FROG BLOG

Gosh, what a day. Just got back. Totally fattygayed. This is no life for a hermit recluse.

Set off ce matin with Georgie for Waterloo. Arrived there, split, she went off to work and I went off for a meeting by Tower Bridge.

Come afternoon I was a free agent encore. At Georgie's suggestion I headed for the Picasso exhibition at the National Gallery but when I arrived there they said it was next door at the Sainsbury Gallery. Decided to have a quick look round the National before popping next door to 'the Carbuncle'. And damned glad I did. Years since I've been to the National; completely forgotten what masterpieces are held there.

Spent ages drooling over works by Turner, Hogarth, Gainsborough, Constable, Stubbs, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Monet, Manet and Seurat, plus a few names I've completely forgotten. Lovely stuff. Amazing to get up close to Turner's 'Fighting Temeraire' and 'Wind, Steam and Speed' par example, and simply marvel at the brushwork, imagining his hand flicking paint on those very surfaces, touched by sheer genius. Same applies to another of my heroes, the boy Van Gogh. People probably thought I was bonkers when I really got right up close to his canvases, literally inches away, studying coloured daubs, again the marks of a supreme, yet troubled, master. Mind blowing.

Then nipped next door to the Picasso. Well, when I say 'nipped', I firstly had to queue for about twenty minutes. Again, it was simply staggering to take in so many masterpieces in just one go. Perhaps not many examples of his better stuff but still enough make one cower in the presence of an absolute genius. One forgets what a groundbreaker he was. And also, that he was actually quite a traditionalist. All very thought provoking.

By mid-afternoon I was fairly shattered. And my newish Crocketts were killing moi. So I headed for Charing Cross station with the intention of returning to Putney before the rush hour. Didn't happen. Whilst having a quick fag and coffee outside the station, I decided to go somewhere I'd never been before: Tate Modern. If I didn't go now, perhaps I never would. So I caught a train across the river to Waterloo (couldn't face walking; feets in agony) from where I presumed it'd be a doddle to catch a bus along the south bank to the Tate. Wrong. Looked at the bus stop signs - no mention of one heading to my chosen destination. Then got confused by mention of tickets needing to be paid for before boarding. What? How? And where? And does my zones 1 and 2 Travelcard cover bus travel and therefore negate the need to buy a ticket before boarding? Questions, questions. And no answers. Decided that if jolly old Mayor Boris wants to get people back on buses, he firstly has to explain a few things to ignoramus geriatrics comme moi. Caught a cab there instead.

From the outside, it's an awe inspiring place. Massive. Walked halfway across the wobbly bridge just to take it all in. Then wandered back and entered. The inside seemed even massiverer. But strangely cold in character. A complete contrast to the warmth of the National and Carbuncle. Being a proper bloke, I soon spotted the sign 'bar' and jumped in a lift to the top. Thought about ordering a scotch but wimped for a tea instead. Looking out towards the river and St. Paul's I spotted a verandah one floor down. Parfait for a quick fag. Attempted to gain access but was told the door was shut due to repair work. Went out on the south facing verandah instead. Crap view but served for a smoke. Then inspected a few galleries on the lower floors. Some good bits but nothing special. Or maybe I was a bit grumpy 'cos my feet hurt and the verandah was shut. All a bit disappointing.

Mission accomplished, I then limped along the south bank, past the Globe Theatre, towards London Bridge station. Joined the rush hour lemmings heading for Waterloo then Putney via Clapham Junction. Arrived 'home' knackered with blistered feet. Made cuppa then wrote this. Girlies just arrived so better sign off.

Toodle pip.

Today I'm inevitably humming Modest Mussgorsky's most famous work which he wrote in 1874 following the sudden death the previous year of his artist friend and fellow Russian, Viktor Hartmann. The piece features ten separate sections, each being a musical interpretation of individual paintings and drawings created by Hartmann during his travels across Russia and Europe. By an amazing co-incidence, one of the paintings was of Limoges market. Small world, eh? (Info nicked from Wikipedia.)

Dropped the dogs off at the kennels yesterday afternoon, had an early night, set the alarm for 5.30, woke up at 2.30, dozed off again, woke again at 5, got up, had shower and shave, got dressed, left the house bang on 6.30, spent about 20 minutes scraping ice off the car, drove to Limoges airport, parked up at about 9ish, way too early, had a couple of coffees, read book, went outside for a fag or two, read book again, eventually boarded plane at about 10.45, landed at Stansted around 12.30 (11.30 UK time), hopped on a coach and arrived at Victoria at about 2.30ish, jet lagged, culture shocked, weary and worried about the dogs.

Decided to head towards Sloane Square then hop on a bus to Putney. Ambled down a few back streets to Sloane Square and quite by chance passed Noel Coward's old house in Gerald Road where we (ex-partner et moi) shared offices with one of our early clients. Must have been around '74. Had our desks on Noel's in-house stage. Brought back a few memories.

After Sloane Square, legged it down the Kings Road. Another trip down memory lane. Crikey, it's changed. Hardly recognised the place. Long gone are the long-haired hippies and short-haired punks. Long gone too is a vaguely remembered pub - it's now a building society branch. Seems to sum the place up. The 'big boys' have taken over, turning charmingly scruffy old shops into bland franchised retail outlets. Completely changed the character. Oh for the good old days! Mind you, having said that, there are a few of the old shops that still seem to be alive and kicking.

Hmm, Chelsea Arts Club's just up there - I presume it's still there, unless Nanny State and fag ban has hastened its demise. And that posh place there used to be a fire station. Eventually hopped on a bus just after the road to the old Paris Pullman cinema, couple of turnings before the dogleg kink where Vivienne Westwood's and Malcolm Maclaren's old 'Sex' punk fashion shop used to be. Bizarrely, that shop was almost next door to the Chelsea Conservatives' Club. It's gone now of course but the Tory base soldiers on. And that place there used to be the Led Zep HQ. And that house there used to be a shop with half a car poking out the front.

Bit further on, passed Tim Little's shoe shop. Lad from Derby. Used to work with him a few years back in a big ad agency. Glad to see he's still apparently doing well. Then passed Warr's Harley Davidson shop. Huge it is now. I remember when it was just a little place. Visited a few times but never really got into Harleys. Obviously a few people have since then. With big wallets. Pricey bikes for poseurs I always thought. Thought it then and still think it now.

Passing the pub on the left at Parson's Green I suddenly remembered that I almost bought my first flat here. Top floor, overlooking New Kings Road. Pokey and needed work but suited me down to the ground. Pub almost next door, wall to wall Kings Road dolly birds, Chelsea FC just up the road. Not that I supported them, but very convenient for watching chaps like Georgie Best, Denis Law and Alan Hudson. Must have been around the mid-70s. Didn't buy it though. Instead bought a place with 'her', my ex-partner. Big mistake. Ah well, these things happen.

Bit later the bus crossed the bridge into Putney. Great view from the front seat on the top deck. But then we hung a right along the river so I jumped off. Ambled up into Putney. Tried to get a new dogtag for Sprocket. Just my luck, the bloke's computer had just packed up. Told me to go to another place in the arcade. Couldn't be arsed. Headed towards Georgie and Dons'. Time about 4ish. Way too early. Won't be back 'til around sevenish. So stopped off at the 'Arab Boy' for a slow half. And a fag out back. Finished off my book (the Brinks Mat robbery). Then bought a bunch of fresias and arrived at the flat around fiveish.

Been a long day.

(Made the mistake of putting on a newish pair of Crockett & Jones's ce matin. After all that walking my foots is killing moi.)

Today I'm humming an old fave by a bunch of one hit wonder gals from one of the towns I sort of come from: Northampton...

Today I'm humming this little number which was recorded when a certain someone (and twin sis) was just three days old, having arrived prematurely, weighing ounces not pounds and fighting for her life in an incubator thingy.
(Er, Buddy Holly YouTube track removed due to recent copyright spat between them and various music companies. Have now reloaded a suitable replacement by the great Deano Martino recorded at around the same time - ahem, I theenk.)

Ah, Friday the 13th. How that date sticks in my mind. In particular, Friday 13th May '05. That was the day we locked the door of our old house back in Hampshire, stepped into the car and drove off for a new life in France. Didn't all go according to plan of course (an understatement if ever there was one - see 'Allez oops' posting of August '05) but what the hell, it's been an interesting experience.

Any regrets? Sure, a few. But, given what's happened to UK property prices and the general stagnation of the market, plus the dive bombing of the pound against the euro, it could be argued that we did the right thing at the right time. There must be quite a few Brits back in the UK whose plans of moving to France have been scuppered by a) not being able to sell up, and b) by no longer being able to afford their dream French home (prices have, in effect, risen because of the fall of the pound).

Occasionally, like now in the depths of winter with a snowstorm raging outside, I sit here thinking that perhaps it's all been a ghastly mistake. But then I think, had we not made the move, we'd be kicking ourselves for 'missing the boat' and not taking the opportunity to 'get out' when we could. Or maybe not. Who knows? Who cares? It's done and that's it. Look on the bright side: we've no mortgage, no debts, we're fairly healthy, I've learnt to cook (a bit), the dogs run free (England's no place for a dog like Sprocket), haven't seen a traffic jam in ages, or an irate 'white van man', the local town centre isn't a 'no go' area on a Friday or Saturday night and the wine, cheese and bread is not only better here but also cheaper (thinking about it, this list could go on and on). So, all in all, the positives outweigh the negatives. Besides which, we've a glorious view and I no longer feel the awful claustrophobia I felt back in the UK. And I keep forgetting just how much the house has been improved.

Interestingly, Georgie discovered a photo of the house as it was when we finally arrived here after setting off on that fateful Friday nearly four years ago. Changed a bit since then. Still uninhabitable of course, but it's home.

Phoned Georgie as usual (well, fairly usual) ce soir and she mentioned that I hadn't blogged for a bit. Hmm, s'pose not. But there again, nothing much has happened. It's a dead time of year. Grey, bit chilly, snow in the air. Days taken up with dogwalking, log cutting, fire stoking, bit of chimney stack cleaning (woodsmoke blocks 'em up pretty damned quick, with monotonous regularity, resulting in what can be best described as blocked exhaust pipes and non-existent fires - it's a dirty job), cooking, washing up and staring at the slightly off-square door frame of what I hope will one day be a bathroom, wondering how best to make it bang-on square. Maybe add a small wooden spacer here, or there, or rip that vertical down (plus a couple of short horizontals) and reposition. Or not. Then there's the occasional drive to the shops (weather permitting) if I can be arsed, with a dogwalk on the way back, just for a change of track. And a few days back we had a tiny bit of sunshine so I shoved some rags in the washing machine then forgot to turn the knob after the first sequence; by the time I remembered, the sun had gone so I ended up hanging the rags on the bathroom stud wall. Dried out pretty quick. Then there was a power cut a couple of days ago. Had to boil water for teas and coffees on the stove. But because the smokestack was blocked, the water was only tepid. And once or twice I had a coffee with cold water. Reminded me of Baldrick in the trenches (if you know that sketch - his preparation of frothy coffee was hilarious). Oh, and last Sunday soiree I was invited round to Isabelle's 44th party. Well, when I say 'party' I mean a gathering of about twenty people with ages ranging from about five to eighty-five, boozing and nattering around their big lounge table. Typically French, very sociable, and probably a great way for locals to swap news and gossip. Trouble is, as I've said many times before, I hardly understand a word they're on about. So I just ended up grinning like a Cheshire cat, completely sozzled on Ricard (Christian didn'ae have any whisky). Anyway, thought I'd make a bit of an effort, so in honour of the hostess I wore my kilt and took along a bottle of champagne. I keep forgetting that most of the locals have never seen a kilt before so my typically late entrance was even more embarrassing than usual. And that's about it. None of which is really worthy of mention. Which is why I haven't blogged for a bit.

I've been doing a fair bit of reading though. Current book is Mick Wall's 'Led Zeppelin - When Giants Walked the Earth'. A riveting read, especially if, like me, you're not only a fan but you were also 'there' when it all happened. I'm about halfway through it now. Tend to 'do' an hour or so when I've done the late afternoon walk, fed the dogs and am having my soiree scotch while the cooking's being burnt to a cinder about three feet away on top of the roaring stove with recently unblocked smokestack. I've just reached the bit where they're recording tracks for their fourth album (the one with the old framed photo of the wood-gathering hermit on the front). All very interesting. Apparently they recorded most of the tracks at a place called 'Headley Grange' just outside the village of Headley in Hampshire. Well, buggerre moi. That's the very village where I lived as a lad, from the ages of seven to eleven (I think). The place where I sang in the church choir, collected frog spawn, went up through the ranks as a Wolf Cub, gloriously failed my eleven plus and where Mum sent me off up the road to buy horse meat for the dogs from a butcher's lorry that visited the village once a week. And, funnily enough, where I played Buddy Holly on the jukebox as mentioned in my previous posting. I know Headley Grange well. Never been inside though. Just seen it from the road. Mate of mine used to live on a farm opposite. I well remember helping with the harvest and helping his mum churn butter in a wooden box thing with a handle on the top that you turned 'til cramp set in. And further down the lane we used to go fishing. Rainbow trout. Gay days.

So, that was where rock music's greatest anthem 'Stairway to Heaven' was recorded. Who'd have thought it. Well, well, well. Amazing. And, one of my favourite tracks from that brilliant album, 'When the Levee Breaks'. According to the book, John Bonham set up his drums in Headley Grange's 'great hall' with a mike hanging from the main stairs. Apparently the acoustics were perfect for him. So he just rattled off the heaviest and greatest bit of rock drumming in history in just one take. Bonzo Bonham was always my fave. And there's an interesting snippet about the 'Four Sticks' track. Apparently Bonzo had just returned to Headley in a bit of a tizz after watching a Ginger Baker gig. Reckoned he could out-gun Ginger any day. So, snarling, he picked up four drumsticks (he had specially made big 'uns) and blasted Ginger outa sight. Don't mess with Bonzo.

Headley, eh. Small world.

Fifty years ago today, on the 3rd February 1959 at 12.05am, a single-engined, four-seater Beechcraft Bonanza aircraft, serial number N3794N, chartered from Dwyer Flying Service ($36 per person) and piloted by 21 year-old Roger Peterson, took off with three passengers on a snowy night from Clear Lake Iowa, bound for Fargo. Minutes later the plane crashed at Juhl's Farm, just outside Clear Lake. All four died instantly when they hit the ground at 170mph. The passengers were musicians Charles Hardin Holley (Buddy Holly - surname changed due to a spelling mistake on his Decca contract), Ricardo Valenzuela (Ritchie Valens) and Jiles P Richardson (The Big Bopper). It's been called 'the day the music died'.

Hours before the crash, the three musicians had been playing at the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake (together with Dion and the Belmonts). Their last ever performance, this was just one of the gigs on 'The Winter Dance Party': a three week bus tour scheduled for twenty-four cities from 23rd January to 13th February.

A day earlier, the tour bus heater packed up (yet again - this was the fifth bus used); a serious problem on long night-time drives through snowy blizzards. So much so that Carl Brunch, Buddy's drummer, developed frostbite and had to abandon the tour. On arrival at Clear Lake, cold, tired and disgusted, Buddy Holly had had enough, so he chartered the plane for himself and his two remaining backing musicians, Waylon Jennings and Tommy Allsup, famously saying that the time saved in travelling would enable him to "get some laundry done before the next performance".

On hearing that Buddy had chartered a plane, The Big Bopper (Richardson) begged Waylon Jennings to give him his seat because he was running a fever and, due to his stocky frame, he couldn't fit comfortably in the bus seats. Deal done, Richardson playfully quipped "I hope your bus freezes up", to which Waylon responded "well, I hope your plane crashes" - a retort that was to haunt him for the rest of his life. Similarly, Ritchie Valens pleaded with Tommy Allsup to swap. So Allsup pulled out a fifty cents coin and tossed for it. Allsup lost his seat. Valens lost his life.

The bodies of Valens and Holly were found 17 feet south of the wreckage; The Big Bopper 40 feet north. The pilot was discovered strapped in his seat.

When news of the crash filtered through to the tour party at Moorhead Minnesota, it was decided, in the best showbiz tradition, that the show must go on. So a couple of acts were hastily added to the bill: Fabian and Frankie Avalon. Plus a local budding fifteen-year-old singer. His name? Bobby Vee. His speciality? Mimicking Buddy Holly. But he wasn't the only Holly mimic. Back in the backstreets of Liverpool, a couple of kids called Lennon and McCartney were doing the very same. As were Jagger and Richards, down in Kent. Holly may have only recorded for eighteen short months but he and his songs influenced a whole generation of future pop stars. And changed the world. Rave on.

Back in '57, aged about ten or eleven, I was (and still am) a huge fan of Buddy Holly. On my way to school, after stopping off at the local sweetshop for gobstoppers, I'd pop into the caff next door to sling the other half my pocket money (sixpence - a 'tanner') into the jukebox and play 'Oh Boy!', much to the enjoyment of the lorry drivers. The lady who ran the joint didn't seem to mind either, despite my never buying a cup of tea or a sarnie. Maybe they quite enjoyed my total lack of embarrassment as I jigged around to the music, alone in my own little rock'n'roll world for a couple of wonderful minutes. Or maybe they all liked Buddy Holly too. Then I'd do my usual runner and join my mates at the door who were too scared to venture in. One of them, Harvey Naylor I think, used to wear a pair of his dad's old specs with glass removed, just to look like Buddy. Looked nothing like him of course, but it gave us all a good laugh.

A few years later, Mum bought a record player and a couple of LPs: 'Gigi' and 'The King and I', I seem to remember. As a present, she then asked my sister and me what LP we'd each like. Jean chose 'Summer Holiday' by Cliff and the Shadows. I chose 'Buddy Holly Volume 1'. I still have that LP, carefully wrapped in a plastic envelope, somewhere in one of the many packing boxes that still remain unopened downstairs. It's one of my most treasured possessions.

The day the music died? Au contraire, buddy.