In Flanders Field

This is for today; November 11th; it would be great if it was published at eleven minutes passed eleven but that comes at different times in different countries; it was the time and date of the armistice in 1918; the end of the first world war which started in 1914; so I will get this as close to 11:00 am as I can.

The poem, which titles this post, was written by a Canadian John McCrae – so it's not only the English who wrote great World War One poetry; some of the great poems of the first world war were pro-war for example Rupert Brooke as opposed to the anti-war poems by others including Wilfred Owen.

There are two photos above as you can see – one clearly has the first line as 'In Flanders Field the poppies grow' which was hand written by the author and in the other one, taken from the publication In Flanders Field and Other Poems clearly says as poppies blow. I believe the hand written one was written from memory and is a mistake; but I always thought it was grow.

At this time of year in Britain most people wear red poppies in their lapels; this is to remember Armistice Day lest anybody forget and the people buy the poppies from poppy sellers in the streets; they're also usually available at your school and place of work and the money collected goes to a charity.

The newly washed and appointed Prime Minister of Britain David Cameron(I hasten to say elected) has recently worn his poppy as a red rag; there he is, above, with his pals drinking a toast in China to celebrate the signing of a contract.

Sometimes I wish for the talent of DH Lawrence or Philip Larkin to describe such a picture; they look like robins on a clothes line waiting for the bang.

Before they went to China they were asked not to wear the poppy; it might be a great symbol in Britain but in China it is a different kind of symbol; it symbolizes the history between China and Britain: China's humiliation to Europe during the Opium Wars – also known as the Anglo/Chinese Wars.

I got the following from Wikipedia - Opium was smuggled by merchants from British India into China in defiance of Chinese prohibition laws. Open warfare between Britain and China broke out in 1839. Further disputes over the treatment of British merchants in Chinese ports resulted in the Second Opium War.

China became a minor power for the following one hundred and fifty years till the Communists took over.

So Cameron and his mates go to China with their poppies proudly worn on their breasts just as someone walked into a field one day with a red rag.

This from The Guardian and shows Cameron's arrogance: Chinese officials apparently asked them not to do it because the poppy is a vivid symbol of China's humiliation at the hands of the European powers. "We informed them that they mean a great deal to us and we would be wearing them all the same," a British official explained.

We know it's a wonderful thing in Britain but Britain is just like America; they go to other parts of the world putting their point of view and wanting the rest of the world to behave just like they do.

Who said in the first place that Democracy is the best form of government; a Democracy produced Hitler! I don't know. I only know that I have always lived under democracies and they have always been in a mess.

I can't remember any time in my life when we haven't been 'in trouble' when there hasn't had to be cuts in public spending, arts subsidies; I hear that they are going to abolish Child Allowance in Britain – is that true?

I leave you with a great poem and ask – is it pro or anti-war? Throwing the torch?? Discuss????

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

In the richest country in the world you meet the poorest of people starving on the streets

We went for lunch yesterday to the Sunset Grill on Sunset Boulevard; on the wall there is a copy of the record by Joe Walsh of the song which this establishment influenced.

As you can see by the picture above it's next to The Guitar Center in Hollywood where I bought my guitar a few weeks ago. The neighbourhood attracts pop stars and musicians from all over the world and there are plenty of recording studios about the place and plenty of other guitar shops.

The record on the wall says either Joe Walsh (I think it does as I haven't looked closely at it for a long time) or The Eagles and if you look at the picture above we sat on those two chairs out front and, as the song says below, we can watch the working girls go by (the prostitutes).

There are not that many you can recognise these days as that little part of the area has cleaned itself up a bit although there are a couple of strip clubs opposite on the other side of Sunset and when he goes on to say in the song that the “basket people” walk around and mumble it's not the so called basket people who are doing the mumbling these days as a lot of people pass and appear to be talking to themselves because they have a mobile phone hidden somewhere and a discreet ear piece secluded away like the secret service. But instead of speaking into their shoulder like the secret service they talk out loud even gesturing with their arms as they walk.

If my grandmother were to suddenly rise from the grave and see how many people walk the streets and appear to be talking to themselves she would dive back into the grave.

I had a hot dog and my wife had beef quesadillas and we sat in the sunshine watching the world go by for a while. The Sunset Grill is one of the places in that immediate area where you can get a relatively cheap lunch but recently there have been a few of our favourite places closing down.

I wrote a post, I think, about The Last American Hamburger which closed down about six months ago and last week or so The Curry Palace further west on Sunset closed its doors; that and the Coach and Horses English Pub are no more.

It was nothing like an English pub by the way but it wasn't bad. Locals thought that Quentin Tarantino might buy it as he used to go there on Friday evenings but it wasn't to be so when you go there now there is a notice from some official body on the door to say the premises are available for someone to apply for a liqueur licence; so if that's what you are after you know where to go.

The places are closing down because the landlords are asking for more rent at the expiration of the leases; The last American Hamburger is to be replaced soon by Chipotle which will be more expensive so we are left with El Compadre, the Mexican Restaurant opposite and The Sunset Grill.

Food trucks are very fashionable in Los Angeles at the moment but they should know where to come; I know they are around there earlier in the mornings.

The one snag about The Last American Hamburger was that if you sat outside, hungry homeless people would come up and eat out of the trash bins; it was stomach turning and I couldn't help feeling guilty with a plate of food in front of me and people doing things like that; in the richest country in the world you meet the poorest of people starving on the streets.

Let's go down to the Sunset Grill
We can watch the working girls go by
Watch the "basket people" walk around and mumble
And stare out at the auburn sky
There's an old man there from the Old World
To him, it's all the same
Calls all his customers by name
Down at the Sunset Grill
Down at the Sunset Grill
Down at the Sunset Grill
Down at the Sunset Grill
You see a lot more meanness in the city
It's the kind that tears you up inside
Hard to come away with anything that feels
like dignity
Hard to get home with any pride
These days a man makes you somethin'
And you never see his face
But there is no hiding place
Down at the Sunset Grill
Down at the Sunset Grill
Down at the Sunset Grill
Down at the Sunset Grill
Respectable little murders pay
They get more respectable every day
Don't worry girl, I'm gonna stick by you
And someday soon we're gonna get in that
car and get outta here
Let's go down to the Sunset Grill
Watch the working girls go by
Watch the "basket people" walk around and
mumble
And gaze out at the auburn sky
Maybe we'll leave come springtime
Meanwhile, have another beer
What would we do without these jerks
anyway?
Besides, all our friends are here
Down at the Sunset Grill
Down at the Sunset Grill
Down at the Sunset Grill
Down at the Sunset Grill

Writers: Don Henley, Danny Kortchmar, Benmont M. Tench,

The Farmers' Market at 3rd and Fairfax.

The Farmers' Market at 3rd and Fairfax Los Angeles.

Well my fellow non-Americans; we have just been through a grueling few months of wall to wall political television commercials; one person, who wanted to be governor of California spent $121 million and she failed so she is obviously the Governot – think what you could do with that kind of money; all the good you could do instead of giving it television companies to drive us all mad.

Political television commercials are not allowed in the UK and a good thing too; you have no idea how annoying they can be with their mudslinging and lies. Think yourself lucky over there the election campaigns last for a year over here and they are every two years – aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhh!!!!

I've been a bit busy of late; I always keep myself busy doing one thing or another; recently I was helping my friend Jim to cast a film we shall be doing soon. Jim writes a blog too and there it is ready for you to click on at the top right of this page. He has written about it on that blog so go and have a look and tell him I sent you.

I finished my second novel, which I told you about before, a few weeks ago and since then I have been doing other things.

I have a new guitar, after the debacle in July, and I still write songs. They are on iTunes if you want to download them but my distributors are always getting on to me to write 'ring tones' for the i-Phone.

At first I just took the intros (and outrows) to some of my songs and used them as ring tones – what's that what's a ring tone? - well you download them from the Internet and use them on your mobile phone – but because I'm only on the i-Phone you have to have an i-Phone to download them too.

Anyway whilst I was at it I recorded a horror laugh and it has sold extremely well. This week I recorded a 'Horror Santa' – let's hope it does as well.

Today I was trying to record a song of mine but had nothing but trouble from my recording equipment so I got on to the makers and they sent me some software which I will try tomorrow.

So I took the Hollywood Reporter, which was delivered today, and went to The Farmer's Market for a cup of Bob's coffee and a doughnut.

Margaret is away in Ventura at the moment till tomorrow so I sat guiltless in the sunshine, away from the political commercials and read.

I'm sure I've written on here about the Farmer's Market before and especially Bob's Doughnuts but it is one of the places in Los Angeles you need to visit; on Saturday we met a very drunk Wolverhampton Wanderers supporter who said he recognised me and he wanted to introduce us to his drinking buddies; he said he had been drinking since 9:00 am – it was 4:30pm when we met him – so he was well oiled.

He showed us the Wolves logo on his jacket and the two tattoos – one on his chest and one on his arm; I have a feeling he would have showed us his tattoos on any part of his body so it was just as well he only had the two.

We met his pals who were a lot sober than he was and left him as he was going around with a jug of beer filling glasses; I don't drink at that time of day any more and I had my Guinness to look forward to at home, so I didn't have one.

The Farmers' Marker is full of characters and we have got to know a lot of them over the years; some of the old ones just disappear and a lot of others just endure; some we speak to and some we don't. I use it as a meeting place – it's my check point Charlie, as my friend Stanley Dyrector once said to me.

If you walk around the market at around 7:00pm on a Friday evening you will see maybe a five hundred people sitting around eating. The best food is at the French Restaurant, where a French Accordionist sits and plays to accompany your bon appetite and the other places we eat are the Gumbo Pot, at the other end of the market from Bob's and the French place, where the bill of fare is from New Orleans, and the Brazilian place half way between the two ends.

But there are loads of places – a French crepe place, Patsies Pizza, were James Dean ate his last meal before heading off to his legendary meeting with Daniel Turnupspeed – I think his first name was Daniel, in any case the guy he had the fatal crash with.

Stars and well known people frequent the place and next door at CBS, even though it's on ABC, the BBC shoot their hit TV show Dancing with the Stars – Celebrity Come Dancing in the UK. It even beat the World Series in the ratings on Monday.

One day a friend of mine stopped me when we were leaving and wanted to introduce me to a friend of his as a British actor; I said 'how are you' to his friend, just as he was putting a piece of fish into his mouth with his right hand; he said 'I won't shake hands with you as I'm full of fish.'

I was grateful for that when he suddenly stood up and said 'Look! A British comedian.'

I looked around and couldn't see where he meant but he walked over to the comedian – by then I could see that it was Eric Idle with his wife.

I didn't quite hear what he was saying to Eric Idle but I saw him put his fishy hand in to his and heard Eric Idle say 'Eric Idle – I'm Eric Idle.'

It reminded me of a scene in Annie Hall where a gangster type goes up to Woody Allen and say's 'You're on television; what's your name?'

Woody Allen says very quietly 'Harvey Singer' (or whatever the name of his character was) and the gangster shouts 'Hey guys – over here; Harvey Singer.'

So Eric Idle stood there as nice as can be and then the guy introduces us to Eric Idle: 'over here' he said 'Eric Idle' and Eric Idle shakes hands with me and then Margaret - so one of us got the fish!!

By the way do you know Diane Keaton's real name – Annie Hall. Well her nick name was Annie even before she made the movie and she was born a Keaton.

Gay Suicides in America.

Leonardo da Vinci

First of all it's great that so many people read this; thank you. I only have a few registered 'followers' but I have a lot of regular readers all over the world and readers are reading posts that I have written as long ago as last year; The Estuary Accent seems to be the post that gets the most hits.

Now to a serious subject:

Terrible isn't that so many teenagers are committing suicide in America; it is linked to them being 'outed' as gay but a lot of them are not gay at all? They are taunted as being gay - maybe because they are effeminate or camp.

It seems the American teachers cannot help, because in the matters of sexual preference they are not allowed to take sides.

Not allowed to take sides? What does that mean? If they see people being bullied, whether they are gay or not, shouldn't they take a side?

The problem is that some of the teachers find it hard to control grown ups – for that is who they are teaching these days – and have little leadership qualities; those adults – those kids - are not all there in the head yet, as their brains haven't been formed properly so they do things and say things they wouldn't do if they were older. They think they are grown up but they are only grown up in size.

We were all there - remember?

This is why they are not allowed to do certain things because of their age; they are not ready for it.

At that age – teenage – they are too young to make decisions that will affect the rest of their lives; but they do. This includes the choice of their spouse, their career and their choice in politics.

That's why we see so many broken marriages and idiots being voted into office.

At that age teenagers find it hard to empathise and they certainly won't be able to empathise with someone who is gay or transsexual or any of the other none heterosexual practices or preferences; in fact the word preference is wrong as they don't usually have a preference.

A lot of gay people I know, and I'm bound to know many gay people from working in the theatre for so many years, didn't choose to be gay. Unlike drug addicts and alcoholics who took their first drug or drink by choice, homosexuals don't consciously choose to be gay.

Some people – some church groups - think they can convert homosexuals into heterosexuals but I haven't heard of any so called success stories from these courses; I'm sure there have been reported successes but let's face they are really driving them into the closet.

Now what was I like as a teenager? Well, I'll tell you: I didn't know what an homosexual was; truly.

I had heard that there were such people but at the age of sixteen I didn't really believe it; I knew there were paedophiles because I had read about them and had been approached by them as most kids are; paedophiles have always been with us.

If I had known any paedophiles at that age I would have deduced that they were a deserving target for bullying but I wasn't a bully.

I was in a class at school, in my final year, of forty three pupils; the chances of more than one of them being homosexual was very high. The chances of those that were not knowing it when they got married was also high. This was a secondary modern boys' school in a working class area and it would be hard in 1959 to come out at such a time and in such a place; very hard.

Yes I left school at fifteen with no qualifications and only the prospect of a job in a factory facing me; good job my mother encouraged me to go in to the post office.

I'm sure there were homosexuals in the post office too – and I know there were paedophiles!

When I was in my late teens a new hotel was built in the city where I lived; it was where pop stars and other dignitaries stayed when they were in town; it was the talk of the town and I remember going for an interview there for a job as a salesman with a clothing company called Top Gear when I was trying to do anything to get out of the job in the post office; it was very posh.

Not long after that a young man was murdered and when I read about the circumstances it turned out he was an homosexual; the police report said he frequented homosexual bars such as the one in the posh hotel; I was amazed; it was a posh hotel?

The fact that I didn't know about homosexuality and neither did most kids of my age meant that I wouldn't be on the look out for them at school or in the work place unlike these days when children of all ages seem to know.

Homosexuality, as a subject, is on television and in other parts of the media; it is discussed at schools and pupils are told that it is nothing to be ashamed of and that it is as natural as heterosexuality; I am not questioning that but I am questioning whether it should be discussed at school in the first place.

What is the point in discussing anything with people who do not understand? It doesn't matter whether it is considered natural or normal to mature people, you are discussing it with people whose brains are not mature yet as their hippocampuses are just not ready; that's why they behave the way they do, that's why they say the things they do because they don't understand.

They don't understand that you can't help who you love!

One question I will ask is why those teachers can't control their pupils? If kids of that age and size don't want to learn why are they at school?

Why aren't they permitted to leave school at fifteen like I had to if they don't want to learn? They are only stopping people who want to learn.

The fact that most of the talented people we know are homosexual and that we are all heavily influenced by them seems to be lost on homophobes; some of the greatest artists, singers, actors and the like were gay. James Dean and Montgomery Clift, to name two great actors, have influenced a majority of American actors and actors all over the world and they've been dead for many years, were both gay.

The kids at school get the wrong messages and the bullies are telling kids, they think are gay, that God will send them to hell for being gay and they take this to heart because number one they think they might be gay so they must kill themselves before it is confirmed so they can go to heaven and number two - how can they believe that if there is such a thing as God that he or she would be such an arsehole?

Stormtrack - or the election on the news?

I might have said this on here before but most Sunday mornings I go to the beach for a bike ride and have breakfast at The Fig Tree; by the way I put a little typo in there which I corrected from moist which is a kind of Freudian slip as I don't go when it's moist; when it rains.

It might be fun in the rain if you are covered up with a sow'ester and I might try it one day; not that I haven't had a lot of experience cycling in the rain with and without a sow'wester as I was brought up in a rainy climate.

Last Sunday (24th) it was kind of overcast when I left here, in Hollywood, for Venice and when I got there the sun came out so we had a good ride. The weather got worse as the day drew on and eventually at around 6:0opm it started to drizzle and then to fully fledged light rain which carried on throughout the night.

Now let me stress that this was rain; nothing more but rain. No storm, no thunder and lightning, no floods - just rain.

Later in the evening I heard on a news trailer that one of the candidates for Governor, in the gubernatorial election next week, was double digits ahead in opinion polls so I looked forward to the news on at eleven-o-clock.

I didn't think for one minute that it was Meg Whitman because Jerry Brown was drawing ahead the last time I looked; but nonetheless I don't rely on anything and after the election of Arnold Schwarzenegger I expect anything from the Californian electorate who voted for the three strikes rule, the opposition to gay marriage and other barmy things; for example the fact that when you buy a house here your property taxes on that property freezes. Nice for those that bought at that time but why is the state always in the red or have a delayed budget every year?

Apart from the election, in the news, there is the threat of terrorism, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the economy, the latest on the world series baseball; I think a golf tournament sudden-death play off was decided with a 'hole in one,' Gregory Isaacs the reggae singer died and even the creator of Rocky and Bullwinkle had died and what led the news on all channels? The rain!!

No storm, no thunder and lightning, no floods - just rain; plain simple rain.

The News Team was at various locations throughout the state. People were being interviewed in the street to give their opinion about the rain – do they like it? Do they hate it?

Some complained that they didn't like the rain, others loved it; some were here on vacation and said they were used to it but complained about it.

I have told friends and relations when they asked about the weather how the Television Stations cover it and they hardly believed me.

Some way into the news they came in from the field reports and went to – the weather forecast which was headlined 'Storm-track and how it will affect your morning commute.'

It was then that I put the news off and looked on line to see which candidate for Governor was double digits ahead and it was Jerry Brown – fabulous! Thirteen points ahead.

Fame

Fame? Now what is it? Can you lead a normal life whilst being famous? I think you can; when I read about the royal family and the normality of their lives I ask myself how can they do such things without people staring at them?

But they do; they wander around Windsor or Balmoral in their Land Rovers and they see the people they see all the time and the people know who they are and wave.

Just like me and you wandering around our neighbourhoods and saying hello to the people we know. But when they step outside the familiar places they are noticed there too, whereas we are not. Unless we dress up in a bowler hat, pins stripes and carry an umbrella into a Country and Western Texas Bar.

Many years ago I had a dose of mini fame; I was doing a soap opera on TV in Birmingham and at the time I lived in Oakengates, Shropshire which is around 35 miles or so from Birmingham.

I used to go to a place to drink at the weekends with my pals and I told them when I got the job in the soap and we carried on drinking and playing the card game NAP. People in the bar knew me and people in the neighbourhood knew me too.

When I went into the soap I travelled in to Birmingham six days a week – four days to rehearse in a rehearsal room then two days in the TV studio where we would tape two episodes a day. Then back in the car to Shropshire and on Sundays it would be a day off.

On Sunday lunchtimes I would go to the same place to drink and play NAP then back home for lunch in time to watch the football match on TV and maybe sleep in front of The Golden Shot – fans of The Golden Shot will know how long ago this is.

The episodes of the soap started to go out on the air a few weeks after I started and when they did, people in the place I used to drink would say they saw me on Television and so did the friends and neighbours; my mother would tell all her friends to watch and she got a great kick out of it.

Then one day as I was travelling in to a Saturday rehearsal my car broke down; there was no chance of getting it going straight away so I left it where it was at the side of the road; I knew there was a railway station nearby so headed towards it by foot. When I got to the station I waited for a train but all seemed hopeless as the next train wasn't due for another hour; so I sat on a bench and waited.

Presently a train came into the station but going in the opposite direction from where I wanted to go; I glanced up at it and it was full of teenage school girls; one of them looked at me and said “It's Jim!” I didn't really hear those words but worked it out later; then another girl came and shouted 'Jim” - that I heard clearly and soon quite a few of them opened their windows and started calling. That's when the penny dropped – they had recognised me! I had stepped outside of my comfort zone. I waved to them and as the train disappeared into the distance they were all waving to me and calling.

I never did catch that train and missed the only day's rehearsal I have ever missed; a pal came and gave me a lift back home to my comfort zone.

There have been many such incidents over the years whenever I have had something current on TV; when I was in General Hospital people would stop me in the street saying “please have that operation; it'll save your life.”

So I think movie stars, Royalty and the like have their comfort zones too but Royalty have been trained for a public life and people who seek fame have not.

If someone becomes famous early they don't always know how to handle it; we see the problems with drugs young movie stars and rock singers have – some of them not surviving.

People seek fame seek as if they are taking drugs; they want only so much fame and they want it on their terms but fame increases exponentially till it's out of control and sometimes it's very difficult to reverse.

Once in a very great while I get a fan letter – or more like an e-mail these days – and once in a very great while someone will recognise me in the street; that's usually in the UK; now if people remember me, no matter how seldom, what would it be like for someone like Brad Pitt or Jack Nicholson to start a new life?

I could quite easily change my life – take a job doing something else and get away with it.

I sell antiques/collectibles at Fairfax Flea Market once a month and when I am doing that I'm in another life away from the theatre - but that doesn't really count as most of the other sellers are actors and musicians and the like; in fact I think very few actors take jobs in bars these days or as waiters so casting directors could easily take a trip to any flea market to do their casting.

But I enjoy my monthly sale; I meet hundreds of people and I have loads and loads of conversations with people from all over the world – and many other places.

There I am above – someone snapped a shot and sent it to me.

There is a ninety second clip of me from The Stanley Dyrector talk show on You Tube - take a look; he asked me how and why I started and I said I saw a guy in the street going to a ball with a blond on his arm; he was famous as he was in a soap opera on TV – the same one I did as it happens - and it was one of those shows that went out in the evening that was always number one in the ratings.

I saw him on the way to the ball and I thought “Wow! I wouldn't mind a bit of that” and so I became an actor. Well it wasn't as simple as that; I had to go to drama school to learn the craft side of the job – you can't teach the artistic side; you either have it or you don't – and that took me about four years; one year of night school and three years full time college and by the time I finished thoughts of fame and fortune had gone. I just wanted to be a good actor – I still do!

John Lennon

It was John Lennon's birthday on Saturday – the 9th – he would have been 70 years of age; hard to believe. We were served with a lot of his music on the radio and on Saturday we watched the movie Imagine – for Beatles or John Lennon fans that movie is a must. You will see that George and Ringo played on the album Imagine so it was really another Beatles album without Sir Macka.

John Lennon has always been more important to me than The Beatles and John had more influence on society than the straights, the squares, realise and would probably accept.

I saw The Beatles, with my brother, three times in their very early days. Now isn't that something? Friends have said they saw Sinatra, Elvis, Nina Simone, Bing Crosby et al but they don't get it. We saw The Beatles – in their early days and The Beatles, with John's influence, changed things.

The Beatles made it ok to question authority; they tried to be working class, but they were never working class, they were students when students usually liked jazz. Lots of students liked jazz because students were supposed to like jazz but when The Beatles came along students started to like rock.

I was the number one Buddy Holly fan and The Beatles reminded me of Buddy Holly and that's why I drifted into them; the other Beatles used the harmonies of The Crickets and the black girl groups like The Shirelles and John's voice, on songs like Baby It's You and Anna from their first LP, is worth a listen to prove my point.

We had heard of The Beatles as they had a small hit with Love Me Do – by the way I've heard the 3 versions of Love Me Do with the three drummers: Pete Best, the session drummer and Ringo and Ringo's playing is far superior – so when they appeared on Thank Your Lucky Stars lip syncing to Please Please Me we knew who they were.

Please Please Me was a great song; John wrote it for Roy Orbison (slower) and was in the same bag as Buddy Holly so naturally my ears pricked up. Three of the Beatles had the famous 'Beatle hair cut' – not Ringo – and John stood with his guitar held high on his chest and his legs open like Elvis and it had an amazing affect on people; me in particular.

The following week Please Please Me shot to number two in the NME charts, and the following Sunday they were due to appear at our local dance hall, The Ritz in King's Heath. We would go there every Sunday to drink their brown ale, nut brown ale or Bruno brown ale, pick up girls and dance; more of the former and less of the latter two I'm afraid.

So we went to our usual spot at The Ritz and saw the most amazing show; not many girls came that night as The Beatles were a geezers (male) group; they were famous in Liverpool and they hadn't quite caught on with the girls yet.

They sang most of the songs from their first LP, Please Please Me, including A Taste of Honey and Twist and Shout and when their set was over we went down to the bar for our nut brown ales and who should join us but The Beatles. The rest of the crowd were still upstairs in the Dance Hall and we were at the little bar.

We didn't have any intimate conversation with them as they were very excited and photographers were asking people to have their photos taken with John and Paul and when they posed they would all shout ha ha ha haaaaaaa and the photo would be taken.

Then George came followed by Ringo; George wore a big fur coat; it would be easy to say there was something about The Beatles and that you could see it at the time but you could; you could see that they had the world at their feet.

We saw groups every week at The Ritz – look it up on line The Ritz, Kings Heath and the Regans who ran it – from The Rolling Stones to Freddie and the Dreamers; when Brian Poole and the Tremeloes came they seemed to have a million dollars worth of equipment, with a microphone each and clear succinct sound but The Beatles shared microphones – which is why their harmonies could be heard.

We saw them twice more; once more at The Ritz when they played their return engagement – and opened with Tony Orlando's version/arrangement of Beautiful Dreamer – but it was never the same. They were too popular and the girls drowned out the performance.

Before the Beatles it was the age of the angry young man – Look Back in Anger and all that and this spread into movies like Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, This Sporting Life and other movies but the great mass of youths in the early sixties and the Teddy Boys before them had never heard of Look Back in Anger and John Osborne and all that intellectual stuff that the educated were privy to, so when John Lennon started to ask questions – intelligent questions – we sat up and asked questions ourselves.

There's a piece of film where John is being interviewed, after the Beatles disbanded, and he is espousing peace and an American female interviewer says 'you have it all wrong my dear boy' in such a condescending way that when you see it you want to throw cushions at the TV set; he wasn't taken seriously all the time at the time but the FBI sure kept an eye on him and last week the FBI confiscated his set of finger prints from a New York auction.

So RIP John Lennon; in about two months it will be the 30th anniversary of his death; December 8th (although it was the 9th GMT at the time he was killed) and there will be other remembrances then; number 9.

Dun Laoghaire to Hollyhead on a salad.

Dun Laoghaire - above; Hollyhead - below


Hey my novel is available in the UK from Amazon UK in paperback http://tiny.cc/lgtaf and it'll be on Kindle too as soon as they get the title right.

I had a few emails asking me what happened on the edge of the Sahara Desert well I'll leave that for now and relate another adventure.

This was on a ship from Dun Laoghaire to Hollyhead when I was a mere teenager; it was before I left school and as I left school at 15 I was really young; I know I was wearing blue jeans, not Levis, but another make of shiny blue jeans and a blue zipper jacket.

Dun Laoghaire to Hollyhead is the usual route from Dublin to anywhere in England south of Crewe; Dun Laoghaire being about 20 miles south of Dublin and Hollyhead a small island in Anglesey in Wales. When we got to Holllyhead we would get the train to Birmingham which is where we were brought up.

We knew the steamers, the ships, very well as we would go to Ireland a few times every year and would stay for the whole summer holidays – 8 weeks – in Finglas which was miles away from Dublin; maybe only 4 miles or so but still a million miles and a pain in the arse on the bus.

The journey to and from Dublin was about as long as it takes me these days to go between Los Angeles and London. We would leave the house on Moseley Road, in Birmingham, at around 6:00pm and wait for a number 50 bus across the street.

The bus would take us to New Street Station and we would get the train from there to Hollyhead arriving there at around midnight. Then we would get on the ship, wait till it set sail and arrive in Dun Laoghaire at around 6:00 or 7:00 am the following day; from there we took a train into Dublin and then a bus to Ballybough.

In earlier years my grandad would pick us up with the donkey and cart but he died when I was around 10 years of age.

So it was a long journey; most of these journeys were over night but the one I'm referring to was in the day time. Most of the time, if it wasn't raining, we would hang around on deck; a lot of people would frequent the bars and partake of the Guinness and usquebaugh; but I was too young as the age for drinking was 18.

There were restaurants on board and places where you could get a cup of tea but I only had one shilling to my name; a shilling these days would be one twentieth of a pound – five pence!

When I got to the restaurant I looked at the menu and the only thing they had for a shilling was salad; mmmm salad. There was no choice so that's what I decided to order.

It was a cafeteria style service where you grabbed a tray and put food on it when you got to it as you entered the queue; I looked for the salad but couldn't see it so I asked one of the women behind the counter where the salad was and she pointed to a plate with ham, cucumber and scallions on “That's the salad” she said so I put it onto my tray.

When I got to the till the cashier said “That'll be three and six!” Three and six!! That was three shillings and sixpence – three and a half times what I had in my pocket.

“I thought it was a shilling?” I said.

“Where?” she said.

“Look there” I said, pointing at the menu.

“Oh that's just the lettuce” she said.

I was embarrassed; I didn't want to let on that that was all I had in my pocket; all I had in the world to be honest. I looked at the full salad on the plate; not my favourite meal but it looked nice, it would fill me and keep me from being hungry and would save me having the sandwiches my aunt had made for us.

“It's only the lettuce I want” I lied.

So the woman put a load of lettuce onto a plate, which I put on to my tray and went to the till again and paid for. I took a knife and fork from the cutlery tray and found myself a seat.

As I sat down I looked at my meal; I almost think it looked at me; all green a crisp and waiting for me to eat it. On the table was the cruet and I used some salt. Then I looked around for some salad cream – yes that was the kind of kid I was in those days I had never heard of mayonnaise but I would really love to taste that salad cream now and maybe even sandwich spread; oooo yummie!!

But back to those salad cream days – I couldn't see any; I looked at other tables, I looked over to where I had found the the cutlery but nothing. So I decided to get stuck in and eat it.

Wow – did I really need a knife?

A big waiter came through the door from the kitchen and I stopped him “Do you have any salad cream?”

“What?”

“Some salad cream for my salad.”

He looked at my plate; then looked at me. Not an expression on his face.

“Salad cream?”

“Yes please!”

He looked at me again and then at the lettuce.

“Are you broke?”

“Broke? No; I just want some salad cream.”

He picked up my plate and walked off with it.

I sat there; I put my knife and fork back onto the table. I hadn't used them so they were clean; should I put them in place? Why not?

Was the blade side of the knife supposed to face in or out; I tried it both ways and it looked better facing outwards. I looked around and people were getting their meals, sitting down and eating, chatting to each other and some of the food looked really good.

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do; I was only a slip of a kid but if they didn't give me my lettuce back I would have wasted a shilling.

Then the waiter came back, plonked a plate between my knife and fork, and walked away after saying “there you are.”

On the plate there was boiled ham, lettuce, cucumber, cold boiled potatoes, scallions and the whole works which I heartily ate.

After I finished I put my utensils at twelve-0-clock, to show that I knew my manners got up from the table and went back onto the deck.

“What did you get for your shilling” said my aunt.

“Salad” I said.

An episode from the past!!

I was thinking the other day of the times I've been up the creak without a paddle; you know stranded with no hope of getting home. I remember trying to hitch hike from London to Northampton at midnight and waiting forever for someone to stop.

Somebody did stop eventually and gave me a lift, of course, but I should have refused it as they were only going as far as Newport Pagnell – one junction before the Northampton turn off – which was impossible to get a lift from.

Hardly anyone came passed me at that time so I waited for an hour and a half and then decided to walk. Took me three hours and a lot of it was through countryside and was pitch black.

One hour, two hours, three hours – pitch black in front of me walking passed ditches, hedgerows and overhanging trees, which kind of touched my hair making wonder if it was some kind of ghost.

Pitch black and silent; no cars on the roads, no people walking and once in a while a bunch of houses and the sound of an owl or a bat or . . . what was that? Never did find out!

Two miles from home I passed a big house and then heard a horn blowing and the further I got from the house the louder the horn became. Eventually I found that a car had crashed into a ditch and the horn was jammed; when I got right to it I could see a man slumped over the steering wheel.

I jumped down into the ditch, not knowing what to expect – a decapitated body? Blood and Guts?? - and found him to be conscious but totally trapped. As his car had crashed into the ditch the sides of the ditch jammed the doors closed and popped the windscreen out which was also laying in the ditch.

“Help me!” he said.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so but I can't get out.”

“I'll get the cops."

“Okay.”

I climbed out of the ditch and ran towards the big house; this after walking ten miles or so.

When I got to the house I knocked the door and after a few minutes a light came on and a man came to the door. He was wearing a dressing gown and slippers but the light was behind him on the landing so I couldn't see him clearly.

I told him what had happened and he invited me in to use the phone which I did calling 999 and ordering an ambulance and police.

The guy from the house came back with me to the car wearing his dressing gown and slippers and as we ran his slippers made a slap slap slapping sound on the Tarmac and he ran with his head forward and hands still by his sides; I ran like an old man as I'd just been walking for two hours.

“Get me out of here” said the guy in the car when we got back.

“He's alive” said the man from the house.

“Yes” I said “I'll hang on here if you want to go back.”

“Okay” he said, rubbed his eyes, yawned and walked back to his house.

All this time the horn was blowing constantly; miles away from anywhere so nobody could hear it.

“Are you hurt?” I said to the guy in the car.

“I don't think so” he said.

It was then I realised that he was probably drunk.

After a few more minutes a police car came flashing his lights followed by an ambulance.

When the cops got out of the car they assessed the situation and one of them lifted the bonnet of the car and grabbed the battery; then the very intelligent policeman tried to pull the battery out of the car to try and stop the horn blowing. He couldn't do it so he pulled and pulled some more and the cables stretched the more he pulled. Then he dropped the battery hoping the weight of it would break the cables but it didn't.

Then he kicked the battery thinking it would snap the cables that way; then he kicked and kicked with the bottom of his foot - kicking the battery away; kicking it kicking it kicking it away!

What an arsehole, I thought.

“Do you have a screw driver?” I asked.

“No” he said “but I have a knife.”

He pulled a small pen knife from his pocket and gave it to me so I unscrewed one of the screws on the battery and the horn stopped blowing.

The cops wanted to know who I was and what I was doing there and I told them.

A breakdown truck came and started to get the car out of the ditch and the paramedics saw that the guy was okay.

“Do you want to sit in the car?” said the other cop.

“Yes” I said and got into the back of the police car.

I sat and watched the man being pulled out and the paramedics really struggled to get him out of the car. They pulled him through the space where the windscreen used to be and took him away before the cops had time to breathalyze him.

When the car was well and truly up on the breakdown truck they tossed the unbroken windscreen into the car and when it was up and away the cops got into their car.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Brafield.” I said which was just a mile or so away.

When we got to the road junction where I wanted to get out I tried to get out but the door, obviously, had child locks to keep the crooks in, so the cop had to get out to open the door for me.

I had been sitting for over an hour and was as stiff as a board when I got out and could hardly walk; as they drove off to Northampton General Hospital, to try and breathalyze the driver, the cops waved and I struggled to walk the remaining few hundred yards to where I lived.

By the way I started this post to tell you about the time I was at a disco with a load of strangers with no money in my pocket on the edge of the Sahara Desert when they all started to go off in a taxi without me; but I got involved in this - anyway I saw the taxi going, opened the door and dived across the back seats; it made them all laugh and I stayed there till we reached civilisation!!

Albert Hall, The Albert Hall, The Royal Albert Hall!!

My friends admonish me for being so pedantic about the differences in English between the United States and the British Isles. I say the British Isles although there are a few things in Ireland which has the same usage as in America; for example the use of the words take and bring.

The correct use of these words in Britain is to take to and bring from; just like in stock keeping and accounting when you put 'carried' forward at the bottom of the column and 'brought' forward at the beginning of a new page; it's 'shall we take our shovels' and 'shall we bring them back.'

In Ireland and the USA they say 'shall we bring our shovels?'

Of course that's if you have a shovel!

I have touched on the usage of English elsewhere on this blog and as with everything else I am no expert; I just have an interest in linguistics and I am a fan on Geoffrey Nunberg who regularly contributes to NPR's Fresh Air programmes; he hits the nail right on the head when he writes and commentates on how the English language is changing even without us noticing it; look him up on Amazon.

It fascinates me how the two countries (separated by a common language, according to Shaw) differ over the use of the definite article. For example the Americans say 'the' hospital – as if there is only one. I have been living here for over fifteen years so I say it too now. Although when I am writing for an English character I have to check myself.

In Britain they just say hospital – as in 'she is in hospital.' In America it is 'she is in the hospital.'

If that was all that was to it that would be the end of it but we all say 'I am going to the movies' 'to the theatre' ' to the game' or 'the match' as if there is only one of those.

But what happens when we talk of The Albert Hall?

The Americans with all their use of the definite article drop it when it comes to The Albert Hall and there is only one Albert Hall.

A friend of mine sent an e-mail the other day and said 'Stephen Fry is at Albert Hall' and I wrote and pointed out his error. Then when I met him later he said 'what is this about Albert Halls?' – in the plural.

There is no answer to it of course but this is Albert Hall:


And this is The Albert Hall:
Albert Hall, the actor, was in Apocalypse Now but as far as he is concerned he is The Albert Hall and the other one is really called The Royal Albert Hall; but nobody calls it that!!

Tony Curtis RIP.

If there was one thing Marlon Brando was right about it was that his favourite actor was Tony Curtis. He said he was the only actor who could smile properly and he was right.

Anybody can scream and shout and burst out crying but when it comes to something in between it's not that easy. Just look at some of the false smiles on present day movie stars and see what I mean.

There is another thing he did better than most and that was comedy; comedy acting is one of the hardest things to do in the actors' repertoire and they say 'stand up' is even harder.

Look how much he had to do and how good he is in a below par movie Boeing Boeing!

Some people say that actors like Tony Curtis and other actors like Gary Cooper, Gregory Peck and Robert Mitchum were some kind of 'personality' actors bringing their own personality to all of their roles; well so what? Great actors with great reputations do the same thing; it really is easy to play extreme characters – maniacs, mentally ill people, monsters and the like but very hard to be Cary Grant – or Tony Curtis.

I met him when I first came to live in Los Angeles; one is always a bit tentative when meeting one of your favourite actors but he was no disappointment. He was such a regular guy – and a movie fan – that it was unreal. He was also about the same size as me!!

I loved it when he came to live in Britain and did the Persuaders with Roger Moore all those years ago; if ever his character needed an alias he would use his real name Bernie Schwartz.

When I was about 16 I would go to the barber's and asked for the Tony Curtis cut – wouldn't have been the same if I'd asked for a Bernie Schwartz would it?

Actually it was the Tony Curtis, Boston DA; Tony Curtis being the hair style, the Boston being the square neck (which I hate now) and the DA was the Duck's Arse; that was the way the hair was swept around the sides to the back which looked like the back of a duck; yes the Duck's Arse which is the way the people in Minnesota say duck sauce.

Of course my dad, who's trade was a barber, when he saw the Boston, was disgusted; you've had a bleedin' neck shave, he would say.

He was right.

Bye bye Bernie!!

Sally Menke RIP and the heat of Los Angeles.

The day before yesterday, Monday 27th September is to go down in the history of Los Angeles as the hottest day ever – 113 degrees Fahrenheit; that's 45 degrees Celsius in other parts of the world; other parts of the world that don't use Fahrenheit only when temperatures there reach either zero or one hundred; now why would they do that?

I have been receiving e-mails from friends and relations in Scotland and England complaining how cold it is there and raining too and here we are suffering.

There was a very good very famous film editor who died from heat exhaustion not far from here in Griffith Park; Sally Menke (above) edited all Quentin Tarantino's films and she went walking with her dog; her friends looked for her when she didn't return and her body was found many hours later at 2:00 am and the dog didn't leave her side.

An editor is the person on a film who finds a big piece of concrete and shapes it into a statue; Tarantino will be lost without her as she was a close friend of his as well as his trusty editor. He said that he writes and directs alone and the only collaborator he has (had) was Sally.

When actors made a bit of a mess in a scene in Tarantino movies – you know fluffed a line or something – they would turn to the camera and say 'sorry Sally' and a lot of them would just simply say 'hello Sally.'

There were also many thousands of people here without power – so think yourself lucky with your wind and rain!

My shaving gel turned to foam because of the heat; our main window faces north so it hasn't been too bad here till later in the day but the bathroom faces south. This means the wall in there is hot when you touch it and my poor old shaving gel was touching the wall. I put it in the fridge and it was okay yesterday.

Our front door faces south too and that gets very hot; the idea is to keep the windows closed because as soon as you open them you can feel the hot air entering the room – if you put the fan by the open window it blows hot air in too.

We don't see much of the cat in this kind of heat; he stays under the bed or in the wardrobe.

Los Angeles usually has heat waves in September even though it is autumn – fall as they call it here.

So goodbye Sally Menke and I hear Arthur Penn has just died too – 2 movies I remember from him were The Left Handed Gun and Bonnie and Clyde.

Ed Miliband and the 'F' word.

Before I start to write this post there is a chance that I might say the 'F' word; I did mention this when I extended my mailing list some time ago. I said this blog would not be censored in any way so it it offends you – wassamatter with you – it's only a word!!

I think it was only in the Victorian era that certain words were deemed taboo and their uses were stopped. A bit like America today in fact. Here they will not use the word Godamn on TV; they will bleep the God part however they don't mind using the word bollocks and piss. To hear commentators and talk show hosts using the word piss and bollocked (as in the bollocked things up) is funny and the other day I heard the word bugger; so things must be looking up.

There are a few words that have come into the vernacular since we have been here; words such as queue were never used and when I first came I heard a new word oxymoron – I certainly heard moron a lot in the UK but never oxymoron.

But words and phrases are catching on here from the UK as words and phrases catch on in Britain that come from America. They don't rhyming slang here, that I love, which has spread away from the cockneys and into the middle and upper classes in England and they don't really use the word fortnight; but time will tell.

All that above to explain why I'm using the 'F' word later on.

I used to hear my parents say that the policemen are getting younger which was really telling them that they, themselves, were getting old but what about politicians??

The new leader of the Labour Party in Britain is younger than our eldest daughter; that's very hard for me to write down particularly as I always say I'm 39 years old.

Ed Miliband, bless him, and there he is above, has come from an excellent background. He was educated at a North London Comprehensive school as opposed to the Public School posh background of Clegg and Cameron – the Brokeback Twins – and the son of the Marxist Theorist, Ralph Miliband and his parents were pals of Tony Benn; so what could be better?

He is also the younger brother of David Miliband, the former Foreign Secretary whom he contested and narrowly defeated for the leadership of the party over the weekend.

He is more left leaning than his brother whom I think was associated with Gordon Brown/Tony Blair too much but he (Ed) only won the contest by a tiny percentage.

Now I hope we don't have a Cane and Abel thing going on here!!

The other thing I noticed was when David Miliband arrived at the railway station the other day in Manchester for the conference he was wearing a dark shirt, tight jeans and, what looked like, winkle picker shoes. Bit of a change from the old guard entering (below); Brown with his entourage as opposed to David Miliband as Spring Heeled Jack. .

So where has this fella, Ed, come from?

From The Guardian - There was a brief stint as a television researcher before he went to work for Harriet Harman (who had called the Observer's Andrew Rawnsley to ask if he would recommend the bright, young, left wing man who had worked with him).
Miliband junior went on to work at the Treasury with the chancellor and was soon an undisputed Brownite. In the days that the relationship between the two camps became most strained Ed was seen as the one person who could span the warring tribes – perhaps down to his relationship with his brother. He had also dated Liz Lloyd, who had worked for Blair and was a close friend of James Purnell.
Blairites nicknamed the younger Miliband the "emissary from the Planet Fuck".

So there we are – The Guardian said it not me.

Socialism and Ryanair!!

Now what does socialism have to do with Michael O'Leary (above) of Ryanair? Absolutely nothing.

Michael O'Leary is a genius of an entrepreneur and gets his airline into the news all the time; a few months ago he was on news items all over the world because it got out that he was proposing to charge for the use of the lavatories on his flights; and what did that do? It got everybody asking who Ryanair was and when people looked into it they found that the airline was offering incredibly cheap flights between various places in Europe; but maybe not for those with a weak bladder.

The flights are mostly from Dublin and last year I went from London (Stanstead) to Dublin and back for very little money. The first time, last March, it cost me less that £10 ($15) for a round trip; the second time a little bit more.

So what am I getting at?

Socialism has been banned in America since the 1950s and the red scare, red channels, reds under the bed, the House Unamerican Activities Committee and all the other paranoia clap trap. Nobody who has lived here consistently for the past fifty odd years has ever lived under Socialism or probably knows the first thing about it.

Which is why when Republicans and members of the so called Tea Party call the policies of a very soft left President Obama Socialist, they prove they know nothing about Socialism or even politics.

If Obama was a Socialist he would have nationalised the means of power, transport, the health service and the post office. Not necessarily the banks, I might add, as the Labour and Socialist Party which governed Britain in the sixties didn't nationalise the banks then; they did, however, nationalise The Bank of England which, for American readers, is kind of equivalent to the Federal Reserve.

To save you looking on Wikipedia the Bank of England is (despite its name) the central bank of the whole of the United Kingdom and is the model on which most modern, large central banks have been based. It was established in 1694 to act as the English Government's banker, and to this day it still acts as the banker for Her Majesties Government. The Bank was privately owned and operated from its foundation in 1694 until it was nationalised in 1946 by the Labour Party which was a Socialist government.

In 1997, under the very UN-Socialist government of Tony Blair, it became an independent public organisation, wholly-owned by Government, with independence in setting monetary policy.


Since nationalisation in 1946, the country has been ruled for a majority of the time by the Conservative Party including the right wing Thatcher debacle and not once did they de-nationionalise the bank – ask yourself why.

The UK didn't have extreme Socialist policies like the USSR (The United Soviet of Socialist Republics) it established the National Health Service and to this day – even though the present Tory Government will try and change it somehow – nobody in Britain is without free health service. I wrote about that recently and don't need to go into it again so what is my point?

Nobody in America has even talked about Socialism since the 1950s until the opponents of President Obama started calling him a Socialist; now people are looking up Socialist in their dictionaries and Wikipedia and finding something they like – or dislike of course - just as the people who were disgusted with the fact that Ryanair were going to charge people for using the lavatory on their flights looked into the company which drew attention to them and increased their business.

Name recognition!!!

There is a lot of talk about the Republicans taking over the Senate well I think they shot themselves in the foot – I don't think they will; they have let the Tea Part influence them too much; thank you Sarah Palin.

By the way Michael O'Leary went to the same college as James Joyce!

Fedex and my broken guitar; a happy ending.

A lot of people had asked but I'm pleased to report a happy ending to the missing/broken guitar saga – but not without a very long phone call and a few choice words – so let me tell you in case it might happen to you one day . . . .

Back in Los Angeles I thought I would get on to Fedex and see what was what so the other day I gave them a call. The department was the CAD in Georgia; now I know the devil went down to Georgia so when I called them I was wary; I asked for the woman I spoke to the very first day the guitar was on its way back to Los Angeles and for the umpteenth time I was told she had stepped out - again – so I settled for another woman - again.

I had to explain the whole situation and eventually she cottoned on to the situation; she told me there was no complaint number so she would make one and settled for that; I then told my daughter and she told me that I'd quoted the wrong complaint number so I called them back in Georgia and spoke to someone else who passed the new number on.

The next day I received an email from an International Claims Rep in the FCIS, whatever that is; she told me that a claim for damages had to be made within 21 days from the delivery date and she said Unfortunately, I will not be able to honor a claim for this shipment. Cheeky bugger, I thought to myself then I forwarded it to my daughter and said 'here's a bit of fun.'

So I called the woman and before I could even get out a few digits of the ten digit number of the complaint number my daughter had told me she interrupted me and continued to interrupt me till I hung up on her as she wouldn't even put me through to her supervisor when I asked.

Back to Georgia; the original woman had stepped out yet again but this time I persisted and told them I had called so many times and she had always stepped out but this time they needed to fetch her; I was asked to hang on and I hung on for about fifteen minutes till she actually came to the phone. She confirmed that her department was the Customer Advocate Department so deduced from this that she was my representative in hell.

I told her that I'd been refused and that we'd been talking since day one and she said “I need to find this woman's supervisor and get you to talk to her.”

So after what seemed forever I was put in touch with the supervisor who couldn't have been nicer.

After a very long conversation they gave me the price I paid for the replacement guitar, the price I paid for the original shipment and credited my daughter's Fedex account which was invoiced for the international shipment.

My daughter had called them within days and that call was recorded so the woman who refused me was totally wrong.

So there we are – I'm satisfied.

Here's a bonus:


The devil went down to Georgia, he was looking for a soul to steal.
He was in a bind 'cos he was way behind: he was willin' to make a deal.
When he came across this young man sawin' on a fiddle and playin' it hot.
And the devil jumped upon a hickory stump and said: "Boy let me tell you what:
"I bet you didn't know it, but I'm a fiddle player too.
"And if you'd care to take a dare, I'll make a bet with you.
"Now you play a pretty good fiddle, boy, but give the devil his due:
"I bet a fiddle of gold against your soul, 'cos I think I'm better than you."
The boy said: "My name's Johnny and it might be a sin,
"But I'll take your bet, your gonna regret, 'cos I'm the best that's ever been."

Johnny you rosin up your bow and play your fiddle hard.
'Cos hells broke loose in Georgia and the devil deals the cards.
And if you win you get this shiny fiddle made of gold.
But if you lose, the devil gets your soul.

The devil opened up his case and he said: "I'll start this show."
And fire flew from his fingertips as he rosined up his bow.
And he pulled the bow across his strings and it made an evil hiss.
Then a band of demons joined in and it sounded something like this.
When the devil finished, Johnny said: "Well you're pretty good ol' son.
"But sit down in that chair, right there, and let me show you how its done."

Fire on the mountain, run boys, run.
The devil's in the house of the risin' sun.
Chicken in the bread pan, pickin' out dough.
"Granny, does your dog bite?"
"No, child, no."

The devil bowed his head because he knew that he'd been beat.
He laid that golden fiddle on the ground at Johnny's feet.
Johnny said: "Devil just come on back if you ever want to try again.
"I told you once, you son of a gun, I'm the best that's ever been."

And he played fire on the mountain, run boys, run.
The devil's in the house of the risin' sun.
Chicken in the bread pan, now they're pickin' out dough.
"Granny, will your dog bite?"
"No, child, no."

By Charlie Daniels

The difference in health care between the UK and America.

Here we are back in our own beds; since we left Scotland we haven't slept in the same bed for more than a few days running.

Here we are back in our own beds; since we left Scotland we haven't slept in the same bed for more than a few days running.

I want to give an example of the difference in health care between the UK and American and this will be based on very recent experience.

My wife, Margaret, has pneumonia; she catches pneumonia like other people catch colds and in the last six years she has had it around five or six times. It's worrying but she seems to get over it and is caused by a weak immune system due to an auto immune disease she has.

The symptoms are easy for us to detect by now and they usually start with a cold; if we can catch it there it's great but if not we know the outcome.

So last week she picked up the chicken pox virus and woke up in London in a cold sweat with a high temperature; we called a doctor's surgery – what they call in the USA a doctor's office – and they agreed to an appointment. We had to be at the doctors for 11:15 and wait to be 'slipped in' between proper appointments.

As we are not registered with that particular surgery we had to fill in a form with my wife's national health number included; this we did.

The surgery was a very modern building in Ealing; it was split into 3 reception windows; one for the doctors and the other two for clinics. When a doctor was ready for you a beep was heard and whomsoever was next had their name displayed on a neon notice which told you what room to go to; much like any doctor's office in the US.

After about forty five minutes we were called in to see a very pleasant and attractive female doctor of about forty who greeted us at her door - not like in the USA where you are shown into a consulting room and told to sit on the edge of an examination bed where you wait for what seems forever.

The doctor had a computer on her desk and we sat next to her. On the computer was the Internet and my wife's name was on the screen with her national health number. The doctor mentioned that there was no information about my wife and we explained that we live in America. If we lived in the UK and had been to the doctor – any doctor – in recent months that information would have been on the screen; I don't know if this happens in the USA yet but I suspect not.

The doctor examined my wife, took her temperature and asked her to go to the lavatory to produce a sample of urine in case my wife had a urine infection. This she did and the doctor tested it there and then.

Of course the doctor, as all doctors do, didn't believe that my wife had had pneumonia so many times; she listened to my wife's chest and said it was clear. We explained that it was always clear at this stage and the doctor then prescribed an antibiotic.

This was a broad spectrum antibiotic meant to cover a whole range of infections and as I mentioned in the last paragraph she didn't believe us about the pneumonia.

So we went to the pharmacist, which was less than a hundred yards away, and the pharmacist filled out the prescription and gave it to is – by the way no money changed hands either at the doctors or the pharmacist – universal health care you see.

As it happens the antibiotic didn't agree with my wife as she experienced one of the side affects mentioned on the pamphlet so, as they advised, she discontinued use. She carried on with the aspirin and other pain killers but because it was Saturday evening she didn't bother to get the antibiotic changed; looking back she could have as all surgeries do a night and weekend service.

So when we arrived back in Los Angeles I couldn't really call anybody as it was Labour Day – a holiday. If we called our doctor we would have been told to either go to the ER or call 911 but in any case it was late in the day so I called the doctor yesterday – Tuesday.

Now bear in mind that this is our regular doctor in Beverly Hills; not all residents of the USA have this kind of access especially if they don't have health insurance but the doctor is available to everybody providing you have the means and are willing to pay for it.

Also – he is our regular doctor and has my wife's medical records with the history of pneumonia over the past six years; but they don't have it on a computer; not yet!!

As with the doctor in London there are no appointments; so I had to talk to the receptionist to try and put a case forward for the doctor to see my wife as soon as possible. I explained about the previous bouts of pneumonia but she still wanted me to describe symptoms and temperatures and when I explained everything she said she would have a word with the doctor and call me back.

She did call back and said the doctor wanted my wife to have an x ray and that she had sent a fax to the imaging company that do them to authorise it – we have been many times to the place over the past six years so that's what we did.

When my wife had the x ray they saw something on her lung and called our doctor; the doctor instructed them, over the phone, to do a catscan (ct scan) and this they did.

We were told to call the doctor and we did on the way home and the same receptionist told us that he would call us later at home. When he did he told my wife she had pneumonia; then he called the pharmacist and gave them the prescription over the phone

I went and picked it up and it cost $65; we didn't see the doctor at all so we were kind of treated over the phone or by proxy – no TLC there.

To be fair to the British system it would have been different if they'd had my wife's records on line with her history (or the back story as they are annoyingly saying these days).

They would have treated her accordingly but blood tests and x ray results usually take longer than this as a rule in America and I'm not sure how that would have worked in the UK.

I leave it to you to judge which system is better but in the UK it's available to everybody through the National Health Service and no such system exists in America where forty million people cannot go to a doctor as they have no health insurance.

They can go to an ER and they will treat them and the government will pay for that I believe.

This is my one hundredth post so here is a photo I took of our cat yeaterday - welcoming us home with a smile

The Edinburgh Book Lovers' Tour and Literary Pub Crawl and other things....

That building, above, is the Writer's Museum where a friend I got to know in Edinburgh, Allan Foster, starts a Literary Pub Crawl twice a day from around May to September. Allan came to my show and I enjoyed his talks at the Havers and Blethers evenings at The Captain's Bar.

What a wonderful thing to have in your city - A Writer's Museum.

By the way - earlier readers of this post will have seen a different picture. Now THAT is the Writers' Museum, above, and not the one previously.

Here's Allan's blurb taken from his web site:

The Edinburgh Book Lovers' Tour and Literary Pub Crawl are led by Allan Foster, author of 'The Literary Traveller In Edinburgh' & 'The Literary Traveller In Scotland', published by Mainstream. All prominent Scottish writers from the fourteenth to the twenty-first century are included and discussed in their literary, historical and cultural contexts, set in the landscapes where they were born and which inspired them. It details the birthplaces, childhoods, former homes and burial places of famous Scottish authors, uncovers sites, restaurants and pubs with a literary connection, and lists notable bookshops, literary museums and other places of relevance in the world of Scottish writing. This attractive tome is lavishly illustrated with photographs, whilst maps enhance many of the entries, including the Kidnapped trail, Boswell and Johnson's Highland journey, Burns country, Richard Hannay's 39 Steps trail, the Pentland walks of Robert Louis Stevenson, a plan of Rosslyn Chapel, Gavin Maxwell's Sandaig, Compton Mackenzie's Barra, the Ettrick Valley of James Hogg, the Mearns of Lewis Grassic Gibbon, J. M. Barrie's Thrums and the ports and pubs of Para Handy, to name a few. There has never been a national literary guide for Scotland until now . . . . etc.

He tells tails of two writers - Mark Twain and Walter Scott; Mark Twain blamed Scott for the American Civil War - in as much that Scott "had so large a hand in making Southern character, as it existed before the American Civil War that he is in great measure responsible for the war"

Pity they didn't meet!

What a response to my last posting about the number 27 bus in Edinburgh; over 150 hits on that posting alone, a couple of comments on the blog and quite a few e-mails from people I know.

I heard from loads of people but not from my brother who usually responds to every one; he is still sending e-mails about the one before which concerned the nun coming into my (our – everybody's) dressing room and getting changed.

Of course she wasn't a real nun she was an actress (an actress???? Who's she living with?? - Peter Ustinov) and I was joking but my poor brother is living on the edge of civilisation doing his bit for crown and country so he can and has to be forgiven.

I also sent it to a friend of mine separately and it went by mistake to the Scottish press folder which was where I was sending my press releases that they ignored. This time I got a lot of response from them but this time it was 'your e-mail was unread' - at least they are alive as I suspected otherwise when they ignored my show – but in the end we didn't need them.

Hope you received it by now Scott!

So I head back to Los Angeles one guitar short; I had to buy one, as you may remember, over here and as United Airlines wanted $200 to transport the new one back I sold it for half the price I bought it for; so it was a cheap hire in the end.

I hope to be on the beach in Venice with some friends on Sunday September 12th for my Sunday morning breakfast and bike ride – a million miles from Edinburgh but it will be close to my heart.