...you get the picture. I often find Renaissance polyphony boring, because I'm not involved in it.
So. I didn't bother about early music for a long while, mainly during the summer. I did very little singing, perhaps the rest let my voice relax a little as well. It's certainly much smoother and I have more dynamic control than ever. A freshman, in his infinite idealism, posted on the facebook forum for the new intake this year that he wanted to start a Barbershop Quartet. The rest is history! Or, It'll have to wait til next time.
One day, a long time ago, it was my foremost hope to move out from house and home and go to university, and get a degree. Now, I'm in the final and most fatal furlong of that journey. One slip now...and I'm done for! Best not slip then, eh? When I was 16, I told myself that I could teach myself to play the Organ. Well, I'm having lessons now on a deeply important and excellent instrument, which truly tests me to the very limits of my admittedly poor technique. A year younger than that, I wanted to play the Upright Bass in my school Swing Band. That came and, because I left school, went, but I still play, and I want to get back to a band. Also, I want to play my Tenor Banjo in a Dixie Band. I'm a rythym section kinda guy. I love it.
But why did I really work up the effort to come to University? It would have been a whole lot easier to have just...not bothered! It's kind of the same thinking behind Lent this year though; I was going to give something up but then I realised I'm not a quitter. ZING.
Unlike what you may think, I didn't come here to get depressed, feel alone or even write a dissertation about Organs, even though I'm doing all of those right now. I came here to sing.
When I was about...I dunno, maybe 9 years old, I decided that I was going to be an Alto. I was a probationer chorister of Derby Cathedral Choir, and I thought that being an Alto was the Bee's knees, not to mention that incredible solo that came around every year, Orlando Gibbons' This is the Record of John. SWEET. I had my heart set on that bad boy. So, when I reach that age in a boy's life (behave, no sniggering at the back) when one's voice changes, I had the summer holiday off and then got straight on to the back row! Pow! Guess what?! BAD IDEA.
I wouldn't say the damage was irrepreble. In fact, nobody has said that. Sometimes it feels that way, but it isn't. I just have a voice which works in a very peculiar way, still quite strong in the upper half of the compass, levelling off the lower it gets and then a huge gear change into chest voice. We have a reputation, my voice and I.
So.
What's the problem? Well, truth be told, I find it hard to find anybody who really wants me to sing around these parts. Harsh. Maybe it's all in my head. Or maybe that's what some people would like me to think!
I was involved in a Madrigal group in my first year. We didn't do terribly much, but we did at least one recital so that was good. Yeah, Madrigals! I wanted to sing early music when I got to University. I was told that Countertenors were wanted and were the in thing and I'd be well in.
When I arrived, I had a head full of idealism and knowledge of Early Music. I can still tune up a Viol Consort almost off the top of my head, and used to be able to rattle composer's names and dates off like a crazy man. Can you see where this is going?
Anyway, Second Year dawns (ugh) and there forms an ensemble, dedicated to Early Music...Invitation Only, bro. You know, like the top of the pops Early Music, the big favourites, including big Tom T's Lamentations. Oh well. Funnily enough, that's not the only ensemble formed with no small interest in Early Music. Once again, Invitation only and once again lost in the post. Funny, I can't really start being an arse about these things because a) It was their choice b) It's been and gone but 3) I'm always going to be annoyed about it. Thankfully I was still in situe in the Chamber Choir, much like I am now, much like first year.
Mistake number one has to be voluntarily choosing to get Spammed. The strange bi-polarity of being invited to have a scholarship and attracting the look of death and several pointed comments every rehearsal about "someone's pushing the balance" meant that quite basically I went home in tears every other week. Ok, that's not nearly descriptive enough. I believed that singing was all I was good at, but thankfully I was still good at it. Turns out I almost got convinced otherwise, and almost gave up entirely. If I can't sing, then what else am I good for? Stage Management? (Too soon?) Things aren't quite as bad this year, as my improved living and study arrangement has allowed me to regain some thickness. And you grumblers over there, if I can't write what I like in my tell-all blog, then where can I write it?
I basically gave up on early music. Seriously. I am reliably and repeatedly informed that we of the old Countertenoring type are too loud, out of tune, unable to blend effectively blah blah blah...The only thing I may be fit for is solo work, a little questionable since I only have ensemble experience these days, no connections and...seriously, how often do you think I get asked to sing solo? (Oh Woe is me? Get real. This is my true perception). That and in all honesty, I don't often listen to early music for the pleasure of doing so. It has to have the driving motor of North German Stylus Phantasticus, or the Organic counterpoint of Weelkes and the avant-garde members of the English Madrigal School, or John Bennett's lusty fugal style...you get the picture. I often find Renaissance polyphony boring, because I'm not involved in it.
So. I didn't bother about early music for a long while, mainly during the summer. I did very little singing, perhaps the rest let my voice relax a little as well. It's certainly much smoother and I have more dynamic control than ever. A freshman, in his infinite idealism, posted on the facebook forum for the new intake this year that he wanted to start a Barbershop Quartet. The rest is history! Or, It'll have to wait til next time.
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Turn the Wheels
I warn you now, I feel distinctly unwell. I've got four nights of Caberet ahead of me (more on that story later), and seem to be suffering from an indecent cold. FEH.
So, what's new? Well, not much actually. I still haven't started my dissertation, my room's still a tip, and I'm still going. Business as usual then! I'm still suiting up for more than half of the week and still refer to my learned lecturer, Dr. Alan Howard as "Sir". The rings have returned, but I really need a new one for my right hand. Not only am I getting a lot of feminine cracks about it, but also the fact that it came from a certain person for a certain reason (which also means I can't or won't wear it on my left hand) makes me a little loath to wear it. I'm very happy with having a ring on the right hand, and the white gold makes a nice contrast (in typical two-tone style) to my left hand's yello gold rings, but...well, you know. I'm looking for a sterling silver number to take its place.
This all seems to be part of a willing regression before the ultimate progression, my graduation. As I explain to people who question the appearance of my bling, I routinely and truthfully answer that I used to wear them all the time, not to mention wearing a suit every day, and also referring to my educators by honourifics. Dr. Waters I call The Boss, J of N I call Chief, and Dr. Howard and Mr. John Stephens are Sirs. I've gone back to playing the Banjo for several hours a week, and with Caberet have been playing Bass a lot more. (More on those stories later.) It is almost as if I am returning, in a way, to te good old days of one's Grammar School. The safety and security of these old habits is keeping me bouyed in a tumultuous sea of progress that is both inevitable and inescapable. It's a living, huh?
But anyway. Back in those Halcyon times, I was in a steady relationship. I can almost feel you rolling your eyes as you read this, but I have had much cause to remember this, not only because I'm surrounded by first years who are or are not in long distance relationships that are or are not working, but also because of the artefact on my right hand. Long time (or should I say new as well) readers and those who know me to any personal extent are familiar with my constant wailing about the lack of one now. Anyway, something funny happened to my thought process the other day. It's most heartening.
So, usual set up. Beautiful girl, admired and loved from afar by the Captain without him realising. After some though Captain becomes aware and therefore becomes too terrified to do anything about it.
Nothing new yet, eh? Read on.
Captain begins to become aware of a nagging feeling behind the forehead. No, it isn't brain death, that happened long ago. He feels foolish and ashamed about his fears! Even he himself is tired of his ridiculous lack of courage, when he has enough chutzpah to leave the flat every day. What? Even I'm tired of not doing anything.
So what will actually happen? Good question. One of my problems is that there are rather a lot of attractive ladies I would wish to take out; basically there's too much choice. OR I fancy neither one more than the others. The latter is probably more like it. It's not that I'm commitnent-phobic (far from it, in fact, I'm actually phobic of clowns (But not Papa Lazaru)), but perhaps I am in not commiting to the one. Or maybe, just maybe, this is what "playing the field" is all about. I rather feel that I'm the one getting played though, if the field itself is some sort of metaphysical player.
For once, maybe I will. I'm totally doing this at the wrong time what with my dissertation and all...but it'll be good. What's the worst that could happen?
So, what's new? Well, not much actually. I still haven't started my dissertation, my room's still a tip, and I'm still going. Business as usual then! I'm still suiting up for more than half of the week and still refer to my learned lecturer, Dr. Alan Howard as "Sir". The rings have returned, but I really need a new one for my right hand. Not only am I getting a lot of feminine cracks about it, but also the fact that it came from a certain person for a certain reason (which also means I can't or won't wear it on my left hand) makes me a little loath to wear it. I'm very happy with having a ring on the right hand, and the white gold makes a nice contrast (in typical two-tone style) to my left hand's yello gold rings, but...well, you know. I'm looking for a sterling silver number to take its place.
This all seems to be part of a willing regression before the ultimate progression, my graduation. As I explain to people who question the appearance of my bling, I routinely and truthfully answer that I used to wear them all the time, not to mention wearing a suit every day, and also referring to my educators by honourifics. Dr. Waters I call The Boss, J of N I call Chief, and Dr. Howard and Mr. John Stephens are Sirs. I've gone back to playing the Banjo for several hours a week, and with Caberet have been playing Bass a lot more. (More on those stories later.) It is almost as if I am returning, in a way, to te good old days of one's Grammar School. The safety and security of these old habits is keeping me bouyed in a tumultuous sea of progress that is both inevitable and inescapable. It's a living, huh?
But anyway. Back in those Halcyon times, I was in a steady relationship. I can almost feel you rolling your eyes as you read this, but I have had much cause to remember this, not only because I'm surrounded by first years who are or are not in long distance relationships that are or are not working, but also because of the artefact on my right hand. Long time (or should I say new as well) readers and those who know me to any personal extent are familiar with my constant wailing about the lack of one now. Anyway, something funny happened to my thought process the other day. It's most heartening.
So, usual set up. Beautiful girl, admired and loved from afar by the Captain without him realising. After some though Captain becomes aware and therefore becomes too terrified to do anything about it.
Nothing new yet, eh? Read on.
Captain begins to become aware of a nagging feeling behind the forehead. No, it isn't brain death, that happened long ago. He feels foolish and ashamed about his fears! Even he himself is tired of his ridiculous lack of courage, when he has enough chutzpah to leave the flat every day. What? Even I'm tired of not doing anything.
So what will actually happen? Good question. One of my problems is that there are rather a lot of attractive ladies I would wish to take out; basically there's too much choice. OR I fancy neither one more than the others. The latter is probably more like it. It's not that I'm commitnent-phobic (far from it, in fact, I'm actually phobic of clowns (But not Papa Lazaru)), but perhaps I am in not commiting to the one. Or maybe, just maybe, this is what "playing the field" is all about. I rather feel that I'm the one getting played though, if the field itself is some sort of metaphysical player.
For once, maybe I will. I'm totally doing this at the wrong time what with my dissertation and all...but it'll be good. What's the worst that could happen?
Sunday, 26 December 2010
Season's Greetings
So! Here it is! MERRY CHRISTMAS!
What can I say? Christmas is the only time of year that I am legally obliged to be happy. Seriously. You might have noticed that I'm not terribly happy over the course of the year...I suppose this year especially has been somewhat unique...(ha ha fucking ha), but overall, pretty much of the same. So at Christmastide, I am usually a little more cheerful.
2010 has not been a good year. Not in the slightest. If there was a year that I would choose to obliterate from reality, it would be this one, funnily enough. Never have I been more depressed or sorry to see the outside world. The first eight months anyway.
From the back end of September onwards, my time has improved. I've had a great first term at Uni, my living arrangements have been wonderful, my marks have been pretty good and I'm having a great Christmas holiday. On the other hand, I haven't been able to get a date and my regular choir appointment has been less than happy. Look at that! I'm more bothered about the things that have gone wrong than the things that have gone right! Typical.
I tell you what though, I was very sincerely and genuinely happy on Christmas Day itself. I got a small haul of great presents, and spent all day with my mother, and the only brother related to me by blood, Nathan. Sadly, Nathan is in the throes of 'Oh I got dumped so I'm going to be a miserable shit and I've got a bit of a sniffle so I've got the flu' at the moment, so that isn't the greatest Christmas message ever. He's got a bit of a cold, so we're looking after him as much as he actually needs, not to what he wants.
In fact, that last clause brings me on to my Christmas message, as it were. The Lord sends us what we need, not what we want. It's one of my core beliefs in the Lord, that he looks after us as is necessary, not as we desire. *cough* Anyway, the hell I'm getting religious. Let's speed on to the next part of my Chrimbo message.
I've sent my Christmas with my family. I saw Alter Pappy on Christmas Eve, we picked Nathan up on the same night, Christmas with Nathan and Momme, and I went to HQ with Hannah tonight. Over the next twelve days, I will spend as much time as I can with my extended family, the Captain's nearest and dearest. Soon, I'll be back in Norwich, that "fine city", with the pleasures of St. Peter Mancroft Choral Scholarship to keep me. I'm going to see Alter Pappy before I go back as well, and I've promised Uncle Philip that I'll see him before I go back. I am a busy man!
So what is my Christmas message? Good question. I advocate having a good time, remembering your family, and...well, I guess that's it. That's all I had. That's all you need. Christmas is the only time of year I'm legally obliged to be happy, so I bloody will be! Soon, I'll go back to flat 15/16, and begin the new term, but until then...best wishes of this most festive season, from me, to you. Have a great Christmas.
Sunday, 19 December 2010
May you be sealed and inscribed...
You know, I'm conscious of writing a lot of tawdry bullshit over the past year. I mean, seriously I am Mr. Boohoo. Life isn't exactly easy for someone with my somewhat unique combination of talents and disabilities, I sincerely doubt there is anyone quite like me in all the world. Ok, how glib was that? No, I seriously think it. I'm surrounded by indentikit stereotypes, from the 'naive idealist' to 'ignorant bourgeoisie', (Can you guess who? Answers on the back of a postage stamp to the usual address...) with all shades between as well, and who knows, maybe even I represent some sort of hackneyed cliche...the copper bottom bastard?
I've spent far too long being all weepy weepy and depressed, really it's time I reacquainted with the side of me that is nothing but a nasty piece of work. It's always worked in the past! Right? I wonder why I gave in? SILLY BOY. Anyway. I have spent a year trying to survive, and succeeding (but not very well), and a term trying to do well in my work and get a date...column A can receive a healthy tick. Column B can fuck right off. Even at this late stage there are considerations, but you know I can't tell anyway SO THROW IT ALL IN. I've now left Norwich for Derby, and certainly not a moment too soon. In fact, far later than I should have truly desired. As much as Norwich is a fine city, and Derby is the arse hole of the Midlands, I am still far happier away from these Norfolk environs. I have certainly met some wonderful people this term, coincedentally connected to the fact I'm in Halls again (NC15 and NC16, I love you), and HEAVENS ABOVE as many as TWO of the music freshers have worked out how to treat me like an actual human being. I will not desert them, as long as they do not reject me in my old age.
So. Enough about my inability to get laid. Let's complain about something else. I wonder what that could be? Well. Here's a clue. I didn't put 'poor end of the stall' at the head of my page for nothing you know...
The moment your Director looks you in the eye and calls you a lier is not a Hallmark Moment (tm). It is not a moment I wish to repeat, nor a moment I wish on anyone else. Especially when you're not lying. It was some petty squabble about my voice "ringing out" (that's verbatim, folks) after everyone else at the end of a phrase. As ever, a man of my specific abilities will never sit terribly well with such a small set-up of five girls and two tenors; indeed, perhaps I am no longer suited to life at Spamcroft. It's a big step, but perhaps I am at fault. Working on my powers of projection, breath control and forthright pronunciation in such a specific way may very well mean that I am to exit, stage left.
I'm not going to get involved in some sort of tit for tat arguement of whether I'm better than anyone, or that they're better than me, but things have become difficult again. Some people on the line feel similarly about how life at the Church of the Parish of St. Peter Mancroft continues, but none are so foolish to be so vocal, bad-mannered and ill-tempered as I am. Old dogs &c as far as I'm concerned, but there's still hope for the others. I never quite could keep my head down and my mouth shut...
But anyway. Home sweet home. The Tour continues. Now into our festive flavoured ADESTE FIDELES leg, I've been to the pub twice in a row, arranged an intense curry feast, and tomorrow will go and see the new motion picture sensation, TRON LEGACY. The only reason I'm going is for the Daft Punk soundtrack, being an Electrowhore, but upon further investigation, I think that watching Olivia Wilde in an electro-jumpsuit wouldn't go amiss in the slightest, no sir. Christmas is coming, and the Goose is getting fat! I look forward to a raucous and inebriated celebration of the birth of a Nazarene Carpenter and Lord alone knows what's happening on New Year's, but we all know I'll go without any miseltoe joy, and then I shall presently leave for Norwich, at which point IT'S SPAMMING TIME. Oy vey. I've been told that the recent lunar eclipse on the winter solstice was a sign of great change for everyone. I can only hope so. Time to draw the Death card in the Tarot. I'm 21 soon. And I'm nearing the end of my Undergraduate study. Isn't that frightening?
Speaking of frightening, I love that old adage, that goes "Do something that frightens you every day." Well, I leave the house...
Sunday, 5 September 2010
STREETLIGHT MANIFESTO
That's right. It actually happened in this lifetime. I went to see Streetlight Manifesto LIVE and certainly very kicking in the back room of The Old Bell Hotel, in DERBADOS! OH MY GOD.
Ok, so, calling in for a cheeky one at the Sleaper* for a quick Pedi**, I went with Il Dottore himself to The Old Bell, now a well known 'rocker' establishment and Gig venue. Doors at 8:30, £15 advance tickets. Ouch? Maybe a little but certainly worth it. I should think that at £15 it was a snip! Once in the back room, we observed many things:
1) Tattoos are awesome
2) Drinks are expensive
3) They really are a white man's band
Ten minutes later the first supporting act came on, the James Warner Prophecies. having never heard of them before, I was naturally a little skeptical, but that was swiftly blown away in waves of awesomeness, Derby banter, Drop D tuning and basically great tunes. The set was tight and to be perfectly honest could have gone on for a few songs more, but surely this is the sign of a perfect support act? They were headlining on the 3rd, but I couldn't get to it! Gutted. But I did buy their latest EP at the show, and engaged in lively conversation with their front man (handshake secured!) about all sorts of music and whatnot! They are pretty much awesome guys!
Next up after a short quarter of an hour were RANDOM HAND. That's right, RANDOM HAND. What a bunch of nutcases. Drums, Guitar, Bass, Vox and...Trombone? You look at it and go "Eh?" and then remember that they're a Ska Punk/Punk/Hardcore Band, and then go "eh?" again and then what the even hell just go see them, they're INSANE. They got a Wall of Death*** started with only 100 people. It was crazy. Standout banter moment was when their lead Vox/Trmb. suddenly noticed that the taping on the mic wire just happened to be an accurate portrayal of the Polish flag! Who knew? I first saw them when they were supporting Reel Big Fish in 2009 at UEA. They are also pretty much awesome...if you like it like that.
It was during RH's set that my companion noticed that there was an orange on the floor. That's right. An actual orange. Those who received the text were confused to say the least, but true story bro. It was really there.
On to the main event. What we were all there for. Like all of us. Literally everyone. At this point my memory tells me only a few things: I had to sit on a wooden bar and dance from the waist up because I had hurt myself that much already; Water is good; My Brother is a folk tale. That last one makes sense, trust me. Oh my Christ they are SO much better live...I mean, most bands are, especially Ska bands. Ska is a live sport, evidenced fortuitously by Dance Craze, a film all about the 2-Tone scene that included loads of footage of the big names of the time live, and also had a companion LP, which I picked up in an Oxfam for like, a quid fifty? Genius.
There was one moment where the entire room held its breath. One tiny island of silence in the maelstrom and miniature mosh pit that had reformed after Random Hand's concussive performance. What could this be? Seconds later, this happened...
I got a gun in my hand but the gun won't cock, my finger's on the trigger but the trigger seems locked. I can't stop staring at the tick tock clock, and even if I could I would never give up.
With a vest on my chest, a bullet in my lung, I can't believe I'm dying with my song unsung; and if and when I die won't you bury me alone, 'cos I'll never get to heaven if I'm singing this song...
And at that point the entire place explodes. And I mean seriously. Everybody knows the words, everybody knows the timing, everybody knows when the horns stop and start and everybody moves as one. You ever felt that feeling, for one brief second of belonging? Check. I can't remember all the songs in the set list now, but I can remember how much pain I was in the next day. I spent an entire 36 hours laid up basically. Told you I was crippled! You know what? It was worth it. I don't care that I fell down every time I got up. I bruised my feet, pulled my calves and rendered the ligaments in my ankles completely useless for the chance to see and sing and dance to my favourite band. Worth it.
Nathan came to meet us just at the end. He just came in and looked for the whirlwind. Ask him! Anyway, he stuck around and got pint after pint of water for us and got us to the taxi rank. What happened next propels my brother into legend as far as I'm concerned. Knowing a lot of people that run pubs and clubs in Derby is no bad thing. Basically, with a few well placed questions and a holy mission, he got to meet the band. WHAT. Yep, while I was being whisked home by a bright yellow taxi (Pikachu yellow?), he met the band. And then he got their autographs for me. AAAAAAHHH!!! The menu they all scribbled on is safe and sound in a pocket, and then possibly to be framed. WOOP WOOP.
So. Conclusion? Best thing ever. Bar none. All the concerts and operas and recitals in the world that I have done and will do will never ever come close. Sorry, but that's the way it goes. Even though I will ever be a Songman, I know where my heart lies, and that's not a lie. I'm certainly getting branded (inked), but probably not pierced. The Bishop almost threw a fit when I said to him straight faced that I was getting branded, and saying it out loud the other night at HQ certainly garnered some welcome attention, so I just have to decide what I want and how it'll go. I've got a lot of blank canvas on my back, so we might as well get a lot of coverage. We'll just have to see.
So. Streetlight Manifesto. Live. In Derby. Almost too good to be true. I did miss Big D and the Kids Table though, and I sure love those guys too. Given the choice I would always go Streetlight though. OH MY GOD IT WAS LITERALLY THE BEST THING EVER!
* The Thomas Leaper, a Wetherspoons on Irongate (A6)
**Pedigree, a fine English Ale brewed by Marston's of Burton
***A circular mosh pit in which persons involved are flung around the edge by other members of the outlying crowd
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
End of the Month Syndrome
Alright. Basically the last week and a half has been...crazy. It's swung wildly from the sublime to the ridiculous without any warning, and is pretty much likely to continue in this fashion for quite a while.
In short, I have had literally two of the best days ever within almost a week, I've been given a new name, and I'm trying to divert the Apocalypse. Oh. And I'm still very worried about my little brother. And a little bit hurt.
Obviously this summer on the whole has been testing time for me, what with the depression and the unemployment and having to watch every penny and so on and so forth...and now I have to start thinking about going back to Norwich. I don't really want to go back, and I certainly don't care for going back, but untold danger will ensue if I don't go back when I 'should', as I'll miss the start of choir term (...) and get it in the neck from a certain director and quite possibly lose the will to carry on. I have bigger fish to fry though, and I doubt there could be any real threats made. Definitely no promises.
Last Monday I went to see Streetlight Manifesto live. That's right. LIVE. In Derby. More to follow. Today, I went to Skegness with Mother and my Close Company. SKEGNESS! It was Awesome. More to follow similarly. I've seen my youngest brother off to Windsor for a year to be the Organ Scholar there, and will be making firm plans to see him when I'm settled in halls...and when he's settled in his apartment! We're all so proud! He is truly the master of us all.
However. Life defining live music events and seaside trips aside, I'm coming to the end of my limited tether as far as life at this exact moment is concerned. I'm beginning to wear out as my Chutzpah begins to wane, and what with a weekend flyover to Norwich for work before my Halls contract starts and having nowhere to stay is taking its toll. I just hope I don't get a phone call before I get to make the one that might save me. And to add to this I get the horrible feeling that someone else very close found his "group of friends who..." Obviously, we're not right for him anymore. I have let him down. How though? I can't make him want to talk, but you know, I can't help but feel hurt. Just a bit,
Although. Consider well that his musical life at university is roughly opposite mine. Back at my old School, they still talk about me, and they remember me as the man who could do everything, and do it well. A confident and skilled performer, at the top of everyone's list for anything. Norwich? I feel little more than a statistic. Ouch.
Anyway. It's not so much time of the month but the end of the month. And almost the end of the Vac. It's hardly been a holiday this year sadly. I've only got one more year and as long as I get back to the grindstone but keep my head above water, I can graduate successfully and actually make positive progress! I will be making plans to permanently escape Norwich as well. I do not see myself in Norfolk in 5 years, let's put it that way.
Oh, and I had a haircut as well. So you know, it could be a lot worse, right?
Sunday, 22 August 2010
Wherein I become an Archeologist
You can pretty much take the title at face value; this week I've been rearranging/clearing/sorting my room. Admittedly I could try harder, liiiiiike instead of doing half the things I've done this past week I could have spent the entire time cleaning up &c &c, but you know me. I don't like change.
It's been quite the journey of discovery. Most of the detritus in my room as a whole is arranged in layers, or Strati, coincidentally the name of one of my favourite albums ever. In fact, the initial move to clean up was based on my losing of two vitally important and imported artifacts, the 2003 Gameboy Advance release of Fire Emblem, imported just after its American debut in early February, and the aforementioned Strati, Stemage's debut solo album of 2006. With the safe return of these two, progress has ground slowly to a bit of a halt, but upon my own mother's threats will resume with gusto in the morning.
I like to stack things. As a recovering Tetris-addict, I love stacking things. Thing is though, as I stack all my belongings, they (arguably thankfully) don't disappear when lines form. Instead they teeter menacingly so I begin a new pile and often mix piles together when they inevitably fall. Right now from my seat I can see a stack of music, shoes, lumberjack shirts and bags. Y'know, Christmas present bags. Not to mention the pile of all my old school books under the desk. Oh yes. Unless I specifically need or want to, there are no magical "Hey! Look at this book from year 8!" moments, thanks to my tight organisational scheme. I'm not getting rid of them, but I don't need them on show either. There are two stacks, at least 40 books deep each if not more. I'm still waiting for a long piece to come down.
Rearranging drawers has formed the most part of this operation so far, and a great deal of history has been uncovered in doing so! As usual, instead of actually throwing anything out, I'm just restacking the existing contents and leaving it at that. Seeing as I'm keeping everything anyway, there's no point in doing anything else, right? Right. Because I'm allowing my belongings to remain in their original states almost, I can track back to when they were originally put away, and recall exactly what was going off when, and gradually recall who and what and all sorts of things that are all connected to the particular order of this or that there pile. Fascinating.
Also fascinating but horrific in its own special way, is the amount of dust that everything attracts. I have swallowed several pints of the stuff just over the last 4 days alone, some unique type of conqueror dust that chokes and blinds and still carries the smell of a former deodourant. Mmmm. Delicious. This ever-increasing dust cloud has been one of the many events that I have used to my advantage in order to slow and ultimately postpone the process of reordering my personal pit.
There is a bag for refuse though. Some things just have to be thrown out after all this time, like broken bike lights, pens that no longer work, rubbish...you know, the usual. Although usually, I just put all these things in another place in my room so I can keep hold of them, just in case. Upon further assessment, my room is in essence a gigantic version of Michael McIntyre's Man Drawer, (SPOILER ALERT) in which the unlikely hero of the sketch is a man with a slight hoarding compulsion, who is called upon to use his wild and varied items to...er, do something that I have forgotten.
Other than digging through piles and piles of books, toys and musical instruments, I also quite successfully rearranged the inside of my wardrobe, making it much easier for the unfamiliar (or just the familiar) to navigate. My suits have been spread rather liberally around the upstairs, as there's no way they'll ever fit now. Let's dive in to some incredibly boring/earth-shatteringly interesting/beard scratching factoids:
! Alongside my seven waistcoats, six complete suits, two jackets and thirteen pairs of trousers, I own forty shirts, including dress shirts with both full and wing collars, work shirts, ten that belong to dedicated combinations, and both black and white linen shirts. Not to mention colour-coded lumberjack shirts (three) with their own dedicated combination rules.
" I still have custody of Anna Proctor's red Ukulele.
£ I made a pair of Nunchucks out of wood from IKEA, string and sellotape.
$ I own eight rulers that are 12" long, and one that is 18"
% I have a drawer dedicated to plain t-shirts
^ I have kept all of my old pairs of glasses. All 12 pairs.
& I have a bust of Luigi of Nintendo fame, which I asked Nathan to make for me in order to enter a competition, but then decided it was too nice to send off (no returns policy), so I decided to keep it.
* I really do own a copy of Super Metroid.
()All the clocks in my room show different times.
Wow. Don't scratch your beard too hard now.
So there we have it. This operation will continue, at some sort of rate, notwithstanding visitors, pub trips, and days where I can't be arsed. I own a lot of strange things, and I'm not even talking about my Transformers either. I can see a Sega Megadrive from where I'm sat, the box proudly proclaiming its 16-bit Hardware architecture.
And don't forget the Bongos...
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
There's no place like...
After a night with my back line at HQ, I made the plunge earlier today. Saddled up and ready to take the ever-shifting road system on, I took the Dawes out to cycle down to the armpit of the midlands. You will never a more wretched hive of scum and villainy...than Derby!
That's right. Urbs Natalis is once again Urbs Currens. The bastards couldn't kill me, not when I have THIS to return to. There's something vaguely comforting about almost being mown down by bright yellow taxis, the 01332 area code, the tacky pubs and clubs...I could go on. The surrounding countryside knocks a lot of the rest of this country into a cocked hat, what with stunning vistas and thrilling valleys, quaint villages with their churches and so on and so forth. At some point I will even venture out to the aforementioned tacky locales, populated as they are by the fleshpots of Derby...Ugh. But you know, it's good to be back. I mean, really good.
As we reached the end of the academic year, I rather began to run out of chutzpah. Unsatisfactory housing, lack of food and a lot of upset, mostly emotional, do not agree with people of my delicate temperament. Oh, best mark that down on your calendars or something, because I'm not going to refer to myself as delicate very often. Capisce? Anyway. I think I got a bit cabin feverish towards the last few days, it still hasn't quite left me. The cycling helps, as concentrating on the road leaves little room for anything else, and I get a break from the unbearable lightness of being, especially after the last week. Those who know, know. Some things...just never go my way.
As far away from Norfolk as I am, I still have a lot left to do before I can really rest up. I have to salvage my housing situation, which is bloody complicated to say the least. Watch this space, eh? I need to get in touch with several relevant parties and basically break to bad news, which won't be pretty. I need to arrange the tour as well, and hopefully it will take me even further away from the East Anglian part of England, in a geographical sense anyway. I almost don't want to go back at all now. I really really don't. This year has been one of the hardest I've had the fortune to survive, and I can quite comfortably say I don't relish the idea of any more like it, especially if next year will follow the same pattern. I've never been so ill in all my life! I genuinely thought I was going to die when a Ginsters Deep Fill Chicken & Bacon sandwich gave me food poisoning, the malicious bastard, and let's not forget my very own dalliance with the Swine Flu. The upset, the failures, the backstabbing, the junior handshake clubs and financial ruin have taken an almost fatal toll on me. Why would I want to put myself back into that situation? Why do I have to?
But I will. The time will come in September when we pack me up again and shift me across the country to Norwich, to see off the final year, the last hurrah. And it really will be the last as well. I plan to move up North and find my fortune not on stage, but as a Layclerk, hopefully with some sort of archive/library job on the side. London would chew my up and spit me out, I don't have the wherewithal to cope with the Bog Smoke just yet, but one day I will. It's just that I'm going to take my time over it.
There are many people I don't want to leave behind from Norwich, and indeed Norfolk. The people and places, on the whole (with some notable exceptions) are fine. The situations I find myself in though, are deplorable. Unfamiliarity breeds contempt, and I would rather soak up the radiation from the free wi-fi outside the Big Blue Coffee Shop than anywhere Norwich has to offer. This is my home, as much as my mother has abandoned Derby for "Skeg Vegas", this is still my place. You could accuse me of being small minded and having no ambition, but seeing as I have a desire to escape Norfolk I urge you to reconsider. At a push, there are even people I would want to bring back here...both to add to the back line but also to stand at the forefront with me...but I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'm glad I'm back. Almost happy...(more on that story later) The tour continues. It's just nice to be able to have a rest again.
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