Looking for the impossible.....

George Orwell once wrote an essay in which he mused on the perfect public house. For several hundred words, he extolled the virtues of beer served in china mugs, the perfect pub garden and delicious bar snacks, served any time of the day. He even named this idyll in case the reader might wish to pop by, for a pint of beer in warm and convivial company: “The Moon Under Water.”

There was only one minor flaw: sadly, the pub in question didn’t actually exist, a point that Orwell kept from us right until the end. Orwell wrote this article in 1946 and time has moved on inexorably. “What”, I thought, “would make the perfect pub in the 21^st century?”

As you approach the “The Old Major”, over the hill, in the glowering late winter dusk, the first thing you see is the warm, welcoming glow of the lights, both inside and out. You can see that the curtains are pulled tight, and you can just make out the pub sign.

Like “The Moon Under Water” drunks never seem to find their way there and there are never any fights, even on a Saturday night. Its clientele is not large and consists mostly of “regulars” who tend to occupy the same seat every evening and go there for conversation and companionship as much as for the beer.

There is a television on the wall, but it is never on. Some pubs leave the television on, irrespective of what is showing, and you can end up watching the teletext result of the 4:40 at Chepstow for an entire evening. Or else an episode of Coronation Street will be on, sound muted. Not in “The Old Major”. The television is always present, but never on.

In “The Old Major” you can always find a spot where it is quiet enough to talk, and yet there is a juke-box which is chock full of brilliant music. There are unending credits on this juke-box, and yet no one takes the Mickey – people only put on the tracks that they want to listen to, and no one ever complains that the music is on too loud, or decries the actual selection of tunes.

There are snacks behind the bar, and the landlord is always willing to let you sample the newest addition, for free, just “to try them”. He invites you to tell him what you think of the snacks, and he keeps a nice selection of sandwiches, pies and nuts.

You might find, of a Saturday afternoon that the pub is quiet, with no other customers apart from you. The landlord will be happy for you to sit and read your paper whilst he nips upstairs for ten minutes, leaving you to serve yourself if necessary.

You will never have to queue for a drink in “The Old Major”, as the landlord (who is a very personable fellow,) always seems to know when you are ready for another drink. He never pre-empts you, however, and never presumes to know what you are drinking. He’s there merely to facilitate you in your quest for a happy and pleasant evening. Because of this, you will never be a party to empty chit-chat from a barmaid who neither knows you well, nor cares about you. You will never be asked “kids alright?” when she doesn’t know your kids, or asked if you’ve “had a good day at work”. You want your drink, and that’ll do, thanks.

Ah, your drink. The landlord at “The Old Major” keeps the best pint of Guinness in the North. There are two lagers available, Becks and Kronenbourg. Soft drinks are plentiful too. All served in a clean, branded glass: no matter what Orwell says, in 2012 no one wants their beer in a china mug. There is a competition-standard dart board that you can always get on, an unending supply of chalk and damp cloths, and categorically no pool table. A quiz is held every Thursday night, and you’ll need to get in relatively early to guarantee a table, such is its popularity. Bingo is never played in “The Old Major”.

One of the loveliest things about “The Old Major” is its garden. You will step out of the back door and find yourself in a large, well-kept garden with flowers and small trees, under which there are tables with comfortable chairs around them. No dogs are ever allowed in the garden. On warm evenings, as you sit under the trees enjoying a drink, you can contemplate just how lucky you are to be in England in the summer, with your friends, in the perfect pub, “The Old Major.”

Another dip in the past. With Noel Edmonds.

If it’s Thursday, then it must be time for Top of the Pops.

 

LP Hartley once wrote that “the past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.” If that’s the case, then dig out your passport and join me. I’ve got us each a return ticket.

It’s early 1977 and Slade are performing “Gypsy Road Hog” on our weekly trip to the past. They would have three further Top Ten hits in the early 1980s, but it’s clear that their heyday is behind them. This is a shame because “Gypsy Road Hog” is actually a hallf-decent song.

Here's Silver Convention, a scared-looking three-piece performing a dreadful, dreadful disco song, the title of which I missed. This isn’t just disco though. This is Disco, from the land that brought us the Nazis. I think that just about sums it up.

Donna Summer – Winter Melody. By ‘77 Summer was making her name in the world of (non-Nazi) disco music, though this song is a soul ballad. The song speaks of a woman struggling to come to terms with the fact that her relationship has ended. Zzzzzzzzzzz. Bring the ugly Disco Nazis back on!

Up next it’s Jesse Green singing a song called Flip. It’s a little bit of late 70’s pop-reggae. I'm told the live version of this is really lovely. Ditch the shirt though Jesse.

It's time for the weekly appearance of Legs & Co, and this week it's Elvis they are 'dancing' to. Every week I think the same thing: "The choreographer has arranged this dance without a single listen to the song." The song is Suspicion: Legs & Co are prancing around a mock-up of the New York skyline in white dinner jackets. Eh?

Leo Sayer – When I Need You. This was a huge favourite of mine when I was nearly six, and I can see why – he’s a larger version of me in ’77: Big hair, cute little face, flares, the lot.

Thin Lizzy – Don’t Believe a Word. The first real, decent song of the night. And Phil Lynott is the first person not to mime.

And finally the Number 1. This week it's David Soul, again. Another song I loved when I was six, I can see it's faults now. He really should have stuck to knacking his back, jumping onto cars, in the pursuit of 1970's criminals.

See you next week.

Scientific research by way of watching Top of the Pops, Part Two.

Tonight I sat with eager anticipation. Eager and keen anticipation. What was the cause of this anticipation? Well the banner headline above should steer you in the right direction - it's 1977!

Yes, 1977 has arrived on BBC Four in the form of TotP 1977. I've heard all about '77: Punk, the changing of the guard music-wise, the Queen's Silver Jubilee and the Pistols signing with EMI outside Buck House. All famous iconic images.

Gallagher and Lyle kick things off, and you know what? It's alright. In fact it's pretty good. Next up, however is Barry Biggs.

Barry bastard Biggs. Who the hell is Barry Biggs? He looks like a black Alexei Sayle, but doesn't sing as well as he does. This isn't looking good, I'm thinking. And as if to compound this feeling of dread, David Hamilton tells me with a straight face, A STRAIGHT FACE mark you, that next up is Pussycat.

Pussycat, a strange and somewhat pisspoor Dutch band. Several chaps playing several different guitars, and three women out front. And not a single looker.











Which brings me to Legs and Co. I'd heard tell of these beauties from being a small lad. "Oooh, Legs & Co. Bloody lovely" I can still hear my dad cry. Not a single bloody one of them has a pair of t*ts to their name. Shocking and frankly wrong.

Oh, and David Soul is number One. Don't Give Up On Us?

I think I will, thanks.

Scientific research by way of watching Top of the Pops.

Lately, I have been watching (so that you don't have to) an awful lot of Top of the Pops 1976 on BBC Four. As they move in to 1977, I thought it worth a few lines in retrospect:

1. Punk couldn't come quickly enough. Which moves me to point 2:
2. Paul Nicholas can wave that cane and dip that hat as much as he likes, as he winks like a man with a rancid sty, but nothing he does will ever stop me from believing him to be a vapid little man with very little talent. Musical theatre's gain was pop music's gain.
3. Abba were, and always will be, sh*t. And not in a post modern, ironic way, but in a very real sh*t way.
4.  Pussycat prove the point that no good music has ever come out of the Netherlands. Ever.
5. Even by January 1st 1977, pop music had improved 100% from December 31st 1976.

In conclusion, I was six in 1977.

The first entry....

Welcome to my blog. It's early days, of course, but I can promise a blog chock full of intellect and humour*






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