Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * * *
As George Harrison once mused, “All things must pass”; however if The Story must come to a dramatic end then it has be with sincerity, beauty and absolute pomp and as one of Scotland’s finest have made clear with their latest and final studio album, pomp and ceremony are only half the tale, the rest is made up with an absolute mind blowing epitaph of musical brilliance.
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *
The blueprint for controlled chaos is one that should be taken as a signal for a revolution but at times is lost in the mayhem of disturbed memory, the chaos losing its impetus because anarchy doesn’t fit well into the thoughts of the majority; the tinge of revolution, just enough to change a few things but in the end it all comes down to not offending all on your side.
The letter came from the Doctor,
stamped, addressed formally,
an oddness to the finality they were offering me,
welcoming me with open arms
to attend a special clinic
for those entering
the next demographic,
that of the adventure
of terrible middle age.
No longer to be considered a young man,
I’m now just a few years shy
of receiving a free gift
from Michael Parkinson.
I can be checked for diabetes,
having had myself tested every year,
to assess the risk of impending
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * * *
Cast: Benedict Cumberbatch, Martin Freeman, Una Stubbs, Rupert Graves, Mark Gatiss, Andrew Scott, Amanda Abbington, Louise Brealey, Jonathan Aris, Tim McInnerny, Natasha O’Keeffe, Yasmine Akram, Taj Smith, Gerald Kyd, Daniel Fearn, Stephanie Hyam, Damian Samuels, Charles Furness, Adam Greaves- Neal, Jessie Hawkes, Dionne Vincent, Kishan Maru, Gavin Lee Lewis, Tim Barlow, David Nellist, Alex Austin.
“It is a war we must lose”, muses Mycroft as he sits with corpulent and greed running through his veins and it seems in every battle there must come a realisation that that the enemy we are fighting is the one that is naturally our ally.
I carried in the coal,
a small meagre amount
from the cold and ancient cobwebbed
behind fireplace
and with it, jumbled together
like a badly worded sentence,
some coins, mainly pennies
for that was all that was left
in a wallet bereft of Christmas joy,
a slice of half and half bread,
the wife’s choice, seeing as
bread makes me sick,
mangled to death,
not fit for the ducks
and some salt, processed and packaged
somewhere in the dusky lands
where midnight was still
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating 9/10
The music is an enigma and the man who plays it with such a sweet caress is the enlightenment of the age, the young man of Blues who has already swept down from the stage and gathered up hearts, souls and minds with Hurricane and Temperature Rising makes a return in 2016 with the fantastic Blood Money and it is an album that holds untold riches for the listener as they delve deeper and deeper into the sound provided by Danny Bryant.
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *
It is the dance of the close comfort and the tap of the Progressive that makes the waltz such a beautiful moment to watch, the timing of the movement, the subjection to the lead of one mind being performed in a close knit space; it speaks volumes about the participants, the will and the endeavour in which to see the dance fulfilled.
The Final Waltz though is something else entirely, especially when it is your debut on the floor and in particular when your regular partner is urging you on to search for your own steps in which to whisk the heart away of someone who has found you deliberately enticing.
I blame my dad…well initially I blame him. I also blame the man who should have become my husband and my best friend Jack. All three of them, the father, the turd and the holy spoke. It’s why I am here this evening, here freezing my backside off watching my team playing against Oxford United in the F.A Cup. My company as you can see, is a fairly warm pie, a Thermos flask and a rucksack containing a fairly well read and crossword attempted newspaper, a new note pad, envelope, pen and a diminishing book of stamps in which at some point I will write to the man who should have been my husband two and half years ago that I completed the challenge laid down before me. I shall write, much more kindly it has to be said, to my dad who decided to stay at home and watch some old tosh on the television rather than see me complete the task….that’s not fair as he went to quite a few games with me but a few weeks back he slipped over in the ice outside Wigan station and broke his leg, and I shall write with glee and pleasure to friend Jack and tell him he is not the only stupid arse to complete the ninety-two.
Did you think that it was over,
that somehow the words had finally
stopped and left to become dormant…
to die like Ophelia, crushed by my own
sense of the dramatic?
Addiction is a friend of mine,
one that came in the form
of music, football, girls when I was a boy
then women
and the word
of flowing peace, lost
in an author’s creation,
in a poet’s lament
and the bitter
regret of a love denied me,
by a succession of people
Where would I be tonight
if not by your side?
Easy to believe that I might be drinking,
toasting the year, burning Time,
setting my life ablaze
in the White Horse,
New York, whisky threatened
records and nervous poetic disposition,
the grand finale to match the Welsh bard,
drunk on my arse and grovelling in dirty rhyme
as those around me
misunderstood English
cool, the trilby
carefree on someone else’s head.
Where would I be if not
holding your hand tonight?