This Is This

You stupid woman.[1]

Brilliant. Even now. Just brilliant.

OK, a while ago I said I’d answered some questions from real-life readers, but then I got slack, and then I got busy, and then my dog ate my blog post. Actually, it didn’t, but this was written in the days before I got the dog and I’ve just got round to typing it in, but here you go - my morning routine.

I wake up early because I don’t like rushing. I’d rather be tired and fed than rested, stressed and hungry. This morning one of the cats jumped on to the bed before I got up. I think they know I’m getting a dog, so I did this whole bit out loud:

“Yeah, Cliff, Willow and I have noticed there are dog pictures in the kitchen, and um, now there’s a crate with a cushion in it in the living room. Do you have five minutes now for a quick chat? Privately.”

Before anything, apart from my stupid comedy routines, I’ll pad down the hall to the shower. I won’t go into details of my various ablutions, but it’s your garden variety bloke stuff. But after my back is all nice and waxed, I like the sing a few arias. Verdi, Puccini - nothing fancy.

Nah, only joking. Ew. No really. You can say it. Ew. Except about the shower. I do wash.

I’m not vain but I’ll look after myself. I guess I could be defined as a metrosexual, which means I can have sex, but only in Zones 1 & 2.

Dressed and downstairs, I’ll put the kettle on and make breakfast - sometimes just for me, sometimes for the whole house. This morning it was for the whole house. We had bagels. Cream cheese, personally.

Drink. Drink? Drink. What’s the opposite of a creature of habit? That’s me anyway. I have lots of teas and I drink them all, depending on how the mood takes me. Regular tea, very strong with a dash of milk and a very small sugar, or good instant coffee black o sugar, camomile tea, gingko biloba, green tea with jasmine or redbush. Lately though, it’s either: coffee with dried chickory stirred in and milk and sugar (which I got hooked on living in New Orleans) or a slice of lemon in boiling water, which I’ve had every day for the last week.

While that’s on the go, I’ll make breakfast which is any of the following: weetabix (4), bagel and Philly cheese, fruit loaf with butter, regular toast and peanut butter but only with normal tea, or some muesli thing with seeds and shit, sometimes with milk, sometimes with yoghurt and honey, if I’ve had the time to make yoghurt.

I sit, eat and watch cartoons with the kids, flicking over to watch the news (BBC Interactive) for the headlines.

Daughter will sometimes ask: “Is that where you work, Daddy?” and when the cartoons come back on I might ask her if that’s where she goes to school.

Then I’ll pick up my stuff. My bag’s all ready from the night before and everything else is on the landing strip.

Oh - the landing strip - this is a small area, about eight by five inches - on my cigar box. I rarely smoke cigars these days, but I’ve got a box of fifty and I don’t want to throw them away. Also, the humidor was a present my dad got me in Miami and it’s beautiful.

The landing strip is an organised dumping ground for everything I need to hand except then it isn’t. So when I come home, it goes there - phone, wallet, spare change in a little silver dish and keys.

These are my Priority 1 Nicknacks. Priority 2 Nicknacks sit nearby and include library cards, pencils, guitar picks and such, but these do not get a place on the landing strip.

So when I head out the door, I get myself ready (bag already packed with work ID, notepad, ipod, book, magazine and snacks), put on a jacket and hat, and swing by the landing strip.

And that’s me, out the door. That’s how we doin’ it AM-wise. ‘thpeck, man. Yeah? Thorted.

Click picture for him and more of the same. This is the dog. I love him. He knows nothing of time, and also probably everything. Most of all he is cute and funny. I realise that as an adoptive parent from a different species, this can not be down to genetics, so I am hoping it is environmental (even after 2 hours).

Tom Waits has been a late discovery for me, but that’s OK. I wouldn’t have liked him when I was younger anyway. He’s like olives.

I never liked the cliche of the gin-soaked bleeding hearted poet in a small hat, but I think to be fair he probably started that himself.

Musically though, it’s been a slow and late discovery that’s making up for the delay with songs like this.

This ties in with yesterday’s post. If I’ve done my work right you won’t see the join and we’ll dovetail right on into Sunday.

Well the smart money’s on Harlow and the moon is in the street
and the shadow boys are breaking all the laws
and you’re east of East Saint Louis and the wind is making speeches
and the rain sounds like a round of applause.

Listen: Time

One of the things I’d like to change about myself is my attitude towards time. While the secret of life might be enjoying the passing of it, time moves by me with a wheezing and a grind that probably wants checking out.

I remember Stephen Fry saying he wished he could be given the gift of time. Three months, nothing excessive, just a quarter of the year with no commitments, meetings, appointments or calls.

He promised he’d be eternally grateful for something he’d vow to use wisely.

I’d like to change that about myself - my views on it, I mean - but I fear I’d have more success changing time itself.

It probably comes from a professional life spent (and I do mean spent) in journalism. At work they not only have deadlines, but the work itself deals with time. There are notes on the desks of broadcasting colleagues defining time.

5 minutes = 0.083 hour
10 minutes = 0.166 hour
15 minutes = 0.25 hour

I spend time on this website that you spend time on reading, and I know that’s measured differently but it all adds up the same.

There are no two for one deals, no bargains, no guarantees and definitely no credit. So have a good weekend and spend it wisely.

The thing I like most about blogging this is the writing. That sounds simple, because - well - it is.

Billy Crystal’s character in Throw Mama From The Train says: “A writer writes - always.”

But it’s true. A cobbler doesn’t cobble, a guitarist doesn’t guitar, a butcher doesn’t butch. A writer writes.

Jeanette Winterson wrote: “the more I read, the freer I become”. She said of reading that it “helps you to feel, as well as think, and quite a lot of us find feeling rather than difficult.”

I feel the same about writing, although maybe not so much with the freedom thing because I keep a blog. Only joking (a bit) on that point but like I say every now and then, thanks for the comments.

She also wrote “oranges are not the only fruit” and you can’t argue with that.

Now. About that. There are a few readers, friends, people I’ve met, folks who have emailed me, who have said they didn’t want to leave a comment. That’s cool. Enforced audience participation is a terrible thing.

The blurb when there are no comments under the posts on this site says “Go ahead, caller” because if you’re going to leave a comment, you’re the active and willing participant in a public forum. My comparison to talk radio isn’t a coincidence.

But out of interest, when people make a point of saying “Oh I don’t comment” I have to ask why.

More times than not, the answer is: “Well the people who leave comments are really clever.”

“Oh no. No no no no no,” I protest. “They’re really not. I mean yes, but that shouldn’t mean anything.”

But I know what they mean. There are sites I read where I don’t leave comments on because I don’t want to look a dufus, and few walk a finer line of looking the dufus.

There are also sites where I comment too much and it’s a regular doofest of me.

So leave a comment if you want, but don’t not because someone else has done a funny. It’s always good to hear back. Although you won’t now obviously because there’s no discernable topic in this post.

I’m just saying bear it in mind. But you don’t have to, obviously.

Look, just forget I said anything.

I should go.

Something happens when I’m away from music and phones and TV and computers.

First, I get a bit grumpy and quiet, but after about a day and a half, it’s OK. It’s like the ripples on a pond settling.

I am terrible for getting sidetracked. Ah, television – the sweet, creamy filling between the biscuits of life.

Or time. Or something.

It’s not like holidays remind me what’s important – I know what’s important – holidays remind me what isn’t important.

Sorry about the lack of posts lately. I’ve been busy and pensive. Thoughfully so. And not altogether happy, but better lately. I need to address that. I mean seriously and fast. On holiday I had an imaginary monologue to my kids where I said to them: “Sorry I’m not happier when you’re around. It’s not because of you.”

And if I know that, you’d think I’d feel happier. But how much joy would that revelatory statement bring anyone?

It’s probably the extended winter we’re having. Or not quite winter. The spring of our moodiness.

For the record though, I’m all right, and that’s not why I haven’t been posting much. I’m busy and still waiting for my electronical laptop computer, which I’m told should arrive on Friday.

Job’s going well, though. Today I met the person whose name is on the label, or as close as I can get to that analogy without actually painting myself as a sweatshop factory worker.

Anyway, on Saturday, I get him:

Warning: widdle cutesy wuvvy puppy blog alert.

Still waiting for my laptop and busy as hell, so not been posting. Yes, it’s another “I’m not posting much” post that bloggers love to write.

I will get around to it. In the meantime, laugh at reverse euphamisms and I will soon be answering questions you asked over a month ago.

But do you really want to hear about my beauty regimen? In the meantime, here’s something about that in a rehash old old posts. And what about my tips on leading a better life? If I could do that, I would be leading a better life. In all probability my life’s probably a lot like yours. Crappy. One of us had to say it. Nah, only joking - my life’s great.

But the bathroom thing I’ll do, and while I’m performing my ablutions in public (you sickos), here’s a post about something that happened in my bathroom. And speaking of spiders, also.

More tomorrow, I hope. Still, we had some laughs, didn’t we?

Last week I wrote a little about singing in Portuguese. I have mentioned this before but it’s mesmerising. It’s a lovely language to sing in. It’s a drunken Cornishman. It’s the hypnotic swishy swishy of a washing machine set to lyrics.

And when you mix that with an acoustic guitar, you’ve got something special.

I always think the mark of a great song is that you can do a version of it in another style and it still holds up.

I’ve said enough. You’ll like this.

Listen: Life On Mars

I don’t think I have ever chatted someone up. Not intentionally, at least.

I have probably discounted the notion that I may have chatted someone up once, because any time I thought that I might have been chatting someone up, I would clam up and shuffle away.

I’ve met girls at parties and stuff. There was the time I kissed Melissa O’Shea (not real name), but that was mostly because she sat down next to me drunk (both of us) on the floor and we started slurring our way word for word through REM’s It’s The End Of The World As We Know It.

I think we got as far as “Right? Right.” before we embraced, but to be honest, she had me at “That’s great…”

I don’t know. No, I do. It’s a fear of almost certain rejection.

I’m OK in theory. I guess I’m funny on paper, but in those situations I rarely have paper with me. Arf. Anyway, it’s called chatting someone up, not writing them up.

I’m sensitive, although maybe to a fault given my quiet persona and predisposition to sadness. I laugh a lot and talk quite a bit once I’m given to know someone. And there’s the funny. Despite all this, I get convinced by all available indications that I am worth less than the sum of my parts.

Heh. I said parts. And clam, earlier. See?

So it comes almost as a pleasant surprise when anyone finds me tolerable, and it’s a downright shock should anyone grow bezotted, because I don’t see that I’ve been doing and zotting at all.

But what do I know. I’m just amazed you’ve read this post all the way to the end.

Listen, anyway. I’m going to be in communicado all weekend, but come back on Saturday for the Weekend Song, unless you’re in communicado too, in which case I might see you there.

And don’t expect me to chat you up, because that’s just not going to happen.

Have a great weekend.

News just reaching the offices of This Is This suggest that the Dalai Lama is considering resigning. This, of course, is not possible. It’s like David Hasselhoff saying he wants a different hairstyle. He is the hairstyle.

But if he did resign, I imagine I would get a call like this.

Headhunter: Cliff, hello, this is Jeremy from Bunsup, Nealing and Eger. Look, I’m calling about an opportunity that’s come up in the market. Are you free to talk?

Me: I can be. (-pause and footsteps, a door closes-) OK, go ahead.

Headhunter: Cliff, a position has come up in a country. All I can say is that it’s in central Asia, but there is the possibilty of working remotely, which is what the current person in that position does.

Me: What’s the job?

Headhunter: Cliff, the job is Spritual Leader and Head of Government In Exile.

Me: Wow.

Headhunter: Cliff, now I know that’s a mouthful, but it’s a really challenging role and they’re looking for the right person and from your CV which I have in front of me, I think they’d be really keen to talk to you.

Me: Where are they based?

Headhunter: Cliff, all I can say at the moment is that it’s a country in central Asia that operates under an established name, but was taken over a few years ago by China. Have you heard of China?

Me: Yeah. Is it Tibet?

Headhunter: Cliff, I can’t say because of a confidentiality clause, but you can use your imagination and you’ll know who I’m talking about.

Me: You want me to be the spiritual leader of Tibet?

Headhunter: Cliff, I think it would  be a really good progression for you. My client is really good at spotting potential. Now, I’ve seen your CV, but could you talk me through your career to date.

Me: Well, I started off in newspaper journalism as a financial reporter for The Guardian, having worked a little in radio, and I wrote a few front page stories and regular articles in the Money section before joining AOL in 1996 where I was head of News, then News and Sport. I was overall head of content at Freeserve for a couple of years before going back to AOL where I ran the homepage and managed all current affairs output. I now work for BBC News.

Headhunter: Mmhmm. Mmhmm. Cliff, see, sometimes you have to step away from your area of expertise to get ahead. When was the last time you influenced two point seven million people?

Me: I don’t really think this sounds like-

Headhunter: Cliff, what I’m going to do is send you a job description and email your CV over to them. Do you know anyone else who might be suitable for this role?

Me: I’m going now.

Headhunter: I have a good feeling about this.
(hangs up)

I must not shoot video posts when I am drunk.

If you have a chance, listen to The Best Of Jazz tonight on on Radio 2 2230-2330 for national treasure Humphrey Lyttelton’s last ever show.

All the best, Humph.

As for my own broadcasting career, I’m sorry but I’m not getting much computer time in as I’m still waiting for my laptop.

Honestly, as I send emails on my phone from the train as it carries me from the Europe’s largest broadcasting corporation to home while I listen to my ipod, it’s like the middle ages. I need a computer.

They say you can prove anything with statistics, so this is the best song in the world.

Here’s why. The best music in the world comes from Mozambique. This is because:

1. Portuguese is a beautiful language to sing in. Listen to Getz and Gilberto’s Desafinado. They speak Portuguese in Mozambique.
2. Guitars often best when they jingle a bit. African music has this.
3. Percussion is the core of the best music. Check.
4. Close harmonies are great. Right here, baby.
5. The best music has come from hardship and Mozambique’s been through the fucking wash lately. Unicef says 16.2 per cent of adults between 15 and 49 has Aids.

And the best band from Mozambique is Mabulu, which means Mabulu are the best band in the world.

This is their greatest song.

Case closed.

Best song in the world.

Also, she sings a bit like Joan Armatrading.

Listen: Bula Bula

:) A series of events (but it’s all fine) mean the Weekend Song will arrive behind schedule. We apologise for the delay to normal service and thank you for traveling This Is This. BINGBONG

If you’re interested, I have created a Tibet protest facebook group. It seemed to be a good way of showing support and getting information out about how the Chinese government responds to non-violent protest.

Visit the group, join up and send it around. I don’t want this blog to be too political so have:

1) a look
2) your say
3) it out
4) a good weekend

I’ve been watching that Year In Tibet programme lately. I normally don’t like reality TV, but this is more like a documentary. It’s kind of like Big Brother, except without the jacuzzi.

Day Twelve  - And Kelsang’s been called to the consulate to explain his doubts over China’s selection of the Panchen Lama.

You can watch the show on your electronical computer machines, by the way, right here.

Spooky update - I wrote this last night, and this morning news is breaking about the biggest protests in twenty years in Lhasa, with troops surrounding three monastaries and reports of gunfire.You can read that story here and get breaking updates at the excellent Radio Free Asia who are all over this story. 

Media access, in fact communication access, into and out of China is extremely limited, which is why I feel that people with access to mass communication (which is me and you as well these days) have a duty to fuck the Chinese government as and when necessary.

You’re either with me or against me. Or both, if you play your cards right.

Only joking. Easy.

Have a good weekend everyone.

I work east of where I live.

My every movement to work is to the east - each road, all the motorways, the train line, even the walk to the station. It’s that way all the way into the rising sun.

It’s the opposite on the way home, or course, and being westward, its into the sun again.

But the wind? The wind has different ideas. The wind wants to blow east. It moves in from the west. If you want to go back further, it starts in Mexico. Maybe it braces itself with a couple of margueritas before heading up over Cuba and the Florida Keys, brushing past the Carolinas, perhaps picking up rain over the Mason Dixon line for Pennsylvania and New York before heading out over the ocean through jet engines, speeding up their eastward journey before coming ashore at some British port that was busier in the days before the turbines first roared.

It spreads and tempers through England’s hills and bricks and eventually blows east down my street in the morning, where I have the nerve to feel tired and sometimes alone.

Eastward blows the wind.

It blows away from the sun in the evening. It’s on my back in the morning, pushing me to work and it challenges me on my way home to empty plates and full hearts and heads ready for bedtime stories.

Santa Ana, mistral, sirocco, zonda, gulf stream. Every population has a name for the wind it knows.

Eastward is why the west of London is the fancy part, and the smokey factories and soot settled in the east, the trade at the mouth of the muddy Thames.

Out where I live and upwind, the river’s a different story, rolling through valleys and and under the breeze carrying newsreader accents echoing around big waterfront properties. Teas. “E”s pronounced like the letter sounds and sounds of the wind itself.

The wind blows because it is all it is capable of doing.

For the purposes of not getting sued, I need to point out that although I do work for the BBC, this blog is nothing to do with the Corporation. The official bit goes a little bit som’fin’ like dis. Bass.

These are my personal views and not those of the BBC.

“BOOMPF, b’tsse. BOOMPF-boompf’tsse. Wikki wikki wikki wikki BMPHF.”

Recognise.

I am, as you can tell from my human beatbox skills, the Senior Commercial Product Manager for Journalism in the Future Media group, which puts me literally at the business end of online news.

What I can’t stress enough is that bbc.co.uk is a serious and respected website, so there’s your first clue right there that this site is not associated with it.

My days at the Broadcast Centre are full and varied and evening reading material and extra study means this site has suffered over the last week - I admit it. This blog hasn’t been running as well as it should and at times last week I felt like I should get off and push. I will keep writing though, just not about work stuff, so don’t expect me hear anything about the goings on (going ons?) inside the Big British Castle.

Due to the unique way in which This Is This is funded, this site has nothing to do with your licence fee, either, so don’t give me any of your “we pay your wages” noise, because I haven’t actually seen any of this money you talk about, but if you see me in the Television Centre bar, I like Jack Daniels and ginger ale and I am uncomfortable talking to strangers so thanks for the drink and enjoy your evening.

I’m only joking. Hey, let’s get Monty Don and crash Newsnight.

These were the imagined cries in my mind’s ear as I woke up to the news that ‘Allo ‘Allo is to be shown in Germany.

Initial thoughts of “haven’t they suffered enough?” then turned to my favourite joke about the catchphrased-based WW2 sitcom. Alexei Sayle once said the show’s screen run had not only lasted longer that the actual war itself, but had killed almost as many people.

Despite this, I am known to season my conversations with ‘Allo-isms even though:

1) It is not cool

2) It was not funny

3) I try being either

Scaryduck will confirm that during our checkered working life, I have addressed him as “you stupid woman”, while he in turn has warned me that he would “say zis only once”. Great days, SD. Great days.

Actually, I think he is the only person who has ever come back with an ‘Allo reference, leading me to worry about the number of actual females I have greeted with “You stupid woman”. Or “Good moaning”. Actually no, that one still works. Right? Ladies?

In other news, last week auntie, this week uncle, with news that I am one again as of lunchtime yesterday.

Welcome to the world, little one.

You stupid woman.

It’s OK. It’s just your Uncle Cliff have a little laugh. Just him. A little one.

In my head (but in my defence it was only in my head), I just said:

“For how’m is this paid?”

instead of simply:

“How is this paid for?”

Because that’s weller English, yeah? That’s talking stuff right, yes?

See? See what being me does to a head?

You can’t buy class. Don’t shoot the messanger, but I saw this in the supermarket car park this week.

That’s right.

“I heart minge.”

Sexist commenters on this post will be deleted and BANNED from this site. I’m not joking. Apart from when I’m laughing at the graffiti of someone who writes “I heart minge” on a wall. That’s fucking stupidity that deserves to be ridiculed and shared. Anyone found genuinely agreeing here though without irony is a moron and will be dealt with. It’s a shame I have to write this, but it’s the internet and I don’t control it. Yet.

It was hard to pick a Nick Drake song, because there are so many of them that I love.

You’ve got the haunting strings and mysterious lyrics of Riverman, the lovely slide guitar and happy resignation of Time Has Told Me, the relaxed fatherly pace of Pink Moon. There’s a job knowing where to start or end.

It should tell you something to reveal that while for years no one claimed to dislike novelty ringtones more than me, it’s the opening seven notes from Black Eyed Dog that gently asks for my attention every time I get a text message.

But you have to start somewhere and no song collection of mine would be complete without some Nick Drake, so I chose Northern Sky for its relaxed familiarity extending an informal invitation to whatever you want it to mean.

I never felt magic crazy as this.
I never saw moons knew the meaning of the sea.
I never held emotion in the palm of my hand
or felt sweet breezes in the top of a tree,
but now you’re here
brighten my northern sky.

Listen: Northern Sky

—
Related pages
Weekend Song archive

So we learn of the sad demise this week of Dungeons & Dragons co-founder Gary Gygax who sheds this life with zero life points. That’s a little D&D joke for you there.

One of the reasons this made the news so much is because kids of the 80s who were geeks played the role-playing game grew up with computers and grew to love the internet as it did them and they turned into bigger geeks who remember the people who influenced their own childhood.

I was into D&D, but not in a big way, but I was friends with guys who were. I was more into sports and joking around, but the D&D guys weren’t the typical geeks you might imagine played the game.

True, they were as a group exclusively male, while the girls were into guys but only the ones they’d never meet, like John Travolta, Simon leBon and Matt Dillon.

But the D&D guys were usually bigger than me, into karate, jumping off high walls, climbing trees, burning stuff, carrying penknives with which to sharpen sticks for throwing at each other. In short, these were regular boys with a healthy interest in fiction and the outdoor life.

I was more into playing music and team sports, so I knew more girls. But the D&D guys were more sociable, although despite what they said, girls didn’t go for sociable guys.

But I had the funny and the sport down, and that carried me some way into an adjusted adulthood.

Wow – a proper blog post today. I didn’t think that was going to happen because I’m still waiting for a laptop at work. I ordered it today because the ‘puter I’ve got now I’m pretty sure was taken from the Tomorrow’s World prop cupboard.

I keep seeing famous people and staring at them as I try and place them as old friends, until they stare back and then I realise it’s them off the telly, so I look away before I say “It’s you off the telly.”

What I should of course say is: “Yep. Cliff Jones. This is this. How you doing, OK?”

You’ve been great this week. Thanks for the support. I haven’t been posting as much but still you’re here, so thanks. As well as no laptop, I have very dodgy internet access at home, but all will be fixed. I don’t know if the weekend song is going to happen due to technical difficulties, but we’ll see.

Have a great weekend either way.

Dear This Is This,

Why oh why oh why must the TIT resort to such back language in its posts?

Heh. You said tit.

Hello reader,

I am trying not to put my foot in it in my new job. I normally find this easy to do.

———-
Exhibit A
Conversation at AOL

Colleague: Hey Cliff, remember Sally? Did evening shifts? You know. Worked on the Shuttle crash?

Me: Oh yeah… Mental.

Colleague: She used to go out with Simon here.

Me: …but nice.

Simon: We’re still quite close actually.
———-

Luckily there haven’t been any incidences like that yet. But early days, eh readers? Early motherfucking days.

Well, I could swear all day but that’s not why you’re here. Sure, we have some laughs and we talk about things and - no, actually, that’s it.

Maybe I’ll write about stuff in the news on occasion, but I don’t pretend to do much else.

I don’t tackle the issues so much as get up close to them, fall over, then roll about and look around indignantly for some kind of free kick

What I will do is wait until I’m called up by the likes of Wendy and, like a cheap whore, will jump (the cheap whore being me, OK, let’s be absolutely clear about that) will jump through the Fiery Hoops Of Meme when summoned.

The idea of this one is to take a book you’re reading and turn to page 123 and skip to the fifth sentence and then transcrive sentences six seven and eight.

I normally have three to five books on the go at a time - one serious main one, one bedside one (although this is rarely actually at my bedside) and one work one. I don’t mean it’s a work-related one, but it’s one into which I have to put a little effort, either to become a person or writer, which looking back at this last paragraph, doesn’t seem to be working.

Book 1
The Playmaker by Thomas Keneally
It’s a book about the first years of the penal colony of Sydney, set around the convicts putting on a play.

A number of journals, including the one Ralph kept, recounted that the convict constable Parr refused to set the rope around the boy’s neck. In the end Harry was forced to mount the ladder and adjust the rope himself, doing it deftly for fear the boy said something to him, pleaded, or - worst of the lot - granted forgiveness. Luckily forgiveness wasn’t his style.

Book 2
Love And Marriage by Bill Cosby

“But you’re missing the full benefit,” I told her.
“Why don’t we try to get that in a picnic at Death Valley next week?”
Teaching your wife little things, like how to broil herselfor brush her teeth is a form of education that can move the student to throw something at you.

Book 3
Petit Traite Sur L’Immensite Du Monde by Sylvain Tesson

En etre reduit a exprimer sa pensee dans une tour obscure. Viennent 1960 et les annees de l’amour libre. Quanr on s’aime, on veut que ca se sache.

Tranny: Reduced to having to express ourselves in an obscure turn of phrase. Then came 1960 and the years of free love. When you’re in love, you want it to be known. (Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose. See what I did there?)

I in turn tag my father Ted (heh. Never thought about that before) at Riviera Writer, his wife Writer’s Moll, Meg and relatively new and welcome commenter Miss Tickle.

Breaking News: Tellytubbies do not love each other as much as previously believed, study finds. Viewer group says original claims were ‘misleading’ -  -  -

Thanks for all the wishes about the new job - you’re very kind. Amid the texts, the facebook greetings and the messages here, I didn’t know where to tip my hat first, so thanks very much.

For reasons of national security, I can’t talk about my work here yet. Only joking - I’m just not saying much because there’s a whole blogging policy there and I work on a large team and I don’t want to go into it all bums glazing just yet.

But everyone is very kind, friendly and they smell really good. The pace is very very different from the other place, which I also can’t talk about because of another policy.

But this was never a blog about work. It’s sometimes about coincidences though. Like how I sit next to the guy who looks after blogs. That’s his remit. Blogs. For the whole company. Next to me. You having that? I plan this shit as much as I make it up, and you know that I do neither.

So you’re thinking: “New job/schmoo job - what does this mean for me, Jones?”

Since “(shrug) prolly nuttin” isn’t a very mature answer, I’ll say, with gravitas: ”It’s too early to tell.”

My situation has changed. I’m off the bus and back on the train, I’m working later hours but more flexible on terms I can largely decide, rather than be at the mercy of breaking news. But being on the train means I often don’t have space to sit down, which means these posts now are limited to writing on the tube - a journey that takes about fifteen minutes. Except I don’t have a laptop, because that stayed at my old job.

I tried out one of those tiny EE computers and it was amazing, but even if I got one, when would I write? I got home last night at 8pm, I hadn’t sat down on the way home, said my goodnights, returned a phone call, fixed myself dinner and made lunches and by the time I did sit down it was 10pm.

It’s not a difficult life. It’s what millions of other commuters do and we’re probably the lucky ones, but they don’t have two kids to update and a blog to feed.

Bear with me. I’ll figure something out.

I really do enjoy the job, though, really.

Good morning, it’s Monday the third of March in London and you’re reading This Is This.

DumdeedumDUMDUMdumdeeDUMDUMtweedledeedeedaddeedada….

I’ve felt better, so I’m posting up a song without any words because it’ll take less out if me without losing any of that Weekend Song goodness.

I saw the Chemical Brothers back a while. I’m never sure if I should link back, but I realise there are new readers here, so you can read about that here.

Also a while ago I had The Band up here with Ophelia. Here it is live in The Last Waltz, filmed by a young Martin Scorcese. I think drummer Levon Helm had one of the best voices in music. There’s a long intro to this clip, so you might want to jump in right at  2′30′’. Watch him at three minutes in, in the chorus and he’s about to do a fill, either drums or vocal, but Robbie Robertson plays a lick, so Levon sits back, but he’s ready to do in. And his eyes. His eyes. There’s nothing there, but also a empty conciousness. It’s like a lion with a dying gazelle in its jaws, the lion’s ready to do anything, but right now it’s doing this.

He’s so cool. I want my hair like that.

Electronic music is fine. I once read an argument that nothing produced by a computer would ever have the passion of Bob Marley playing Redemptions Song. I’d say that’s true, but it’s not about that. It’s kind of like saying that no rasberry could ever taste like a strawberry. It’s stupid. Anyway, I wasn’t going to say too much and now look at me.

Listen: Loops Of Fury

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Weekend Song archive