January 1st. It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me. Now I’m going back to bed.
A Fresh Start
January 1, 2012
January 1st. It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me. Now I’m going back to bed.
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In which LaFlamme's timely appearance saves Tony from more unnecessary pain at the hands of band manager George Lyttleton.
It was another throwback to Lyttleton’s 70’s musical pedigree.
“I’ve written a piece for the gatefold,” he said. What kind of gate is only four inches wide? I took the hand-written note and gazed at it blankly. “I think a written piece adds weight to the release, don’t you?” he continued. “We want it to have impact. It can’t just go off like a damp squid.” Once again, Lyttleton’s seafood obsession coloured his language. This time I was almost being drawn in to his world and finding the image of a damp squid going off sufficiently daunting.
Luckily at this point LaFlamme made a surprise appearance, arriving just in time to spare me having to read the piece. Lyttleton rose.
“LaFlamme,” he said, bowing his head slightly. This was unnecessary as she was already a head taller.
“I’m usually very good with names,” said LaFlamme, “but I’ve deliberately forgotten yours.”
Lyttleton shifted uneasily. “Well, I think we’re pretty much done here,” he said. There had been no mention of budget and that’s the way Lyttleton liked it. People like me should simply appreciate the privilege of working with such great talent and relish being a moth around a great flame.
“We can discuss costs later,” I suggested.
“Costs,” he said vaguely, as if unfamiliar with the term. “Yes. Of course.” He left to continue building his empire elsewhere.
LaFlamme meanwhile was flicking through Lyttleton’s photographs, casually dropping each in turn out of the open window.
By No Stretch Of The Imagination Can A CD Sleeve Ever Be Described As ‘Gatefold’
December 23, 2011
In which LaFlamme's timely appearance saves Tony from more unnecessary pain at the hands of band manager George Lyttleton. It was another throwback to Lyttleton’s 70’s musical pedigree. “I’ve written a piece for the gatefold,” he said. What kind of gate is only four inches wide? I took the hand-written note and gazed at … Continue reading By No Stretch Of The Imagination Can A CD Sleeve Ever Be Described As ‘Gatefold’
More George Lyttleton, Band Manager >>
In which Tony takes design direction from band manager and knob George Lyttleton.
“In the meantime," said Lyttleton, after outlining his plans for the formation of an executive production company, "one of our stable has a new album coming out, and we have the usual artwork requirements.”
“Who’s the artist?” I asked.
“It’s not important.”
“Just out of interest.”
“A singer-songwriter by the name of Campbell.”
“Glen by any chance?”
“That’s right,” he said. “Campbell Glen.” I made a mental note never to make jokes with Lyttleton as he had no recognisable sense of humour.
“I’ve brought some photographs,” he continued, producing a hard-backed envelope which I proceeded to open. They were pictures of himself in various holiday locations, grinning cheesily at the camera.
“Wouldn’t it have been better to bring pictures of the singer?” I asked.
“Well yes, but I didn’t want to prejudice your design. It’s important to me that you employ whatever type of image you see fit, I have no clams about that.”
“You have no clams?”
“That’s right,” he said. “I don’t care.” Lyttleton may have been as confused as I was generally but even I wouldn’t mistake misgivings for shellfish.
George Lyttleton Has No Clams
December 10, 2011
In which Tony takes design direction from band manager and knob George Lyttleton. “In the meantime," said Lyttleton, after outlining his plans for the formation of an executive production company, "one of our stable has a new album coming out, and we have the usual artwork requirements.” “Who’s the artist?” I asked. “It’s not … Continue reading George Lyttleton Has No Clams
More George Lyttleton, Band Manager >>
In which Tony is visited by band manager and 'executive producer' George Lyttleton.
3pm
I awoke to the sound of the doorbell with a deep sense of dread. This was normal. Today it was doubly normal as I knew who was outside ringing it.
Band managers aren’t normally able to show their face in the same place twice due to the likelihood of them having done something embarrassing there in the past. But Lyttleton had no shame. He’d show up anywhere. He sauntered in and sat by the window. There wasn’t a chair there but he managed to perch on the sill, and in his slightly-too-small lime suit he looked like an over-stuffed parrot.
A relic from a bygone era – the 1970’s – Lyttleton was a man who had built a music industry career around doing nothing remotely musical. Short, stocky and wildly over-confident, he was never going to allow the fact that he had no interest in music stop him from being a success in the music industry.
It wasn’t that he actively disliked music. He just didn’t understand it. Consequently, he had no appreciation of musical skill or performing ability and actually considered himself the talent. “Anybody can be in a band,” he once told me. “The real skill is management.” Lyttleton’s actual skill was in projecting the idea that his time was invaluable. Anyone granted an audience should feel humbled.
He had epic delusions of grandeur. Despite the fact he was strictly a small-time operator, he insisted on giving his company overblown, grandiose names and having ‘associate executives’ who were other no-talent suits he had picked up on his way. There were few surprises for me when he outlined his plans.
“I’m about to announce the formation of a new arm of the business,” he began. “An executive production company called ‘Overhead Communications.’”
“Why Overhead?” I asked.
“It’s an umbrella group,” he replied. That’s what I get for asking. “A holding company for the other divisions.”
“How many divisions do you have there?” I asked, and regretted this question too as he rattled off a list of probably fictitious company names making frequent use of the words ‘incorporated’, ‘conglommerates’ and ‘united.’
It turns out an executive production company is one that doesn't produce anything, which is quite a feat for a production company. I couldn't wait to see what he had lined up for me.
Doubly Normal
December 2, 2011
In which Tony is visited by band manager and 'executive producer' George Lyttleton. 3pm I awoke to the sound of the doorbell with a deep sense of dread. This was normal. Today it was doubly normal as I knew who was outside ringing it. Band managers aren’t normally able to show their face in … Continue reading Doubly Normal
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In which Tony and The Admiral continue Project X, their quest for an effective hangover cure, with dedicated input from Suave Gav.
Suave Gav was punctual, early even, and carried a heavy briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. He strode confidently around the room as introductions were made. “It’s quite alright,” he said. “I haven’t been followed.” Without delay he unlocked the cuffs, discarded his jacket and opened the case, unpacking an apron, funnel, several small jars with cloth coverings, test tubes, various twigs and roots, a syringe and finally a sheaf of papers bound together by elastic bands. He was certainly taking this evening seriously. By contrast, The Admiral produced his notepad of equations and a ceramic jug with a cork in the top. He seemed a little over-awed by Suave Gav’s intensity. I could see a little self-doubt flicker across his face.
Gavin was generous with his knowledge, at least for one whose knowledge arrived handcuffed to him. At length he outlined the extent of his research, pinning diagrams to the wall and highlighting with a laser pen. It was the nearest thing to a lecture I would ever witness. He explained the struggle he’d had in trying to produce an elixir from the branches of the Turpitude plant and made it sound as if it had been his life’s work. It had only been a week. Clearly he’d given up his day job or abandoned the whole idea of sleep in order to focus. He was committed. And if he wasn’t, he should be.
Suave Gav Wades In
November 23, 2011
In which Tony and The Admiral continue Project X, their quest for an effective hangover cure, with dedicated input from Suave Gav. Suave Gav was punctual, early even, and carried a heavy briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. He strode confidently around the room as introductions were made. “It’s quite alright,” he said. “I haven’t … Continue reading Suave Gav Wades In
In which Tony and The Admiral continue the development of their hangover cure by inviting bon viveur Suave Gav to contribute.
The Admiral said he was only too happy to confer with a fellow gastronomic engineer on what we’d begun to call Project X. We didn’t call it Project X because it sounded cool or enigmatic, it was just the 24th such project we’d attempted. We were two projects away from starting again at Project A or finding some other alphabet to abuse.
When I explained to The Admiral that Suave Gav wasn’t actually an engineer but merely a hardened drinker with a vested interest in dealing with troublesome mornings after, The Admiral realised we were in Lorenzo’s Oil territory.
“All the better,” he said. “We must make our own miracles.”
Project X
November 6, 2011
In which Tony and The Admiral continue the development of their hangover cure by inviting bon viveur Suave Gav to contribute. The Admiral said he was only too happy to confer with a fellow gastronomic engineer on what we’d begun to call Project X. We didn’t call it Project X because it sounded cool … Continue reading Project X
In which Tony prepares for his trip to Westerchester.
Showing my trademark caution, I checked in on The Admiral and asked him what to pack. He was a regular at the Munich Beer Festival so he suggested a first aid kit. He rummaged in his bathroom cabinet for a bit. Various items crashed into the sink below, one of which he handed to me. It was a long white tube of something called ‘Cryofreeze.’
“Take this,” he said. “It’s relieved a great deal of pain for me in the past. Apply to the affected area and numb’s the word.”
“Numb’s the word?” I said.
“You won’t feel a thing,” he replied. “Cryotherapy is the new aspirin.”
“Do I rub it on my head if I get a headache?”
“Only if you’ve been hit with a frying pan.”
“What if it was a saucepan?” I said. He told me I was being facetious, although I can’t see what politics has to do with it.
I read the back of the tube. It said ‘do not use in combination with a heating pad.’ I asked The Admiral if, had I applied Cryofreeze then added a heating pad, I would start to melt. He said something about me not needing Cryofreeze to numb my head.
Cryotherapy – Numb’s The Word
October 23, 2011
In which Tony prepares for his trip to Westerchester. Showing my trademark caution, I checked in on The Admiral and asked him what to pack. He was a regular at the Munich Beer Festival so he suggested a first aid kit. He rummaged in his bathroom cabinet for a bit. Various items crashed into … Continue reading Cryotherapy – Numb’s The Word
In which Tony takes heed of a warning from the faculty medic in advance of his trip to Westerchester.
“Your shaving habits," said Dr. Seward, "may be subject to change on the waterways. I recommend you stock up on foam and on no account let your ablutional habits slide. The consequences could be disastrous.”
This wasn’t particularly concerning for me as, despite my little jest about shaving my back, I still had the facial growth of a fourteen-year-old, and not necessarily a male. Whilst this might have bothered me at twenty, at thirty it seemed like incredibly good fortune and now I counted my blessings during each of my thrice-weekly meetings with a razor.
“Do you know your IQ level?”
“It’s pretty high,” I said. “Somewhere in the nineties.”
“During your excursion up the Kenneth & Keith, you may become convinced it is much higher, and you may feel the urge to expound your new-found intellect to anyone who will listen. Asking you to resist such an urge may be futile but I mention it anyway as the waterways and pedantry are easy bedfellows. Do you own your own teeth?”
“I think so,” I said. “ I’d hate to find out these belonged to someone else.”
“Excellent,” he replied. “Look after them. Teeth are apt to soften during the narrowboating process.”
I didn’t really know what he meant by this. I wasn’t likely to misplace them and even if I did I could probably rent another set.
By now, the old thesp seemed ready to pack me on my way. He was satisfied that I had the strong constitution required to amble up the Kenneth & Keith, stopping at every other canal-side pub to eat my own weight in fish pie and swill copious quantities of bizarre cask ale.
The Teeth-Softening Effects Of Narrowboating
October 16, 2011
In which Tony takes heed of a warning from the faculty medic in advance of his trip to Westerchester. “Your shaving habits," said Dr. Seward, "may be subject to change on the waterways. I recommend you stock up on foam and on no account let your ablutional habits slide. The consequences could be disastrous.” … Continue reading The Teeth-Softening Effects Of Narrowboating
In which Tony describes the recording of his radio play 'Borderline Brilliant.'
The Admiral was enthusiastic about committing his mellifluous tones to tape. I assumed it was because it would allow him to devise a method of recording our respective roles from seperate locations, something that was likely to tax his massive cranium for at least several hours. However, he was appalled at the idea of faking our encounters in such a way, suggesting that it would be similar to a retrospective duet with Bing Crosby. I wasn't sure which of us would be Bing in this situation but thought I had better take up golf in case it was me.
Because of this, much of the recording had to take place on the Burnfield Links. This explains the baggy pants I wore throughout the sessions, although I doubt whether they can be heard in the actual recording. So The Admiral was faced with a challenge after all, not virtual recording, but keeping up with a baggy-panted man who has taken up golf in case he has to pretend to be Bing Crosby.
It was on the links that we met PC Whyte and PC Mackay and I can only repeat my apologies for the damage caused. I'd like to thank them for being so understanding and for taking part in the recording. Thanks also to Chris Hurst, Alan Macdonald and Rory Macdonald for their monumental efforts. The Admiral too extends his thanks. He is recovering after the combined weight of a 16-track recorder and mixing desk caused him to slip a disc at the eighteenth hole. But no harm done, the recording was complete by then.
To hear the final recording, click here for Borderline Brilliant.
A Retrospective Duet With Bing Crosby
September 29, 2011
In which Tony describes the recording of his radio play 'Borderline Brilliant.' The Admiral was enthusiastic about committing his mellifluous tones to tape. I assumed it was because it would allow him to devise a method of recording our respective roles from seperate locations, something that was likely to tax his massive cranium for … Continue reading A Retrospective Duet With Bing Crosby
In which Tony has his head measured by a physician with a passion for the theatre.
Captain Pantling, the advocates' clerk, insisted I undergo a physical examination with the faculty medic prior to journeying into deepest Westerchester.
"It's dangerous territory," he said. "It has been known to corrupt many a fine mind, and even yours could be affected."
The faculty quack was a peculiar old duffer with more than a hint of the Third Reich about him. It wasn’t so much his interrogation technique, which was rather amiable, but the fact that he was wearing an SS uniform.
“Faculty am-dram,” he explained. “I’ve been in regalia for days.”
“Is that Puccini?” I asked.
“Where Eagles Dare. It’s a minor role but I intend to shine in it. You know the theatre?”
“I know of the theatre,” I said.
“It’s obviously gone downhill since the invention of the mobile phone. I imagine Chekhov never foresaw a day when the audience had more lines than the actors. But who am I to stand in the way of progress?”
“It’s quite a costume,” I said. “Those Nazis really knew how to dress.”
“The bad guys always have the best uniforms,” he replied, producing a set of callipers and advancing towards my cranium. “Do you mind?”
“Go right ahead,” I replied.
“So we’re sending you to Westerchester,” he said, measuring my skull’s diameter. “A queer place. Many go, few return. Are you quite sure you’re up to it?”
“What do you mean?” I said. He eyed the soft stubble on my chin.
“I see you have light and somewhat sporadic facial growth. How often do you shave?”
“Face or back?” I said.
The Faculty Medic
September 24, 2011
In which Tony has his head measured by a physician with a passion for the theatre. Captain Pantling, the advocates' clerk, insisted I undergo a physical examination with the faculty medic prior to journeying into deepest Westerchester. "It's dangerous territory," he said. "It has been known to corrupt many a fine mind, and even … Continue reading The Faculty Medic