All this, and it’s Monday night…

The first time I saw Thom Yorke play was in a corridor in a Hall of Residence at Exeter University in 1988. He was strumming a guitar to something like a Beatles song, and other drunken students were singing along. Before last Monday, the last time I saw Radiohead was under a semi-tropical cloudburst in Oxford’s South Park in July 2001. It’s been too long.

I understand why people don’t like Radiohead. Their songs can be non-traditional at best, Thom Yorke’s vocal style isn’t easy on the ear, and their musical experimentation leaves many people cold. Not to mention that they’ve been accused of being the inspiration for bands like Coldplay and Muse, in which case they do have quite a bit to answer for.

I understand why people don’t like Radiohead, but after seeing them in concert last week, I’m more convinced than ever that those people are wrong. This was the most affecting and effective performance I’ve ever seen. Radiohead are like an arthouse film auteur in a morass of lowest-common-denominator blockbusters-by-numbers. Here are a few reasons why I Reckon they’re the best, most adventurous and interesting band around…

Nothing is like the album…

If you turn up to Radiohead and are disappointed by not hearing all your favourites exactly as they sound off the album, maybe you shouldn’t be going to see them in concert. You’re clearly missing the point. Go and see The Rolling Stones instead.

Intimate, shuffling tracks from The King of Limbs (like Bloom & Lotus Flower) become super-charged, blasting soundscapes with driving beats and amazing lighting colour palettes. Feral and Idiotèque always promised to be dynamic live songs, and now they become genuine explosions of energy, complete with strobe lighting in bright green and white, a wall of sound and bass reverb, smashing percussion, and Thom Yorke’s manic stream-of-consciousness vocals and dancing ‘like noone’s watching’. Good Morning Mr Magpie also transforms from a subtle, almost gentle song on TKOL into a furious, breakneck rage, full of clanging guitars, as though they’d switched on their ‘Spinal Tap’ amps and turned everything up to 11.

Alternatively, Like Spinning Plates (almost completely electronic whirring and beeps in the studio) becomes a showcase for Thom’s rolling piano arpeggi with a beautiful hymn-like quality set to warm red-orange lighting. In Give Up The Ghost, he layers up different vocal lines such that he’s singing a four-part chorale with himself. This is one of my highlights of the whole show, wonderfully intimate, simply gorgeous.

Rhythm & Percussion

I’ve always thought Philip Selway was the most under-rated member of Radiohead, especially as traditional drums took a backseat to programmed beats and electronica during Kid A/Amnesiac. His performances on In Rainbows are nothing short of miraculous, and increasingly rhythms are at the heart of everything that Radiohead do well. They now have a ‘permanent’ second drummer onstage, and indeed in some songs four members of the band were beating out repeated, shifting layers of rhythm and syncopation. The overhead video images stayed fixed on twitching drumsticks, focusing our attention on every rim shot, every ripple of the hi-hat cymbals.

“Are you lost yet…?! Good!”

Just over half way through the concert, after a couple of rarer tracks strong on pulsing electronica and hypnotic lighting effects, Thom pauses to ask the audience how they’re keeping up. Apparently Radiohead get criticised for not playing more of their singalong songs more often, which I Reckon is like complaining that JK Rowling should write more of those nice books about wizards. From my vantage point it did feel like many of the people down in the standing section weren’t exactly getting into the music. Were they waiting for Creep or High & Dry?

Radiohead have never made consecutive albums that sound alike (except perhaps Kid A and Amnesiac, compiled out of the same recording sessions). Their tours don’t present their ‘greatest hits’ so much as their current musical world and its interpretation of their entire catalogue.

On Monday night at the O2, the 24 songs were culled from six albums spanning 15 years, plus two tracks not on albums and two new songs. So far, so very much like most other bands’ setlists. But the Big Difference is the choice of songs; nothing from the anthemic, verse-and-chorus The Bends, and only Karma Police representing anything like a ‘normal’ song. Many choices are the more obtuse, awkward, even inaccessible tracks. Both the extraordinarily bass-heavy Myxamotosis and the ambient twinkling and inaudible lyrics of Kid A came in the first five songs.

Bringing the music to life

While the stage set up looks pretty simple, the performance and presentation of these 24 songs is outstanding. A screen wall behind the band rises almost the whole height of the cavernous O2 Arena and create dramatic backdrops. Above these is a row of crystal clear video ‘squares’ that holds images, often cropped, of the band members, or sometimes elaborates on the visual theme for the song.

Hanging above the band and in front of the wall are more of these video screens. These move around between songs to form sometimes a low, intimate ceiling, focusing our attention on the band, or at other times a more epic feel, a grander space. The 12 screens offer awkward angles, voyeuristic viewpoints and closeups of Thom’s face, over Jonny Greenwood’s shoulder, fragments of the band and their performance. They are compelling and brilliant.

I am in awe of Mario Rimati for his beautiful set of images from a recent concert in Italy.

Each song has its own very deliberate lighting and colour palette to accompany the new arrangements. The restless, relentless 5/4 pulse of 15 Step starts blue and becomes a shocking pink midway through. After Thom introduces The Daily Mail as a song about “a quality newspaper” the stage is washed in furious red. Climbing up the Walls is perhaps the most disturbing song on OK Computer, and is genuinely menacing onstage as the distorted guitars and wall of sound are complemented by visual distortion in a sickly green, which again seems to explode into bright orange. The patterns during the spectral The Gloaming are spiky and harsh, while Separator and These are my Twisted Words are pulsing, softer patterns in red and turquoise, which constantly swirl and twist, creating almost hallucinatory effects, and probably motion sickness in some people…

Only when Nude opens, around halfway through the concert, do the images become static, giving our eyes some relief. This song (one of my favourites from my favourite album) is amazing, layers of sound building and building, topped by Thom’s astonishing falsetto that breaks through and silences the whole arena…

You’ll go to Hell for what your dirty mind is thinking…

Building to a Climax

The show, full of eclectic song choices and unapologetically avoiding the so-called ‘Hits’ is beautifully plotted. I Reckon any long-term fanboy (or girl) will have loved what it represented; a genuine, open and honest picture of where Radiohead are right now. As the main set finishes in a manic explosion of Feral and Idiotèque, the first encores start with the throbbing, virtually arhythmic piano chords of Pyramid Song, with Jonny Greenwood playing a guitar like a cello. Then there’s a brand new song, Staircase… I’m not sure how many bands choose to play new songs in a concert encore?! This features kinetic bass and percussion, which only serves as a warm-up for the frantic, furious Good Morning Mr Magpie, and a breakneck version of Weird Fishes/Arpeggi, which leads into the wonderful Reckoner, lit with dazzling silvers and golds.

This is dedicated to all of you…

The final few songs completely blow me away: the haunting vocal layers of Give Up The Ghost give way to a truly awesome version of There There, and the evening finishes with Everything in its Right Place. This is the song that opened Kid A, the album that followed the monster OK Computer, and shocked pretty much everyone in its apparent demolition of everything Radiohead had been, with its near-absence of guitars, melodies & choruses. Live, it’s an exercise in distortion and displacement. Thom’s vocals loop and fragment as if the sound system is broken and gradually the band leave the stage until only whirring electronic effects remain. It’s a stunning, complex, perfect finale.

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A Royale with cheese…

Among many great scenes in Quentin Tarantino’s brilliant Pulp Fiction, one of the most famous features Jules and Vincent, two hitmen, discussing the “little differences“ that Vincent encountered on his recent travels in Europe. Having just spent 2½ weeks in France myself and had a thoroughly good time, here’s a handful or two of little differences that I (mainly) love experiencing every time I cross the Channel…

• Fresh fruit and veg in the supermarkets (especially down South) is massively superior in quality to the UK. Certainly they have the climate for tomatoes, nectarines, avocados and so on, but the food seems fresher, tastier, more real. It doesn’t have the bizarre uniformity we get in the UK, and actually seems ripe and ready to eat on the day of purchase
• In all the towns we visited, they still persist with the (ahem) old-fashioned approach of shutting shops at lunchtime; similarly, on-street parking is often free over lunchtime. Most of the supermarkets don’t open on Sundays. How do they cope?
• Dunking a croissant or pain au chocolat into a bowl of coffee for breakfast
• Spending £5 every day on bread and croissants. The daily visit to la boulangerie is a real treat, but it needs careful budgeting!
• I love seeing coloured shutters protecting houses from the heat of a Southern French summer
• There doesn’t seem to be any great compulsion to compare prices on everything and anything. One petrol station might charge up to 10% more than another only a few hundred yards down the road, something which, in the UK, would probably spell doom and closure for the expensive one
• The French love a bit of Direct Action. Four years ago we were in Reims when we were treated to the sight of White-Coated (rather than white collar) protests. The local Pharmacists were angry at what they saw as the increasing encroachment of supermarkets onto their traditional areas of specialist advice and expertise. This time, we were in Carcassonne where the workers at a major nearby ice-cream plant were protesting against the proposed closure of this plant by its new venture capitalist owners. Crude hand-drawn cartoons, badly amplified megaphones and trestle tables made up the slightly shabby but very noisy event at the main entrance gateway to this UNESCO World Heritage Site.
• The broadsheet French newspapers are never knowingly underwritten. Libération was always my favourite when I studied in France 20 years ago, and I still like it now. Take this extract from a recent article commemorating the 30th anniversary of ‘The Thriller in Manila’, between Joe Frazier and Muhammed Ali…

Ali, c’est Achille aux pieds légers et aux bras lourds. Les pieds sont moins légers qu’il y a onze ans, du temps du match contre Sonny Liston, mais le jab est toujours aussi performant, et ces coups sortent comme des jets de lumière, à sa vitesse. Achille a 33 ans, l’âge du Christ. Et il a toujours sa tchatche. Il convaincrait les marchands de vider le Temple pour lui, mais le Temple, c’est lui.

This roughly translates as…

Ali is Achilles, light-footed but with heavy arms. The feet aren’t as light as 11 years ago, when he fought Sonny Liston, but his jab is just as powerful, and these blows flash out like jets of light, and just as fast. Achilles is 33, the same age as Christ. And he still has his chat. He could convince the merchants to empty the Temple for him, but then, he IS the Temple.

When did you last read anything like that in your paper? Achilles and Christ in the same paragraph. Beautiful, overblown, nonsense!

• When, how, and (more to the point) why do French men grow up thinking that it’s perfectly OK to stop your car at the side of the road, get out, and just take a p**s next to your car, in full view of traffic?
• Why does France persist with those awful ‘footplate’ toilets? Even at the stunning Viaduc de Millau, only constructed in the last decade and a fairly major tourist attraction, the toilets are primitive holes in the ground, with no paper provided. Near where we were staying in the Pyrenées, the local council had amazingly created a sandy beach next to a small lake, marked out safe bathing areas and provided a lifeguard 6 days a week: but the toilets had no doors or paper, or actual toilets beyond the hole in the floor.
• On the other hand, I love love love French markets. For the saucissons secs, the fruit and veg, the live animals, odd clothing, poulets fermiers, cheese and so on. We really enjoyed our local Sunday morning crush in Esperaza, walking back laden with food for lunch.

• Similarly, motorway service stations are very different in France. Probably because of the distances between major towns and cities, there are hundreds of aires dotted around the motorway network at regular intervals, ranging from landscaped picnic areas to full-blown affairs. But even these larger things aren’t much like those in the UK. When we returned home, we experienced Reading Services on the M4 on a Friday evening; a huge carpark rammed full with vehicles disgorging hundreds of people inside, swarming around fast food outlets. In France, far more people seem to travel with their own food; bread, ham, fruit, cheese. The service stations have more expansive grounds and outdoor seating. They feel less like a commercial conveyor belt for you to refuel on calories and caffeine, more like somewhere to stop and relax, recharge for a while.
• But then when French motorists get back in their car, they have a very strange way of driving (especially further North in the country). Most motorways are two-lane, and if you’re overtaking, God help you to be going more slowly than someone behind you. The standard plan is (rather than slow slightly to retain a safe gap) accelerate right up to the back of the car in front, wait two seconds, and flash your lights impatiently.
• Avenues of plane trees towering over long straight roads, with fields of vines or sunflowers alongside.
• Stargazing in Espereza is something wonderful. No light pollution, clear skies. Thousands of pinpricks across the night sky, with the Milky Way scattered through the middle.
• The city centre of Orléans is unlike most in the UK. The Medieval Quarter is full of restaurants, bars and cafés, packed with tourists and locals, students and families. It was often noisy, with music playing out across the terraces and streets, but nowhere did I see people drinking in packs, maurauding from bar to bar.

Vive la différence!

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I love to hear your wondrous stories…

A quote I wanted to use for this piece illustrates its entire theme beautifully. My local and brilliant independent bookshop (of which more later) posted a line attributed to Albert Einstein:

If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales.

In order to check its authenticity I started hunting around the interweb, and found this much more evocative version..

A concerned mother once visited Albert Einstein to get his counsel on how to help her son become really good in maths. Exactly what was she to read for him to help him evolve into a prominent scientist?
“Folk tales,” said Einstein.
“Okay,” said the mother, “and after that?”
“More folk tales,” said Einstein.
“And after that?” the mother asked again.
“Still more folk tales,” answered Einstein.

Turning the sentiment into a story makes a world of difference. Introducing a concerned mother raises the stakes significantly, we become invested in what wisdom Einstein will bestow on her, and it makes his advice all the more surprising (and as such, more impactful).

I Reckon storytelling is a priceless skill that is essential to our humanity. From centuries of oral history to court jesters, from eyewitness news to inspirational orators, stories are crucial to our understanding of ourselves, our history and our origins. In recent weeks this has been brought home to me really clearly.

It’s squishy spaghetti…

A couple of days ago I went into my younger daughter’s class (5-7 year-olds) to read to them. They usually have “storytime” every day, where they gather round to listen to someone reading aloud. As is typical in many UK primary schools, the vast majority of teaching staff and assistants are female, so they only very rarely (if ever) hear a male voice. So this week the school invited Dads to come in.

I’ve always loved Roald Dahl stories. The mix of surreal fantasy, inventive wordplay, genuine excitement, threat and darkness is brilliant. So I was delighted to be reading The Twits. I love reading fantastical stories like this, as I can unleash my repertoire of silly voices and accents. We have a wonderful audio version of The Twits read brilliantly by Simon Callow, and my own interpretation borrows heavily from him.

It was fantastic to go to town on this, shrieking and cackling in front of a class of children, most of whom I didn’t know, and watch them respond with laughter and gasps, giggles and shouts. I read practically the whole thing, and have secretly hoped ever since that they went home asking their own parents to “do funny voices like Eleanor’s Daddy…”

Last weekend I was given a tremendous Father’s Day treat by my lovely wife and children to go to an intimate performance by The Bookshop Band. Part of a summer ‘festival’ organised by the wonderful, fabulous and profoundly brilliant Yellow-Lighted Bookshop, this was a fantastic 90 minutes, during which I was privileged to watch three brilliant musicians tell stories, and bring stories to life. The band’s songs are all inspired by books, usually key moments or characters, and they are beautifully crafted, shot through with humour, moving, and inventively arranged with all sorts of instruments and striking vocal harmony.

This what I mean…

or this…

I love everything about the Yellow-Lighted Bookshop’s ethos about trying to connect people with books, their stories and their writers. It’s always a pleasure to browse their shop and talk about books with the great staff and other customers. If they haven’t got something in, they can usually get it within 48 hours. They are everything that is human and vital about books that Kindles and e-readers can never be.

I love reading stories to my children. I love hearing them make up stories and role-playing with their Lego, or when they create their own books and illustrations. I love that Hannah has been inspired by Harry Potter and Inkheart and Jacqueline Wilson and Mr Gum. Stories fire our imagination, they help expand our concept of what could be possible, they enrich us.

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I Like to be Liked…

More than 50 years ago the great American broadcaster Edward R Murrow declared that television (not religion) was becoming the opium of the people. He despaired at the passivity of viewers and the poor quality of programming.

A lot of mainstream media attention today focuses on what it sees as the banality of social media chatter, about LOLZ and OMG and videos of cats, and how the internet demeans us as a species. But I Reckon it’s a bit more complicated than that.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good cat video, and this is an outstanding cat video (or at least, a video about cat videos).

But instead of caring how many followers I have, my social media experiences are now about self-expression and wanting other people to recognise that. Why on earth would anyone write a blog except for attention, approval and recognition? I love it when someone I respect retweets me. Only a few days ago the excellent film critic Nigel Floyd replied to a witty comment I’d made on one of his posts (at least I thought it was witty, and it must have at least piqued his interest!).

We all want to be liked, and social media now provides with ample means to get the ‘positive strokes’ we might need. See how funny I can be tweeting on #cheesefilms or while watching #BBCQT. See how clever I am in my blog posts and film reviews. Look! I’m following really hip/cool/clever people and I can share/plagiarise their thoughts. Look at my beautiful pictures on Instagram, cast your eyes in wonder over my lovely Pinterest boards…

(I’m not on Pinterest, but the rest of those are true)

Look, filtered and everything!

Getting affirmation from the twitterati or from friends and colleagues is great fun, and it becomes almost addictive. I’m disappointed if I post something on this blog only to find barely anyone reads it (IDIOTS! They don’t know what they’re missing!). Contrary to appearances these things don’t write themselves. But I come back again for more, because the dopamine effect I get when it does ‘work’ is a fantastic feeling. And

I’ve written about that ‘high’ some more on my company’s very excellent marketing blog here.

Of course, social attention-seeking can backfire on the vain…

A few weeks ago I was notified that I was being followed by @rolandjoffe, the famous film director of some outstanding Oscar-winning films, especially The Mission and The Killing Fields. This came as quite a surprise, and I kind of fell for it. I followed his account without checking much, only to receive a Direct Message hours later…

Hmmmm…

On further inspection it seems that Mr Joffe rarely, if ever, tweets. I was followed (almost certainly) not by him, but by production staff, or studio marketing interns seeking out people who tweet about films a lot. It was nothing personal, purely a marketing strategy. I could and probably should have guessed that in advance. But then that’s the power of the dopamine…

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Everywhere is walking distance, if you have the time…

I’m lucky to live in Tetbury, a bustling (sometimes) market town in the heart of the Cotswolds. Within a few minutes of leaving my front door I can be chatting with our excellent butcher, enjoying a pint at one of several different pubs, taking my daughters to the library or school for new discoveries, or striding across open fields. And of course despite being blessed with a richness of opportunity on our doorstep, we realised at the end of last year that we didn’t seem to ‘get out enough’. We visited friends all round the country, went camping and so on, but we didn’t seem to ‘get our boots on and just go for a walk’.

So that has become our unofficial family resolution for 2012: or, at least Rachel and I are making a conscious effort, and the girls so far have been eager to join us (perhaps the relatively mild weather and promise of hot chocolate and cake when we return has something to do with that!).

As is often the way with New Year Resolutions, we got off to a good start. We were staying with friends in Harpenden, and on New Year’s Day set out along a footpath that follows an old railway line. Perhaps because it’s Harpenden, this path was properly tarmac-ed, a perfect route for our younger daughter to try out her Christmas Scooter and practise balancing on two wheels.

The very next day we really shrugged off our Christmas routines by actually leaving the house before noon. In fact, we were striding towards the edge of the Cotswold Escarpment before 11am as we left the carpark at Dyrham Park, a stunning National Trust property between Tetbury and Bath.

We followed paths very familiar to us from previous visits down to the house, but then walked back up the hill through the trees and the deer park. We didn’t see any deer up close, but it was a really lovely walk with marvellous views across to the River Severn. The weather was closing in, which kept us focused as we climbed the hill back to the car.

This route is part of a whole series of National Trust ‘one-mile-walks’. I think this is a pretty ‘long’ mile…

Image taken from http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/walks

The National Trust has long been championing the natural beauty of the UK and the benefits of getting outdoors more. I reckon they’re bang on the money, and their website and social media feeds are well worth a look.

And then this weekend, after a marathon but rewarding session of decluttering virtually every room in the house, and re-felting the roof of our garden shed (!?), we went out closer to home, down what we know as The Old Rope Walk in Tetbury, out into Preston Park. Again the girls had their scooters, but the path was a bit muddy for generating any real speed… On the way back we were able to scavenge in the woods and come home with a massive sack full of twigs and fallen branches for firewood kindling.

We’ve already got our eye on a tramp around Woodchester Park for next weekend. In the meantime, I’m enjoying parking a bit further from the office each morning. I get to walk down the hill into Bath along part of The Cotswold Way and across Victoria Park; not too shabby at all…

Expect further updates during 2012: I reckon this is a resolution that will be pretty easy to keep.

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…until who knows where the trembling stops…

I’ve often reflected on the small things, the coincidences that may not seem important at the time, but can unutterably alter the future course of a life. Obviously this reflection tends to happen when I’m not quite as busy as I have been in recent weeks, as I’ve barely been able to keep up with this blog. I have themes and ideas backed up, if only I could work out when or how to commit time and energy to the writing.

When I was 13, my parents returned from a routine meeting with my teachers, with the suggestion from my music teacher that I might like to take up an instrument, for example, the French Horn. That conversation changed everything. I did take up the Horn, it did become a major part of my university social life, I do still play today, and I met Rachel in the university orchestra.

When I was 18 I failed to get into Oxford University. At a loss to know what to do next (I hadn’t failed very often up to that point) I ended up on an exchange scheme, on which I went to High School in Princeton in the US for a semester. There I truly blossomed, coming out of my intellectual, angst-ridden, insecure teenage self into a new environment where noone knew me except for who I was right there and then, with no baggage. This huge boost in confidence shaped me for my life at university and beyond.

Before I left for the US at the start of January, I was awaiting offers from other universities. My 2nd choice after Oxford was Durham, who wrote to say that they wanted to interview me (despite already having achieved 3 Grade ‘A’s). My 3rd choice was Exeter, who offered me a place without any interview. Frankly, I couldn’t be bothered to schlep 450 miles round-trip to Durham, just days before leaving for America for 8 months. Almost on a petulant whim, I declined their ‘offer’ of an interview and accepted Exeter: job done.

In the first months of my final year at Exeter, I was feeling bad. I’d enjoyed and then suffered a very brief, fairly intense relationship (my first for 2 years), I was putting a good deal of pressure on myself in my studies, while Britain was entering a recession in which the job prospects for graduates were pretty bleak. And then my father’s mother died. She had been very ill following a stroke for a long time, but it still hit me a lot harder than I cared to admit. My housemates were all due to travel up to Oxford for a party with friends who had graduated the previous year, but because of the timing of the funeral, I didn’t go with them. I was in Exeter alone, and fed up. So I hosted a dinner party (my first) for friends from the orchestra. We ate and drank and went onto The Lemon Grove, semi-legendary and mostly tacky student night club on campus.

And it was there, on Saturday 23rd November 1991, 20 years ago last month, that I first met Rachel; on a night out that by all normal expectations would not have happened, but for the seemingly random event of my grandmother’s death. We talked and I walked her back to her rooms – she was a 1st Year. We drank coffee and laughed a long time about Monty Python’s Life of Brian. It wasn’t all completely plain sailing after that, but my life since that weekend has been different, in a very, very good way.

The title of this post was taken from the writings of Frederick Buechner, an American theologian.

The life I touch for good or ill will touch another life, and in turn another, until who knows where the trembling stops or in what far place my touch will be felt.

Every Christmas Rachel and I like to watch the Frank Capra / Jimmy Stewart classic It’s a Wonderful Life. Not because of the carol-singing at the end, not because Clarence gets his wings, but because of its wonderful life-affirming message. Good people who treat other people kindly matter. They do make a difference. The film goes through a lot of darkness before emerging into the light: don’t forget George Bailey tries to kill himself in the opening moments. There’s frustration and disappointment aplenty before the bell finally rings.

Some things, events, decisions in our lives barely register at the time but can have amazing consequences. Other things feel like the whole world has exploded or been ripped from under you (like almost everything when you’re 17), but in the end don’t matter all that much in the grand scheme of things. Ultimately, it all matters, but often in ways we cannot predict.

I try not to spend too much time reflecting on the what-might-have-beens, as I can’t change them now, and I’m glad of that. But I often remind myself to be grateful for the coincidences and chances that brought me here.

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Having a moustache is like being a viking who rides the wings of a tempest…

And so it’s Movember. The month formally known as November is fast becoming a bit of an institution, with a growing army of Mo’Bros across the globe (and Mo’Sistas) dedicating 30 days to cultivating all manner of facial hair in the name of a good cause…

That's a lot of Mo's...

I took part last year along with a group of colleagues at work, with some striking results. We raised over £3,000 between us and had more than a little fun at the same time. We’re doing it again this year, and there have been some outstanding efforts already, with almost a fortnight still to go in the month.

Not all of these were clean-shaven at the start of the month. Can you guess which?

After my full-on ‘Deadwood’ sheriff moustache in 2010, I’ve decided on something slightly more sophisticated this time around. I like to call it my ‘musketeer’, and the trimmed style has certainly been accepted / tolerated a bit more readily by Rachel.

I’ve also noticed that there seems to be considerably more white hairs in my fledgling moustache this year. Indeed it seems notably fairer than what remains of the rest of my hair. At the same time, some of the other guys seem to have grown much fuller and denser Mo’s this time around, whereas last year we were able to poke fun at their ‘fluffy’ efforts.

I had an interesting experience last weekend, when we went to a very good and friend of 20 years’ birthday party. Most of the guests were also long-term friends from university, so they recognised that this isn’t my normal ‘look’. But there were also other guests who were strangers to me. We’d never laid eyes on each other before. What did they think? Should I declare myself, or just carry on as normal? How silly does it look, or does it, er, suit me?!

It has been interesting as the month develops how quiet admiration develops through the group of Mo’Bros. Tim didn’t shave his already-impressive Mo at the start of the month, but he now has waxed and twirled ends that make the rest of us (well, me at least) extraordinarily jealous. There are also some very striking ‘trucker’ handlebars that really take nerve to carry off.

But perhaps my favourite moment of the last few days has been the discovery of this terrific clip, that gets to the very heart of the experience of having a hairy lip.

Movember is about raising awareness and funds to change the face of men’s health. 100 men are diagnosed with prostate cancer each day in the UK alone. So if you’re not already committed to Children in Need or other worthy causes, please donate whatever you can at http://mobro.co/ChrisMoody. Thankyou.

I’ll put more pictures on my Facebook page and probably here at the end of the month.

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Whenever she’s feeling empty…

…breaking the habit of my usually wordy posts, I saw this earlier today and it made me smile quite a lot…

MAGIC BUTTON TO MAKE EVERYTHING OK

And then I thought of a few other things to lift your mood (should you need it)…

An oldie but always and forever a goodie: The mother of all funk chords by the amazing Kutiman

Utterly and completely NOT SUITABLE FOR WORK (or indeed children, parents, grandparents… PLEASE wear headphones!): In F***ing Bruges…

In a more whimsical tone, the trailer for the wonderful Amélie…

…and a terrific fantastical snippet from the film, where she poses herself the question How many couples are having an orgasm, right now?!

Lastly, perhaps my favourite 25 seconds of sports footage ever… Dennis Bergkamp scores a truly brilliant goal against Argentina in the 1998 World Cup, and the Dutch Radio commentator goes beserk.

Anyone else got any feel-good moments to raise your spirits?

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Imagination is the key…

“Please just let it be good.”

Those were the words shared by Rachel and I as we drove towards Legoland Windsor. My elder daughter Hannah recently turned 9 years old, and as her school had a Teacher Training Day on Monday, we took the opportunity to celebrate with her with a family trip to the theme park, accompanied by my brother and his wife too.

I love Lego. I’ve loved Lego for over 30 years, from their first incarnations of ‘Space’ Lego developed in the aftermath of Star Wars, to its use in countless Youtube clips and this amazing Michel Gondry video for The White Stripes to its constant reinvention into gaming platforms like Lego Harry Potter for the Nintendo Wii.

Now my daughters love it too.  I think what I love about Lego the most is the way it simply encourages you to use your imagination, to create models, build things, tell stories, and then start again, reimagine and recreate. The name derives from the Danish (and Latin) words ‘to play well’, and the company has clearly kept that at the heart of everything it does.

Legoland is operated by Merlin Entertainments. My previous experience with this stable of attractions has not been stellar. The London Eye, while undoubtedly a marvel of engineering and unmatched for its views over London, gave me a soulless, corporate experience, so we were more than a little apprehensive as we approached the park entrance. Just let it be good, please don’t tarnish my love of Lego…

Let’s get one thing clear – Legoland Windsor is a very impressive money-making machine.

• It’s clear even before you arrive that Footfall is everything. They make every effort to simply get people in the front gates, because they know that once you’re in, you will spend more money. Tesco Clubcard vouchers can make the substantial entry price effectively ‘free’, and there are countless brand promotions on all sorts of household items for discounted entry into Merlin attractions around the UK. Frankly, if you pay the full price to get into Legoland you’re just not trying.
• If the Footfall imperative wasn’t clear before you arrive, it’s bludgeoned into you at every turn within the park. There are posters and ads everywhere encouraging you to upgrade to an annual pass, to get your entry fee refunded against the cost of the annual pass, the food and shop discounts and free parking for annual pass holders…
  Just come back. Please come back. We just want you to come back. Please…
• Every opportunity to sell more stuff is taken. Expensive drinks bottles that give you free refills, additional games and activities, Pirate masks, Knights’ helmets, Explorer Hats…
• …They even sell waterproof ponchos in the queues on the wet rides, and you can pay £2 to use the walk-in family dryers afterwards. Have I missed the point of the wet rides? I thought you went on these because you wanted to get wet?!
• And then there are the ‘QBot’ queue busting gadgets… How to lose friends and influence people: pay £10 per person (or even more…) and you can bypass the queues, attract resentment and filthy stares from everyone else and feel smug as you stroll contentedly around the park. Be aware that your visit may be drained of all spontaneity as you are on a strict timetable to be at The Dragon for 12.00pm and The Atlantis Submarine Voyage by 1.30pm, which means you’ve got 22 minutes for lunch…

But all that capitalism misses the point of having a good time at Legoland, for which you only have to give in to the experience. The key people Legoland is aimed at are 3 – 10 years old. Their parents and grandparents should realise that, and just go with it. Don’t think too hard, in fact don’t think much at all. Certainly don’t try and rationalise how the queues might be better organised or why the park doesn’t stay open an hour later…

…just look at your children. How do they feel? Are they happy & excited or bored & frustrated? Be a child, see the world as they do.

• The excellent Viking Rapids ride has an area where spectators can shoot people on the ride with water guns, getting them just as wet as anything else the ride itself can do. Once we realised that, all we wanted to do that was get our own back! We jumped off the ride, went straight to the water guns and started soaking other people. That little thing helps you enter that playful, childish frame of mind, and is a great entry point to the day’s experience.
• There’s an adventure playground that’s billed as a Pirate Training Camp. Our girls had a blast there, but so did I… the climbing frames and nets are (just about) big enough for adults to get involved too!
• The Fire Academy has terrific activities where adults and kids can be part of a team to drive a fire engine and put out a fire…
• There are lots of activities and rides for younger children,  like The Fairy Brook and The Dragon’s Apprentice. My younger daughter Eleanor loved these. Unlike other theme parks it’s not all SMASH and BANG and BIGGER and LOUDER and SCARIER
• On rides with longer queues, there are often areas where children can play with Lego while the grown-ups queue on their behalf.

We had a brilliant time at Legoland Windsor. We didn’t even get around half the rides or attractions, and when we go back I will make a point of going on the things we missed this time. It was busy, the food and drink isn’t cheap and isn’t brilliant, but the staff were all pretty terrific, and everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves, especially the children. Even with our half-price vouchers, it’s not a cheap day out, but we had very good value.

In short, when we thought like our kids, everything became exciting, different and fun. Stop trying to compare everything to everything else, and just enjoy the moment. There were amazing Lego models of famous landmarks, a Pirate Stunt Show, bright blue slushies, and the biggest Lego shop I’ve ever seen. Amongst all the capitalism it retained an innocence and joy that was sadly lacking at The London Eye. Legoland has a soul.

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I’ll stop the world and melt with you…

I’ve only recently written about trying to live more in the moment, about trying not to be overwhelmed by what I haven’t done, and it’s not getting any easier.

We recently enjoyed a great week’s holiday in Dorset, staying in a lovely farmhouse cottage in a very pretty, beautifully quiet village. I forgot to bring my iPod charger, so after the first evening I was bereft of music and podcasts, we didn’t take the laptop, and with my archaic mobile phone, I had very limited internet access. I could broadcast by text, but that was about it.

It was fabulous. We discovered, or rather re-discovered how to live, how to talk to each other. We had time to do all the things that everyday folks used to take for granted, because they simply didn’t have the options that we have today. These luxuries of synchronised devices and multiple channels, of always-on connection and near-constant alerts and reminders are not luxuries at all: they can be like the proverbial albatross around our necks, ever-present and inescapable.

Instead of staring at a screen waiting for something to happen, clicking ‘refresh’ and ‘just checking Twitter’, we got on with having a good time. We’d go for a walk through the woods on the farm, wander up the footpaths into the village for a pint – in the middle of the afternoon! We’d go into the field behind the cottage to fly a kite, just for 20 minutes or so. We’d luxuriate in an icecream, or just sit and watch the sea. We’d read the paper, read a book, do the crossword, play cards. We even did a 1000-piece jigsaw that was in the cottage.

It was fabulous. The lack of distraction was brilliant.

Back in the workplace, I’ve been trying to apply myself to doing one thing at a time, to avoid falling back into the habit of opening up Facebook or just reading someone’s blog. It’s a very noble cause that has much to commend it, but it’s not easy. As I do work in social media I often ‘have an excuse’ to have those things on the go, but I really shouldn’t. It’s a proper #firstworldproblem, but I do need to learn how to concentrate again. At university I was quite proud of how I could really dive into an essay, head in the books, reading, learning, digesting, compiling arguments and evidence for hours at a time, focused and productive.

What happened?

Each layer up the pyramid trumps anything below it...

More and more I like holidays that are a proper mix of being active, for doing things with our children, and being inactive. That week in Dorset we went out mackerel fishing (we only caught one, but I did then gut it and cook it for tea!), fossil hunting at Lyme Regis and we walked up The Golden Cap.

The Golden Cap, from Stonebarrow Hill

But we also spent time just ‘being’ with each other, not doing very much. You should try it sometime.

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