What nicer people do

Most of us, when not actively torturing children and small animals, tend to look after ourselves and our own comfort. My leisure time, for instance, is spent fencing, reading or making sure that my books and records are in the right order. Or ironing, which I find hugely rewarding and relaxing.

Other people - better people - quietly try to improve the lives of others. Take Christine and James, as we'll call them because those are their names. They spent weeks crocheting snowflakes, which they then hung on trees all round their town on Christmas morning before anyone else was up, so that the townsfolk could be delighted by a whimsical, lovely gift with no thought of cash or obligation.

See lovely pictures here.

Anyway, back to the spiders. Those legs don't come off on their own, you know.

Our house, in the middle of our street

Welcome to another week in the fun factory.

It's been a momentous and hugely expensive weekend for me. £3000 later, I've moved house for the first time in 9 years and 10 months, from the cramped room in which I wrote my PhD (occasionally) to a city-centre apartment. It's now piled high with boxes of books and my beloved vinyl records - I'll post some photos tomorrow, but I've cleared a space on the bed at least.

I'm now persuaded that going to the pub, then to a nightclub and dancing until three a.m. is not the ideal way to prepare for a weekend of heavy manual labour. Still, it was fun.

Taking down the old room was weird. Mostly joyful, but very hard work, and I kept finding things which touched off odd memories. My madeleine moment was finding photographs, and a load of band t-shirts from the mid-nineties, when I was rake thin: they were mostly skinny-fit and cool: Velocette, Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, Silver Sun, Super Furry Animals, Catatonia, the Belle and Sebastian 'Study at Stow' shirt from 1995, my 1970s Adidas v-neck shirt, a C+W embroidered shirt, alongside my old biker jacket, which will definitely appear in public again. The t-shirts, despite forming a significant role in my cultural development, will be awarded to the girls I know who can squeeze into them. Despite all the swimming, I won't be seeing a 28" waist again unless I develop some horrendous disease. Anyone know of a good one?

Anyway, I need to say a massive public thankyou to: James (who used the excuse of driving the big white van to air his most reactionary views: the Daily Star on the dashboard was the piéce de resistance); Gerry, Mark, Dan, Neal, Anita and Howard. They all overcame their various disabilities to shift massive, heavy things for almost 12 hours. Nothing was broken nor lost, and nobody complained, despite the intense provocation afforded by my half-arsed organisation. I'm not, it's fair to say, going to have a second career in logistics.

I also saw Cynical Ben on Friday. Having explored the delights of Walsall and Willenhall for the day (he's a local lad) he texted to cancel going out for a drink with the words 'Fuck the Midlands, I'm off. The idea of spending another 3 hours here is giving me the fear. Sorry'.

He relented, and sat in my first-year poetry lecture, and had the good grace to not openly mock or heckle, so thanks to him too! He even met Zoot Horn, which was all a bit postmodern.

Join the caravan of love

Christine and James have won a 'pimped' vintage caravan, despite having only one car-parking space on their hill. I'm highly impressed, but we need details! Like WHY? And what happens to this wallpaper when it rains?

To win, they needed to write and perform a caravan rap. Hear it here. If you dare. More details of this folly here.

Man Ray (LaMontagne)

Last night I had the pleasure of seeing Ray LaMontagne, of whom I'd only read in Word magazine. (Thanks, by the way, for your comments). Why do all American musicians have beards at the moment, except Kelly Deal? Talking of Kelly Deal, she really is the perfect woman: she's designed her own font and it's free! Her band The Breeders have a site called Breeder's Digest, which is rather brilliant.

I went because Christine and James had managed to book an extra ticket in a different area of the venue - so I ended up on my own, in the balcony, directly in front of the singer - brilliant. Less brilliant was sitting next to a yummy mummy and her daughters Portia and India (I'm guessing). Clearly Mr. LaMontagne and his support act, Radio 2-friendly Josh Ritter, are approved objects of middle-class desire. After they sneered at the scruffy fat singleton in a Green Lantern t-shirt, I sipped beer and read my Shakespeare commentary during the intervals. That showed them.

So anyway, the music. It was odd. I'd heard of LaMontagne and Ritter, and assumed that they were middlingly well-known sensitive folk-country artistes, and so they are. I didn't realise that Mr. Lamontagne is the object of freakish devotion - a mostly full hall (probably 2500) at £25 a go in Wolverhampton is truly astonishing. They whistled, stamped and cheered like Mormons at Joseph Smith's resurrection (don't write in - I've no idea if Mr Smith is expected to rise again, though I imagine the Church would like to know the whereabouts of the golden tablets detailing the Semitic origins of America's ancient peoples he 'received from the prophet/angel/time-traveller Moroni' and then 'misplaced' or 'returned to the angel' before anyone else got a look. Actually, Some Chilean Woman could enlighten us). But I digress. LaMontagne's music was good. It was country-folk-blues and the later the set got, the more impassioned he became. The band was beautifully lit in pools of liquid, varying light, and they stood on rugs, which added to the 1970s atmosphere.

Actually, they reminded me of the post-Slowdive band Mojave 3 but more country, which is high praise from me (listen to some here)!

Then home for the glorious, ambiguous and complex ending to The Wire… Here's LaMontagne on somebody's crappy mobile phone from a couple of years ago, in Wolverhampton. There's nothing up yet from last night's gig.

Your critical opinions are valued

I'm going to a gig by Ray LaMontagne tonight, as Christine and her husband James have a spare ticket. Any opinions? I've heard he's good, but never heard anything by him. I'll probably spend the afternoon checking out last.fm and Youtube stuff by him.

Oh James

Neal, James and I are feeling pretty flat after our return from Oslo (and my trip to Germany), but James is hit hardest: he's flitted off to Basel/Basle (Switzerland), a wonderful town I visited for a fencing competition several years ago. He's already charmed a German woman into putting him up, showing him the town and feeding him… You British females should hurry up, or he'll disappear abroad forever!

Map Twats in Scandinavia

A skateboard company!

Light-fitting at the Architectural Museum

From the roof of the opera house. It's a public plaza.

Neal and James prepare for the Panto season

A wall inside the opera house.

Hello again!

How are you all? I had a wonderful few days, and loved travelling through four countries (Britain, France, Belgium and Germany) by train on a single day. Old friendships were re-established, beer was drunk, books were discussed and Vole felt rather inelegant surrounded by willowy, stylish Germans.

And now, thanks to a madcap plan by James, we're going to Oslo from Thursday to Saturday! How cosmopolitan am I?

More tomorrow - haven't been home yet, just straight to the office.

Moor pictures (sorry).

We saw relatively few birds and other wildlife out on t'moors, but what there was looked good. We surprised a grouse (innocently) and disturbed this heron, of which more pictures are here. James showed me how to use my posh camera better (very typical of me to have something better than I can really handle) and he took these waterfall pictures - I took all the others. He's the chap struggling through the meadow, in case you're a single lady on the Welsh/English border.

Cynical Ben's account of the day is here.

These boots are made for walking

Good afternoon to you all from the Midlands.

You may have noticed that I've been away for a few days - I went walking with some of the Map Twats (Cynical Ben, Neal and James: Dan's away with his girlfriend, the smug git). We started at the Cat and Fiddle pub, perched high up between Macclesfield and Buxton, then walked along to Shining Tor, down round the reservoir, stopped for an effete lunch (fine butties, rabbit, hare and venison pie), then slogged upwards again for seemingly hours, running out of water somewhat inopportunely. I took pictures, of course, and they may be seen here. It's a while since we went out, and I was surprised how exhausted we all were - the unexpected heat sapped us, and our legs ached for several days afterwards. Sunburn was also a bit of a problem.

In the end, it was a glorious route and a good day's walk. Ben's various opinions were amusing and enlightening and as usual, when two or three are gathered, I was the victim. Having discovered a nineteenth-century Jewish ancestor, I outlined my sense that they are all antisemites, to much amusement from my persecutors.

Ben returned home to his wife, who seemed much amused by us as usual, and James took us home to his elegant new bachelor pad in Chester. After a preliminary few real ales, we ended up at a semi-indie night at Telford's Warehouse, a swish bar/club on the canalside. Somewhat predictably, we ended up dancing like fools to all sorts of rubbish. The climax was Neal and James putting on a virtuoso interpretation of 'Hammer Time', which led to them temporarily making friends with a pair of discerning young ladies while I retired from the field - discretion is, after all, the better part of valour.

The next day saw a good deal of snoozing, mooching around town, pool games and more real ale in some astonishing places, before a more low key return to Telford's Warehouse, by which time James's dancefloor exertions had resulted in a pronounced limp. Sunday was very much a day of rest - a fine Sunday lunch in a village pub and a reluctant trek back to Stumville.

Thursday's version of Friday's Conundrum

Hello all. I'm skiving tomorrow. Cynical Ben, Neal, James and I are going walking on the hills around Macclesfield, armed with pies, but lacking Dan and his map skills. After that, Neal and I are joining James for a weekend of carousing and debauchery in the fleshpots of Chester. Or, we'll find a poky indie club in which to feel old. Either way, no blogging for a few days.

How was David Mitchell's appearance, by the way? I'm afraid I missed it.

So - the Thursday Friday conundrum. It's easy. What, if everything had gone your way up to this point, should you be doing now? Where would you be, with whom? I know Cynical Ben would be where he is, with Jo, but be a published author, but he's a spawny get, to use the demotic. The rest of us - not always so easy.

I, of course, would have received the Golden Boot after scoring enough to get Stoke City to the top of the Premiership and won the Champions League. Again.

OK, maybe not. I wouldn't have minded being a decent fencer, and I'd certainly like to be living in the Welsh mountains, overlooking the sea, or perhaps in Ireland or Shropshire, holding down a full-time post in English/Welsh literature. A book or two published, debt-free, and perhaps somebody there with me. As long as she didn't scratch my records or crease my spines. Not too much to ask, is it?

Alternatively, I'd like to have been running a moderate-sized country, consigning large sections of the population to camps for possessing hairstyles, using mobile phones as stereos, dropping litter, voting Tory, driving 4x4s and generally being objectionable. This is not a vision I have yet relinquished, by the way.

I don't think we're in Wolverhampton any more, Toto

I promised photos of Bridgnorth, where the Map Twats descended on Christine and James, ate their Stinking Bishop (a phrase their ecclesiastical neighbours might misinterpret), drank their Pimms and left. I've added a couple of the conference I was at today. Please note that we borrowed the beer cans to add comedy value when I sent the photo to my boss. More pictures here, or click on the images for larger versions.