Week 123, CJ's, blues to the stars

Sheffield's Hanover Way used to be surrounded by blues clubs; palaces to heavy dub, Red Stripe and ganja.  These were establishments having extensive and prolonged opening times much greater than that of ordinary pubs and clubs.  There was Sonny's, Solly's, CJ's* and before it was knocked down to make way for the ring road, 91's.

Some clubs could have a bit of a reputation but for the most part those around Hanover Way weren't wrapped so tight, some were more like community centres, and CJ's in particular was quite relaxed for a place of its particular type.**  It often had a cosmopolitan mix of clientele.  During the Snooker World Championship you might find a player or two here, you can guess which ones, you might see Linton Kwesi Johnson and Smiley Culture after a gig at The Octagon, or a variety of local celebrities fresh from duty on television, radio presenting or comedy performing.

Old maps of the area show there to be engineering works on the site but the building was like no factory.  Generally entered by walking through a warren of cellars,*** CJ's was an interesting structure, brick built and in some respects similar in construction to a chapel or church.  Inside it featured stained glass sections in some parts of the wood panelling, particularly those around the formal entrance and toilet area, odd short flights of overly ornate wooden stairs, and from the main room there were further stairs to an odd shaped upper floor room which featured a full sized snooker table.

At some point around the millennium CJ's burned down**** bringing an end to the reverberating bass, whistles, beeps and hypnotic psychedelic echoing from the various guest DJ's and sound systems.

There aren't anywhere near the number of blues clubs there used to be, much of the trade will be in the more orthodox establishments which are now allowed to sell alcohol around the clock.

This is the site of CJ's now after transformation into a very pleasant communal garden and allotment.

* Named after the proprietors, Colin and Joe.
** Relatively speaking - if you were from a sheltered, middle-class background then just being in Broomhall would probably give you palpitations.
*** Or if there was fear of some type of 'event', or it was a busy weekend, entering by the main upper entrance after first being identified as 'non-hazardous' by someone looking through a hatch in the door.
**** I have no idea when, I don't recall even seeing the building since before the mid 1990's.

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Week 122, Backup: the new Rock n Roll

If Mississippi John Hurt had worked in IT then maybe his song Stack O' Lee* would have come from a different angle.

Stack o' tapes told Billy
I can't let you back up to disk
For that's my life you're a takin'
And I won't let that go amiss
So lay down Billy in the corner
'Cos what you gonna do ain't proper
This bad forty-four
Is gonna byte you down to size
etc...

However he didn't, and it didn't, so it ended up like this - which to be fair is clearly a much better song:


Police officer, how can it be?
You can 'rest everybody but cruel Stack O' Lee
That bad man, oh, cruel Stack O' Lee
Billy de Lyon told Stack O' Lee, "Please don't take my life
I got two little babies, and a darlin' lovin' wife"
That bad man, oh, cruel Stack O' Lee
"What I care about you little babies, your darlin' lovin' wife?
You done stole my Stetson hat, I'm bound to take your life"
That bad man, cruel Stack O' Lee
With the forty-four
When I spied Billy de Lyon, he was lyin' down on the floor
That bad man, oh cruel Stack O' Lee
"Gentleman's of the jury, what do you think of that?
Stack O' Lee killed Billy de Lyon about a five-dollar Stetson hat"
That bad man, oh, cruel Stack O' Lee
And all they gathered, hands way up high
At twelve o'clock they killed him, they's all glad to see him die
That bad man, oh, cruel Stack O' Lee



But we'd still have this stack o' tapes to dispose of whichever way it went.**

* Also known as Stagger Lee, Stagolee, etc, etc.
** Around two thousand LTO2 and LTO3 tapes.

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Week 121, A thing

The A thing.

Anomie, the loss and breakdown of social bonds.

Anosmia, the loss of the sense of smell.

Obviously not all words with an 'a' parked at the front are using it in the sense of the Greek prefix meaning absence, lack of, or without.

Artichoke for example, or anthrax, ablest, azimuth or acanthus.

Atheist on the other hand does take the prefix in the sense of that of loss, which in moments of pedantry some might take exception to given the pejorative nature of the use of the word in antiquity.

Those that have never believed and therefore haven't any 'loss' might quibble about being identified as such, however most are sanguine and see no need to get hung-up on the matter.

Others agnostic on this might want to consider their lack of knowledge on where to find a space to park, it's free if you know where to look.

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Week 120, Compostulations

My stripy worm army are more active near the surface today, this could be due to the warmer conditions.

There could be other reasons though for their sudden increase in mobility.

Perhaps they're getting ready for the long wiggle.  The long wiggle to freedom.

Yet unlike Rawicz or Mandela they haven't been imprisoned.  They've had a pretty cushy life, what with being fed premium scraps of kitchen waste and the occasional dose of 'accelerant'.  However being aware of the dangers of brutal dictatorships they have pledged to fight fascism, to rise up, albeit by only a few centimetres, and fight for equality and freedom wherever it is under threat.

I'm with them on that.  The only sensible option is for me to give them a lift, coat myself entirely in red tiger worms, and march onward to the challenge.

Hopefully we won't all end up being composted.

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Week 119, The Captain Darling Moment

With the Trumpocalpyse on the horizon I'm put in mind of this:

Captain Blackadder: How are you feeling, Darling? 
Captain Darling: Ahm... not all that good, Blackadder. Rather hoped I'd get through the whole show. Go back to work at Pratt and Sons, keep wicket for the Croydon Gentlemen, marry Doris... Made a note in my diary on the way here. Simply says: "Bugger." 

I'd quite fancied the idea of making it to pension age without some utter arse-gravy smearing fuckwit causing it all to go tits up.  Still, it might not get to that.

In every direction, war graves, cemeteries.  The real signs of invasion, not the scare-mongered, weak, frightened panic of the bigot.

I'm sure - as those who haven't made any effort to check out how complex it all is might say - it'll be alright.

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Week 118, Gimme shelter

Hells Angels vigilantes providing security for the inauguration of the first last President of the United States of America.

What could possibly have gone wrong...

At least they didn't stab anyone to death this time.

Fingers crossed we won't be needing the security of one of these places pictured below when the giant, lying toddler gets fed up of not being worshipped by the people he desperately wants the affection of, starts crying and then has a tantrum.

If it comes to that it'll be a time after which he'll be worshipped only by marauding biker gangs as they search for the last drop of gasoline, hoping that the tears of their messiah will provide them with fluid of the required octane rating.

Obviously that isn't going to happen is it.

Is it?

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Week 117, Launch Tower

The operatives, unseen in the image below, are busy at work installing the propellant which will carry Number 5 Tower beyond our atmosphere.

After decades of work, while the tower was camouflaged as The Grosvenor Hotel and the subterranean bar The Wapentake, the preparation is coming to a conclusion.  Once the blue touch paper has been lit and the Master of Flammability has retired to a safe distance, the great flaming edifice will be off.

With any luck the entire operation will fail miserably, Number 5 Tower will coming crashing back to Earth and land on Trump, Pence, Farage and the rest of the privileged elite whilst they're wearing gold lamé underwear and involved in a ritualistic, bed-wetting circle jerk.

I say luck, while climbing over the fence to sort out the 'failure' I tore my jeans so it had better bloody work.  Although I fear it will bounce of their collection of brass necks and Trump will reopen it as some sort of theme park devoted to Putin and the legacy of Communist architecture.

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