Have now reached chapter 13

In the below?

I was wrong. First of all, I've worked out that it's not a book. It's a character spec and storyboard for an RPG.

Secondly, my comparison with Boney M was a terrible injustice to one of the most notable jangly-pop-reggae collectives of the last century. They rhymed better, and had fewer annoying hobbies.

Finally, in a last-ditch attempt to lift the cloud of vwamphyrric gloom that was yesterday's post, and in the interests of fairness, some points of sweetness and light.:
1.The words are generally spelled correctly.
2.None of the character's names or hair colours (apart from a certain vagueness about the eyes) have changed midstream. I am very clear on the details of their physique. Man, big. Lady, small. Got it.
3.Same for the horses. Except there aren't any yet (werelynx, yes. horses, no) which is probably a relief.

Going, going, gong.

Last week, I went to several concerts as part of the tail end of the Prague Spring music festival As is the case with most things, there are many people out there far more qualified to review such events than yours truly, including the Visiting Music Teacher On A Half-Term Holiday (VMTOAHT - 'tis catchy, n'est ce pas?) who went with me. So what follows is definitely not a review of the concerts. Critics who have a better grip on their contrabassoon fingering technique than me can wrestle with the tricky nuances of mezzo-soprano soloist's coloratura passages.

An important thing to consider when arranging any concert is the whole ugly business of spectacle. After all, if there isn't something to look at, the more cynical members of the audience may wander off at the interval, grumbling about the price of tickets and beer before they can buy any of those commemorative T-shirts and limited edition socket sets. More performers in the world of pop/rock than you can chuck a scale model of Stonehenge and malfunctioning wardrobe at(,) know this to be true.

In the world of classical music, things are a tad more muted, spectacle-wise. That's how any fule know it's posh. Kinda like the way tastefully abstract visual metaphors rather than flowing tresses, lasers, pouffy gowns, muscular definition and elves with blue skin indicate respectable literature. (Note to self: Is it possible for a scantily-shirted humanoid with a well-defined chest, blue or not, to be an acceptable visual metaphor for a Great Narrative Theme, or does cleavage immediately sound the death knell of Great Art? Unless you're Richardson, of course, exploiting said bounteaous cleavage for your own nefarious purposes. Pamela Shmamela, apparently.)

Anyhow, a dearth of revolving stages and sparkly replica helicopters (although oddly enough, not necessarily straining bosoms) is usually a giveaway for the sort of concert where the audience is expected to assume either an earnest expression of restrained rapture (eyes-gently-shut-with-periodic-appreciative-inhalations-through-the-nose-during-emotional-passages) or intense concentration (eyes-gently-shut-with-a-slight-frown-and-periodic-small-yet-vigorous-nods-of-approval-of-that-rather-eloquent-rubato-leading-into-the-andante-passage). Tapping along is optional and should always be discreet. No one is allowed to wave their arms vigorously but the person with the stick at the front of the orchestra, or the occasional trombonist with sinus troubles. If there is no one with a stick, the person who most looks like they ought to have one usually wins the conducting free-for-all. Iron-grey hair and a dark suit help in this case.

Luckily for me, all the venues that featured as part of last week's whirl of concert attendance were equipped with bling in spades. Even at the gig where my view of the performers from the cheap seats was entirely blocked by a pillar, the obstructive column was liberally bedecked with ecclesiastical roccoco-a-go-go and a big picture of the Pope. Better yet was the view from the back of the rather stupendous bobbing combover we had when sitting underneath a big flag in the organ balcony at another gig.

But the most memorable was the music-from-the-kitchen-sink concert, which featured most of the instruments and orthodox novelty techniques from the western canon (but no canons or other light artillery, although there were some fugal passages). Audience members could happily debate the Hammond organ and flute duet during the interval, as well as thorny issues such as, "Was that a vibraphone in the last bit, or were they just happy to see us?"

Me? I was just waiting for someone to take advantage of the enormous gong propped up at the back of the percussion section. Something so large, brass and circular clearly was crying out for loud crash at a moment of high drama. Except it didn't. I don't know if it was a cunning ruse to maintain a thread of suspense through the event, or if I failed to appreciate the way some composer had counter-intuitively written a passage of extreme suspense where the instrument was stroked lightly with a paintbrush. But as the final note of the concert sounded, there was still nary a big bong to show for the whole two-hour musical extravaganza. And somehow, I still feel the lack.

Zen and the art of olfactory maintenance

From Star Scents' promotional website, a celebrity endorsement for Cliff Richard's perfumes:

I bought it especially for my Mother, and I can't wait for the Scented Candle for me.
- Christopher "He came, he saw, he damned with faint praise" Biggins

In fact, Sir Cliff and that sensitive-nosed mistress of the balmy arts, Sheila Pickles, have managed to capture in scent the essence of not one, but three of his pop hits: "Dream Maker", "Miss You Nights" and the latest release, out for Christmas 2006, "Devil Woman". The target audience for this new scent are the legions of Cliff fans who know that smelling like Cliff is the next best thing to being with Cliff, and some other women who want a warm, musky fragrance.

Why buy Danielle Steele perfume and exude the odour of overblown emotional drama, when you can smell of clean-cut 60s pop songs (except for the sultry, moody one in the corner)? In the company of such nice people too. To help you choose from the wider range of scented products, a sample Eau de Toilette set of all three perfumes is now available. As Sir C. himself reminds us, "The different scents in these beautiful perfumes evoke memories of each of my homes."

On the "Cliff-Guaranteed" fansite, the man bares his odourous soul and reveals that he shares Olivia Newton John's love for the fruity, musky scent, "Devil Woman". He describes its topnotes of grapefruit and bergamot; its delicious cassis heart. For him, the heady and alluring evening fragrance evokes "...exotic and distant lands - places where I may well have performed the song on some far-away tour." Oh, for the scents and sounds of those far-away tours. Those far, far-away tours.

But perhaps Joan Collins sums it up best in her inimitable style, "Like everything Cliff does, this will go straight to Number One."

Like Frankenstein, I did it my way

In some circles, they call me Typhoid Marika

Late last week, I decided to beat this head cold into submission. Well, either that or at the least assuage my fears that the strange goings-on in an auricular direction weren't signs of some incipient horrible secondary infection that would leave me defeated; a broken woman in neon wraparound visors, weakly humming stadium rock riffs. So off I hied myself, my Czech Health Insurance Card and my fug of rhinoviruses to the clinic with the English-speaking doctors recommended by a friend (it seems illness withers up my Czech language gland).

Two stops across and four stops down on Prague's rather crowded metro, I arrived and battled with the very complicated entry system to greet the doctor himself.

For 'twas indeed a male doctor and one quite attractive in a grey-blond sort of way. Things began to appear rosier. The tiny part of my mind not wholly occupied on working out precisely when I have felt more miserably ill before in my entire life perked up and started to take an interest. It glowed with approval as I explained my symptoms, deftly skirting around the whole Pink Floyd issue.

"Hmmmm…" he frowned, just like every other doctor in the universe. "Do you have fever?"
"Umm… no. I don't think so."
For a brief moment, I wondered if now would be a good time to bring up overstated twin reverb and dry ice. The tiny non-illness-obsessed part of my brain moved with the speed of (laser) light to stifle this urge with a barrage of sneezing. There was a pause while I mopped up with a scrap of tissue. Bit of an own goal for the mucus-brained one.

After a brief hand movement reminiscent of an amateur (pre-bunny) magician's, the still-attractive but more elusive he-doctor lunged forward and grabbed my forehead. Paralysed by shock and a strong Czech accent from a man in a white coat, visions of brain-sucking machines danced through my head.

"No. You don't have fever."
"Oh, well, that's good." Did brain-sucking really require complete cranial rigidity? "But it's really my ears that I'm worried about." I pointed at my ears. They stick out a bit, but are not unattractive.

His hands shifted and his thumbs pressed down very hard on the bumpy bit of skull behind my ears. "Does this hurt?"

Strong hands or not, torn by the brain-sucking issue, it was something of a relief to find him less attractive from this perspective. "Well, you are pressing quite hard."

"No. But do you have pain here?" More pressing.
"Not really. It's more sort of here." I did my own pressing, this time on the squishy bit behind my jaw where the crackling noises seemed to originate.

"Then you do not have ear infection."
"Well, that's a relief."
"You have a cold."
"Yes, I knew that. It's just my ears…"
"There is no medicine for a cold. You must rest. You must drink water."
"Okay."
"And if you still have the hearing problems after the cold is gone, you must see an otologist to clean your ears."
"Okay."
"Now, goodbye."
"Goodbye."

And so, suitably chastened, I took my dirty ears home to tune the air guitar.

Division ding-dong.

It's slightly less obvious than "The Wall".

With the usual seasonal irony, it's been absolutely beautiful and warm for the last few days while I wrestle with a filthy cold. The evil germ has done weird things to my ears that make me feel as if I'm listening to a Pink Floyd album in a submarine. In other words, I have very blocked ears because of sinus inflammation, can hear sloshing and crackling when I move my jaw, and my left ear generates a peculiar tinny echo for all but the lowest-frequency noise.

Given my age, the Pink Floyd reference is a good indicator for the extreme noncool level of my de rigeur "I'm-miserable-and-ill-now-go-away-you-bastards-and-stop-hassling-me-about-borrowing-the-ironing-board" flannel pyjamas, striped socks and bad hair. I'm too old for it to be ironic and/or retro (the fact that I don't really have a clear idea of which it's supposed to be probably speaks volumes), and too young to be a first-time hard-core fan with original vintage concert T-shirt, who can sneer at the wannabe pj's in their pastel-snowflake-printed sadness.

Worse still, I've been this way for a very long time. But illness tends to bring out the dark side of my stadium rock/big album secret vice. One of the reasons that I avoid medication for the average cold-type bug is a sneaking fear that one too many decongestant tablets will find me in head-to-toe denim, and BIG hair, waving a zippo lighter with enthusiasm at a Status Quo gig. It could happen. I once bought a tape of the best of Bon Jovi while under the influence of one too many medicated throat sweets/cough drops and ten years later, not only can I still sing all the words, but I even know the track order.

So somehow it all made sense to my mucus-addled brain to go trawling through the archives and dig out this photo from an excursion up to the castle last summer. At least it might help to illustrate why I'm anticipating the coming summer with not a little dread. While last year, leopard-print ruled, I think gold and "brights" are supposed to be in this summer.

Something pour le weekend

Totally apropos of nothing, but an online chat about parental dysfunction in romances at SB's has given me the most insane urge to link to The Broken Family Band & Eddi Reader's completely twisted break-up (and make-up) duet. But I can't find Alone in the Make-Out Room anywhere remotely linkable and listenable... Aaarrgghh.

(Mrs. B., I'm trying to find a suitable occasion for which gifting you the album might be appropriate. It's definitely one for you.)

Anyhow, frustration has led me to jot down the versicles here. It's probably helpful to point out that in performance the gleeful darkness of the words (and they are darker than the darkest of national-grid-catastrophic-meltdown-not-even-emergency-strip-lighting nights) is mitigated by the band's use of the most twangy of alt.country stylee of stylees, music-wise.

They also exhibit a charming form of vocal production in which the tongue is firmly planted in the fleshy part of the mouth between the nasal cavity and the lower jaw. But not for the faint of heart, although there is a happy ending. Now, bring on the mandolin...

Him: I want you to die
With my hands round your throat
Or with me in the castle
And you in the moat
And everyone you know
Stood around laughing.

Her: I wanna watch you swing from a tree
Or fry on a chair
When you're lookin' at me
And everyone in the world will be glad
When you're gone.

Chorus:
Oh it's silly
To say we were never happy
All those nights we spent
Kissin' under the moon
But I died inside
When you ran out with my pride
Why did you leave me alone
In the make-out room?

Her: I wanna watch you drown in a lake
Or get stabbed by a bull
Or bit by a snake
And there's not a single doctor
Who would come and help you.

Him: Hey, I want you to move to Australia
With me a success
And you facing failure
And all of the friends that you had
Ignorin' your calls.

Chorus.

Twangy guitar instrumental
With harmonica overlay

Him: I wanna leave you
By the side of a road
Or out in a field
In the rain and the snow
And people walking past (tenderly, now...)
Could come and take pictures.

Bom bom bom

Her: I'm gonna treat you the best that I can
'Cos I'm your girl
And you're my man
We'll make 'em jealous
With our laughin' and our carryin' on.

See? It's not so bad. As promised, a happy ending!

Chorus
Twiddly harmonising by her (wa-wa-wah, mmm mmm mmm)
Slow to end