Whimsical Musings of a Loon

Gabriel Yared performed a concert at the Millennium Centre on Friday night. Accompanied by the world class BBC Symphony Orchestra of Wales, Gabriel played a selection of his beautiful scores for films such as The English Patient , Betty Blue , Cold Mountain and my personal favourite, The Talented Mr Ripley . It was a heartfelt tribute to the late film director Anthony Minghella, who collaborated with Yared for many films. When I first became seriously interested in music, it was through film and soundtracks that this love grew from. I must confess I was never much of a classical music fan either, until I started watching more films. One of the first classical composers I began to appreciate was Beethoven, (rather alarmingly you might say) because of Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange . I guess this makes me rather Alex-esque. But I promise I am not into 'ultra-violence'. But soundtracks awakened my love of music. Which had always been there, but had been lying dormant. The Talen...

Sat right across from me, Drinking hot, steaming tea, Munching on a tasty bun, Whilst reading pages of the Sun. Blackened fingers and thumbs, Covered the table with crumbs. Forgive me whilst I scan, Every detail, Bearded Man. Letting out a disgruntled groan, Trying to text with his phone. And another long, wary sigh, The cake-counter catches eye. Right now I'm your biggest fan, You there Mr Bearded Man. (Drawing and poem by me)

A drawing of me by my good friend. I've never had anyone draw me before. Am I really that bizarrely bug-one-eye-bigger-than-the-other!?

I was channel hopping the other night, which sadly doesn't actually involve any hopping, because if it did it might help solve the obesity crisis across the country/globe. Since the birth of digital boxes, ITV, BBC and Channel 4 now seem to have 34985793487 begillion extra channels. But there still never seems to be anything on TV. Other than reality TV, Jeremy Kyle-style chat shows, cookery shows, house/DIY series and er soaps. I remember back in t'day *cue Hovis ad music* when there were only four channels (well, five really we had S4C in Wales), and I used to manage to watch a considerable amount of televisual delights. Admittedly most of that involved Scott & Charlene in Neighbours. And Mrs Mangel. I loved TV. It was the first thing I thought about waking up, and the last thing I thought about going to bed every night (apart from rugby of course). But in my channel hopping daze the other night, I am sure I found on separate channels, on the same time, about five differe...

I knew Santa had extra help, not even Usain Bolt could get around the world that quick. Are we all to be taken for fools?!

Do they? Well actually, they probably do. Look what happened to Titanic. Now, I like boats and I love the sea. We went out on our friend's motor boat on the weekend, one of those rib boats that zip around fast with the air blasting your face. It's all rather a lot of fun. Or can be. Safety first Captain, always; our friend is ultra prepared and he does all the safety checks - lifejackets (aye aye Captain), GPS (aye aye Captain), waterproof radio (aye aye Captain), ipod player (an essential! Aye aye Captain)...ecetera and so forth. But sometimes you just cannot prepare for the unexpected. Unless you're that psychic scouse guy Derek Acorn (or something) on Most Haunted (maybe). We were pootling around Cardiff Bay - speed restrictions in some of the areas naturally, so nothing too fast. We motored over to Penarth, we motored over towards the sailing club, we motored around the barrage. All lovely, all rather nice and refined. We pass many sailing boats (many of whom the sailor...

He left the house on one dark day, On his mind perhaps things did weigh, Maybe not and his life did glow, He never returned, we'll never know. He looked older, but was only a teen, At the chippie, he was last seen, Grainy video shows him alone, He disappears from frame into unknown. Photos remain of his handsome face, Last movements are a subject of trace. Memories from those who loved him most, His image, his person, is now a ghost. Questions his family always do vow, Just what does he look like today & now? They suffer in their constant reviewing, For not knowing what he is doing. Amongst all that, dark thoughts of wrong, Someone's foul hand, he is forever gone? Nothing is answered, things left to rue, What happened to him, I wish I knew. (Many people across the country go missing every week. If you have five minutes to spare, please check out the Missing People charity web site here )

Read what? It seems bad form to instruct someone to read something, only then to spectacularly let them down by not providing any reading material. It's a broken promise, it's an anti-climax. Most of all, this is just plain bad graffiti. Does the author not realise the graffiti etiquette that must be strictly adhered to!? At least throw in a trip-esque mural representing a mis-spent youth. Could you imagine the uproar if I did such a cruel thing on this blog? Demand my legions of readers here to read my musings, only to go all minimalist, and just leave an empty space. There would be chaos. The internet would probably implode with the huge weight of apocalyptic disappointment. (In my dreams) But bad graffiti grates like a giant grate at a grating convention. I'll forgive incorrect spelling, and even *shock horror to the teachers amongst us* the misuse of the dreaded apostrophe (There's no excuse for signs and supermarkets though, but I'll stop there before I sound ...

The cafe in the rain, The people all the same, Fixed seats to the floor, Menus make my heart sore. Tables coated in ancient grime, It's really going back in time. Come to Cafe Melancholy, Serve with a smile and trying jolly. Yellow pictures on the walls, An old man to his paper, drawls. Young worker dreams of being sacked, Handling china already cracked. Italian owner makes a sigh, Of things and changes that go by. Come to Cafe Melancholy, Neon sign, attempt at jolly.

I hate losing. I am a bad loser. Losing is terrible. Wales lost to South Africa at the rugby yesterday. And yet...we should have won. Whenever Wales lose, I always try to work out what is best/worst: to play well, compete and lose to a good team who had that more luck; to get well beaten by a team far superior; to narrowly lose playing badly and beaten by a better team; to lose by 60; to lose to a criminal piece of despicable refereeing. Definitely the latter is the worst way. Possibly even worse than losing by 60 points. So I take crumbs of comfort from this moldy old biscuit of hope that is my optimism when it comes to Welsh rugby. It's somehow gutting to lose a match when you create opportunities but fail to take them though. Which is why I feel particularly peeved this morning, on reflection. All the Ifs and Buts come flooding out, but it's pointless. We lost. At home, the Millennium Stadium. End of. No loss is good in my eyes, no matter how many positives there are. I stil...

She stands at the window, outside looking in, She watches the world, her head in a spin. The people, the lives, are bustling en masse, She wants it so bad, but can't break the glass. She stands at the window, outside looking in, The glass at her touch, feels cold to the skin. She catches her reflection, a double-take glance, Who is this person, who never had the chance? She stands at the window, outside looking in, Her decay is shrouded by a face mask grin. No body knows of her utmost fear, Concealed, frozen in an eternal tear. Her demons, with their bony grip are rife, As is the realisation, she's scared of life. Tomorrow she'll return again, alas, One more futile effort to break glass. She stands at the window, outside looking in, She watches the world, her head in a spin. She watches. Watches. And Watches.... But never goes in.

Dear reader, as you may know I spend rather a lot of time in the gym. So much time, I will soon be charged rent and will end up paying their council tax. Anyway, I’m going to the gym today and I have to walk through the main hall to get to the gym itself, and there’s some bowls going on. Indoor bowls. I try to walk through. Big mistake. BIG MISTAKE. Forget hoodies, it’s grannies playing bowls you have to be scared of. ‘Cardies’ - call the Daily Mail, it's the new scare that will hit Britain! It is, apparently, the worst crime imaginable to sneak past at the back whilst a game of lawn bowls is continuing. By a fat old woman on a motorised scooter. I was stared out and feared for my life. They may have been carrying knitting needles and knuckle-feather-dusters.

I read this news article this morning on the BBC web site on Bletchley Park .  It's sad to hear Bletchley Park needed emergency funding. Bletchley is such an important part of British/European history - it was here famously that the German enigma code machine was cracked, a crucial twist in favour of the allies during World War II. Wars can turn on these kinds of efforts, and this was utterly integral towards achieving success. It also saw huge developments in the technology of computers; Alan Turing, the legendary Cambridge mathematician working there. I have always thought something so important to our heritage should be protected and looked after so that future generations can visit and learn what people did for us and our freedoms. It's also a matter of respect of what people had to go through so that we could enjoy these freedoms too. Let's hope Bletchley continues to get the funding it needs to preserve an important part of our history. Recently I visited a place call...

Bonfire night. A celebration of a foiled plot to blow up Houses of Parliament, and we do this by...setting off fireworks! An intriguing tradition if you think about it, a free reign to act as roaming pyromaniacs for the night. It's not like we celebrate catching murderers by....well killing things. As a kid, I loved Bonfire Night. One my favourite days of the year. I used to love making a 'Guy' to burn on the bonfire - usually raiding my dad's wardrobe for clothes to dress the Guy up in (often without permission). A strange tradition really, teaching kids to burn effigies on fires. One year I collected a load of  clothes and then thought it would be funnier to dress up in my dad's clothes and pretend to be him all afternoon instead. Luckily I didn't end up on the bonfire.  One infamous bonfire night, my dad was letting off fireworks in our back garden. In my parents' infinite wisdom, they had planted a huge tree in the middle of the lawn (ruining most games ...

Despite the humour I did feign, I cannot deny you caused me pain, Time moves on and you don't care, Yet hurt is still very much there. The wound feels like it's rubbed in salt, And yet I don't feel it's your fault, You had the head fuck to a tee, But the problem here has to be me. You have moved on with life's flow, The sadness I feel you'll never know, I'll slap you but also won't, I hate you but also don't. The pain you caused can never mend, And this you'll never comprehend. For in this mess I do drown, And worse of all I let you down.

Today's photo of the hour.  It never ceases to amaze me the courtesy people have for one and another...I was rambling along a lovely woodland on Caerphilly Mountain and stumbled upon this delightful message to the masses. How poetic. Future generations are left with this heartfelt and in-depth prose. Unless a Gary Glitter-y personage wrote this and it has an entirely different meaning... And now that means I have to tag Gary Glitter. I never thought that would occur in a hurry.

Another month is over, another new one begins. 2008 is entering it's twilight weeks, soon destined to nothing more than the dust of history books. The year has, and is, going fast. But on the other hand, it seems like a millennium ago when Big Ben chimed twelve and we welcomed in the new year, and all it's anti-climaxes. The summer never really got going, the sun refusing to leave its blocks, whilst the bitter cold has gripped our skin and bones with its icy claws over the past few weeks, reminding us we really are in winter now. I used to love this time of the year as a kid. Hallowe'en, Bonfire Night, then the always enjoyable run-up to the madness of Christmas festivities. Yet as time passes they all fade into insignificance; a barrel of anti-climax, which I always felt but always managed to conveniently forget.  One Hallowe'en in 1992, we visited my Nan in the midlands, and it is still possibly the most terrified I have ever been in my life. I had always been convinc...