I recently received a pack fromt he local water supplier which claims will help me save water. This is a good thing. Reduce, reuse, recycle, right?
I already have those toilets with the dual flush system, a short flush for when you've just had a pee and a longer flush when you've doen soemthign more solid. I can also understand how a restricter reducers the flow in the shower thus using less water.
But there were a couple of items that I just can't get to grips with. One is a sort of gel pack that goes in the toilet systern to take up space which would otherwise be filled with water, thus reducing the amount of water that is flushed. Great except that I already have modern low level systerns with almost no water in them anyway. If I stick one of these little baggies in there'll be nothing left to flush with and it'll jam the operating mechanism. I might as well just spit in the pan instead.
Next is a gizmo that goes in the end of the tap. This sort of aerates the water, which is great as it makes ordinary drinks taste fizzy, albeit for a very short while. By introducing air into the water this reduces the volume of water flowing through the tap, thus saving water. Huh? How does that workl? If I have a 2 litre kettle to fill I need 2 litres of water. Adding air to it just means it takes me longer to fill the bloody kettle. This does not save water it just means it takes longer to fill the kettl;e.
Even more frustrating is the energy saving boiler I fitted. I used to have a tank full of hot (or warm at least) water available on demand. Now I have a combi boiler which theoretically gives me hot water on demand - except you have to run the tap for about three minutes before it gets warm - or even longer now that the air has been introduced into the equation. So, by trying to save water I am wasting water - and time. If this is green something has gone wrong somewhere.
What the water company should have provided me, free of charge, is a solar water heater, so that the water going to the boiler is preheated thus eliminating the waste water, AND reducing the fossil fuel required to heat it up - a solar heater raisng it by only a few degrees would make a huge difference to the fuel bill.
So get your act together Yorkshire water.
Friday, 12 November 2010
Sunday, 7 November 2010
I don't understand my wife
Yes, the above is true. Rather than my wife doesn't undertstand me, I have coem to accept that the reverse is true. I am well known for my plain speaking. I call a spade a spade. Some call it a manual digging implement. I call it a spade. A black man is a black man. He is not coloured, nor is he a native African - particularly if it turns out he was born in Romford. I strive to make my meaning clear. And simple.
This makes it difficult living with a woman, my wife in particular, because although she speaks English she uses codes all the time. Thsi would not present a problem if I understood the code, as I speak in various coides all day at work, but her code is different, and the meaning changes from one day to another. Allow me to erudicate further;
An example. If a man were to ask "What do you have planned for Friday?" this woudl be a simple social enquiry as to what you have planned for Friday. An answer would be given, such as "I thought we might have a barbeque and maybe watch a DVD afterwards." If this conversation was between two men, the topic would then be closed. Both would understand that a barbeque woudl happen, followed by a DVD. Not so with women. If a woman asks "What do you have planned for Friday?" this means "I have planned something for Friday so whatever you thought you were doing cancel it." The topic is not open for discusssion - the decision has been made. So whatever answer you give is irrelevent, because you will then be told what you will be doing. As in, "Oh, well I thought we could go out for a meal and meet with X and Y afterwards" (X being her best friend and Y being her best friends boyfriend/partner, who according to her logic you will get on with like a house on fire, even though he/she is duller than a week in Putney)
At least in that situation you are told what will be occuring. Much more cryptic is the opening gambit "I need to go shopping tommorow." Setting aside the whole issue of want and need which women are incapable of differentiating, this is simply a statement. She wants to go shopping, and the time she wants to go shopping is tommorow. It is not that simple though. In her world the message is clear. She wants to go shopping, with you, you will drive and carry all the bags, and the credit card which will be used will be yours. But it's not that simple either, because that's what it meant last week. This week it means she wants to go shopping with her friends, and that you are required to stay home and look after the kids. Even if she choses to let slip some further information it will be implied, and disguised as a question. "What time do the shops open on Sundays?" Aha, I can help with that one, with my in depth man-knowledge of Sunday trading hours. 10 until 4. But this in her mind means that I have now agreed to dedicate the whole of that period from 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. to shopping (or looking after the kids) My interpretation however is that at some point during that six hour period she will wish to visit one or more shops. I await further information but none comes.
If a man were deleivring this information he would say simply and in a straightforward manner - "I'm going to the shops tommorow, at ten o'clock. You can come if you like, bring the kids with us. I'll drive." Actually no he wouldn't because a) he would take it as read that she would expect him to drive, and b) unless he was a gay man he wouldn't volunteer to go to the shops, but the theory stands.
In short I think what I'm trying to say is that women need to speak more clearly and tell us what they want. My car needs washing is a statement. I understand the car is dirty. I do not know if you intend to clean it, if you want me to do it, if you are just making conversation or if you want to buy a new one. "Will you wash my car?" is five simply words and will achieve the result you are looking for. I know what is required of me. No need for please or thank you, just say what you want and it will happen. Just don't be so bloody English about it.
This makes it difficult living with a woman, my wife in particular, because although she speaks English she uses codes all the time. Thsi would not present a problem if I understood the code, as I speak in various coides all day at work, but her code is different, and the meaning changes from one day to another. Allow me to erudicate further;
An example. If a man were to ask "What do you have planned for Friday?" this woudl be a simple social enquiry as to what you have planned for Friday. An answer would be given, such as "I thought we might have a barbeque and maybe watch a DVD afterwards." If this conversation was between two men, the topic would then be closed. Both would understand that a barbeque woudl happen, followed by a DVD. Not so with women. If a woman asks "What do you have planned for Friday?" this means "I have planned something for Friday so whatever you thought you were doing cancel it." The topic is not open for discusssion - the decision has been made. So whatever answer you give is irrelevent, because you will then be told what you will be doing. As in, "Oh, well I thought we could go out for a meal and meet with X and Y afterwards" (X being her best friend and Y being her best friends boyfriend/partner, who according to her logic you will get on with like a house on fire, even though he/she is duller than a week in Putney)
At least in that situation you are told what will be occuring. Much more cryptic is the opening gambit "I need to go shopping tommorow." Setting aside the whole issue of want and need which women are incapable of differentiating, this is simply a statement. She wants to go shopping, and the time she wants to go shopping is tommorow. It is not that simple though. In her world the message is clear. She wants to go shopping, with you, you will drive and carry all the bags, and the credit card which will be used will be yours. But it's not that simple either, because that's what it meant last week. This week it means she wants to go shopping with her friends, and that you are required to stay home and look after the kids. Even if she choses to let slip some further information it will be implied, and disguised as a question. "What time do the shops open on Sundays?" Aha, I can help with that one, with my in depth man-knowledge of Sunday trading hours. 10 until 4. But this in her mind means that I have now agreed to dedicate the whole of that period from 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. to shopping (or looking after the kids) My interpretation however is that at some point during that six hour period she will wish to visit one or more shops. I await further information but none comes.
If a man were deleivring this information he would say simply and in a straightforward manner - "I'm going to the shops tommorow, at ten o'clock. You can come if you like, bring the kids with us. I'll drive." Actually no he wouldn't because a) he would take it as read that she would expect him to drive, and b) unless he was a gay man he wouldn't volunteer to go to the shops, but the theory stands.
In short I think what I'm trying to say is that women need to speak more clearly and tell us what they want. My car needs washing is a statement. I understand the car is dirty. I do not know if you intend to clean it, if you want me to do it, if you are just making conversation or if you want to buy a new one. "Will you wash my car?" is five simply words and will achieve the result you are looking for. I know what is required of me. No need for please or thank you, just say what you want and it will happen. Just don't be so bloody English about it.
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
It's been a funny sort of day.
"It's been a funny sort of day." - Arkwright often used to close his shop thinking that very thought in the voice over as he closed the shop on the much loved classic BBC comedy "Open All Hours." Well it also sums up my day today.
Allow me to explain - if I can.
At work I drive a Volvo V70. These are wonderful cars, very powerful with the T5 engine, or even in D5 diesel form, and I get to drive both. The can carry a huge amount of gear, except of course anything in a cup, as Volvo unlike every other major manufacturer do not fit cup holders. Or an ash tray. Or a cigarette lighter. This is presumably because Volvo drivers are at peace with the world, and do not approve of stimulants like coffee or tobacco to improve their driving performance.
Such is the capriciousness of the Volvo that it can hide an untold quantity of Biro's. Should you inadvertently drop one whilst attempting to, for instance, balance a note pad on the steering wheel whilst temporarily held at a red traffic light, and attempt to write something down, it will almost always without fail fall into the gap between the seat and the centre console. And from there into a black hole, a Volvo designed storage facility which will keep it safe in perpetuity. I would venture so far as to say you will almost certainly never see it again, the likelihood of finding it being inversely proportional to the value of the Biro or pen you dropped. Drop a cheap Biro and you may find it after several minutes searching ion hands and knees and with much movement of the seat fore and aft to shake it from the secret hiding place in which it becomes lodged. Drop a fountain pen which is worth £300 and was passed down to you by your great grandfather and you will never ever see it again.
So when I dropped my Biro under said circumstances I reached down immediately before it had chance to drop into the very bowels of the Volvo. Big Mistake. Remember the monkey with the jar of nuts? Well eventually the monkey dropped the nuts and was able to withdraw his hand from the jar. Or, in the case of one or two more aggressive and/or forward thinking monkeys, they smashed the glass jar. Well ..... even letting go of the Biro did not release the death grip the Volvo suddenly took on my arm. Trapped by my watch strap, unable to take off the handbrake, or change gear i was stuck as the traffic lights changed to green, then amber, then red, and back through a second cycle, with a line of traffic behind growing increasingly impatient with the man in the Volvo failing to drive away. This was Terry and June humour at it's very best. Basil Fawlty would have milked this situation so much he could have started a dairy.
After several panicked minutes of struggle I gave up and managed to select first gear and release the handbrake right handed, then limp into the kerbside. Risking trapping my right hand too, and with fears of having the Volvo cut apart by the fire brigade to release me, I was able to release my watch strap, fortunately on a Velcro quick release, then work the seat back and forth to painfully extract my arm. Reddened both in the arm and the face I was otherwise uninjured. But what a wonderful design fault this is. Perhaps scrap yard owners run a sideline selling secondhand Biro's extracted from Volvo's at end of life, when they eventually and brutally remove the seats to find the stash of pens hidden in the secret storage area beneath.
Later that day, finding myself lacking a packed lunch, which I had accidentally left at home, I headed for ASDA in search of a ready cooked chicken. The man in front in the queue, of Eastern European Extraction, was obviously a very recent migrant, and spoke little if any English. He pointed at the chicken legs, stuck up four fingers, and by the international medium of grunting, was then offered a buy 5 for £2 deal by the equally inarticulate shop assistant. The entire deal was conducted with no spoken word at all. I felt somewhat obliged to try the same approach, but my intended purchase being half a Garlic chicken I floundered somewhat. I mean, half is easy, with a sawing motion, with a sort of parting of hands, chicken is easily accomplished with the flapping motion of elbows, but just what is the international sign language for Garlic? I went with holding my nose then flapping a hand exuberantly in front of my face, but I'm not sure if she thought I'd just farted or what. Charades was never like this. I'm just glad I didn't want a Cumberland sausage.
Like I said, it's been a funny sort of day.
Allow me to explain - if I can.
At work I drive a Volvo V70. These are wonderful cars, very powerful with the T5 engine, or even in D5 diesel form, and I get to drive both. The can carry a huge amount of gear, except of course anything in a cup, as Volvo unlike every other major manufacturer do not fit cup holders. Or an ash tray. Or a cigarette lighter. This is presumably because Volvo drivers are at peace with the world, and do not approve of stimulants like coffee or tobacco to improve their driving performance.
Such is the capriciousness of the Volvo that it can hide an untold quantity of Biro's. Should you inadvertently drop one whilst attempting to, for instance, balance a note pad on the steering wheel whilst temporarily held at a red traffic light, and attempt to write something down, it will almost always without fail fall into the gap between the seat and the centre console. And from there into a black hole, a Volvo designed storage facility which will keep it safe in perpetuity. I would venture so far as to say you will almost certainly never see it again, the likelihood of finding it being inversely proportional to the value of the Biro or pen you dropped. Drop a cheap Biro and you may find it after several minutes searching ion hands and knees and with much movement of the seat fore and aft to shake it from the secret hiding place in which it becomes lodged. Drop a fountain pen which is worth £300 and was passed down to you by your great grandfather and you will never ever see it again.
So when I dropped my Biro under said circumstances I reached down immediately before it had chance to drop into the very bowels of the Volvo. Big Mistake. Remember the monkey with the jar of nuts? Well eventually the monkey dropped the nuts and was able to withdraw his hand from the jar. Or, in the case of one or two more aggressive and/or forward thinking monkeys, they smashed the glass jar. Well ..... even letting go of the Biro did not release the death grip the Volvo suddenly took on my arm. Trapped by my watch strap, unable to take off the handbrake, or change gear i was stuck as the traffic lights changed to green, then amber, then red, and back through a second cycle, with a line of traffic behind growing increasingly impatient with the man in the Volvo failing to drive away. This was Terry and June humour at it's very best. Basil Fawlty would have milked this situation so much he could have started a dairy.
After several panicked minutes of struggle I gave up and managed to select first gear and release the handbrake right handed, then limp into the kerbside. Risking trapping my right hand too, and with fears of having the Volvo cut apart by the fire brigade to release me, I was able to release my watch strap, fortunately on a Velcro quick release, then work the seat back and forth to painfully extract my arm. Reddened both in the arm and the face I was otherwise uninjured. But what a wonderful design fault this is. Perhaps scrap yard owners run a sideline selling secondhand Biro's extracted from Volvo's at end of life, when they eventually and brutally remove the seats to find the stash of pens hidden in the secret storage area beneath.
Later that day, finding myself lacking a packed lunch, which I had accidentally left at home, I headed for ASDA in search of a ready cooked chicken. The man in front in the queue, of Eastern European Extraction, was obviously a very recent migrant, and spoke little if any English. He pointed at the chicken legs, stuck up four fingers, and by the international medium of grunting, was then offered a buy 5 for £2 deal by the equally inarticulate shop assistant. The entire deal was conducted with no spoken word at all. I felt somewhat obliged to try the same approach, but my intended purchase being half a Garlic chicken I floundered somewhat. I mean, half is easy, with a sawing motion, with a sort of parting of hands, chicken is easily accomplished with the flapping motion of elbows, but just what is the international sign language for Garlic? I went with holding my nose then flapping a hand exuberantly in front of my face, but I'm not sure if she thought I'd just farted or what. Charades was never like this. I'm just glad I didn't want a Cumberland sausage.
Like I said, it's been a funny sort of day.
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
Bloody Indians!
"It looks as though it was put there by an Indian."
A remark made by His Royal Highness Prince Phillip on seeing a fusebox on a tour of the Racal-Mesl Ltd high-tech electronics factory. Arguably the Duke at his very best, managing to insult around one billion people with just one sentence.
At the time he was widely rebuked and lampooned for his insensitivity, and tried to pass off the comment by saying that he actually meant "cowboys" as in poor quality workmanship.
However, given the state of the athletes accommodation in India for the forthcoming commonwealth games we must now concede, surely, that this was not a "foot in mouth" gaffe, but an insightful prophesy of the future quality of Indian building work. Indeed, we should now start a campaign to remove the expression "cowboy builders" from our language, as there is little evidence to suggest that early American settlers did shoddy work, but increasing evidence to support the expression "Indian builders" in reference to a botch job. Well done Prince Phillip!
A remark made by His Royal Highness Prince Phillip on seeing a fusebox on a tour of the Racal-Mesl Ltd high-tech electronics factory. Arguably the Duke at his very best, managing to insult around one billion people with just one sentence.
At the time he was widely rebuked and lampooned for his insensitivity, and tried to pass off the comment by saying that he actually meant "cowboys" as in poor quality workmanship.
However, given the state of the athletes accommodation in India for the forthcoming commonwealth games we must now concede, surely, that this was not a "foot in mouth" gaffe, but an insightful prophesy of the future quality of Indian building work. Indeed, we should now start a campaign to remove the expression "cowboy builders" from our language, as there is little evidence to suggest that early American settlers did shoddy work, but increasing evidence to support the expression "Indian builders" in reference to a botch job. Well done Prince Phillip!
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
Man sized Tissues?
I have been sufferign a little with a cold recently. This has caused the usual problems with, and there is no delicate way to put this, snot streaming from my face at regular intervals.
Obvioulsy there is a way to avoid this which is to use tissues. But here the problem starts. Because when I have a cold I am more likely to be a grump than usual. And Man sized tissues are th ecause of my discontent. They are not man sized at all. Admittedly they are considerablty larger than an average tissue, but nowhere near the size of a man. And when your nose is running as much as mine is, that is what you need - a tissue you can just wrap yourself up in.
It is the suggestion that men need a much bigger tissue that I resent. I mean, who is it that considers men have larger noses than women - granted that may be the case in some instances, but I can thing of many big nosed women (Barbara Streisland comes to mind immediately but there are others) and many small nosed men.
It is the whole variety of tissues that bewilders me. Obviously you get what you pay for - some are "Smart price" meaning that you blow a hole in them and end up with a handful of snot. Others you pay (pardon me) through the nose for, just because they have a scent of jojoba or camomile or whatever. Well, if I have a cold I can't smell that, so I begrudge paying extra for it. No, and don't try and sell me triple ply either. I'm happy with single ply if it's the thickness of a bike innertube thanks. To give me three very thin sheets that fail to withstand the hurricane forc of my flu induced sneeze is just silly. And now theres snot all over the TV. And that was over 25 feet away.
Of course I really ought to direct my wrath towards the clever dick Doctors, who can cure everything except the very worse cases of death and the common cold. But at least they admit they can't do it. unlike Kleenex and company who want us to beleive that their tissues make having a cold so much nicer - in fact if they are to be beleived it's worth catching the cold in the first place just to enjoy their product.
Well it's not. And a roll of Andrex makes far more sense.
Obvioulsy there is a way to avoid this which is to use tissues. But here the problem starts. Because when I have a cold I am more likely to be a grump than usual. And Man sized tissues are th ecause of my discontent. They are not man sized at all. Admittedly they are considerablty larger than an average tissue, but nowhere near the size of a man. And when your nose is running as much as mine is, that is what you need - a tissue you can just wrap yourself up in.
It is the suggestion that men need a much bigger tissue that I resent. I mean, who is it that considers men have larger noses than women - granted that may be the case in some instances, but I can thing of many big nosed women (Barbara Streisland comes to mind immediately but there are others) and many small nosed men.
It is the whole variety of tissues that bewilders me. Obviously you get what you pay for - some are "Smart price" meaning that you blow a hole in them and end up with a handful of snot. Others you pay (pardon me) through the nose for, just because they have a scent of jojoba or camomile or whatever. Well, if I have a cold I can't smell that, so I begrudge paying extra for it. No, and don't try and sell me triple ply either. I'm happy with single ply if it's the thickness of a bike innertube thanks. To give me three very thin sheets that fail to withstand the hurricane forc of my flu induced sneeze is just silly. And now theres snot all over the TV. And that was over 25 feet away.
Of course I really ought to direct my wrath towards the clever dick Doctors, who can cure everything except the very worse cases of death and the common cold. But at least they admit they can't do it. unlike Kleenex and company who want us to beleive that their tissues make having a cold so much nicer - in fact if they are to be beleived it's worth catching the cold in the first place just to enjoy their product.
Well it's not. And a roll of Andrex makes far more sense.
Monday, 20 September 2010
Stages of sexual conquest for man
16 to 18 years - try weakly - uncertain about sex the young man avoids the actaula sex act, despite being intrigued.
18 to 20 years - try weekly - the nightclub years - He tries every Friday night with varying degrees of sucess.
20 years to 25 years - tri weekly - having perfected the art of seduction, he now engages in the sex act up to three times a week.
25 to 30 years - tri nightly - having located the woman of his dreams he is now awoken three times anoght by his partner purely to engage in the sex act.
30 TO 35 years - try nightly - since he said I do, It turns out she says "oh no you don;t" but he still trys it on regularly.
35 to 4o years - tri weekly - every other night is the best he can hope for now.
40 to 50 years - try weekly - one a week if ytou lucky matey.
50 to 60 years - try weekly - give it your best shot pops! Once a week is about all you can expect.
60 years on - Try weakly - as and when you can manage...........
18 to 20 years - try weekly - the nightclub years - He tries every Friday night with varying degrees of sucess.
20 years to 25 years - tri weekly - having perfected the art of seduction, he now engages in the sex act up to three times a week.
25 to 30 years - tri nightly - having located the woman of his dreams he is now awoken three times anoght by his partner purely to engage in the sex act.
30 TO 35 years - try nightly - since he said I do, It turns out she says "oh no you don;t" but he still trys it on regularly.
35 to 4o years - tri weekly - every other night is the best he can hope for now.
40 to 50 years - try weekly - one a week if ytou lucky matey.
50 to 60 years - try weekly - give it your best shot pops! Once a week is about all you can expect.
60 years on - Try weakly - as and when you can manage...........
Sunday, 12 September 2010
Musical tastes? Best described as varied.
I've been having a bit of a clear out at home and came across a box of old compact cassettes, as they were offically known, or tapes to the rest of the world.
I bought my first CD player in early 1991 as a late Christmas present to myself, a Marantz, whcih has turned out to be a quality piece of kit which I still use in the home. Not long after that I bought a 12 CD mulitchanger which hopped from car to car over the next 15 years or so, only recently being consigned to a dusty shelf in the garage because my latest Vauxhall has a factory fitted stereo which, whilst only having a single disc is fitted into the dash and not as easily removed as the old DIN type stereos.
As a result of those purchases my earlier musical tastes were shoved into various boxes and hidden away in the loft and garage for almost twenty years, some of them having not turned in nearly thirty years. Rediscovering them after all this time was both nostalgic and cringeworthy. Some I would not listen to now even if it was the last thing I heard before having my ears sealed with concrete, whilst others are still in my crackle and hiss free CD collection. Strangley there are tapes there I have no recollection of buying - certainly some I would never admit too having paid money for. Yet listening to them they seem strangely familiar, I find myself humming along and mumbling the odd lyric. And given that some are from the mid eighties, you can be assured there are some very odd lyrics indeed.
I know that the sensible thing to do is just throw these things away; the technology is a relic of a bygone age, and the music is of questionable taste, even by my standards. yet I found myself dusting down the old Marantz twin tape deck that predated the matching CD by 12 months and couldn't resist spinning those tow little wheels again. Naturally they all work perfectly, no deterioration from their original poor quality at all. Lots of it was of course crap, but there were some gems in there, particularly the demo tapes and small volume productions made in garages and sold at gigs by bands on the club circuit I used to frequent many many summers ago. Some of these went on to make the big time (Beautiful South/House Martins) whilst Mike Greaves of MG Greaves and the Lonesome Too (who wrote for the Beautiful South) is, so far as I am aware still ticking over on the club scene today, and others just disappered into obscurity, like Eddie Twangs powerful Racket, and the Over Riders.
It's been a voyage of rediscovery, and having rekindled my interest in this music I have created a new task to occupy my time. The cassettes wil have to go of course, they are simply cluttering up the place. But first the best, and possibly the worse of them will be copied to MP3, and perhaps burnt to disc to play in the car once more.
Worringly I have just discovered another large box of very big black plastic CD's. Although bigger they don't contain any more music than a modern CD, even though they have used both sides of the huge 12" disc. Now if onyl I could find that old Wharfedale record player I used to have........ maybe in the loft?
I bought my first CD player in early 1991 as a late Christmas present to myself, a Marantz, whcih has turned out to be a quality piece of kit which I still use in the home. Not long after that I bought a 12 CD mulitchanger which hopped from car to car over the next 15 years or so, only recently being consigned to a dusty shelf in the garage because my latest Vauxhall has a factory fitted stereo which, whilst only having a single disc is fitted into the dash and not as easily removed as the old DIN type stereos.
As a result of those purchases my earlier musical tastes were shoved into various boxes and hidden away in the loft and garage for almost twenty years, some of them having not turned in nearly thirty years. Rediscovering them after all this time was both nostalgic and cringeworthy. Some I would not listen to now even if it was the last thing I heard before having my ears sealed with concrete, whilst others are still in my crackle and hiss free CD collection. Strangley there are tapes there I have no recollection of buying - certainly some I would never admit too having paid money for. Yet listening to them they seem strangely familiar, I find myself humming along and mumbling the odd lyric. And given that some are from the mid eighties, you can be assured there are some very odd lyrics indeed.
I know that the sensible thing to do is just throw these things away; the technology is a relic of a bygone age, and the music is of questionable taste, even by my standards. yet I found myself dusting down the old Marantz twin tape deck that predated the matching CD by 12 months and couldn't resist spinning those tow little wheels again. Naturally they all work perfectly, no deterioration from their original poor quality at all. Lots of it was of course crap, but there were some gems in there, particularly the demo tapes and small volume productions made in garages and sold at gigs by bands on the club circuit I used to frequent many many summers ago. Some of these went on to make the big time (Beautiful South/House Martins) whilst Mike Greaves of MG Greaves and the Lonesome Too (who wrote for the Beautiful South) is, so far as I am aware still ticking over on the club scene today, and others just disappered into obscurity, like Eddie Twangs powerful Racket, and the Over Riders.
It's been a voyage of rediscovery, and having rekindled my interest in this music I have created a new task to occupy my time. The cassettes wil have to go of course, they are simply cluttering up the place. But first the best, and possibly the worse of them will be copied to MP3, and perhaps burnt to disc to play in the car once more.
Worringly I have just discovered another large box of very big black plastic CD's. Although bigger they don't contain any more music than a modern CD, even though they have used both sides of the huge 12" disc. Now if onyl I could find that old Wharfedale record player I used to have........ maybe in the loft?
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