Ah, yes, every rainy Sunday afternoon when I was a child, my father's vinyl record collection would emerge from the gargantuan radiogram - a prized object the size of a sideboard, with a radio and record player built into it. A crackly loudspeaker was at either end, and inside was a slot intended to house the average person’s entire record collection, (probably around twenty LPs at the most.)

So the rain would fall, and the house would smell of the remains of Sunday dinner - a traditional roast, followed by a somewhat solid rice pudding - and rolling out of the prized loudspeakers would come such ‘delights’ as Delaney’s Donkey (as in the YouTube vid above) and Paddy McGuinty’s Goat, the theme music to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang or Paint Your Wagon and, just when it seemed things could not get worse, the dreaded James Last Orchestra.

Ah, yes, the trials of youth…

Truly, parents have no mercy.

Dragon tattoo by Richard:- http://www.myspace.com/richie_tattoo_artist

Richard spent a rough night due to the cold he's caught. Consequently he spent half of today in bed. He's sat in his Man Cave now, watching a documentary about The Beatles, with Saffron purring in his lap. He likes some of their music but not all of it. Saffron couldn't care less what's playing so long as she gets her ears tickled.

Anyway, while he was snoring triumphantly in bo-bos, I was busy tapping away on this puuter. Today's word count for Bethany Rose is 1,879 words. I love it when a character does something unexpected. I had no idea Bethany was going to move into a haunted house! This MS is very different in mood from Rowan. Whereas Rowan has a languid romantic feel to it, BR is much, much darker.

Did anyone tune in to 7 Waves Radio today? Four members of Riverside Writers were guests on Cath Bore's Lunchtime Forum show: Tim Hulme, Peter Caton, Eileen Murphy and Peter Hurd. I'll be back on air at next month's session, having volunteered to opt out this time to allow some other people a turn on air.

No news about the postponed Wirral Bookfest 2009 yet; and no wonder, with the situation regarding the threatend closure of so many of Wirral's libraries and other community resources still undecided.

The good news, though, is that playrite Sylvia Taylor has agreed to visit Riverside Writers and give a talk/workshop on script writing. The date is yet to be confirmed. Sylvia has co-written for the BBC and used to run her own theatre company. Currently she's making small films (which have been shown on the huge public screen in Liverpool city centre), planning full-length films, and works in community art development.

I sat beside a big cannon on Monday. This was not my intention, as I rather like having ear-drums.

However, Richard and I arrived late at the Echo Arena due to a heavy traffic jam through Liverpool, and someone else had whizzed our seats. Rather than struggle to find a staff member in the dark, and consequently miss even more of Raymond Gubbay’s Classical Spectacular, we simply helped ourselves to seats elsewhere. Hence our proximity to the cannon.

We weren’t the only late arrivals. At least 200 people entered the Arena after us. And we didn’t notice the canon until we’d sat down. How do you miss a whopping great canon? Two, even. It’s a fair question. We were too busy muttering about the traffic jam and uncomfortable seats with stupid plastic arm-rests which are either set too high so your elbow starts aching or else they poke you in the back if you push them into their vertical position.

And we were watching the light show. Hmm, Hawkwind could teach their techie team a thing or two, methinks.

That’s when we noticed the cannons set at either side of the stage. The sign propped against “ours” should have been a clue. It did read, “Caution! Keep off! Explosives!” or something similar. And then a little group of soldiers in antique costumes arrived, with bucket-shaped hats, blue tail-coats and muskets.

At least, I think they might have been muskets. What do I know about such things? All I can tell you is that they poured stuff down the pointy end to load them, and that when they were fired they were loud and smelled of sulphur and pencil lead.

Ah, the 1812 overture… It ends with cannon booms. It really did, several times over, even. Plus pyro, plus laser lights, plus (possibly) muskets firing away cheerfully – and what a grand din it was too, until a voice broke through the merriment to order an immediate evacuation of the entire building. The poor orchestra was still sawing away for all they were worth, Mr Gubbay determinedly waving his conductor’s baton and looking round seemingly in bewilderment at the mass exodus taking place behind him.

Such is life!

My feet are still sore! Great concert, awful venue - standing up from before 7pm, when the doors opened, till almost 11pm, followed by a hike from Liverpool University Guild of Students' hall across the city to the train station, in three-inch heels (with pointy toes) is not a recipe for happy feet.

Marillion were excellent, as expected. I would have liked to have been able to see more of them, however. The venue had no seating available, which meant everyone was stood on a level floor trying to peer at a fairly low stage. As I’m 5' 2" tall, this means I mostly saw people's backs. Why is that, no matter where I stand, some half-man-half-giraffe manages to park himself in front of me?

If I had wanted to merely hear the band I could have stayed at home and played a CD rather than have paid £20 per ticket. Instead, I got a great view of the top half of the curtained backdrop. Trying to catch a glimpse of one of my favourite singers was akin to watching a beach ball adrift on a stormy ocean. Sometimes I saw his forehead.

But the music was wonderful! And that’s the most important thing, no?

Next time, here’s hoping Marillion play at the Pacific Road Arts Theatre in Birkenhead. It’s a similar sized venue, but the facilities are far superior.

A certain little doggy let me know she'd had quite enough of this...


...And that she wanted, instead, a spot of this...


( Read more... )

And now for something else entirely… Awaken your mind’s resting eye and picture this unfolding scene:-

A circle of amber light glows softly on the honey-brown wooden floor, edged by a semi-circle of flickering candelabra illuminating golden harp-shaped music stands. Around the dark curves of the grand piano, their white powdered wigs bowed as they concentrate on their various instruments, sit the Mozart Festival Orchestra resplendent in Eighteenth Century finery; the heavy gold brocade on sleeves and swaggering hems complimenting the rich reds, blues, purples and subtle pastels of their elegant thigh-length jackets. Visualise a rapt audience bursting with ebullient applause as Raymond Gubbay’s conducting leads the orchestra through a varied programme of Mozart’s flawless compositions...

…And you’ll have summoned a fairly accurate impression of our wonderful Thursday evening at the Philharmonic Hall in Liverpool.

Men are weird.

No, really, they are. And yes I know some of you will have encountered similar declarations from me before but this does not lessen the truth of this issue. Men are weird.

Now, don’t misunderstand my attitude. Men are also rather lovely. They’re very useful for keeping feet warm in winter and carrying home heavy shopping and reaching stuff on high shelves - though, granted, a ladder can be a valuable substitute. Ladders can’t put the kettle on, though. Ladders, last I heard, don’t come home from work with chocolates or books or theatre tickets they’ve seen and thought might interest me. And ladders aren’t much good at earning money, (rather like me, actually).

However, they (men, not ladders) do have certain intriguing quirks.

For example:- Why, when one man visits the other, do they seem compelled to play each other their latest CD purchases at top volume then bellow a conversation over the ensuing thunderous noise?

Why are my requests for a reduction in domestic cacophony viewed with amused indulgence, as if it’s an inexplicable feminine trait to dislike being deafened or needing to say, “Pardon?” a lot?

Please feel free to explain this mystery to me.

By the way, it is now possible to place an order for Dark of the Night: An Anthology of Shadows from http://www.darkmoonpress.net

May I tempt you to indulge your senses?

http://www.leruedelashay.com/

Enjoy.