Day whatever it is in the back-of-beyond-but-tourist-stricken Languedoc parish of Caunes-Minervois – ‘Minervois’ to distinguish it from the 1,001 other Caunes parishes here in the French Quarter of the glorious European Union – and in one or two odd ways I am relaxing a little more and wishing I – we, as I am here with my brother – had rather more than just another six days on holiday.
But last things last, as they say: my brother Mark
has one of those little gadgets which are speakers for an iPod Touch, and we –
lately I as he, at the time of writing, has now gone upstairs to watch German TV - have just listened,
in order played, to the fourth, choral movement, of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony,
then Bill Evans playing his own composition Young And Foolish (which I can
recommend to anyone dying rather slowly – that’s everyone over 40 – who wants
to recapture the emotion of being young but doesn’t want any of the concomitant
hassles), followed by Scarlatti’s piano sonata K466 in F minor (and that would
be Domenico Scarlatti – there was a whole tribe of them but I am not familiar
with the music of any of the others), followed by Purcell’s Dido’s Lament from –
I think his opera – Dido and Aeneas, then Ry Cooder with Earl Hines playing
Diddy Wa Diddy (or however it’s spelled and I don’t actually think there’s a
definitive version of the spelling), then Chet Baker’s version of Autumn
Leaves, followed by one of Miles Davis’s versions of the same tune and (now
brother Mark has fucked off upstairs) the glorious S.O.S Band with Just Be Good
To Me.
That finished several minutes ago and the album is still playing. And
how, I hear some of you asking – though most certainly not all of you – can anyone
who thinks Beethoven composed some of the best music ever, with his Ninth
Symphony being some of the very best even bear to listen to the S.O.S Band?
Well, sweethearts, I’ll tell you: it’s just as glorious, though in a very
different way (apropos which Weekend Love is now playing and just to spite all
the snobs, once it has finished I’ll play Alexander O’Neal’s track Innocent
which is just as glorious. Then to persuade you innocent doubters that I haven’t
totally lost my marbles, it will be Bach, Mozart or something entirely
different – if I feel like it.
Which all gets to tell you: absolutely nothing.
Great music to listen to is great to listen to whatever it is. I do so dislike
snobs. As my brother has just come down to the kitchen, I thought I would play
him Wicked Soul by Kubb. The rest of the album it’s on isn’t much cop, but this
track is ace.
. . .
It’s a little late and tonight I’ve had three gins
and a glass or two of Chardonnay. Unfortunately, there’s no wine left, so it
might have to be a weak glass of pastis and possibly regrets tomorrow. I’ve now
put on Karen Tweed, who I’m sure is not well known, but she is a superb
accordion player. More great music, as much in keep with Mr Beethoven, Mr
Scarlatti, Mr Miles Davis, Mr Chet Baker and the S.O.S. Band as anything else.
. . .
In keeping with previous nights, I did the cooking
tonight (as I love cooking) and I roasted on of the most underrated pieces of
meat known to man: belly pork. It is not difficult, though a damn sight cheaper
than many other cuts. I made a sauce from the juices, a little of the
Chardonnay and some crème freche, using the onions I roasted at the same time.
The crackling was a little – er – burned, but tasty just the same. Served with
roasted par-boiled potatoes i.e. not too roasted, and leeks sautéed in butter.
And if the whole shebang cost more than a couple of pence for two, I shall be
very surprised. Still holding off from the pastis – a spirit, which is not good
news after gin and wine – but I don’t think I can hold off much longer. A cup
of tea would do the trick, but what’s tea when there is a glass of – albeit weak
– pastis to be enjoyed.
. . .
Mark rather surprised me tonight by something he
said as we were sitting outside. It has become our habit, for want of a terrace
to use for a pre-dinner drink, to sit outside in the very narrow alleyway on
two bollards to enjoy our gin and me a cigar. And sitting there, in the
alleyway, we are passed, every few minutes, but all kinds of folk, mainly
locals who live hereabouts but also tourists, but French and Brist, but, as far
as I can tell, every other nationality under the sun, to whom we both always
say a polite and friendly bon soir.
We were sitting there when Mark announced that they
all, the locals and tourists, probably think we are a couple of woofters (his
word, not mine). And it was that which surprised me. Mark is both gay and my
favourite brother with whom I get on, 99pc of the time, extremely well. I’m not
gay (or at least not the last time I looked, but I do rather think these things
are settled. I have never felt like a touch of rumpy-bumpy with a guy and I
really do doubt that life has any surprised in store for me on that score).
What surprised me was that Mark, who is now 54, should worry about such stuff.
I should better add that the only member of my immediate family who reads this
blog is my sister, who knows the score, and, as far as I know – with two
exceptions – no one else who knows me reads it, either, and both of them – one a
former colleague and friend, the other a guy who went to my school but who I
have so far never met (hello, both) has never met Mark. So there is little
chance that by writing what I am I am in in danger of embarrassing him, which I
wouldn’t want to do, anway. The odd thing is that he makes loads of camp, gay
jokes, yet doesn’t seem keen on anyone thinking he is gay. Any suggestions as
to why?
LATER: Actually, perhaps I can make my own
suggestion: I fell asleep last night with the radio on and woke at about 3.15
our time to a documentary about how gays are simply being murdered in Iraq. It
was quite horrific. One guy told of being held at a checkpoint, then raped by
nine policemen before being set free again. Sounds contradictory, but according
to Iraqis interviewed, the blame for being gay attaches wholly to what they
regarded as the ‘feminine’ partner. The police do nothing because, according to
the documentary, many of them are in the various religious militias when they
are off-duty. Generally speaking , life
for gay men and women in Iraq is utterly miserable from the point of view of
the state. Ironically, gays were freer and less hassled in Iraq under Saddam
Hussein and in Syria Assad dad and lad.
Things have progressed by several centuries in
Britain and Western Europe, but it was only 50 years ago (these timespans don’t
seem quite as large when you are, as I am, 102) when any kind of sexual
relations between men were illegal. So maybe I should accept my brother’s point
of view on this one and not see things quite so much through my own eyes. And
my apologies to anyone reading what I originally wrote who felt offended. At
first, I was going to remove it, but then I thought that not doing so and
adding these few paragraphs might have more point, especially as many will not
know quite how nasty and brutish life can be in some parts of the world for gay
men and women. Africa is especially intolerant of lesbians some believe a rape
or two will help them see the error of their ways. I don’t mean to be po-faced,
but perhaps we in the West should count our blessings just a little bit more.
. . .Talking of any suggestions, I always look at the Google blog stats to see how often the most recent entry has been read and where they are. So here’s a request: why don’t you – that is those three (see above) who haven’t already done so – make yourselves known and tell me a bit about yourselves. That request goes out to several readers in the U.S., several in the UK, and as far afield as Australia, Indonesia, Chine, the Ukraines and Russia. Come on, lad and lasses, get in touch.
One last statistic for our American cousins: Mark told me yesterday that he came across an interesting statistic: Mitt Romney and his backers are keen to do well in Ohio in the coming presidential election. Well, it seems that a survey of Republican voters there established that almost one in five of those surveyed are astonished that Mitt isn’t getting the credit he deserves for the assassination of Osama bin Laden in Pakistan.
On that note, I’ll raise my glass of pastis and drink a toast to all those glorious folk keen on introducing democracy to the rest of the benighted, undemocratic world: we’re glad we are safe in your hands. Perhaps bin Laden will do you a favour and have himself resurrected so that Romney can have another shot and this time get the recognition he deserves. Bon nuit (as they say in the more pretentious parts of North London.)
PS A late plea for all and sundry to listen to Alexander O’Neal and his numerous cracking good tracks. OK, so I’m an 80s freak but... Hearsay, Criticise, A Broken Heart, Never Knew Love Like This - fucking classic. What first got me hooked? If You Were Here Tonight - 24-carat bollocks, lovers’ rock crap. I love it. And I’m really not joking. Yes, Beethoven's Ninth, Bach's St John Passion, squeaky gate music and If You Were Here Tonight. It all fits. Somehow. And don’t get me started on Freddie Jackson. Fuck the 90s.
. . .
I posted the above and then read it through and
started amending it. And then I thought it really did need a little more: Freddie
Jackson? Alexander O’Neal? Beethoven, Scarlatti – and, I might add, Hildegard
von Bingen, Schuman, Schubert, Haydn (especially Haydn, who was born to early
in an odd sort of way), Mozart, Steely Dan, Teleman, Purcell, Vaughan-Williams,
Dave Fiuczynski, Kid Creole, Johnny Winter, Dylan, Elgar, Delius, Shostakovish Pink et al – is the guy serious? Well, of course I am: music is music is music is
music. And if you disagree and start coming the cunt about ‘serious’ music or
any such nonsense I hereby officially ban you and your kind from ever reading
this blog again. Ever.
. . .Finally, a public service announcement: Is your partner missing? Has your bed been cold these past few hours? If you recognize the character below, please get in touch and we might be able to re-unite you.
