This is the hour.

Greetings true believers (to quote Stan Lee).

It's been a while since my last post. I'd like to say that I've been too busy working on a secret project, but that would be untrue. The truth is that after moving house I was infected with a summer lethargy. But now I'm back, hopefully for more regular posts, and possibly one or two sister-blogs which I have in the mental pipeline.

For now though, gentle reader, let me take you back one week. After an evenings work I am in The Stile, my unbelievably local local, drinking a couple of beers and playing a bit of pool. Vicky is working behind the bar. In the other room aging musos bash out some covers on acoustic guitars. Sunday night is open mic night.

Fast forward to the end of the night, Faye, Tony and I are drinking in the front bar. Vicky is still working, and talking to one of the bearded muscians. I am beckoned. We discuss my being a bass player, and by the end of the conversation I have agreed to book the next sunday off work and come along to the open mic. The harmonica player stands in the doorway and has a nosebleed.

So, here I am. Due to arive at the pub in under an hour for half a pint of dutch courage. Unfortunately my summer lethargy extended into what I jokingly call my practice routine. I've been working to make up for it this week but for some reason I can only remember three songs well enough to feel nearly comfortable playing them in public. And one of those is seven minutes long and requires a saxophonist.

I thought it wise to prepare myself for public humiliation. Friday was Faye's Twenty-first. Sort of. It was also kareoke night at the style. If I can do that in front of people, I'm sure I can fumble my may through Eight Days a Week and Sweet Home Chicago.

Apologise for the weird typography. Blogger seems to have no problem switching to bold or italics, but doesn't appear to like changing back again.

Tea break over. Toodle pip.

Official Launch

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I am glad to announce the official launch of the new BCU literary magazine, Paper Tiger. Thanks to everyone who submitted or was involved at the planning stages.

Read it, hot off the virtual presses at www.apapertiger.tk

Email any submissions for future issues to apapertiger@live.co.uk

Sweet Home Wolverhampton

For the past week and a half I've been settling into the new house and something almost resembling adulthood. I write this having just returned from Asda with freshly purchased draining board and cutlery draw trays.

Since my last post I've done a few things which I feel now qualify me to describe the local area: I've made several trips to Asda, seen the park on an event day, and, crucially, I've visited the pub. The area in question is, roughly speaking, Whitmore Reans (which even, sort of, has its own online newspaper). Our road, Fawdry Street, is one of several roads in the area which don't really lead anywhere, which is perhaps why the pub at the end of the road seems to be doing so well. It's the sort of pub which looks like it could be one of the main settings in a soap, and like almost all pubs in Wolverhampton it's linked to the Banks brewery. The conversation comes in a clattering of Polish and Yam Yam. The Banks and the curry are good, the current guest ale, Boondogle, tastes like vinegar. There is a bowling green at the back, half of the clientele look as if their preferred method of transport is a chopper or a truck, and Fridays and Saturdays are karaoke nights. Like a pub should be, it provides an interesting cross section of the community.

The nearest main road is the Stavely road, which has a few shops. This is our main conduit to Asda. In the other direction is a building with a sign painted on the side which reads 'Jazz's Barbers', in big, blue letters, accompanied a picture of a man who from a distance looks like Charlie Patton, but as you get closer, looks increasingly like a dodgy eighties hairdresser's model.

We visited the local park at the time of the Wolverhampton City Fair, which seemed to mainly involve people firing cannons, driving motorbikes or monster trucks, and setting themselves on fire.

Visit the Black Country, heart of the Wild West Midlands (or have I just been playing too much Red Dead Redemption)

Familiar Things in Unfamiliar Places.

I am no longer nearly homeless. As of yesterday I have been a resident of Fawdry Street, Wolverhampton. Vicky and I still have a little unpacking to do, but now my books are on a shelf (albeit a rather disorganized one, and having to compete for space with a myriad of DVDs and Xbox games) and I've had a cup of tea, it's starting to feel like home. And until the arrival of Faye (one of Vicky's forensics buddies) some time in August, and Hannah and Chris in early September, we have the house to ourselves.

So, here we sit awaiting the full time results of the Ghana vs Uruguay match. Vicky tests the internet with some heavy duty Call of Duty, and I contemplate a productive summer of writing and editing.

In the meantime though, we have more mundane things to worry about, like working out what's wrong with the washing machine door, the alarming rate of gas consumption, how to live on almost no money, and a living room carpet so filthy that it warrants foot washing of biblical proportions. Where's the messiah when you need him...

We've decided to wear slippers for the foreseeable future.

Homeless...

...Sort of. As of Monday evening, I will be crashing on my nan's sofa until I can move into me and Vicky's (and some others who will be joining later) student pad in Wolverhampton. Which is, I admit, quite a trek from Perry Barr, but it's far better if you want a decent ale. In the meantime my life is a flurry of books in boxes and mattresses on floors as I slowly dismantle the last ten years or so of my life.

Bring on the Black Country.

What happens when a rolling stone looses momentum?

I've been meaning to write this post for a while now, so apologies if the details are a little sketchy. Hopefully Google will help me fill them in.

A few weeks ago, in an attempt to keep up with the election, I was reading the Guardian. I found an article about a Burmese musician who fuses traditional Burmese music with hip hop. He uses music as a way of protesting against the military government in Burma, to the extent that nine out of twelve songs on his most recent album were banned, including one where the only lyrics translate as 'Hey, how are you?'

I wish him the best of luck, but neither he nor the plight of the Burmese people are the main purpose of this post. The musician, Thxa Soe, came into contact with hip hop while studying in Britain. He chose hip hop because 'there's not much freedom in rock'. This statement surprised me. I had always thought of rock as one of the freesest forms of music. I mean, nothing says freedom like the opening riff of Hendrix's version of All Along the Watchtower, does it? Then I started to wonder, has rock music perhaps gone stale?

When rock started in the late sixties and early seventies it was an explosion of new sounds. As it started to get more pompous and 'prog', there was freedom for the artists to experiment, even if it was at the expense of listenable records. Meanwhile, less experimental rock bands started slip into their own cliches.

The rule book has been re-written a few times since, with movements like punk and britpop, but again once something works well it becomes a formula. A few years ago indie rock and pop looked like it was going to start a new revolution, but what we ended up with was a ream of Libertines and Franz Ferdinand soundalikes. And now, commercial pop looks set to reign supreme again, albeit with a newly indiefied aesthetic.

On the other hand, there are, and always have been a few stand out bands out there doing something different. In the 80s we had the Cure and the Smiths. Now try this, or this. In all honesty, I think all types of music have both great innovators and stale cliches. In hip hop, how many 'bitches and hoes' types are there to every thing like this?

Incidentally, I've been listening to a lot of American alternative stuff in the past few years. Which includes a good deal of folky stuff.

Actually, lets make THIS happen.

I've stayed largely quiet during the run up to the election. This is not due to any desire to stay out of the politics, although I am aware that other people are doing a better job of writing about it then I would have done. It's simply because I've been too busy with assignments and what-not to find the time. I have something none election-related which I've wanted to blog about for a week or so now, but that will have to wait. For today, I just wanted to pop on that I've been following the election via The Guardian, and they've managed to get me quite excited about the possibilities of a hung Parliament and the electoral reform which could follow. And the possibility of a liberal leaning government for the first time in my lifetime (New Labour clearly don't count).

Now though, on Election Eve, I can't escape nagging worries that the Conservatives will sneak a majority, or that Labour will somehow hold on to power. If that happens all this excitement will be for nothing, and the disappointment could even harm the Liberal cause (and that of all the smaller parties who struggle to get a look in under the current system) next time round, reinforcing the 'wasted vote' myth. So now I'm here, flying a garish orange flag and urging all of you to:

Vote Lib Dem

Especially if you live in Warwick or Lemington Spa (not that I have any vested interest).