A Song For All Seasons

Certain songs are undoubtedly associated with Christmas. Other holidays have less obvious accompanying tracks. My recent return from Copenhagen has had me thinking about songs that remind me of previous getaways.

Earliest memories generally stretch back to family holidays. Multiple trips to France listening to Paddington Bear story tapes as we drove through country roads surrounded by sunflowers or driving around The Isle of Wight singing along to The Carpenters or The Nolans.

Later as a teen, I remember holidays to Turkey in the days when Scatman John dominated the charts and the poolside bar's sound system. In the resort's nightclub, The Cranberries' Zombie and The Moody Blues' Nights In White Satin seemed to feature nightly on the DJ's set list.

Years later finally able to fly without parental supervision, I recall my first holiday with The Boy in Cyprus nearly being driven mad by DJ Ötzi's version of Hey Baby – a 60s song by Bruce Channel I was already more than familiar with from its inclusion on The Dirty Dancing soundtrack and had previously liked.

During our year on the road travelling, The Kings Of Leon's Sex On Fire was continuously played all around New Zealand/Australia and Ozzie radio station, Triple J, first introduced us to Florence + The Machine's Dog Days Are over.

In Copenhagen a rather familiar-sounding song was played in bars and restaurants all over the city. Although I no longer really follow the UK's Top 40 chart, I was already familiar with Gotye's Somebody That I Used To Know from an amazing YouTube version of the song by Walk Off The Earth, performed by five band members on one guitar:

Currently still at number one, Gotye is an interesting artist with a pretty eclectic back catalogue, both as a solo artist and drummer of The Basics. Although he's made it back to number one again, I'm sure the latest talentless manufactured-sounding reality TV show product will shortly take-over.

While Olympic news dominates and Marks & Spencer's push Gary Barlow's remake of George Harrison's Here Comes The Sun as the UK's summer number one, I look forward to seeing what my song of the summer vacation becomes and can only hope it's more of a Gotye than a Ötzi.

Blast From The Past

Recently in Copenhagen for four nights, we popped over the bridge across to Malmo for the day. Walking around Sweden's third largest city prompted the predictable discussion about famous Swedish exports. Naturally being a teenager in the 90s meant Ace of Base were one of the first to get a mention.

Based in Gothenburg, Ace of Base were original comprised of Ulf "Buddha" Ekberg, and the three Berggren siblings - Jonas "Joker", Malin "Linn"and Jenny. Although they released four albums between 1993 and 2002, I only really remember their debut Happy Nation/The Sign. It was this album that dominates our reminiscent discussion. As hard as I try, I'm only able to recall the singles The Sign and All That She Wants doing particularly well, having somehow temporarily wiped Don't Turn Around from my memory.

It is All That She Wants that triggers the most early memories. Described by Wikipedia as a "dark fusion of dub-reggae with pop"and released in 1992 when I was merely thirteen, All That She Wants quickly became the window into my French pen friend's world. I recall the first time I stayed with her, meeting her extended family for an Aunt or Uncle's Birthday. My French was always far more limited that my pen friend's English so communication was generally somewhat stilted. Trying to talk to her cousins proved almost impossible but a universal love of Ace of Base saved the day. Even though we could barely talk, we were all able to sing-along to All That She Wants - my English may not have impressed but my knowledge of the song lyrics clearly made an impression.

Even to this day, I can almost recite all the lyrics and doing so while walking around Malmo raised some interesting previously untouched questions. As a teen, I'm not sure I ever seriously contemplated the meaning of its lyrics:

"She leads a lonely life

She leads a lonely life

When she woke up late in the morning

Light and the day had just begun

She opened up her eyes and thought

O' what a morning

It's not a day for work

It's a day for catching sun

Just laying on the beach and having fun

She's going to get you

All that she wants is another baby

She's gone tomorrow boy

All that she wants is another baby

All that she wants is another baby

She's gone tomorrow boy

All that she wants is another baby

All that she wants, all that she wants

So if you are in sight and the day is right

She's a hunter you're the fox

The gentle voice that talks to you

Won't talk forever

It's a night for passion

But the morning means goodbye

Beware of that is flashing in her eyes

She's going to get you"

On a superficial level, the song seems to be highly inappropriate for influential young children to adoringly parrot and frankly slightly sinister - although "these days" there are of course plenty of artists worshipped by very young kids who release material well-beyond the years of their comprehension. Initial analysis of the lyrics leads to the interpretation that the song is about a sexually promiscuous girl who is actively seeking a baby from a one night stand she has no intention of ever seeing again. Hardly a wholesome or indeed responsible message.

Since returning from Copenhagen, I decided to look-up the lyrics and gauge whether I'd entirely missed the point by visiting: http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/17440/. There seems to be little consensus on what the band were actually singing about - some believing "baby" to colloquially refer to the girl in the song's desire for a new man in her life, others actually interpreting the song to mean she's recently suffered a miscarriage and is keen to get pregnant again by any means or that she merely enjoys sleeping around. As a result of my findings, there has of course been further discussion at home, resulting in yet another possible lyric meaning dependent on whether a comma between "another" and "baby was originally intended - the girl in the song is rather horny and wants her baby (boyfriend) to “give it to her” again.

Without interviewing the band it's unlikely I'll ever discover the true meaning but in researching the song, I have at least made another shocking and educational discovery... Apparently after Linn left the band in 2007 (yes, they were still together then!), they continued to perform as a trio right up until 2009 when Jenny left the band. Even more surprising however, is the news a new line-up with half of the original band released an album in September 2010 (The Golden Ratio). Anyone keen to hear how Ace of Base have progressed over the years and whether they brought into the whole Euro-pop sound, will perhaps be disappointed by the Youtube video for their last album track:

A Dreadless Decade Drips By

“It's because you're older now and you've been together a while,” says a work colleague when I tell her that we no longer exchange Valentine's cards, never questioning where the tradition even came from or why it's celebrated in mid February.

Leeds Metropolitan University's festival expert, Stephen Sayers, points out that Valentine's Day coincides with a fruitful time of year when the increase in day length allows birds enough time to repair nests and mate. Explaining why this is central to February 14^th, he says: "Our ancestors saw [this] as the first signs of respite from the deprivations of winter [and the awakening] of new life. Courtships that started now might lead easily to marriages in May, which in turn might lead to the birth of babies in January and February when they had a good chance of survival."
That's fast moving for you!

Since Roman times people have sent cards to each other at various times in the year and in the late Middle Ages St Valentine's day gifts became popular with Valentine's specific cards arriving after the penny post in the nineteenth century. By the First World War sending bawdy Valentine's cards was no longer popular but sadly during the 1950s the custom was revived.

At school Valentine's Day was a day to dread. Once a year especially to celebrate the occasion, my secondary school allowed pupils to purchase roses to be delivered by designated students throughout the day during lessons. Obviously those who'd been sent roses, wandered around school proudly displaying them. I seem to remember only ever receiving a rose once and disappointedly discovering that a sympathetic friend had kindly sent it.

As the years passed and I moved up the school, any boyfriends that I did have were out-of-schoolers. I may not have received any more roses but I at least got the odd card. I remember the build-up to Valentine's Day being full of anticipation and worry – would he like the card?, was it too soppy?, should I buy a present and if so, what?...

Having been with the same person now for over a decade, Valentine's Day began in a similar vein but has since been overshadowed by his Birthday falling five days later. We used to buy cards and certainly bought presents too but as we've spent several Valentine's Days living in separate cities, we often had to commemorate the occasion days earlier or later, and in a few cases weeks later!

With age, we have also begun to avoid Birthdays by going away. This relatively new tradition has meant that over the last three or four years, we've been away immediately after Valentine's Day and decided that we'd be going out for enough meals already. This year is no different, except as our tenth “V-Day”, we decided a visit to Mahmoods was finally on the cards.

For those unsure, Mahmoods is a Yorkshire-based eatery similar to McDonalds. I detest McDonalds and actively try to avoid crossing the threshold, unless I'm taking advantage of their toilet facilities so you might ask why I wanted to try Mahmoods for Valentine's Day? The answer... The sight of a billboard advertising their “Big Dripper” burger. The name seemed so inappropriate and the connotations so wrong, we have both been threatening to sample a “Big Dripper” for some time.

I've munched through some enormous Kiwi burgers and as a result, worryingly experienced the early signs of a heart attack so approached Mahmoods with caution. Perusing the menu, we discovered the “Big Dripper” is no longer top man. The “|King Kong” has two more burgers than the “Dripper” stuffed inside, taking its number to five. Remembering the heart palpitations I had in Queenstown after the “Ferg Burger”, we both opt for the “Dripper” and agree to save the “King Kong” to celebrate the next decade together. Although disappointing in size, the “Dripper” is tasty and partially lives up to its name, leaving my face caked in burger sauce.

We may not have had a romantic meal but have at least finally ticked off something from our joint “to do” list. Whether you celebrate Valentine's Day and how you do so is nothing to do with age – except of course, teenage feelings of anxiety thankfully pass. My father still writes his annual poem in the card he buys my mum and we still at least acknowledge the day's existence.

Strange But True

Two stories featured in issues of this week's Metro particularly attracted my attention - one took me back to early post-University days when we seemed to be in constant battle with our postie and the other was so surreal I wondered whether I'd slept for months and awoken from my slumber on April Fool's Day.

Living in the end house with a large hedge, led to various disagreements with the postman who'd often refuse to deliver our mail if we failed to reduce our foliage. He'd scrawl warnings across letters and packages. One day, he did indeed carry out his threat.

Waiting on visa bills and my new passport, I grew suspicious and anxious when several weeks passed without any mail and my holiday departure date drew nearer. I rung the post office who seemed equally perplexed and said they'd investigate the matter. Days passed before we were eventually told the postman had been keeping our mail in his van and that he'd be reprimanded.

A story this week told of a postman who was unable to complete his route in time. Fearing he'd get the sack, he'd hidden thousands of letters for two years, eventually even hiring a Big Yellow storage unit to house them. Unlike our postie, his actions did indeed lead to a dismissal. Unlike this sorry tale, the second article that caught my eye seemed entirely implausible.

Over in Zimbabwe, work on a planned reservoir has stopped because mermaids are apparently hounding workers. Water Resources Minister, Samuel Sipepa Nkomo has unbelievably said the only way to resolve the problem is to brew traditional beer and carry out rites to appease the pesky mermaids. Strange but so true that even The Mail has deemed this story worth covering: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2097218/Reason-Zimbabwe-reservoir-delays—mermaids-hounding-workers-away.html?ito=feeds-newsxml.

Top Five Pathetic Injuries

School staff rooms can be intimidating and hostile for newbies but thankfully where I'm currently doing my part-time stint this isn't the case. Escaping talk of children, us English department folk moved on to the topic of pathetic injuries. One of our number had managed to give herself a painful blood blister on her hand, merely from clapping in a lesson - and not even particularly enthusiastically! I too, had recently managed to scissor cut my hand, drawing blood in an attempt to remove a clothes' label. As stories of toe stubbings unfolded, I was instantly reminded of a friend who succeeded in bursting a blood vessel in his eye through hard straining during a hung-over vomiting session. I'm also transported back to the time I managed to fall off the stage at Primary School onto a precariously stacked pile of gym equipment and spare seating, nearly impaling myself on an upright chair leg.

I've heard of the Darwin awards recognising individuals who contribute to human evolution by self-selecting themselves out of the gene pool through putting themselves (unnecessarily) in life-threatening and often stupid situations (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darwin_Awards), and wonder whether there's an equivalent for embarrassing injuries. With the growing number of dubious award ceremonies cropping up and popularity of top ten lists, I'm surprised to discover that no such equivalent exists. Perhaps unsurprisingly, only the sports world and journalists specialising in this field seem to recognise and document such embarrassing and dubious injuries. So for the average Joe who doesn't necessarily play enough sport to risk daily injury, the following are my favourite everyday mishaps from an on-line chat room that could easily happen to anyone (http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/archive/index.php/t-129344.html):

The Perils Of Excretion

"On Saturday, I was finishing off on the toilet (FYI, fully clothed and folding the paper) and my back started to hurt. By the time I had flushed, I could barely stand up straight. I spent the rest of Saturday on the floor, dosed up with paracetamol and ibuprofen. So, my truly pathetic injury is... I put my back out while wiping my arse."

Spaghetti “Ows!”

"I think I was thirteen. I wanted a can of Spaghetti Os and I wasn't sure which bowl was microwave safe. I opened the can, stuck in a metal spoon, and cooked it in the microwave for a minute and a half. I opened the microwave, grabbed the can with a pot holder, and grabbed the spoon with my bare hand - sort of like you'd hold a pencil. It took a moment to register the pain. I flung the spoon back over my head, and it nearly hit one of my friends in the forehead. My mum took me to the hospital after she got home from work - the doctors said something about third degree burns."

Bloody Clean Shoes

"As far as the most stupid, it's the most brainless injury I've ever seen... I was pressure cleaning my grandma's driveway and thought it would be a good idea to pressure clean my shoes with them on. It didn't dawn on me that the water pressure would push the tongue of my shoe out of the way, exposing my tender flesh. I didn't feel any pain at first, only the water on my foot, but when I looked down there was a fairly big gash on the top of my foot. The pain started a little while later."

Freshman Follies

"I fell off some bleachers during my Freshman Year. When I went to scoot over, I was sitting on the next highest row, and I did not notice that the adjacent set of bleachers had been pushed back in. Somehow I landed flat on my back and knocked myself out. It took me a couple of minutes to haul ass and stand to see a nurse. I missed half of the PEP rally, and watched the other bit lying on a bench. I got on the bus and made it down my Aunt's extra long driveway, told them what had happened and went to lie down. I ended up going to the emergency room to be x-rayed."

Potty For Tango

"Jogging on a very dark but relatively warm winter evening, I had my earphones on and was listening to a jazz station. When a tango suddenly came on, I of course had to do a couple of tango steps in the middle of the rural road in the dark while running. I've never tangoed in my life. You guessed it... I stepped into a pot-hole, broke my ankle and had to hobble a quarter of a mile to the nearest house where I called my wife to come and pick me up to take me to the nearest emergency room."

No top ten but a top five that hopefully reminds us we are only human after all and that if we find ourselves doing equally stupid things, we're not alone. What's your story? I'm betting everyone has one - even if it's a distant memory...

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

It's 7am and still very black outside. In the darkness, the outline of white rectangles can be seen. Approaching someone – anyone, I ask for my contact “Sarah” and I'm pointed to a red double decker bus parked beyond the trailers. Inside it is decked out with chairs and tables, all lit-up and a generator runs a large portable heater. I'm grateful for its presence. Today is going to involve a lot of waiting around and it's cold out there.

I've been an “extra” once before in Mumbai, purposefully milling around a spot I'd heard casting agents often recruit from. Being in a Bollywood film seemed the perfect way to round-off my days in Mumbai and almost like one of the city's must-do activities. Today I'm no longer an extra, I'm an “SA” (Supporting Actor) and part of a soon to be released TV series, rather than a low-budget film. Like in Mumbai, my day begins with a hearty breakfast provided by the company. Us lowly SAs are permitted to be served once all other cast members and crew are tucking in.

Back in the bus with a plateful of cooked breakfast, the SAs huddle together, bonding in preparation for the long day ahead. We're a mixed bunch, including a professional self-employed singer, a cheerleader for Rhinos, an entrepreneur with three businesses and a mother with her aspiring actress daughter. I'm looking out for some of the characters I've been told about by the friend who recommended the casting agency to me – the ex-comedian who is now retired and fires out one liners, the two elderly gossiping women who decided to do TV extra work rather than paying for the meal they'd meet up for once a week...

Few are here for the money (for a twelve hour day once the agency has taken their cut, the pay works out at below minimum wage) and some have travelled far. Knowing how little remuneration I can expect, I'm amazed the first talking point is where people have travelled from. I assume everyone is local to Leeds but this isn't the case and I'm soon hearing about people who travel across the country to be in different productions as a kind of hobby.

After breakfast, we're briefly in make-up and costume where I'm chastised for bringing too baggy spare trousers and my hair is made to look worse. The addition of a scarf apparently transforms me and I'm ready to roll, soon sitting in a mini bus bound for our first nearby location.

It's sweltering inside Tropical World but I'm grateful I've never been one for makes and logos. One of my fellow SAs is told to keep his chunky cardigan on to conceal the name on his t-shirt underneath. We're in the butterfly room for what seems like hours repeatedly filming the same tiny scene from slightly different angles.

Finally outside, the cold air initially feels like a treat but as the next scene goes through the same rigorous process as the first, I start to change my mind. I feel most sorry for the SA who appears in this scene as a jogger so is wearing tiny shorts and a fleece, standing around waiting for the “reset”.

After a two course lunch with a choice of four cooked mains, we're back out by the pond, completing the same scene. A scene that my involvement in has now come to an end. I'm standing around chatting to other unused SAs insulating myself with the many layers I brought with me – I have three bags full of spare “costume” changes I was advised to bring.

One of the principal actors is finished for the day and indeed the rest of the series so there are cheers and claps before we're back at the bus again waiting for costume and makeup. Transformed into a police officer, as the last one kitted out, I'm chauffeur driven down to the final location on the other side of Leeds. Here, I meet a few of the regular SAs who are given the same rate of pay for appearing in scenes at the end of the day.

It's dark again and nearly time to go home. I exchange phone numbers with a few of the other SAs, agreeing we might share travel on future projects. It has been a long day but when I evaluate it, I realise it's been pretty fast-moving and reflect on all the interesting people I've met who are doing this bizarre work in order to earn some extra taxable pocket money. I look forward to declaring this pitiful sum on my tax return next year and await the next phone call.

Short-sighted And Surrounded By Taxis?

Being short-sighted can lead to some embarrassing misunderstandings and at times, even be dangerous. I'm back to commuting on a Thursday and Friday, working temporarily in a part-time position in a school. As part of my daily commute, I'm reunited with Metro and today was struck by an article about the Metropolitan Police that rang true and instantly made me chuckle.

Back in my first year at Leeds University on a black winter night, I recall almost flagging down a police car believing it to be a taxi. My already slightly short-sighted vision combined with a few drinks and the darkness to convince me the approaching vehicle would be my ride home. Thankfully nothing bad came of this but some weeks later a police car actually drove a friend and I back to our hall of residence. I hadn't done anything wrong but as it was a Bank Holiday and bus services were limited the kindly policeman thought it wise to offer to drive us home, rather than us walk the half an hour along remote dark unlit pavements. Amusingly, speaking to a friend recently, I discovered he had a similar experience with the police, also in his first year. Perhaps we all just looked particularly naive and vulnerable, who knows?

Today's main news article about the Met's phone bill was accompanied by a tiny NIB about a police officer facing disciplinary action after posting remarks on Twitter that the police force were comparable to a "taxi service". He wrote these comments negatively about the force when in actual fact I have both quite literally mistaken the police for a taxi service and rather beneficially been chauffeur-driven to safety by a thoughtful officer.

The main body of the news article stated the Met had spent £35,000 on 110,000 calls to the speaking clock in the past two years. This particularly tickled me as only last week I spent some time analysing a text aimed at EAL learners in order to teach them about the services offered by dialling certain numbers. In the A'Level English Language class, we all decided many dial-up services are now somewhat archaic and almost obsolete as the Internet provides quicker and more in-depth answers. I really can not imagine why the Met are so frequently ringing the talking clock at 31p a minute when officers are surely all equipped with a phone, if not a watch when out and about. Still I guess someone beyond possibly the blind and more old-fashioned need to keep it going?