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Post by TM on Jun 12, 2012 9:19:36 GMT -5
Is anyone reading Gerald's blog on the official site? I get the feeling the answer is no since I haven't seen any discussion on it.
I'm sure I'm in the minority but I never got into the whole St. Cleve Chronicle thing. I never read the TAAB newspaper and I find the same true for the new one.
How about you? Do you enjoy that sort of thing?
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Post by jtul07 on Jun 12, 2012 9:59:04 GMT -5
May 28, 2012 Other Entries....June 5th The Bostock Diaries
GB TAKES TO THE ROAD! Latest news from the lyric writer of the original "Thick as a Brick" Well - what a change of retirement job! I was going to write my novel. And then retire (properly) on the fat and disgraceful proceeds to the little apartment Felicity and I still have near Alicante. Next, in fact, to a little bar where they serve the most delightful Olive Fatiche Poufflé. You know - the two little mounds of mashed squid and potato with theprovocative nipple-like olives mounted proudly at their peaks. Steady, old friend. Lie down, Rover! But that's another story. I received a phone call yesterday from a friend of a friend, asking me to pack my bags and join the Ian Anderson Thick As A Brick tour in Germany, where they need a translator/tour manager to handle the hotels, flights, backstage catering and so on. Apparently, my left-over Army skills (I was stationed briefly near Frankfurt in a misguided career move during the mid-eighties) qualify me to be über-dogsbody (delightful contradiction) and "facilitator" in getting a rock band from A to B and onwards, gloriously, to C. Combined with my snake-like wriggles, political guile and verve, I should manage the odd border crossing and crazed flight attendant with ne'er a flinch or waver. So, off on Sunday to join Mr A and his cronies in Berlin. Not sure whether to pack a suit and loafers or take that pair of Levis Felicity gave me for my fortieth and which I have never yet worn. Still have the price tag and the washing instructions on, in fact. I suppose wardrobe conformity is a lesser consideration in the context of required linguistic and cultural skills. If you can hold the floor with attacking precision and command at Prime Minister's Questions and make your point, fiercely, succinctly, avoid the wrath of Mr Speaker and settle back back afterwards for a quick snooze, you can handle most things in life, I would have thought. They had considered asking ex-local priest Godfrey Pitcher but his occasional lack of tact and regrettable tendency to the more colourful adjective weighted heavily against. I, on the other hand, can bite several tongues and charm the flimsies off a transvestite traffic cop with a bad headache. Not the job for you, this time, Pitcher m'lad. Best leave it to oily, silky professional that I shall endeavour to be at all times. More from the Front on Monday or Tuesday, perhaps, when I have settled in and found my berth on the tour bus. A Mr Downs has been charged with getting me quickly au fait with tour bus life and culture. I am told that my verging-onportly frame will find a lower bunk easier to negotiate. Being close to the lavatory is a more dubious asset as you have more nocturnal traffic edging past your sleepy frame as they queue for the only piss-artist undressing room in town. Apparently, there is a Mr Lynch who requires to go rather often and, irritatingly, hums bawdy sea-shanties in the hope of inducing a trickle. It seems that warbler Anderson was struck down by a secondary infection chest and throat bug in Stuttgart two days ago and sought medical help to get over the problem ASAP. My training in Army nursing and pharmaceutical administration could have come in handy. 250 Mg dosage of Azithromycin would have been my choice - 2 for starters and one a day for four more days. Should be right as rain in two shakes of a raccoon's short and curly. Probationary appointment this, by all accounts, although dark mutterings have been overheard indicating that other tours may follow. I did a stint in Washington for a year when I was toying with a Foreign Office Diplomat post-army future. Frightful place but rather fun off-duty if you knew the right (and the wrong) people. So skills in slipping and sliding round the Yankee cousins may prove useful to my wayward musical herd of sheep on the frantic field of battle. Johnny Foreigner beware! Bostock will lead, marshall, rally and charge at the head of the Prog-Rock battalion with young Lieutenant Biggles in close support. Talk soon, dear reader. Off to pack now. Must get an iPad. And bloody ear-plugs. Fat Bostock kisses to you. PS: Anyone have an email address for Tufty Parritt at Cruddock Hall? I need to send a formal objection to his planning app for another (so he says) stable block. We all know he really wants to build a Turkish Bath and Solarium in the grounds and operate it for profit. Damned woman Oona what's-she-called seems to be involved too, so where will it all end? Nothing against a bit of hirsute nudity and soapy frolics, but a step too far for sleepy St Cleve, in my humble opinion. Humble's the word; Bostock's the name. GB
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Post by jtul07 on Jun 12, 2012 10:08:54 GMT -5
June 5, 2012 The Bostock Diaries
GB TAKES TO THE ROAD! Part 2Latest news from the lyric writer of the original "Thick as a Brick" GB here, with a note from the Front. Well - I found my designated bunk on the tour bus. Corporal Micky Downs showed me to my well-equipped cocoon like a beaming front-desk manager at the Ritz-Carlton Towers and Suites. At this point, all notions of 5-star accommodation vanished in a puff of stale diesel smoke. A tad on the small and cosy side, O bunk of my dreams. And, being a bottom bunk, it necessitates a delicate Pilates floor-exercise contortion to slide crab-like into the coffin of nocturnal delight. Marginally better than a top bunk. Which I see all too easily would result in a wobbling, hirsute arse hanging out for all to see, fondle or worse, while its better half attempts the scaling of the Eiger, legs flapping and scrabbling in vain at the slippery summit slope..... Mr Downs has, of course, long since allocated himself a middle bunk. Access a doddle. Simple sit, turn and roll into the heavenly arms of darkened privacy. A quick flick of curtain and Bob's your uncle. Personal video screen on. A/C summoned to sooth and tenderise. Job done. Fait accompli. Day one was not too bad from a professional point of view. Discussions with the bus driver as to the best night route from Berlin to Mainz. Details to absorb regarding bus-party names, day-off hotel room requirements, near elevator, far from elevator, smoking, non-smoking, facing street, facing back parking lot, internet access, breakfast times, early check-in, wake-up calls, etc. Etc. BUT - then the serious stuff: preferences for seats on flights, check-in baggage rules, carry-on baggage rules, excess baggage rates, carnets, visas, vaccinations, insurances, bank transfers, withholding tax agreements. And so on. None of this was mentioned when I agreed to tag along. I assumed, in my smug ignorance, that this was a verging-on-senior part-time travel jolly. Occasional nursemaid to the frail and sensitive arts and entertainment types. Not on that nellie of yours. Tour Manager is the catch-all job designation for the poor unfortunate who has, one minute, to nurse the wounded and tearful ego of guitar Rock God discouraged from a quick fag break by a 4-foot sign saying NO SMOKING WITHIN 10 METRES OF PUBLIC AREA, and the next minute, attend to the careful negotiation of electronic bank transfer informed by gentle interpretation and manipulation of International Currency Exchange Rates. If something needs doing, refer to The Tour Manager, it seems. In at the deep end. No buoyancy float or inflatable arm bands. Sink or swim in the shark-infested waters of The Rock And Roll Tour. The Production Manager is Christopher Archer. A decent enough, blunt Yorkshireman who doubtless will vote Labour at the next election with only a modicum of persuasion from me. He works on the not-unreasonable principle that "less is more" regarding discipline and the management of the technical and other issues day to day. Fair enough, since everyone seems to have an innate understanding of tour bus and backstage protocols and an odd professionalism which belies their shabby dress and occasional bad manners. The 09.00-sharp frantic load-in and reccy of the backstage at a new venue means all forces are mustered and take on their separate functions like a well-oiled sprocket. PA and Lighting crews direct and cajole a small army of local stage drew. "Humpers" as they are occasionally and disparagingly called. Most of them on bigger wages than I, most likely. Front Of House (love that expression) Sound Engineer Downs and Mark "Taz" Wheatley, the Lighting Director (LD in A&E parlance) grudgingly accept or firmly re-negotiate the sound and lighting mixer positions at the back of the downstairs audience seats where they will, a few hours later, rule over the carefully deployed and sound-check-tested technology like Field Commanders in theatre of war. Gaffer-taped laminated notices oozing boldly-lettered names like Tull Production Office, Local Production Office, Band Only, and the mysterious picture symbols for the band dressing rooms are stuck to the appropriate rooms (remembering the priority for Mr A's expressed need to be close to Stage Left access wherever possible and to have a private lavatory for his doubtless exquisitely-formed bowel movements. Internet access codes to post. Laptops, printers, battery chargers, walkie-talkie radio comms, and spent coffe cups adorn the temporary office home where we will all work for the next few hours until load-out after the show. All a-bustle back-stage for 14 hours, apart from the oddly detached, desolate Production Office calm while the band are actually performing. The weird thing is that Mr A himself seems strangely removed from all of this, preferring, where possible, to travel alone and manage his own tour requirements. He actually books all the flights himself, I am told, and plans the tours in detail with his son and agent James. He eats lunch alone, in deserted ethnic restaurants and is never seen in the catering room at band and crew dinnertime immediately following soundcheck when the band and crew vultures descend on the freebie catering food. There are suggestions that I might have to rent a car and drive him on some journeys but local promoters will hopefully take care of that. His wife, Shona, drives on the US tours and does all the daily tour accounting on the road. Scary woman by all accounts. Bumped into her once (literally) in the Waitrose car park at Clutterbury Retail Park. Trolleys locked in mortal combat in the fruit and veggie aisle. Admonishing me with a cluster of fresh asparagus, she trundled off muttering something about "stupid old men shopping alone...." while shaking a mane of dark hair in apparent disapproval. I - who have had to defer on many occasion to Madame Speaker - had to swallow this bitter pill of emasculation and retreat to the men's toiletries aisle to nurse my wounds. Again, all-too-literally, as her trolley had damned near taken my thumbnail off at the root. Scary woman.... So, really, I am engaged in helping with the affairs of the many-too-many rather than the maintenance and well-being of the one-and-only Mr A, the mysterious. He, the-cat-who-walks-alone, prefers to arrive quietly on foot at the backstage entrance at around 16.00 and depart the same way after the show is done, usually slipping alone into the night down carefully researched short-cut routes to his hotel. Dressed in the same drab garb of the forever-student, back-pack adorned with flute bag on shoulder and furrow-browed, he could be easily mistaken for one of his own fans, perhaps. Suits me just fine as I barely know him anyway. But I received both cheery wave and friendly clap on the upper arm by way of recognition when I arrived in Berlin on Sunday. Hardly seen the bugger since but I have my work cut out anyway in learning the ways of the wicked in backstage suburbia. Must badger him regarding the hosting of the local Labour Supporters' Summer Barbecue. Fat chance if the Waitrose Dragon gets her say. Reads the Daily Mail, apparently, and does the crossword in 12.3 nanoseconds. Draws moustaches on the faces of well-heeled footballers and Labour politicians too, I'll bet. Prof Stewart Wood - now Lord Wood Of Anfield - is a chief advisor to Ed Miliband and speaks well of her in private. Unlikely attractions of opposites, if you ask me. Unless, of course, young Woodsy is a master-spy and closet-Tory. Quite possible, now I think of it. Whoops - have I blown his cover? And no - I can't tell you what the mysterious band dressing rooms sign are. They don't want their names on the doors as it is a give-away to autograph seekers, trainee masseuses, visiting tax inspectors, wandering trainee Tour Managers or whatever. Oh, well: lights out in the bus-coffin now and will post this in the morning. If it ever comes. I wonder what heady delights Aurich will bring? All band and crew in a hotel for a night off there. Might pal-up with Goodier and O'Hara. About my age and civilised gents. Relatively-speaking. Nighty-night. Snoozle-oooooh. GB signing off. ZZZZZZZzzzzzzzz. Oh f***k and botheration: forgot to pee first.
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Post by TM on Jun 12, 2012 10:45:57 GMT -5
Thank you Jim, yes those are them. Do you enjoy reading it?
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Post by jtul07 on Jun 12, 2012 12:16:31 GMT -5
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Post by TM on Jun 12, 2012 13:25:20 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Jun 12, 2012 15:03:12 GMT -5
Hopefully it's demonstrating a new found interest in the overall product from Ian, if it aids his 'new creativity' then fine, but I think some of the schoolboy humour is a bit too schoolboy. I read it, but some humour is sometimes time limited, and more often I find that more prevelent in the written form. How many people go back and re-read those awful 'humour' books you get given as gifts at Christmas by Aunty Flo?
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Post by TM on Jun 12, 2012 15:28:35 GMT -5
Hopefully it's demonstrating a new found interest in the overall product from Ian, if it aids his 'new creativity' then fine, but I think some of the schoolboy humour is a bit too schoolboy. I read it, but some humour is sometimes time limited, and more often I find that more prevelent in the written form. How many people go back and re-read those awful 'humour' books you get given as gifts at Christmas by Aunty Flo? The whole prog thing has certainly set off a spark so to that extent I'm very happy. Maybe it's the schoolboy thing as you mention and maybe it's also the colloquialisms. Too bad we didn't have Google back in 1972. You never know, I might have been all over it.
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Post by jtul07 on Jun 12, 2012 21:06:46 GMT -5
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Post by awol on Jun 14, 2012 15:00:38 GMT -5
I really enjoy reading Geralds Blog, its a treat!
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Post by jtul07 on Jun 19, 2012 12:08:30 GMT -5
June 17, 2012 Other Entries....May 28th, June 5th The Bostock Diaries
GB TAKES TO THE ROAD! Part 3Latest news from the lyric writer of the original "Thick as a Brick"Well, back to Blighty and the festivities of the Queenly sort. Big three days of public holiday as Royalists and Republicans alike shared in the national Jubilee celebrations and were, for a moment, proud to be British. All went off with formal aplomb and raucous street charm in equal measure. Reflecting on the last fortnight, I think that my first trip as tour manager went rather well, on the whole. Sights to see, things to learn and new friends a-plenty. Tom Lynch, for instance, is decent man. Ruddy, full of bluster but a contemplative, solitary figure on occasion. I think that's what I rather like about these people: they all have the ability to be gregarious and supportive for several hours in the working day and then surrender to that innate sense of just when to turn off and seek the privacy so necessary to good mental and spiritual health. Whether sloping off to the dark and sometimes dirty seclusion of dressing room, the hastily erected private space of a quiet backstage corner or even back for a quiet spell in the tour bus. Anderson, himself, is a master of this art. Seldom seen except during soundcheck and the actual concert, he remains in isolation in his dressing room – usually one as close to the stage as possible since there are instruments to carry back and forth. He ventures as far as catering to peruse the humble offerings of the local caterers and choose a tasty morsel for his solitary delight back at his hotel room after the show. He doesn't eat before the show as all the others do and so returns to dressing room alone. Dinner time is usually sharp at 18.00 hours - every talks here in military time – and as soon as soundcheck is over, the catering room is full within a few minutes. Sometimes with local crew too who sit in self-imposed segregation and are occasionally noisy, rude and behave like starved gannets gorging on a bucket of sardines. There are usually some vegetarian options but they are either left untouched or, strangely, consumed quickly by the one or two veggie-eaters amongst the ensemble. Anderson has been known to express annoyance when the vegetarian option has vanished before he arrives on the scene. He eats meat sometimes but typically opts for fish and/or veg. Apparently, in days gone by, there were three or four strict vegetarians in the band or crew and they would recoil at the generous portions of heavy red meats and could be quite testy if meats were found to have contaminated the vegetables with a carelessly shared serving spoon. Understandable, perhaps but the occasional cause of impure thoughts and words. The engaging young Ryan O'Donnell is finding his feat, both on and off stage, and settling in nicely. The audience seem to really like him and he has the theatrical skills to carry off a difficult task. Somewhere between acolyte and anderson's younger self, he manages the trick of being his own man while mimicking the ancient master and taking on the odd vocal line or prancing step. He has some set pieces to sing on his own while Anderson plays the flute motifs and interludes and they trade story-line character in other parts. It certainly brings alive the parts of the arrangements of the original Thick album impossible to recreate without the extra stage presence of the new boy. There was a definite mood-swing towards more relaxed and confident performance in the two short weeks I was tagging along with them. Having safely got the first UK tour behind them with its inevitable shaking-down period of technical and artistic evolution, there is now an odd mixture of comforting routine in the air which seem to allow (I don't entirely understand these musicianly processes) for the more improvisational elements to shine and develop. A few little changes to the show are added each day or two and the detail sparkles. I await the call to arms from someone on high – maybe Mr A himself – to announce the requirement or otherwise of my services for the next bout of touring. I am not, it seems, needed for the brief appearance in Italy this week when they are doing a festival TV appearance. But Iceland sounds fascinating. Never been there before so it might be a real treat. And then on to the Montreux Jazz Festival and some shows in the Czech Rep. And Austria. The concert promoters usually provide a local tour manager or minder for the band and a technical Production Manager to work with the IA crew but having the savvy GB along might just smooth things further given my abundance of tact, oily charm and the wily stealth of the seasoned campaigner who needs to get things done and done NOW! I wonder if I shall be asked to procure a tart or some evil-smelling drugs? Or gruesome porn for the tour bus? Apparently, these sorts of duties are not entirely uncommon for Rock Band Tour Managers but so far, no luck, in my case.... Maybe there will be surprises just around the corner but I fear that, if there are, they will be to organise a museum trip or entrance to a lofty medieval cathedral. Some rumour even went the rounds last week suggesting a fishing trip in Iceland. What next? A dominoes championship? Embroidery classes? Whale-watching? A visit to the Puffin Appreciation Society Annual Lunch Barbecue in Reykjavik? What ever happened to Rock and Roll? Eat whale meat, I say! Stab a dominoes opponent with an embroidery needle. Punch the lights out on a puffin. But then, what can you expect from the quaint culture surrounding a tights-wearing old man who plays a flute in a Rock band? Hey, ho. Better get the laundry done and take the wife out to a Sunday pub lunch. The Dirty Duck has a new supplier of fresh farmed donkey and it is exceedingly lean, succulent and truly scrumptious, 'tis said. The old bag will probably have the prawn cocktail as usual and after dithering for an hour choose the sirloin steak steak, well done, with a little English mustard on the side. B****cks. Over and out. GB signing off.
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Post by TM on Jun 19, 2012 13:27:28 GMT -5
I have to say I did get a kick out of this one.
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Post by jtul07 on Jun 19, 2012 14:03:42 GMT -5
I have to say I did get a kick out of this one. When you read this, could you imagine Ian's voice? I think he is having a ball on this tour and is showing how much fun it is. ;D ;D
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Post by TM on Jun 19, 2012 16:18:22 GMT -5
I have to say I did get a kick out of this one. When you read this, could you imagine Ian's voice? I think he is having a ball on this tour and is showing how much fun it is. ;D ;D No doubt! And just imagine how much more fun he'd be having if he were playing with Martin and Doane!
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Post by jtul07 on Jun 19, 2012 16:44:29 GMT -5
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Post by My God on Jun 20, 2012 10:31:08 GMT -5
Ryan O'Donnell is a Grand addition to the present line-up. Love the blog as well.
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Post by jtul07 on Jul 11, 2012 20:02:27 GMT -5
July 10, 2012 Previous Entries May 28th/ June 5th / June 17th The Bostock Diaries
GB TAKES TO THE ROAD! Part 4 - To Iceland
Latest news from the lyric writer of the original "Thick as a Brick" note: previous posting was missing two pages. Gerald getting senile Iceland was rather splendid. A full three nights to enjoy the land of midnight sun. The weather - far from the much-touted promise of rain, wind and misery - turned out nice again. As George Formby used to say. Sun shone most of the time - even out of Mr A's arse - and there were only one or two showers which stopped as quickly as they began. Anderson has been there before, of course. This was his 7th Icelandic concert, so I was told just before the first of two shows in the shiny new concert hall by the harbour in Reykjavik, only completed in the last few months. A proper Classical venue in a glass-covered structure, it is a fine example of modern construction technique allied to traditional interior materials and acoustic values. A teensy bit lively for raucous rock music perhaps but I'll bet the local orchestra love it. Might go there again sometime with the old bag and absorb some serious kulcha. And even a few rays, if we get lucky. I might arrange a whale watching trip and see if whales can be persuaded to tastier morsels than plankton and krill. Thigh of bag or a rump fat wifely fillet, perhaps? Hell they can just have the whole thing if I can tip her over the side without anyone watching. Cripes - better be careful. She might read this, although computers and media technology are not her forte. A wheelbarrow, long-handled Dutch hoe and olive green gardening gloves don't chime well with the subtle delights of Facebook and YouTube. The shows went quite well from where I sat although Mr A is never satisfied and always feels he can do better. Technical issues bother him the most. But luckily, all the audio-visual bits seemed to run on cue, after a few nervous moments at soundcheck. I took to the 101 district of town with the "Jazz Trio" - Messrs. Goodier, O'Hara and Hammond, who tend to gravitate towards the delights of coffee houses, museums and art galleries. We sat in a few funky coffee places where local musicians often entertain in the evenings, pretending not to notice the local Icelandic lassies in their short summer dresses exposing pale moonlit knees and ankles quite unused to the long hours of June sun. They pretended (much more convincingly) not to notice us either. Made a damn good job of it, in fact. Mr A went off with with wife and bairn to the West of the island to visit a glacier and shoot a few minutes of video for Icelandic Television who will broadcast the concert later with some interviews and other material. Local promoter Daniel Birgisson was a nice young man with earnest expression and a good line in dry wit and cutting humour. His small team had taken care of everything and it was easy to see that band and crew were more relaxed knowing that business had been taken care of and things ran like clockwork. The food was a touch different to the Dirty Duck and whale was indeed on the menu as was puffin - the local avian symbol wildlife to be found in all the local gift shops. The Icelandic Horse was a close second in tourist tat terms but not to be found on the restaurant menu, sadly. Hardly prime cut of donkey, I would think, but might have been interesting. I stuck with the whitefish and the lamb for the most part downed with an expensive Icelandic beer. We met up with the crew at "the Angry Puffin" a greasy watering hole near the German Pub where FO was busy with some rather fruity language lesson to a bemused blonde waitress who had probably never been closer to Berlin than the Icelandair check-in counter at Keflavik.... There were a couple of Indian restaurants in town and Anderson chomped on a specially-provided take-away midnight snack back at his hotel room after the show. I should know. I was sent out to get it from the Shalimar in the show intermission. The Shalimar is actually proudly Pakistan rather than India in cuisine and some spineless locals tend to shy away as its reputation for the fierce and fiery rivals the geothermic activity which abounds in this beautiful Northern Isle. We Brits apparently invaded Iceland in 1940 to combat German initiatives in the North Atlantic but after initial formal protest, a nod and wink seemed to herald acquiescence on the part of the government of the day who issued the edict to the natives to offer no resistance and to treat the invaders as honoured guests. Better the next-door neighbours than the Hun, they rightly thought. So we (The Brits) settled in as an occupying force but passed our territorial conquest on the to American cousins pretty damn quick as the costs and demands of the expeditionary force were too great in the mounting and difficult days of early WW11. The Yanks, of course, stayed until the bitter end a few short years ago when the last few F-15s took off for the flight home to heroes' return and decommissioning. And so, the longstanding US military presence, so redolent of 40 years of cold war hostilities, finally drew to a close in 2006. After the economic meltdown in 2008, when the three big Icelandic banks went bust, precipitating - at least in part - the collapse of the house of cards the fat-cat bankers built, Anderson and his pals went out to do a couple of charity concerts in aid of Icelandic families who had been made homeless as the mortgage crisis ensued and also for disadvantaged Icelandic children, in conjunction with Icelandair. He wisely involved some local artists as guests in the concerts and played with them performing their own songs. Fishing, Aluminium processing and tourism are the three main money-spinners. Go there when you can. Go there while you can as one of the most violent volcanoes and seismic areas threatens to blow its top faster than you can say "Yellowstone". Last time it did so was over two hundred years ago and it is said to have caused the deaths of 23,000 poor folk in the UK alone with the resultant plume of ash-fall and pollution. It has, of course, yet another unpronounceable name. A few short hours from North America and Europe, Iceland straddles the N. American and Eurasian tectonic plates. Very evident in the thrusting little country bravely surfacing above the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Icelandair, Iceland Express and a few other airlines can whisk you there in the blink of a puffin's eye. The self-professed "smallest watchmaker in the world", The JS Watch Co., has a little shop in the main drag where, in a tiny workshop, Gilbert O Gudjonnson lovingly assembles a range of Icelandic watches designed by the four-man JS Watch team from parts and movements manufactured specially for them by Swiss and German suppliers. His latest creation is the the Sif N.A.R.T. Icelandic Coastguard model, as supplied to that elite force of intrepid air and boatmen. Anderson wears a JS Watch as do other notables, including director Quentin Tarantino, the Dalai Lama, Elvis Costello and, the now most punctual, Yoko Ono. Visit their website at www.jswatch.com for the low-down. Tell 'em I sent you. Gilbert might make you a cup of coffee. Iceland has an ancient language of Old Norse. Just like that spoken by the Viking hordes who settled a thousand years ago. So don't try to pronounce local towns, streets, mountains, or public facilities unless you have swallowed some Novocaine. Toungue twisted beyond recognition and in throes of terminal spasm might well result. The toilets in the airport have a name like "Snyrtingar" or some such. Anderson took himself off for a quick "squirt in the snyrt" as he loudly announced, before the flight home. At least we all finally learned some bloody Icelandic..... I write this from the heady hills and woodlands of the Czech Republic, having just landed from Switzerland after three days in Montreux for the Jazz-fest. Another marvellous place, Montreux, and popular with the Anderson family, band and crew. We play in a Czech castle tomorrow night and apparently Anderson's dressing room is in the tower. Lock the bugger up, I say. The key is a whopper. But knowing Mr A, he will probably just invite everyone up for a bondage party after the show. Maybe Berlusconi is flying in for a triple B event. (Bondage, Brick and Bunga.) Over and Out. GB signing off. Kisses and soupy dribbles, you rascals. PS Send a copy of the Guardian if you get the chance. Or even the Daily Mail. But only for the crossword.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 12, 2012 18:24:48 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Jul 22, 2012 15:24:38 GMT -5
Part 5 on the official site www.j-tull.com/news/bostockblog.htmlThe Bostock Diaries GB TAKES TO THE ROAD! Part 5 - Czech Castle and Spain Latest news from the lyric writer of the original "Thick as a Brick" The Czech castle concert was, in fact, not in the castle itself, but set on a grassy plain under the castle on the opposite bank of the river. Loket Castle. Nice little town. Very little town. You could toss a Latvian lap-dancer down the full length of Main Street. Explored the town in 5 minutes flat and spent a quiet moment in the church. Thinking about lunch. Then on to Austria and another castle - this time IN the castle - at Kufstein. Proper 1-metre-thick castle walls, high over the city and with the dressing rooms actually the gun turrets. And cold and clammy they were too. Glad I am not an 18th century gunner. Freeze the cannonballs off a Feldzeugmeister..... No Ryan on these shows so Mr A was singing all the parts and I missed my favourite flute lines in Childhood Heroes section of TAAB1. But you can't have everything. A few more Austrian shows followed then back home for one night and a brief moaning session with the Old Bag. Apparently, someone left the garden gate open while I was away and Drew-boy Lancome's cattle got in and ate the contents of the vegetable garden. At least now it won't be bloody runner beans every Friday, Saturday and Sunday for the next 47 weeks. And so, to Spain with Ryan back on the rooming list. At least you can get an honest Indian in the Costas. Brit ex-pats and senile grand-dads pushing baby buggies down the pedestrian tourist zone have nurtured the many Indian restaurants to open their doors. Not, actually up to much in terms of sub-continental cuisine but at least an alternative to pseudo-Italian pizzerias and touristy tapas bars. We landed at Murcia's airport, San Javier, with most of a day and a long night to kill in the suburbs of that town before the first show at the so-called Jazz Festival. Some band and crew headed off for the longish walk to the beach but I didn't as I had to finish the next batch of tour itineraries before a quick stroll down the road for lunch and a quick poke around in the local food supermarket for water and snacks. Prices pretty reasonable, in fact, with Spain in deep recession and not exactly bustling with tourists. Pleasant enough. Reminds me of the first holiday with the Old Bag when we danced the night away and lingered long in each others' arms after cool, fruity chilled drinks in the verandah bar of the Hotel Ponce Matador in Costa Del What's-it. Before I saw the light. Don't know what came over me. Or her. Organised some tickets and passes for Anderson's old pal, Christopher Riley - originally pink Strat-playing rhythm guitarist of Johnny Breeze And The Atlantics - a Blackpool band who played at the youth clubs and bars around the time of Anderson's original musical beat group venture, The Blades, back in 1966. The Blades were soon to become The John Evan Smash, when C. Riley joined as guitarist briefly and helped form the band's early departure from the local pop scene into Blues and Jazz. Mr Riley is now officially retired and has lived in Spain for the last 15 years, recently taking up the flute, as he told me. Came across this splendid historical site listing the various bands, clubs, agents etc of the Northern Music scene of the early 60s. www.manchesterbeat.com/groups/johnnybreezeatlantics/johnnybreeze.phpAfter few more hot and blistering Spanish dates, we got home to Blighty after two nights of very little sleep due to early morning travel starts after very late shows. Had to help organise the Spanish fan club people for after-shows but they were all very well behaved and easy-going. Some "meet-and-greets" as they are known in the trade, are truly frightening. Pushy, grabbing, middle-aged old tossers trying to get their entire record collection signed and then moaning worse than the old bag when, on the strict orders of the Hitlerian Mr A, I restrict them to only one autograph each (plus photo - if they can remember how to work their cameras...). Pushy, grabbing, middle-aged old tossers should be restricted to House Of Commons where they belong. I should know; I was one of them. Or, perhaps, the wine and drinks section of the Clutterbury branch of Waitrose. Two nights now to recuperate at home again. Then off to not-so-sunny Luxembourg. Yes - another castle..... Have to plan a quick holiday sojourn in the first two weeks of August when the band and crew take the official Summer break. Escape Lord Bloody Coe and his Bloody self-serving Olympic Bloody Games. Arrogant glory-seeking son-of-a-sweaty-trainer. AND ex-CONSERVATIVE politico wanna-be. Don't get me started... Anyway - it could be back to Iceland. But the Old Bag would complain about the weather, the food, the volcanoes, the Puffins - anything else that doesn't take her immediate fancy. Whales will have to go without a meaty treat. Maybe Bognor Regis again? Or a caravan in Wales? NOT the Costa-del-what's-it, that's for sure. The Hotel Ponce Matador has probably been pulled down by now and turned into high-rise condos. Called the Ponce Matador Condominium and Spa Complex, no doubt. With gymnasium and Latvian masseuse inviting a quick dip in the whirlpool Jac-off-cuzzi. Sorry about that. Coarse and unforgivable. Excuse. Don't know what came over me. Or her... Over and Out. GB signing off. Kisses and tidbit tapas, you rascals. PS - Don't send runner beans.
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Post by janu on Jul 22, 2012 16:02:08 GMT -5
After few more hot and blistering Spanish dates, we got home to Blighty after two nights of very little sleep due to early morning travel starts after very late shows. Had to help organise the Spanish fan club people for after-shows but they were all very well behaved and easy-going. Some "meet-and-greets" as they are known in the trade, are truly frightening. Pushy, grabbing, middle-aged old tossers trying to get their entire record collection signed and then moaning worse than the old bag when, on the strict orders of the Hitlerian Mr A, I restrict them to only one autograph each (plus photo - if they can remember how to work their cameras...). Pushy, grabbing, middle-aged old tossers should be restricted to House Of Commons where they belong. I should know; I was one of them. Or, perhaps, the wine and drinks section of the Clutterbury branch of Waitrose. I got two autographs despite the advices thrown by the giant who goes everywhere with the band and also performs the funny prostate sequence. Ian might have recongised me as Janu from the Tull Board. LOL. The other signed by Ian one was already posted by me at the San Javier thread. This one I've displayed here holds some other emotive autographs I'll comment later on. pd. The Spanish Tapas are far better than the Indian menus. ;D Prices in Spain still are reasonable until September I reckon
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Post by Tull50 on Jul 27, 2012 19:52:24 GMT -5
After few more hot and blistering Spanish dates, we got home to Blighty after two nights of very little sleep due to early morning travel starts after very late shows. Had to help organise the Spanish fan club people for after-shows but they were all very well behaved and easy-going. Some "meet-and-greets" as they are known in the trade, are truly frightening. Pushy, grabbing, middle-aged old tossers trying to get their entire record collection signed and then moaning worse than the old bag when, on the strict orders of the Hitlerian Mr A, I restrict them to only one autograph each (plus photo - if they can remember how to work their cameras...). Pushy, grabbing, middle-aged old tossers should be restricted to House Of Commons where they belong. I should know; I was one of them. Or, perhaps, the wine and drinks section of the Clutterbury branch of Waitrose. I got two autographs despite the advices thrown by the giant who goes everywhere with the band and also performs the funny prostate sequence. Ian might have recongised me as Janu from the Tull Board. LOL. The other signed by Ian one was already posted by me at the San Javier thread. This one I've displayed here holds some other emotive autographs I'll comment later on. pd. The Spanish Tapas are far better than the Indian menus. ;D Prices in Spain still are reasonable until September I reckon I agree with Sergi to the Tullianos of Sant Feliu, Ian signed 2 or 3 times if we asked, I took 3 signatures and one for a pretty girl who had no backstage, was talking to us about the convention and other topics, was shown relaxed and friendly with everyone (that if, all the backstage was Tullianos lol) In my post of Sant Feliu'll post the pictures and you will see that their behavior was really nice to us, although accompanied by the giant... P.S.This is my backstage signed by Ian, the other firms will have to wait to finish the post of Sant Feliu
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Post by jtul07 on Aug 19, 2012 6:42:54 GMT -5
August 6, 2012 Previous Entries May 28th - June 5th - June 17th - July 4 - July 18 The Bostock Diaries
GB TAKES TO THE ROAD! Part 6 - Torture Chambers and Festivals
Latest news from the lyric writer of the original "Thick as a Brick" I sat reflecting on the darker side of the species last night in the bowels of a castle in Luxembourg. There was a rack for stretching bodies to breaking point, a screw-down device for smashing hands, a bench with spiked rollers where tied victims were once dragged, lacerated to their confessional doom. Where, oh where, was this equipment when it could have extorted a more heartfelt response from Bob Diamond of the Libor-fixing scandal? Or Meester Tony over the Iraq pre-war intelligence? A dreary combo called Magna Carta opened the show and ran over time by 15 minutes causing Anderson to vent his spleen and utter words of apoplectic rage. Like, "Bother", "Goodness me" and the like. Plus a little more colourful language too extreme even for the Commons Brawl at PM's Questions. The next night's show at the beautiful Beaufort Castle in the Grand Duchy was to feature Blackmore's Night. Yes, he, Ritchie of Deep Purple fame and re-cast as medieval troubadour in the goode companye of his singing damsel, the fine-bodied Candice. I was made aware that Anderson and Blackmore are old pals, sort of, and have a fine regard for each other. Apparently, Candice and bairn were in the audience at some point in the evening and Mr A instructed me to seek her out for an audience with Himself in the Castle tower dressing room - make that vault - after the show but she had left by then, I was reliably informed. Anderson signed a poster in the octagonal vault wishing them a Merrye Post-prandial Soiree. Blackmore was tied up (bondage party?) in the City Of Luxembourg doing interviews and the inevitable eulogising of poor Jon Lord who passed away a few days ago after a year-long battle with pancreatic cancer. Ritchie B has a reputation for evil ways. Legends abound with tales of mis-deeds and dastardly, scoundrel behaviour. But, as is so often the case, in reality he is a reet ol' pussycat if you get a one-on-one and ask him what kind of guitar picks he uses. Must remember to mention that to Ian Gillan if I ever meet him. Sartorial delight informs the Blackmore's poster. I can't help but think of Sean Connery in The Name Of The Rose movie.... Then we drove off for two long hours through the long and chilly Summer night to Koblenz in two bumpy vans. Then a few short hours sleep in a perfectly pleasant small hotel with cot-like single beds. This meant I had to leave Rapunzel behind. Having rescued her from the tall and turreted tower, it seemed a shame, but she would have been out of her comfort zone in the real world and amidst the bursting luggage in the bumpy van. How could I leave Rapunzel's behind? (To quote, albeit loosely, from Spinal Tap's assault upon anal decency in the song "Big Bottom" from the rockumentary, if you will, back in the 80s.) But I woke this morning early to find I have still telltale shreds of blond, Teutonic hair under my fingernails. Was it all a dream? Rapunzel, let down thy hair. Next time, my busty blond escapee, let down thy knickers as well. Just don't tell the Old Bag.... A frantic festival followed in Burg Herzberg with a bunch of noisy, well-meaning buffoons strutting their metal and punk stuff in the rain. Irritating bunch of trouble-makers. Like the CON back-benchers on a works pouting. Had an email from Prof Stewart Wood - Lordie-oh-lordie Wood as he now is, elevated to higher station in the hallowed halls of The Lords. Ex-advisor to El Gordo (Brown) and now to the affable, equine Mr Ed. Off in a couple of weeks, for his sins, real and imagined, to both the Republican AND Democratic Conventions in the USA as official, honoured guest representing our glorious Labour Party. I had a racy and imaginative idea: the Old Bag might be persuaded to take a heady sojourn with her old flame from The Guardian years, Godfrey Pitcher. He is a wine buff and knows of several distant vineyards in the Dordogne where early bed and late breakfast are cheap and there are no phones or internet available for her to check on me. The naughty Reverend P might just distract her long enough for me to meet up with Lord Woody in Charlotte NC and have burger and fries and a quick ciggie behind the bike shed with that Irish-American President chappie, O'Bama. Will ask Mr A if he needs me in that week. He doesn't pay well but does engender a certain loyalty. First call on services, at least for a while. As tour manager, I have to check the up-coming flights and seat reservations for the trip home and the worrying outward to Krakow in august with Cheesy-jet. They of the extortionate excess baggage charges. Then - touchy matter this - do research and due diligence on a couple of charitable entities as recipients of the Israel concerts fees. Anderson gives the proceeds to registered charities fostering co-education between Israeli Jews, Palestinians and Christians. Says he won't take the money himself and feels strongly that so-called "boycotting" does nothing to change things. Israeli government cares little or nothing for who comes to perform and who doesn't. But investing in the future of mutual respect and understanding of opposing religious and cultural groups is worth supporting. He received an email last week inviting him (us?) to Kabul (yes - the Afghanistan one) next year to perform. Where will it end? Benefit concerts for the homeless of the Planet Downoutus, orbiting around a distant star in the belt of Orion? Fundraisers for the Vatican? The Help-An-Immigrant-Have-More-Babies Free Concert in Hyde Park? Pocket the dosh, pay your taxes and enjoy the beer, skittles and a stiff curry, I say. Fine Socialist principles which trump all fake, do-gooder prattle and pomp. Stick that in your pipe Mr Bono. Don't get me started. Over and Out. GB signing off. Kisses and Leberknodel, you rascals. PS - Do Queasy-jet do Speedy Boarding for bass-player and drummers? Will they they fit in the overhead locker? Or do I actually have to buy the buggers tickets?
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Post by jtul07 on Aug 19, 2012 6:57:44 GMT -5
August 13, 2012 Previous Entries May 28th - June 5th - June 17th - July 4th - July 18th - Aug 6th The Bostock Diaries
GB TAKES TO THE ROAD! Part 7 - Breton Madness and Norwegian Odyssey
Latest news from the lyric writer of the original "Thick as a Brick" In mid-air as I write this. FlyBe from Brest to Birmingham. TheTAAB troupe sought to trouble a Folkie Fest in Quimper last night. A one-off in a beautiful little town in Brittany. Many Celtic and other acts from all-over-the-place converged for the few days of www.festival-cornouaille.com which featured many household names from the folk world. Meaningless to me, however as I don't much like the noodling, fiddling, warbling, clogs-and-sandals brigade. Need a good shower and a change of underpants for the most part. Heard a few bits and bobs during the evening before our show when a few of us ventured into town from our hotel some two km away on the motorway fringe. A tranquil river, The Odet, runs through the town and hosts strange, exotic, lazy fish who swam aimlessly with snouts (do fish have snouts?) raised above the water, perhaps gasping for breath in the clear shallows in the heat of the evening. Not salmon, for sure. Maybe pike, I was told. But these estuarine waters fill with the incoming tide and so they must be friends of the brackish environment, unless they swim upstream twice a day to escape the salty influx... Must ask Anderson. Maybe he knows what they were. A good honest worm, hook and line would have revealed all. On the following morning I paid a brief visit to the Cathedral in the company of tourists with flash cameras and stumbled (with the help of Mr Google) on the Maharaja, local Indian of ill-repute. Actually, quite respectable food and mercifully empty and serving air-conditioned beer. Then back to the tented venue to set up the dressing rooms and help Chris Archer with the organisation of transport, run some errands for band and crew and supervise catering and dressing room drinks and so on. Quite fun in a servile, factotum sort of way. Not sure if I can make a career of this. Perhaps something higher up the ladder. Like bottle-washer. Bed-maker. Baggage-wallah. Member for Clutterbury North? Baggage-wallah on the run, literally, as we were deposited by our taxis on a blistering hot morning outside Brest Airport to a sizeable crowd of passengers, airport personnel and security staff. No one was allowed within 300 metres of the evacuated building due to a bomb scare, so we waited in stoic fashion, uncomplaining to the last. And some of us were not even British. After an hour, we were marshalled in, to a chaotic, frantic check-in and enormous security queue for the x-ray machines complete with extra levels of body searching. Bad enough The Old Bag finding my copies of Politics Uncovered Magazine last month in the potting shed (the one with the delightful centrefold pin-up of her loveliness, The Honourable Member for Gropingham Central). Getting frisked and frolicked by the Gallic Garde and having my Big Girls In Uniform July Bumper Edition confiscated would simply have too much to bear. Anderson's flute got the once-over, twice. Too phallic for the Gallic, I imagine. Finally to the departure gate with minutes to spare when, on the verge of boarding delayed only because of a stuck elevator and a disabled passenger, the PA rang out with another evacuation message. Bugger me stiff with a red hot poker but out we were turfed into the July heat yet again and sent packing across the tarmac, out of the airport perimeter fence on to the road side to await further instruction. No explanation and another interminable wait until a muffled explosion was heard from somewhere out on the tarmac apron. Cheers from the airport staff who knew more than we, obviously. I muttered to young Florian that it was probably a controlled explosion involving his guitar case and a carefully placed modest slug of Semtex. He was not amused. At last, the awaited call to muster - back towards bloody check-in and security all over again. This time, we were ready and, as the waiting passenger hordes received the army and police barricade approval to proceed, we sprinted, like the start of the London Olympic Marathon, for the prime position at the head of the security queue. Whole damn thing all over again and FlyBe waited, God bless their little Embraer 195, for us all to board before setting off, two hours delayed. Poor Florian, Bavarian Guitar-meister, set off for an obviously-missed Air France connection in Paris and will hopefully make it home late tonight to Munich, just in time to leave again for his Lufthansa flight tomorrow to Oslo for a Norwegian Festival. More on that adventure in part two of this diary..... Well FO sent a text late at night to say he had arrived in Munich finally. Unfortunately, his guitar hadn't. Whether it is in very small toasted pieces, blowing in the winds of Northern France or lurking wounded in the dark and sticky bowels of Paris Charles De Gaulle Airport baggage halls, we as yet don't know. Anyway, he will have to bring his spare guitar and various scrounged accessories today where we well meet him at Oslo International Arrivals. But now, to bed. The Old Bag awaits servicing. ==============================Part Two================================= A Norwegian Odyssey We arrived on time into Oslo on a very full SAS flight and waited for baggage. And waited. I had to ask twice regarding bulky baggage pick-up point as none of our Storm (heavy-duty polypropylene) flight cases or guitars had come off the luggage belt. Not unusual in itself, this, as most airlines treat as oversized luggage anything that doesn't resemble a normal family suitcase. They are then variously described as "Bulky Bags," "Outsize Luggage" or "Special Baggage" depending on local airport parlance. For this reason, we use standard family suitcases with added inner foam protection, for transporting all the smaller loose pieces and even some of the vital tech gear like the audio-visual server and digital lighting desk. John O'Hara, David Goodier and IA use Storm Cases for their fragile electronics, and jolly fine, sturdy cases they are. Also, IA uses a Storm double rifle case which just happens to fit his little boy's acoustic guitar. Of course, this is a flaming red rag to the customs and immigration bulls who line the exit corridor and wait to pounce on the suspicious entrant so he does get stopped rather a lot. What's in that bag, sir? Firearms? Ammunition? It is said that Anderson used to frequently carry various shotguns, rifles and pistols on his trips to Scotland in the 80s and 90s. His mandolin case, to this day, was originally a custom- made lightweight Cripple Creek flight case originally made for his Armalite AR180 Assault Rifle. Of course, he no longer has these guns since they were prohibited by Parliamentary amendment to the Firearms Act (I had more than a little hand in that) following the Hungerford and Dunblane Massacres. Many lives were lost and the horrified British public - through the voice of politicians and the media - cried, "Enough," resulting in the banning of large calibre automatic rifles for civilian sporting use and, finally, all pistols. Did it curtail or even slow down the increase in armed crime? Not one bit. Firearms are as easy as ever for the criminal fraternity to obtain. But I digress. As always. But that's what we politicians are paid for. Eventually, as I was queuing to report the lost or, perhaps, stolen bags and instruments, they finally arrived on the bulky baggage elevator - a full 30 minutes after all the other passengers had collected their luggage and gone. Phew! Trying to source alternative instruments and electronics on a Friday night in a strange country would be beyond my pay-grade.... So we made it through the customs bull-run and found the bus driver to begin the five hour journey down the coast of Norway to the little town of Arendal. "Could be seven hours' drive," the driver cheerfully informed us. Friday night traffic round Oslo and the prospect of weekend escapees heading off down the idyllic coastline were set to make it a very long day since we all had to get up around 06.00 this morning to travel to Heathrow Airport from our various homes. Toss-pot, the bus driver. Diddums had to stop three times to have a cigarette. Needed his skinny arse wiping and his sausages cutting up. Of course, we would have to do the same thing in reverse early on Sunday morning for the return trip back to the UK. The festival was a mid-town affair. Lots of bands over the three day period in various venues but a sort of poor man's Montreux with an emphasis on world music and more eclectic acts, none of whom I, sonically-cloistered as I have been, had ever heard of. Our troupe of musical pranksters closed both evening and festival as the rain which had lasted continuously from 07.00 in the morning finally abated in the late afternoon giving way to clear skies in the evening for our show. There was an unlikely Indian restaurant a mere 80 meters from the hotel but at ridiculous prices, chock-a-block full on the previous evening of our arrival and closed for lunch on the show day so Mr A ventured to the edges of town to the empty Chinese where vegetables were on offer. Unfortunately so were the liberal doses of salt making it taste really rather horrid. I know this having been invited for the feast. Why do restaurants, generally, have to load everything with salt? Given the pre-salted part-processed nature of so much meat and fish along with various other preservatives, colouring agents and taste-enhancers present in ready-made sauces and condiments, we don't really need to endure this overload of quite dangerous salt intake. I am no nutritionist but I once served on a Parliamentary Committee trying to establish guidelines regarding food additives so we listened many defensive representations from the food manufacturers and the restaurant trade. All who claimed that the customers reacted better to heavy additions of salt and sugar. Well they probably would, even more so, if the purveyors of this muck added a few grammes of crack cocaine or morphine for good measure. The countryside of Norway's southern coast is gentle, green and undemanding. Lakes and rivers abound with modest timber-clad houses in fine array. Generally clean and tidy apart from the inevitable "European sickness" - the proliferation of pointless graffiti in towns and countryside alike. To see two-meter-high spray-can adornment of such utterly infantile nature daubed on the sides of barns, bridges and public spaces seems such a harsh invasion by those zombie cretins who mindlessly force their presence upon us. Lock the buggers up, I say. And their parents, who in most cases must know what their brattish offspring are up to. Don't talk to me about freedom of expression or so-called street art. A bad fart in a elevator does not deserve excuse, however elegant the delivery.... The long drive back to Oslo was better than the outward journey. Tosspot the driver turned up at the hotel ten minutes late and then decided to repack his minibus, not caring for the way we had loaded it. We do this twice a day on average so we do know what we are doing when it comes to packing trucks, vans and trailers. But the asinine Tosspot thought he knew better. What a bugger this touring lark is. You think it is going to be a holiday charabanc ride. A works outing to Rothesay. "Oh, the back of the bus they cannae sing..." Only to find that travel in the modern age is really no better than the late night stagecoach across forbidding, windswept Darkley Moor. At least the security queues were shorter in the days of Dick Turpin. The risk to life and limb, probably about the same. Now comes the welcome Summer break for band and crew when all disperse to their various sojourns to be cosseted and kissed by the balmy breezes of August. Not bloody likely, as the weather forecast for the UK in the next week or so seems to promise more rain and cold temperatures after a couple of days of uplifting warmth last week. Some of the band lads are heading off on camping or walking holidays with family. Some crew have the odd gig to do serving different masters while IA and wife celebrate the bald old coot's 65th birthday on a Rhine cruise ship. A bit odd since we have been up and down the Rhine several times in the last weeks while on tour but Anderson seems to like Germany and life on the river. It was the Danube last year, apparently. The Yangtse next? Or a punt on the Cam? But The Old Bag and I shall have a quiet few days in Cornwall at her sister's cottage and then off to......where? Perhaps Iceland, as I suggested in previous notes. Or maybe to the Western Isles of Scotland. Anywhere I can dump her in the residents' lounge bar with a bad book while I go off for a brisk walk and the opportunity to sample local life in the streets, hills, woods and valleys of rural-anywhere. Might try a spot of fishing. A good working class sport. The elusive piscine quarry does not observe class, dynasty or social standing. A hook is a hook. A worm, a worm. And whether served on china plate or in a newspaper with chips, the final journey the same. Same old digestive system, same old sewer pipe. Over and Out. GB signing off. Firm slaps and marinated morsels of Fjordic Flapperfish, you rascals. PS - I can just see The Old Bag in tartan trews, sipping a warm Glenfiddich by the fireplace in the Station Hotel at Auchtermuchty. If there is a Station Hotel at Auchtermuchty..... If not, I will have an old Westminster aide call the strangely coiffeured Donald Trump and get him to build one. Pitch and putt, anyone?
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Post by Deleted on Oct 9, 2012 4:45:59 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Oct 10, 2012 14:40:09 GMT -5
and another one! [IMO the best to date] THE BOSTOCK DIARIES CHAPTER 10 Oh, how we longed for the Heathrow T5 experience. In spite of the now-legendary rocky opening a few years back, it hums now with the precision of a well-oiled baggage carousel and we get through every time (tempting fate here...) in the promised 8 minutes or less. But, of course, it is BA-only in that terminal. Passengers on Delta, Lufthansa, Virgin and the other riff-raff have a much less easy passage through to airside but still better than most international airports in the world. According to Mr A who has seen most of them. Aboard the skylark for the 747 trip to Miami with promise of dodgy landing weather. But the BA pilot knew his stuff and steered us around the anvil-topped storm clouds for a textbook landing. But not until we had endured the Two-hour delay at LHR due to a faulty onboard air-conditioning system and lost our place in the take-off cue as a result. Pilot was volubly pissed off, as were his passengers, many of whom missed their onward connections in MIA. An early night, then, for most of us after the long trip and an early load-in next morning at the first venue to break in and test the USA production before soundcheck. Just as well to have the extra time as the cable between projector and the media server which provides the video sections would not work and the runner spent most of the afternoon finding another to make it back to the venue only as the audience were coming in.... Stress and tension all round. Last thing they needed at the start of the tour but the shows have gone well since. You can sense both the excitement and the resigned ennui of the impending US election here in the State of Florida. The Sunshine State where sunshine is currently coming out of Mitt Romney's arse as he nows tries to placate NASA and the supporters of the US Space Programme by suggesting some unlike marriage of civilian, peaceful space exploration and a proposed "defense" priority fro future NASA strategy. That NASA should become effectively a wing of the military is surely to negate the whole point of space research, which has been for 30 years the most fruitful area of cooperation between Russia, the USA and other partners in peaceful space exploration. Talking of NASA - we were treated to an afternoon of sheer wonder and delight courtesy of Col. Catherine Coleman, US Astronaut, recently returned from a 5 month mission to the International Space Station. She had with her onboard the ISS, Anderson's flute and they played a duet together during her 100 million kilometre trip in earth orbit. Indeed, said flute returned to earth on the Space Shuttle Endeavour, in the headlines a few days ago as it made its triumphal but rather sad journey inelegantly piggied on the back of a 747 en route to a museum in LA, its final resting place. On arrival at Kennedy Space Centre, band and crew were ushered from the visitors' reception area to a waiting NASA bus which ferried us a fair old distance to the Orbiter Processing Facility where a mass of gantries and walkways almost obscured their well-protected and shrouded charge. Space Shuttle Atlantis, cocooned in the safe sanctuary of the massive structure around it stood proudly, if sadly, awaiting partial gutting of some systems and degradable bits and bobs before being slowly hauled - not to the burial pyre - but to the final KSC resting place alongside the other rockets and capsules of the US Space Programme, dating back to the Von Braun years. We knew we were being taken to the VIP areas of the facility but were not really expecting to get close. Wow! In groups of four or five at a time, we were taken up the ladders, along gantries from tip of the vertical tail stabiliser to the landing gear below and all points in between. The veterans of the shuttle programme who were showing us around were retired volunteers who had spent most of their working lives on the shuttle missions and knew every inch and inner working of their fleet. The holy sanctuary, the flight deck cockpit, was surprisingly large and sparse. Just two seats for Commander and Pilot. We all got the chance to sit in the commander's seat and handle the first avionic fly-by-wire system. Just a joystick and a few other simple controls, befitting the world's biggest and heaviest glider: yes, glider - for that's what the big moment-of-no-return was on landing where, after the re-entry burn, the pilot had to make the all or nothing hands-on decisions to get the crew back on the ground at the pre-ordained landing site. No powered descent - just the atmosphere-skimming nose-up wing-and-a-prayer attitude to transition to the eventual glide slope into safe harbour, flanked by two T-38 workhorse trainer jets. Of course, like every VIP visitor to the "backstage" All-Access, high-security area, we individually thought privately of the dreadful moments when Challenger exploded soon after launch and later when Columbia burned up on re-entry after sustaining leading edge wing tile damage, both incidents resulting in the tragic loss of all crew. Before and since, many brave men and women have walked the lonely walk to the transit vehicles taking them out to the launch pad, no doubt with such thoughts circulating ominously somewhere in the background, however tamed and controlled they have to be at such a moment. Mike Fossum, successor to Cady Coleman on the ISS was our other companion astronaut and gave us, along with Cady, the personal emotive touch that humanises such brave and intrepid endeavour. Mike took a copy of the Tull Aqualung CD on one of his earlier shuttle missions and it is fun to think of the sounds of Cross-eyed Mary and My God thundering through the still, dry atmosphere of the Shuttle Discovery. Except that he probably wore headphones as respect for privacy must be uppermost in the close confines of a spaceship. Need a tiddle, anyone? Then look the other way. Actually the lavvy-loo is a mini-cubicle with a suprisingly ordinary loo and seat. Hadn't the nerve to ask to use it although bursting for a wee. Apparently, there are attachments for connecting the male and female body parts to the waste tank. The early sub-orbital flight of Alan Shepard might not have required strategic thinking to any great degree but from the John Glenn orbital flight onwards, the Shower, Pee and Poo Research department of NASA must have scratched heads and everywhere else in coming up with Solutions To Ablutions for longer stays in space. I would love to have seen some of the designs that didn't make it... In NASA acronym parlance, that department was probably called SPPR. Or, S2A..... We then went off to visit the Vehicle Assembly Building (yes - you guessed it - VAB) to stand in the vast space which, at 500 ft high and with a single span roof is still the biggest building of its type in the world, even after nearly 50 years. David Goodier summed up the sight and feeling as "It's not just a VAB - it's a cathedral," which was very apt. The spiritual sense of awe and optimistic hope were truly overwhelming. At the far end, some 200 metres away, was a mock-up of the proposed new Orion spacecraft and some experimental work going on to test some new ideas for escape mechanisms in the event of immediate post-launch failure. Surprisingly, we were were allowed to watch and even see close-up the working test models of the possible systems. I was tempted to start talking in a Russian or Chinese accent but the joke might not have been appreciated... Finally, off to Launch Pad A, standing silent, forlorn and empty a few miles away. After a drive-around, some special permission for us to get right up to the pad structure itself was mysteriously granted by "powers-that-be" and we were allowed to take photos but had to remain on the transit bus. Except, of course, Astronaut Catherine Coleman who jumped out and defied regulations by posing in front of the gantry structure for what we can only assume will be a NASA Lady Astronaut photo calendar. Cady remained, discretely and firmly incased in her blue flight suit, or Smurf suit as fellow Astro Mike Fossum dubbed it. All caught on CCTV, I'm sure. So, many thanks to all at NASA who made this visit possible and who greeted us with such warmth and knowledgable enthusiasm. As an era of space flight draws to a close, I wonder if the next US President - whoever it turns out to be - will renew support for the work of three generations of engineers, scientists and astronauts who have made all this possible. The funding, cut down as it now is, may not be the most prioritised in the minds of either government or the US tax-payer, but I hope that the future is brighter than the employees at NASA fear. So many have recently lost their jobs in the downsizing and this recession economy. The greatest minds in space exploration surely must be given the resources to continue to pioneer to the other planets, the asteroids and, one day, to the stars. No more fitting legacy could there possibly be for the crews of Columbia and Challenger than to support this work for the long term future. Per aspera ad astra, and all that. Over and Out. GB signing off. PS Houston, we have a problem. AND the solution. www.jethrotull.com/news/bostockblog.html
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