Theresa May : In the Name of God, Go!

I remember the ineffective and slightly ridiculous John Major. I lived through the Brown years where a madman seemingly held the reigns of power. I even stretch back to remembering Ted Heath lose in 1974.

But with Theresa May we have reached an all time low with Prime Ministers in my lifetime.

Britain is a great country and at a time when we need a Churchill or a Thatcher instead we’ve got a weak, craven, humourless and incompetent robot at the helm. She has no backbone meaning the country is repeatedly humiliated by her weakness, her inability to stand up for Britain, her overwhelming need to get a deal, any deal, with the EU.

Where is our Trump? Our Thatcher? Even our own fucking Barnier? Someone with spirit?

Hated by Brexiteers for her useless surrender document that is the Withdrawal Treaty she is also despised by the swivel eyed Remainers for her slavish devotion to her ‘deal’ - a deal nobody wants.

Yes, we need a leader. Someone with vision. Someone who can take the country with them, inspire us through these changes.

And instead we’ve got the unlovely, Theresa May. Remainer. Useless representative of a dreadful political class, asleep at the wheel. Never has Cromwell’s admonishment been more apt :

“Ye sordid prostitutes have you not defil’d this sacred place, and turn’d the Lord’s temple into a den of thieves, by your immoral principles and wicked practices? Ye are grown intolerably odious to the whole nation; you were deputed here by the people to get grievances redress’d, are yourselves gone! So! Take away that shining bauble there, and lock up the doors. In the name of God, go!”

— Oliver Cromwell - April 20, 1653

Be Careful What You Wish For...

We should have left the EU today.

The largest and most peaceful democratic vote in British history has resulted in… well what, three years later?

This Hotel California Brexit (You can check out anytime but you can never leave) has now dragged on for so long it has allowed the anti democratic forces of superstate authoritarianism to rise again. They were pushed back briefly but the delay and obstruction has allowed them to slink out of the shadows.

As I’ve warned here before, if you thwart democracy, what is left? Democracy is not a natural state of affairs; history is replete with how humans used to settle their conflicts and none of it was pretty.

But self serving politicians, an incompetent Prime Minister and anti democrats everywhere have conspired to ignore the vote. “The electorate were misled. They didn’t know what they voted for. It was only advisory. It was close. The Russians swayed people’s minds. The electorate are thick. It was a protest vote. Leavers weren’t given a choice of HOW to leave. We should have another referendum now we know more.”

There’s a strain in - mainly left of centre thought - that increasingly cannot accept democratic losses. They are morally virtuous, their enemies are evil and so any ballot box loss is therefore illegitimate. We saw it in the reaction to Brexit, Trump and any ‘populist’ (aka popular, non establishment) win or surge.

But accepting you lost is a defining and necessary characteristic of a democracy. I hate losing but I accept you cannot have a peaceful country without it. Richard Nixon, when faced with evidence that JFK cheated in 1960, chose not contest the result as he knew it would tear society apart. That is Nixon story everyone who writes the narratives these days forgets. But it is the most instructive.

If democracy is denied then the result is violent chaos. To all those MPs who are actively trying to ignore a specific instruction from the country and to those outside who daily try to undermine the 2016 referendum, I say this: be careful what you wish for - human history shows that the line between a peaceful society and bloody war is a narrow one. Do not rush to cross it.

TIM ROBSON

(And I recognise that in our current climate only one opinion is allowed - in work, on social media. But I no longer care. I care more about democracy than I do about remaining silent. Today is bad day for Britain whether you support Remain or Leave.)

Lucie Silvas

Occasionally, my judgement is wrong. Sometimes I will admit to these mistakes. Not often. Usually insincerely. But when I’m off and know it - and it doesn’t affect me to confess - I’ll write about it here.

I thought Lucie Silvas’ third album was shit when it came out. Then I saw her in concert last December and I now don’t.

There, got that off my chest.

So, as Lucie has released four albums, and I liked the other three, I now like all of them.

Lucie Who? Exactly. As I found out at her semi-secret gig recently in London, she’s a bit of a cult. I knew I was a longtime member of that cult but I didn’t know there were others too. In some ways they looked very much like me - men of a certain age, balding but - let me stress this - the similarity ends there. Didn’t realise she had such a large gay following. I suppose it was obvious really - a big voiced, attractive blonde who writes about relationships. A 2000’s Judy Garland.

In December, I took my 14 year old daughter to this sweaty Shoreditch cellar to watch Lucie. Her only other experience of live music is Taylor Swift in front of 66,000 in Hyde Park a couple of years back. But I hope she will remember this intimate evening all of her life and look back and remember when she saw the legend that is Lucie. It was a loose, make up the setlist as you go along, evening.

I first came across Lucie on 2005’s Now That’s What I Call Music 60 where Breath In was featured. Breath In is probably her biggest hit and its joyous driving pop song with a gorgeous sing-a-long chorus. It is a breath of fresh air every time I put it on. It’s on my Desert Island Discs and I notice its the 6th most played piece of music I own and the first non classical piece. The album’s pretty good too. Very white soul.

Lucie’s high point was her Second Album - The Same Side. As a whole it’s a classic - a big ballad classic but it has a trio of A songs that I always play - Almost, Already Gone and Alone. Already Gone being the perfect rock ballad with a haunting guitar break. And then there’s Passionate You. Clearly Lucie writes on the piano and her tracks often have catchy piano motifs. The title track - The Same Side - is also worth a listen. My favourite Lucie album. Sold about three copies.

Album 3 - Letters to Ghosts, I obviously didn’t listen to enough when it came out. She leaned on it heavily at the gig in December - clearly it’s her personal favourite. Guitar riff heavy Happy is the stand out track followed by the heart tugging ballad Smoke. The title track Letters to Ghosts is good (though better live tbh). And onto E.G.O. which was my fav album of 2018. First Rate Heartbreak with its stop / start riff is the standout track. She played this early and my daughter loved it.

Lucie has a raspy voice that seems to have two gears. She powers out on the low register and you think that maybe she hasn’t got the range for the top notes. But then her higher register kicks in and she hits the notes perfectly. It’s an attractive combination. I often credit Silvas with my gradual shift away from male cock-rocking blues based music to something wider, something more feminine. It was a good change.

She should be more famous.

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The video below is a raw, amateur shot version of Breath In but I think it captures something of the fun and involvement of a Lucie concert.

London Walks : London Bridge / Blackfriars circular

Now this is a proper London walk. We take in ‘olde’ London, new shiny London, industrial London, latte sipping beard and tats London. Some history, food, great buildings, bridges, boozers. I’m calling this my Southwark Shuffle (for no other reason beyond it’s in Southwark and who doesn’t like alliteration?).

I return to this walk time and again. It’s vibrant area and so the landscape changes in subtle or huge ways at what seems to be an increasing pace. That didn’t always seem to be the case.

Back in the mid 90’s I was doing a Masters degree in property. I may have mentioned this fact before but formative experiences are the most vivid in retrospect. I had a term paper to write where the brief was to work up a development on the South Bank of the Thames. I suggested a mixed leisure and office development in Blackfriars overlooking the river. My professor shook his head at this and said I was talking bollocks, and like some late night pre Uber taxi driver, told me no one wants to go south of the river. Idiot. But who was right mate? Me or him? Yes, Me. That’s who.

But - old scores aside - let’s look at my path for this walk shall we?

Now; not every walk has to lurch from pub to pub but it’s rude not to suggest a couple of stopping places along the way. And this walk has great pubs, historic pubs; pubs the conjure the past with each passing pint. We’ll get to that but first, we must have a starting point. And, in this case, it’s also our ending point as this is - wait for it - a circular walk!

So, we start at the extensively refurbished London Bridge Station. Guy’s Hospital tower used to be the tallest kid on the block but now, the Shard muscles itself over all it surveys. This redevelopment has kicked off a spate of similar, smaller, innovative designed buildings throughout the area. As far as I can see, the casualties to make way for this frenzy of new build have been crap 50’s and 60’s concrete office blocks. Good.

Walk straight down from the station onto that historic thoroughfare into London, Borough High Street. Opposite is Southwark Cathedral and Brough Market - we’ll get to those later - but for now, you need to turn left heading south. About quarter of mile down the road is one of London’s hidden gems, the galleried ex-coaching in, The George (pictured opposite).

It nestles in a little side street off the main road. This part of London is full of alleyways and passages and it’s possible to cross the space time continuum back to Tudor times. I was shown this pub by a lady friend many years ago. Thanks! Its worth this little diversion from our main walk for a picture and maybe a pint (though if you’re drinking this early into the walk it’s all going to get messy. Best to come back here later.)

And so with a swift shimmy northwards, we get onto Southwark Street going east-west. About 20 years ago I used to walk to walk down this very street every day so it’s nostalgic but getting less so. It has changed from then to now. This is a street that is, in many respects, unlovely - there are no great landmarks gracing it, the buildings were warehouses and industrial units and now, it hosts increasingly bizarre glass office towers and residential units.

You can still spot some ex-warehouses of Victorian vintage on the street. See the examples in the picture to the left. Now converted to cafes and flats, you can still make out where the pulleys used to haul up goods.

One interesting building is the grade 2 listed ex Mernier chocolate factory which is now a theatre and art gallery of the same name. It’s kind of a stunted, fatter version of the Flat Iron building in New York. It’s probably the best of the old buildings on the Street. You can grab a drink there apparently - I’m guessing some wanky free trade coffee served by a ‘barista’ with a beard. Joy!

Newer, larger and experimental glass buildings are springing up all around Southwark Street but their appearance is welcome; they replaced dreadful post war concrete boxes that defined cheap and seemed designed to crush the spirit for those walking without and those working within. At least the new buildings are vibrant and quirky.

And so we get to Blackfriars Road. Here, the area between the bridge and Southwark Jubilee Line underground station is festooned with new buildings, loads of restaurants, take aways and pubs. It didn’t used to be that way. As I’ve hinted, I worked in property in the mid-90’s. I acquired a building on Blackfriars Road for a large multinational company. In my business case, I took several photos of the area including the then unfinished Southwark Jubilee Line station. Take a look at the pictures below - the top one I took 20 years ago and the second one is the same view in 2018. Interestingly enough the view doesn’t seem to have changed that much (beyond a new skyscraper in the background on the left).

Southwark Jubilee Line Underground being built early 1999. Photo Tim Robson

Southwark Station Sept 2018 : GoogleMaps

The Globe Theatre - photo Tim Robson

A quick drink in the reassuringly dreadful Prince William Henry and then back up Blackfriars Road towards the river. We’re going to walk along the Thames path for a while back towards London Bridge. This stretch of the walkway is pretty historic with many attractions - views across the water to the ever expanding number of towers in the City, St Paul’s Cathedral, London Bridge, The Millennium Bridge, The Cutty Sark, The Golden Hind, Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, The Tate Modern. There’s almost too much to see, too much to absorb. One way you might digest your surroundings is in the ancient pub, The Anchor, overlooking the Thames. Apparently Samuel Pepys watched the Great Fire of London from here. Before the pub burnt down the next year.

So onto Southwark Cathedral and Borough Market. Was it two years ago when those pieces of shit went on a rampage here? Unbelievable. But I’m glad the market is as great and trendy and crowded as normal. Plenty of places to get snacky food around here - hotdogs for me, thank you. And then we’re on Borough High Street again and walking back to London Bridge station for the tube or train that takes us to our next adventure.

Yeah, the ending was slightly rushed. I’ve been writing this article - seemingly - for months. Once discipline has gone, can it ever come back?

Anyway, more regular content starting next week and probably more London Walks. My next one is London Victoria to the Haymarket. Must do it again and take some pictures. But this Southwark Shuffle is a great walk for me. Is it me just talking about my past? Dunno. Try it.

London Walks : Harrods to Victoria Station

St Peter’s Church

This is a favourite walk I’ve been doing for years - essentially a stroll through one of the posher parts of London, some mews, hidden pubs and lots of embassies! Takes about twenty to thirty minutes depending on how slow you walk. If you stop in the nearby pubs - and there are nice ones on this route - then this time can easily stretch to a full afternoon.

My walk from Harrods to Victoria Station; note the interesting mews diversion down Kinnerton Street - to find The Nags Head and the Wilton Arms.

A few years ago - before time began, before Land Securities redeveloped Cardinal Place in Victoria Street - I worked in Portland House. For those of you that don’t know, Portland House is a 1963 concrete skyscraper near London’s Victoria Station. If you’ve been in the area, you’ve probably seen it standing like an inappropriate erection menacing the surrounding area. However, it does have a good view from the top floors over the nearby private Buckingham Palace Gardens (Hi Queenie - put that bikini top back on).

I had a stressful job back in the early 2000’s. I know, I know, you weep for me. Occasionally though I would break the chains of my captors, shoo away the ravenous eagles pecking at my vitals, and head West (young man). I’d explore the quieter streets of Belgravia. So when my company moved to Belgrave House on Buckingham Palace Road a year or two later, I found I could walk to Harrods in my lunch hour. Once there I’d give my Harrods loyalty card a heavy work out. That’s how I roll. And so the Victoria Station to Harrods walk or - it’s more famous cousin - the Harrods to Victoria Station walk was born.

I retraced my steps recently, reminding myself, as I walked, of memories, memories of people and situations long gone but, as I turned familiar corners, not forgotten. For you see, whilst I often did this walk alone, I often didn’t. There was a girl once. There’s always a girl. But I’ll get to that.

As you come out of Harrods, turn away from Brompton Road, past the tube exit and into Hans Crescent. Latterly, this quiet road has become infamous as the place where that self-regarding idiot Julian Assange turns a whiter shade of pale inside the Ecuadorian Embassy. But also, marvel at the illegally parked limos littering the road. Clearly very rich people can’t be expected to obey petty traffic restrictions. They have to launder, sorry spend, their ill gotten gains in Harrods.

Turning right onto Sloane Street, we cross the road and idle past all the high-end shops no-one I know uses. Around the corner we get to the Jumeirah Carlton Hotel on Cadogan Place. It’s an ugly 60’s built hotel but very popular with rich people who like the nearby shopping. Here, if you linger, you can watch the rich go in and out, observe old men parade impossibly beautiful women - maybe to stock up on lingerie at La Perla next door - and then wonder, ‘why the fuck isn’t that my life?’

And across the road to Motcomb Street. I’ve always liked this little high street. There’s an elegant Waitrose, where, back in the day, I used to come to for lunch, buy some rolls, some ham, sun-dried tomatoes and make an al fresco sandwich in the open space behind the Pantechnicon across the road. Back in the mid 2000’s this was where old Roma ladies in shawls used to gather for lunch after a hard morning’s begging outside Harrods. It was quite the style back then; full East European garb, a walking stick, a shake and a shudder. Anyway, I’m pleased to report their various ailments seemed to be much improved by lunchtime as they discussed the day’s take.*

There’s just one pub, latterly called the anodyne The Alfred Tennyson but previously, the more spicy Turk’s Head. In either incarnation I never much liked it and, on my last visit, it seemed a restaurant masquerading as a bar. Anyway, I always turn left just in front of the pub and walk down the mews that is Kinnerton Street. Clearly I never go in Gordon Ramsay’s Petrus. Instead I head to the rather marvellous Nag’s Head and less marvellous but more spacious Wilton Arms.

The Nag’s Head has two bars; a tiny front bar - curiously low down - and a larger room down some stairs at the back. It didn’t allow mobile phones nor - as I found out - laptops. It’s a quirk but one I’m happy to abide by. I fondly think that much of Franco’s Fiesta was handwritten here. It wasn’t. That privilege goes to the bar in Burgess Hill’s Beefeater. A classy joint where you get thrown out for not wearing a football top.

Years back, I used to hold team meetings in the Nag’s Head, gaining the respect of my team by playing endless games of Shag, Marry, Push Off a Cliff. I usually ended up as ‘Marry’ which personally I’m okay with. I took a date there recently. Didn’t work out.

The pub almost next door - The Wilton - is a bit louder, a bit brassier. Outside in the summer it tends to be populated by Belgravia estate agents braying loudly about their latest deal. I’ve eaten here a couple of times. Nothing special. (2020 update: The Wilton is closed)

A twist and a turn and we’re on Wilton Crescent, one of those gorgeous arched stucco terraces that home old money, embassies and money launderers. When I make my millions, I think I might buy here. No, not a flat. A whole house. And then I could pop out to The Grenadier - London’s most difficult to find pub which is out back, in another mews. I’m usually too pissed to find it. It’s worth a stop. Tell Madonna ‘hello’ from me. I still remember that night in Ciprianis.

A white van on Belgrave Square January 2019. Tim’s skill as a professional photographer is called into question.

Into Belgrave Square and we’re now into serious embassy country. Armed police, CCTV, manic taxi drivers, diplomatic plates, Simón Bolivar statue. Then down Upper Belgrave Street. Usually I’m picking up the pace by this point because either I’ve got a train to catch or - more likely - I’m needing the loo. A good place to stop is another hidden mews pub - The Horse and Groom. There’s a couple of tables outside on the road, summertime this area in front of the pub gets crowded. It’s much quieter in the afternoons if you’ve snuck out for a cheeky half. Yeah, WTF is a ‘cheeky half’?

Road sign Eaton Square

Now I’ve really got my head down and heading towards the station. Two points of interest. First is St Peter’s church. Now this could be either Upper Belgrave Street, Lower Belgrave Street or Eaton Square. Not a clue. Shame someone couldn’t invent software where one could look up these things - you know like a telephone directory but online. Anyway, it’s a pretty church in a vaguely temple type way. It’s the picture at the top of the page. And then we have The Plumbers Arms. If I’m heading in Victoria / Harrods direction this tends to be my first port of call.

The Plumbers Arms, Lower Belgrave Street. Lord Lucan not pictured.

Of course, it’s famous as the place where Lady Lucan fled to after getting whacked on the head by her soon to be missing husband (they lived opposite). The staff seem to have no idea about the history of their pub and look at me like I’m a nutter when I ask about it. Anyway, it’s a decent boozer, usually busy, not bad food. Good place to start but not end the walk.

The Victoria - hiding off Buckingham Palace Road

For we have one more pub. Now called The Victoria I’m sure it used to be The Princess Victoria back in the day when I used to go there. Needless renaming. It’s hidden down a mews - Phipps Mews - so tourists never find it as it has no entrance onto Buckingham Palace Road. I used to work in the next door office - Belgrave House where American Express and Google used to uneasily share the building. It tended to be the place we headed after a hard day’s toil. But that’s not why I remember it…

Back in the 90’s I attended South Bank University doing some useless Masters Degree. There I met a girl. Both of us had other attachments. I suppose we all have our secrets... We used to go into The Princess Victoria - as it then was - and make plans, organising the gloomy logistics of our affair. I don’t remember there being many laughs. And then a furtive kiss outside before I headed off back down to the South Coast and she went home to Hammersmith to another man.

“Whirling leaves catch at our coats
As we kiss in dark places
Careful. Suspicious. Alert
We make our final embraces
”

— Wintertime - Tim Robson

I raise a glass to the memory when I go in.

And then, cross the mayhem of Buckingham Palace Road to the Station - now thankfully liberated from the ridiculous three foot high fence that we all vaulted pissed trying to get our train. Some colleagues would mistime their jumps and end up sprawled in the road (yeah, you know who you are).

To conclude, do this walk either way. Do it in winter. Do it in summer. Do it sober and take in the great architecture, the sedate upstairs / downstairs history. Do it for the shops or exercise. Or have a great pub crawl in some great pubs with a sense of the past, with stories to tell, in places you wouldn’t normally find pubs without knowing. Do it for me. Or for an idea of me. Once.

More London Walks here

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Outside the Victoria pub. There was once a wall where that white van is. No one cares.

*Fashions change. Here in Clapham you’re not considered a beggar unless you’ve got an accordion on which you bash out some meaningless tune.

Tim Robson Update

Yes - I am still here!

I’m working on some longer blog posts - you know, the arty ones that go on for a bit. Usually involving architecture, or girls or girls and architecture. And memory. Probably Marcus Aurelius. Soundtrack by Mick Taylor era Stones.

So Bon Jovi it and Keep The Faith

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Tim Robson: Top Posts 2018

Tim Robson Top Posts 2018

The Timmies Awards

As we head to the vinegar strokes of 2018, I thought I would list the top blog posts of 2018. And then list the top blog posts that should have been were it not for the poor taste of the public ganging up with my own obscurity.

Top Posts Written in 2018

1) Top Mick Taylor Studio Tracks

2) Top 10 Britpop Songs

3) 20 Minute Playlist : The Queen at Live Aid Test

Most Read Articles in 2018

1) Mick Taylor and that Guitar Solo

2) Tom Petty and the Death of Gene Clark

3) Mick Taylor - Street Fighting Guitarist

4) Top Mick Taylor Studio Tracks

5) Top 10 Britpop Songs

What should have been the top Articles (aka Tim’s Favs) 2018

1) Le Baiser de l’Hotel de Ville - Tim discusses Robert Doisneau

2) Deleted Scenes - The Growing Chill of the Censor

3) Some words on Impermenance - Tim reflects on time passing

4) Brighton to Manchester Train - Tim remembers this 7 hour journey before mobile phones

5) 20 Minute Set Lists. Oasis. Beatles. Abba.

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2018: Tim Robson's Music Review

Tim Robson’s 2018 Music Review

Yeah

I downloaded 255 songs in 2018. Or in some cases uploaded. But mainly downloaded.

255 songs.

Obviously, not all of these were released in 2018. In fact, most of them weren’t. There was lots of classical - and that’s like really old kids - and from Sinatra in the 40’s my downloads were pretty consistent through the following decades. I’m eclectic, man.

And yes, there were plenty of 2018 tracks. I have two teenage daughters and so its inevitable, even if I wasn’t such a hep-cat, that I’d have plenty of new material anyway from 2018.

So, here are my 2018 Musical Downloads (and sometimes uploads) Awards!!

2018 Award

Well, the most played was SZA (who?) with Calvin Harris and The Weekend. I detect the hands of my daughters on this one. It’s a good track but a bit morally dubious - two hot chicks decide to share a man on different days during the week. Who’s been reading my diary?

My favourite new release in 2018 was Lucie Silvas and E.G.O. and the standout track was First Rate Heartbreak. I saw Lucie in London in December so maybe I’m biased. Criminally under-rated but always brilliant Luice is - I found out - also great live. See the coming article on Lucie and her music.

Other notable 2018 songs were - Clean Bandit and Marina - Baby and also James Bay Strawberry Lemonade. I’m pleased for Marina (and the Diamonds) as her Primadonna Girl is a favourite of mine.

Best re-release in 2018 was Gene Clark Sings For You - a cache of Gene demos from 1967. The best track? Past My Door

(Hard to) Find of the Year

Musical find was Terry Hall’s two mid 90’s albums - Home and Laugh. I bought the Forever J single in 1994 and it became one of my favourite records ever - an evergreen candidate for Tim’s Desert Island Discs. I could never find the parent album but this year - probably thanks to dodgy Russian websites - I did! Favourite track - No No No. Fun fact - I found that the best tracks on both albums were written along with Craig Gannon. Yes, he of the latter day Smiths. Also good is Grief Disguised as Joy.

Live in 2018 Award

The runaway winner is - of course Lucie Silvas live December 2018 at The Courthouse London. An intimate, bonus gig for Lucie diehards, it was a close, hot, sweaty, amazing gig. Lucie was relaxed, taking requests and did songs old and new. She belted out stuff from her old albums (Breath In, Twisting the Chain), several from E.G.O. and plenty in between. Best song - Happy.

As some of you may know, I went to the 2018 Brit Awards and so had the opportunity to see no-marks like Duo Lipa lip sync whilst wearing jack-all and talk bollocks about feminism. Of course, Lord Liam of Gallagher, did an excellent Live Forever which went someway to atone for the fact I missed Oasis in the 90’s when I could have easily seen them. Here’s the video I shot which is basically a Liam / Tim duet. Sorry folks. Also, the picture is shit.

But, Justin Timberlake was also good. Especially Say Something with some beardy called Stumblebum or something. I downloaded the track and its one of the most listened to songs in 2018 (helps I got it in Feb, of course)! Most of the rest on the night were shit.

Classical Download 2018

I got into Georg Telemann in 2018. Thanks to my membership of Wandsworth Libraries, I get 3 free downloads per week from their catelogue and Spring was spent downloading - slowly - various notable Telemann concertos. And my favourite? See opposite - Concerto in E Minor for Oboe and Strings - Andante.

Why did I download this crap Award 2018

There’s no contest for this one. Some bollocks German Rap (why Tim, why?). The artist (?) is called Summer Cem and his gem which he curled off for the world is called Tamam Tamam. Look it up. I like Sandra, Nena and er, weren’t The Scorpians German? But this… What was I thinking?

Up My Own Arse Award 2018

This award is given to pretentious music I probably won’t listen to. I see I downloaded loads of early acoustic Dylan - Girl From the North Country, Masters of War, Corrina Corrina. No, not listened to them. I got sucker’d into downloading a couple of David Hemmings tracks because of the Gene Clark connection. Face palmly shit. Avoid. But, I think my deep exploration of Bossa Nova wins the award for 2018. Downloaded (too many) tracks from 60’s diva Sylvia Telles. I like a bit of Corcovado or Insensatez (especially when Anglicised by the Monkees - hey I’m versatile). But Dindi or Sol Da Meia-Noite are definitely there just for show.

So - there is my musical review of the year.

Anyway, I’ll leave you with a Christmas classic, well at least in my house (when no one else is around). It’s the cardigan wearing, bluesfest we call ‘Santa Claus is Back in Town’ from two years ago. I miss that cardigan.

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Tim Robson's Blog 2018

2018 ! Christmas 2018. So, here I stand at the threshold of another Christmas. Joy to the world!

Christmas tunes are playing. Mince pies are waiting to be eaten. Bottles of Cava, Port and whiskeys (sans ice) stand ready to be downed. Hangovers to be endured.

However, the 2018 band is still playing, the dancers are still on the floor and our story has not yet finished.

So over the next few days, I’ll be revisiting the year on this blog. Looking at the hits. The frequent duds. The blogposts where I was on it (like a bonnet). The diatribes where I missed the mark like a current day BBC comedian at a Northern working men’s club in the 70’s.

We’ll review Normandy. Trier. The Lake District. So many places.

My many attempts to capture history on these pages.

The music I listened to, reviewed, included as a YouTube video

And. And. Mick Taylor. Mick Bloody Taylor. That article I wrote a couple of years ago still tops the charts as the most popular thing I’ve ever written. That one article accounts for between 30 - 50% of the traffic on the site.

I’m a one hit wonder. That’s what I am. I’m the bloody Birdies Song. I’m Joe Dolce. I’m Cinderella Rockafella.

Roll with it.

Laters potatas!

Tim

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Oasis: Twenty Minute Setlist

This is a 20 minute set list I’d love to see!

When Oasis were emerging in 1994 / 95, they could take on any other band live. Loud overdriven guitars, pulsing beat, great songs, sing-a-long choruses and a singer who had both charisma and talent. They continued and concluded the Holy Trinity of Manchester bands (Smiths, Stone Roses, Oasis).

I was a Blur fan but even I was swept away in the winter of 1994 as the band appeared on an Xmas show and played their new single ‘Whatever’ in all its Beatle-esque glory before tearing into a full scale toe to toe with the Fab Four, delivering a supreme I Am Walrus. Audacious bastards! They just went for the balls and powered out Lennon’s anthem with maximum swagger and sneering. (see video below)

I never saw Oasis live though I remember them coming to the Brighton Centre December 1994. Looking at the setlist that night is feels like it was a massive night, a first album homage. And I think, in retrospect, looking at YouTube videos, Oasis were at their best when they were climbing the mountain, not when they were on top and definitely not on their way down. Although the crowds kept coming, they weren’t as hungry, as urgent and - like most Oasis fans - I think the 1994 line up was the best.

So here it is, my fantasy Oasis playlist delivered by them as they were in 1994!

Rock n Roll Star

Fade Away

Bring it on Down

Slide Away

I Am Walrus

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The Wisdom of Neil Diamond

So, I’ll be welcoming some of you here from LinkedIn. Your first visit probably. Welcome.

Pat yourself on the back; you are the curious, the trendsetters, the pressers of random hyperlinks. Well, enter of your own choice, hand in your prejudices along with your coats, disrobe yourself of received wisdom and take a glass of my Voltaire cocktail (a little rum, a little vermouth, a dash of old fashioned free speech). There’s space down there on the carpet at the front.

So, history… Again. Maybe I have delighted you long enough? I should let some of the other ladies have a go? No? Okay, history it is then.

In my LinkedIn article I distilled the whole of human history down to seven life lessons. As you do. Like some fucking middle management Yoda with a penchant for Suetonius, I draw my unwilling readers in like that goddamn tractor beam in Star Wars. Yeah, from the first movie, in the original trilogy. The good ones. And now, like the Millennium Falcon, you are held captive on my Death Star along with the regular crowd of ardent readers; potential girlfriends checking me out, Mick Taylor fans, Indonesians, ex-girlfriends stalking me, that sad nutter from some basement in Didcot.

Let me quote from the article to give those of you who didn’t read it a flavour. Life lesson number six which - I think anyway - is one of the best:-

 We are the stories we tell.

 For several years I’ve been working on a riff about people being the stories that they tell. Of course, I probably stole the idea from a hundred different places. But I believe it. Nothing summarises a person (a nation, a culture) more than the stories they tell about themselves. Think about it. When you tell a story about yourself to friends or colleagues, how do you cast yourself? Hero? Villain? Put upon martyr? Joker? It doesn’t take a Freud to notice this.

Socrates does not sleep easy tonight because I think I gave the old pederast an intellectual kicking. Yeah.

But how pretentious was the article? Let me just consult my digital meter. OMG! The needle is pointing to ‘head firmly up arse and modelling it as a rather fashionable hat’ pretentious. That’s how much. With a feather.

Of course I quoted Ecclesiastes and Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations. What again? Regular readers here will know they are the only two books I’ve ever pretended to have read. I’m a poor man’s philosophe. But in the kingdom of the blind, the man with two trip wires tends to come out on top.

But all the same, I’m kind of liking the feeling of being some sort of urban philosopher with jokes. The cap fits and I’m snapping that brim smartly. I mean, hasn’t everything I’ve been writing here on this website been comedic philosophy? Bon mots, bon-bons, bonfire of the vanities?

Yes, yes it has Tim.

Well anyway, welcome, bookmark the page. It’s a journey we’re all on children, a little wisdom and humility and ridiculousness will go a long way.

“I am, I said.” says Neil Diamond. “And no one heard. Not even the chair.”

All about that. Thank you Neil.

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Goodbye Tash.

I’ve made a momentous decision…

Like all momentous decisions, the actual decision itself was only taken after heavy consultation with my good friends Mr Whisky and Mr Not-Bad-Red-For-About-Five-Pounds. The latter friend sets the framework, discusses options, maps out different scenarios. The former (Mr Whisky) is the closer of the group. The decision maker. He shoots. He scores. He can’t help but decide. He cannot - and will not - sit on the fence.

Yesterday, my aforementioned good friends and I, decided that we’d had enough of moustaches. That they were ridiculous and unsuitable. But we went further than that. We were done with facial hair in its entirety.

That is a momentous decision.

For the last four years I’ve been constantly with a beard. See Tim. See facial hair. Close cropped beard. Full beard. Scruffy beard. Tidy beard. Goatee beard. I’ve distrusted clean shavenness. I’m dubious about soft pink skin on my face. To shave is like, so 2004. Or something.

But last night the razor came out. The shaving cream was applied. Bold strokes and nimble blade work swept from ear to ear. The moustache was no more. The last stand of facial hair had been wiped out and sent down the plug hole.

And so I braved the Lake District weather today, naked of face. The slings and arrows of outrageous weather whacked my newly shorn visage as I mounted Cat Bells. Didn’t feel a thing.

So we’re left with; does it suit me? Does the clean shaven look knock years off me? Make me look younger and more vital?

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Makes me look fatter though and my bottled friends are agreeing with me on this point right now.

What do you think?

Clean shaven in front of Lodore Falls. Cheeks sucked in. Allegedly.

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Deleted scenes

I was watching Friends with my daughter over the weekend. It’s the one where Monica and Rachel have a cat fight and Phoebe breaks this up by pulling the other two’s hair. Her mastery assured, I remembered that Phoebe allows herself a little trash talk: “If we were in prison, you guys would be my bitches!”

It’s a funny line and as the action progressed I was pleasantly looking forward to watching it. But then the scene ended abruptly without the anticipated payoff. The line had been cut. Chopped. Lying unscreened on the censor’s floor.

Maybe my memory was faulty? What to do? Well, Youtube is very good for these sort of nerdy fact checks. I’ve read that it is a very male dominated medium and so can believe it is often used to settle many an annoying pub argument. So, I found the scene, played it and no, I wasn’t wrong, the line was most definitely part of the original episode. The censors (who are they?) had judged the line inappropriate.

Now, this isn’t in the same category as the famous Major scene in Fawlty Towers that is always snipped from BBC reruns these days. Nor was this the day time pruning of some of the - admittedly - filthy lines in the film Grease.* So what was it?

The word ‘bitch’? Come on - kids these days hear worse than this every day. In the classroom. Probably from their teachers.

Is it perhaps the suggestion that in prison a ‘bitch’ is the dominant person’s unwilling same sex, sex slave? Yeah, that’s probably a bit rapey for day time TV.**

Or maybe, it was just a funny line. Cut that. Fuck it, humour is passé these - we just harangue our audience with our hard left politics.

Dunno. But a piece of my soul was snipped away along with those few seconds of celluloid and, although I’ve deliberately picked an asinine example, we’re becoming worryingly more censorious as a society even as our means of being free (the internet, social media) explodes.

There’s something sinister, Orwellian, about official sources and memory diverging. Like a picture of the revolution that progressively ‘disappears’ the original heroes as they fall from favour, does real or official memory take precedence? Instinctively I’m against censorship. One draws the line very, very narrowly.

I’ll return to this subject. But first, enjoy the scene as it was intended.

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NOTES

• I saw Grease when it came out in 1978. The songs and dialogue and - indeed - the subject matter is pretty filthy. Sailed right over my head though. Didn’t get any of the many sexual references. Until I watched it years later. Should it be censored? Or should movie makers self censor? TBC

• “A bit rapey” - this term, is a strange one that I’ve only come across in the last year or so. It is ALWAYS said by a woman. There’s probably an article in male / female relations that explores the meaning behind the words. Not today.

The Sage of Sussex dissects Interchange Regulation

Like a stadium filling rockstar playing an after-hours gig in a small club, here I am again, writing the freeform and loosed-jam version of my recent LinkedIn article on the EU’s Interchange Regulations.

I know. I know. I spoil you. Bring back the 4th century Roman history, I hear you cry. No, today we must discuss interchange caps, the power of loyalty and where the money goes after you purchase something. I’ll maybe throw in some ill-researched but heartfelt swipes at the unintended consequences of legislation. Literary donuts of wisdom, sweet, moreish but empty, so empty.

I should declare an interest here…. I work in the finance industry. A hall of fame type position of veneration and respect in the world of payments. When middle managers get together at industry shindigs, delegates hang onto my every word, analysts attempt to interpret my utterances, stock markets fall or rise on the twitch of my eyebrows and my thoughts on the future of payments are listened to with hushed awe, due reverence and appropriate levels of obeisance and fawning.

Yeah; back to the narrative, Tim.

So, three years ago the EU lowered the amount of money card issuers can carve out of each transaction you make with a debit or credit card. This doesn’t apply to Amex who, like a greased otter, managed to slip the grasp of the regulations.

What this meant - dear readers - was that notional prices should have come down as retailers weren’t getting stung so much by deductions in the amount of money they paid for accepting cards.

Has this happened?

What do you think? The retailers passed on Jack. Of course. The card issuers facing a huge loss of revenue, hiked up card prices, interest rates and - this one hurts - reduced rewards and loyalty points.

So lose:lose for consumers. Well done legislators, another theoretical victory.

Naturally, my LinkedIn article is more nuanced, tempered as it is with ‘on the one hand and on the other’ corporate equivocation.

But I’ve lost my fucking Tesco Clubcard points! Bastards. Yes, they’re baubles paid for by a permanent rise in general prices but dammit! - where’s my points? I like choice and I like being savvy and I liked going to Chessington theme park courtesy of my Clubcard redemptions. Has anyone seen the prices these places charge using, like, real money?

I should point out here that the issue is more nuanced and involves many actors and the adoption of new technology to increase competition and choice in the medium term but, where’s my fucking points?

More sober financial analysis next week when I explain why running an economy on debt is both morally wrong and annoys my cat who’s a strict feline of the Austrian school.

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Le Baiser de l'Hotel de Ville

Is art preference an indication of character? What do the paintings or photos that we place on our walls say about how we perceive ourselves? How we wish to be perceived by others?

For almost as long as I can remember, I have placed pictures on my walls. Blue tac, pins; nothing seemed to be framed back in the day. What I liked, I stuck up, starting with posters of football teams, Elvis, The Beatles, leading - from 16 onwards - to real 6*4 pictures from my life to - hilariously it now seems - letters from cabinet ministers and MPs (I collected MP’s signatures like others might popstars or film icons).

What posters did I have on my university dorm room walls? I was most proud of a large (and expensive) black and white print of Robert Doisneau’s “Le Baiser de l’hotel de Ville”. Although the photo was taken in March 1950 for Life magazine, Doisneau had in the late 80’s sanctioned the image to be rereleased in poster form. Not long after, I saw it in Brighton (Virgin Megastore? HMV? Athena?) and immediately liked it. So I bought it and up it went on my Sussex University dorm room wall.

How cool was I?

I probably thought I was just as cool as the guy kissing the girl in the photo. But in reality I was definitely more like the the guy in the beret unwittingly walking past the lovers just as the photo was being taken! Actually, I read some story that this stereotypical French mec was an Irishman called Bert on a motorcycling tour of Europe who randomly happened to be in Paris that day. Who knows? Even the identity of the couple kissing was firstly, shrouded in mystery and then secondly, disputed. Turns out they were both actors / models and were paid for this semi staged tableau.

But why does this photo call to me?

Well, it’s not the voyeurism, the thrilling sense that we are encroaching on the lovers’ private moment. The angle of the shot from the cafe table looking outwards suggests a photo illicitly taken, grabbed furtively. Perhaps the photographer had his camera on the table and clicked the button at the perfect moment or maybe he was pretending to reset his lens and snuck a shot. Some may like this aspect of stolen moments but I always thought the mise en scene a little too perfect to be a lucky shot; it is - and was - artfully staged.

Is it the sense of time and place? A fleeting glimpse of world now gone reflecting back at us through the camera? That’s closer. Like children running after a balloon floating above Montmartre , or policemen in caps and capes directing jaunty deux chevaux around the Arc de Triomphe, the picture documents a Paris remembered but lost. This type of reportage of daily life is what Doisneau is best known for. I have a marvellous and chunky photo book of his Paris shots - during and just after the war - which detail life on the streets and in the bars. Smiling faces gaze back at me, so sure, so real but so impermanent.

Or is it the picture of young love, so carefree, so intense, before life intrudes and ennui gradually chokes off the heady dopamine? This feeling never lasts and is as fleeting as a freeze frame from a video; a frozen moment captured out of time and pulled roughly to the fore. This picture captures the apex of young love, in Paris no less, and as such it represents an ideal of something for which we all search. I know people who are ever tumbling into the vortex of new love, always looking for that elusive high, ever disappointed when it never lasts. I also know people who continually think past the sale and so, to avoid the fall, avoid the climb and never experience the heights.

It’s all our pasts and all our dreams, a once and future representation of humanity.

Post Script

I don’t know what happened to the poster. I don’t believe it survived the 1980’s. Why it was discarded, is lost in time, just like Paris in 1950 or perhaps even the young guy who bought the poster originally (pictured below in the following blog post).

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The Master of Social Media

Connecting a website to Facebook. Or visa versa. Wow - how hard can it be? And I’ve got a qualification in computing… Did a website coding course at night-school last year.

But can I connect Squarespace to Facebook?

No. No I can’t.

Pressing buttons like monkey on a typewriter on a deadline to recreate Shakespeare and all I get is, well nothing. Dead air, missed connections, severed logic.

There’s a metaphor in all this, I’m sure of it.

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Trier - Roman Imperial Capital

Augusta Treverorum (Trier) was one of the principal cities of the later Roman Empire. During and following the period of the Tetrarchy (284 AD onwards) - when the Empire was often divided between various Augustii and their Caesars - the need for an imperial capital close to the German border was of strategic importance. Constantius I, Constantine the Great, Constantius II, Julian, Valentinian I all lived in in Trier at some point. The city has some of the best preserved Roman architecture outside Rome. I was there recently.

My hotel overlooked the Porta Nigra, one of the original 2nd Century Roman gates into the fortified city of Trier. It's a massive stone structure that guarded one of the entrances to the ancient capital. Unlike many other Roman buildings, it was saved from medieval scavengers harvesting its stone by the expedient of being converted into a church in the 11th Century. This protected it for 800 years until Napoleon ordered that it be stripped of its religious overtones and revert back to being a gate in 1804. So we still have a standing stone structure that is 1800 years old looking almost as it did when the Romans used it.

Inside the Porta Nigra

“There are many forms of defence. Sometimes it is best to allow your opponent to take the initiative, wait for an opportunity, and then lay them out with a devastating counter-punch.  

The later Roman Empire was a prime example of this. Struggling to manage the repeated waves of barbarian invasions, Rome adopted a strength-in-depth defensive strategy. The marauding hordes could pass through the lightly protected borders of the empire but, once inside, they would be trapped between frontier units and fortified cities. There they would remain until crushed by the overwhelming might of the emperor’s hastily summoned mobile field army.”  (@Tim Robson - The Betrayal of Aurelian)

A 4th century legionary - notice the mail coat, round shield, longer sword and thrusting spear. Much different from the ‘classic’ image of a Roman legionary with segmented armour, short sword and large curved shield*.

The Roman army of the 4th century was very different to the classic images of lorica segmentata wearing legionaries depicted on Trajan's column in Rome (or the movie Gladiator). It was much larger in number due to conscription, divided into frontier troops and imperial mobile armies, contained more cavalry, and the legions themselves, made up of conscripted barbarians, were reduced in size and used different equipment - longer swords and round shields for example. The Empire had switched from offence to defence. However, the army could still be a fearsome beast when commanded by a Constantine, Aurelian or Julian. But Rome was not what it once was and so other factors - other than crushing force - came into play to prevent the overrunning of the frontiers.

The cities and buildings and civic amenities (churches, ampitheatres, heating, sewers, bath houses, bridges, aqueducts) - 4th Century soft power - also played a part in subduing those who wished to enter. Trier has fine examples of all of these. Rome was not only superior in arms but look at the levels of civilisation and richness of our cities! Who but the Romans could build and live like this? Shock and awe.

Constantine's Basilica, Trier

The sheer scale of the ancient city of Augusta Treverorum astounds - Trier was an imperial city built to garrison soldiers and protect the citizenry but also house Emperors and instil awe and compliance from the local mud-hut dwelling, forest-hiding barbarians. One could only imagine their shock and astonishment as they were summoned to meet with - say - Valentinian I - and shepherded through the Porta Nigra, past bustling streets of commerce and finally into the great Emperor's presence in the Aula Palatina (now Constantine's Basilica). This palace, built around 310, is impressive even now. What must the Barbarians have thought as they shuffled uneasily, gazing up at the God-like Emperor in front of them, clad in the finest robes sat impassive on a raised dias in the apse at the far end of this mighty building? This was an Empire indeed to be revered and feared, was it not?

On your knees, barbarian, you are in the presence of the God-Emperor himself!

Wherever the Romans went you found amphitheatres and bath houses. Trier has both. Although suffering the ravages of time more than the gatehouse, they are still today impressive structures, made more interesting by the fact that both have complete underground corridors showing the inner workings of both.

Underground tunnels - for heating, for maintenance, in the Imperial Baths Trier

The Imperial baths are a MASSIVE complex (never finished). Underpinned by tunnels which provided the water - hot and cold - to the citizens as they washed, socialised and exercised. The sheer engineering feat - in the heating, the building, staggers the mind even now. It’s a large site and well worth the ridiculously low entrance fee the City of Trier charges you. My 14 year old got into everything for free. Danke!

“For those about to die, we salute you.”

But no Roman city is worthy of its name without its own colosseum. Trier’s is impressive, still bowl shaped with ruins on all sides and several underground chambers cages (for wild animals, gladiators, actors). I went on a gloriously warm day, the Mosel wine vine-yards shimmering in the distance - as they did in Roman times - but no-one can ignore the fact that although the Romans were civilised in many ways, in others, well not so much! Walking around the lower halls, underneath the arena, you get some sense of what it was like to be amongst the condemned waiting for your time as a lion’s snack or sword thrusting practice for a gladiator.

Note the vines in the background!

There’s more, much more (2nd century bridge across the Moselle anyone?), churches, squares, German architecture, food and drink (Bitburger being the local beer) but, for those of you who love seeing Roman ruins, Trier is a great place to go. Maybe try the local Mosel wine from the open air standing wine bar in the main square! Hot dogs, cakes and pretzels of course. Yum!

As JFK said: Ich bin ein Augusta Trevororumer. And that is possibly the worst pun, joke or piece of writing on this website ever. I apologise meine volk or Leute (Google translate ain’t specific here).

“Bitte ein Bit!” says Tim Robson. Reading his beer mat.

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• Image of 4th century legionary courtesy of : http://www.u3ahadrianswall.co.uk/wordpress/the-roman-army-in-britain/

In Praise of the USA

“O God the Lord, the strength of my salvation, thou hast covered my head in the day of battle.”

— Psalm 140 (KJV)

There's a strain of European opinion that looks down on the USA. They assume superiority in a sneering de haut en bas manner which never fails to infuriate me. With Donald Trump legitimately elected to the White House they can now indulge this awful vice even more vociferously (witness the pathetic demonstrations against Trump in London this summer as real dictators and thugs get the red carpet treatment with no protestations).

How short is the memory...

It was only 1989 that the Berlin Wall came down and that shred by shred the Iron Curtain was ripped away, an iron curtain, lest we forget that had held half of Europe in terror and prison camps for forty years (2018 is the 50th anniversary of the brutal suppression of the Prague Spring  and the 70th anniversary of the communist take over of Czechoslovakia.) Does anyone know this? Or care? 

But what forced the eventual emancipation of Eastern Europe? Sure, Western Europe banded together into NATO, and one mustn't forget our own Iron Lady, Margaret Thatcher, but it was the muscle and power and success of capitalism of the US that won the Cold War. Ultimately it was Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush and the resolve of all Americans, Democrat or Republican - people and Congress - that defeated this evil cult, communism and freed Eastern Europe. We should thank them more for this salvation from evil.

Omaha Beach, May 2018. Many Americans died here for the freedom of Europe from Nazis

So this year, I went to Normandy around the start of June as I always do. The residents of Normandy remember the mighty battle here in 1944 every year with a solemn punctiliousness that is moving. It's here, and maybe nowhere else in France, they remember the sacrifices of the US (and the UK and Canada) in liberating Europe. Driving down the Contentin peninsula in late May, I called in at Omaha Beach, scene of the most bloody fighting on D-Day (as graphically dramatised in Saving Private Ryan). It was here that American boys stormed the beach under heavy fire. Between 2000 and 5000 never got off the beach. It was a slaughter. But American grit and numbers got them through, eventually. Nazi Europe had been breached.

I took photos. My daughter asked me why I was taking pictures of the lone American flag fluttering above the beach as all around coach parties of solemn Americans wandered silently. I turned my face away, tears probably more than glistening. 

What could I say? That 74 years before, thousands of Americans (and their Canadian and British counterparts) stormed these very tranquil sands of this coastline to liberate Europe - the Europe now occupied by the smug EU - from fascism. Real fascism. Real Nazis. Killing people in gas chambers fascism. Torture and death of political opponents fascism. The killing of dissidents Nazis. 

Yes, the real bad guys (with the communists) of recent history.

And we now get people on the streets in the UK (and the USA regrettably) - ignorant of the sacrifice of young American boys on the beaches of France or the resolve of the US against the horror of communism -  shouting that their current US political opponents in democratic elections are fascists. Or Nazis.

Fucking idiots. Learn some history.

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Things I Will Never Do*

At fifty you start to realise that you are what you are and start not to care overly about how you are viewed by others. This is both a strength but also a weakness. But, as you no longer give a fuck, the opprobrium doesn't matter. But with acceptance of character comes realisation of its flaws.  Perhaps there are things I'll never do. The list might go something like this.

1) Play golf. Sport of wankers, poxy rules, dickheads, sportsmen. 19th holes. No desire, no interest, I won't accept any club that will have me and petty rules just irk me.

2) Hold dinner parties. Used to. I think you need a wife and boring mates. Don't have either.

3) Go to Glastonbury. Posh twats who chant some nonsense in support of a terrorist supporting, anti British communist and then go home to their flats in Chelsea. 

4) Do drugs. Never appealed to be honest. Yeah smoked some weed at university but nothing else. No interest. Sorry. Booze is my lady one glass at a time. I can't betray her.

5) See Elvis, The Beatles, Oasis, Queen (shit I had a ticket for Maine Rd 1986 and didn't go), and hundreds of others. You look back and go... why didn't I?**

6) Live up to my own high expectations. 

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See note ** below.

Here's a link to Lisa Stansfield's 1st single - Your Alibis. This came out in 1982 when we were in the school play together back in Rochdale. The B Side was Springsteen's  'Because The Night' which I remember Lisa saying she wished was the A side. But the A side was my favourite. Sounds very French! I remember playing her - in return - one of my songs on the piano in a break during rehearsals. She liked it. If only I was more pushy!

* Things I'll Never Do. Isn't that the title of that pretty decent song by Stockhard Channing in Grease.

** But I did see, in no order and forgetting loads - Blur, Meat Loaf, Suzanne Vega, The Pretenders, The Milltown Brothers, Captain Sensible, New Model Army (God, they were shit), Black Grape, Alexander O'Neil, Liam Gallagher, Taylor Swift, Rod Stewart, The Charlatans, Lisa Stansfield (up close and personal), Squeeze, Julian Cope, Sleeper, Alvin Stardust, Cast, Stormzie, Shambolic, The Pinter Boys, Tim Robson

Dating in Battersea Right Wing Style

A Crap Date in Battersea Arts Centre

(A Star on Lavender Hill excerpt @Tim Robson 2018)

One of the problems of dating in Battersea, if you hold right-wing views, and I do - mildly and quietly - is that your potential date will be - by habit, by convention – culturally of the left. They’ve never met anyone like me, most are appalled I even exist. Therefore, I have a dilemma - to stay quiet and fail gracefully to progress the relationship, or to reveal my politics and be damn certain not to. I mostly choose the shorter path.

I’m also a bit of a nob. That doesn’t help.

Chloe and I met via some online dating agency. We agreed to meet for a drink in the bar at Battersea Arts Centre. So far, so Guardian Soulmates.

“Well Chloe, digital marketing, what does that actually mean?” I said with more bravado than tact.

Chloe looked disgusted, as though I’d demanded her best mate’s number. But the lure of being condescending proved too much. “I run word-of-mouth campaigns to organically connect brands with sympathetic networks and communities.”

“Yeah, all of that, love it - gets me a little stiff frankly - but what about digital marketing?” I laughed to underline that this was a joke. A slightly risqué joke perhaps, but still a joke between adults. On a date. Chloe though was a little younger than me and so treated life in an appropriately serious manner. Laughing at life’s absurdities is something the millennial generation appeared to have jettisoned. Shame; I used to like humour.

“Traditional marketing only concentrates on consumer relationships defined by the act of purchase. Digital marketing is about creating communities.”

“Communities that buy stuff?”

“That’s part of it.”

“So not very different!” I laughed, so alone.

“What do you do then?” Chloe asked somewhat perfunctorily. In my profile, I’d written some bullshit like skywriter or dream-maker. Basic pleasure model. I like to arouse curiosity even where none is merited.

“I manage accounts.”

“Who for?” she asked – interest momentarily piqued, itchy finger on a LinkedIn request.

“A small merchant acquirer.”

“What?”

“We sign up shops and restaurants to accept credit cards. Like this place. Means you can pay for my next drink with your Gold Amex!” Again, humour. Mistake. She heard the bit about her buying me a drink but missed the rest. Oh dear! No one gets me.

 And then - how very quickly - Chloe’s participation in the conversation declined into monosyllabic disinterest. There was an overwhelming possibility of an early morning meeting. Or the unfortunate calamity of a sudden headache. Sadly, my dates often end with unexpected haste.

But I aim to please, to give a party bag to my departing ladies containing the full right-wing arsehole experience, to provide a cautionary tale to pass onto girlfriends over a bottle of Prosecco after a hard day creating organic, but brand-aware, communities.

“So, Brexit. Great result, eh? Finally, free from our European masters!”

Chloe was gone in less than a minute clutching her pearls. I think Wandsworth voted 98% in favour of remaining in the EU. If only a couple of boxes of postal votes hadn’t got lost, there would have been a ringing 110% endorsement.

I reflect on this date as I pass Battersea Arts Centre. My reflections are warm but never salutary. I repeat the same mistakes and fall too willingly into the same traps just as I walk the same route, encounter the same people, and have similar thoughts each and every day. On Lavender Hill.

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Tim Robson warming up at Battersea Arts Centre