I was frantically searching for a long-lost piece of information last night, and I stumbled upon an old notebook. More than ten years ago I wrote this about a colleague, who has now shuffled off this mortal coil of quarter inch magnetic recording tape. I don’t think it’s fair to name him, so instead I’ll pick a name at random from the Adobe Photoshop splash screen.
Chris Cox must ask himself the following questions when any object comes to his attention:
1) Can I drink it?
2) Can I ask it out for dinner?
3) Can I back it each way?
On the Culture Show on BBC2 tonight, sometime Durutti Column drummer, old man Bruce Mitchell had this to say about Tony Wilson:
Every crisis he had a positive take on. There wasn’t a negative bone in his body and I found it inspirational then and I do now.
Vini Reilly described the last time he saw Wilson, the day before he died. Wilson had been unable to speak but as Reilly left, Wilson pulled himself up on his bed and gave him a peace sign.
So moving.
Tony Wilson always meant a lot to me, been a bit of a hero since I was a teenager. I’m so unlike him, but I so much wanted to be more like him then. And I still do now.
I can’t believe that Ken Campbell is dead, or that he was only 66. But it says so in his obituary, so it must be true.
I saw two of his live performances, one-man shows… one in Deptford and another in a tent on Blackheath. Both were wonderful. He was a master of surreal storytelling, he had the audience in the palm of his hands on both occasions.
I also remember a story that he almost halted recording of the second radio series of The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy because he was unable to deliver the line “Marvin’s got Poodoo” (or similar) without collapsing in laughter. Douglas Adams - who wrote it - and Geoffrey Perkins - who produced it - are dead too. Sad sad sad.
There’s a very odd atmosphere in our community today. It’s never been so quiet, even on a Sunday. Especially on a Sunday.
Very odd seeing the priest that baptised my daughter being interviewed live on the BBC News Channel. I keep seeing people I know on TV, in tears.
Very hard trying to tell my son Henry, who is 8 and was in the same class as Jimmy Mizen’s youngest brother, not to worry and that this sort of thing won’t happen to him. But if it can happen to a boy like Jimmy, who went to Henry’s school, a few yards from Henry’s school in the middle of a sunny Saturday, it’s hard not to think that it can happen to anyone.
We were on our way to a friend’s 40th birthday party on the bus and really hacked off that the bus was diverted. There had been ‘an incident’ on Burnt Ash Hill, road closed, we spent 90p on a bus fare to nowhere and had to walk.
Then we arrived at the scene where Jimmy Mizen was murdered. His youngest brother was in my son Henry’s class at school. The bakers’ shop is across the road from Henry’s school and I have often popped in there for a sausage roll.
A very odd evening. Tearful friends of the family spilling out of the church a short distance from the murder scene, the church where my daughter Tilly and son William were Christened, Mass apparently abandoned. An old colleague of Catherine’s doing a live into the BBC News Channel. My old colleague Graham Eva was in the sat truck.
The party was a strange do. Lots of food, Irish music and I drank too much Guinness and whiskey and pondered the angry mood of some of the people there as we talked about the news agenda and how BBC News will be doing lives from the church in the morning… some anger and tears and we are in the middle, Cathy’s phone ringing ringing ringing… the home news desk…
(Guardian article)
I read this fine passage from E M Forster today, on the train appropriately enough, and wished I’d spotted it in time to add it to my essay on train travel between Paddington and Slough. Somehow it is made even more poignant by the fact that Mark Speight apparently killed himself so close to Paddington station because it reminded him of trips to the West Country with his girlfriend.
Like many others who have lived long in a great capital, she had strong feelings about the various railway termini. They are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them, alas! we return. In Paddington all Cornwall is latent and the remoter west; down the inclines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands and the illimitable Broads; Scotland is through the pylons of Euston; Wessex behind the poised chaos of Waterloo [...] And he is a chilly Londoner who does not endow his stations with some personality, and extend to them, however shyly, the emotions of fear and love.
Howard’s End, Chapter 2.
This morning in Pret a Manger, as I walked out into the street I noticed that there was a young woman sitting in the corner with a MacBook chatting happilly into her phone. Next to her sat a woman whose face was tortured with grief and sorrow - silently screaming if not actually sobbing.
I wonder if the guy serving wished her a nice day as he did me.
I think Half Man Half Biscuit were ahead of their time with the highly amusing couplet:
James Dean was just a careless driver
And Marilyn Monroe was just a slag
I’m not sure which depresses me more; this, or this?
The former shows how many colour printers secretly print yellow dots to tell The Man the serial number of your printer and the time and date of printing.
In the latter a journalist called Michael Henderson kicks John Peel’s rotting corpse 4 years after his death. Way to go. Next week I’m sure he’ll be pissing all over Jeff Buckley (”HE NEVER GREW UP!”) and taking a dump on John Smith (”HE STAGED HIS OWN DEATH TO AVOID THE TOUGH DECISIONS OF GOVERNMENT!”). Tosser.
Farewell, then, Tony Wilson.
Yes, you should have signed The Smiths. But you were right about Mick Hucknell, his music’s rubbish and he’s a ginger.
Have a look here and remember, and smile.
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