Instead of any of that funny business, I'd advise teenagers to enjoy a nice Crepe Suzette today. Because, yes, hard as it may be to believe, it's also National Crepe Suzette Day.
I was shocked by how many songs there were featuring Crepe Suzettes in the title... including offerings from Danny Kaye, Kenneth Williams and Cyril Watters with The New Century Orchestra. Thank God for The Descendents.
You may choose to wash your crepe suzette down with a nice beverage. Which is good because it's also National Beverage Day. The word "beverage" always reminds me of The Dude...
And what is The Dude's Beverage of choice, that he really doesn't want to spill?
A White Russian, of course... that's vodka, kahlúa and double cream (milk powder will apparently suffice if you don't have any cream) over ice.
Richard Herring's question of the week, from his excellent book Emergency Questions...
What's the best museum you've ever been to?
Rich's answer to this is the Keswick Pencil Museum, which I have to say takes some beating. He's probably being sarcastic, although maybe not, because I'm sure he appreciates a good pencil like the rest of us. Having been there myself, I can highly recommend it.
The photo at the top of the page was taken in the Weston Park Museum in Sheffield, which was probably the first museum we ever took Sam to... but we still enjoy visiting it today. The woolly rhino is worth the price of admission on its own... or it would be, if admission wasn't free.
A more local museum that we still pop into from time to time, even though it'll only kill half an hour or so is the Tolson Musuem in Ravensknowle Hall, Huddersfield. There are a few old cars, an old trolleybus and... best of all, a horse that has been cut in half to reveal its skeleton. From one side, it's a horse, from the other... brrr!
The South Yorkshire Aircraft Museum has also become a regular summer stop for Sam and I. An excellent collection of old planes and helicopters, some that you can sit in and pretend you're a pilot.
I like a museum that allows you to step back in time and see the world as it was in days gone by. One of the best of these is Ryedale Folk Museum in North Yorkshire; it's like wandering around an old village and you can go into the old shops, farm buildings and cottages and really feel like you've gone back in time.
Finally, there's the National Science and Media Museum in Bradford - formerly known (back when I worked in the city) as the National Museum of Photography, Film and Television. They have lots of ever-changing interactive exhibits, but the best thing is the Hall of Mirrors. They were closed last year for extensive renovation, so I'm looking forward to seeing what's new in the summer holidays.
Having listed some of the best museums Sam and I have visited over the years, I still haven't answer Richard Herring's question. My favourite museum? Well, it'd have to be this one...
Do you know the history of the trench coat? What it represents and who it's for? What I want to know is who would want a coat So close to the floor? I went to the Trench Coat Museum to see 'em A thousand different cuts Like pelts from another dream Stuffed and bursting at the seams Cause I'm fishing for a theme If it's somewhere in between A day's honest graft and constantly fleeing the crime scene...
I'm not sure he needs it yet, he's still a few years off being a sweaty teenager, but apparently it's the thing. So his mum bought him some Lynx. Because the makers have moved away from the ridiculous notion that if you spray yourself with Lynx, thousands of teenage girls will come chasing after you (presumably with some bleach and a scrubbing brush) and now they're promoting themselves via the notion of sporting prowess - wearing Lynx will make you into a G.O.A.T.
It probably goes without saying that I have a problem with Lynx. Due to "odour-linked memories", I don't get The Lynx Effect... I get The Proust Effect.
This name came about because the author Marcel Proust wrote in his book, Swann’s Way, that the smell of a pastry he dipped in his tea brought on a rush of joy associated with his childhood.
However, due to our storytelling brain, the opposite is also true. I don't know if Marcel Proust ever smelt Lynx deodorant, but if he did, I hope it whisked him back to school changing rooms on a wet Wednesday afternoon, when all the footy lads were raring to go, and young Proust was feeling queasy, intimidated and ready for his weekly hour of humiliation. Because that's what happens to me. One whiff of Lynx and I end up right back here...
I had a ticket to see Jim Bob last Wednesday, and I've been looking forward to it for some time. I've done pretty well at getting back into live music over the past few months, and this would have been my fourth gig of the year... but it was problematic. Firstly it was a week night, towards the end of term, and in Leeds. Now, I work in Leeds, so getting there wasn't a problem... but getting home usually is. Still, I figured when I bought the ticket, it'd be quieter at night and I'd get home quicker...
On Wednesday, I finish work at 4.30. It's usually a nightmare getting home in time to pick Sam up from after school club before that closes at 6, but as that wasn't an issue, I stayed at work and did some online grocery shopping, then stopped off at the supermarket to pick up a sandwich and a few bits. I made it to the venue in plenty of time and sat in the car eating a reduced M&S Chicken caesar baton. And that's when the anxiety kicked in. I was already exhausted after a long school term, and the travel has really been getting to me this year. Jim Bob had sent out the showtimes via social media and I knew he wasn't on till 9, but I was eager to catch the support act, Lonely Tourist...
As time ticked on though, closer to the start of the gig, my anxiety grew. Even if I didn't stay till the end of Jim Bob's set at 10.45, I wouldn't be home till well after 11, post-gig high means I never get to sleep easily, and I knew I had to be up at 6.30 whatever. All around me, middle-aged men in faded Carter USM T-shirt were strolling happily up to the venue, smiling and chatting, and I just started to feel worse and worse. I'm too old for this shit. Who am I kidding? I'm not going to enjoy the show if I'm constantly worrying about getting home, getting to sleep, getting up again and driving the hour plus commute to work tomorrow morning...
Just before 8, as Lonely Tourist was about to hit the stage, I turned the key in the ignition and drove home.
Jim Bob has made some of my favourite records of the past few years and his new album, Thanks For Reaching Out, is a cracker. I've never seen him live and he was definitely a name to tick off. Maybe next time he'll take pity on us soft, middle-aged northern Jessies and book a weekend slot...
Last week, you had to choose from three bands called Linoleum... though your biggest disappointment was that none of them came from former Lino Capital, Kirkcaldy.
Above is the cover to 10cc's album Bloody Tourists, home of cod-reggae smash Dreadlock Holiday, a Number One that has probably been consigned to the "never play this again for fear of offending someone who wasn't offended by it in 1978" pile by Radio 2.
Here are three more bloody Tourists...
THE TOURISTS #1
New Jersey - birthplace of Frank Sinatra, Bruce Springsteen, FM radio, the electric lightbulb and... in 1977, proto-metal / stoner-rock outfit The Tourists, led by one Bob Solberg. This was their only single...
THE TOURISTS #2
Annie Lennox. Dave Stewart. Long before the world-conquering hi-jinks of the Eurythmics, they were The Tourists... although the band really belonged to lead guitarist and principal songwriter Peet Coombes, the man behind their biggest hit that wasn't a Dust Springfield cover.
TOURISTS #3
Eschewing the definite article, and all the way from sunny Torquay, home of Sydney Opera House, The Hanging Gardens of Babylon and herds of wildebeest sweeping majestically across the plain... here's a bunch of contemporary Tourists who "combine elements of shoegaze and synth-pop with deeper-rooted post-punk influences, crafting their own identifiable brand of dark, melodic dream-pop". Whatever happened to just writing catchy tunes, eh?
As usual, discogs sent me down a couple of rabbit holes which didn't lead to any actual tunes, though I was most disappointed to not find audio from Las Tentadoras... I mean, clearly this one would have been a winner.
Special mention goes to country rock pioneers Wynn Stewart & The Tourists, who were disqualified by the VAR. I'd have let you in, guys, I really would. And if it were up to me, the wonderful Lonely Tourist would also be shoe-horned into this week's post.
Which Tourists would you welcome in your record collection... and which ones just need to go back where they came from?
When I was growing up, the phone in our house looked exactly like the one above. It was located on the wall between the kitchen and the front room. (Front room: there's another old-fashioned concept. Now they'd call it the dining room or the snug. It had a couple of comfy chairs and a gas fire, a small portable black & white TV we used to watch M*A*S*H* on, and the dog's basket. It was a front room.)
The last twelve months, some of the longest conversations I've had with my mum have been over the phone. The phone she has now doesn't look anything like the one above, but that's what I imagine her talking on... or asking me to repeat myself on because she's not heard what I said. My dad can't hear on the phone at all these days so he doesn't even bother answering it. Back when his hearing was a little better, he would occasionally pick it up, say hello and then shout, "Mary!" before adding, "hang on while I get your mother".
That's why I love this new song by the Lonely Tourist so much. Anyone who's been limited to phone calls as their only way of communicating with elderly relatives over the last 12 months will surely love it too. And if that's not you, I bet it'll still bring back memories of days gone by... especially the way the dad answers by saying the last 4 numbers of his phone number, something my mum only stopped doing a few years ago.
One thing I've become thoroughly sick of over the last few months is people telling me how much more time they have under lockdown to read books, catch up on Netflix box sets, or take up a new hobby. Whereas I've had less time than ever. Grrr.
Still, presumably all that free time people have been enjoying will soon come to an end seeing as the message from government appears now to be "do whatever the hell you like and sod everybody else". I understand Durham's very nice this time of year.
I would say let's not kick a man when he's down, but as Dominic Cummings appears to be a loathsome sociopath, and one of the key players in the destruction of Great Britain, I'd say let's keep kicking the bastard until he screams for mercy. And carry on after that, just to be on the safe side.
And he's not down anyway, is he? The supreme arrogance of this man. He refuses to take responsibility or show any kind of remorse. He's got senior politicians lying blatantly for him, and he's even got the BBC silencing its one truly unbiased reporter who dared to speak out against him by reflecting the mood of the nation. Just when I thought I couldn't find politics any more repugnant...
Never mind, eh? Here's a young man called Tom who's been using the lockdown to catch up on biographies of rock stars, loads of them, including John Lydon, Brix Smith... and... erm...
Last in the pile and reluctantly
There's Autobiography by Steven Patrick Morrissey
The grim first chapters of northern poetry
Give no real hint at the author's latent bigotry
The Smiths appeared on the 100th page
There's endless snide for Rough Trade
But it all goes wrong when he loses in court
He's been slated by everyone but his fans still support him
It's too much for Tom, he gives up, he's had his fill
