#07 James Blunt

Why doesn't James Blunt sing beyond the first line of his first verse? Thanks to some cunning investigative journalism on my part, I have discovered Blunt's "lost" verse...

My life is brilliant
My writing's poor
(A) Second-line escapes me
Of that I'm sure
They give me funny looks now
Even t' piano-man
They think that I've forgot the words
But I've got a plan...

My life is brilliant
My love is pure
I saw an angel
Of that I'm sure
She smiled at me on the subway
She was with another man
But I won't lose no sleep on that
'Cause I've got a plan

You're beautiful
You're beautiful
You're beautiful, it's true

I saw your face in a crowded place
And I don't know what to do
'Cause I'll never be with you
Yeah, she caught my eye
As we walked on by
She could see from my face that I was
[Flipping] high

And I don't think that I'll see her again
But we shared a moment that will last till the end

You're beautiful
You're beautiful
You're beautiful, it's true
I saw your face in a crowded place
And I don't know what to do
'Cause I'll never be with you

You're beautiful
You're beautiful
You're beautiful, it's true
There must be an angel with a smile on her face
When she thought up that I should be with you
But it's time to face the truth
I will never be with you

#06 Lyrics

Music is one of the most important things in my life to me. Sometimes, just the opening bars of a song are enough to bring back memories; to re-kindle emotions; to inspire. More often, it is the lyrics of the song - what it is actually trying to say - that have the most profound effect.

Again this week I've been reading, and continuing my theme of reading the books that have inspired films. Monday afternoon's book was Jeffery Eugenides' The Virgin Suicides, not perhaps the most obvious choice for a Hollywood adaptation. By its very nature, the tale of manic teenage depression in stifling suburban America doesn't sound like an entertaining movie. True to form I haven't seen the film and probably don't want to now, either. But the book, for all its morbidity, investigates some interesting areas of though: most prominently, the ways our lives are chronicled.

The story of the five star-crossed Lisbon girls (their surname, not home-town), is presented by an un-named group of men once boys who spent their innocent summer evenings 'spying' on the mysterious girls who lived across the street. As well as the obvious mystery surrounding the opposite sex as they become teenagers, the boys are also intrigued by the incredibly harsh regime forced onto the girls by their mother. Such repression is ultimately blamed for the girls' fate (and if you haven't guessed that by now, the title of the book is sadly self-explanatory), and also results in the true story of the girls' remaining a mystery. 'Exhibits' - photographs, doodles and diary entries - are used to piece together the 'best-guess' story, but what led them to somewhere "deeper than death" is taken with them.

Such is the boys' collective determination to put the Lisbons 'to rest' through the realisation of their history that they can never forget. Whilst the physical remains of their life can be removed - their house sold, gutted and refurbished - emotional artefacts cannot be cleansed so easily. "You never get over it," says the girls' grandmother: "But you get to where it doesn't bother you so much". In a graceful return to the opening of this blog, the boys find that music remains as an indelible stain even after catharsis.

That, I think, is the 'problem' with music. Even if you don't want to remember, such is its emotive power, you can be back in the place you never wanted to return to within only a few of the beats per minute.

This extract is taken from The Virgin Suicides: it's 'Make It With You', by David Gates:

Hey, have you ever tried
Really reaching out for the other side
I may be climbing on rainbows,
But, baby, here goes:
Dreams, they're for those who sleep
Life, it's for us to keep
And if you're wondering what this song is leading to
I want to make it with you

Compare it with a song released 33 years later, 'Cannonball', by Damien Rice:

Stones taught me to fly
Love taught me to lie
Life taught me to die
So it's not hard to fall
When you float like a cannonball

Apart from the obvious similarity in lyrical content, the sentiment is the same. Human emotion does not change. In 33 years, music may have changed, but I'm certain those words will still mean the same to me as they do now. I'm sure they'll mean more too, but they'll still remind me of the things they do now. There's no escaping music's power to remind: on reflection, surely that's a good thing? Perhaps the 'problem' with music is in fact what makes it so powerful in the first place. Lyrics - forever woven within our music collections, whether in vinyl, iPod, disk or as fragments in our brain's music library - chronicle our lives.

I'm glad I got rid of my Ms. Dynamite album, now.

#05 Books

It was last Saturday evening when I recognised that (Paris excluded) I'd done absolutely nothing since finishing school. OK, I'd been out for a few pints with Croasdell and Telfer, but in terms of actually doing anything constructive, nowt had been achieved. Worse still, I was sitting indoors on a Saturday night watching In It To Win It. Immediate action needed to be taken...

So what have I done? Well, seeing as I am hoping to study English Literature at university this year, I thought it wise to get a few books under my belt. Raiding the loft reaped its rewards, because I stumbled across my dad's book collection. It amazed me just how many books I found boxed up from the 1970s/1980s that have since become Hollywood films. There must be something in that, I thought, so set about reading some of them. Before Sunday, I'd already read a few "now a major film" texts. On holiday last Summer, I read Joseph Heller's Catch-22; during the year, James Clavell's King Rat, Robert Ludlum's The Bourne Identity and Louis de Berière's Captain Corelli's Mandolin (as part of my coursework assignment) were all added to my bookshelf...

Sunday afternoon was Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange's turn. Written through the eyes of Alex, a youth growing up against a background of a lawless society, its presentation could put off the casual reader. From the first line, the text is comprised of Alex's slang and colloquial patois. Through this unusual yet brilliant approach the sheer horror of the events that Alex finds himself embroiled in - robbery, assault, rape and ultimately, murder - is both distanced from the reader yet emotionally heightened. Scenes from the book have since become clichés, but once you remember this book dates from the 1970s, they become all the more chilling. The joy of reading is that you can become as involved or as distant from the plot as you choose. I wouldn't recommend forming mental images of what you read of this book - they will haunt.

Monday was spent at home doing not much else again. After visiting Bluewater's job centre on Saturday, I was half-expecting a phone call from Next. They told me that - whether I had got the job there or not - they would call and let me know on Monday or Tuesday. No call, so I spend the afternoon getting too hot by trying to paint the garden fence. Abandoning my attempts at 1 o'clock, I managed to make better progress in the fantastic evening we enjoyed that night.

Tuesday was spent doing not much else again (!), but this time in much more pleasant surroundings. Going down to Dartford Park with Croasdell, Adèle and Elyse was not only a fantastic excuse to get out the house, but a welcome opportunity to meet up with people again! Sitting in the blazing sunshine for a couple of hours felt fantastic - until recognising at about 5 in the afternoon that I was, in fact, severely sunburnt. There's an important lesson here, kids: wear sunscreen. The excuse that "It was cloudy when I left" just doesn't cut it. Luckily, after two hours in the direct sun, the rest of the day was spend sitting under the shade of trees, where the breeze and the cloud-less sky made for a perfect summer's day. And it saved me from losing the rest of my skin, to boot.

As well as swapping stories, Tuesday gave me the chance to lend Elyse a CD (Belle & Sebastian, what else?) and collect a book from her in return. It was Alex Garland's The Beach, and provided me with reading material for Wednesday afternoon. One of my pet hates is reading a book with excessively-long chapters. I can't leave a chapter half-way through, and you just know that as soon as you start reading one, you'll get a phone call, or a message, or a visitor that forces you to stop. Not only that, but they're impossible to read if you only get the odd five-minutes here or there during the day. Luckily, The Beach provided no problems: the chapters are short, but packed with excitement, action and suspense. Ignoring the times I had to stop to apply after-sun, I could not put this book down and finished it within hours.

There is a reference in The Beach to September 11th. It came as such a disappointing blow to me: I was so angry that such a good book up to then had been marred by such a clichéd comment. But then I read the front - the book was written in 1996. It made me feel guilty for ever doubting the author's integrity, and it made me recognise just how paranoid the modern world has become. Ironically, that's the whole point of the book. So should you read this book? On a selfish level, yes you should: that was I can discuss it with you! But also because this novel doesn't feel like any other book I've read up to now. It feels modern, fresh, and relevant: it feels like you're watching a really good film.

I've never watched the films that any of these books have inspired. I'm not sure I want to, either, through fear that they might spoil the images I have in my head. I don't want to sit through the horror of A Clockwork Orange; I don't want The Beach's beach to be any less beautiful than the one I've imagined; I don't want Françoise to be any less beautiful; Etienne to be any less friendly; Richard to be any less - well, anything less than like me!

I returned to Louis de Bernière's writings today by reading his first novel, Señor Vivo And The Coca Lord. There are many similarities between this book and The Beach. Firstly, there's one hellovalotta drugs involved in each! In both novels, drug barons provide the characters with protection and security, but also strike fear and terror into their hearts. You know when you've upset them: in both books, the results of making them cross manifests in horrific events. Thinking about it now, all the books I've read this week are pretty violent and bloody!

The difference between Señor Vivo... and The Beach/A Clockwork Orange is that in the latter two books you know from the beginning that the characters' fates are sealed. You can prepare yourself for their deaths; it doesn't shock you so much because you can see it coming. But in Señor Vivo... the contrast between joy and horror is scarily similar to London's plight over the last week. And it does scare you: no matter how strong your heart is, this book will break it.

I could write forever about why the books I've read this week appeal to me. Looking up, it appears I almost have.

#04 London

I've never really been one for birthday parties. I had one when I was about five or six, with all my new friends from playgroup and the first year of school invited. Ben Telfer was probably there. We had a clown and jelly and cakes and party hats; unfortunately we also had one of my relatives filming the whole thing. Looking back it's incredibly embarrassing, especially the part where I pretend to be a car, and I get 'washed' with a comedy over-sized feather duster. Cringe.

Other than that, I’ve never really done anything major for my birthdays since. All the other people in my class would have house parties, or football parties, or bowling parties, but I can’t really remember making that much of a deal about my own birthday. Which probably explains why I was so excited about going to the Science Museum for my tenth birthday.

I never went. Days before the day my dad had booked off work to take me, the IRA exploded a bomb in London. I don’t remember much else – where the bomb was, how many (if any) were killed, why it had happened. But I do remember seeing one image: the blackened aftermath of an explosion next to a seemingly unscathed bright red post-box. It didn’t mean much to me then, other than that the trip was cancelled. To this day, my dad owes me a trip to the Science Museum.


Watching terrorist attacks on television means nothing. You see the pictures, you hear the sirens, but it means nothing. Who are those bleeding people? People you’ve never met, who don’t live in your country, who don’t speak your language. It sounds shallow, but it’s true: you switch off the TV and the problem isn’t there anymore: you can continue with your own, sheltered life.

Then it happens in London. For a while, watching the coverage on the 24-hour news channels didn’t affect me at all. There have been so many programmes that show terrorist attacks in London – all fictional of course – but their use of the proper graphics and real presenters meant that it was just like watching a drama. You could have been forgiven for thinking it was just another drama. But then you change channel, or go online, or switch on the radio: there is no escaping reality. I’ve been to that railway station: those aren’t computer graphics; that’s real blood; those people are innocent.

It’s difficult to write much more without dipping into so many other issues. The simple fact remains: terrorism is the most frightening thing in the world. Because they can attack us, wherever we are and whatever we are doing, but who do we attack in return? The answer is simple: we attack their “ideal”. We don’t give up. We get back on the tube. We go back to London. Yes it’s dangerous. Yes there’s a threat. But there always was, and there always will be. It’s a sad fact of life that wherever we go, we’ll always be looking out for suspect packages and abandoned bags. But don’t let them win by staying at home. Follow the example set by the tramp that sleeps outside King's Cross station: he was back at work today.

London Mayor Ken Livingstone:

"I wish to speak directly to those who came to London today to take life.

I know that you personally do not fear giving up your own life in order to take others - that is why you are so dangerous. But I know you fear that you may fail in your long-term objective to destroy our free society and I can show you why you will fail.

I say to those who planned this dreadful attack, whether they are still in London in hiding, or if they are abroad: watch next week as we bury our dead, and mourn them.

In the days that follow look at our airports, look at our sea ports and look at our railway stations and, even after your cowardly attack, you will see that people from the rest of Britain, people from around the world will arrive in London to become Londoners and to fulfil their dreams and achieve their potential.

They choose to come to London, as so many have come before because they come to be free, they come to live the life they choose, they come to be able to be themselves. They flee you because you tell them how they should live. They don’t want that and nothing you do, however many of us you kill, will stop that flight to our city where freedom is strong and where people can live in harmony with one another. Whatever you do, however many you kill, you will fail."

Entry to the Science Museum is free.

#03 Paris

Well it's Saturday afternoon now, and I've really only just recovered from Thursday and Friday... or as they'll become known, the best 24 hours of my life!

After getting up at half past five and a quick breakfast, I had to walk down to Dartford station for the seven o'clock to London Waterloo East. Or at least, that was the plan. Adèle and Mark's taxi was late, so there was a worrying moment when we thought we might not make the train!! Luckily we managed to catch the next one, so we arrived at the station with plenty of time to spare! From Waterloo East, it was just a quick walk to Waterloo to meet up with Elyse. From there, the excitement grew and grew as we sped our way through the tunnel to Paris...

In true tourist style, we headed straight for the obvious places. The cathedral at Notre Dame is awe-inspiring, and the atmosphere inside (especially when compared to the hustle and bustle outside) is amazing. Next, we headed for the Eiffel Tower. At first, we weren't sure whether to pay the full €10.50 (about £7) to visit the top, but I'm so glad we did. The view is unbelievable, even from the first level only; Paris looks so elegant from up there, and as the river snakes around the parks and streets of the city, you wonder how they managed to mess up London so spectacularly. If you ever get the chance, you must see that view!

The Champs d'Elysée is a big old street, and decked out in it's best gear to back the Paris 2012 Olympic bid. The Arc de Triomphe is your reward for an exhausting walk, but worth seeing, if only on a tourist level. There's an amazing mix of shops down that street - a Mercedes Benz showroom sits next to a Quick restaurant (think Little Chef!). And the roads round Paris: it's like playing Russian Roulette, but with zebra crossings. I still haven't worked it out, but I'm pretty sure that red lights are optional for drivers, and zebra crossings are only safe when cars don't need to turn right into them. But don't take my word for that, I cannot be held responsible for any injuries you pick up from following my advice!!

I can't remember any other day I've spent where I've enjoyed the day so much. I honestly didn't stop smiling from arrival at Gare du Nord to the pavement cafés along, erm, the road outside Gare du Nord. In those 24 hours, we squeezed in a visit to a pavement café, looked in the window of a cheese shop, bought a mini-Eiffel Tower, caught the Metro at rush hour (not such a highlight!), advised a French waiter about Maroon 5, and seen the most amazing gig ever...

Yes, we had a reason for our visit, you know: to see the incredible Damien Rice in concert. The venue (the Trianon) itself is a beautiful little place, absolutely perfect for such an intimate, emotional roller-coaster of a gig. We were sitting in the stalls, fairly close to the back (in fact I was sitting just behind the sound mixing desk) but still with a great view of the stage...

Set List
- Delicate
- I Remember
- The Blower’s Daughter (Part 2)
- Cannonball
- Woman Like A Man
- Accidental Babies
- Professor Et La Fille Danse
- Childish
- Eskimo
- Volcano
- The Blower’s Daughter
- Aime
- Glory Box
- Hallelujah
- Unplayed Piano (video)
- Cold Water (with Kate Earl)
- Older Chests


After a few sneak-peeks at Damien as he peered around the curtains, Kate Earl kicked off the night with her fantastic set. She's real pretty, and she's got the songs to match. It was the perfect introduction, and her appearance in the theatre at the "interval" to hand out some promo CDs was nice. One American lady made me smile, shouting across the stalls "Hey! She's got CDs! And they're FREE!!". I know I took my copy because I liked the music, not just because there was free music on offer!

It struck me about 15 minutes in to Earl's set that - oh my God! - I was about to witness not only my first proper gig, but also see the amazing Damien Rice live. I knew at that point that the rest of the night would be incredible...

Just as with "O", the night opened with Delicate. Mark, Adèle, Elyse and myself all went into the gig hoping to hear our own favourites: playing so many songs from "O" or "B-Sides" (his two released albums), none of us left disappointed. I Remember was amazing, and Childish was a nice surprise for those only acquainted with the album tracks...

Damien's attempts at French were gallant, if not entirely accurate! But they made everyone laugh, and the atmosphere couldn't have been more friendly (especially with so many Irish in the crowd!!). But it's testament to Damien's ability and presence that he can move from joking and laughing to such amazingly moving songs as Cannonball and (the tear-jerking) Accidental Babies... the guitar solo on Woman Like A Man was simply amazing!

The Blower's Daughter is for me one of Damien's greatest songs, and he didn't let me down. After the London gig (which Tom Ford, Nicola and Garner went to), we were worried that he wouldn't have time to play it... our collective sigh of relief on hearing the opening notes was well justified!

Taking Aime into When Doves Cry and Hallelujah was again, heart-stopping. The whole hall fell into silence and wonder as Damien took us all to places we never expected to go. Just incredible. Kate Earl rejoined the stage for Cold Water, and by this point there was no holding back the tears! Older Chests ended the perfect day.


The night was still young for us though! With the gig over by about 10h30, we still had until 6h46 the next morning before we could check-in for the train home! The Sacré Coeur is another beautiful building - Paris is full of them! - and although it was raining and cloudy, the view across the city was still amazing. Spending the rest of the evening in the very friendly (and very useful) Maison Blanche opposite the Gare du Nord, over hot chocolate and a truck-load of amazing memories... bliss!

Thank you so much to Mark, Adèle and Elyse for making the day so special (and going back over a year, thanks to Elyse for introducing me to Damien's music in the first place). I hope that isn't the last time we do something that cool together again.

A bientôt!