The Songstone

With apologies to those who hate this recording (MM)... Part 1 Part 2

Luisa Tetrazzini , another choice from 100 Singers :

Another shanty from the wonderful voice of Peter Dawson :

I used to write a blog called 'Life in China' when I was living there. The blog has long since disappeared (literally overnight and without warning, when the site was bought by profiteering scum XF.com ) and I thought it gone forever, but the Wayback Machine has come to my rescue, and large parts of it are still extant. I shall therefore offer you a post from those distant days. Art and Observations (1): first published on 4th October 2006 The ferocious heat and humidity are fading away. The North East monsoon brings warm, dry days and cooler nights. Time to reflect on a lazy summer of film, books, music and travel. Over the next few weeks I shall comment on some of the best things I have seen and heard, and some of the worst. The Football Factory "Being beaten up by football hooligans is like getting VD: the fucking pain goes on forever." So begins The Football Factory (Nick Love, UK, 2004) and with an opening like that this has to be compelling viewing. F

I hate to whine, but this last month, with a tendon injury, flu and an ear infection, I have had enough pain to test the tolerance of a flagellant. This culminated in a 4am march to A&E yesterday morning to demand and get massive doses of dihydrocodeine tartrate. The bliss! In a civilised society opiates would be freely available over the counter. Not in Toryland, where even pain is regulated by the masters through the high priest-doctors; you must suffer until you are prescribed, and the holy tablet dispensed unto you. I was supposed to have been leaving the country today en route to run a school in Russia, but pre-Christmas promises and bonhomie have given way to silence and cold feet: yet another example of the high ethical standards and integrity of EFL employers. Perhaps they ran out of money. Still, there has been some consolation: Len McCluskey laying into spivs, media barons, bankers and Tory lickspittles on the Today programme yesterday morning. He didn't actu

An ordinary New Jersey boy, nineteen. In Brittany the shrapnel shell that killed your pal, engendered dark, shut down a sheen of innocence. Your generation filled our stories, and some thanks that war was stilled are owed. These lines, inadequate between your monuments, my humble gift; a mean repayment from a rhymer all unskilled in awe, remembering your laughter: deep chuckles you left around like colored light, I knew why they all loved and cherished you. Nursed well enough by grandma, always true, to see you to the rest. Eternal quiet, at Arlington an honored guest’s asleep.

So there I was at the  Poets' cafe listening to the regulars and Daljit Nagra . At the interval I stepped outside with my thermos of coffee for a crafty snout. The door opened behind me and out came three young men with pints. One of them engaged me in conversation. I sighed inwardly; a pint of lager in the hand of one's interlocutor is a sure sign of impending boredom at best and unwanted aggression at worst. Lager!? In this weather? Fucking stuff should carry a health warning. Sure enough, the ginger whinger wore a Stella scowl to go with his Heineken hump and was scathing about the comedy act taking place in the other theatre. I adopted an air of unforced bonhomie , changed my register to street slang mode and agreed with everything he said. Don't get me wrong; I've nothing against a punch-up, especially with a fool who's had a skinful and wants to give it some large, but I had a poem to read. Anyway, I went back in and thought nothing more of it, but after

The best pub in Reading is not the Hobgoblin ; that honour belongs to The Retreat  (not to be confused with The Monk's Retreat, which is a right shithole). The other night I was there for my customary pint of winter warmer, crafty snout etc. and overheard the following conversation, which I may have embellished slightly: 'Hear 'bout that Assange? 'Parantly a couple o' Swedish sorts found out 'e two-timed 'em. Instead o' cuttin' up 'is shirts they went to the pigs and cried rape.' 'Sounds like a load o' bollocks to me. 'Ooever 'eard of a Swede wha' needed forcin'?' 'Nah, didn't force 'em. It was all above-board like, but 'is condom broke, an' in Sweden that's enough to get yer banged up.' 'Cos 'is johnny broke? Seems a bit 'arsh.' 'That's Sweden for ya. I 'eard they even removed the pissers in one school cos standin' up for a slash was  'a sign o&