Memories Are Made Of This: Had one of the essential Warfarin blood tests yesterday, and met a neighbour who was waiting whilst his wife had hers. As we sat there chatting, he apologised and said that he knew it was silly, but he couldn't remember my name. He then chuckled at the lack of memory his senior years had smitten him with, adding that when he was younger he could, if necessary, instantly name every one of the 1,200 employess in the factory where he then worked.
Such is the price of age, but were our younger and mid-life years any better? Whilst many pride themselves upon the power of their recall, or IQ; is it really that good?
The next time you see someone check their wristwatch, when they have, ask them what the time is? It will probably less than 20 seconds since they checked it before, but they will look again and then tell you; and you can smile and rib them at what a bad memory they've got.
And then there's The Weakest Link. I am a big fan of this quiz show, and Ann Robinson is very much a female version of Lemmy Kilmister; and they would either get on very well, or hate one another, and I'm not sure which?
Now and again the BBC repeat a previous programme, and Mrs. B will say: 'This one has been on before,' because she will remember one of the contestants for some reason or another. Yet even though it's a repeat, can we remember the answers to all of the questions? Can we even remember which of the 9 contestants actually won the money?
No, we jolly well can't!
And the TV company's know we all have such bad memories because we watch these films and programmes again and again, often because we can't remember the ending. So is it really old age making us forgetful, or was our psyche just designed that way? If we remembered everything, the TV companies would be in quite a state, as we would be ringing to stop them showing these endless re-runs, as we had become bored with the repitition.
A rather more jovial instance of short-term memory loss was when a former work colleague, who enjoyed a few beers on a Friday, arrived back at home at 01.40 rather the worse for wear, and wondered why his key didn't fit the lock? Knocking on the door to reluctantly get his wife to let him in, when it opened, he wondered who the strange man in his house was? The 'stranger' then reminded him that he had moved from that address 3 year's earlier!

More By Design Than Accident: It's one of those aspects of village life that I enjoy; people just start talking to one another and then bring someone else into a conversation simply by changing eye contact. A couple of years ago now, and in the queue to get some stamps at Upton Post Office; a woman, slightly older than me I imagined, was talking to another female friend. In a world of my own thinking about whatever, suddenly our eye contact happened to meet as she said: 'I think our lives' are decided from the moment we are born.'
After thinking this idea through myself from time to time, I said: 'No, from conception, I think; but probably even before that.'
She looked at me with a curious and dumbfounded expression.
'Just imagine,' I continued, 'we were conceived tonight; it would be a completely different sperm hitting a completely different egg had we been conceived yesterday or tomorrow. It would even be different yet again if our parents' had copulated at 8pm rather than 9 or 10pm; it is all very finite.'
'Really?' she said, still looking rather shaken.
'And yes, I think it is all decided from that moment of conception, what kind of person we will be, what job we will do, whether we marry or have children; right from that moment of fertilisation. And it gets even stranger than that. My parents had a daughter first, Barbara Anne, who passed when she was a couple of day's old. Then they had my brother, Robert, and had Barbara Anne lived they would have enjoyed the perfect boy / girl family; so I wouldn't be here talking to you now.'
By now, these two women must have wished they'd discussed this at home over a coffee.
'Conception also decides our Fate and Destiny, and to a degree it also controls our parallel worlds; or the how our lives would have been lived had we said 'Yes' to a certain question or decision rather than 'No,' or vice-versa. And some people believe those parallel worlds actually exist, where we are living out the decisions opposite to those we actually took; where it is the complete antethesis of our current history - like what our world would be like had there been no World War I or II?'
By now, the ladies were becoming somewhat befuddled, and wishing all the more they hadn't, perhaps, drawn me into the conversation. Their turn had arrived to be served, so they did their business and went, and then I did mine; and I have never seen either of them again since.
But it does make you think, doesn't it; and if you would like to read some excellent fiction in a complete parallel world to our own, then please read Mick Farren's two serial novels 'Kindling' and 'Conflagration;' they will astound you by their brilliance.

Sitting By My Telephone: Mobile phones, or 'cells' as they are called Stateside, has never been technology I have welcomed. Agreed, our land-line is ex-directory, but that choice was Mrs. B's when she did a 12 year stint on the graveyard shift, and didn't want to be woken up by some idiot selling double glazing. Consequently, unless it's friends or family, the land-line rarely rings; so to any mobile-friendly friends I say 'Well, you don't phone me on the land-line, so why should I pay £35 or whatever a month for you not to phone me on a mobile?'
But in this technological age we live in, mobile's can either be a friend or a foe; because the calls are traceable via those ugly masts which seem to spring up overnight; except in the West Country, which has an exceptional number of 'blind spots' probably due to the masts looking horrendous eyesore's in the middle of Exmoor, Dartmoor or similar; so they can't get permission to erect them.
In some homicide cases, a murderer has been convicted when plod has traced the calls to find he was there when he swears he wasn't, and likewise, people presumed dead in earthquake's and other disasters like 9/11 have been found alive by calling their mobile number.
But my trusty old Nokia relic finally turned up its toes last week in Plymouth, when the rubber beneath the keys lost its bounce and it took a good 5 minutes of fury and frustration to call a number. Then, just mentioning it as small-talk when visiting local MHB friend, Eddie Evans, last Saturday, he gleefully found an old one, (but younger than my clapped-out model, nevertheless), in a drawer, to say: 'Take that one on, Al, swap the chip and charge it up and it'll do you a turn!'
Grateful and 'mobile' again, although it does no more or less than the previous one, it's just the job should I (a) need to call the RAC if the car breaks down, or (b) need to find someone at a gig.
And what are those 'blue-tooth' phones people have sprouting from their ear like a birth deformity; and why haven't we got the guts to approach them to say; 'Hey, mate, you look a right plonker!'

RIP: Edward Woodward, or Robert McCall from 'The Equaliser,' star of 'The Wicker Man' etc; who passed on the 16th. During an interview once, he mentioned how Sir Laurence Olivier always called him 'fart in the bath,' because when you say 'Edward Woodward,' that's what it sounds like. Priceless!

The Train Kept A Rolling: The trip to see Motorhead in Plymouth last Wednesday was a delight. Bearing in mind the new advert on TV asking us to drive 5 miles a week less to cut down on the CO2 emissions, we met them half way with Mrs. B dropping me off 2.5 miles closer to home at our doorstep station of Hamworthy Junction for the 12.42, rather than from the main station in Poole.
At Dorchester South for 13.04, it then took a brisk but short walk to Dorchester West for the 13.25 to Castle Cary. And as deep in the countryside as we then were, everything went a bit 'I can't read and I can't write but I can drive a tractor' when the train looked as if it was the very first diesel built after the death of steam as it chortled, rattled, swayed and stunk of diesel fumes through to Maiden Newton, Yetminster, Thornford and Yeovil. The driver almost shook every rivet loose by flooring the accelerator and causing an horendous din; then coasted between stations for as long as possible in comparative silence; eventually to arrive at Castle Cary at 14.16.
The 14.23 to Taunton was the other extreme; swish, silent, speedy and electric; and it arrived quite effortlessly at 14.46. After sampling some of the best Dorset, Somerset and Devon rural scenery already, the final leg of the journey went right along the coast through Budleigh Salterton and onwards, with dark and cruel waves crashing into the almost feeble coastal defences whilst brewing up for the storm which would follow; and Plymouth looked a welcome sight despite the heavy rain at 16.29.
One of those late bookings websites had brought a hostel called The Welcome Rest, which was chosen for its close proximity to the station; but throwing rain down as it was, I took a cab and paid £3 for the quarter mile ride. You see, Burridge doesn't do wet these days; after 35 years fork lift driving in every element possible, the wet was the worst, so to avoid it for a measley 3 quid was more than worthwhile.
The gig, of course, was marvellous, and from the moment the band walk onstage one can feel the spirits lift, and they stay there for a good few months afterwards - Motorhead Heaven is how we describe it, and you all know what I mean, don't you!
The return trip was easier; a mere 3 changes.
The 07.47 (Stranger's In The Night) went straight back to Castle Cary for 09.39. The 09.56 to Weymouth was 12 minutes late which meant a missed 11.03 connection; but never mind, the 11.20 Weymouth to Waterloo train was sitting there waiting to take me back to Hamworthy Junction for 11.58.
For a previous Plymouth Motorhead gig I had driven, with MHB's Nigel Moore and Eddie Evans as co-pilot and navigator respectively; but the journey was quite literally Chris Rea's 'Road To Hell' in that 50% of it consists of B roads with lots of tiny villages peppered with speed cameras, and the other 50% Motorway - and I arrived exhausted - so that's why the train kept a rolling this time, as I got there and back as fresh as the proverbial daisy.

The Vampire Of Sunset Strip: That's the title Rolling Stone magazine gave to their first feature on Motorhead, reflecting within it the hours Lemmy keeps. It was a good analogy, and this has been his habit for the last 40 years, if not longer. Up at 2pm, soundcheck between 4 and 5pm (if on tour, which he is often as not), venue opens at 7pm; Motorhead onstage 9.30 until 11; wind down, go to a strip / lap / pole dance club, and then to bed at whatever time of day it happens to be.
Back in 1983, Lemmy phoned me at work to ask if I would "take over the remnants of the Taylor family run MHB's fan club?" and I said "Blimey, you're up early!" to which he replied, "No, I'm up late!"
Vampires have always fascinated mankind, and probably always will. In Mick Farren's what has become known as 'The Renquist Quartet' of vampire novels, (The Time Of Feasting / Darklost / More Than Mortal / Underland), he speculates that humanity is a failed race created by aliens who were brought to planet Earth to keep that mistake from being a thorn in their side, whilst they went on to create a hybrid, but without the flaws.
This alien race then assisted and directed our labour in the building the pyramids, so that if they needed to, they could see the original gold apex' tips glinting from several thousand light years away, and know where we were - well, they didn't have sat-nav 4,000 years ago, did they!
When the building was complete, the aliens used 'sun bombs' (H-bombs) to obliterate us, but inevitably, all were not killed; as they obviously hadn't devised the 'Overkill' theory at that time, either!
So they brought another failed race to planet Earth to eradicate us; the vampires: of which Victor Renquist, the 1,000 year old vampire and the main protagonist in Farren's four fabulous novels, would eventually become.
Forget Anne Rice's 'Interview With A Vampire,' forget Bram Stoker's 'Dracula;' Victor Renquist is the man; and when you have read any or all of these books, you will ache to become a vampire yourself.

A Writers' Right To Write: 'Murder She Wrote' vs 'Basic Instinct.' Now, there's a thought; that busy-body old biddy Jessica (JB) Fletcher vs the also busy-body, but in a vastly different way of Catherine Tramell: Angela Lansbury vs Sharon Stone. Two actresses playing their role as novel writers at the opposite ends of the spectrum - the elderly citizen and the sex-siren.
But wouldn't the action in the TV series and the two movies have been slow if these women had been shown physically writing and typing their books. We never see the hard graft, and if you care to watch Mariella Frostrup's 'Book Show,' her guest writers usually seem to come across as stuck-up pompous asses who give the impression they dashed their novel off in a month; when publisher's expect it to take a year: and it does.
Thankfully, though, they are not all like that; Ian Rankin, Stephen King, J K Rowling, Martina Cole and others are much more recognisable as down-to-earth people just like us. But we the general public seem to have this odd idea that writers have a limitless supply of their books to give away.
Not true.
Well, not in the early years, anyway.
Minette Walters, Dorset's most famous writer who lives near Dorchester had a TV doc about her 'A Company Of Snakes' book screened a few years back. In it, she told us that she had spent 2 hours re-structuring one sentence to get rid of the word because, because she hates it: utter madness!
The garden party followed, when dozens of friends and relations arrived gushing monstrous adjectives in telling her how marvellous the book was; but they're all marvellous when they're Free, and with a Garden Party and complimentary eats and booze, even more so.
But the books only become Free when a writer has enough Royalties to take the expense without missing it, and Minette has achieved that level as many of her books have topped the Best Seller lists. But that TV doc, amongst others, pulled out all the stops in generating this ridiculous idea which seems to have stuck in people's minds; but a great deal of it, I am sure, was for the benefit of the documentary.
I have read all of Minette's books, my favourite is 'Fox Fire' and I have subscribed to her email newsletter for many years. She's quite a heavy smoker, and I admire her the most for naming her dogs Benson and Hedges.

Not Been Idle: The 24 hour round trip by rail to the first English gig on the 'No Sleep 'til Russia' tour in Plymouth was excellent and well worth every minute.
It's nice to be back home, but things didn't stop to allow a rest as I wanted to slide a quick review of the show into the 86th fanzine and get it up together and to the print shop. This has been achieved, and will be ready for collection towards the end of the month for mailing out to you MHB's across the globe.
There is the latest MHB's exclusive T-shirt offer on page 3, so let's hope you've got a few quid left from indulging in the fine Tour Merchandise on sale at the gigs you'll be going to. The merch stall at Plymouth was doing brisk business during the time I spent sitting nearby having a welcome cup of tea before the gig.
Should be back to the Blog on Monday.