There are few bands of any real note these days that are still to reform and ride the nostalgia train one more time.
Weller won't countenance taking The Jam round the world; Morrissey would never cheer up enough to consider a fresh alliance with Johnny Marr et al; Rick Davies hates Rodger Hodgson more than enough to rule out Supertramp bothering again.
Whether that last example bothers anyone else is open to question.
Some years ago, Charlie Watts was asked by a reporter what it had been like playing for 30 years as Rolling Stones drummer. His reply was short and to the point: “It wasn’t 30 years of playing – more like 5 years of playing, 25 years of hanging around”.
Having spent the first part of this week in and around the England camp, there are doubtless many print and broadcast journalists who’ve followed the national side for decades who could trot out exactly the same statistic.
First of all, I should take this opportunity to wish you all a very Happy Christmas and hope that 2014 brings you everything that you wish for. Thanks for visiting this site too, however often it is that you stop by. I’ve had another varied, exciting and interesting year in many ways, and next year promises to be no different as things look from here.
2014 will also bring a couple of personal anniversaries into view for me. Actually 3, come to think about it.
Who was it that stated ‘Never meet your heroes’?
Such a rule of thumb is clearly designed to leave those whom we idolise firmly on the pedestal that keeps them at 15 arm’s lengths from us mere mortals. How depressing would it surely be to encounter someone you’ve held in the highest possible regard, only for them to disappoint and depress you with bad gags, bad attitudes or simply bad body odour within seconds of touching the hem of their garment?
So here we go again.
Sometimes, it's easy to feel sorry for the hardy perennials of the Premier League who sometimes give their faithful supporters either a bit of a fright or a faint glimpse of glory, only for mediocrity to rise again and leave you with that feeling akin to leaving a gorgeous roast dinner with all the trimmings half finished...you just feel under-nourished somehow.
I think this about the busiest I’ve ever been at work in a summer without football.
Well, I say ‘without football’, but with Confederations Cup, U21 Euros, U20 World Cup Womens Euros and all things in between, that statement wouldn’t stand up in court. But I think you get the gist.
Online abuse. The de rigeur occupational hazard for journalists and broadcasters.
It affects those in such professions in different ways. Some respond to such abuse with direct confrontation that can dangerously escalate, some attempt reasoned argument with their tormentor, others feign indifference all the while compounding their insecurities, and a few simply wither on the vine. Many just plough on regardless.
In this past week, two 3-piece rock acts have been touring the enormo-domes of the UK to great critical acclaim.
Thing is, I wonder whether Muse will still be touring such venues 40 years into their career as Rush are doing now. If they aren’t, it probably won’t even be their fault or under their control, given the gradual disintegration of the music business to a mere short-term popularity phone and text in contest.
I really should be asleep rather than typing this, I’m so tired – but I have to put my thoughts onto hard drive as it were.
I have a hell of a lot to be grateful for in my life. First, I’m healthy…actually a little healthier over the last month or so, since I realised I was nearly 13 stone and needed to do more than trim the puppy fat (that’s not a euphemism).
Well, it’s out. I’ve only gone and done it and released an album.
When I first plink-plonked around the piano in our house as a small child, I had no pretensions of making a record. Of course I didn’t – at such a tender age, the perspective needed to map out your career path simply wasn’t there in your mind. You weren’t thinking beyond your next quarter of Strawberry bonbons from Lavells round the corner.
