John Lennon: The Life

I was asked at the weekend what my favourite period of Beatles music was. In truth that is an almost impossible question to answer, or at least a question that is impossible to provide a consistent answer to.  My answer will vary almost day to day depending on what kind of mood I’m in at the time and what album I’ve most recently listened to.

If it is almost impossible to pin point a period in the development of The Beatles as my favourite then it is actually impossible to provide an answer to the equally oft asked question; who is my favourite Beatle.

The chemistry that existed between the four of them was what made The Beatles so special. It may, initially, have been John’s band, growing as it did from the skiffle days of the Quarrymen, and the song writing partnership he had with Paul was nothing short of musical alchemy, but to dismiss the massive contributions of George and Ringo is to make a big mistake.  

That was the unspoken, but clear all the same, assessment of Philip Norman’s ‘Shout’, which is considered by many as being the definitive book on The Beatles.

It was then with more than a hint of trepidation that I recently purchased a copy of Norman’s biography of Lennon, ‘John Lennon – The Life’.

In ‘Shout’ Norman’s preference for John, no need to ask him who his favourite Beatle is, came through on almost every page.  It was inevitable, therefore, that he would deal with the subject of John Lennon in more detail at some point.

And detail is one thing that this entertaining book of over 800 pages doesn’t lack.

The problem is in where that detail lies, or perhaps more accurately, where it doesn’t.

Much of the detail provided on John’s formative years any Beatle fan is likely to have read elsewhere, maybe even in the pages of the aforementioned ‘Shout’.

There is little shortage of source material when it comes to The Beatles with the result that it is possible to provide a detailed account of them without the tedious task of actually doing the leg work and interviews yourself.

It would be wrong to suggest that this is what Norman did, but as an example his account of Lennon’s first marriage to Cynthia looked to be simply lifted from each of her two autobiographies, the second of which provided an altogether harsher assessment of her marriage.

The weakness in this book comes when there is less easily accessible information on Lennon’s life, in particular the later years of his, tragically short life, in New York. This was a period in his life that I was looking forward to reading about but felt disappointed with the scarcity of information after such a detailed account of the years prior.

Despite the misgivings above this is an essential addition to any Beatles fans’ library. It explores all facets of John’s personality, the good and the bad. He was in many ways a man of contradictions. Aren’t we all too some degree?

This book doesn’t gloss over his flaws. It shows John as a man of great talent and intellect but also impaired by his own insecurities. A man prone to acts of cruelty, yet also a man capable of displaying a generous heart.

In short, the success of this book is in its’ portrayal of John Lennon the man and not merely John Lennon the Beatle. 

Glasgow Comedy Festival 2012

The curtain came down last night on the 2012 Glasgow Comedy Festival, the 10^th such event, and as usual across the three week festival there was a wide variety of comedy on offer.

The Glasgow Comedy Festival has come a long way since its inception back in 2002, and is one of the biggest comedy festivals around. Rather bizarrely though many Glasweigans remain unaware of its existence even though there were around 300 shows at 40 different venues within the city.

Those 300 or so shows include the high profile, big venue, gigs from the likes of Dara O’Briain, who played two nights at The Armadilo, Sarah Millican and Rory Bremner, but also provides local acts to showcase their talents.

It’s not all Stand Up either. The first event that we popped along to was a recording of the soon to air on Radio Scotland ‘The Guessing Game’, a comedy panel show hosted by Clive Anderson, who seems to have slipped off the radar a little since upsetting The Bee Gees on TV a number of years ago.

As is the nature with this kind of thing ‘The Guessing Game’ was a bit hit and miss and to be honest I’ll not be tuning the dial on by wireless to Radio Scotland when it airs. It was though a pleasant enough way to spend an evening and thanks to the splendid Rob Rouse we were left with the equally splendid image of a drum kit made out of cats.  

We also took the opportunity to take in one of Arnold Brown’s Comedy Interviews at The Tron Theatre. It was a strange night, not least due to an injury to a member of the audience when a camera fell on them.

I’m far from convinced that Brown’s laconic delivery, which is a bit of a slow burner, is best suited to an interview format. We left feeling a bit short changed for our £14.50 (tickets booked too late to take advantage of the two for one offer), quite keen to try and catch Phil Differ’s stand up and altogether unimpressed with the world view of Dorothy Paul. A more skilful interviewer would have steered her away from the subject of Ireland and Scottish Independence.

Returning to Stand Up, the Blackfriars Basement is one of the best comedy venues in Glasgow and we took in a couple of shows, at either end of the festival, there.

First up was Jarred Christmas. The New Zealander gave a high energy performance, the pace of which simply never let up.  Jarred takes audience participation to new levels and a fantastic evening finished with Jarred stripped to the waist dancing to ‘Back in the USSR’ while we fired foam bullets at him.

Jarred Christmas

Although he is now based in Manchester, Scott Agnew has for some time been one of our favourite Glasweigans on the comedy circuit and it was his ‘Project: Couldn’t Give a Fuck’ that rounded the festival off for us.

Scott Agnew

Scott’s material, and much of this was making its debut at Blackfriars, may be close to the bone at times but one of his strengths is his engaging personality. He is an excellent, self deprecating, storyteller and while you do find yourself laughing at his stories (how could you not?) you feel real empathy with him at the same time.

Another favourite from the Glasgow/Scotland circuit is Mark Nelson and he didn’t disappoint at the Oran Mor.

Mark Nelson

A confusion with the start time meant a mad dash across Glasgow for us and if truth be told the news that there was a support act wasn’t greeted, by us, with much relish.

Kai Humphries was, therefore, an unexpected delight. It is almost impossible not to like Kai who established a tremendous rapport with the audience and more than nicely warmed things up for Mark Nelson.

A tweet from Mark earlier in the day revealed that he had been violently sick. If he was nervous, or in any way suffers from stage fright, it certainly wasn’t in evidence when he took to the stage. His performance, as always, was polished and perfectly timed. He is one of the few comedians that can have me sore with laughter simply with a well timed pause. Why Mark, a former Scottish Comedian of the Year, isn’t huge and playing multiple sell out nights at the SECC is a mystery to me.

Why Dara O’Briain is playing to sell out crowds in big venues is less of a mystery. Like Mark Nelson the night before he had me sore with laughter at times. I’m sure that it’s not, but his act seems so effortless and almost as if he has just rolled up to have a blether with people.

That almost brings me to an end in my round up of the Glasgow Comedy Festival of 2012 but I’m going to finish with one moan. In previous years a staple of our Comedy Festival menu has been the Lunchtime Comedy Chat Show hosted by the previously mentioned Scott Agnew and another excellent local talent, Des Clarke.

This year we made it a long to just one. No Scott and Des this year, instead the one we made it along to was more than capably hosted by Charlie Ross.

When I say we made it a long to just one, we did in fact head to The Corinthian on the final Sunday for one more round of sandwiches and comedy before the end of the festival only to find, after we had climbed about 8 flights of stairs, that the show had been cancelled. No mention of this on the Comedy Festival website or on their twitter feed. We at least hadn’t paid in advance but the punter in front of us had. It was a slightly disappointing note at the end of another highly successful Glasgow Comedy Festival. The countdown to next year’s starts now.

The Long and Winding Road of History

It is with some trepidation that I begin my latest round of incoherent ramblings on something of a pretentious note with a quote from Karl Marx.

In his ‘18^th Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte’, Marx wrote;

“Men make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered, given and transmitted from the past.”

Now, I can hear those of you tempted to read this on the strength of the Beatles reference in the title saying “what the f**k has Karl Marx got to do with The Beatles.”

It was, of course, Marx who George Martin drafted in to play drums on ‘Love me Do’. Or that might have been Andy White.

Anyway, enough of this nonsense and on to the point of this article, and yes there is a point to it.

What Marx is saying is that while people, to be not as gender specific as our chum Karl, do make history it is the circumstances that they encounter along the way that really defines how they shape history.

Few people, I would hope, would dispute the influence that The Beatles have had not just on popular music but on society and cultural in general. The rise in the popularity of The Beatles in the US in the wake of the assaination of President Kennedy is another subject for another time but is an example of how events elsewhere can allow others, not directly related to it, to make history.

Sticking, sort of, to this theme could The Beatles have come from anywhere other than Liverpool?

Liverpool was a busy shipping port with strong links to the USA. It wasn’t just goods though that were transported between the US and Liverpool. Travelling from the States to the Liverpool docks came American popular culture, in particular rock and roll.

It is unquestionable that rock and roll had a massive influence on four young lads from Liverpool in the 1950s. Had they not been exposed to this music it is inconceivable that they would have gone on and formed their own rock and roll band.

Yet they weren’t the only four teenagers in Liverpool enthralled by rock and roll. Or the only four talented musicians that wanted to form their own band. Why then did John, Paul, George and Ringo become such a phenomom?

The dynamic that existed between the four lads was obviously pivotal to their success.  For example, there has been no greater song writing partnership than the one that existed between John Lennon and Paul McCartney. How would that partnership had developed had they not both had unconventional childhoods? Paul losing his mother at a young age and John too having to deal with the tragic consequences of his mother’s untimely death after previously been abandoned by his father.

The truth of the matter is that it was a fortunate (or perhaps more accurately, misfortune) set of circumstances that threw unarguably the greatest ever pop group together and we should all be grateful for that. 

Boring, Boring County?

An often heard comment complaint round Firhill these days is that there is a lack of signing and a poor atmosphere inside the Jackie Husband Stand on match days. Well, yesterday there was one chant that was loud and audible, and was heard more than once. It went simply;

“Boring, boring County”.

Now I need to come clean at this point. Four times Thistle have played Ross County this season. Three times County have won, and on each of those occasions Thistle failed to find the back of the net. The only time Thistle did prise a point from County, and score against them, was after they had had a man sent off.

A fantastic run that has seen them lose just once all season in the league, in a game in which they again had a man sent off, has seen County establish a huge lead at the top of the First Division. It is but a matter of time before they are confirmed as champions. It will be a deserved championship, it would be foolish to deny otherwise.

 Yet even in acknowledging that fantastic run they aren’t a popular side. They are in the words of Thistle manager Jackie McNamara “not pleasing on the eye” or, if you prefer the less diplomatic assessment of the Thistle fans, “boring, boring”.

Thistle fans watching the "Boring" Ross County (pic by Tommy Taylor)

County’s popularity, to be blunt, isn’t helped any by their manager Derek Adams who appears to have few friends in football outside the confines of Victoria Park. He even earlier in the season took bizarre offence at McNamara’s comment that Adams’ had spent his budget wisely.

Leaving that issue aside, County’s lack of popularity does raise an interesting question.

Are we football fans entertained by exciting, attacking football no matter the result or are we entertained simply by watching our side win week in week out?

A few years ago I walked out of Victoria Park delighted with a point after a goalless draw. Thistle had at the time being struggling for form and had been guilty of conceding some soft goals. The shape of the Thistle side that afternoon, therefore, was set up to first and foremost make them hard to beat. The performance as I recall was as hard working a Jags performance as I have seen but, to use that phrase again, it wasn’t pleasing on the eye.

It did, however, get the job done and I travelled back to Glasgow afterwards a fairly contented man.

There are times then when it is laudable to do whatever you need to do to get the desired result. I doubt I would complain too much if, for example, Thistle defended in numbers at Ibrox but came away with a 1-0 win. No, chances are you would find me signing loudly ‘One Team in Glasgow’ before falling asleep, drowning in my own drool.

Football is a business and a profession, a precarious one at that, to those that play it and you can understand the attitude that it’s not how you get the result that is important but that you get the result. 

It is also an entertainment.

The vast majority of the 2,500 or so people at Firhill yesterday paid £17 to watch the game. Did the approach of a side 15 points clear at the top of the division, and well on course for the title, take the “the result at all costs” approach too far?

I guess it depends largely on the colour of the scarf that you were wearing. When the County fans are celebrating their inevitable title success it is unlikely that they will gave a damn that the Thistle fans thought their team were “boring, boring”. Derek Adams certainly doesn’t. 

Travelling Hopefully - Let's Hear it for the Diddy Teams

It was Robert Louis Stevenson that wrote “to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive”. He wasn’t, of course, writing about Scottish Football but he might as well have been. Stevenson was trying to suggest that hope and anticipation is better than reality. You can’t tell me that that doesn’t sum up perfectly the experience of supporting the vast majority of Scottish football teams.

Scottish Football, as if you needed reminded, is played on a pretty uneven playing field. Two, for now, giant teams dominate the game in this country almost entirely. They share the major honours between themselves to such a degree that from season to season I can’t recall which one has won what. The rest of us are consigned to the ranks of mere also rans or, as one PA announcer at Ibrox infamously put it, searching for crumbs from the master’s table.

Given that the chances of us mere mortals carrying off one of Scotland’s major football honours are slight it’s a wonder why we bother at all.

The game in Scotland may be dominated by the two, for now, richest and powerful teams but while money can buy you titles and honours, hopes and dreams remain free. To paraphrase the words of Robert Louis Stevenson; we continue to travel hopefully across the highways and byways of Scottish football. Sometimes even, as Kilmarnock found out today, the reality does prove to every bit as good as the hope and anticipation.

(40 years on and Thistle are still celebrating - pic by Tommy Taylor)

I’ll not pretend to be any great fan of Kilmarnock, I’ve had too many hairy, scary trips back to the comfort and safety of a Thistle supporters’ bus for that, but my heart soared for them at Hampden Park this afternoon all the same.

I’ve not, yet, had the pleasure of experiencing Thistle play in a national Cup Final but when I do, and it will happen, it will be an occasion that I’ll savour to the full. Today if the pulse rate of a Celtic fan quickened any it wasn’t at the prospect of adding another League Cup to their hoards of domestic honours but rather the latest ‘thrilling’ instalment of their sibling rivalry with their, for now, partners in the Scottish football duopoly. Defeating Kilmarnock to win the League Cup would have been a mere incidental in their point scoring squabble with Rangers. The elation of a Celtic victory today would have lasted just long enough for the morning hangover to kick in.

It was good for Scottish football, therefore, that the game ended in an unexpected triumph for Kilmarnock. It was unquestionably their day but the fan of every ‘diddy’ team in the country shared their joy at the final whistle. It was a vindication of our continued support for whichever one of the less celebrated teams in Scotland that our allegiance lies with and proof in the value of continuing to dream.  

All Aboard the Team Bus

Tomorrow is a day off work for me. Or at least a day off from the job that provides me with a wage slip once a month. The job that pays the mortgage, and the job that keeps the cat in food.

Those that know me, I assume my reader from Brazil stumbled across this blog by accident, will tell you that my other job is Programme and Website editor for Partick Thistle Football Club. It’s something of a misnomer though to label it a job. Writing about the football team that I love is a pleasure, and while there is no pay packet from Partick Thistle come the end of the month there are perks that come with the position that money simply can’t buy.  

One of which is being allowed to travel to away games on the team bus.

(some people, not me , getting off the Thistle team bus)

There was a time when I dreamed that I would climb aboard the Partick Thistle team bus, sign saying ‘Players and Officials’ displayed in the window, with boots and shin pads in my bag rather than the laptop that I do. Given that it is unlikely that Jackie McNamarawill look my way and think that a fat 43 year old is a solution to Thistle’s problems and shout “right Hosie, you are starting up front today”, travelling with the team is the closest I’m ever going to come to being a professional footballer.

I may be 40 plus with responsibilities and bills to pay, but part of me has never grown up, I doubt us men ever truly do. As such travelling with my heroes remains a real thrill. A chance, through them, to vicariously live out my dream of being a footballer for Partick Thistle.

I first travelled on the team bus, a suited and booted nervous individual, on December 27^th 1999 for a trip to Arbroath. The Thistle side of that season wasn’t the greatest ever to represent the Club and I remember the players rushing through their pre-match meal so they could catch part of the old firm game on TV before heading to the game. There were some players that displayed more passion in the hotel watching that game than they did on the park later in the day.

It might not have been the most auspicious of starts to my time on the team bus but there have been some fantastic memories since.

There were goose bumps on my arms when,  after the Second Division title had been clinched at Forfar, the Thistle fans came onto the street to clap the team bus as it pulled away. Okay, I know they weren’t clapping me. It’s back to that vicarious dream again. 

The journey back from Peterhead after the play-off victory was an experience that will stay with me for life. As will the sight of Scott McLean eating a raw pot noddle on a journey back from Stranraer or an, unnamed former player, throwing a strop when the dvd of ‘Sulmdog Millionaire’ froze just at the crucial stage of the film.

This brings me to the main downside of travelling with the team.  Something far worse even than the smell that can emanate from the more flatulent members of the squad, namely, the almost universal appalling taste in films that footballers have.  The more puerile the humour or louder the explosions the more they will love it. If I’ve seen ‘Dumb or Dumber’ or ‘The Wedding Crashes’ once then I’ve seen them dozens  of times. Gerry Britton provided ‘The Life of Brian’ once but you expect that kind of thing from the cerebral King of Spain.

I can, however, live with the poor choice of in-bus movie. Being allowed close to the team is a thrill and a privilege, but all the same spare a little thought for me tomorrow travelling through the night from Dingwall trying to grab even a few winks of sleep. A Jags victory would help make the miles go that bit quicker. 

Red Dog

It’s been a good year thus far to be an animal in the movie business.

We’ve had ‘War Horse’, ‘The Artist’, where the human actors were upstaged by a ten year old Jack Russell by the name of Uggie, and we’ve also had ‘Red Dog’.

Not familiar with ‘Red Dog’? That’s perhaps no great surprise.

‘Red Dog’ is an Australian film that has had a relatively limited release here in the United Kingdom.

A very, very brief synopsis could label this movie as Greyfriars Bobby moved to the Australian outback.  ‘Red Dog’ is based on legendary true story of Red Dog who roamed the outback in search of his master John (played in the film by Josh Lucas) who dies in a motorbike accident.

Just how much of this film is based on legend and how much is based on fact is open to debate but it provides the viewer with a highly emotional journey all the same. This isn’t a film that gently tugs at the hearts strings, rather it is one that gives them a good old yank and leaves you to face the consequences.

You would have to have a heart of stone not to be moved by Red Dog’s story. Following the death of his beloved master he sits outside the homestead for three weeks staring down an empty dirt track patiently awaiting for his never to return master.

At the end of those three weeks Red Dog abandons his lonely vigil and sets out to find John. An, unsuccessful, journey that takes him across Australia, and into the hearts of countless Australians. Not for nothing has there been a statue of Red Dog erected in what is the closest, for such a nomadic dog, to what could be considered his home town.  

I don’t want to give too much of the story away but if you are in any way an animal lover then I suggest taking a large box of hankies with you to the cinema.

I’m a big, strapping lump of a 43 year old and I’m not prone, as a rule, to outward displays of emotion. I would be lying though if I said there wasn’t a lump in my throat and a distinct moistening around the eyes when watching this. Indeed even that would be a lie. It wasn’t a single tear that gently rolled down my face during the film. It was a veritable flood of tears that gushed down my normally stoic visage. At one point I was even desperately fighting the urge not to emit a pitiful sob. That my girlfriend (yes dear reader I am hetrosexual) was sitting next to me going through the same gamut of emotions didn’t exactly help me in my fight, which I lost, to avoid becoming a gibbering wreck.

If you feel brave enough then this film is well worth taking the time to see it. And if it doesn’t make you cry then nothing ever will.