I was in the studio at eleven to pre-record my radio show for Sunday, and to record Steve's LP Box at the same time. This week I've done Machine Gun Etiquette by The Damned, a band I've been a fan of for years and seen four times in concert, (five if you aren't reading this until mid-December). Time caught up with me unfortunately, as I wanted to record a Robin Hood Radio show but couldn't spare the time as I had to go home and interview Gary Numan for The Nottingham Evening Post, (as I still call it). I had a short window at half past five to talk to him via Skype, (easier for me to record the audio). After interviewing Gary Numan, I used the home studio to record the Robin Hood Radio show.

Mandi was at the cinema tonight, so I took advantage of the time alone to get a few tasks crossed off from my epic to-do list. My radio show archive and Steve's LP Box archive are now all available on Mixcloud Tonight is Halloween which is an occasion I have never had any time for. When I was a child, I'm pretty sure that Halloween wasn't such a big deal as it is now, I remember a disco at school with a bit of apple bobbing but nothing compared to the hysteria that occurs nowadays.

Trick or treating is something that could have got out of hand with older kids, (some shops refuse to sell eggs to children in the run up to Halloween), but thankfully the code was implemented a few years ago. You now only get trick or treated if you have a pumpkin or some such decoration in your front window as a sign to say that you are playing along. Mandi displayed a light up ghost in our front window, prepared a big bowl of sweets, and then left me in the house alone to contend with it. I wasn't sure if I should answer the door to trick or treaters as I was on my own, but I needn't have worried as I only had three visits before it started to piss down.

I hope these kids don't forget their Victorian suits and lanterns and show the same enthusiasm for the carol singing come December.

We made another valiant effort this morning to go and use our vouchers for free breakfast, but despite getting out of bed early for us, we still didn't make it. When we got to town, Mandi suggested breakfast in British Home Stores (as we still call it). It was close to midday and they had switched from the breakfast menu to the all day breakfast option on the menu. The all day breakfast amounted to some rubber eggs from a joke shop, some coal in the shape of sausages, and something in a dish labelled 'mushrooms'. I didn't give this the time of day, and we eventually ended up in a little cafe in Broadmarsh called Chuck's Wagon. Chuck's Wagon is a double-edged sword of a place. On one hand, it is independently owned and does offer fresh food. It is on the other hand, in Broadmarsh and as such is full of Broadmarsh type people. I asked for a bacon cob, and was asked if I wanted butter. My day was starting to become my own version of Falling Down.

It's my dad's birthday today, and we were due to meet him in town for a drink. Leaving Broadmarsh, I passed a charity shop, (not a hard job in Broadmarsh) and couldn't resist a look through the record boxes, as no man can. We already had dad's present, but I found him a few albums that he should have to go with his new record player. The four of us, (Katie met us too) had a nice couple of drinks in The Malt Cross, one of my favourite pubs.

I'm picking Emily up on Thursday for a few days in Nottingham, which means in theory I get to give myself a few days off. Tomorrow I'm pre-recording the show for this Sunday, as I'll be taking her home on the Sunday and I don't want to have to rush. Tomorrow I'm going to attempt to fit several days worth of stuff into one day!

Everyone at the radio station is now in possession of two ten pound vouchers for a breakfast at a pub restaurant not far from where we live. Unfortunately, the offer only lasts until noon. It isn't as if things have suddenly gone wrong and we need to rely on vouchers to eat, but a free breakfast is a free breakfast. I'd like to report on how lovely the breakfast was, or what a hideous excuse for a meal it was, and how dare they serve that shit up and call it food. I can't report either way on such matters, because we didn't wake up until about half past one. I have always fancied an engagement with a newspaper, magazine, or review website, as a full English breakfast correspondent. For health reasons I would perhaps only be able to do this job once a week, unless I took breakfast and then only ate fruit and drank water for the rest of the day in order to cleanse myself and prevent an inevitable heart attack. The full English breakfast, or fry up, is a meal that I love and also have long and complicated rules regarding. The job of breakfast reviewer would suit me down to the ground, apart from the major problem of time. Most cafes only open until one or two o'clock, having been open since five or six. I would have to get up about nine o'clock in order to get ready to leave the house in time. If the job came up, then I would train myself into it.

It was the monthly board meeting at Trent Sound today, and I wasn't really there in mind as I was tired and a bit cloudy headed. It wasn't until I had to go out to the meeting that I even got dressed. I'm exhausted the whole time at the moment, these early mornings don't sit well with my nocturnal nature.

I was asleep by ten o'clock last night, and Mandi wasn't far behind me. Unfortunately, we didn't change the clocks last night. My alarm had been set for nine o'clock, so that I could get ready quickly to go to the studio and record tonight's show, (getting up at nine o'clock for work on a Sunday morning, that's right, hardest job in the world, and I don't get double time for it).

Despite the fact that it happens twice a year, the clock change is always a day of confusion for everyone. When my alarm went off at nine o'clock, I realised that it was in fact actually eight o'clock, but in 'real life' it was nine o'clock. I went back to sleep for a bit but didn't change the times in case I really got fucked up by it all. So when I woke up at ten o'clock/nine o'clock I was in a state of fogginess about what time is was. I turned the telly on, (only to listen to the radio, Sunday is a radio day after all) to make sure I could be made aware of the time. Mandi changed all the clocks, the television menu had changed automatically, which actually makes things worse when you think about it.

At ten o'clock sharp, (nine o'clock in real life) I was at the studio all ready to pre-record my show. I'm actually pre-recording the next two weeks too due to various commitments, and am looking forward to doing the show live again as it feels different. Maybe it's because I am something of an expert in the medium of radio, but I can always tell if a show is live or not. For the sake of transparency I do always say that I am pre-recorded, as I don't think it is fair to lie to my listeners and I also have to consider the correspondence coming in and the fact that it would be ignored. It seemed to take a while to record the three required hours, even though the shows are admittedly quite lazy this week. The first hour is basically a montage of bands who are performing today at Branch Out. With the John Peel thing in the second hour, all I needed to do was present the edition of LP Box.

Mandi did Sunday lunch today, which I made it home for at the expense of the first act on the bill at Rock City, The Smears. After lunch, and my dad's birthday cake, I headed into town and arrived at Rock City in time to see Practical Lovers. I had already worked out my timetable while at the studio, but made a few little errors. In total, I saw Practical Lovers, The Barnum Meserve, and Breadchasers at Rock City, and in between time I shot across town to see Marc Reeves playing at Broadway Cinema, and Will Jeffery at Malt Cross. I then returned to Rock City to catch Captain Dangerous, and then finished the night off back at Malt Cross to see We Are Avengers and Injured Birds.

All in all it was a brilliant achievement to host fifty acts in various venues across the city, all in one day. I found it stressful attending the thing, so I'm glad I didn't organise it.

I have been to Nottingham Contemporary on a few occasions now, and have never really been into the stuff on display. If someone at an exhibition had the nerve to very loudly announce that it's all a load of shite that makes no sense, then I'm pretty sure that everyone else in the room would breathe a sigh of relief that they could stop pretending they understand what the artist is trying to say. I know that I'm an intelligent person, but give me paintings, don't give me something pretentious that makes a statement, because it doesn't make a statement, unless that statement is "I have made you all come here to see this, and I the artist knows that it is all a load of bollocks, you fucking idiots are trying to appear clever by getting it, when there is nothing to get".

The only worthwhile time I can remember going was last August when I took my daughter Emily to a filming day there. I never did find out what became of that film.

However, today it was well worth attending. Today was Sillitoe Day, a whole day and night of events celebrating Nottingham's celebrated writer Alan Sillitoe. Last week's edition of Nottingham LACE was dedicated to it, and there was a good turn out for it.

The main thrust of today's proceedings was to launch the smart phone application that allows you to take a trip around the key locations of Saturday Night And Sunday Morning. There was also a reading by Al Needham, that can be found on The Space, called 21 Pubs 21 Years, in which I'm glad to note that he mentioned The Old General. My interest in that particular pub is well documented, if you don't know then to the side of this blog in the 'pages' section is the place to read all about my connection to The Old General. David Sillitoe hosted the event, which also featured a work-in-progress screening of a proposed film mash-up of Saturday Night And Sunday Morning, a talk about Goose Fair, discussions with a local filmmaker who I'm afraid I can't name, and other talks regarding Raleigh, and a brilliant open letter to Alan Sillitoe, the daytime event ended with David Sillitoe reading some of his father's poetry. Aside from a few technical issues, the whole thing went very well and I'm glad I didn't miss such an occasion.

I have already offered my services to David Sillitoe should he ever get the audio book go ahead for his father's novels, but a day like today is something I wish that I had been involved with. Sillitoe Day is an event that happens every two years, so I have time to think of an idea for them.

Later on, the event continued with an evening of live music and poetry that I was meant to have gone back to. Unfortunately, I now feel far too tired after a couple of really long days. Writing this having got myself settled with my slippers and a cup of tea, I don't feel as if I have the energy to go back out again.

We went out for a family dinner last night at our family headquarters, the occasion being for my dad's birthday. It was a lovely time, but at the back of my mind was the morning visit to the doctor. I did have a bit of a wobble when we got home, worried that I might actually have cancer. Previously, I've never been scared of death as I assumed that suicide would be my way out due to my depression. The idea of a terminal illness is a different kettle of fish altogether.

I have a busy weekend coming up, as I am out all day Saturday at Sillitoe Day, and at the Branch Out Festival on Sunday. For this reason I have to pre-record my radio show this week. Usually I would do this on Saturday afternoon before Nottingham LACE, but I'll be at the Contemporary from eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. I was up very late preparing the music for the show. The show this week won't be the usual running order, as the second hour is being given over as a one hour long tribute to John Peel. Today is John Peel Day, so my tribute will be a bit belated, but I have set it out as if presented by the man himself. I have collected sound-clips of Peel talking and a list of appropriate songs. All I really need to do is the first hour, which will be given over to bands and singers who are appearing at Branch Out, for those who can't make it along. From the buzz around Nottingham about the festival, I doubt that there will be many people in Nottingham listening live, so I will be mainly doing the show for the benefit of my listeners in the rest of the UK and around the world.

The edition of Steve's LP Box will be a good one this weekend, as I am covering Rage Against The Machine's eponymous debut album. Listening to it today as I wrote the show, I remembered what a revelation this was when I first heard it way back in 1992. Like all good albums, it sounds as fresh today as it did on the first listen. One of the greatest achievements relating to this album was the Christmas number one campaign of 2009, in which the song 'Killing In The Name' became the first number one hit based entirely on downloads. I will always remember this for two reasons; first of all is the fact that this proved me right all along as I predicted a digital number one based on subversion of the charts in 2007. As I have written before, I was ahead of my time, as very few people knew what I was talking about when downloads were in their infancy. The other memorable part of this is that it brought the whole country together on Sunday 20th December 2009 to listen to the charts. It had been a long time since anyone listened to the chart rundown on Radio One, in fact it had been a long time since anyone with any taste in music had listened to Radio One at all. However, there will probably never be an occasion again where the entire nation gathers around their radio to listen to the charts for the Christmas number one.

I was in a hurry to leave the house last night, made even worse by a last minute need for a poo. It was then that I noticed blood on the toilet paper, the worse thing a hypochondriac could see. With a gig to attend and a review to write, I managed to put the whole thing to the back of my mind, until I mentioned it to Mandi when I got home. At half past seven this morning I was awake and ready to phone the doctor for an appointment. Our doctor has a ridiculous system, you can only make an appointment first thing in the morning for that day. You can't phone up halfway through the day and make an appointment for tomorrow, which is not a helpful way of doing things. Luckily, I was able to make an appointment for half past ten this morning.

The scary thing is, that I might never have discovered this because I have an aversion to dry toilet paper. I've never been convinced of its cleaning prowess, so what I do, because I'm a little obsessive about cleanliness, is jump in the shower straight away after a dump and wash myself clean. Maybe that sounds a little odd, but I'm probably the only man alive who can sit down bare-arsed on a white sofa with any sort of confidence. Therefore, I might have been ignorant of any problem until it was too late. Thankfully, I was in too much of a hurry last night to jump in the shower before last night's gig and was able to go to the doctor immediately.

I won't pretend that I wasn't scared of the outcome, I still am to be honest. The doctor was attentive and went through my concerns. The worst thing had to be the actual examination. Nothing has ever gone up my bum before, so the pain of the doctor putting his finger there was something I can't describe. The only way to explain would be to get everyone reading this to undergo a similar experience. All I really learnt from the episode, is that if I was ever forced into a life of homosexuality, I would have to be the postman and not the letterbox. Once that part of the visit was over, he said that he doesn't think that it is cancer related. As nice as that was to hear, I didn't really like the vagueness of it. He said he doubts it, not that it certainly wasn't cancer. Although that was of course my fear, nobody had used the 'C' word until that point. He said that it could be any number of things, and that it was most likely that I had either a burst blood vessel (how I don't know but it must be more common than I previously thought), or that I had the onset of piles, and that I'd ripped it when wiping. This is feasible, as I wouldn't have damaged it by washing my bum hole with soapy water as I usually do. The difficult thing now is waiting for a hospital referral, in which someone (I say 'someone', I would hope it happens to be a trained doctor in this area), will put a camera up there to have a closer look round. The doctor did say that if he thought it was really that serious, then he would have sent me off straight away, but he was quite happy to let me wander off into the big wide world with an arse full of lubricant, imagine if I'd been involved in an accident on the way home!

To end on a serious note, I am 36 years old and that is a young age to be at risk of prostate or bowel cancer, although it can happen. If you've read this blog to the end, (and apologies if you were eating), then get checked if you're 35 or older. A finger up your arse is nothing when you consider what you may be preventing.

Tonight was a gig that I have been looking forward to for months. The editor of the EG section of The Nottingham Evening Post (as I still call it) emails a list of gigs and shows and who is reviewing them. When I found out that John Cooper Clarke was appearing at The Arts Theatre, I had to see it and so I requested that it be added to the gigs that the paper covered. This was during the summer sometime, and tonight the night finally arrived.

We arrived at the theatre to find that there were no tickets for us. The two women on the door summoned the manager, who confirmed that we weren't down for 'comps' (complimentary) for the show. Furthermore, there wasn't a seat left in the building, of course there wasn't, this was John Cooper Clarke after all. After using the computer in the manager's office to check my emails, I found the source of the problem. The paper hadn't dealt with The Arts Theatre before, and my editor didn't really know who to contact. The final email on a long thread was addressed to me, along the lines that I would have to sort the tickets myself.

Bollocks!

I uttered the magic sentence, "what the fuck will I write in the paper and say on the radio?", (try it) and voila! It was suggested that we sit up in the control room where the lighting guy works. Best view in the house, where nobody can sit in front of you with a big head and obscure the view. Compare this to when The Capital FM Arena fucked up my Guns and Roses tickets and it looked like I wouldn't get in. It's always the little guys that give the best service.

 

I had been in a bit of a rush to leave the house, and had forgotten the tools of the reviewer's trade, the pad and pen. There didn't seem to be a newsagent open, and when I popped into the Victoria Centre branch of Boots, they didn't seem to know what I was talking about when I asked if they sold notebooks and pens. I know that customer service in chains isn't great, but I feel that Boots are letting the side down, given that they were formed in the best city in the UK. As I was being shown to the manager's office, I grabbed a pen from his desk and picked up a pile of leaflets to write on. Another crisis averted.

My friend Jason from Trent Sound, (who hosts Nottingham LACE) knew the show's promoter, and told me that there was no way that I would be able to get backstage for a photo. John Cooper Clarke is notoriously elusive, so it made sense that I woulddn't get a meeting. However, after the show I walked out of the theatre and saw JCC's manager standing there having a cigarette, so I introduced myself and told him I was from the paper. Before we knew it, we were backstage with John Cooper Clarke and I don't think I've ever been so starstruck. My companion for the gig was Miggy Angel, a local performance poet. He has a book coming out, and wanted cover quotes from the great man himself. I think he was more starstruck than I was, but I suppose as a poet he would be.

Once I got home, I started writing the review. I made my usual error of over-writing it, giving myself the difficult task of editing it down into 250 words. This is what I originally wrote:

With his skinny jeans, big hair, and sunglasses, punk rock performance poet John Cooper Clarke would not look out of place as the lead singer of a hip new band found in the pages of the NME. Having recently collaborated with Plan B, at the age of 63 he is still held in high regard. Finding an easy kinship with punk crowds and stand up comedy audiences alike, John Cooper Clarke has maintained credibility and remains so relevant that we forgive him for advertising breakfast cereal and frozen pizza. Then again, knowing what sort of life he has led, one can’t begrudge him a pocketful of advertising shillings.

Walking onto the stage holding a pile of A4 sheets of paper, JCC’s brilliantly organised shambolic performance was immediately underway. Touring as part of National Poetry Month, Clarke has stripped down his act after gaining recognition working with live bands, and is now alone on the stage with just his microphone and notes for company. As a sideline, we witnessed an untapped second career as an impressionist, impersonating a raft of famous names as if they were all from Salford. This wasn’t a ‘greatest hits’ gig, he is always writing and this show proved that with a stronger leaning towards new material. Filling in the gaps between poems with old fashioned but funny jokes, he of course made room for some old favourites. The classic ‘Beasley Street’ was followed by a modern sequel titled ‘Beasley Boulevard’, which dealt with gentrification.

After cracking the joke about the BBC sound guy who sued for RSI due to overuse of the bleep machine, Clarke ended to a warmly received ‘Evidently Chickentown’, because he knew the audience would like it that way. Coming back on to an encore of ‘I’ve Fallen In Love With My Wife’, he could have stayed on stage all night and nobody would have objected.

You can see how I chopped it tomorrow on the paper's website and in Friday's paper.

I was feeling low yesterday, and worried that I was heading towards an episode of depression yet again. Somehow though, I had managed to climb out of it today and actually felt quite good.

The source of my mood was once again my lack of communication with my daughter. Actually that's not entirely accurate, as we talk to each other every day, but now that her priorities have changed as she became a teenager, she doesn't seem to realise how her selfishness upsets me. I no longer feel that we are close anymore, which I know is an inevitability at this time of her life. It is partly my fault for moving back to Nottingham when she was seven, but I couldn't stand another second of living in Redcar, and if you've been to Redcar you'll understand what I mean. Through sheer determination I made it work despite the distance between us. Until this year, I had her stay at my house every other weekend and every school holiday. February half term this year was the last good time we spent together, and I'm not convinced that she came up with the decision by herself that weekend travel was making her too tired for school on Monday. Everything was going well until she went to Quatar at Easter this year, and while I spoke to her on Skype during that fortnight, I could see that she was acting strange when I mentioned coming to stay. Since then, she has played silly games with me when I try to get a straight answer out of her about her plans for the school holidays. I don't think I should have to beg a thirteen year old to want to spend time with her dad, but at the end of the day she now has all the power.

I suppose the reason that I felt better today was resignation. My daughter knows where I am, and that I love her and would never abandon her. When she gets past the difficult years, she will still have a dad that loves her and hopefully she will still love me. I honestly don't know when I'll see her again, but she knows where to find me. I am not an absent father, she is an absent daughter.

"There's no such thing as bad language, just bad use of good language"

Billy Connelly

I had an email this morning in response to the not-so-glowing review I gave to Stewart Francis in today's edition of The Nottingham Evening Post, (as I still call it), and my criticism of his use of swear words. I'm not against comedians using colourful language, most of my favourite comedians do. However, using the big two words for the sake of shock tactics is a sign of desperation. My dad once told me that an expletive makes a good full stop, but never a comma. I casually eff and blind in conversation, but only in the right place and when it fits, and not in front of women and children, (although women and children are the worst offenders, I once heard a woman call someone a cunt and I was shocked).

The worst people are the people who use such words as comma instead of full stops; "I went to the fucking shop and fucking bought some fucking milk and it was fucking 45p and I only fucking had 40p...". That is a lack of intelligent vocabulary on show right there, the ignorant fucking cunts.

Going back to comedy, Stewart Francis has a comic style that doesn't require expletives. He doesn't swear on Mock The Week, so he shouldn't have to on the live stage.

"I went to the doctor, I said it hurts when I do this, (lifts arm) the doctor said 'don't do it'". An old joke, and one that doesn't work written down, but when Tommy Cooper said it on television, it sounded hilarious.

"I went to the doctor, I said it fucking hurts when I do this, (lifts arm), the doctor said 'don't fucking do it then'". Unnecessary.

Swearing isn't a sign of a low vocabulary, as long as you know how to use it.

We had a slight change to the routine today, nothing dramatic, just a more relaxed pace. Nana was at a birthday party today, and so we weren't trapped by time. She is a creature of routine, and has to eat by a certain time, and our approach to timekeeping isn't what you'd call accurate. To commemorate this, neither of us woke up until twelve, and I didn't get downstairs until I had missed Just A Minute.

The conversation turned to our absent grandmother. She is part of a different world, generation wise, from an era when the wife looked after the house while the husband went out to work. Feminism totally passed a certain section of the female population by, as their husbands probably didn't allow it in their house. This is where her habits come from, having everything done at a certain time. My grandad came home from work at exactly ten past one, and had a full cooked meal ready. After a fag and a cup of tea, he would have a ten minute sleep in his armchair, (another generation thing, married couples had their own chair), before another cup of tea, (that he hadn't made) and then back to work. As a result of this, Nana still has a full cooked meal at lunchtime instead of in the evening. We once went to visit her on a Wednesday afternoon, and now we go every Wednesday afternoon.

My dad once told me about visiting his parents one Sunday afternoon after he had got married, and staying for tea. The following Sunday my grandad rang him to ask where they were because tea was ready. Even during Christmas week we still visited on Wednesday.

I think a lot about my late grandad, who died when I was nine years old. I've written before about his life, so I won't (hopefully) repeat too much. What occupies my mind is what he would be like these days if he had lived, and what our relationship would be like. According to my dad, he would be a cantankerous old git these days, and at the age of 89 having been a prisoner of war, he'd be entitled.

I'll be breaking the whole Sunday rule next weekend anyway, as I'm attending the Branch Out Festival in Nottingham. My radio show will be pre-recorded in the morning.

I didn't have anything at all planned for today besides co-presenting Nottingham LACE at teatime, so I didn't wake up until about half past twelve, and breakfasted while listening to Pick Of The Pops. Katie came round mid-afternoon, as her and Mandi were going to see Jesus Christ Superstar at the arena, (professional radio rivalry prevents me from calling it The Capital FM Arena, even when I'm not on air at a superior radio station) tonight. Being at home even meant that I could enjoy a proper lunch at home, rather than rushing through Bulwell from the studio to catch the chip shop before it closed ridiculously early.

The show was a delight, and ran surprisingly smoothly for LACE. The main theme tonight was Sillitoe Day which is taking place next Saturday at the Nottingham Contemporary. The smart phone application (I dislike the use of 'app') that allows you to follow the locations featured in Saturday Night And Sunday Morning, is launched at the event.

Jason with Sleaford Mods

First of all, we had a live session from Sleaford Mods, who are appearing at the event next weekend. I'm amazed that we got away with having them perform, given their lyrical content. We aren't subject to the same regulations that an FM radio station are, and as an online radio station we can pretty much do as we like. However, when I've been left in charge of the show, I have been aware of our time slot. Nottingham LACE is a teatime show dealing with the week ahead and the listings, and it has become an essential part of the Nottingham routine to listen to it. I imagine whole families sitting around listening, perhaps having taken the calender off the kitchen wall and taking it in turns to write on it the things they want to do based on what we tell them is happening. London has to make do with Time Out magazine, here in Nottingham the citizens have a radio show to help them structure their lives. Although I am a big fan of Sleaford Mods, I'm not sure I would have had them in on this particular show. They would be welcome on The Sunday Alternative any time, as I go on after 9pm. An awful lot of 'fucks' were heard at afternoon tea in Nottingham today, and I hope that the fallout isn't too hefty.

Me interviewing David Sillitoe and Paul Fillingham

I interviewed David Sillitoe and Paul Fillingham, who are both involved with the event. It was a delight to meet David, as a big fan of his late father's work I could have turned it into a fawning arse-kiss of an interview. To get around the potential for this happening, I only talked about the event while Jason took over to talk to David about his upbringing.

All information on Sillitoe Day is here.

I challenged David to a 'do not smile for the camera' contest...

...not really.

We went to the theatre tonight to see the comedian Stewart Francis. The review will appear in Monday's Nottingham Evening Post (as I still call it) and on the website on the same day, that's the beauty of Friday and Saturday night reviews. However, I had to edit an overlong write up down to 250 words, so here is the original draft:

There was a time when comedians shied away from appearing on television, lest they should blow the repertoire that had served them over the years. These days however, the scope for television appearances means that you can’t seem to stop the professional gagsmith from appearing. Panel games and stand up shows provide a good ten minutes, (if you don’t count the perpetual Dave repeats) of exposure for a comic, the real test is being able to sustain the momentum on the stage.

Stewart Francis is such a comedian, familiar to Apollo and Mock the Week viewers, and known for his quick fire quips. He certainly won’t get any hassle from Trade Descriptions for the ’one-liner comedian’ tag, but the same potency that we see on television wasn’t there.

That is not to say that the show wasn’t any good, but it did rollercoaster along as he lost the pace somewhat. The good lines were really good, but there was a great deal of padding with weaker gags, (and a lot of material already aired on the aforementioned telly appearances), to the detrimental effect of the show as a whole.

Although the ticket stated a sixteen plus age restriction, it was disappointing to see a talented comedian resort to a smattering of ‘f’ words, and one use of what is transparently described as extremely strong language. Not that I’m a prude by any means, but the use of such language came across as a deliberate shock tactic.

The quality improved toward the end of the show, with an inventive spoof of the audience Q&A and an introduction of an imaginary band. An amusing show with flourishes of brilliance, but alas not hilarious, and perhaps better enjoyed via YouTube clips.

It would seem that the BBC was/is a hotbed of sexual deviancy, and that the 'talent' seemingly has a free pass to get away with murder. Not literally murder, they haven't revealed their policy on murderers yet. Paedophilia on the other hand is apparently fine, as is any kind of sexual harassment of women in employment. First of all we had the dazzling revelation that Jimmy Savile was a predatory paedophile, (who would have guessed?), a 'well known soap star' was also at it, and that Freddie Starr (allegedly) and Gary Glitter (almost certainly given his form, sue me) had some sort of sex party in Jimmy Savile's dressing room, (if walls could talk, Jimmy Savile's dressing room would have enough material for a whole series of books).

According to a story in today's Daily Telegraph, Wilfred Brambell was involved in the abuse of young boys in the early 1970s, in Jersey of all places. One of the boys was a resident at Haut de la Garenne, who it would seem had an open door policy to the paedophile community, who used the place as a sordid pick and mix counter. Obviously this is another case of revealing the disgusting habits of someone who can't face justice, but then again, had it come out at the time when Steptoe and Son was riding high in the ratings, then chances are that the BBC would have buried the story to preserve a top-rated television show. There has to be at least some of these co-conspirators alive today to face questioning about why they kept quiet; were they in on it too perhaps? Were they bribed? Threatened? It wouldn't surprise me if they were part of a bigger child abuse activity. It's already been suggested that Jimmy Savile has a 'paedophile ring', there are as yet no reports on the rest of his jewelry.

Talking of creepy disc jockeys, a while ago I tweeted this...

Not going to libel, but my money is on E* 'S******' S****** and D*** L** T***** being mentioned in the news sooner rather than later.
— Steve Oliver(@SteveOliver76) October 8, 2012

I need to make it clear that I wasn't suggesting that either of the names were paedophiles, not that it matters because nobody will ever decipher who I was talking about. My prediction was based on the allegations regarding the behaviour towards women in the 1970s and 1980s, and recent revelations by Liz Kershaw among others about being groped by men at the BBC. You only need to watch the old Top Of The Pops repeats on BBC4 to see how sinister some of the presenters appeared. Well, now I want to let you in on a secret. One of the names I alluded to was Dave Lee Travis, that's what DLT stood for in the tweet. The only thing I said was that his name was going to be mentioned in the paper, I didn't say why, so nobody can sue me for this. It is not libelous to merely state that somebody was going to get their name in the paper, and believe me, I have been very careful how I phrased this blog. I am also on safe ground in my use of the word 'creepy', as that is only my opinion, I think Dave Lee Travis is creepy looking. It's his eyes. Anyway, Dave Lee Travis has found himself in the papers recently, accused of groping young women while filming Top Of The Pops. This might or might not be true, although I personally (can't sue me for having an opinion) have always found him a bit weird. Don't get me wrong, I used to like his weekend mid-morning show on Radio One when I was a kid. He was always a bit pompous, (people in glass houses, I'll say it for you) but his light-hearted idiocy was ideal for the time, and of course an inspiration for the Smashie and Nicey characters. To fully understand his leery creepiness, all you have to do is watch an episode of Top Of The Pops 1977 on BBC4.



Perhaps more creepy letch than full on Savile noncery at work here, from someone who didn't realise what a cunt he looks. He denies all wrongdoing, and we will have to wait and see what happens.

The way things are going, there are going to be a lot of names revealed very soon. We have already all found out what the papers didn't tell us, which is that John Simpson was prevented from reporting on the findings that a 'much loved children's radio presenter' abused young boys in his dressing room in a spree dating back to the 1920s. His reference to 'Uncle Dick' wasn't exactly the Enigma Code, as it appears to have been 'Uncle Mac', or Derek McCulloch to give him his full name, the host of Children's Favourites and Children's Hour. Another dead person who can't face justice.

The real problem is going to come when these names are revealed to be people that we all love, or like at the very least. I'm sure that anybody who was famous and working for the BBC back then is nervously awaiting questioning.

I am not going to libel the living, but has anyone noticed how silent Sooty has been?

I walked past a transit van parked up in a residential area, it might have been parked up while the driver did some work on a house, (maybe cash in hand? I'm not here to judge although I'm sure that every penny was declared), or maybe it was the house of the driver and had just finished work and was home for dinner, (it was after five). Whatever the situation, the van was parked and wasn't surrounded by any sign of life. My eye was caught by the sign on the side of the van, the sign that we have no doubt seen written on work vans before; "No tools are left in this van", written as a warning that there simply is no point in breaking into the van and attempting to steal from it. On the dashboard of this van, for reasons I do not know, there sat a cheese grater. Not you might think, a common thing to have in a work van, or indeed any vehicle. Not unless the driver insists on having his packed lunch made from scratch to the point where he grates his own cheese on site. Maybe he also slices his own bread, peels the leaves from a lettuce, and slices some ham. Perhaps his van was awash with knives, a breadboard, a knife and fork, and a choice of pickles and sauces?

My concern was that the presence of a cheese grater might have in some way negated the 'no tools' signage. Surely the cheese grater is a tool, a tool to aid the grating of cheese, (you can also use it for carrots among other things). You could of course argue that it is a utensil, and not a tool at all, as my girlfriend did when I brought the subject up, (I imagine this is what being married to Jeremy Paxman is like). But then again, is a utensil a tool? Or should I stop worrying about such piffling matters?

In other news, I appeared on Notts Live tonight to clear up the mess from yesterday's shit storm in a tea cup. It went well, and I think I put my case across and explained that I was making a lighthearted quip, while at the same time clearing up any misunderstanding.

Photos by Roo Inns.

Save money on Jake Bugg's new album by listening to 'Subterranian Homesick Blues' ten times #someonehadtosayit
— Steve Oliver(@SteveOliver76) October 16, 2012

I posted the above tweet at about half past eleven this morning, by about two o'clock I had almost written today's blog. Now of course I am used to annoying people with my opinions, although in the past I have tended to upset people who judging by their spelling and grammar must have had the offending words read to them. Today was different, I pissed off people with brains. This was a different kettle of fish altogether, totally unlike the infamous Woolworths blog, (still don't know why that went down so badly), or the time I referred to Mick Hucknall has having a face 'that only a hammer would love', and upset a whole group of thick women who thought that 'hammer' was a derogatory word.

Two friends of mine, through their twitter accounts, (Nottingham Live, and Notts Live Radio), disagreed with me. I didn't hear anything else from them, but they were the first responses, which told me I had got this off to a bad start. Jake Bugg is of course a media darling at the moment, having gained national exposure through appearances on BBC 6 Music, Radio 2, Later With Jools Holland, XFM, and most importantly, airplay on The Sunday Alternative. Everyone in Nottingham loves him, and everyone in the music business loves him.

The first ripple of things working in my favour came when a journalist who follows me retweeted it, and several people who I don't know did the same thing. When the tweet was seen on Facebook, (my tweets appear on Facebook for the benefit of my friends in 2008), it was liked by two musicians. I received a steady flow of emails and DMs on Twitter and Facebook all agreeing with the tweet, so as not to start a war in Nottingham I won't name names. I had a conversation at a gig a few weeks ago with a musician friend who told me that he simply didn't get the excitement surrounding young Mr Bugg. You might want to accuse them of professional jealousy, but that isn't the case in my honest opinion.

One of the most overenthusiastic messages came via an @reply on Twitter that accused me of hating Nottingham.

First of all, the Tweet was intended to read as a Viz comic style Top Tips suggestion. It was a joke, if I don't enjoy a joke I don't laugh, and then I get on with my day. I don't take the time out to work myself up into a lather over it. The joke was based on the suggestion that all of Jake Bugg's songs sound like Bob Dylan's 'Subterranian Homesick Blues', when the truth is that only some of his songs do. I also wanted to test the water regarding the outpouring of pro-Bugg tweets and Facebook posts, and see if anyone else felt that things were getting a little bit silly. To be honest, the reaction was on my side if I wanted to keep score, but I came out of it looking like I don't care about the music scene in Nottingham. This of course, is bollocks.

To make something clear, I do like Jake Bugg's music. Furthermore, I share in Nottingham's pride at his success, because it is brilliant to see a Nottingham singer doing so well. My point is that there are musicians in this frankly brilliant city that are just as deserving of their break. We have the best scene in the UK at the moment, Nottingham is Liverpool in the 1960s, Birmingham in the 1970s, Manchester in the 1990s, and wherever we looked for a scene in the 2000s all rolled into one. Jake Bugg is lucky to have been in the right place at the right time, and is now reaping the rewards. Someone, I can't remember who, once said that you can throw a stone in Nottingham market square in any direction and hit a musician. My concern is that Jake Bugg will suck all of the focus out of the Nottingham music scene and turn himself into a one man show. That amount of attention is bound to have an effect on an 18 year old, and with people telling him he's brilliant, the danger is that he could become a twat, he is already getting to be a bit of a diva who talks through his 'people'. This is after one EP and an album, imagine what he'll be like in two years time if he's still going.

On the other hand, his export could bring music lovers to Nottingham in search of somewhere to go and something to see. My point was that there are musicians who deserve it a lot more, and should by rights be on television and radio. After their album launch gig earlier this year, I commented that one day we'll see Captain Dangerous selling out the Arena, and so those of us who witnessed their club gigs will one day be able to say they saw them 'before they were massive'. I meant that in the same way that my dad told me that he saw Led Zepplin at The Boat Club in Nottingham. It'll happen one day I'm sure.

My radio show The Sunday Alternative isn't a Nottingham-centric show, as I don't want to intrude on Notts Live, although inevitably we do occasionally cross over as we know a lot of the same people. The main focus on my Sunday show is to play the best in new music from all over, along with the best in alternative classics. I like to think that the show provides an education in music while at the same time entertaining people around the world. This is why my tag line "Music you don't hear on the radio, on the radio" works so well, because I am not restricted by playlists or bureaucracy. There are times when I listen to BBC 6Music and wonder if their producers listen to my show with a notebook and pen.

I digress, although the Sunday show isn't especially geared towards Nottingham music, I do however showcase Nottingham artists in another way. I give them airplay in America. By sheer luck, I found Robin Hood Radio online and was interested in them straight away, their name derives from an attempt to keep a local independent station alive when all around them, stations are becoming homogenised and identikit, does that sound familiar? I pitched the idea of the show to them, and they loved it. I have done thirteen shows so far and thanks to the source, that being Nottingham music, there is plenty of scope to continue as long as they want me. Why would I do this if I didn't care about the Nottingham music scene?

As for hating Nottingham, that was an over reaction from someone who just wanted to join in and play along and well done to him for trying. Given that I saved Christmas in Nottingham last year, and am now working on saving Goose Fair, I think it is obvious that I don't hate Nottingham.

Sincere good luck wishes for Jake Bugg getting to number one in the album charts this weekend.

If you love Nottingham, then you should be in this group. Don't join if you hate Nottingham!

I'm the one on the left.

The funny thing about not going to the studio last night, is that my stomach didn't react in the way it usually does on a Sunday afternoon. Between getting home from my dad's and going to the studio, I normally go to the toilet at least three times, with another couple of goes once I get to the studio. Maybe it's the adrenalin involved in doing a live radio show?

With Sunday buses being ridiculously few and far between, (are the bus companies saving money on Sunday overtime?), I walked into town to get to The Rescue Rooms. As soon as I arrived I needed to visit the clean, welcoming toilets of the Crown Plaza Hotel, (maybe I should write a guide book). One poo in a whole Sunday is most unusual, so maybe it is the prospect of the show that gets my insides all stirred up?

The gig was great, The Beat were on fine form. The last time I saw them was at the much missed City Pulse Festival a few years ago, and they still have it. I wrote the review when I got home as usual, and once again wrote far more than I needed and had the difficult task of editing it down to 200 words. I suppose it's best that I do it myself, as the paper would take the wrong bits out and render the article as a nonsense. They pretty much do that now and then anyway. 

We were both up late this morning, even for a Sunday, not waking up until just before twelve. I even missed Just A Minute because I had to get ready, and didn't even have time to do any promotion for the radio show. Getting ready in record time, we were only half an hour late getting to my dad's house for lunch. I felt a bit less clock-watchy today, as I didn't have to get ready for the show. However, this wasn't a Sunday off like everyone else has on a Sunday, I had a gig tonight to review for the local paper, (no double time for self employed people, not that I'm complaining).

My uncle Pete came round my dad's later on, to photograph some of my dad's paintings for his website. Although a policeman as a day job, he also has a lucrative sideline with a photography business, doing weddings and the like. He came round with all his equipment, setting up a mini studio with flashes, white umbrellas, a laptop, and what looked like miles and miles of cable. It was a while before I saw a camera come out of his bag. It gave me an idea for an alternative wedding photography business idea. No special effects, no fancy gear, just £50 in cash and someone turns up and takes loads of camera phone pictures. Wedding photographers are known for a bit of showboating, but not this guy. He just walks around snapping people with his phone, and emails them to you the next day. Ideal for low budget weddings!

I should go on Dragon's Den!

I'm at a gig tomorrow night so tomorrow's show will be a pre-record. Live radio is far more fun of course, but at least this way I can keep the continuity up and not hand over the reins to someone else. In addition to my show, I also had to record this week's edition of Steve's LP Box, so I had a full day of work to get through before going to Beeston, (which is miles away from anywhere) for a drink with friends.

Due to my appalling time management ability, I finished recording all three hours of radio about an hour before I was due to meet everyone. The meeting at half past in a pub I didn't know in a place that's not only impossible to get to, but where I don't want to be after dark. Add to that the fact that I needed a shower and change, and I was running behind schedule before I'd even started. The bus from town to Beeston was the slowest journey possible, which was frustrating as usually the bus drivers are speedy lunatics. Every time someone pressed the button to stop the bus at the next stop, I wanted to break their fingers. I eventually got there, an hour late. The rest of the group were going out for a meal, but I was only meeting for drinks. After four pints, I was making my way back in the other direction on yet more slow buses. My on the bus tweeting prompted several questions about where I was going as I seemed to have been on a bus for hours. I'm not one of those people constantly fiddling with their phone while in company, so during pub time I left it in my pocket.

Saturday night is the worse time to be in the city centre, as the stag and hen nights all come crawling out from under their stones. There can't be that many people getting married every weekend, so I assume a lot of it is stag/hen tourism, which makes sense as Nottingham's nightlife is among the best in the country. As good as it might be for the economy of our fine city, it creates an atmosphere of annoyance, imagine that twat at work, (and if you can't, it's you) with the cartoon character tie who always says that he is sweet enough when declining sugar in his coffee. Now times that by thousands and you have Saturday night in town. I was asked by one such man if I was going anywhere good. I replied, "Yes, home".

Another night at The Glee club last night, this time to review Seann Walsh for The Nottingham Evening Post, (as I still call it). The review is online here, and will be in print tomorrow.

I commented that I should ask for a bed in the dressing room to save time, although my girlfriend Mandi suggested that it wouldn't have been a good idea last night with Andi Osho there. Personally, I imagine it would have been a great idea.

Bit blurry, it was taken in a hurry.

I have decided to make more effort to get a picture backstage, as apart from the reviews, I don't really have any evidence. I always pop backstage to say hello but always forget about pictures. 

I'm sure everyone is familiar with the expression 'laminate five'. For the uninitiated, it is a list of five famous people that you are allowed to have sex with, with no consequence to your relationship. The 'laminate' part comes from an episode of Friends, in which Ross Geller went to the trouble of laminating his list. My girlfriend Mandi and I have openly discussed our lists on several occasions, and are confident enough in our love and commitment to each other to have such a list in the first place, which is of course based on fantasy. According to the rules of the list, if the opportunity should arise to have sex with one of five pre-selected famous people, then the other half of the relationship cannot complain, can never use this indiscretion against them in a future argument, and cannot leave their partner citing infidelity. It isn't that complicated, although naming people from your workplace might be considered an abuse of the list and its allowance.

So before I continue, my girlfriend's laminate five are, Johnny Depp, Jon Bon Jovi, James Martin, Freddie Flintoff, and David Bowie. Johnny Depp is the equivalent of a man having Zooey Deshanel, far too obvious and probably unavailable in the long run. I actually ditched Zooey for that reason, the queue would be far too long. I do wonder how this works from the other point of view. If one of your laminate five is happily married with a family, and you turn up on the doorstep politely requesting some carnal pleasure, is the celebrity's husband/wife legally bound to allow you to get on with it? That would be terrible.

One of my laminate five is the comedian Andi Osho, and I was reviewing her gig at Glee last night. We were meant to be doing a phone interview on LACE but it didn't happen, but last night I was reviewing for The Nottingham Evening Post, (as I still call it). Mandi came along to the gig with me, partly because she was feeling slightly wary of fact that I might just go through with it. Not that I would be in with a chance.

Andi recognised me from Twitter, and earlier in the evening I had tweeted that I was going to the gig and said that Mandi was coming with me so I couldn't play my laminate five card. She tweeted back about getting a list of her own, but it wouldn't work as she is single. Maybe she wanted to get the single point across? I always go backstage for a quick hello with the comedians, and I made a point of bring Mandi backstage too. When we were in the dressing room, I felt a bit weird knowing that Andi knew I fancied her, and that I was with my girlfriend and therefore couldn't do anything. Actually, legally I could have asked Mandi to wait outside while I fulfilled one of my list, and technically she wouldn't have been able to kick up a fuss. I'm pretty sure that it wouldn't be that easy in real life.

Obviously Mandi is the love of my life, and I have never known anyone like her. She is intelligent, witty, generous, and loving, and is also the sexiest and most beautiful woman I have ever shared a bed with. There are times when I think she's a bit out of my league, a feeling I haven't had with anyone else. I'd be stupid to ask her to wait outside a dressing room while I had sex with someone famous, so I'll be leaving her at home next time.

(That last line is a joke, I hope that is understood).

The gig review will be in tomorrow's edition of The Nottingham Evening Post (as I still call it), and is online today.

I challenged myself to a day of slog at my desk today, hardly leaving my office at all apart from to make a cup of tea. There is a list of things that need tending to, as I have fallen way behind for some reason. I don't feel able to start another project until I'm at least some of the way through. It was mainly stuff to do with The Sunday Alternative that needed seeing to. I don't know how it happened but I needed to upload a load of photos to the profiles on Reverbnation, Facebook, Myspace, and Flick, an entire live session that wasn't on YouTube, and several mixtapes to put on Mixcloud. I would have liked to have uploaded the shows that aren't yet on Mixcloud, but time ran out.

Mixcloud is a notorious pain in the arse to use, so I can't understand why it seems to be the industry standard for the radio and podcast business. The upload sticks at a certain level, about 20%. You can cheat this by hitting the refresh button, and whatever it is you uploaded is there, although every bit of information, (track list, accompanying photo, blurb) that they insist that you put in, isn't there. It is actually easier to edit the upload after it has been published, but the whole process is still a massive ball-ache. The special edition mixtapes are all up on the page now, although I still need to do some edits.

For a while, I thought that we had lost part of the session from Marc Reeves due to a break in the broadcast stream on the recording that I made on my laptop. However, just in the nick of time, the listen again function has been kick-started back into life and a full recording does exist. One of my to-do list jobs regarding the show is to upload the sessions as separate podcasts.

Part of me wants to just tear down all the notes from the wall in my office and shout "fuck it" at times. It feels so frustrating to be this far behind on everything. I should be pleased with the way my career is going, but my glass is half empty.

For ages I have been trying to find a way of using cassettes as a marketable outlet, if only because they are still available to buy quite cheaply. That said, I'm not entirely sure who they are being made for, and who is buying them. I finally found a viable way of using a cassette for something, but I'm not entirely sure how viable it is now because of the cost involved. The idea involved a free giveaway, so the idea might sadly be a non-starter because of the initial outlay. As I do a podcast about covermount cassettes, I wanted to try and exploit the whole covermount thing on a retro level.

I have also been thinking of an angle for this blog for next year, I still want to do it on a daily basis but have been batting ideas around. Maybe a video, or an audio version? Then I though about typewriters, and how I could type the blog up the old fashioned clackety clack way, and then scan it onto the blog so it would look all cool and that.

But then my brain really kicked in, and I came up with the possible idea of not even doing it on the Internet!

Obviously I might still need to announce things on Twitter and Facebook, (for the people who live in 2008), but aside from that I was thinking of how to regress technology while at the same time maintaining my DIY ethos.

If I typed up my blog on a daily basis, I would send it to anyone who sent me a stamped addressed envelope and a small numeration for my trouble. I average about 150-200 reads a day, so if 150 pay 20p then I make £30 a day. That's not a bad wage for writing about my day is it? It is certainly a lot more than I make from the adverts, as people keep forgetting to click on them!

What about if I did a podcast that wasn't a podcast, but a tape that I sent out? Cassettes can be obtained from the pound shops in packs of five, so that's 20p each. If the listener sent an SAE for it, and paid say 50p, then I would be in profit.

Just workshopping ideas to bring in some bunce next year!

By the way, if Santa brings you a Kindle this year, then you can subscribe to my blog to read on the move for a mere 99p a month by going here.

Talking of Kindle, my book Musings and the sequel Christmas Musings are still available.

I'm available for bookings if anyone thinks that this is a good idea. Or this. Or indeed this.

Or just click the 'donate' button at the top of the blog if you have heard a podcast you like or enjoyed reading the blog. You don't have to.

I do like the typewritten blog in the post idea though, would also spark an interest in the good old fashioned postal service.

Of course, I do the things I do out of love. You don't have to pay for content on the Internet, that's the beauty of it, it allows creativity to shine through and for the artist to do whatever they like and get it out there.

But we all need to eat!

I had an idea. Hopefully I won't have forgotten about it by next year. This weekend at Goose Fair made me wonder about possibly making a short video series in which I interview Nottingham notables while riding the reverse bungee attraction at the fair. The ride only lasts a couple of minutes, so it wouldn't take long to film a batch of episodes to upload to YouTube. The Wednesday morning would be a good time to film, if they'd let me have the ride for an hour or so while it was quiet. At ten pounds a time it might not be too viable, but I'm sure they would negotiate. They have a camera inside the pod, so if it picks up sound then we're in business. A souvenir DVD is a fiver, so a negotiation there would also need to be met. I'm not entirely sure if I could get anyone to agree to guest on it, but it would be entertaining.

"So, tell us about your upcoming gigs"

"Well, I'm appearing at..."

DOING!

One of the biggest problems that this recession has created is apathy. High quality shops are closing down, while the likes of Poundland are thriving, and that is a sign that we need to change our attitude towards money and spend it while we have it and while it is at least worth something. I always remember an austere period during my childhood when my parents were having a heated discussion about the household finances. My mother tried to complain to me about my dad's attitude to money, stating that if he was left in charge of the family purse strings, we would have a full English breakfast every morning and steak for dinner for the first few nights of the week, and beans on toast for the rest. I knew better than to say to my mum that I couldn't see a problem with that philosophy.

In yesterday's local paper, they reported that trade was down at this year's Goose Fair, despite a healthy turnout of people attending. The problem is that people are attending, but not parting with the money.

Goose Fair has been dated back to 1284, and aside from the bubonic plague in 1646, and during the two world wars, has happened every year without fail. It has survived through thick and thin, so it is vital that during this period of economic uncertainty, that we keep attending and spending at the fair. The workers have two extra days, and therefore extra ground rent to pay, but people are spreading their spending. There were a lot of people at the fair on Saturday afternoon, and more this afternoon, (or so it seems), but the rides were half empty, and the prize stalls were standing there doing very little.

Of course we all know that as a strictly cash business, whatever they say they have taken isn't a patch on what they actually take, as they won't want to declare the full amount for tax. That is not to single out fairground workers, all self-employed people massage the figures and keep two sets of accounts. But the fact remains that takings at Goose Fair are down, and it is the fault of Nottingham's people.

The people who don't go into town are the same people who didn't go to Goose Fair this weekend. I don't see the point in living in the best city in the UK if you aren't going to take advantage of how great it is and what it has to offer. Goose Fair is only four days out of the year, and it isn't even that expensive. The most expensive attraction is the Reverse Bungee, at ten pounds...



The rides are all modestly priced at between two pounds and three pound fifty. In The Nottingham Evening Post, (as I still call it) they print a page full of 50p off coupons all week, amounting to thirty pounds worth of discount that all the rides accept. A cup of mushy peas only costs a pound. The mushy pea stall, by which I of course mean the mushy pea stall, (the subject of mushy pea-gate), charges one pound fifty, which would be worth it if they used proper mint sauce in a bowl rather than shop bought shite in a squirty bottle. Hot dogs and burgers cost two or three pounds, and candy floss is a pound for a bag, and fifty pence on a stick. None of it is what you'd call steep. Seeing as Goose Fair takes place at the same time of year every year, there is no way that it takes anybody by surprise. If every individual saves two pound every Saturday between next weekend and next weekend, then everyone has one hundred pounds to spend. You can buy a lot of mushy peas with that sort of money.

See you at the fair next year

Thanks are due to The Nottingham Evening Post (as I still call it) for bringing attention to mushy pea-gate by printing this little piece on page three, within another related story.

As a little aside to avoid confusing anyone reading this outside Nottingham, we eat mushy peas and mint sauce at Goose Fair. To the rest of the country, a bowl of mushy peas and mint sauce is confined to Bonfire Night, to be eaten alongside hot dogs and jacket potatoes, but tradition gives us another excuse to eat this delicacy.

Saturday, according to my long list of traditions and rituals, is family day at Goose Fair, by which I mean Mandi, my dad, my nana, and had she not been having a sleepover with friends, my daughter Emily. I went with my dad ahead of the others because I was hoping to collect information on mushy pea-gate, by interviewing the stallholders on the pea stall about their controversial decision to ditch the bowl. Armed with a USB voice recorder, and the bit from today's paper, I went in search of answers. I'm like Roger Cook.

As far as the people of Nottingham are concerned, there is only one place to get your mushy peas at Goose Fair, and it is this stall...

They are the ones that cook fresh peas over an open coke fire, and until this year used to make their own mint sauce which the customer ladled on from a bowl on the counter. Terry Burdett is the head guy at this stall, and it was him that I approached with details of the anger he has caused.

As you can see from the look on his face, he was thrilled when I showed him the article from the paper, and tried to bat away the criticism. Sadly, the quality of the recordings were too poor to put online, as there is too much background noise going on. Also, I couldn't get too close with the recorder as I had forgotten to tell them I was recording them. The rest of the staff stuck their oars in to, and I suspect that there isn't much Nottingham in any of them, otherwise they would care about tradition. First of all, the bottles were of a shop bought mint sauce. The label on the bottle was exactly the same as the squirty bottles on all the inferior stalls. The women on the stall tried to tell me that they were still making their own mint sauce, but were decanting it into bottles that coincidentally had mint sauce labels on. They said that they had a big bowl of fresh mint sauce round the back, and I asked if I could see it. I wasn't allowed to go round and see it because of safety.

Hygiene was the main reason for their decision to do away with traditional values, stating that people were inconsiderate enough to throw cigarette ends into the bowl. I find it hard to believe that in the seven hundred plus years that Goose Fair has been running, this has suddenly become a problem. The really weird part of this, was that they said that they had the bowl and would be putting it on the counter later. Of course they wouldn't commit to a time that I could come back and check, and my dad pointed out that if there's a problem with people putting fag ends in, then putting the bowl out when it gets busier doesn't make sense. I went back to check at several points during the day, and the bowl and ladle had not made an appearance. There is nothing I hate more than a bullshitter.

The stalls that sell tinned mushy peas, although probably using bottled mint sauce, did at least have the bowl and ladle method. Not one person we asked said that there was a problem with people putting rubbish in.

The nice couple above are the closest rival. At first he was a bit annoyed that the Facebook group referred to the other stall as the only proper pea stall, as they do make their own peas. But they don't use fire, so they are still second rung. However, they were only to glad to talk to us, and said that there had never been a problem regarding the bowls on the counter. We ate our peas from this stall. I would have been happy to go to both over the course of today, but only when the bowl returns.

If you live in Nottingham, then please join this Facebook group. I will try to keep it going through the year, and hopefully they will come to their senses and restore tradition next year.



I have set up a Facebook group, like they used to do in the olden days, that everyone in Nottingham should join. The mushy pea stall, the mushy pea stall, have once again caused controversy by doing away with the bowl and ladle of mint sauce. This could potentially spell the end of Goose Fair. If you live in Nottingham, you have to join the group.

I emailed BBC Radio Nottingham and The Nottingham Evening Post (as I still call it) about mushy pea-gate, and received a phone call this afternoon from the paper. I couldn't take the call straight away, and got an answering machine, (not 'voicemail', an answering machine, I'm old school) but unfortunately didn't get a call back. It was about half past four, so I imagine that P.O.E.T.S*. was being employed at the office.

*Piss Off Early Tomorrow's Saturday

When we go to the fair tomorrow, I intend to go all Roger Cook on their arse and write a report on mushy pea-gate. I will of course try and get a word or two from the pea stall to see why they have courted outrage once again, after upsetting Nottingham in 2010.

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In unrelated news, a few years ago I made a very brief mention of Jimmy Savile's connection with the children's home Haut de la Garenne. While I skirted the issue, and unusually for me I avoided speaking my mind, which is how the dirty old cunt got away with it for so long in the first place. Since the documentary about Savile went out on ITV on Wednesday, five people who attended Haut da la Garenne have come forward to say that they were sexually assaulted by him.

Last night, a YouTube video of Gary Glitter performing on Jim'll Fix It did the rounds on Twitter. The bit at the end where Savile comments to Glitter how the girl is very shy was about the creepiest thing I've ever seen. The saddest thing about the whole episode is that the kids asked to go on Jim'll Fix It in the first place, their letter being the start of it, as the song went. Nobody expects to go on a light entertainment show and get raped by the presenter. By strange coincidence, Glitter's name has entered the Jimmy Savile reports today, as a woman claims that she was groped in a BBC dressing room while Gary Glitter had sex with a youngster. There was another well known personality in the room, who also allegedly assaulted an under age girl. That man is Freddie Starr!

The papers have handled this development in different ways. Several papers reported that Starr had failed to bring an injunction against a libellous story being circulated, but didn't say what the allegation was. The Sun, subtle as ever, went ahead and mentioned Freddie Starr directly in connection with a light entertainment gang rape taking place. I know we have the innocent until proven guilty law, but would you bust a gut to obtain an injunction if you had nothing to hide? It quite frankly wouldn't surprise me if it turned out that Starr was involved, as there has always been something a bit sinister about him. He denies it, and only time will tell if he is telling the truth. The onus is on the accuser to speak up about Gary Glitter now, as he will then need to be arrested and questioned. If one good thing comes from this episode, then at least one less paedophile will be free to roam.

If Freddie Starr is innocent of these claims, then at least can we arrest him for crimes against comedy?

Jack Dee was brilliant last night, there was one particular riff based on a farty noise coming from the audience that had me in tears, and made my stomach hurt with laughter. The full review can be read here.

After the show, we went for a couple of drinks at the Horn In Hand, just along from the theatre and very close to the tram home. The pub is over the road from Trent University, and although it seems to attract a student clientele, this is not reflected in the prices. Now I am neither dirt poor or mega-rich, so it makes no difference to me what they charge, I go into a pub based on what the pub is like. A pint of Guinness (me) and a pint of toffee apple cider (Mandi) cost six pound something, which is about right for the city centre where a pint of Guinness averages the three pound fifty mark.

When I first moved to London in the early 1990s, I had come from being a college student in Boston, Lincolnshire. Boston was never a progressive town, but it did have (it might not any more) a good range of pubs that catered for the young and groovy; The Axe and Cleaver, The Indian Queen (known as the IQ), The Carpenter's Arms, (The Carps), The Town Pump, and two nightclubs that dealt with us cool young things by hosting the alternative night on a Wednesday. When Rumours stopped doing it, we switched our custom to The Corn Exchange. Prices were low. During my first week in London, I went for a job interview in Hamleys, (I got the job by the way), and went out after the interview to sample the delights of Carnaby Street by going into a pub and ordering a pint of Guinness. I was charged two pounds. TWO POUNDS! I never thought that I would live to see the day that I was charged two whole pounds for a pint. I had to walk home from a successful job interview because my desire for a pint had fucked up my bus fare.

So where do students go these days for the cheap life? Or, are students a lot richer these days? We used to go where it was a pound a pint, and I think that I might have actually soiled my trousers if I'd been asked for three pounds. Our routine was to meet up in the square and head to Threshers for cigarettes. Sometimes we would go halves on a packet, and take our own empty box to put our share in. There was a sliding scale of which cigarettes you would buy. If you were flush you would of course buy Marlboro Red, if you really wanted to look flash then you would buy a twenty box. The sliding scale would go further and further down, through Lambert and Butler, (Lammy Bammys), Berkley, Gold Mark were the lowest you could go before buying rolling tobacco and making your own. Whatever fags you ended up buying, you would decant them into a Marlboro packet so as not to look like you couldn't afford the same smokes that rock stars liked. The Town Pump was the first pub you'd go to, as it was a pound a pint until half ten. Once you had a table sorted, you would all buy two or three pints and put them down to savour until it was time to leave. Once in the club, it was the one pound a pint thing again. Nobody got a taxi home, we all walked as the town centre and the houses were conveniently close, if you lived in the sticks you would stay at someones house.

Talking of smoking, first of all I'm glad that I was a student during a time when you could smoke in the pub. The ridiculous ban on smoking in pubs has taken something away from pub life, and it is a shame to see that an entire generation of the future won't know any other way of life other than going outside for a cigarette. Also, we used to be allowed to (or the bar staff ignored/tolerated) smoke dope in certain pubs. Tonight I saw two people passing an electronic cigarette between each other.

When I lived in a shared student house, we all shared the shopping on a Friday after college. Most of the stuff we bought was 'white label', in our case it was the dreaded Kwik Save (does anyone miss that horrible place where you had to wash your hands and wipe your feet on the way out?) and their No Frills range. As far as value for money was concerned, forget it, nothing lasted more than an hour before going off. One of the house worked a few nights a week in a chip shop, and she was allowed to bring stuff home if it hadn't sold. She would deliberately cook a load of stuff towards the end of her shift so that we could have a good feed when she got home at midnight.

I can't imagine students today living like this. Do they really have more money than we did? When we left the pub, we went to buy a pint of milk from a shop that was open late and seemed to place an emphasis on their close proximity to the university. A pint of milk cost 78p. I'm no tight wad, but you can buy a four pint bottle of milk for that in most shops, so I was looking forward to seeing what a 78p pint of milk tasted like. To my disappointment, it tasted just like regular priced milk. If the cats think they're having some of this, they can think again.

It's not the money, it's the principal. And the money.

My usual studio booking today at 11 o'clock, in which I recorded another episode of my American show, and also fit in another mixtape for the Mixcloud page. I did a version of Penny's Bluegrass Jamboree as a gift for fans of that particular feature that sadly is no more. On an amusing side note, I nearly texted Penny to ask if she was going to email me her songs for the week. Luckily I pulled myself back from looking like a fool.

Quite a stressful afternoon and evening, I was supposed to be guest co-presenting Notts Live tonight, but had to pull out at the last minute due to a review gig coming up that I couldn't turn down. Jack Dee was playing at The Royal Concert Hall, and I was writing it up for the new website Entertainment Nottingham. Mandi met me in town, and I made the mistake of relying on an unreliable bus to get to town. We arrived just as Jack Dee was being announced onto the stage, and had to push past an entire row of people to get to the middle. Thankfully, we weren't spotted by Dee himself, as there is nothing a comedian likes more than a latecomer.

When Jimmy Savile died last year, I tweeted at the time that I wouldn't be a hypocrite by paying tribute to someone who gave me the creeps. I always said that he was a paedophile and now it looks like I had a point.

I don't like the fact that nobody came forward simply because he was bringing in the ratings and making a lot of money for charity. Was he really that untouchable in life that he could get away with having sex with underage girls, and using an approved school as his own private pick and mix. The phrase 'it is a pity that Jimmy Savile is dead' is one that nobody ever thought would be used, but this of course means that whatever the outcome of this investigation, Savile can't face justice.

People turning a blind eye to this kind of thing is the true crime here. Jimmy Savile, and others, could have been investigated and arrested at the time and saved a lot more innocent people going through the same thing.

When I lived in Southend On Sea, I found out that a local gym, The Academy on London Road, was a front for a child porn operation. Not only that, but my boss Fred Spring Junior was a shareholder. When I told people this, they either didn't believe me or knew about it but couldn't prove it. Fred was clever enough to not leave a trail, and his father Fred Senior was well regarded with the police and local magistrates, so could make certain problems disappear. Fred Junior was arrested for improper behaviour in a public toilet on more than one occasion, but these arrests were dealt with by his dad. The police didn't listen to me, and I worried that I couldn't do anything. When I left Southend, (not my choice), I tried a different tactic. I wrote a detailed letter to The News Of The World. I wouldn't normally have tried to deal with a newspaper you could best describe as 'cuntish', but TNOTW did enjoy a good expose in their time. I never heard back from them, nor do I know if they followed up my letter.