Tim Robson 12/09/2026 Tim Robson 12/09/2026

Art, Music and Blogging in Prague

Interior of St Giles Church Prague — St Giles Church, Prague Old Town

Tim Reviews High Art in Prague:

National Art Museum - Veletržní Palác
A Baroque Concert in Church of St Giles (Kostel sv. Jiljí)

Morning Motivations

Did I tell you my hotel does breakfast thrown into the room price? So no matter how hungover I was from my comedy club / Alpha move excesses, there was no way I was going to miss this eat-all-you-can buffet. I piled the plate high with Czech sausages, refilled the coffee and drank copious juice. Heavy but satiated, I repaired straight back to bed. How did I get in this state? What happened the previous evening?

Tossing and turning as bright, jigsawing light escaped through my hastily pulled curtains, I realised this self-pity was a fucking criminal waste of time. Get your lazy arse up Tim and go and do something! Thus inspired, I chose art. Because, why not? I’m cultured. Tick. Here. Tick. Cultured and here. Tick-tock. Let’s go to an art gallery and gaze at some pictures.

Retrieving my shorts from where I’d thrown them at 2.30am, I finally made it out of the hotel and caught the 17 tram off to, well even I can’t remember. Somewhere in one of Prague’s non-touristy areas, anyway. My destination? The brutalist, post modern factory building that is the National Gallery Prague – Veletržní Palác.

And what a good museum it is.

Beauty and Brutalism

Picasso, Monet, Toulouse Lautrec, even Van Gogh. Lots of - surprise, surprise - Czech artists. Essentially the theme was the nineteenth century onwards. Plenty of good Impressionist art that segued, unfortunately, into a load of modernist, cubist abstracts. The 1920s and 30s certainly were a particular low point in the story of art.

In total I probably spent a couple of hours in the museum studying the pictures with an intensity reserved for hangovers. I even came to appreciate the art-for-the-proletariat factory setting. I must admit though, I skipped a lot of the modernist stuff. As the art critic T.E. Robson once said, “What a load of bollocks. Learn to paint.”

But there was plenty of good stuff. I’d call out Adolf Kosárek - Winter Night (1857), Antonín Waldhauser - Gothic Ruins (1870), Georges Seurat - Harbour in Honfleur (1886), Oskar Kokoschka - Prague Charles Bridge (1934).

My favourite - for personal reasons - was The Balcony by Czech artist Miloš Jiránek (1908). I was disappointed I couldn’t get a postcard of this picture but not doing so saved me around 10p.

The utilitarian communist brutalism of the building - a factory of art in fact - worked. The layout was crisp and followed a well defined path. I would have spent more time on the floor dedicated to post war architecture (shocking, rabbit hutch apartments presented in black and white photos and scale models with much sub-Corbusian contemporaneous intellectual bullshit about homes for the workers) but, well, I couldn’t linger long. The paracetamol was wearing off and the hangover was kicking back in.

I needed the 17 tram back again. Onboard I was lulled by its steady rhythm and missed my stop. But, serendipity is the key to solo travelling and I stayed onboard as we trundled alongside the Vltava River. Indeed, I’d paid £1 for 30 minutes. So I got my money’s worth. I got off at the Dancing House (been there, done that, got the photo) and walked back. Hangover messy, I overshot a second time and ended up in the Old Town again just in time for the lunchtime troughing of the tourist hordes as they ordered their pizzas and burgers, Aperol and beer.

Sidebar: Overheard dialogue in Old Town

“Where shall we go?” a British Northern accent asked her rotund husband in his football top holiday attire. “There’s a Popeyes over there,” he responded and they gleefully crossed the road, the desire for empty calories strong even here in Prague.

Listen dumplings, Czech dumplings will fill you up better, for cheaper and, I dunno, you’ll try something new, something local. Why are you here again? Nah. Fuck that. Irish bar later? They serve Stella. Can we get a tram to the Prague Castle? Avoid the Old Town unless you like being herded from overpriced, insincere, anywhere, nowhere, fodder.

I know. I know what you’re thinking: You’re the guy with a laptop who can’t handle real interactions that aren’t on a barstool with conversations that rise and fall depending on the drink you’re ordering. And what about your myriad failures to read people? Women in particular? Okay. Good points, all. I get that... Bitch. But we all come out swinging somewhere and find our level. I just write mine down.

Yes, I’m a snobbish twat. Read my stuff - I own it. I’m the mayor of this town. Finding interactions with humans, observing them in foreign places, is what I do. But these random diversions helped in one way: It delayed my first beer today: 16:00; a new self-denying record! Onto the music.

Baroque Interlude

Not sure when I first heard Ave Maria. As a non Catholic, it didn’t really cross my musical horizon that much. Perhaps the Liverpool film ‘No Surrender’ (anyone remember that one?). But today, in a beautiful church, first with a powerful organ and secondly, with a string quintet and soloist, it was moving. Very moving.

The formal church setting, perhaps? The professionalism of the musicians, maybe? Hard to say but it got me both times. Dust in my eyes and all that. Twice. I was there for Vivaldi. Mozart. Handel. Albinoni. All my baroque favs. The musicians went Route One with us €30 tourists; playing the heavy hitters, the Classic FM (or whatever the equivalent in the US is) top ten. Popular classics. Chuck in local boy Dvořák and you have a cosy hour of Western cultural brilliance.

The Church of St Giles (Kostel sv. Jiljí) setting was perfect. These pieces were composed with religion in mind, in praise of God in an era when that meant something, when people gave a toss. And so hearing these excellent musicians play these excerpts from The Greats here was, cynicism aside, moving.

The audience. Well, pretty much 100% tourists. American mainly (who says they’re dumb, they certainly aren’t - I don’t endorse that stereotype), Japanese, probably some other mixed Europeans as well. The solemnity of a magnificent church didn’t really create a chatty-chat, where you from, environment. This wasn’t a boozer so I traded my normal barstool for a pew. On either side I had Americans and I guess they were religious. They bowed their heads and clapped at the end of each piece ever so politely. As though doing so was a bit profane in a church, you see. I guess.

Tim Has Thoughts

Me? Well, you know me. Laptop guy. Getting pissed in a bar writing shit about everyone, soooo; I thought I’d mix it up here in Prague. I love classical music. I love baroque and, outside of Venice and watching a Vivaldi recital at an historic church in San Marco, this was grazing the ceiling of the best experience you can get. I took a couple of short 5 second videos but - to be honest - felt a bit guilty doing so. Does anyone live in the moment anymore?

Yeah, yeah. We’re all victims of Insta culture, #somoved_prague. I get that but, but, I’m an artist. I paint word pictures of foreign cities for your benefit. You know, the bits that other quotidian, top 10 sights wank merchants miss. So, the odd video helps jog the already-had-four-pints-before-I-arrived memory.

Yeah, I needed a piss halfway through. I suffered for my art and you, my dear readers.

Talking of click bait bitches. I met some famous Prague YouTube vlogger I’ve been following in the lead up to this holiday on my way back from the church. His videos gave me some useful insights into what to see in the city whilst I’m here. Actually, it was he who recommended going to the National Monument at Vítkov. Good videos. Cool guy. I went over and shook his hand and said I watch all his videos. He kinda blanked me with a ‘thanks for watching’ before immediately looking away. Wanker. 2 million subscribers? I get better numbers from my bot attacks.

And with that, we head to the bar.

Quotidian Notes / Further Reading

Part 4 of my Prague Quintet series of articles about my recent trip to Prague. This is the morning after the night before, detailed in my Comedy Night in Prague blog.
And who is that vlogger? Not hard to work out. Perhaps I was being a touch unfair and maybe he was filming. Nah. He’s a nob.
I separated art (pictures & music) from museums. The weighty history of Prague in the 20th Century deserves its own blogpost. Fuck! This Quintet of articles is turning into a full bloody orchestra. Did I actually do anything in Prague apart from write? Weeeellll. Yes, see above for example. Where I wrote, well that in itself is another blog. FFS.
Read more City Tours in Scabrous adventures series. Try The Darkness of Bruges or, for perhaps The Do’s and Don’ts of Krakow? My wanderings around the sights (bars) of Breda is criminally under-rated. Along with the video of me on stage in that town.

Tim Robson 11/09/2026 Tim Robson 11/09/2026

A Comedic Night in Prague

The stage at the Metro Comedy Club Prague — The suspense builds…

The Open Mic Night(mare)

Well, I went to an English language comedy club. In a way it was a comedic night though perhaps not in the way anyone involved intended. I got there about ten minutes early to find a depressingly empty bar. Two American barmen served me, scanned my QR code and then stamped my hand. I drank some of my beer and then, fuck this is embarrassing, went outside and stood on the pavement for a while. Should I leave? I’d paid about £3.50 online for this open-mic night so, there was that. I went back in to finish my beer only to be spotted and thence desperately herded downstairs two levels into the dungeon basement where a paying audience of seven was augmented by an equal number of ‘talent’.

Cringe.

The Fun Starts…

The host was a jovial Italian who delivered his lines with more bravado than wit. Probably the high point. Short of material and laughs, he then did the ‘where are you from’ routine with the paying audience. I sat at the back, calculating my responses, and was the last to be asked.

“I’m Tim from the UK. I work in London,” I said simply.

“So Tom, what do you do in the UK?” asked my host.

“I’m a comedy writer,” I answered.

The host shrank back a bit. “You write for the BBC or films?” he asked, seriously over-reaching.

I dwelled on this moment of tension. This is called timing, would-be comics out there. “Nah! I’m just fucking with you, mate,” I said, eventually.

He relaxed but word got out and I wasn’t picked on all night. They even invented themselves a fantasy that I was a big-shot TV producer from the UK. Whatever. I didn’t disabuse them.

This high status was wasted with the ladies though. There were only three in the audience: two were comics who, I believe, held hands all night and the third was a stunning but married Icelandic princess. With her husband. No one was getting laid tonight. A point made most forcefully by the tubby try-out from Slovakia who, with much enthusiasm, regaled all fourteen of us with stories about masturbation.

It didn’t get better. The tropes trooped on, one by one. The angry middle aged female. The angry American black comic who fantasised that this was a white power rally. Yawn. The gay comic who asked the audience how many dicks they’d sucked before painfully transitioning into a grim riff on female oral sex. The guy from Vietnam, or somewhere, who used his ethnicity as a cloak to make incomprehensible racist jokes about Koreans. The two American barmen also made an appearance. For comics, they pour beer well. The lowlight was a torturous and unfunny five minute riff about someone’s dog which I think even the guy telling the joke didn’t understand or remember. I forgot it during it, concerned with counting the bars on my phone.

There were plenty of quotidian anti-Trump, anti-Brexit comments and - topically - boo-hiss implied - the staunch decision by the Icelanders to stay the fuck out of the EU. Bad Iceland.

Some Advice: Be Funny

Afterwards, in the bar with the comedians, I judiciously dispensed advice to each about how to make their jokes land better. After all, I am a commissioning editor for Channel 4 or something. Ricky Gervais’ best mate.

“Lose the dog joke, mate.”

“No, I think you should lean in more heavily into the man-hating vibe, love.”

I told the wanking guy to keep working on his material. It was clearly well researched. He looked like he wanted to start taking my advice then and there. Sidebar: every comedian I’ve ever met is unfunny in real life. Why is that?

Eventually, after holding court for too long, I got the impression I’d amused everyone enough - it happens and it’s always best to recognise this before everyone else does. So I let them get back to their collective post-gig, you were great, no you were great, therapy session.

The trip back across Charles Bridge was its usual tourist hell. Dodge, weave, avoid kicking the praying beggars, don’t smile at the ladies. No pimp was going to front me up tonight. Shoulders back, eyes front: You looking at me, mate? Arriving at my hotel, I noticed my daytime local coffee shop/ laptop two doors away was still open with a youngish crowd noisily spilling out onto the street. Mmm. What to do?

Blockchain and Girls

There was no decision to be made here. I walked into the cafe, possibly several pints over the edge, and ordered a Pilsner. Got talking to a guy - Daniel? - on the barstool next to me who was scribbling impenetrable equations onto his beermat. He was seriously into crypto. He liked to talk about this. A lot. He had thoughts and grand theories. He shared them. At length. We progressed to another crowded late night bar nearby when we got kicked out of the first. Drinks secured - I let him buy - he then started riffing about being an introverted extrovert or some such intellectual nonsense. Shockingly, he finds it hard to meet women.

Shushing his flow, I leaned back in my chair, tapped the shoulder of one of the Latin American girls on the next table, introduced myself and ended up kissing her.

I leant back to Daniel. “Could you do that, mate?” I asked, aware I was now his Alpha God.

Then it all got a bit messy. The girls left in a pack. Daniel gave me his LinkedIn details (soon deleted) and I walked home in the wee small hours aware it was curtain up time for the opening act of a major hangover. But that is for the morning and a queasy tram ride to an art gallery.

I go low. I go high. I am Michelle O’Trump.

Quotidian Notes and Further Reading

Yeah, I’m a bitch. You ever read any of my stuff? Read my Antwerp Bar commentary. Or, how about, The 3rd Battle of Mons. You’ll get the vibe.
I read once - probably in The Guardian - that going to a comedy show is like paying for a prostitute; you’re laying down money for a synthetic experience. Well, socialist fellow-travellers, it depends what you’re after, does it not? Fun can be found anywhere. The soulless experience is an experience. The verdict is in the re-telling.
Serious note. It takes balls or self-delusion to get up on stage and do a set. I’ve never had the cojones. But, Lady Catherine de Bourgh style, if I did, I would inevitably be amongst the greats. But, if you’re a pussy like me, and you’re in Prague, support The Metro Club. They try, they’re fun people despite my bitchiness and you should support these type of good-hearted places. Anyway, it’s cheap as fuck and you’ll have a good time.
This is part of my Prague Quintet of stories. Read my views on Prague Castle and whether it’s worth it and the previous night’s Beer and Loathing in Prague. Both excellent and required reading if you’re planning to go. Or maybe my thoughts on Prague’s Art Museum and a Baroque Concert in St Giles Church?

Tim Robson 09/09/2026 Tim Robson 09/09/2026

Beer And Loathing: A Night in Prague Bars

Russian Barman: A Confession

The barman was friendly. From Russia, he told me, though brought up in Prague by way of a couple of years in Dublin. He wanted to go back there; he had an Irish girlfriend. I mentioned it seemed somewhat empty tonight in Prague - all my YouTube research warned me about the nightmare of overcrowding caused by the tourist hordes in summertime. He observed that maybe this out of the way place I’d chosen on Újezd - away from the tourist cattle ‘must-see’ haunts in the Old Town - was always going to be a bit quiet on a Monday night.

He went on to overshare. Warming to his theme, he said that he used to work in busy Old Town places, techno clubs and that sort of thing. I asked him, why he’d switched jobs to this locals’ bar? Well, he got caught selling drugs he replied with a smile whilst helping himself to another gratis refill of his beer.

Blur v Oasis: Dick Measuring

The guy on the bar stool to my right - Nathan, American I guess – heard my accent and started on a riff about music in general and Britpop in particular. How he preferred Blur over Oasis and that Damon Albarn was a genius. But this was like a Gen Z teenager holding forth on the Beatles to someone who’d actually watched them play Get Back live on the rooftop. He clammed up when I bitch-slapped him with my observation that I’d seen Blur many times in the early 90’s as far back as their Modern Life is Rubbish Tour. Oh! Music snobs don’t like it when, in the dick measuring contest of their wankery, the guy next to them is sporting a ten-inch compared to their meagre six.

But he was nice enough and we talked about New York and Chicago and New Orleans and Brighton versus Brighton Beach. The sort of ‘anywhere & everywhere’ conversation one has internationally. Perish the thought you’re parochial. Me? I visit Belgium regularly and voted for Brexit. Life isn’t simple.

I pulled the old guy routine again when I said my last trip to New York was probably a quarter of a century ago and that I used to party in the Windows on the World. You know, that bar at the top of the World Trade Centre.

“Fuck man! There was a bar there?”

A Beer Too Far?

Mmm. This wasn’t my first set of beers tonight. But, prompted by my Russian friend who needed to make up for his larceny - I ordered one more. Too soon, I made my excuses with some Pilsner still left in the glass. The shame. That’s, like, sacrilegious in my culture. But, with pissed bonhomie, I shook hands with Nathan, the barman and his newly arrived Irish girlfriend (also drinking for free). Back out into the Prague night.

Age. Longevity. Memory. There has to be a trade-off, doesn't there? You lose your looks; you lose your hair. You battle to stay thin. But inside - confused, commingled and somewhat capricious - we have memories, memories that make us human, that shyly reveal us as a bit player in a once popular drama that doesn’t run anymore beyond highlight reels or Youtube shorts.

The Girl by the Riverside Earlier

Before that bar, there were – of course - a few others. I’d started earlier, by the river, on the Lesser Town side. There was a joyful noise coming up from a bar in the Kampa region whilst crossing the Legion Bridge (Most Legií). People having fun. Live music. So, I went down to investigate and caught the last few songs of a local band playing outside the Jazz Dock watched by a large, enthusiastic Czech crowd. I only caught the last three songs. They were good. Sorta like The Cardigans (who they, granddad?).

Walking back to the bridge along the waterfront I was followed, and then led, by an attractive, single lady, thirty something who was on her own. I smiled. She smiled. She paused in her walk, I overtook her. I stopped, and she passed me slowly. Synchronicity is a good sign of attraction, I’ve found. Our paths collided when we reached the bridge.

She went left and I went right.

That’s okay: I needed a piss anyway.

What are the Signs and how to Miss Them

Another night. Before or after, not sure.

The woman at Stage Bar on Střelecký Ostrov island. A band was playing, so - as I was crossing anyway, I followed the noise and took the lift down from Legion Bridge (Most Legií). I stood at the back, watching the band, watching the crowd. The most gorgeous woman of indeterminate age, in a tight lime suit was next to me. She was getting into the music, arms in the air, swaying and constantly filling her glass from premixed cans stashed in her bag. She was beautiful; high cheek bones, prominent nose, curvaceous.

Readers, if I had to design, or wish for, a perfect woman, this was she. Alarmingly close, she wiggled, she lifted her jacket to show her ass, bent over on the table in front of me provocatively. She unbound her hair and shook it sensuously. I mean, all the signs! She did literally everything to entice me apart from drop down to her knees and fumble around in my trousers.

I, of course, faced with Yoda’s choice to do or not to do, chose nothing. I gave nothing, encouraged nothing. As she was putting on her show, I could see her stage whisper her friend seemingly asking, is he looking? I know this because the friend would obviously appraise me and the two would then giggle performatively. But I was frozen. Real life and real decisions. Not for me. Eventually the music stopped, as did her actions. Was I dreaming? Did I imagine a come-on? How would I, an observer but unobservant, even know?

I left as she pulled a bottle of prosecco out of her bag. If I was a certain type of guy, maybe I would have stuck around at this point, let nature and bubbles take their course and ride this tram to the next stop. But I’m not and I didn’t.

Night view of Charles Bridge statues over the Vltava River in Prague — “You looking at my bird?”

The Pimp on Charles Bridge?

Disgusted with myself, all the beer I’d been drinking and the carby meals I’d been eating, I walked back through Lesser Town slowly and made my way to Charles Bridge. I pinballed drunkenly from side to side, seemingly always against the flow. It’s what I do. Usual crowd. Couples strolling arm-in-arm before heading to their hotel for perfunctory holiday sex. Youngish girls high on life and a couple of cocktails being silly. Guys being loud, annoying and drunk. Amidst this, a gorgeous, oh so beautiful lady, curvaceous in that modern way, smiled at me and I smiled back. Then I noticed a mean-looking guy nearby in jeans with a short hair cut and jacket fully done up. He was slowly walking in front and then behind her.

I paused. The girls didn’t move much. The guy didn’t move much. I walked on and they kept pace with me. I stopped and they seemed to stop. Wherever I was and whatever pace I walked, the guy seemed to be not that far away and kind of looking at me. His gaze wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t even a case now of him being a pimp watching his charges. I felt like a mark and hunted.

And, like a paranoid little bitch who’d watched too many ‘scams in Prague’ or ‘Be careful in Prague’ videos on YouTube, I picked up my skirts and fled the bridge back to the safety of my hotel. No more beers tonight.

Paranoia and missed opportunities. Is anything real? What is the truth? Am I sinking into the abyss or just drunk? Drunk and alone in Prague.

But there’s always tomorrow. I’m going to a comedy club. I feel like a fucking clown anyway. Based on tonight (last night, whatever; recently) I should be on stage and share my dating tips. Mic drop.

That though, dear readers, is another, and my next, story (to be overshared, of course).

Quotidian Notes / Read On

1) This is part of my Prague Quintet series of articles about the Czech capital covering art, music, museums, beer, bar escapades, trams, You know, the full Goulash with bread dumplings. Read part 1 Prague Castle Guide - Is it worth it? If you dare, Part 3 The Comedy Club Nightmare and the Crypto Guy. Now there is a story!

2) I’m liking this In Media Res style of writing. Keeps you guessing, no? Guessing whether I’m a wanker probably but a literary wanker at that. Literary discussion from a bar in Delft: F.Scott Fitzgerald - What a Bitch!

3) The comedy club night is a scorcher. You’ll love it! The right balance of wisdom and observation. Really? No, just a 1000 word bitch-fest.

4) I went to Prague first week in September 2026. It was warm.

5) What about reading my Krakow Bar Stories or maybe some Antwerp bar stories?

Tim Robson 05/09/2026 Tim Robson 05/09/2026

Prague Castle Review

Prague Castle: Is it worth it?

Whatever they say do, don’t do. Whatever they recommend, treat with caution.

I overheard a guide today at Prague Castle tell the flock gathered around her umbrella: “You’ve seen many magnificent sites today. Food for the soul. But what you now need is food for the body. I will show you an excellent cafe around the corner that serves the best coffee and cakes in all Prague. I will take you there.”

ABC: Always be closing.

Pro Tip: Based on five days of on-the-ground research, my "beat the crowds and feel smug" route appears at the end of this post.

Route 1: Up the Hill

I walked up the hill from the Lesser Town (Malá Strana) relatively early to beat the crowds. And yes, to get to Prague Castle (Pražský hrad) you will have to make the short but steep climb up either the Old Castle Stairs or The New Castle Stairs.

It’s certainly an investment in your calf muscles this excursion up the hill to Prague Castle. But, like, you have to do it. Don’t you? I mean, that’s what all the guides say; come to Prague, see the castle, cross Charles Bridge, rub a statue, blah, blah.

BTW: There is another way to get to the top. You can hire a ridiculously extended vintage car costing, in Czech Koruna, probably something like half this country’s GDP, and be driven past the sweating tourists all cursing you. This option is mainly taken by tourists who wear masks a lot. Even in an open-air car with your own family. Fuckwits.

And yes, I know there’s also a tram but, this blog supports walking wherever possible.

So, who else was also making this morning trek?

Fat Americans, stopping every few steps, sweating profusely, caught twixt and between McDonald's and Starbucks (yes, there’s even a Starbucks here at Prague Castle along with authentic Czech kebab and weed shops).
Koreans, also pausing every ten steps - this time for the obligatory selfie.
Determined families, pushing their reluctant teenagers up the hill to get that parentally mandated culture fix, all whilst laden down with bread rolls and apples stolen from the hotel breakfast buffet.
Me? Walking steadily but faster than this lot. Getting those steps in to negate the previous night’s beer and dumplings overload. 20,000 steps here we come!

You Made It!

And if you make the journey to the top - and you’re not too tired to rock when you get there - you’ll be glad you did. It's certainly pretty and boasts a great view over Prague spread out below you. Ornate palaces and churches sit randomly on a large site; it’s less a castle and more a collection of stately buildings on a hill - the entire district is called Hradčany. A bit like Wawel Castle in Kraków to be honest; there’s no real ‘there’, there.

I like history. I love architecture. But the rehearsed ‘pretend you give a fuckness’ I found up there leaves me colder than a foamy beer poured from an Old Town cellar bar into a refrigerated glass. But I won’t say it’s crap because it’s unique, historical, and hovers over the city like a sinister bat ready to swoop down and devour its tourist ant hordes below on Charles Bridge. You have to visit.

Without a guidebook or any research though, it’s probably a baffling trip; Karel this, Leopold that, palace of the beer vat, palace of the dumpling, Church of St. Beardy Guy… Yeah, okay, I admit it: I did fuck all research and I’m too cheap to pay for the ticket to see the interiors or get a guide. I guess I’ll carry that regret, that disappointment. But lightly.

Impressions: Cobblestones & Trucks

On the hour, every hour, a bell chimes to command the strolling tourist monks to the high mass of the changing of the guard. It summons them to the service of a higher power - those “I was in Prague’ Insta shots. Probably later scrubbed of the crowds. Yeah, it was just you there and the fancy soldier boys.

The constant pitter-patter of manic delivery trucks on the cobblestones was the pleasing soundtrack to my visit. If you get here early enough, your aimless wandering can be enhanced by the friendly “Get out of the fucking way, tourist” yell from tattooed drivers counting down that angst-filled hour before their first comforting beer of the day.

Observation: What is it with solo female travellers? They all seem to cradle large, extendable cameras around their necks. One watches as their hands play lovingly with the retractable lens - extending it, shrinking it, twisting it as they try to coax a perfect shot.
Groan. Yes readers, another poor sex metaphor. You love it.

Explore the whole complex slowly and at your own pace. There are many fine, lesser palaces in various styles and covered archways as you move around. It’s not all about the castle proper. If you absorb the vibe rather than hurrying around to get in the next queue, I think you’ll have a richer and less stressful time

The Descent: Some Marriage Advice

I walked back a different way (there are two main walking routes to and from the Lesser Town below). Interestingly, I was stopped on my way back down by a sweating and overweight American couple, pausing to catch their breath on their way up. The lady asked me: “Have you been to the Castle? Is it worth this climb?”

Now, the bastard, impish Tim would have said: “No, it’s a waste of time. Just stop here at this cafe - highly recommended I’ve heard - and have a couple too many beers each and discuss your secret S&M fantasy with your husband. To me, it looks like he secretly wants you to peg his arse vigorously. Y’all have a good day now!”

But I didn’t. I chickened out and said something safe like, “It’s not too much further, I think you’ll like it when you get there. There’s plenty of level ground. And a Starbucks.”

You see, I can be nice. IRL as the kids say. Master of the keyboard, I’m Vlad the Impaler crossed with Genghis Khan. With a touch of Amis, Hemingway, Wilde and Fitzgerald, of course. In person, well... I’m a Director at a fintech company.

And onward Tim marched downhill, across the river, off to his next stop. Unlike the castle delivery drivers, today I put in place a no-beer-before-1pm rule. I’m a man of resolute will and once I set my mind on something no pilsner pleasures can distract me. Okay, the first one was at 12:55pm. I break rules. Even my own.

Pro Tip: The Petřín Park Back Door!

I said at the start I have a good tip for you. Instead of marching straight up from Lesser Town like everyone else, make a proper walk of it and go via some of Prague’s hidden treasures.

Warning: If you’re a fat fuck, don’t bother as it is again a long, windy trek and the complete walk is around 5km or so. If that’s you, stick to those touristy Trdelník snacks and guide-recommended cafes that always seem just that little bit underwhelming and overpriced.

This route starts via the Legion Bridge (Most Legií) and leads up through Petřín Park. You come to the Castle from the opposite direction by walking through miles of beautiful, quiet parkland. Hardly anyone is there and you get vastly superior views of the city and the castle complex. That is because the expansive park sits high on the ridge, providing dozens of uncrowded vantage points as you progress over toward Hradčany.

You even pass through St. Wenceslas' Vineyard (Svatováclavská vinice) and copious orchards. You could almost be out in the rolling countryside, so peaceful is this route. No Starbucks in sight.

It’s a great walk. Nobody does it. Feel smug. You’re welcome.

Quotidian Notes

Trip was early Sept and the temperature was 22-27C.
Part of Prague Quintet series of articles. I thought I’d start with a nice touristy click-bait one first. Reel you in before I hit you with the bars, people, music, art and history diatribes. You’ve been warned!
Part 2: Beer and Loathing: Missed Connections and Pimps is now up on the website. Reader caution advised!
Part 3: The Comedy Club and the Crypto Guy. Going all Alpha in central Prague…
To read about Krakow - and a similarly insightful Wawel Castle review - check out my Krakow Trilogy
I’m often reviewing citys. My Scabrous City Tours - Antwerp, Bruges, Mons, Breda etc - should be read, well, now.

Tim Robson 20/08/2026 Tim Robson 20/08/2026

Gladiator 2: Shocker!

Traducing a Memory

I think we can all agree that Gladiator was a great movie. From the opening battle scene against the Germans, to Maximus’ many gladiatorial fights, Russell Crowe’s magnetism, the atmospheric music, the masterful cinematography. And many quotable lines: ‘On my command, unleash hell!’

Gladiator 2 is none of these things.

I looked forward to this. As the internet’s pre-eminent Roman blogger (see my bona fides below), you don’t get much in the way of Roman films. But, being a tight bastard, I waited until Netflix streamed it for free. I still felt ripped off.

Since yesterday, I’ve been trying to put into words how to describe this terrible chariot-crash of a movie. Disappointing. Poor. Formulaic. Wooden. A-historic. Annoying! No, no; there’s only one word that covers this like a legionary’s cloak in winter:

Shit.

Yes; shit will do.

Accuracy? That’s for Marvel Movies.

It starts with some scene setting onscreen to cover the gap in time between the first film and the second. But reading the first sentence I was already raging at the TV debating - after just 30 seconds - whether to switch the damn thing off in disgust.

“Sixteen years after the death of Marcus Aurelius the Roman Empire is ruled by twin emperors Caracalla and Geta.” Whaaaaaaat! You mean 196 AD? Right in the middle of Septimius Severus’ reign? (“Who-he?”, The Scriptwriter)

Maybe a better story might have been to anchor the story around the ageing Septimius (famously from AFRICA dimwits - perhaps played by Denzel?) and then portray the real vicious battle-royal that took place between his sons?

The sons of Septimius Severus - there’s a proper movie hiding here within the toga of history. They weren’t twins and they actually hated each other. Hated each other so much that they divided their palace in two and only came together when Caracalla lured his brother into his mother’s apartment just to kill him in front of her. Real life is better than this Hollywood boo-hiss cartoon fantasy cosplay of Roman inequities.

And the best actor award goes to? The Monkeys

Acting. Was there any? Or just some randoms rounded up off the street and then given half an hour to learn the script with just one stage direction from Ridley Scott: ‘Overact like fuck! Bring on the rhino!’

The bloke who plays (spoiler alert) Maximus’ son had all the charisma of a shy librarian giving a talk on book binding to a half empty roomful of sleeping pensioners. His supposedly rousing speeches certainly aroused me; into shouting at the bloody TV - how the fuck did you get this gig? I could have done a few press ups for a week, cut back on my beer consumption over a weekend and I’d have made a better job portraying a gladiator than this clown.

Geta and Caracalla? What the fuck? More make up and wigs than the floor show at a trans Dolly Parton fest. Again; real life was better! These two were succeeded in a couple of years by their distant cousin from Syria who really was a bit trans - Elagabalus. If you want debauched emperors, he had it all; cross dressing, rampant homosexuality, strange Eastern cult worship. He was so bad and scandalous that his own family had him murdered and swapped out by another pale cousin pronto. And all in the same damn time period.

Lazy script writing bastards!

And Denzel? Probably thought he was in Washington DC rather than 196 AD. Much has been made of his chewing the scenery overacting. Well, at least he was acting. In this sub three hour bore-fest he was probably the only one who left any lasting impression. Like a chilli in a rice pudding; memorable but not for the right reasons. It was all a bit Training Day meets A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.

And the Plot? Bring on the Rhino!

The story? Well, I forget. It was a pale imitation and rewrite of the original. Sequel cereal. No wonder Russell Crowe disowns this galleyful of clowns. Even the battle scene: Attacking Numidia? That was conquered hundreds of years earlier! Masinissa anyone? Jugurtha who got his butt kicked by Marius and Sulla in the late second century BC? Juba I who Caesar rolled through whilst fighting his civil war in 46BC? Numidia was conquered over 200 years before this ahistorical turkey was set. I mean if you want a quotidian battle scene, for the movie why not show the Romans whacking the Parthians? Septimius was actually fighting them in this period. Or maybe start with him chasing the Picts around Scotland? Real campaigns. No fuck that. More monkeys.

Ahhhh!

Once There Was A Dream of Rome. Oh Please!

And then there was the same ridiculous conceit as the first movie; all this ‘There was a dream of Rome once’, restore the republic nonsense. Yeah, a bloody dream in the minds of the scriptwriters who thought, a quick read of a couple pages of Mary Beard’s SPQR, add some CGI monkeys, co-mingle 46 BC with 196 AD and, fuck it!, who’s to know? Throw in that Derek Jacobi from I Claudius to add some British ‘I’m a classical ACTOR’ vibes and, Oscar - here we come!

And then there’s the sharks swimming in the Colosseum. That’s where this turkey really jumped the shark, we just needed Fonzie to water ski through the screen and then we’d have the perfect synergy of bullshit, laziness and taking the audience for fools. “Are you not entertained?”

Mmm. Maybe I’ve stumbled on what they were trying to achieve by producing this movie? It’s just one giant big piss-take?

For the Senate and People of Rochdale…

As I may have mentioned (demonstrated even), I do tend to write about Rome quite frequently. So if you want to read my other reviews of popular Roman series / books then the suggestions below are a good way to do so…

Firstly, my review of the aforementioned Mary Beard’s SPQR. The book’s a bit mmmahh, but the review’s cracking!
Acting more wooden that the Teutoburg Forest: My review of Netflix’s Barbarians.
A series I pretty much enjoyed is Sky’s Domina. You see, I’m not just a bitch. Well…
More serious. Keeping with the third century, how Septimius Severus wrecked the Roman economy and Diocletian tried to put it back together again. Inflation Roman Style.
Or just choose your own Roman articles to read. There’s plenty in my Rome Section.

Tim Robson 10/08/2026 Tim Robson 10/08/2026

Top Ten Madonna Songs

Into the Groove. Could it top the charts?

We met. Did I tell you that?

Did I ever tell you I met Madonna once? It was in Cipriani’s in Park Lane. Prince Andrew (Booo!), Sarah Ferguson and their kids were also dining there that night. As was I. Anyway, she and I met, but briefly. You can read my account about meeting Madonna in this very blog. For her side of the story, you’d need to ask her. Recollections may possibly vary but - for myself - I’ve said all I’m going to say about the incident. Unless asked. Or pissed.

Love her or loathe her, she’s certainly had a long career. From her bouncy lightweight pop in the early 80’s to her move toward more convention-defying music of the early 90’s through to producer-led techno of the mid 90’s onwards thru to soundtracks, she’s produced a decent catalogue of songs.

Now, dear reader, I know I’m famous for my reviews of classic rock (really Tim?) but a decent pop song will always get me going. Songs date you, they place you in a certain time and certain place. I span all Madonna’s career. As she was breaking through I was just starting to go to clubs (discos in those days, kids). We’ve kind of had a parallel existence; her dominating the pop world and me, well, yeah.

The Top Ten

So, I thought I’d do my top ten Madonna tracks in homage to her, our brief time together, some memories of a bygone era and because her stuff always creeps onto my playlists when I’m off for a long drive. Don’t expect a deep dive here; they’re not really that kind of songs. We’re talking a feeling, a hook, a look, a place and a time. We only met once, but, through her music, we coalesced multiple times.

Scanning through the candidates for the top ten you’ll notice there’s eleven on the list. Why? Well, who said I can’t subvert the listette convention? No rules, man. But I genuinely found it hard to slim the list down to ten, so I chickened out on which songs to leave out. So, eleven it is. The other unsuccessful songs from my long list appear below. You think this stuff is easy?

In reverse order:

10 - Music

“Hey Mr DJ, put a record on!” A firm number 10 on the list. A solid dance floor hit. Electronically treated with an earworm high pitched guitar punctuating each phrase. It could be dismissed as Madonna enslaved to production but she’s too good to be pigeon holed for that. It’s got a chorus, it’s got a groove, it’s talks about dancing. Must be Madonna. Video’s not bad either. Aiyee!

9 - Vogue

“Strike the pose” Madonna self styling herself as a serious artist, an artist of the dance floor. Am I alone in picking up a little bit of ‘Going to a Go-Go’? No? Just me then. Love the stepped housey piano on the chorus - whatever happened to that keyboard sound? And then Madonna starts riffing about famous movie stars, they’re all a bit obvious - Dean, Monroe, Harlow, Fred and Ginger - but I’m sure they appreciated the call out. It fits with the song though “vogue, vogue, vogue.”

8 - Sorry

The latest track on the list. To be honest, I missed this when it came out being otherwise distracted by, well, life so I came across it relatively late. Je suis désolé. I was blown away that Madge had pulled out a classic at this late stage in her career. It’s driving, well produced and stands up against her earlier stuff. If she mimed to this at a concert I’d happily do that Tim sway thing along with the earlier classics.

7 - Deeper and Deeper

I bought this single. A cassette single, if I remember. (Ask your parents if you don’t know what this is.) A decent dance groove, one of those tracks where Madge babbles about music setting you free. I’m down with that. Frankly, I’m amazed it’s not higher on the list as I probably play this more often than some higher on the list. My ways are inscrutable. Depends when I’m writing this and what I’m drinking. Deep. And deeper, Tim.

6 - Ray of Light

A comeback of sorts. We were all into Britpop, Oasis and lad bands in the mid 90’s. And then Madonna puts out her 1998 album of the same name which was a massive return to form. The lead single, Frozen, was a turgid misstep but Ray of Light is a shining pop tune for the ages. “And I feel!” she sings as she ramps up the temperature propelling this track into a floor filling classic. She means it, man. I still hit the clubs back in those days and I know I spilt lager on the dance floor to this one.

5- Drowned World / Substitute for Love

Same album. A deep cut. A couple of tunes melded together, stitched artfully by a beautiful synth guitar part in the middle. Like grunge rock - this is the quiet bit, this is the loud bit. With Madonna, it starts slow and then gets all noisy as the track progresses. This isn’t lightweight pop anymore. This is the older Madonna holding the mic and telling her truth (with a shit load of production helping her). “I now I find, I’ve changed my mind” she sings. I certainly did.

4 - Holiday

Who wouldn’t like this? Bouncy early 80’s lightweight pop. We all like holidays. We all like Madonna’s track singing about holidays. Reminds me of Rochdale which is not a non sequitur. The discos pounded to this when it came out and I started going out! Peak early Madonna. I think - and I may be wrong - that this is the first Madonna song I heard. Certainly the first one I heard in a club. Thing is, when you listen on earphones or on a phone (or earphones attached to a phone) it can sound a bit tame. But at a club, bass turned up, floors bouncing to the music and the dancing, tracks like ‘Holiday’ rocked. Join in - ‘Holiday!’

3 - Skin

“Do I know you from somewhere?” That line always gets me. It’s like she’s singing to me, remembering our one in-person meeting. Another from the Ray of Light album. Techno treated, producer playing the boards but underneath it, a great - slightly melancholic dance track. As you may have realised, Ray of Light, is the only Madonna album I’ve actually bought. The only album I’ll actually play all the way through whilst cooking. There is no higher honour for an artist. Fuck Grammys. If it passes the Tim in the kitchen test, then you’ve made it. When we met, we didn’t discuss this. I might have said “I’m not like this all the time!”

2 - Like A Virgin

This one came out of the blocks and propelled young Madonna away from getting her kit off for ‘arty’ nude photo shoots and into pop royalty. This was the one. Slightly naughty, an effortless pop classic. Obviously Quentin Tarantino’s deconstruction of the lyrics in Reservoir Dogs has added a slightly more layered interpretation but it was always meant to be provocative. Young - and older Madonna - always wanted to create headlines by controversy. Here she succeeds but in doing so rides a great song. Synth bass and lightweight vocals date this slightly but the verve, the melody and the lyrics keep this a seminal Madonna track.

1 - Into The Groove

My go to Madonna track. You have to know the words to the spoken word intro (You can dance. For inspiration. Come on! I’m waiting.). Peak 80’s synth groove. The best Madonna dance track. She likes to dance. She feels free there. Feels a bit jiggy when she dances. Maybe I should have met her in a club instead of a restaurant? Mmm, you’re overplaying your one connection Tim - you’re not bullshitting on a date now. I know. I know. This track reminds me of flecked suits, yellow shirts, sharp haircuts and hair gel. Girls with big hair, discos that burnt down for the insurance money. And Madonna played loud, bass bouncing off the wooden dance floor, light shows periodically spotlighting your crap dancing as you ‘get into the groove’. Top tune. Top vibe. Number 1. Watch it here.

Bonus Track: Dear Jessie

I debated booting this one off the list and so I did. But. But it’s Beatle-esque production, and my love of it when it came out, demands I keep it at my slightly illegal number 11. Madonna would appreciate my transgression. However, it earned its place with a younger Tim and so - as the solipsism is strong with this one - I kept faith with my younger self. Shout out - love you man. So Dear Jessie is here. Still very Beatles-esque. Its charm wears out quickly though.

Do You Agree?

So that’s my list. I had to whittle it down which wasn’t easy. Borderline. Material Girl. True Blue. Hung Up. They all fell by the wayside as I ruthlessly edited it down to 10 (or 11, yeah, yeah). It was hard. Not as hard as, say, The Beatles, but I’ve spent two years on this blog post so I’ve put the hours in. She’s a major artist and deserved it.

Do you agree? I’m not sure I do myself. Comment below. I usually respond to comments unless they’re weird and have a whiff of your Mum’s basement about them. And so I’ll end by insulting my readers.

Read on

Obviously you HAVE to read my meeting with Madonna. I may have mentioned it a couple of times already in this article.
Maybe my top ten 80’s tracks - one a year I believe. Is Madonna there? What do you think?
Something different? My Top Ten Movie Songs.
Or just go to my music section of the features page and select and curate your own reader experience.

Tim Robson 20/07/2026 Tim Robson 20/07/2026

Kevin Keegan RIP

I had this strip when I was ten. Because of Keegan.

Heroes Go. One by One.

This was is tough.

I don’t usually write much about football or sport but, Kevin Keegan. Fuck! He’s gone. My childhood hero.

I grew up in the 70’s and started watching football in 1976 and Liverpool was my team. Keegan was the star. They won the League. They won the European Cup (I watched it). And then he went off to Germany. Heartbreak.

I watched him on Superstars fall off the bike. I watched him at the 1982 World Cup coming on near the end and nearly winning it for England. I saw him once at Maine Rd when he played for Southampton.

No matter who you supported, there was always love for King Kev. Football fans across England and the world mourn his death tonight.

And me?

A great footballer.

A proud Northerner.

A great Englishman.

A decent guy.

I mourn the death of one of my childhood heroes. He was on a poster on my bedroom wall when I was young.

Kevin Keegan. King Kev. Mighty Mouse. RIP. My boyhood hero.

Tim Robson 09/07/2026 Tim Robson 09/07/2026

A Night Out in Birmingham

Katie O'Brien's Birmingham night — Why is this picture of Katie O’Brien’s out of focus?

Well, I did not expect that.

I was in the centre of Birmingham this week. Work trip up from London. Hotel off New Street. Doing that bar hopping thing. Apparently England had a World Cup game the night before at 1am in Mexico and so most people were sleeping it off. Not me. I don’t give a fuck about football. Not since 1980 anyway. Is Kevin Keegan still playing?

So, Brum seemed unusually quiet tonight. I went to a few bars. Had a curry at my favourite Birmingham curry house The Indian Streatery. Went back to my hotel to prep for the conference next day. Yes, dear readers, I’m important and attend events near and far to listen to the worthy, the unworthy, the boring, dear customers, would be customers and industry leaders as they read poorly off Powerpoints or rant randomly. And I get to post selfies on LinkedIn and pretend that I give a fuck.

Once more unto the Brum, dear friends

But something made me go out for one more foray into the goodly night. It was too early for YouTube and lube. So I went out armed with my performative notebook so I could jot down some ‘ideas’. You know, like proper businessmen do. Or posey wankers. Lists and listettes, ideas and ideation. Bullshit from an unobserved corner table - screaming look at me! look at me! - compensatory activity. I’m well versed in this. You should know that I’m not just the face plant guy from Mons. Oh no! I hold down a serious job doing serious things.

So, walking down New Street, I went up Temple Street and into Katie O’Brien’s. As I said, Birmingham was dead tonight apart from the usual quotidian town centre zombie apocalypse types and hoodies on scooters intimidating all comers. But I walked passed them all and climbed up into the bar. Been there before. Usually empty.

But not tonight…

Stepford Wives

Fuck! I’d landed in the valley of the dolls! Literally all the Stepford Wives and their beautiful daughters were arrayed before me. Without sounding too lechorous - oh go on Tim, go on! do - I’d walked into a pub with, how many?, fifty beautiful blonde ladies.

And, dear reader, not a bloody tattoo to be seen.

Everyone of them was wearing a figure hugging dress, had perfect make up and, most particularly, long beautiful wavy (mostly) blonde hair. No tacky extensions clipped just for the night here. Now, of course, I’m from a generation that eschewed tattoos and relegated them to sailors, tarts and prison bitches. Latterly though, the youth of the UK sport sleeves, incomprehensible signs, wordy platitudes nestling with dog names, ex-lovers, flowers, fantastic creatures, football clubs and, generally - let’s be honest - poor designs.

Sit down grandad...

But here I was with 50 Stepford Wives and their daughters. Mainly their daughters. I looked. How I looked! And indeed, how I was caught looking. Of course. And yet still I stared; a street anthropologist discovering a lost tribe of attractive women. Rare. Immaculate. Inviolate.

Of course, and I must for obvious reasons, say; it’s all subjective. I get that. Many people find tattoos and slovenly dress attractive in women. But, nah, fuck that, not me. Well dressed, well coiffured, nice make up, pretty faces with no botox: That’s my preference, your honour. We’re all entitled to our standards of beauty and this is mine. (Lost your mirror, Tim?) But here, en masse, were fifty fantasies. What had I stumbled on? Had fallen into a time loop and was I now in 1955? Where’s the DeLorean?

An Irish Wedding?

And they were having a good time! Irish music played. Songs of pride. Songs of revolution. Songs of drink. They screamed at each other above the music. They sang. They danced. They drank. And drank again. Vodka took a pounding as did Aperol. Tequilas may have been slammed. The men - their men? - mainly stood around tables chugging Guinness, laughing inclusively, but not interacting with their women folk. No words needed to be said. No danger here. Their presence, my timidity, their beauty, my notebook, cleaved an invisible Lancelot’s sword between me and the ladies. I could watch, agog, amazed, but unobserved and wilfully paralysed.

Never have I seen so many attractive ladies in one place and never have I felt so invisible. I was there but I wasn’t. My part was to mumble silently in the chorus, my lines were cut, I was but a shade in this vision - just passing through - observing but not participating in this Brummie Brigadoon.

And all too soon, they left in twos and threes, and fours and fives to go to a mythical ‘next place’. Maybe they were transported into another time, a once and future land of reels and dances, good times, smiles and elegance.

I drank my Guinness at the bar, picked up my notebook and left for my hotel. What had I seen? What had I wandered into and through?

Wasn’t bloody Birmingham petal!

Quotidian Notes

1) It’s not to say I diss all tattoos. But their ever present presence, their variable quality, stands as a marker. Time breaths: You were young then, now you are not. The past was a different - un-inked - country. Canute like, it’s useless to rage at the oncoming tide.

2) But what was the occasion? A wedding? A Wake? If only I had the ability to converse. But that night, I was dumb and, frankly, dumbfounded.

3) Why was I in Birmingham? My ways and movements are unknowable. I like hiding in plain sight.

4) Check out my night out in Mons for the face plant. Or my night in Bruges for the Irish bar I went to. Perhaps the night in Breda where I rocked the Dutch?

Tim Robson 07/06/2026 Tim Robson 07/06/2026

The 3rd Battle of Mons

Picture of Mons train station, brooding sky June 2026 — Mons Station. Great Design. Weird Carpark

Station. Great Design. Clown Show

(Part 3 of my Franco’s Fiesta summer Tour June 2026. Read about Rocking Out in Breda and The Banjos of Monschau if you want to see the earlier legs.)

Not to cheapen the British army, but here I am, in Mons, flying the flag. My battle is less, braving German machine guns, and more, getting that ‘la même chose’ vibe going.

There was a festival in Mons this week. Still going on but, frankly, it’s in the vinegar strokes. As there were closed streets and chaotic, horn-blaring traffic jams around La Grand Place and, advised by my ever ‘reliable’ AI, I parked at the station. The station building - BTW - is an amazing architectural piece of modern urban design - futuristic, beautiful and functional (Corbusier, hang your pedantic communist head in shame). But, like all big cities (see my Gare du Nord articles), the area around the station is a clown show of human folly, waste and grift. So, urban eyes to the fore, I adopted the head down, ‘non’ to every supplicant and headed out through the rain and into Mons.

The Mons Mount

The centre is on a goddam hill! Who tells you that? In Belgium? To reach the Grand Place, the citadel, you literally have to climb up vertiginous rain soaked cobbled streets. And me - clever me - left my bag back in the station whilst I tracked down the hotel. So, I did the Station. Hotel. Station. Hotel thing. Soaked with the rain. Sweating like a bitch in the sun. What’s up the weather? What’s up with the hill of Mons? Forget going over the top, getting to the top in Mons is a fucking push.

The Linguistic Divide

Everyone knows Belgium is split into two. We have the Flemish in the North who speak Dutch and we have the Wallonians (in the South, roughly) who speak French. Brussels / Bruxelles is bi-lingual by law though the lingua Franca is predominantly French. Yes, there’s a small German speaking community (around Monschau BTW) but essentially Belgium is a 50:50 split.

Hitherto (note to self: wanker) I’ve stuck to the Flemish side; Antwerp, Bruges, Gent. This is my first foray (outside Brussels) into the French part of Belgium since, I dunno, 1982? The difference? Well, they drink the same beer, they eat the same food but; how to say this? The Flemish speak English without hesitation - smiling / welcoming - whereas the Wallonians, not so much. Like their French cousins across the border, they don’t feel the need to facilitate tourists with English. That’s okay, I thought, I speak a little French. And yes, I needed it. My advice to tourists, buy a French phrase book and make the bloody effort.

The Battle of the Beer

I know there’s an age old friendly enmity between France and England. But Belgium? Wallonia? What the fuck did we do to screw them over aside from giving then their country (read some history proles)? I feel almost as though Brexit was not a declaration of UK’s independence but a fuck you to the French speaking part of Belgium. Chill, mes amis, we still love you. I’d come to this part of Belgium more often if you opened your insular arms a little more.

I get that I’m straying cluelessly into darkened caverns of socio-political-linguistic minefields. Yeah, whatever.

But my glass is empty. The barman studiedly ignores this. I have money but, it’s seems there’s a performative dance going on here. Maybe he’s friends with my banjo playing friends in Monschau?

But, let’s run a split test. Two young, attractive students have just sat down. I bet beardy serves them first. As he does so I watch the dregs in my empty glass literally evaporate in front of me. I wait and I wait until I surrender all pride and wave my hands above my head like a hairdresser winning a Liza Minelli concert ticket. ‘La même chose!’

Gruff barman gives me my beer. In a way, I guess I like the Gallic ‘fuck you’ attitude. It’s one of the reasons I love France (and, by extension Rattachist Wallonia). It forces you - with good reason - to speak French.

Lest it seem I’m just a curmudgeon whining about slow service (I am! I am!) read note seven below. As with all these pieces, a cynic is just a disappointed optimist waiting to be proved wrong.

A fashion aside

Okay, it’s a student town but…. Why do ‘students’ wear their hoodies with the hood up? Guys, you ain’t gangsters. I know Wallonia is the bitch of Belgium, but really? Come on. You’re better than that. Magritte? Brel? Jean Claude van Damme (yeah, a bit dicey that one). Plastic Betrand. Put the hoods down, mecs.

Grand Place - A Sport? A Mating Ritual?

There’s a team game going on in Grand Place. A local game, clearly. Part of the festival. No one seems to know what’s going on. I asked the barman - more willingly multi lingual than the last one - and he hadn’t a scooby either. Lots of shouting, nothing making sense just a bunch of men in team colours shouting at each other. And shout and argue they do. The EU as a sport anyone?

The sun has finally come out or maybe my beer jacket is now working as it should. I’m several Belgian beers down and, admittedly, beginning to sway in the non existent breeze. The Grand Place is, like many Belgium centres, beautiful and replete with grand medieval buildings, for example, the city hall pictured below. From my seat I observe. Well, tangentially, of course, as my main focus is the beer and failing badly with les jolies femmes.

Two ladies on a table in front of me seem to require my presence. Unspoken words and indistinct glances beckon me forward. I pick up my glass and go over to talk about life, love and beer. But I trip, I stumble and fall, sprawling pathetically in front of them, an unwelcome supplicant prostrate, as my glass pirouettes in the air before smashing at their feet. Disgusted, they look away… No, there’s no way out of this… Fucks are not being given in Grand Place and so I stagger to my feet, humiliated and leave. But, the beer has one last embarrassing stop off for me as I somehow get into a student club and play the oldest swinger in town swaying to the awful ‘music’. I catch a glimpse of a neon gargoyle version of myself through the distorted lens of a dance floor mirror. Errrhh! It’s enough. Goodnight Belgium. It’s time for time honoured collapse on the hotel room floor fully clothed to fitfully sleep uncomfortably until four am. Who is this guy and why does he do this?

Yeah, Mons man. It’s a battle. Bought my book yet? Cheap on Amazon.

Bar Review

The still hazy after all these beers memorial write up:-

So many. Let’s see, on Grand Place, L'Excelsior. No wifi. So no marks. The owner seemed more interested in having an argument with some tramp who was trying to use the loos. Good old row with robust opinions stated boldly and loudly on both sides. I left. No one noticed. The floor show continued.

Onto La Vie est Belge at the corner of Grand Place. Had a paddle of four different Belgian beers, some salami, some cheese. I was under an awning outside the door as the monsoon hit which allowed me to tuck into the beer and snacks I ordered. Barman giving a fuck score, 5/10.

Onto Jekyll opposite the town hall. Stayed out on a table in the Grand Place. Nice in the sun and very busy. Frankly don’t remember much apart from that it was crowded, but waiter was more friendly than usual - well, he served me, plusieurs fois - and I think they had wifi. Gallic shrugometre: 6/10. Scene of my face plant.

Just down from Grand Place is Marché aux Herbes. Very lively in the evening with students everywhere. Went to Baromètre MONS. It’s a bar on the corner and very busy when I was there which meant that the service was a bit slow for the English guy with the laptop. I don’t blame them TBH, laptop guy will probably just write something bitchy. Oh, I just did.

Mons best bar? Two, actually.

And the winner is, a split tie between Jekyll - great in sun, probably expensive but I’d got to the state where I just flashed my card, said c’est bon and troughed away - and La Vie Est Belge which, inside seems very pretty. Only went in to the loo though. Me. The Beers. The snacks. The awning and the rain outside. La Vraie Belgique!

Hotel - Martin’s Dream Hotel

Arrived early. They let me have my room. Free breakfast (I needed it, oh did I need it!). Spoke French at the reception and in subsequent interactions. Martin’s Dream Hotel, is situated on Rue de la Grande Triperie which is well placed to begin your ascent to the top of Mount Mons. Apparently a spa hotel but this was neither offered nor explained. I suppose I was too busy looking for beer anyway.

Quotidian Notes

1) The game they played in Grand Place is Doudou or something. Basically bearded men shouting at each other with little else going on. Important historical festival thing reduced to a ‘what the fuck are they doing’ semi curiosity from pissed tourists.

2) Mons = mount / mountain in Latin. That makes sense. That, Tim, is why there’s a fucking hill you dumb, no-research-before-you-arrive, twat.

3) What about da ladies I hear no-one ask? Well… There was that lady on the next table. No, no. There was that time at that bar. You know, stumble. Er, no. The club? Oh the embarrassment! These stories will remain untold, unlamented and soon, forgot. Which is a coy way of saying, I failed like a pro waving my shitty stick at all available candidates. And you dear reader, do you care? No? Gallic shrug.

4) The tour continued with a stop off on the coast, comme d’habitude, for a supermarket top up for, fuck knows, I dunno, more beers? Mustard? Waffles? Will be added in my forecoming tour summary.

5) The station was designed by Santiago Calatrava BTW. No, me neither. I have unknowingly come across his work in the renovation of Valencia’s river district though where - pre his designs - some of Franco’s Fiesta is set. Maybe here in Mons he should have put beds and / or pissoires in the underground car park (cos that what it’s used for).

6) I’ll be back to Belgium. Probably not to Mons.

7) Shout out to the great guy I met in the cavernous and slightly intimidating underground station car park. I was trying to get out of Mons but how to pay for parking? The carpark is huge - quarter of mile long, perhaps. Sensing my frustration and bewilderment, a Belgian guy exiting the car park, stopped his car, asked if he could help, sat in my passenger seat and directed me to one, solitary pay machine, hidden away at the far end. He didn’t have to do this but his help, unasked for but so needed, was greatly appreciated. Thank you mate for this act of selfless kindness. We spoke in French.

Read on!

Read about a rainy night in Breda as I revived a Neil Diamond classic. Or perhaps my thoughts on the picture postcard beauty, and variable experiences, in pretty Monschau. The tour as a whole can be accessed thus, Franco’s Fiesta Tour.

Then there is The Darkness of Bruges. A rainy night in Delaneys Bar. What was the darkness? Well, click and you shall find out.

Enjoy!

Tim Robson 05/06/2026 Tim Robson 05/06/2026

Monschau: Squeal Piggy

Monschau in June with flowers — Monschau. Flowers. Water. No Banjos

It Rains in Monschau!

Bumped into Kenneth and Miriam by the car park just outside Monschau’s historic centre. They were from Aachen on a day trip. We were sheltering away from the torrential rain. “Why did you come to Monschau?” asked Kenneth. Indeed, why? “Found it on a map,” I replied and he found this funny. I went back to the car, got an umbrella and said my goodbyes. Nice people.

No, I’m not going soft on you but, niceness deserves niceness. I’m a fucking buddha these days. A real karma chameleon. All about that. Still a bitch too though, don’t worry.

The Franco’s Fiesta tour moves on. The drive down from Breda was two and half hours as I sweated out last night’s excesses. Was I really a rockstar last night? Nobody who was there remembers, except, mein herren, there’s a video. Watch it. Bask in my short lived glory. Notice the applause died before I left the stage. (BTW, part three, is now available: The 3rd Battle of Mons as I struggle to get a beer.

Why am I here, in Monschau?

Good question, ladies (and Kenneth). Something about me looking for good continental Christmas markets last year. And ending up going to Dordrecht (on the wrong day FFS, that was a dreary experience) and Bruges instead. You can read about my escapades last Christmas on this website. I called it The Darkness of Bruges. Very mysterious. These depths have hidden shadows (shallows, Tim? What? Just askin’).

Deliverance - German Style

“You got a real prutty mouth there, Typ.”

There are no banjos playing but I think I’ve stumbled into Monschau’s version of a hillybilly shack. Lots of locals crowd the bar looking at me like I’m a Ned Beatty. And they don’t even know me! My lack of German is not charming nor interesting here. Nor is my flowery shirt and jacket. I’m sure I heard one of them say, in German of course, ‘squeal piggy!’.

My attempts at German are met with, knowing smiles between the checked shirt clientele. Of course, my understanding of the local dialect is a little rusty but I’m sure the barman added, ‘for you mate, here’s that flat half pint I’ve been saving since 1990 for the exact moment you, with your fucking flowery shirt and laptop walked in. Let me, clears throat, add to that?’. Again, I may just be culturally unaware… No! They’re a bunch of inbred wankers. Let’s get out of here! (The name of the bar will appear below with the others, you’ll know which.)

Redemption

How different… Marco at Zum Haller. Shit! This guy is good - how hosting should be done. Just across the road from the Deliverance Motel. I can’t praise Zum Haller enough. Tourist… Go there! Run! This bar. This host (and wife, didn’t get her name but equally)… The contrast is ridiculous. One (unnamed bar, below you can guess) all about laughing at the tourist and this one, was night and day. Basically - first bar was - hello, here’s your new cell mate Bubba - and the second a romantic date with a beautiful woman where everything clicks. Do I overstate? No. With a tourist you get one chance. Yeah, hill billy boys, enjoy the bar closing cos it’s tourists who keep you going. See Marco. See Fabian. Hospitality done right.

Marco. Fuck this guy is a star. He makes everyone feel welcome. Invites them to sit at the bar and talk with his other customers. A community feel, everyone welcome. A Germanic Cheers. I was all about - I’m a writer and I want my own table so I can be magestisterial and judge you bitches. He didn’t let me. He pointed to a stool at the end of bar and made me sit there and chat to his patrons.

There were some English. Some Belgians. Some Germans. We chatted. We felt part of a temporary community. All engineered by Marco. This doesn’t happen naturally. It takes skill and a love of humanity. Across the road it was all, “you got a real prutty month on you boy” over at Zum Haller it was all friendship vibes and customer focused.

The ladies…

Erm, more mature here?

I need to add Kiki. She sussed me writing on my table, in my flowery shirt and jacket screaming ‘look at me, don’t look at me!’ Kept staring from across the bar. I know I’m handsome but she was more interested in the writing, it seemed. However, I miss cues like a drunken has-been actor during a provincial pantomime run. She paused and turned back as her husband was leaving. Quizzed me about my writing. We played with metaphors and abstractions. Which is a pretentious way of saying, things were left unsaid that er, should remain unsaid. It’s better that way.

The mother and daughter combo sat next to me in Zum Haller. If it were one, or the other, then the night could have been different (Really Tim? Getting up your own arse here). We chatted superficially but the elder wasn’t going to let the younger and the younger would be disgusted with the elder. Which is a lot of words to say, the preselection fairies dropped me from their team sheet.

Frankly, if you’re after action Monschau is all about couples. Couples who are using the setting to ‘reset’ their relationship. Okay, yeah, I failed. Move on.

And Monschau Tim?

It’s pretty. Like the pictures you’ve seen. So, if you like taking pictures of people taking pictures then it’s perfect… It is chocolate boxy and it is full of tourists but there has to be something there in the first place to sketch out the corners of that chocolate box. Personally, I’d like to see it in the snow. It will add a little wintery magic to an already beautiful place. The walk up to the castle is only slightly strenuous - well if you’re a toned athlete like myself of course. Nice views when you get there and worth the trek.

The area in a way reminds me strangely of both Normandy and the Lake District. The slate stone buildings, the rain; very Windermere. The rolling and verdant landscape however is very Côte Fleurie. There’s even a belle époque thing going on here with the very grand houses that populate this valley.

Honest review? It’s probably best seen from within the cacoon of a couple. If you want to show off to your partner and hope for that ‘thing’ you only get twice yearly when you’re a good boy, it’s probably the right place.

Bars In Monschau

I’ll start in reverse order:

MON-Bistro. Shall we say, a locals bar? Let’s leave it that. Zero stars.

Lütticher Hof - great location with terrace overlooking the river. My advice? Avoid. The service is, how to say this? “Swift and efficient”, and, being politically correct, not effused with ‘German’ hospitality. If you just order a drink then the, er, madam, is very much obliged to mention to you - several times - that you have to pay cash. Very insistent on that. “Only cash! Only cash!” she says pointing at the plastic covered menu. As I mentioned, great location. But it’s a production line tourists-are-cattle type service. I left after being ordered around too much. Not a great example of Monschau. Avoid - do not go there. Luckily, there are much better examples of German hospitality in the town.

Hotel Horchem- Braukeller - underneath Hotel Hochem. I’ll start by saying whatever Fabian is paid, double it! What a great guy. Exactly the sort of person you want serving you in a German bierkeller. No plastic menus thrust under your nose, no angry intro greetings ‘cash only under €20’. I’d come back here again and again and happily. A basement bar, it's hidden in plain sight - you have to descend into a basement right in the centre of Monschau. Although Germans aren’t quite as good at English as the Dutch (they’re still bloody good it has to be said), what strikes me is how very friendly they are - outside Deliverance Bar of course. Rando observation: When it comes down to it, there’s really no difference between the people that invaded England a millennium (or so) ago and gave us the name Anglo-Saxons! We both like beer. We like to laugh. We’re proud of our countries. I salute that. Shout out to Pascal and his cycling team and sorry I couldn’t help drain your beer fountain.

Zum Haller- top bar, by far. Marco is the Prince, the Kaiser of Monschau. Here I was, recommended by AI that this was my ideal bar, dark, good wifi, able to sit in a corner and write. Wow! No. Marco wasn’t taking any of that shit and directed me to a vacant bar stool and commanded me to sit there saying ‘we’re all friends here’. We were a multi language / country crew but, to Marco, we’re a community in his bar. And - boy! - he works it. Unlike Deliverance Bar above, he makes everyone part of his community. What a skill. The guy - and his wife - deserve their top rating. Go there. He’s the real deal. Interestingly enough, the people I struggled with most were the bikers from Lancashire. They - perhaps rightly - distrusted my ‘hail fellow, well met’ personality (flowery shirt / jacket blah blah). When I let slip that I’m also from Lancashire, and, with a flourish and a deeper voice, resurrected my Rochdale accent, they looked at me like I just told them I see their wives when they’re out on their biking tours. Oh well, the Belgium couple were nice.

And Monschau? Worth it?

Yes. Bit of tourist trap though undeniably pretty (not prutty). I saw it in the rain and I saw it during the all too brief bouts of sunshine. As mentioned above, probably come here if a) you’re with your other half and want to impress b) Christmas market hunting. Great setting.

Where did I stay?

Haus Stehling. Amazing views overlooking the babbling river. If you can, book this, you’ll not be disappointed. A mini apartment. Very good spot just thirty seconds from the main square. River sounds included so if you don’t like water or are a light sleeper, not the one for you.

Beers etc

Mainly Bitburger. Got ripped off in Deliverance bar with some 0.2cl shit when I asked for a grosse beer. Taking the piss, literally. Food; I had an escalope in mushroom sauce. Or something. I was ‘peaking’ by that point. Standard. Hit the spot though. Need to search for a sausage.

And that my friends, is the ideal mic drop moment.

Read the rest of the Tour

So I toured Breda, Monschau and endured the 3rd Battle of Mons. Collectively, we call this the Franco’s Fiesta Tour. Why? Because I’m shamelessly - some would say needlessly - plugging a book. One sale. Two sales. It’s all fucking free on Amazon anyway. No one’s getting rich here but I’m an artist. Piss artist maybe but ears remain intact so don’t worry my literary children. Mons next.

Tim Robson 04/06/2026 Tim Robson 04/06/2026

Breda: The Franco’s Fiesta Tour

Church Breda June 2026 — Street Scene: Breda June 2026

Flip over. Play the B Side

I was gonna one way about Breda. And then, I flipped it and went hard the other way. Wow! What a night. Didn’t expect that. See the video below. But back to ‘the story’.

“Wise words, Sir, stand the test of time, and I am very glad the House has allowed me, after an interval of fifteen years, to raise the tattered flag I found lying on a stricken field.” Churchill House of Commons 1901

Churchill and Breda?

Winston Churchill, in one of first speeches as a newly elected MP, vainly defended his mad, bad and syphilitic father Randolph. The words echo to me now, sat in Café Bruxelles in Breda, as I also try to raise a different tattered flag from a stricken field.

(Editor note, raising flags from where they lie fallen… Mmm. What could that be a metaphor for? Yeah, doing poor sex gags again. Sorry. Not sorry.)

But my cause is different, though perhaps equally as hopeless. I’m in Breda, in June, surrounded by Belgian beers (yes, I know they should be Dutch, but Heineken tastes like piss) and an empty bowl of bitterballen. I start with a purpose that is clear as I reach down upon ancient literary battlefields, stooping for the pride lost so very long ago.

So, we’re going to do what we call a ‘parallel narrative’ here, in one stream we have Breda, the bars and yeah, all that. On the other, I’m going to interweave talking about my book. And then, I’ll show you a video of Breda. Well a bar in Breda. No, me, in a bar, in Breda. Enjoy!

My novel Franco’s Fiesta.

FF - as it was never known - is not about Breda (though I will get to that, video evidence below, don’t worry would-be tourist doing a quick Google search). As a novel, Franco’s Fiesta was ahead of its time. A prophet without honour in its own chosen field. A dark star obscured on a stormy night. It was the unattributed fart in the lift of literary taste.

Yeah, I think I bought all the copies. And yet, and yet. The ghost of it lingers on, on Amazon. The paperback version - those few copies I didn’t buy - are being resold for high prices. No residuals for me I hasten to add (and at higher prices, goddamn it!).

I read one of my copies every now and again. I like a good page turner. Being honest, there are many things I like about it and several that I don’t. I know what I was trying to achieve, what I was trying to say - who and what I was appealing to. In this, I nearly succeeded. Writers are solitary creatures and I, at that point in my life, needed to turn inwards. So, I wrote a novel in a way I never had before or have since. Process over performance.

Breda, Anyone?

But enough of my yakking. This bar in Breda plays a real eclectic mix of English music. They’re playing Smokie now; ‘Next Door to Alice” for example. No, not the shit version that added the line “Alice, Alice, who the fuck is Alice’. Love the music selection here. Some Beatles now. Music: Our greatest export. The UK is revered the world over for our pop and rock. Next one? ‘Winner Takes it All’ - dammit - the best song ever! From Sweden.

Breda: Things I won’t be talking about for those tourists that have strayed here.

The church (St. fuck knows, highest bellend tower blah blah)
The museums (lace or something)
All the other stuff

Things I will be talking about

Me
Franco’s Fiesta
Bars and Food in Breda. Getting slowly dazed and confused (step away from that laptop, Tim).
Why the fuck it is pissing down in June like Noah needs to build a bloody ark (if they had hills around here)?
Random interactions that a handsome, brown eyed man gets into. For example:

The Two Girls In the Bar

They will - forever - remain the two girls in the bar. It’s too early in the day for quotidian flirting. I’ve not even checked into my posh hotel yet but I’m three beers and seven bitterballen down. Still; there are two attractive ladies in Bar Bruxelles… We sat near each other; they, chatting knocking back wine, laughing, brushing back their hair, me, tapping on my laptop, pretending not to notice. I went outside, they went outside. Tick. They went inside and, er, I followed. So cool, so Alpha unchained. I left the bar unobserved. They’ll think about me tonight.

Back to the plot

The plot? I lost that some beers ago. They’ll be more about Breda but first, let’s talk about me, the misunderstood artist.

(This literary device - the awkward pivot - is something I mastered despite not going having a degree in modern dance. A shimmy here, a shake there, a graceful pirouette, this muscle memory allows me to pivot shamelessly from one thing to another with poise and years of practice.)

Franco’s Fiesta (for we are talking about this, in Breda) was a unique experience in my literary career as I wasn’t in the novel. Well; a bit, of course, but not much. I deliberately wrote it to get away from my usual ‘short guy whines about not getting the girl’ plot my previous novels explored ad nauseam. (See Two Girls In the Bar Above for a new episode of this long running drama).

Interestingly enough, the first 50 or so pages of Franco’s Fiesta were written abroad, in a village outside Valencia. Hence, I had real insight into the local colour, sights, flavours, rhythms and signs. The plot is a rather obvious take on Richard Burton making a movie with a hot, and younger, co-star whilst the Elizabeth Taylor character watches on, observing from one bourbon to another. Add the Falangist regime, a strung out Eric Clapton cameo plus a Marxist director and you have a great story. At least, that’s what I thought.

Although I’m old, so very old, I don’t actually remember 1970 when the novel was set. Consequently I spent ages researching the feel of Spain, of Valencia in 1970. I’d write down descriptions of market squares, of shops, of shop signs, of children playing in the street late on hot summer evenings. The layout of the brickwork in the market square. The smell and look of the vegetation as the seasons changed.

Here’s how the marketing plan went.

A runaway successful novel. Bought by millions. Of course.
Calls, so many calls!, from top drawer agents wanted to represent me to sell the movie rights. I know the difference between net and gross, so don’t take the piss, mate!
A bidding war between various studios. “Not less than 7 digits or I walk".”
A multi million advance. Spent well, no revenge spend there. Hi - ex colleagues! Look at me now, bitches in my Ferrari.
Chat shows. Think pieces in the broadsheets. Is he the new Amis?
A large salary paid as an advisor on the movie version of the picture. Casting rights? “Just tell again, how much do you want this part?”
Several gossipy articles about how Tim Robson has been seen partying in Hollywood linked to several famous actresses. (Passed on by Tim to every girl in his life, ever.)
Critically acclaimed film release supported by stellar box office returns. “Is that Armani, Tim? Who’s that on your arm?”
Rinse. Repeat. Arise Sir Tim

However, my GTM missed the mark on one or two of the above. So let me list those misses:

All of them.

Bars In Breda

De Heeren van Breda - just off the main square. It rained. And it rained. Friendly staff. WIfi works outside (under an awning). Edited most of this masterpiece in ‘observational tourism’ there. The main customers seemed to be the bar staff and their friends. Loved how the bar man, knowing I was English, called me ‘mate’.

Café Bruxelles - Large, wooden, central bar, interested barmaid who I gave carte blanche to recommend beers. My type of place. Again; friendly staff. Slightly wonky table as I wrote some of this masterpiece. See two girls interaction. It’s why I do this for you.

The other one - Jaap? Sat next to two alcoholic women balanced by two alcoholic men on the other side. A Dutch sandwich, lightly toasted. I went deeply fried with a plate of Dutch bar snacks. They hold me still in their breadcrumby embrace. Lovely owners. You should go there.

The Next One - Probably won’t write about this. Through discretion or, more probably, embarrassment. Nah, fuck it:

Ended up on stage with a live band at Cafe Lievense across a canal from the main square. It’s like the 90’s never stopped. See video below. I give this place my whole hearted support. Chatted with owner. Nice guy. Good concept. Fun crowd. I rocked. As you can see yourself!

Flagpole. Breda. Hints.

I was going to write that I hoped I’d find those two girls from earlier on and tell them all about Winston’s flagpole quote. But, no one wins from that Tim, so I decided to go with a few 8% Delirium Reds instead. I know where my pleasures ultimately lie. No one’s going to be talking about flagpoles tonight so, here’s some random touristy things:

Interesting that when listening to Dutch conversations between natives they often slip into English to make a point. Also, the rhythm of Dutch and English is very similar. Just got dragged into a football conversation about the Premier League. Had to admit, I know fuck all. The Crises of the 3rd Century? Mick Taylor guitar solos? They invited me over anyway. But… Laptop, yeah? I watch. You talk.
Those tinkly bells on the hour. Every hour. In every Dutch city I’ve been to. You know you’re not in England.
Are there any nicer people than the Dutch? They’re fluent in other languages but also friendly and cool. Always love coming back here. They love me too. I’m big here. See video below.
Did I mention the rain? Seriously! Every bloody time. Well, not exactly true but pretty much. I went to Maastricht a few years back, my hotel had a pool next to which I posed in my long shorts (calm down ladies - it’s before I lost the weight!). It was only a few years ago and it seemed cash was king. Now? All about those Apple Wallets. Progress?
Canals. Tick. Bikes. Tick.
Come? Don’t come? Do you think I care? Buy the book.

Getting Down to Neil in Breda

Read On

It’s not my first time in the Low Countries. Follow the Franco’s Fiesta Tour of Breda, The Banjos of Monschau and The 3rd Battle of Mons. A triple threat (or more likely a Tripel).

You should check out Me and F Scott Fitzgerald in Delft or Rainy Antwerp or the Darkness of Bruges. Or just the whole lot - Scabrous City Tours.

Tim Robson 01/06/2026 Tim Robson 01/06/2026

Elevator Pitch - Advice to Young Professionals

It’s Important, yeah?

This takes me back.

A phenomenon within both the corporate and creative world is that you need to have an 'elevator pitch'. This is what you would say to someone powerful - someone who has the ability to change your life for the better - in the twenty / thirty seconds available if you accidentally bumped into them in a lift.

It’s a theoretical exercise all young thrusting professionals need to engage with in order to quickly make an impression to a superior. Especially in larger corporates or for someone who has something to sell.

So, for example, if I bumped into the Managing Director of a major publishing company and told them I had written a book - let’s call it Franco’s Fiesta, for example, they might ask "What's it about?" and then I would launch into my elevator pitch. "Well it's about the end of the 60's, the end of fascism in Spain, the making of movie in Franco's Spain, the collision between liberal Hollywood, authoritarian Spain and the ordinary people caught in between." (1)

Yeah - you don't have to say it out loud: Crap, Tim. Needs work, yeah?

Meeting the CEO. In an Elevator.

Let me tell you about one time when I really did need for an elevator speech. I worked for a US multi national company - a titan of the financial world - and I was at a sales conference in Cannes. Hungover to hell one morning, I was late for the first session of the day. I pressed the lift button, the doors opened and there, in the lift, was the CEO of my company, apparently a surprise guest on the conference agenda. For a minnow like myself, this was like meeting God himself.

Well, he looked at me, with my company’s laminate pass, and I looked at him, looking exactly as he did on the company website. If ever there was a time for an elevator pitch, about me, about my career, about my ambitious plans, then the time was now. In a company of 100,000 employees this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to make an impression, to further my career and get my name 'out there'.

But looking at him and then swallowing with my dry mouth, feeling the nausea rising from the previous night's activities, I thought, 'fuck it' and slowly turned to face the other corner. My plan for paperclip harmonisation in the Swindon office - or whatever - could wait for another day. We spent the next thirty seconds in an awkward but conspicuous silence.

I think he appreciated my reticence - who the hell wants to be assailed by wannabes every hour of the day, with their fake smiles, fake positivity, bullshit resumes? "Hi! I'm Donna from marketing, can I tell you about this exciting, game changing project I'm working on?"... "Nah, fuck off, Donna," would be my response. I guess CEO's have to be more circumspect and grimly listen to the widget reduction project in Luxembourg.

My boss reacts. Bad Tim!

My reward for giving the CEO the space and time and courtesy he deserved, was, well, nothing, of course. He got out the lift - executive floor anyone - and I dry retched more openly. My boss, when I told her the story, believed, perhaps rightly, I was an 'asshole'; that I had shockingly given up such a career advancing opportunity. She, by the way, like all powerful people, kissed butt beautifully to any passing superior. You have to drop to your knees to raise your profile. There's a lesson there Tim, somewhere.

Thoughts. Then to Now

Anyway, I tell you this story because I’m Prometheus unbound these days. I deliberately abandoned the big corporate world for fintechs and I'm all about truth and honesty and authenticity these days (which aligns more with the industry).

Yeah. Authentic. Living my own values. Mainlining the personal code, my own brand. But the brand has to be you, ultimately. Has to be your turf you're prepared to fight for. Experience teaches you your strengths and weaknesses. Focus on the former and avoid the latter and don’t lie about either.

Otherwise it's an insincere elevator pitch with a hangover, with a CEO who doesn't give a toss, tired from a transatlantic flight and showing fear of employee intimacy in his eyes.

So, employing my usual awkward pivot, my advice is twofold: 1) Do avoid the wannabe elevator pitch. Imposing yourself unwanted is probably a bad idea. Interactions are better unforced. 2) Having said that, you probably should be able to sum up what you do in a few pithy sentences. Precision and concision helps in business.

Read on

I mainly focus on music and history and scabrous stories from various cities, some visited whilst a non elevator picthing corporate warrior - for example - my playing the blues moonlighting from a corporate real estate conference in Chicago.

Or maybe, the Roman world floats your boat? Or what about my Krakow Trilogy?

Obligatory Notes

1) Notice my use of non gendered language when I describe the powerful executive? Well, young people, this has been a thing for a good thirty or so years and isn’t a modern invention. Especially for graduates of Sussex University. As it happens, many of my top bosses in the corporate world were women. Often not very nice women; whilst the genders may have been equally divided the characteristics of those execs - both male and female - were pretty similar.

2) I originally wrote this in 2015. More jokes. Less knowledge. Invert that and you have my current elevator pitch.

3) The book I never pitched was published. Check it out. Probably Franco’s Fiesta is free now (on Kindle anyway!).

Tim Robson 17/05/2026 Tim Robson 17/05/2026

The Best Songs The Beatles Covered

The Beatles playing the Cavern Club 1962 — The Beatles rocking out at the Cavern 1962

How Many?

The Beatles officially recorded and released 25 cover songs during their career - including Maggie Mae. Some of these we now associate more with The Beatles than the original artists (step forward Twist and Shout).

Other covers? The BBC radio sessions were available on bootlegs (Swingin’ Pig anyone?) before they were eventually released in the 1990’s. These recordings brought many more covers into the public domain. In the main, they’re inferior to the official Parlaphone studio recordings with just the novelty of new Beatles songs hiding the diminution in quality.

Following on from the Beatles at the Beeb, Apple released the Anthology Series in the mid 90’s which included many more cover versions. Again, whilst interesting, they don’t really add up to much though I do like the rawness of Shout from ‘Around the Beatles’ and the live Swedish version of You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me.

Of course there’s the Decca audition tape which, frankly, isn’t great. Like Dick Rowe, I’d have booted them out too. It wasn’t their time.

So, we’re left with covers from Please Please Me, With the Beatles, The Long Tall Sally EP, Beatles for Sale, Help! and, er, Bad Boy. I think - and this is my blog so what I think is important - the quality of the covers deteriorated between 1963-5. What was a vibrant part of their club and stage act became, by 64/65, merely stale fillers for when the Lennon-McCartney song factory ran dry.

So here are my top ten Beatles covers.

Twist & Shout

How could any list not include this? A whole mythology has arisen just on the recording of this very song. Recorded at the end of a full day laying down their Please Please Me album, we have Lennon, stripped to the waist, bellowing his lungs out like his life depended on it, screaming his way into immortality. The Lennon scream is a thing of beauty employed throughout the Beatles career but never more so than here. Although the instrumentation is standard 1963 chug-a-lug, the roar they created invented heavy rock.

It is now THE definitive version. Who are the Isley Brothers you might ask?

Bad Boy

Overlooked in the UK until put on the Beatles rock n’ roll albums in the 1970’s, Bad Boy is another demonstration of the Lennon yell. This is far superior to the other Larry Williams cover recorded on the same night, Dizzy Miss Lizzie which loses its charm after about two minutes. Bad Boy though, is well recorded, with a rocky background of a group well used to the studio. Even Harrison’s signature repetitive guitar licks don’t annoy too much. In short; a song that is proof - if it were even needed - that John Lennon possessed one of rock’s greatest voices. He really goes for it on this track.

Long Tall Sally

Anything John can do, Paul can do too! Like Twist and Shout, this was recorded in one take. This blistering cover of the Little Richard stable, is a two minute lesson in what rock sounds like. Featuring George Martin on piano, the Beatles lock into that rock n’ roll groove that barrels through this classic going punch to punch with the original. Ending their concerts, the Beatles had a choice now for which screamer to leave their audience’s panties wet.

Baby It’s You

My personal favourite. The Beatles do Bacharach and David. The sha-la-la backing vocals and the sombre playing all lead up to Lennon’s cri de coeur ‘can’t help myself / don’t want nobody, nobody’ howl that finishes each phrase. Seriously, is there a better singer for the dramatic highs and lows than John? We may explore this factor again. Shite instrumental though with a weedy guitar solo allied with some unwelcome cheesy organ. No. No.

You’ve Really Got A Hold On Me

Yeah, John again, leading the group through a muscular version of the Smokey Robinson classic. The second time he sings ‘You’ve really got a hold on me’ where his voice splits up to a falsetto is cut out and keep moment in rock history. George’s undercard harmonies also rate a mention. Solipsistic note: One of my groups used to play this in Brighton in the early 90’s. Always went down well, even when the singer (me) used to provocatively unbutton his two tone Burton’s shirt for the delight of no-one. Read more about my musical misadventures.

Devil in Her Heart

My parents owned two Beatles LPs - With the Beatles and Rubber Soul. Years after they gathered dust, I discovered them in the 70’s and used to play them all the way through again and again. Devil in Her Heart, was always - and still is - a favourite. George takes lead but the vocals are amp’d up by the block call and response harmonies from John and Paul (in the same way they would do to mask Ringo’s atonal renderings). I think though it’s the staccato ‘she’s got the devil in her heart’ which captured and holds my attention. I also remember watching it in the God awful Dick Van Dyke Beatles cartoons.

Leave My Kitten Alone

Left off the Beatles For Sale album - why? - this track was finally officially released in the 90’s Anthology series (though I’d had the bootleg for years). It’s marked by an aggressive Lennon vocal. When he sings he’s going to hit the bulldog on the top of his head, you know John really means it as he snarls the line out like someone just spilled his pint at closing time in some Liverpool dive.

Please Mister Postman

With due deference to the Carpenters, this is the definitive version. Another great John vocal - back then he seemed to sing each song as though his life depended on it. But it’s the enthusiastic backing of Paul and George that really push this song to the next level. There’s a great version in the under rated 90’s movie Backbeat.

Money (That’s What I Want)

The blistering end to the With the Beatles album. Kind of a bookend with Twist and Shout finishing off the previous LP. Roaring John. Tick. Great Paul and George backing. Cranked up by George Michael’s piano. Yes. All the elements were there for a rocking Beatles track, a stellar cover version and some great memories blasting this out through my parents tinny speakers rotating the knob all the way to 10.

Anna (Go to Him)

Shit! Another Lennon scorcher. I guess I have a bias for him either screaming to rock tunes or belting out big ballads. Well, my blog, my rules (you can obviously comment below if you disagree). The emotional, and musical highlight, is when Lennon goes into the big notes on the “All of my life” parts. He really means it man and I guess that’s the clue; whether singing a ballad or a rabble rousing rocker, John seems authentic. He is living the story and you feel it

Honorable Mentions

Ones that nearly made it. Soldier of Love, To Know Her is to Love Her, Some Other Guy from the Beatles at the Beeb. All fine tracks and good performances. Some Other Guy certainly rocks along in the live setting with a particular prominent bass which is missing on the official recordings. Maybe Roll Over Beethoven which is quite spirited. Actually the latter song, I always quite liked the much reviled Hollywood Bowl recording with Paul handling the harmonies.

Nothing from Help! or Beatles for Sale? No, not really into their country and western incarnation. Usually a vehicle for Ringo to monotone his way through a song. Even the rockers are a bit so-so in my view. Kansas City Hey Hey Hey, Rock n Roll Music seem a bit… What’s the word? Inessential.

More Beatles?

Do you want to read more? What about The Best Beatles Album Tracks? Or, it’s obverse, The Worst Beatles Album Tracks?

Or go full for the full Monty of music reviews? Try a Taylor Swift live review maybe?

Tim Robson 27/04/2026 Tim Robson 27/04/2026

SPQR by Mary Beard - Review

Overview of SPQR

SPQR ( Senatus Populus Que Romanus meaning, for the Senate and People of Rome, the indelible banner stamped below the eagle standards of the Roman legions) is a chunky book that traces Rome from its beginnings as a bandit village in the 750’s BC through to the grant of universal citizenship across the empire by Caracalla in 212 AD. A period of nearly a thousand years. Or, as Mary Beard writes, Rome’s first millennium. As we all know, the Western Roman Empire continued for another 250 years whereas the Eastern Roman Empire - popularly now known as the Byzantium Empire - lasted for a further 1200 years until its eventual fall in 1453.

The problem with any book spanning a thousand years of history is that - no matter how large - it can only give a surface presentation of the narrative as it moves along. There’s no in depth analysis of each event. If you want that, then specialist books are what you need and that’s what I usually prefer. I get frustrated that the author is, necessarily, constrained and so has to arbitrarily choose what to include and what to leave out. That applies here (Marius and the Cimbrian War hardly get a mention for instance). However, I was gifted this book and so once I started, I needed to finish!

The first part of SPQR, covering the foundation and growth of the Republic through to its subsequent transformation under Augustus in the latter part of the 1st century BC, is episodic but essentially follows a linear narrative. The following 200 odd years, detailing the period of the ‘Principate’ emperors, feels much more rushed and frustratingly thematic. As though Mary ran out of steam. The problem with this latter half of the book is the tendency to indulge in what I call ‘magpie’ historicism - selecting random examples from a wide variety of ages to justify an argument. Part of this is due to the periodic lack of sources handed down to us across the ages. Was Rome’s most thrilling period - the fall of the Republic - so famous because it marked a major turning point or because the surviving source material is so rich?

Why did the Romans Succeed?

The central question of any book covering a thousand years is why Rome went from being a tribe of brigands in central Italy to a world power. The usual suspects are present in this book - the Romans’ love of adaption - in army tactics, in building, even in gods. Mary Beard advances that Rome was unique in its ability to absorb its defeated enemies, from Veii, to the Sabines, the Samnites etc, in a loose embrace so all might prosper. The Romans weren’t fussy about local gods or systems of government, they co-opted them. What however was sine qua non was the supply of manpower for wars.

As to the question whether the Romans better in battle or just able to muster more men, Mary Beard believes that - with technology the same, the largest army was predisposed to win. It’s an argument and a plausible if obvious one. There is some truth to this. For example, the Second Punic War where Hannibal, clearly the better general, could win the battles but never the war. Rome kept recruiting armies, harassing the Carthaginians and recapturing towns, in order to continue fighting even when all seemed lost. That was, until they found their own master tactician in Scipio Africanus. Another example may be the most famous if only due to the popular adage that it spawned following the Battle of Asculum. Fighting King Pyrrhus in the 270’s BC, the Romans kept losing battles but extracted unsustainable casualties on Pyrrhus, thus giving rise to the popular phrase “Pyrrhic victory”.

What are my thoughts on SPQR?

I think my major objection to this type of book is that it clearly comes from an academic. Nothing wrong with that, of course. However, there is hair-splitting and ‘on the one hand, but on the other’ isms that can annoy after a while. Much of the book seems to be negative; finding a popular story or commonly held piece of knowledge and then finding issues with it. It’s a tendency I like least in academics, the pursuit of the obscure in preference to the universal. At best this can advance knowledge and provide balance to a flabby prevailing narrative, at worst, it can be obscurantist and distorting. You can lose the big picture by being needlessly pedantic and argumentative. In broad based books - like this - the approach can lose the narrative thrust in a welter of qualifications.

Maybe it wasn’t the book for me but then I never expected it to be. I’ve long moved beyond large overviews of the Roman world - however scholarly - and into more niche areas like Julian or Aurelian. Or source material like Caesar, Appian or Josephus. It’s a choice you make after reading generalist books like these which doesn’t diminish their worth and shouldn’t stop you reading if you’re relatively new to the subject.

A couple of factoids

The word rostrum, for a speaker’s platform, comes from the Latin word for a ship’s ram (rostra). After the naval battle of Antium in 338bc, the victorious commander of the Roman fleet, Gaius Maenius, took the rams from six captured enemy ships and placed them on the platform in the Forum. Hence rostrum.

“They make a wasteland and call it peace,” said Calgacus, ancient British leader, as quoted by Roman historian Tacitus. An interesting quote (wasteland can be interrupted as ‘desert’ or ‘desolation’) which shows as much about Roman freedom of thought to write this down as it does a critique of Roman pacification efforts. Rome usually was magnanimous in victory, the exceptions (like Caesar’s massacre of the Tencteri and Usipetes) providing the exceptions to the rule. They wanted money, taxes, slaves, markets and manpower for the army.

(Revised and updated April 2026 with corrections, links and new thoughts)

Want to Read more on Rome?

For further Roman reviews, try Josephus and The Jewish Wars or what about my Barbarians TV series review? Or go for my history of Rome series?
NEW! Read my hilarous takedown of the turkey-fest that was Gladiator 2.
The origins of St George’s Day… Diocletian and the persecutions. No dragons.
Or something different? Go to my Features page - More Rome, Urban Noir City Reviews, Walks or Music Reviews?

Tim Robson 27/04/2026 Tim Robson 27/04/2026

Mick Taylor: Street Fighting Guitarist

Mick Taylor - Out in front of the Stones — Mick Taylor - Out in front

The Greatest Rock ‘n’ Roll Band

It's not a secret that I think the Stones were at their best - live - between 1969 and 1973. Collectively these years are known - by those who know these things - as The Mick Taylor Years. During this period, the Stones sported serious lead guitar muscle to match the chops and riffs of Keith Richard. This really was their live golden era (nothing though can match their recordings 1963-1969. Of course).

I won't get into any nonsense about Mick Taylor being the Stones. Clearly, Mick and Keef are obviously the beating heart of the Stones. They are the songwriters, the visual focal point, the direction, but with Mick Taylor, they now participated in the best live incarnation of “The Greatest Rock ‘n’ Roll Band in The World!”

It's one of the reasons - there are a few - why I don't go to see the Stones now. I'm their Number One fan but, pathetically, I want to see them in 1971 with Mick Taylor and not in 2026. I know, I know - I'm complex, capricious and not a little nuts. Deal with it, ladies.

So, onto Mick Taylor and the magic runs and solos he used to such incendiary effect back in the day when flares and drag queen make up marked a rock band. I'll trace Mick Taylor's development and influence in the band through one song over the years 1969, 1971, 1972, 1973.*

Street Fighting Guitarist

Street Fighting Man. Yes, it used to be the Stones’ powerhouse closer. It’s a riff laden ditty that combined fighting lyrics with punchy guitar. One word of caution though!! As I listen to live versions of this song 69-73, what is most noticeable - apart from the gradual rise in prominence of Mick Taylor's lead guitar - is the concomitant deterioration in quality of Jagger's singing. You can't discount the fact that a sloppy, word shortening, dicking about Jagger screws up the overall ambience of any performance. That is a shame because as Taylor gets better, Jagger gets worse.

So, back in 1969, Singer Mick cares and sings and articulates his words. By 1973, he's fucking about and missing out words and shouting. Frustratingly, whatever Guitar Mick did on guitar - if the lead singer is acting like a tit - the band is gonna sound worse. As it happens, I actually think by ’73 such was Taylor's shy dominance, he was getting too far to the front of the Stones. Yes, some of his stuff started to sound like guitar wank. Yes, you CAN have too much MT. Too many notes as they said of Mozart.

1969 - Get Your Ya Ya's Out

Jagger to the fore – “Get Down, boy!” (though there's more than a suspicion of studio touching up). Taylor sticking to the proscribed and approved lead lines. He often just riffs along with Keith which is no bad thing but that’s not why you have a shit hot soloist in the band now is it? As in all versions, Wyman's bass is awesome - propelling the group, shaking the earth and rooting the group in a solid foundation. The Stones as a group in front of 20,000 at Madison Square Garden.

1971 - Get Your Leeds Lungs Out.

Cards on table, I happen to think this is the Stones' greatest ever gig. They are on fire in this small-scale club setting. Taylor's more experimental on his lead lines than ’69 - his trademark fluidity is now evident. The melody lines he fingers, the vibrato he gets from his axe, all mark this version; it’s still a great group effort but this time propelled forward by MT. Keef’s unusually ‘dirty’ guitar provides a perfect foil to the MT’s lyricism. But as Taylor ascends, Jagger begins to descend, cutting out words, beginning to shout more than sing. But not too much, yet. This is the summit.

1972 - Ladies and Gentlemen...

My it's a close one! The tempo is too quick and Jagger is seriously not singing anymore. But Mick Taylor is kicking guitar ass! Keith gives good backing but it's now the Mick Taylor show. The close is built around MT soloing like a bastard Velvet Underground style. Watch the video below as his fingers - always in control - fly over the fretboard. This is a guitarist knowing he’s the Dog’s Bollocks and beginning to assert himself.

1973 – A Brussels Affair

It’s played too quick and Jagger is now not really giving a fuck about singing – just yelping and swallowing words. I’m sure he looked good but any artistry has gone. However, as Jagger morphs into a Mick Jagger caricature, the music of the Stones has become Mick Taylor and supporting band. I love his sustained note at the end of the final chorus where the live band mimic the clarion ending of the recording. And then we’re into a Sister Ray freak-out fade-out as the group get faster and faster and MT has a completely free hand to solo wherever and however he wants. Distressingly - freed from the discipline and control of the Stones’ format - he seems to distressingly to run out of ideas. The end of this track – to my ears – is welcome. It probably felt better on the night.

Verdict of Mick Taylor Live

And there we have it – the Mick Taylor years with the Rolling Stones told through versions of just one song over the years. What can we conclude from this pub conversation with myself?

He’s clearly talented, dextrous and knows how to add lyrical lead lines to the riffs of the premier rock group of the era. Mick Taylor operates best when there’s a format he has to fit in with. Here, constrained, he can shine, do the unexpected and sound fresh and exciting. By the end of this period though – 1973 – when Jagger had become a parody and Keith retreated into drugs and strictly rhythm, MT ever so slightly starts to become annoying. It’s really not the Stones.

And the Winner Is?

So – in what order do I rank the years? I’m sure of the best and the worst. Last, 1973 might be a bit controversial but deal with it, ladies. Second and third place are a bit arbitrary and, in another mood, in another place, I’d rank them differently, but here, now and tonight, the 69 tour version beats Ladies and Gentlemen…

1. 1971

2. 1969

3. 1972

4. 1973

**More? You all want More!**

Mick Taylor kicking Keef’s Ass on Sympathy for the Devil
Mick Taylor’s Greatest Studio Tracks
I know you love it, Taylor Swift live review
Or the mysterious girl who revealed too much to the Writer in a bar in Bruges?

* Not yet unearthed a decent 1970 performance.

Tim Robson 27/04/2026 Tim Robson 27/04/2026

Mick Taylor and that Guitar Solo

The First Time I Heard the live Sympathy For The Devil

They say the Devil has all the good tunes (except when he goes down to Georgia, of course!). But perhaps just sympathising with Old Nick also conjures up a decent tune too.

I remember the first Stones album I bought myself. I was 15. Coming off the back of a couple of Greatest Hits compilations, I went and bought the live album Get Yer Ya Ya's Out. Live albums can often be a mistake as they tend to offer thin, over-emoting, out-of-tune and unnecessarily long versions of well-loved – and crafted - studio songs.

But not so Get Yer Ya Ya's Out...

The Stones 1969 Live Tour

It's a tour album commemorating the infamous 1969 US Tour - yes the one that ended with the screw up that was Altamont. I come back to this album frequently. I can safely say; I learnt to play guitar strumming along with this album. Recorded mainly at Madison Square Garden, it captures the Stones as they transitioned away from Brian Jones and into the demi-god led outfit that included Mick Taylor. Finally, the Stones had some serious lead guitar muscle to complement the Human Riff, Keef. They would get better in the next couple of years, but this is the only official live album of the Stones Mark 2 line up.

My fav track was Track 1 / Side 2: Sympathy for the Devil. (“Paint It Black you devils! Do Paint It Black!”) E-D-A verses dropping to B for the chorus. Brilliant to play along with and attempt the extended guitar solo at the end of the track. Yes, I learnt my pitiful lead axeman skills from this track. Well at least for the first minutes of the solo anyway! Because suddenly the solo gets hard - real hard. What is a rhythm guitarist's best ever solo morphs into a shit-hot guitar hero work-out. You can hear the change about 4:30 into the track. It’s almost as though Keef took a snort half way through and felt emboldened to shout "Oi! Hendrix, Clapton - come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough!"

The Two Different Solos - Mick Taylor to the Fore

But YouTube and the internet have revealed the mystery behind the split personality on Sympathy for the Devil’s guitar solo. For of course – Keef plays the first half and then hands over to Mick Taylor. In less than two minutes, Mick Taylor pisses on Richards and - in the cock-measuring contest that was the Stones – for the next five years, never again would Keith attempt to challenge Taylor. There has only ever been one lead guitarist in the Stones and his name was Mick Taylor.

I’ve written more about this golden era of the Stones. When they really deserved the moniker ‘The Greatest Rock n Roll Band in the World’. But for now, listen to this audio and you’ll see what I mean. Keef starts soloing at 3:18. Mick Taylor takes over the baton at 4:30 and from 5:20 streaks down the back straight to take the tape, the Gold Medal, the whole bloody stadium.

As I said, the Stones would get better after 1969. Taylor would get more confident – aware that his fluid, melodic soloing would propel songs like Midnight Rambler, Gimme Shelter, Street Fighting Man to ever higher levels. But Get Your Ya Ya’s Out is where it began and, on Sympathy for the Devil, you can hear him shyly but definitely, take over the band’s sound.

Enjoy.

More Mick Taylor? Or something for weekend, sir?

Mick Taylor’s greatest Stones song?
Mick Taylor’s Greatest Studio tracks?
Or what about when I was announced as Eric Clapton at Chicago’s Kingston Mines?

Solitary Man / Solitary Note

Revised April 2026 with a cleaner URL, some H2/H3 headings and a finger picking, fist pumping, click baiting attitude. Read my Urban Noir Stories. Like this, you’ll love them!

Tim Robson 26/04/2026 Tim Robson 26/04/2026

Le Baiser de l'Hotel de Ville

Robert Doisneau's Kiss outside the town hall 1951 — Iconic Doisneau photograph

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? About 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 own life - mug shots freeze framed into vanishing history. Hilariously - it now seems - I also pinned up letters from cabinet ministers and MPs (I collected MP’s signatures like others might popstars or film icons).

Doisneau and the University Bedroom

What posters did I have on my university dorm room walls? Debbie Harry. Raquel Welsh. The Beatles. But 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, it lay forgotten for decades. At the prompting of his publishers though, Doisneau had - in the mid 80’s - sanctioned the image to be rereleased in poster form. Not long after, I saw it in a Brighton shop (Virgin Megastore? HMV? Athena?) and immediately liked it. So I bought it and up it went up onto 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, entre nous, 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 in the courts. Turns out they were both actors / models and were paid for this semi staged tableau.

But why does this photo call to me even now?

Voyeurism?

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.

Time and Place?

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.

Carefree Young Love?

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. And I think it represents optimism and that, following all the words, is why this picture is on my wall.

Le Baiser de'Hotel de Ville, Doisneau print on a wall — April 2026 - TR House

Post Script

I don’t know what happened to the original poster. I don’t believe it survived the 1980’s. Why it was discarded, is lost in time, just like the Paris of 1950. However, I have re-bought the print and it is once again featured prominently chez-Robson amongst the numerous Hoppers and James Hardaker originals. That feels right somehow.

For more Paris related stories what about my travels to Palais Garnier? Or the traction beam of walking to Bastille?

Perhaps you’re into Impressionism? The read my Honfleur-Rouen Art Tour.

Tim Robson 26/04/2026 Tim Robson 26/04/2026

Riffs! Shouting! Power! - The Roots of Rock.

The Kingsman Single Louie, Louie — The Kingsmen, Louie Louie

The Five Records That Created Rock Music

Sometimes I amuse myself.

Chortle.

Sometimes I amuse myself by imaging the origins of hard rock. How did music get from, say, Neil Sedaka and The Everly Brothers in 1960 all the way to Led Zeppelin in 1968? Nothing wrong with Sedaka or The Everlys of course. Their switch of record labels in 1960 to Warners kick started - in my opinion - their best records, epitomised by the wonder that is ‘Cathy’s Clown”. But something happened between ‘60 and ‘69. Music began to go all the way to 11.

So this is a blogpost that traces that development of hard rock, heavy rock and punk in just five 60's records.

Caveat: Those that came before…

Caveat (for there must be one). By selecting five early 60's records, one doesn't deny the journey up to that point. Muddy Waters riffing like a bastard. Little Richard amping up the vocals. Chuck Berry giving every subsequent guitarist a rock blueprint. And Elvis. Of course Elvis. But, where to start? As I've written before, you can trace rock back to Beethoven's thunderous riffs, Vivaldi's repeated motifs in, say, his Mandolin Concerto in C. But I'll restrict my journey to the first half of the 60's or else I will disappear up my own arse (again).

What am I looking for? Anger. Loud overdriven guitars. A sense of musical anarchy barely held in check. Riffs. Screaming singers. All the way to eleven. On a Marshall amp. So here is my list of the five stepping stones from pop to heavy rock.

1. The Beatles - Twist and Shout (Feb 1963)

Yeah, everyone knows this song and The Beatles version. One of the Beatles best ever covers (up with Long Tall Sally, Dizzy Miss Lizzie, Bad Boy, Money). But what propels this song forward is John Lennon’s vocals. If he did nothing else, he’d be remembered for this performance. After a full day recording the Please Please Me album, Lennon audibly shreds his larynx as he provides one of rock's greatest vocals. The instrumentation is so-so, a standard early sixties beat combo sound. It's the singing, the call and response, the AH-AH-AH-AH-WOOO bit that makes this song special. Compare the muscular and aggressive Beatles' version against The Isley Brothers' original. No contest. Lennon pisses on them and kick starts heavy rock.

2. The Kingsmen - Louie Louie (April 1963)

When researching this (seriously Tim?) I found that Louie Louie was recorded after The Beatles' Twist & Shout by two months. Who knew? Who cares? Massive hit in the 60's. Revived in the 70's for the film Animal House. What can one say about this? An absolute shocker of a recording, slapdash, careless, badly recorded. A total fuck up. But in that carefree, shouty, riff heavy style, we have the embryo hard rock and punk. It was recorded in just one take for $50 with singer Jack Ely yelling as loud as he could at a mic lodged above his head just so he could be heard above the instruments. A million pub rock bands heard this and learnt the way forward. Inspiring.

3. The Rolling Stones - I Wanna Be Your Man (Nov 1963)

It's not often The Beatles and The Stones went head to head. But - song hustling - John and Paul gave the young Stones this song to help get the London boys into the charts (number 12). The Beatles went on to record I Wanna Be Your Man themselves for the With The Beatles Album. Now, whilst The Beatles version is polished and lively, The Stones go straight for the balls. Or more to say, Brian Jones does. The ferocity and aggression he gives to his slide guitar lead is a wonder to behold. He did it one take. Bizarrely, this track is not heard much these days. First time I heard it, way after other Stones stuff - as it's not on an album nor on most Greatest Hits compilations - I was blown away with Jones' wall of noise. 1963? Are you kidding me? But it is step three onto heavy rock.

4. The Kinks - You Really Got Me (1964)

Riff heaven. Taking up the baton from the Kingsmen and amping up the power London style. Guitarist Dave Davis creates the song's dynamic. He cut his amp with a razor blade to create the fuzzy, 'heavy' sound. Rock is born! He then throws out a volley of notes in the solo; mad, nonsensical but the inspiration for many a guitarist's solo (I include myself here!). Long rumoured to be played by session man and pre Led Zep Jimmy Page, it was in fact Dave Davis. The first song you can really head bang to. And air guitar.

5. The Who - My Generation (1965)

The song where it all comes together! Riffs, heavy guitar sound, fucking mental rhythm section, powerful singer. Feedback. Anarchy. Power. Driven by The Ox and Moonie; their powerful backing gives Townsend the space to riff away and Daltrey to stutter like a pilled up prick chucked in front of a mic at closing time shouting out his story. The final minute where Moon goes mad, Daltrey screams and Townsend and Entwhistle lock together is one of rock's finest moments. It is this that points to the future - not least during The Who's own guitar smashing versions of this very song. The path is is now open for the Who to charge towards rock's finest moment - 'Won't Get Fooled Again’.

Watch The Who in their best ‘Fuk Da Hippies’ mood at Monterey 1967 below.

Read on / Rock On?

Read about the time I was introduced as Eric Clapton onto Kingston Mines Chicago’s stage wearing a long overcoat as drunk and with no chops!

Or maybe the best underground 60’s songs?

All music pieces can be found in my music archive. Wormhole alert!

Reposted and rewritten from August 2016

Tim Robson 26/04/2026 Tim Robson 26/04/2026

Top Mick Taylor Studio Tracks

Mick Taylor black and white picture of playing with the Stones

“Ye shall know them by their fruits”

— Matthew 7:16 (KJV)

The Best Five Years?

We all know that in the Mick Taylor Years (1969 / 74) the Rolling Stones were at their live peak. He added a real lead guitar muscle to complement their riff heavy catalogue. They went from being great to being the best. Watching the Stones in this period ranks - with me anyway - alongside watching Elvis 1969-72. Yeah, two great acts at their peak at the same time. Saw neither. Thank goodness for YouTube.

Apparently Keith Richards once told Mick Taylor he was great live but shit in the studio. There's a ring of truth to this - even if it was overstated. Taylor certainly was less dominant in the Stones albums he played on. Maybe he knew he was being shafted for song writing credits. Maybe Mick and Keef overshadowed MT when it came to controlling who did what and when. They certainly bossed the mixing desk. Playing live they didn't have the same control.

But dig (not too deep) and you have some classic Mick Taylor performances committed to vinyl.

I've tried to filter out songs where he was just 'one of the band' and purposefully pick songs where it's absolutely all about Mick Taylor. Agree? Disagree? Tell me in the comments.

Mick Taylor appeared on Stones albums between 1969 and 1973*. They are Let It Bleed (just a little) and then Sticky Fingers, Exile on Main Street, Goat's Head Soup and It's Only Rock n Roll plus the live album Get Yer Ya Ya's Out.

To me, I'd probably rank them Sticky Fingers, Goat's Head Soup, Exile on Main Street, It's Only Rock n Roll. Which is strange as my favourite MT tracks appear on It's Only Rock n Roll.

Sway - Sticky Fingers (1971)

Keith was absent and so the two Micks fooled around in the studio together, coming up with this gem. A real guitar-heavy rocker, taken at a stately pace, it's one of those Stone tracks that should be better known but it's cult like obscurity makes me feel good I'm in the know. As does my possession of an original Andy Warhol designed jeans zip cover (framed and on my wall next to 8/9 others of similar vintage). This was, for a while, my fav Stones track. Jagger sings exceptionally on this - as demonstrated by his later, pitiful, attempt on the 2013 tour. MT's guitars are hard, the solos fluid - slide and then full on rock solo as the track ends. One to look up if you don't know it.

Winter - Goats Head Soup (1973)

Winter is one of those epic ballads the Stones seemed to just knock off in their sleep in the mid 70's (Angie, Memory Motel, Fool to Cry, Coming Down Again). Just like Sway, it features no Keith Richards. What separates this from the others is the Mick Taylor guitar solo which is both powerful and incendiary. Taylor had a way of complementing Jagger's vocal lines, adding fillers and runs throughout the song. Like he would do when the Stones played live. Many people rate this his best solo. I enjoy it but, no, it would be bettered the following year.

Can't you Hear Me Knocking - Sticky Fingers (1971)

It starts with a Keef riff and then, according to MT, when everyone was putting their instruments down at the end of the song, the groove just continued - first Bobby Keyes on sax and then, the Master Mick, the God of guitar (virtuosity be his name) started soloing. One take. Not rehearsed. As live as you can get and this is the result. The Stones should have employed this method on their recordings 69-73; just turn Mick Taylor loose. What you get is a classic and a classic because he turns the songs around and pushes it into new directions. That's one of Taylor's strength - his ability to effortlessly improvise.

All Down the Line - Exile on Main Street (1972)

Rock and rolling Stones kicking it back in the South of France, noses in bags of narcotics, dodging tax and playing some of their best music ever! Exile on Main Street was a groove, a feel, the sound of - to steal a phrase from Sir Paul - a Band on The Run. Mick Taylor adds some sharp, rocking slide guitar, taking the solo. To see how hard MT worked on this track - watch the video below.

Til the Next Goodbye - It's Only Rock n Roll (1974)

Another acoustic ballad, another slide solo. Beautiful song and for some reason completely overlooked. Why?

Honky Tonk Women - Let it Bleed (1969) / Brown Sugar - Sticky Fingers (1971)

Two songs from 1969 (Though Brown Sugar lay in the vaults over a year). Mick Taylor's introduction to the band. Honky Tonk Women - apparently MT made a small but telling contribution. He rocked up the song from the country ballad (Country Honk) to the rock classic we know now. Brown Sugar, is another group ensemble song where MT adds to mix but doesn't stand out. Recording on the sly in 1969 in Muscles Shoals, it was Mick Taylor's suggestion that they play this unreleased song at Altamont when all was falling on the Stones' heads/ Didn't make the film Gimme Shelter but the audio of this first ever version is the Stones against the wall, punching back.

Time Waits for No Man - It's Only Rock n Roll (1974)

The boss. The winner. The best track Mick Taylor and the Stones studio track. So beautiful. So wistful. And that solo at the end! A fucking artist at the top of his game in a band at throwing in a good performance. In the late 80's I wrote a shot song called 'It's Raining Again' and the only good thing about it was that I grafted a sausage fingered version of this MT's solo in the middle. The song is perfect in every way -Jagger's lyrics, Keef's spine tingling riff, Wyman, Watts, Nicky Hopkins and Ray Cooper all adding to the mix. And then Mick Taylor solos like a bastard for two / three full minutes of magic. he employs Latin influenced runs up and down the fretboard. Wow! This is what the Stones could have been. This is the Stones, timeless, standing out of time, looking at us and beckoning mere mortals forward.

I'm done. Comment below.

Read on / Rock on

A good article to read is my analysis of Mick Taylor’s solo on Sympathy for the Devil from Get Yer Ya Yas Out.

Was Mick Taylor any good live (hint, yes)? Seen through one song 1969-73. The Street Fighting Guitarist.

Or maybe delve into my full music section. You get Gene Clark, Taylor Swift live review, the 5 top roots of rock tunes and many, many more. Embrace that rabbit hole!

* Yeah - Waiting on A Friend was reused in the 80's.

Tim Robson 16/04/2026 Tim Robson 16/04/2026

Gare du Nord to Bastille - Easy Paris Walk

July Column in Bastille shown through the Metro station Bastille — The July Column, Bastille, April 2026

Don’t be a prisoner of the Metro!

I’ve told you previously about walking from Gare du Nord to Palais Garnier. All that Haussmann architecture with structured wide avenues oozing elegance of proportional symmetries, iron balconies and 45 degree sloping roofs.

Well let’s go another way (said every roué ever). Just flip the other walk 45 degrees and let’s plough on down the old Parisian alleyway we call Boulevard de Magenta into the comforting loins of Place de la Bastille.

Yes, I’m basically using a poor sex metaphor to describe a walk. Again. Those that do, do. Those that don’t just make terrible puns and pen walking guides around Paris. So, here we go again, fresh off the Eurostar, avoiding the Metro and walking down to Place de la Bastille.

Route Logistics

Start Point: Gare du Nord

End Point: Place de la Bastille via Place de la République

Distance: 3.6km (2.2m) / about 50 min at a slow pace

Difficulty: Easy

Cafe/Bars: As many as your companion will let you.

Is it Safe?: Yes, just take the normal care you would in any big city. Be aware of your surroundings.

How Awful Is the Area Around Gare du Nord?

Pretty awful. But as a tourist following this guide and heading south, it’s a damn sight better than the poor buggers who bought a cheap hotel room in the area above Gare du Nord (La Chapelle). No Maurice Chevalier in a top hat tap dancing through the wide boulevards here. Yes dear readers, I regret that bit of hotels.com cheap skating.

But, follow my instructions and let me guide you away from the disunited nations of the frenzied and the avaricious crowding your entry point and lead you into the boulevards you imagined when you first booked that weekend break away to Paris to recapture what was once there, or what you hope could be there.

Blvd de Denain to Boulevard Magenta

Set off, like we did last time as I guided you Palais Garnier, head straight out of Gare du Nord, cross the road in front of you, and go down the first avenue you see - Blvd de Denain. As you do so, observe the gardens - newly planted - in the middle of this pedestrianised street but then hurry, hurry away from the too observant locals; hide your wallet, pocket your phone, wrap your Mountain Warehouse jacket tighter around your bum bag . But only for ten seconds. The latter part of Denain is as peaceful as a Normandy seascape under impressionistic skies. Yeah.

Same café, same refuge. This time 50cl of 1664 blanc. Why not? La même chose, monsieur. So after your pitstop at La Chaufferie, follow these precise instructions:

Turn left. Walk straight on.

And that my friends, is basically your instructions to get to Bastille. A masterclass in understatement, no? Pure clickbait that turns just five words of direction into a thousand word solipsistic essay of poor jokes, average alliteration and parti pris prose.

Boulevard de Magenta

As you join this stretch of Magenta, marvel at the fresh urban character. Rejoice at the impromptu street-art spray painted onto historic buildings. But don’t stop too long to avoid being a phoneless Gallic Banksy yourself. Purposely canter through this first section past men watching from the darkened shadows of doorways, eying each tourist for value, for weakness.

“Yet herein will I imitate the sun,
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother up his beauty from the world”

And then, like a beautiful Parisienne Spring - and is there anywhere better than Paris in Spring? - Magenta opens out, chills out and becomes that which we seek, Le Paris Profond. Cafes and boutiques spread in front of you like a unabashed lover; flower shops, cafes, patisseries. Vous êtes ici, vous êtes à Paris!

Magenta bleeds into Place de la République which is a major square flanked by those famous Paris brasseries Les Five Guys and Le Bloody Burger King. They stand a greasy guard to Marianne’s haughty Monument de la République in the centre of the square. Let us not forget that the French had a revolution and, before they started getting all gilet jaune on each other’s ass, it was a turning point in history of which they should be justly proud. A century after England, of course, but, yeah, whatever.

Serious Haussmann

Diagonalise the square and head down Boulevard du Temple. We’re now getting into serious Haussmann territory as the traction beam of Bastille draws us ever onwards. Do look at the houses and shops as you pass. The sad fate of the unfamiliar urban tourist is to keep eyes ground level watching out for the pavement crazy dancing oddly, eyes dimly confounded by internal riddles, dancing his dance and doing that jogging trousers falling off the arse boogie.

Huh Tim?

What I mean is, look up and around. There are many fine buildings that stand unobserved unless they are observed. Features and oddities, historical quirks, hide in plain sight. And it’s here, on Temple, that we’re in serious Aristocat territory. Balzac, Condorcet, Zola. All of ‘em. All of ‘em. The spirit of Old Goriot lingers here. De Gaulle, Mitterand, Johnny fucking Hallyday. French as a ripe Camembert or a sexist car ad.

And then, surrounded by mad traffic and repeated zebra crossings (how long must I wait for the green man?) - but avoiding the high speed scooters and electric bikes - we have the Colonne de Juillet at the centre of Bastille. You know, the place where the French started off their revolution by freeing all the prisoners. Back in the day, here in England, we use to cart ours off to Australia. Now we just let them out as we’ve no money to keep them in. The revolution of the penny pinchers.

Little bit of politics. Moving on.

The Beauty of Le Paris Profond

Paris is in the detail, not the broad strokes. It’s the adverts for intriguing looking films you will never see rotated on the hexagon signposts. It’s the ornate signs and orb’d candelabras of the Metro stations. The iron work of the balconies, the regularity of the buildings, the ever changing, ever present sight-line of trees.

But it’s mainly in the cafes spilling out onto the streets as you observe a world - more sensed than perhaps real - of smart sophisticated people in scarfs drinking little coffees, smoking cigarettes, engaging in those ornate flatteries that choreograph the opening moves - cinq à sept - towards an affair. An affirmation of a life lived right. La vie réelle.

Walk to Bastille bitches!

Obligatory Crap Map

Map of a walk from Gare du Nord to Bastille — Badly drawn map of a walk from Gare du Nord to Bastille

Other Walks / Cities

What about Gare du Nord to Palais Garnier? or A Look at Robert Doisneau’s Le Basier de l’Hotel de Ville?
Art appreciation. Lol! Tim goes to Honfleur on the track of the Impressionists. It’s about the light, you know.
Or read more city reviews written from the comfort of bar stool (Antwerp, Bruges, Delft)

Quotidian Notes

1) Obviously the 1664 I had wasn’t the first, it wasn’t the last. I find càfe culture - and a constant refreshment of the glass -guides my pen. Like a higher power accessing truth. Here in Paris, there in Krakow, otherwise in Bruges or Antwerp.

2) Why am I in Paris? On business, mate, business. Doing deals you know.

3) The Cafe Flâneur Happy Hour photo. Too hard to resist. Am I a flâneur? Am I a world weary sophisicate leading you on? To where? To whom? Jean-Paul Sartre grasps at my shoulder but is shrugged off. Existential bitch. I travel but lightly.

4) And what the hell is Le Paris Profond? What’s that pretentiousness? Well, I made it up. It takes a foreigner to capture the essence of a place and it takes a jackdaw jobbing writer to steal, adapt and polish a phrase. Yes, Le Paris Profond will do. It fits. I am…I said.