Revealing Myself

There I was... Pure of thought, deed and inclination. Eschewing the ephemeral, holding back the dogs of social war, elevating my sights to something better, something more wholesome. But then I fell readers, I fell.

I'm talking, of course, about that freak show, that parade of inadequates and emotional incontinents we call Facebook. 

I resigned as you well know. Sick of modern life. Tired of the trite and the easy path.  The unwisdom of the crowd. I wanted to switch off modern distractions, write, read and become the best version of myself. Or some shit like that. Absolutism is easy after a couple of drinks, isn't it?

But you never really resign, do you? So, I turned on Facebook again this week. Just for a quick peep beneath the skirts of society. Only to be presented with a grinning version of myself nearly 30 years ago stretched out like some Page 7 fella. Micro briefs covered the essentials but other than that, you got the naked 20 year old version of myself. Out on the internet for all to see and tagged appropriately in case you missed it.

Yes, one of my old 'friends' had uploaded a picture - a somewhat  unlovely reminder from the 80's like Arthur Scargill or a New Model Army concert.

Shocked? Yes. Annoyed? Yes. Invasion of privacy? Well of course. A teeny weeny bit envious at the effortless nascent six pack I sported back then? You betcha!

What possessed this 'friend' to post the picture, fuck only knows. You can't choose your friends apparently. I suppose you can however unchoose them which is pretty much my view on most of the people I've met in this life. But, seriously folks... Who wakes up in the morning and thinks, today I could mow the grass, do some chores, kick back and watch Strictly or shag the wife, but, fuck it - what I fancy doing is scanning a 30 year old picture from Benidorm of a mate I haven't seen for 20 years in his undies and uploading it to Facebook like it's fucking Grindr or something?

Never has FFS been more useful...

But, to my female readers out there; yes, I still look like that. Just a bit more toned, You know around the biceps. Chest. Oh yeah. An hour's walking everyday keeps you buff no matter how much you drink nor how much you eat. Bound to.

Anyway, enjoy the video below which was uploaded six years ago as a test. 

Tim

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So Serious - One of my 'lighter' songs!!! Love the hat. Where's that gone? 

Note: I asked my friend to take down the 'naked' picture of me. He obliged, of course. Still, a fictitious slight is better than a real compromise, no?

The Robust Annals of August

Well, August has gone but summer still persists here in the nation's capital and down on the South Coast. Which is a shame really as I bought a nice Autumn coat from Samuel Windsor.  In the sale, of course. And now it's September. There was a girl in Rochdale one September many autumns ago. I promised I'd never tell. The lady however, when asked, said, 'Tim Who? Is he the short one? Oh him! It was only one kiss for fuck's sake! I was drunk. Yeah, can I go large on it. Extra fries.'

Happy memories, but let's not let August slip away like a greased pig thrown into a three-way with an oiled up celebrity couple. Let's review this blog's August performance shall we?

This blog started the month in self-congratulatory mode celebrating July's record RSS numbers. However,  as August's RSS numbers didn't quite reach July's numbers, I'll concentrate on the fact, last month, I got the second highest number of visitors to the site in 2016. That's good, right? And what the hell is RSS anyway? 

I have a mate in the industry. Writing a book on this stuff. I asked him about RSS feeds. He tried to explain. Still none the wiser. But he'll get your website up Google's rankings, apparently.

So - August was one of the best months for, er, actual people coming here and reading stuff. Maybe it's all the many millions of fans from my writer's Facebook page coming here, hanging out, chewing the fat and learning about Folk music. Or something.

Now let's review my posts. And the blogs I promised but didn't actually deliver:- Led Zeppelin, The Emperor Augustus, Edward Hopper and probably loads more but I can't be arsed looking back. There's also a few blogs that I did write - possibly refreshed, possibly not - that my internal Quality Manager judged to be so bad, forced or plain masturbatory, that I pulled them. Fear not though, they're still here in draft. Crap posts are but a couple of drinks away. I walk the line between genius and arse like Johnny Cash trying on a pink shirt.

I liked the Folk Music / Bleecker Street double header blogs. Worthy but heartfelt I felt. 

And who hasn't read my back to back blogs musing on information gate-keepers and the blogs I read myself? Up there with Bramwell Bronte's best stuff. And it's a shame I don't get rewarded for all the traffic I sent Peter Hitchens' way after name-checking him and putting in one of those fancy weblink thingies.

It was good to write about one of my poems being accepted and published this Christmas. Bet that's gonna be a money spinner! 

I also got long listed again for another literary competition though - surprisingly - there was no blog about this middling failure. FFS - long-listed again! Always the jilted bridegroom and never the rogering best man. (Yeah, that metaphor doesn't really work. I know.) Still; longlisted is better than spunking my literary children into a Kleenex. (Did I actually just write that sentence - the curse of a large white strikes again.) Anyway, it gives me the opportunity to show you another Tim Robson profile (written by me, of course) on another website. Fame, fickle fame. 

So, enough.  This is getting to be the blog that celebrates itself. Not a great look. (But it's a look).

Additionally, I finished two short stories in August and began another. The Dead Pubs of Clapham still remains unwritten but Bang the Beat! and Insignificance were completed on trains, in pubs and my kitchen during the month. And then entered into competitions. Obscure long lists sternly beckon, no doubt.

August. Kind of top end when it comes to blogs and popularity. Not The Beatles. More The Yardbirds; respected, revered but alas, For Your Love aside, obscure. But, as we all know, The Yardbirds begat Led Zeppelin.

Nob.

Tim

(September's laughable aspirations for this sturdy organ to be published tomorrow. Or not.)

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Rochdale - God's own town.

I come from Rochdale. Technically I was born in Yorkshire, but from the age of two, my home town, and where I still call home, is Rochdale.*

For those that don't know, Rochdale, despite it's dour Northern and - in recent years - somewhat unsavoury reputation, is often quite beautiful. My parents still live there and I love going back. I've always been proud to come from Rochdale.

I have the eyes of returnee now. Everyone in Rochdale is proud of their town, to me, with my Southern perspective, I can see why.

I see wonder in the Moors that surround the valley of the river Roch, the urban parks, the splendour and bracing walks around Hollingworth Lake. Sentimentally, I see beauty in the rows of terrace houses, the indomitable spirit of the inhabitants who - lest we forget - took on the boss class in the worse excesses of Victorian factory exploitation and invented the co-operative movement in 1844.

A muscular and unapologetic working class culture - patriotic and self-supporting. You get off the M62 at Rochdale and are met by the sign - "Rochdale - Home of Cooperation"**. Not many towns have a boast that spans the world.

The people.. Funny. Friendly. Don't take any shit.

Rochdale Town Centre

The town centre, a triumph of Victorian ambition, urban planning and architecture, was always impressive. The wide open feel of the town centre was created by a bridge that enclosed the River Roch;  one of the largest bridges in the world. The Grade 1 listed town hall, a gorgeous Gothic building, represented civic pride and the local centre of democracy for so many years. Opposite the town hall the Grade 1 listed war memorial - like the more famous one in Whitehall - designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens from public donations - sits in a peaceful garden flanked by the Grade 2 ex Post Office building.***

Stupid, ignorant, local counsellors have conspired to rip the heart out of one of the most beautiful Northern town centres by digging up the bridge, building inappropriate modern buildings all over the place and fatuous, empty shopping centres, side-lining a wondrous natural town shopping street (Yorkshire Street). The venality and short sightedness of local politicians never ceases to amaze me. Brighton suffered from them to in the inter war years and - with the Green Council - did recently.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that Rochdale - despite recent scandals and being resolutely working class - can, and always did, hold its head up high. To quote JFK:-

Two thousand years ago, the proudest boast was civis romanus sum ["I am a Roman citizen"]. Today, in the world of freedom, the proudest boast is "I am from Rochdale." Therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words "Ich bin ein Rochdalian!"

He's right. Hold your head up Rochdale. There is no finer place in the world.

Tim (Ich bin ein Rochdalian - really!)

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* I also claim dual citizenship with Brighton & Hove

** Farcically - orginally the council put up - "Rochdale - home of the Coop" 

*** This war memorial was where I first saw tramps / drunks / beggars. I remember them from the 70's