skankdelvar

Norrie Paramor (1914-1979) are a British band leader of the 1950's-1970's who (among other things) conducted the 1968 UK Eurovision entry "Congratulations" performed by tearful helicopter dodger Cliff Richard.

Indeed, that's a very sensible way to use it if you want to get it off quickly. In truth, there's no wrong way, just different ways.

You may but the BC code of silence means the mods lips are sealed. Just accept you'll never know and have a nice mug of tea instead (coughs, taps side of nose, winks meaningfully).

Depends how one defines success: i) The favourable or prosperous termination of attempts or endeavours; the accomplishment of one's goals. Did Kings X achieve their goals? Possibly in an artistic sense. Did the band achieve wider goals (e.g. to get laid on a nightly basis, to drink only the finest wines known to mankind)? Who can say? ii) The attainment of wealth, position, honours, or the like. Again, possibly. Probably more than some bands (Dumpy's Rusty Nuts) and less than others (Yes, Rush).

Fair enuff, sport! I'm not saying that the checker plate is necessarily a bad thing. Indeed, were I in possession of a Sub Ray I'd probably keep it on. But I like the OP's fretted-out Celtic doo-dad better.

When I saw The Who at Wembley Arena not long before Entwistle died, Townshend went off on one about something gloomy. Being slightly refreshed I yelled out 'F**k off, Pete, you're such a miserable c**t'. In fairness to him he laughed and gave it a rest.

I think it looks pretty good. Nicely executed bit of celtic 'fretwork' with little hints of shadows. Light years better than the original faux steel-plate thing and more interesting than a standard MM guard.

I agree, though for some punters it may be less transactional than that. I suspect some of them believe that the most interesting thing about the gig is that they are in attendance, hence the importance of communicating this fact to the world at large. This plays into my nascent theory entitled 'Arrested development and self-aggrandisement in a connected world: the curse of the under-60's' but I shall leave all that old tut for another day.

Not forgetting Ridgeley's secondary role as shuttlecock wrangler.

Quite so. Couple years ago, I'm down at an open mic (as a punter) and these three guys plumped themselves down on a sofa (it was that kind of boozer) pulled out their phones and settled down to text their friends and view web-pages and whatnot. For a good quarter hour they exchanged not a word between themselves. To my fascinated disbelief, even their pints remained untouched. Utterly bizarre behaviour (to me) but actively disrespectful to the performers? Not really; they were just socially-atomised numpties doing what socially-atomised numpties do. They might as well have been walking the dog or sat at home with the missus or halfway up Everest in a blizzard, they wouldn't have known or cared as long as they had their digital pacifiers in their sticky little hands. On the other hand I have attended any number of gigs where an audience member has chosen a lull in proceedings loudly to observe that the band is f$cking sh1te and they can all f$ck off and die. That's disrespectful though sometimes quite funny if the band in question is f$cking sh1te and don't know it.

To be fair, I wouldn't think anyone would expect your average pub covers band to get any attention whatsoever from the audience. Indeed, the idea of demonstrating one's respect for the band by maintaining a studious silence is a relatively recent thing in popular music. In the old days notionally 'seated' music hall audiences stamped their feet, sang along, interrupted and threw peanuts at the band, much as did the 'groundlings' in Shakespeare's theatre. In dance halls or at balls the participants (and I use the term advisedly) paid scant attention to the musicians, being far more interested in their dance partners than the - by comparison - hideous nicotine stained geriatrics on the bandstand hired to provide a musical back-drop. Personally, I find it disturbingly unnatural to have a bunch of beady-eyed punters maintain a hushed, respectful silence during my performances. Good job it's only happened once and lasted about four seconds. And it may have been a silence born of shock or revulsion rather than respect but let's not split hairs.

For myself, I believe that talking through a band is a matter of context and degree. It's one thing if it's a willowy, ethereal lady folk singer singing a mawkish ballad about The Land of The Faerie Queene while tearfully accompanying herself on an un-amplified autoharp in a folk club. Silence is mandatory, lest one be assaulted by some ghastly old hippy in Jesus boots. Quite another if it's four hairy-4rsed blokes hammering out Sex On Fire at full beans in a boozer. Frankly, they just have to take their chances

On one occasion I went into Ronnie Scott's with a woman who would not shut up during the act (it's a house rule). I tried shushing her but it just turned into a full-on row. Of course, we were summarily ejected which gave the other punters something to tut about while Mr Georgie Fame ploughed on through his somewhat turgid though worthy performance. In my defence, I was very, very drunk.

The Carrott theory is given credence by an obsessive but otherwise mentally competent Yank researcher who digs into it in the video below:

They also called it Wipers in WW1. Indeed, the Tommies found an old printing press and published their own (fairly seditious) newspaper. Ian Hislop wrote a play about The Wipers Times which was turned into a movie IIRC.

And yet the BBC on-air staff pronounce Newcastle as if they are but recently returned from an elocution seminar led by Mr Jimmy Nail. I would welcome a scenario where BBC presenters were required on pain of death to pronounce British place-names exactly as does the gnarliest-accented local. It would be most entertaining, particularly the football results. Snozzle. I like it.

I adopt a bicameral strategy when it comes to pronouncing foreign names. If I am in the UK I render Paris, Brussels and Berlin as they would be pronounced were they English place names - e.g Parriss, Burrlin or Brussles. Were I travelling in the countries of which these places are the capitals I would pronounce them respectively Parree, Bairleen and Bruce-ell / Brooozel. Which is why I pronounce Ibanez as Eyeburn-ezz except were I in Spain and Munich as Mewnick unless I were in Munich when I would pronounce it Mhoonch'n. Trying faithfully to reproduce indigenous pronunciations risks the unwelcome possibility that one may be taken to be some sort of BBC newsreader, more specifically Miss Angela Rippon, she who was wont to pronounce guerrilla as g'hair-eel-ah. Moreover I note the BBC pronounces Newcastle (Nyoocarsle) as Nookassle, presumably as a sop to interested local parties. Do they pronounce Glasgow as Glazgi? Cirencester as Soyrnzesta? Paris as Parree? Not a bit of it. It's this kind of inconsistency that confirms for me the necessity to end the license fee farrago and expose the Corporation to the chill winds of commerce.

Factory Jeff Beck is a couple of grand, the Custom Shop was about a three and half to four grand IIRC.

... and another vote for the SE. My pal has an SE custom and it's hands-down the best guitar in its price bracket, IMO. I'd get one myself but 'I need something with two humbuckers and a wang bar' isn't an excuse which has so far swayed the missus.

I'm not saying long-established foodstuff manufacturers shouldn't still be making food but I look at multinational corporations like Heinz who are churning out the same baked beans they first made in 1901 and wonder why they are.

Park Royal 2002 The drummer in our pub r'n'b band went back to his Merseybeat outfit (better money) so we needed someone to fill some previously booked gigs. We saw about five potentials, two of whom stood out for all the wrong reasons. Drummer B was a rather ethereal little Scottish chap who sidled nervously into the room and approached the rehearsal room kit as if it would bite him. It became clear that he was both terrifically shy and entirely unacquainted with the concept of 'the shuffle'. In the hope of jollying him along I walked over during a break and started chatting to him, whereupon his eyes filled with tears. 'Please don't stand so close to me,' he said in a flutey Highland accent (I was about five feet distant). 'It's very intimidating'. Well, he didn't get the job. Drummer D was your archetypal skinny rock dude, just back from the States and keen to get gigging again. After one song his face turned crimson and he collapsed over his kit. 'Just ... getting ... my ... breath ... back, ' he wheezed. 'Bit ... out ... of ... condition'. We gave him a quarter of an hour and counted off a mid-tempo blues. After a couple of minutes he collapsed again so we gave him the soft word and sent him on his way. A day or two later he emailed me saying how much he wanted to be in the band and attaching pictures of himself in ladies' lingerie including one horrifying shot where he was bent forwards, his butt cheeks clearly visible through the sheer silk panties which swaddled his nether regions. Pass. Eventually we gave the gig to drummer E who after the audition professed his undying admiration for our musical skills then called me a day later to say his wife had listened to our tape and she thought we were sh*t so he wouldn't be coming again. Back to the drawing board.

You may jest but I expect that Mr Jeff Bezos is even now contemplating opening a distribution warehouse somewhere in South America, this to be staffed by indigenous Amazonian headhunters. He will doubtless pay them with cheap trinkets and gew-gaws as did the colonials of old; the natives in turn will fête Bezos as a God and erect fetishes in his honour. It will all go swimmingly until Bezos one day oversteps some arcane, unspoken religious rule or observance; then - sickened of their labour and his exploitation - Amazon's Amazon Indians will rise up as one and hunt Bezos down, tearing him to bloody rags with their spears and their sharpened, pointed teeth. Capitalism's not all beer and skittles, you know.

Nothing I like more than a bit of subversion, particularly when it is expressed so cryptically. The offishul posishion on politics has waxed and waned, twisted and turned. My great pleasure is the shock and awe unleashed when someone expresses an unfashionable view which runs counter to popular wisdom (oxymoron).