www.paulcoia.com
I had a birthday this week which means, I’m sure, that right now The Queen will be preparing my telegram and you’ll be picking flowers and buying presents, maybe even sending round a singing lap dancer or two. But, although my birthday’s special to me, it’s not really that unique is it?
Dividing the world’s population by fifty two means that I and one hundred and twenty eight million other people have been blowing out candles over the past seven days. That’s more wind than on a wind farm in a windy place, surrounded by fields of the world’s windiest cows drinking Guinness and fizzy water.
As a twin, I’ve always been used to sharing my birthday with someone else and I’ve also gained a brother in law with the same birthday and a work colleague born on exactly the same day, same year. So I have no problem sharing my special day with millions of others. What I find I don’t want to share is time with people who believe in astrology, expecting me and these others to share similar traits. Mind you, I might admit to having some things in common with other Geminis. I, of course, share my musical talent with Bob Dylan, my bum with Kylie Minogue, my charisma with John F Kennedy and sense of reality with Boy George.
The fact we were all born when Mars and the Moon were in their honeymoon phase and Pluto rose in Goofy’s house, should mean that I and five hundred and fifty eight million other people born in June all have the same characteristics. If it’s true then we’re all headed for a global chocolate shortage and a blog glut, but at least my wife will always find someone who fancies her wherever she travels.
The thing about star signs is that they give people the excuse for bad behaviour; they are a rule book for the unconfident. Perhaps I have offended you as you really do believe in all this horoscopes stuff and, if so, I apologise. But I can’t help it, it’s because I’m a Gemini. See what I mean?
On my birthday I made sure to check the personal, day specific, prediction on my newspaper horoscopes page and I read that I was going to waken up “refreshed, craving a new start and rushing to interact with people in a new way forward. Ring this number for more details at seventy five pence per minute.” I’m sure the accuracy of the horoscope would have had me rushing to the ‘phone immediately except that I woke up having caught a virus and was ill in bed feeling far from refreshed, craving new sheets rather than a new start, and the only person I interacted with all day was Thomas Crapper as I offered prayers of thanks to him for his porcelain invention.
The French football coach Raymond Domenech swears by astrology and makes his decisions based on the star alignments. Last week his team crashed embarrassingly out of the European Championships putting his job on the line and he then proposed live on TV to his girlfriend. Well, chalk up two big failures to astrology as the girlfriend was so embarrassed by the world wide attention she has refused to give him an answer. Perhaps she hadn’t read her boyfriend’s horoscope.
The biggest fan of the industry was Diana, Princess of Wales who had her own personal astrologers. They believe she was destined for sainthood as she had a cross shaped astrology pattern when she was born. It’s what she would have wanted.
When she married there was a solar eclipse and when she separated there was a lunar one, and going to the bible, to Joshua 9:20 – Judges 1:7 astrologer T Chase has found the words Diana, Death, Paris, Princess and Osama hidden in the text, leading to the possibility that Bin Laden was responsible for her demise. Perhaps Miss Chase will appreciate my own extensive research which has led me to the book of Harry Potter where you’ll find hidden the words Chase, Nonsense, Get, Real and Certifiable.
If all this astrology thing works then I should find lots in common with people born on my birthday, June 19th, so I checked to see who shares the great day with me. I wondered what a dinner party featuring some of this exclusive club, with only eighteen million, three hundred and forty five thousand living members, would be like. Obviously we’d all like the same foods and background music, but would we have anything to talk about or end up simply finishing off each others’sentences?
The invitation list makes for interesting speculation, but I can see problems. If I invite Paula Abdul then the booze bill might be a little high. If I go for Salman Rushdie then security would be an issue, we’d have to hide all the women folk, and the conversation would centre around Rushdie talking about Rushdie. Then there’s Boris Johnson, the new London mayor, but I don’t speak Latin.
So, I can’t see much in common with my fellow birthday owners and I’m very happy about that. Just think, if you did behave in a similar way to the fellow inmates of your astrology house, Taureans might be worried about sharing with Adolf Hitler, Pisceans with mad monk Rasputin, Sagittarians with Mass murderer Josef Stalin and ditto for Aquarians with Robert Mugabe.
If your birthday is coming soon then I wish the very best to you and the millions of others sharing your day. What will make it very special is that we are all individuals. Thank God, rather than horoscopes, for that.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
We Don't Need No Edukayshun
www.paulcoia.com
I know it’s a stretch of the imagination, stretchier than days old bubblegum taken off the bedpost and passed round a team of chewing champions, but I was asked this week what kind of hero I’d make.
You can tell the intellectual level of the company I keep if I tell you a group of us were talking and, out of the blue, someone asked whether I’d rather be James Bond or Doctor Who. Obviously Doctor Who would win every time, if only because I can’t tie a bow tie, although I’d seriously have interior designers look at the Tardis and bin useless bits of furniture – chairs, Catherine Tait, that sort of thing.
The conversation moved in intellectual leaps and bounds as I was asked to think of which superhero I would choose to be. Superman, Batman and the others were definitely out because of the tights, and I think that dressing in a mask like Spiderman might be ok to rob an off licence or go to a Wimbledon wives swap party, but otherwise it’s not a good look. Plus, like ladies at a wedding, you’d get hat hair.
Superheroes have no fashion sense and, as they get older, become like the mullet wearing newspaper seller at our local station, stuck in a time warp and smelling of Hai Karate. They never worry about whether other superheroes are wearing their lapels bigger or smaller this year and are happy to stick with the Green Cross Code look year after year, which is a bit like wearing your school blazer every day of your life. Perhaps it’s no wonder so many of them wear masks to hide their embarrassment.
I flew to Glasgow at the weekend for a school reunion, leaving the blazer at home and choosing British Airways rather than my super powers. It was a chance to renew acquaintances and secretly hope that old friends looked fatter and older, like Fern Britton before she stopped working out to the Gap Band and moved to the Gastric Band.
The life and soul of the night was Charlie, the drummer in a band I was in at school. I well remember playing guitar in his Dad’s pub but worrying as we’d all try to nod furiously when it was his time to join in. He would miss his cue every time with a sense of rhythm akin to sticking drumsticks to the feet of an hallucinating elephant who was stamping on a column of ants. Appropriately, Charlie is now an expert on rehabilitating drug addicts, so at least his new audience goes home on a high.
He always did want to be the centre of attention, so much so that he volunteered to be the patient on our keyboard player Kieran’s fourth year dental exam, which had him screaming louder than our audiences ever did. I’m surprised Kieran didn’t fall in. Drummer Charlie’s rhythm method didn’t improve as he now has six kids, and counting.
Many of the guys had remarried and one, who had just moved wedding cake marzipan to the side of his plate for the third time, said his latest wife had taken his wedding ring and had it engraved with a message on the inside. It now reads “Put It Back On”.
A few of our teachers came along on the night and guys had flown in from The States, Norway, Ireland and several other countries. It was as if the years rolled away as we sat drinking copious amounts of beer, the only difference this time being we didn’t have to hide the bottles and cans when the teachers arrived. Our English master reminded us of what class acts we were with stories of my brother and his mates turning up for his stag night then blocking his toilet by bringing up Pernod and blackcurrants.
Our games master was reminded of the times he made us run round the local loch, freezing in our shorts as we slid on the ice and sleet, and hitting us with his whistle if we lagged behind. Charles Dickens had yet to take over as our headmaster and I can well remember bleeding legs from tackling during rugby games on pitches that were frozen solid. Now the sports teacher has to fill in a risk assessment form before letting the kids tie their laces.
This was also the master who was tasked with belting us for any misdemeanours. A look back at the record book on display alongside the famous belt showed reasons given for punishment as “putting chewing gum in pupil’s hair” and “eating sandwiches in class”. My own record showed I received six strokes for “drawing Nazi symbols on the classroom window”. In case you’re wondering how I managed to become the fine, upstanding, role model I am today, I was actually playing noughts and crosses.
In our day the school was solely for boys but it is now, as the local girls’ school used to believe anyway, completely bisexual, with as many girls as boys. Had females been there in our time I suspect we would have tried to stun them with our knowledge of Star Trek and flatulence.
The night’s collection of doctors, dentists, psychiatrists, newsagents, engineers and so on came together from four corners of the world to celebrate a rite of passage we all experienced together many years ago, and we genuinely had a blast. None of us had become heroes but it was great to feel invincible again.
I came out at two in the morning to find I had been given a parking ticket. Next time I’m putting my blazer on and flying.
I know it’s a stretch of the imagination, stretchier than days old bubblegum taken off the bedpost and passed round a team of chewing champions, but I was asked this week what kind of hero I’d make.
You can tell the intellectual level of the company I keep if I tell you a group of us were talking and, out of the blue, someone asked whether I’d rather be James Bond or Doctor Who. Obviously Doctor Who would win every time, if only because I can’t tie a bow tie, although I’d seriously have interior designers look at the Tardis and bin useless bits of furniture – chairs, Catherine Tait, that sort of thing.
The conversation moved in intellectual leaps and bounds as I was asked to think of which superhero I would choose to be. Superman, Batman and the others were definitely out because of the tights, and I think that dressing in a mask like Spiderman might be ok to rob an off licence or go to a Wimbledon wives swap party, but otherwise it’s not a good look. Plus, like ladies at a wedding, you’d get hat hair.
Superheroes have no fashion sense and, as they get older, become like the mullet wearing newspaper seller at our local station, stuck in a time warp and smelling of Hai Karate. They never worry about whether other superheroes are wearing their lapels bigger or smaller this year and are happy to stick with the Green Cross Code look year after year, which is a bit like wearing your school blazer every day of your life. Perhaps it’s no wonder so many of them wear masks to hide their embarrassment.
I flew to Glasgow at the weekend for a school reunion, leaving the blazer at home and choosing British Airways rather than my super powers. It was a chance to renew acquaintances and secretly hope that old friends looked fatter and older, like Fern Britton before she stopped working out to the Gap Band and moved to the Gastric Band.
The life and soul of the night was Charlie, the drummer in a band I was in at school. I well remember playing guitar in his Dad’s pub but worrying as we’d all try to nod furiously when it was his time to join in. He would miss his cue every time with a sense of rhythm akin to sticking drumsticks to the feet of an hallucinating elephant who was stamping on a column of ants. Appropriately, Charlie is now an expert on rehabilitating drug addicts, so at least his new audience goes home on a high.
He always did want to be the centre of attention, so much so that he volunteered to be the patient on our keyboard player Kieran’s fourth year dental exam, which had him screaming louder than our audiences ever did. I’m surprised Kieran didn’t fall in. Drummer Charlie’s rhythm method didn’t improve as he now has six kids, and counting.
Many of the guys had remarried and one, who had just moved wedding cake marzipan to the side of his plate for the third time, said his latest wife had taken his wedding ring and had it engraved with a message on the inside. It now reads “Put It Back On”.
A few of our teachers came along on the night and guys had flown in from The States, Norway, Ireland and several other countries. It was as if the years rolled away as we sat drinking copious amounts of beer, the only difference this time being we didn’t have to hide the bottles and cans when the teachers arrived. Our English master reminded us of what class acts we were with stories of my brother and his mates turning up for his stag night then blocking his toilet by bringing up Pernod and blackcurrants.
Our games master was reminded of the times he made us run round the local loch, freezing in our shorts as we slid on the ice and sleet, and hitting us with his whistle if we lagged behind. Charles Dickens had yet to take over as our headmaster and I can well remember bleeding legs from tackling during rugby games on pitches that were frozen solid. Now the sports teacher has to fill in a risk assessment form before letting the kids tie their laces.
This was also the master who was tasked with belting us for any misdemeanours. A look back at the record book on display alongside the famous belt showed reasons given for punishment as “putting chewing gum in pupil’s hair” and “eating sandwiches in class”. My own record showed I received six strokes for “drawing Nazi symbols on the classroom window”. In case you’re wondering how I managed to become the fine, upstanding, role model I am today, I was actually playing noughts and crosses.
In our day the school was solely for boys but it is now, as the local girls’ school used to believe anyway, completely bisexual, with as many girls as boys. Had females been there in our time I suspect we would have tried to stun them with our knowledge of Star Trek and flatulence.
The night’s collection of doctors, dentists, psychiatrists, newsagents, engineers and so on came together from four corners of the world to celebrate a rite of passage we all experienced together many years ago, and we genuinely had a blast. None of us had become heroes but it was great to feel invincible again.
I came out at two in the morning to find I had been given a parking ticket. Next time I’m putting my blazer on and flying.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Reasons To Be Cheerful
www.paulcoia.com
Perhaps you are like me, feeling happy and looking forward to the holidays with lazy days of summer sunshine, snoring on the beach, and a week or two without having to shave. I know my wife is.
We cheery, summery types are currently under attack from those desperate to rain on our parade and allow Mr Reality in the front door, and from what I read we should be also letting his wife, kids and any passing Jehovah’s Witnesses into our kitchens just for a bit of light relief - but only after hiding the knives!
Everywhere it seems the news is full of doom and gloom with street crime up, fun times down, petrol and gas prices causing riots, and electricity, mortgage and food prices rising quicker than a nudist, with jam on their privates, sat on an anthill. And, as if that’s not enough for us men to cope with, the new Sex And The City movie means half the population have license to hate us again.
At a business lunch today I listened to nine colleagues give their thoughts on whether recession is coming or has already arrived and it was so depressing that even my chocolate soufflé looked deflated. On the way home, I popped in to Waterstone’s and had a look at the current book charts for a quick pick me up, and what a mistake that was! The top selling books chart reads like course work for a Samaritans’ counselling exam.
The biggest selling ones at the moment feature tales of either global warming or child abuse, one features a Death Row murderer, others just your average neighbourhood serial killers, another a school shooting, and for laughs you could try the one about two women struggling against the Taliban. And even kids can’t escape the current misery as the number one best seller for them this week is called Before I Die, the tale of a teenager given months to live.
I guess I now understand why I have been turned down by publishers after sending them the manuscript for my new book, Cheery Tales From My Happy Childhood Where No One Got Abused Or Shot, though I admit I may have to work on the title a bit.
Misery sells at the moment and I understand people feeling caught between wanting the kid in them to just enjoy life and have a laugh and, on the other hand, trying to act grown up and responsible by moping around like everyone else. It seems there’s never been a more boring time to be mature as we all now have to feel guilty about absolutely everything. The whole world is turning Catholic.
Well, I’m opting wholeheartedly for the fun bit and I’m going to leave the grown up part for a while. You’ll remember Ian Dury had a huge hit with a song called Reasons To Be Cheerful Part 3. Amongst the many reasons he could think of for us all to be happy were Summer, Buddy Holly, the working folly, Good Golly Miss Molly and boats, though I do think at least part of his cheerfulness may have been chemically enhanced as the next lines included nanny goats and porridge oats, yellow socks and no electric shocks, and days when I aint spotty, sitting on the potty.
Quite how a nanny goat would cheer anyone up defeats me, unless it was tapping out winning lottery numbers with its hoof, but at least Dury tried. As soon as I finish this blog I am writing to the Prime Minister to ask if he could change our national anthem to Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life. I’d happily stand and put my hand over my heart for that.
A pal gave me good advice. He said I should ignore miserable folk altogether and that all we need to do is give thanks for what we have, look after what we can control, and ignore the rest. But what about those who feel they have nothing to give thanks for? Well, according to my friend, it’s up to the more fortunate of us to give them something. So, if you’re one of those who feels down and friendless, here’s my contribution to cheering you up - my current happy list.
The price of chocolate is stable, tax on beer hasn’t risen for a while, Sienna Miller and Kiera Knightley play loved up lesbians in their next movie, the weather’s great, The Clintons soap opera is nearing its end, estate agents are miserable, Christmas is only six months away, Al Green’s new album is fab, Indiana Jones is back, Heroes must get better soon, and England didn’t qualify for the European Football Championships. I’m not going to think about Scotland not qualifying. That really is depressing.
The irony could be that in spending time trying to get people to lighten up there’s a danger of overdoing it and making them miserable, but I do have the occasional success. Yesterday I had lunch with a pal from school who was morose and said that he was fed up with the long faces on every street corner. I said that was just posters of Sarah Jessica Parker, which made him smile, and he suggested we wear Don’t Worry Be Happy T shirts – a step too far even for me. His spirits rose and I thought I had made a convert.
As we left the restaurant I put my sunglasses on in the glorious sunshine and commented on how warm the day was. “Ah”, he said. “Bound to happen. It’s the ozone layer thinning”.
Perhaps you are like me, feeling happy and looking forward to the holidays with lazy days of summer sunshine, snoring on the beach, and a week or two without having to shave. I know my wife is.
We cheery, summery types are currently under attack from those desperate to rain on our parade and allow Mr Reality in the front door, and from what I read we should be also letting his wife, kids and any passing Jehovah’s Witnesses into our kitchens just for a bit of light relief - but only after hiding the knives!
Everywhere it seems the news is full of doom and gloom with street crime up, fun times down, petrol and gas prices causing riots, and electricity, mortgage and food prices rising quicker than a nudist, with jam on their privates, sat on an anthill. And, as if that’s not enough for us men to cope with, the new Sex And The City movie means half the population have license to hate us again.
At a business lunch today I listened to nine colleagues give their thoughts on whether recession is coming or has already arrived and it was so depressing that even my chocolate soufflé looked deflated. On the way home, I popped in to Waterstone’s and had a look at the current book charts for a quick pick me up, and what a mistake that was! The top selling books chart reads like course work for a Samaritans’ counselling exam.
The biggest selling ones at the moment feature tales of either global warming or child abuse, one features a Death Row murderer, others just your average neighbourhood serial killers, another a school shooting, and for laughs you could try the one about two women struggling against the Taliban. And even kids can’t escape the current misery as the number one best seller for them this week is called Before I Die, the tale of a teenager given months to live.
I guess I now understand why I have been turned down by publishers after sending them the manuscript for my new book, Cheery Tales From My Happy Childhood Where No One Got Abused Or Shot, though I admit I may have to work on the title a bit.
Misery sells at the moment and I understand people feeling caught between wanting the kid in them to just enjoy life and have a laugh and, on the other hand, trying to act grown up and responsible by moping around like everyone else. It seems there’s never been a more boring time to be mature as we all now have to feel guilty about absolutely everything. The whole world is turning Catholic.
Well, I’m opting wholeheartedly for the fun bit and I’m going to leave the grown up part for a while. You’ll remember Ian Dury had a huge hit with a song called Reasons To Be Cheerful Part 3. Amongst the many reasons he could think of for us all to be happy were Summer, Buddy Holly, the working folly, Good Golly Miss Molly and boats, though I do think at least part of his cheerfulness may have been chemically enhanced as the next lines included nanny goats and porridge oats, yellow socks and no electric shocks, and days when I aint spotty, sitting on the potty.
Quite how a nanny goat would cheer anyone up defeats me, unless it was tapping out winning lottery numbers with its hoof, but at least Dury tried. As soon as I finish this blog I am writing to the Prime Minister to ask if he could change our national anthem to Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life. I’d happily stand and put my hand over my heart for that.
A pal gave me good advice. He said I should ignore miserable folk altogether and that all we need to do is give thanks for what we have, look after what we can control, and ignore the rest. But what about those who feel they have nothing to give thanks for? Well, according to my friend, it’s up to the more fortunate of us to give them something. So, if you’re one of those who feels down and friendless, here’s my contribution to cheering you up - my current happy list.
The price of chocolate is stable, tax on beer hasn’t risen for a while, Sienna Miller and Kiera Knightley play loved up lesbians in their next movie, the weather’s great, The Clintons soap opera is nearing its end, estate agents are miserable, Christmas is only six months away, Al Green’s new album is fab, Indiana Jones is back, Heroes must get better soon, and England didn’t qualify for the European Football Championships. I’m not going to think about Scotland not qualifying. That really is depressing.
The irony could be that in spending time trying to get people to lighten up there’s a danger of overdoing it and making them miserable, but I do have the occasional success. Yesterday I had lunch with a pal from school who was morose and said that he was fed up with the long faces on every street corner. I said that was just posters of Sarah Jessica Parker, which made him smile, and he suggested we wear Don’t Worry Be Happy T shirts – a step too far even for me. His spirits rose and I thought I had made a convert.
As we left the restaurant I put my sunglasses on in the glorious sunshine and commented on how warm the day was. “Ah”, he said. “Bound to happen. It’s the ozone layer thinning”.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Let The Music Play
www.paulcoia.com
I guess I’m feeling a bit sensitive, a bit picked on and wondering how could this happen. Part of my childhood disappeared this week in an announcement as devastating as when the school nurse told me I was colour blind and it dawned on me that I couldn’t become a Thunderbirds pilot.
I thought the moon would fall, the French become loveable and Eva Longoria grow tall enough to be allowed on a theme park ride before this would happen, but Woolworths has now announced it is no longer to stock CD singles and I am bereft. It’s not that I usually spend all my spare time in Woolworths, although a fumble in the Pick ‘n’ Mix passes a quick ten minutes or so, but I am gutted.
The store say it is because people now prefer to download singles on line rather than carry them home from the shops and, for me, it’s a soul destroying thought. I suppose I could go in to a boring, rose tinted, retro themed, lecture on the beauty of vinyl and CDs and how all digital computer music stuff is just rubbish, but I won’t. At least not until the next paragraph.
Vinyl still rocks and , of course, is being pressed today for DJs and clubs, and when I hear an old song on the radio I always remember where I bought it, the record label colour, the songwriting credits, the whole nine yards. I’ll reminisce about carrying it home proudly so everyone could see it and playing it for the first time knowing it was all mine, perhaps taking it to parties or lending it to mates, hoping I’d be able to wipe the beer off afterwards. Now I’m expected to press a button and have instant gratification. A pleasing seven incher is no longer enough as size really does matter and smaller is better.
Nowadays we’re used to computer games having hidden messages, or Easter Eggs as they’re called, but sometimes I’ll find myself thinking of the hidden messages the old 45s contained. Some subscribe to the notion that running Led Zeppelin or Ozzy Osbourne records backwards means hearing satanic messages, although one guy with too much time on his hands has found evil references even when playing Barney the Dinosaur songs the wrong way. If you don’t believe me go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pC3ih0xw9ck. Want a bet he doesn’t have a girlfriend?
But the hidden messages I’m thinking about were scratched in to that bit of blank vinyl near the label where the engineers used to carve their nickname or a special message. If you get hold of some old seven inch vinyl you’ll find names like Tone or Utopia scratched in, or Porky, the alias used by the most famous of these people, George Peckham, who is currently selling off his memorabilia on eBay.
Sometimes the bands got involved too. Radiohead inscribed Eeny, Meeny, Miney and Mo on their famous album OK Computer, and The Rezillos hit single Top Of The Pops had How’s About That Then as the band’s tribute to the show’s host Jimmy Saville. But how many even know it’s there?
The Beatles’ singles always had the initials KT on the run off, though this was to show the type of purchase tax to be paid. A pity it’s not someone’s initials really as KT is on as many hit records as the Beatles themselves. Even when Lennon went out on his own, KT came too and Mr Ono used to add the message One World One People. Some CD singles have messages on the underside too, tho’ sometimes it’s only an advert for the EMI plant in exotic Swindon.
I find it hard to imagine I’ll be listening to the radio in twenty years time while reminiscing about the laptop I downloaded a particular song on, or the internet café where I first heard it, or how there was a cheeky hidden message telling how many bytes I’d downloaded. Do you think my pals and I will laugh over the hilarious message Download Completed?
Buying singles, for me, was special; I either saved up and went to the shop to treat myself or I asked for a particular record for my birthday and couldn’t wait for the sight and feel of the artwork, whether on vinyl or CD. Now that sensuous relationship is to be reduced to a quickie with a broadband router.
And what about the picture discs and limited edition sleeves? Will a download make me feel as good as my Apple shaped Sinatra 45 of New York New York? Or my Debbie Harry picture disc? And those framed gold and silver discs hanging on my wall and given to me over the years, will I now get a platinum USB cable instead? I love pulling out those seven inch plastic people pleasers which people have signed for me and remembering the artists as I look at the signatures. Should I now expect them to just leave an ID tag on my MP3 file instead?
Any old duff CD singles I’ve bought over the years have found their way in to the garden, tied with string and hanging from bushes to scare off the birds. Am I now expected to buy a virtual scarecrow? Direct the birds to EffOffOutMyGarden.com?
The current form of buying music on line comes at a time when we live in a Green obsessed world and some MP3 fascists would argue that getting rid of packaging has to be a good thing. I just hope, as they take their organic wine bottles to the recycling centre in their hybrid cars with their hemp seats, that they realise it’s my childhood they’re binning too.
I guess I’m feeling a bit sensitive, a bit picked on and wondering how could this happen. Part of my childhood disappeared this week in an announcement as devastating as when the school nurse told me I was colour blind and it dawned on me that I couldn’t become a Thunderbirds pilot.
I thought the moon would fall, the French become loveable and Eva Longoria grow tall enough to be allowed on a theme park ride before this would happen, but Woolworths has now announced it is no longer to stock CD singles and I am bereft. It’s not that I usually spend all my spare time in Woolworths, although a fumble in the Pick ‘n’ Mix passes a quick ten minutes or so, but I am gutted.
The store say it is because people now prefer to download singles on line rather than carry them home from the shops and, for me, it’s a soul destroying thought. I suppose I could go in to a boring, rose tinted, retro themed, lecture on the beauty of vinyl and CDs and how all digital computer music stuff is just rubbish, but I won’t. At least not until the next paragraph.
Vinyl still rocks and , of course, is being pressed today for DJs and clubs, and when I hear an old song on the radio I always remember where I bought it, the record label colour, the songwriting credits, the whole nine yards. I’ll reminisce about carrying it home proudly so everyone could see it and playing it for the first time knowing it was all mine, perhaps taking it to parties or lending it to mates, hoping I’d be able to wipe the beer off afterwards. Now I’m expected to press a button and have instant gratification. A pleasing seven incher is no longer enough as size really does matter and smaller is better.
Nowadays we’re used to computer games having hidden messages, or Easter Eggs as they’re called, but sometimes I’ll find myself thinking of the hidden messages the old 45s contained. Some subscribe to the notion that running Led Zeppelin or Ozzy Osbourne records backwards means hearing satanic messages, although one guy with too much time on his hands has found evil references even when playing Barney the Dinosaur songs the wrong way. If you don’t believe me go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pC3ih0xw9ck. Want a bet he doesn’t have a girlfriend?
But the hidden messages I’m thinking about were scratched in to that bit of blank vinyl near the label where the engineers used to carve their nickname or a special message. If you get hold of some old seven inch vinyl you’ll find names like Tone or Utopia scratched in, or Porky, the alias used by the most famous of these people, George Peckham, who is currently selling off his memorabilia on eBay.
Sometimes the bands got involved too. Radiohead inscribed Eeny, Meeny, Miney and Mo on their famous album OK Computer, and The Rezillos hit single Top Of The Pops had How’s About That Then as the band’s tribute to the show’s host Jimmy Saville. But how many even know it’s there?
The Beatles’ singles always had the initials KT on the run off, though this was to show the type of purchase tax to be paid. A pity it’s not someone’s initials really as KT is on as many hit records as the Beatles themselves. Even when Lennon went out on his own, KT came too and Mr Ono used to add the message One World One People. Some CD singles have messages on the underside too, tho’ sometimes it’s only an advert for the EMI plant in exotic Swindon.
I find it hard to imagine I’ll be listening to the radio in twenty years time while reminiscing about the laptop I downloaded a particular song on, or the internet café where I first heard it, or how there was a cheeky hidden message telling how many bytes I’d downloaded. Do you think my pals and I will laugh over the hilarious message Download Completed?
Buying singles, for me, was special; I either saved up and went to the shop to treat myself or I asked for a particular record for my birthday and couldn’t wait for the sight and feel of the artwork, whether on vinyl or CD. Now that sensuous relationship is to be reduced to a quickie with a broadband router.
And what about the picture discs and limited edition sleeves? Will a download make me feel as good as my Apple shaped Sinatra 45 of New York New York? Or my Debbie Harry picture disc? And those framed gold and silver discs hanging on my wall and given to me over the years, will I now get a platinum USB cable instead? I love pulling out those seven inch plastic people pleasers which people have signed for me and remembering the artists as I look at the signatures. Should I now expect them to just leave an ID tag on my MP3 file instead?
Any old duff CD singles I’ve bought over the years have found their way in to the garden, tied with string and hanging from bushes to scare off the birds. Am I now expected to buy a virtual scarecrow? Direct the birds to EffOffOutMyGarden.com?
The current form of buying music on line comes at a time when we live in a Green obsessed world and some MP3 fascists would argue that getting rid of packaging has to be a good thing. I just hope, as they take their organic wine bottles to the recycling centre in their hybrid cars with their hemp seats, that they realise it’s my childhood they’re binning too.
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