Friends, acquaintances, colleagues:
The Animal Disco
Cheryl Morgan
Claude Lalumiere
Cllr Smedley
Cris!
Darryl Bullock
Emerald City
John Jarrold
Julian Owen
Justin Quinnell
Joyce's Ireland
Kim Newman
Neil Gaiman
Pádraig Ó Méalóid
Paul J. McAuley
The Ship's Cook
Si Gurr
Things that Never Were
What of it?
Will Hatchett

Other stuff I'm invovled in
Darwin 200
Brunel 200
Days Out West
Newman & Byrne Messed-Up History Experience (a bit dated)
GRA 2008!!
St Vincent's Rock
Virtual Venue

Bristol
Andy Bennett (Police)
BBC Bristol
Badnewswade
The Big Issue Man
Bristol Blogger
Bristol Media
Bristol Radical History Group
Bristol Respect Coalition (Lefties)
Bristol Street Art
Bristol Traffic
Bristle’s Blog from the BunKRS
Charlie Bolton (Green)
Derek Robinson
Digital Bristol
Evening Post
Gert Lush Online (awesome)
Green Bristol Blog
James Barlow (Tory)
Kerry McCarthy (Labour)
LJS Trust
Oblong Scone (whimsy)
People's Republic of Stokes Croft
That be Bristle
Trym Tales
Western Daily Press

Something for all the family
12 July 2008

Not since the much-lamented departure of the Robert Opie Collection from its home in Gloucester docks many yonks ago has there been such a fantastic display of Old Everyday Stuff.

Better still, it's just off M5 Junction 19 (Gordano services), which is to say just at the bit where south Bristol turns into countryside.

This is Oakham Treasures, and it's just this week opened to the public. Everyone who visits this place will have their own favourite bit. Me, I can't be sure. It's a toss-up between the big model aeroplanes or the life-sized (-ish) woolly polar bear which was is believed to have been used to advertise Fox's Glacier Mints at Harrods in the 1930s.

Or possibly the Easter eggs. They've got these chocolate Easter eggs which are decades old and which aren't wrapped in anything and they've not melted or gone mouldy or even got a bit of a bloom on them. How do they do that? If it comes to that, how come all these old fruitcakes and Christmas cakes are older, yet better preserved, than me?

The collection is housed in an immense air-conditioned farm building, and it's all been collected by one man over the last 40 years or so. Farmer Keith Sherrell apparently started out by collecting tractors (as you do), but then got into old advertising materials, and then groceries, booze, fags, cleaning products, toys ... Basically, if it was everyday household stuff from the last 100 years or so, he'd have it.

"He'd just read the papers and say, 'Ooh, there's an auction!' and he'd just go and buy things," explains his daughter Helen, who along with her two sisters helps run the family business. "Then four or five years ago the question came up as to what we'd do with these sheds out the back and it just sort of went from there."

So when you visit, you get to see a lot of old tractors, which is probably brilliant if you're into tractors. There's a fair bit of other farm machinery, too, including sheep-shearing stuff, steam engines, an old threshing-machine, an American fire engine from the 1920s ... All of this is impressive enough, but this doesn't really prepare you for the massive assault on the eyes mounted by floor-to-ceiling displays of old advertising material.

But the real attraction is the household stuff. This is packed into huge old glass display cabinets and organised into fully-stocked historic 'shops', complete with mahogany counters. The shops include a haberdashery, chemist's shop, off licence, ironmongers, tobacconist, sweet shop and a vast grocery store. And yes, many of those food packages, tins, bottles of booze, cigarette packets and sweet packets really do contain their original contents.

Naturally it includes a lot of products and advertising material relating to local brands and companies, including Babycham, Wills tobacco, Harveys sherry as well as lots of chocolate from Frys.

While a lot of the things here are rare and valuable, what's going to attract most visitors is the fact that so much of it used to be very ordinary indeed. You could well end up spending a whole day here looking closely at everything, and for parents and grandparents it'll all be very nostalgic. Then you can buy some stuff from the farm shop on the way out; everything there is well within its sell-by date.

# Oakham Treasures is at Portbury Lane, Portbury, Bristol BS20 7SP, open Tues-Sat 10am-5pm (last admission 3.30pm), closed Sun, Mon & Bank Holidays. Admission £6.50 adult/£5 senior, child (age 6-16)/£15 family (2 adults + 3 children). Ffi: 01275 375236 www.oakhamtreasures.co.uk

Glastonbury Festival

July 9 2008

Friday

Kate Nash, whom I’ve never heard of before, is a spunky redhead whose songs sound like soap opera plots. There’s a knot of girls in their early 20s standing by us in their elegant wellies, and they’ve just been talking to one another in posh public school voices, but now they’re singing along wiv Kate in her Estuarine accent, glo’al stops an’ all.

That’s the least of the culture-shock. I mean, look at all these people!

Well, when I say people, I mean folks that are almost all white, have a normal BMI and don’t have mortgages or progeny. It’s not that the place lacks the older people, children, ethnic minorities or the overweight; it’s just that their presence is on a par with the number of men in dresses – fairly common, but still noteworthy.

And where are the heads? We were promised weirdoes - most people’s Glastonbury memories seem to involve dancing earth mothers, healing, inedible vegan mess on a paper plate and late-night encounters with Don Juan-style shamans who messed with their heads and/or took all their money.

This is not at all what I was expecting, but that’s what comes of working and socialising with a lot of people who still go to Glastonbury long after all their contemporaries have acquired offspring and pension plans and who wash their cars for fun. I wanted social workers in World Music trousers, self-righteous politicos and hippies. Instead I’m getting people who may have degrees but really aren’t rightly sure who James Callaghan or Edward Heath were, and who worry far more about the environment and their debts than they do about hippy crap or the inevitable triumph of the proletariat. Good for them. And they’re all incredibly, unbelievably nice.

It’s my own damn fault I’m here. I was at an editorial meeting at Venue. I mentioned I’d never been to Glastonbury Fest, and didn’t want to. They said I should go, that it would be hilarious, thinking of me coming back with some Captain Scott-style diary (“Dear God, this is a terrible place!”). So I said I’d go if they could sort tickets for me and the family AND some decent accommodation. I said all this assuming they wouldn’t do it.

They did. And while we don’t have one of the £7,000 fully furnished yurts, the current Mrs Byrne, Daughter (15), Son (12) and self, have a tipi! The tipi is in a field of other tipis, and comes to us courtesy of Hearthworks Tipis and Yurts. We love our tipi as it’s big, yet cosy and (best of all) it’s not down with all the tents erected cheek-by-jowl with all the other tents. If you have a family which you are considering taking to a festival, get a tipi. Aside from the fact that you don’t have to find a spot and pitch your tent, you can also have all the family rows you like in comparative privacy.

They’re probably also good for groups of friends AND have their own eco-showers.

Now you might think that spending money on hiring a big tent because you don’t like camping is a bit stupid, but it’s not. Your tipi is huge: supposed to accommodate six, but could actually take more a lot comfortably. See www.hearthworks.co.uk - they do other festivals as well as Glasto.

The kids are made up. They get to see lots of famous people they idolise, and – just as good - several they despise, and take mobile phone pictures of them from half a mile away. AND they’ve been hauled out of school for the Friday. We pleaded with the teachers that it’d be “educational”. Which, given the current school regime of a tiny amount of learning coupled with huge amounts of revision for endless tests, is probably true.

We spend the afternoon and most of the evening at the Other Stage watching a load of winsome boys in guitar bands playing songs aimed at people who are doing their A Levels. Always, it rains.

We got given these special tent-pegs on the way in. Apparently they're made from potatoes, and Michael Eavis wants everyone to use them as they biodegrade and, unlike steel ones, they don't bother his cows. Wonder if this means we can eat our tent pegs in a food-type emergency.

Saturday

The Glastonbury toilets. There’s Portaloos (OK) but also these green cages sited above big septic tanks which have smaller queues. It’s OK. I have a strong stomach. Nothing can possibly be as bad as … Oh. My. GOD!!

Mrs Byrne, a medical scientist, explains how it’s not possible to catch any communicable disease from sitting on a toilet seat. Nobody believes her.

It has not rained anymore overnight. Mr Shaking Stevens is performing on the Pyramid Stage. He is a Grandad-skool rock ‘n’ roller and a former communist, and it is his socialist Elvisness which makes the sun come out at 11.19.

What the Glastonbury virgin is utterly unprepared for is the sheer size of the place. For three or four days, this is the biggest town in Somerset. Now imagine living in half a Bristol, or a Bath conjoined with a Weston-super-Mare, and that you can only travel around this Bris or Baston-super-Math on foot.

Since much of this walking is done on these special steel paths, how would it be if some boffin could come up with a way of harnessing the vibrating feet on these walkways to create electricity? You could power the whole festival off it. Trudge power! Yeah!

Alphabeat. Never heard of them before. They’re from Denmark, apparently. They play lively, chirpy songs which, unlike most of the other acts here, have none of that ponderous blokey self-importance which has been the curse of popular music since the 1960s. The audience adores Alphabeat sings along happily. Pop music that’s disposable, silly, happy and evanescent. Who could ask for more? Best Glastonbury moment so far!

Find self alone late afternoon by one of the dance tents where hundreds of people are jerking around to unbelievably loud, horrible, repetitive music. Have to leave when my ears begin to bleed. Don’t understand this at all, but I suppose if you get into it you would eventually develop what these kids have. (An intermittent pill habit and 80% hearing loss.)

It all puts me in mind of the story a friend tells about an acquaintance of hers who was massively, dangerously overweight. He slimmed down to normal size in the space of a summer spent going to festivals, taking a load of pills, dancing like a loon and not sleeping for three or four days at a time. And doubtless having to walk everywhere. Consult your doctor before embarking on any new diet or exercise regime.

Amy Winehouse. “Hurrah!!” yells someone close to us as she takes the Pyramid Stage. “She’s not dead yet!” From early on in the set, she’s talking about Blake. “Oh God, why can’t we bottle her?” grumbles Daughter. Consequently we miss the bit where Amy gets into a fight.

En route to Massive Attack, we have to stop to let a tour bus pass. Son swears blind he sees Jay-Z through the tinted windows. Now there’s a man who never needs to put up his own tent. I explain this is an important lesson in working hard at one’s musical talent; get it cracked and you’ll be royalty and get to marry a fellow celebrity called Bouncy. Also, I will be able to invoice you for your upbringing.

Well, it’s Glastonbury, and it wouldn’t be right if I didn’t take some pills, so I neck a couple of Immodium tablets to avoid having to use the toilets.

Sunday

I set off alone in search of fried breakfast and hippies. There are some in evidence in green bits out on the margins of the site, and lots of tents/stalls promising all sorts of bollocks. It’s funny how old-fashioned charlatanry like fortune telling and astrology now sit comfortably aside the new age bullshit.

Later, find self in tent of the Hare Krishnas and their famous free vegan food. Feel unable to partake as I accidentally squashed a bug this morning. They’re middle-aged white men who drone monotonously on and on and think they have access to knowledge and wisdom … Finally, I am among my own people!

Back with family at Gilbert O’Sullivan on Pyramid Stage. Most of his tunes sound like they were composed for children’s TV programmes but he’s been going for ages, never gave up the faith and dedicates song called ‘Oooh Wak a Doo Wak A Day’ to “serious music journalists”. I love this man. Mrs Byrne loves this man. The kids hate him.

Gilbert is the coolest person I have yet seen at Glastonbury, though I have to say this because he was born in the same Irish town as me, but grew up in England and so is a Plastic Paddy like me. He rocks.

Newton Faulkner. Newwwwtonnnnnn Faulkerrrrr … Nope. Someone please explain the point of this useless bearded popinjay? Why in heaven’s name is he so popular? What are we missing here? He ends his set with an acoustic rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ like some drunk party guest who’s overstayed his welcome. The entire family concurs that the pain threshold has been crossed.

Wife and Daughter want to stay on for Scouting for Girls, but we decide to give Diamond and Cohen a miss. After all, we have a TV at home; it makes up in intimacy what you lack in atmosphere, although it reminds you how contemptible the telly is when compared to the real thing. I didn’t hate Glastonbury as much as everyone hoped. I didn’t hate it at all.

Comicality
12 May 2008

And so to the Bristol International Comic Expo, the largest event of its kind in Britain, fact fans ... Si and self were there signing copies of The Bristol Story. We also had a wee pile to give away.

Except that giving away free books, even masterpieces like this one, is never as easy as you might think. People are naturally suspicious, especially if you say things like, "Yes, this here book is completely free. All you have to do is take it. Oh, and attend a brief seminar about our brilliant timeshare flats in the Algarve."

No, really. No catch at all. We had to resort of barking them in the end. Stopping passers-by and asking if they'd ever bought a Lottery ticket or paid council tax in Bristol. If they had, they were entitled to a free copy. Hell, they could have one even if they hadn't.

But we also had lots of lovely people come up who'd already read it and wanted copies signed by the artist and author, including one delightful family who were home-schooling their kids and who had only recently moved to Bristol and who said that ... No! Modesty forbids me saying any more.

The irrepressible Kev F was there (much-loved local institution and a Beano artist as well!!) and insisted on filming us doing something with sock puppets. The results will be on YouTube apparently, but I'd rather not go there.

I'd never been to a comic event before. Have done plenty of sf conventions, but this was altogether more colourful and weird, with lots of people going around in outlandish costumes. Aside from the not-unexpected imperial stormtroopers, there's a lot of people dressed as characters from manga which probably aren't recognisable to anyone over the age of 35.

Like a friend once observed at an sf convention; turn up at one of these things as a writer and you can sometimes feel as though you're intruding on something. You've pitched up in the land of fandom, where half the population want to talk to you, and the other half are off on some fantasy tip of their own.

Please don't get me wrong; this is not a complaint. Only the meanest spirit would gainsay the pleasure of dressing up and indulging mostly innocent fantasies. I mean, give me stormtroopers over morris dancers any day.

And the costumes and props have their uses. A guy at a convention told me some years ago about the time he and his mates, dressed in home-made Star Trek gear were providing the "security" at a convention. In the hotel corridor they noticed a wrong 'un obviously thieving from a room. The guy legs it, and our nine-stone Trekkie pulls out his cardboard phaser yelling "Stop! Or I shoot!"

Idiot thief stops in his tracks and raises his hands. Apparently the coppers couldn't stop laughing at him for several hours.

That's the story anyway.