Englishman of the week - Harry Flashman

Harry Flashman is one hell of a chap. He possesses no morals, no shame and has the largest yellow streak running through his veins, the size of the Nile in fact. But he is a shining example of Blighty’s Imperialist fodder. God bless you Harry !
During my reading exploits I always take a deep shine to my page turning heroes, whether it be Bertram Wooster or Biggles. They all share a certain English-ness that overflows with certain lost attributes that today’s White Cliff edged shores has lost. I often think we went through the Blitz to give freedom to a bunch of horrid half wits, hell bent on hanging, drawn and quartering our noble heritage. Woman folk drinking Lager and parading without the use of stockings (and knickers) gets a bit thick after a while. Still piffle to all that. We can still find our paradise lost within others exploits, no matter how inflated they may be. Flashman is the worst kind of hero; a horrid term to pen but he is truly the ultimate anti hero. Within his exploits he manages to have a hand in some of the greatest historical endeavors. From the unification of Germany to the charge of the Light Brigade, Flashman was there always unwilling and looking for a way out, sharpish! Who would have thought the intolerable bully from Tom Brown’s schooldays could create such a wonderful storm when left to his own devices.
So Mr Flashman VC. I salute you most humbly!!

Latin Soul

The thing about Northern Soul is that it has many genre branches, reaching out wisteria-like all over the dancing veranda. A rather large percentage is obscure white singers of the 1960’s which make up the rather endearing population of ‘Blue Eyed Soul’. Without being too obtrusive or cynical compared to its Black Matriarch doesn’t quite cut the Colemans. That’s not to say there isn’t some great songs there, for instance Joannie Sommers, Don’t Pity Me is certainly a song that manages to cross over extremely well with its haunting melodic R&B arrangement.

Where as ‘Blue Eyed’ Soul seems to try and recreate the sound of Black America as someone in X Factor sings Frank Sinatra, the Hispanic attempt adds a new dynamic. Comparable to what Jamaica did to R&B, creating an exciting and unique take on American popular Soul music, so did the Latin quarter of New York City. What was to become Latin Soul was still heavily drenched in the Afro-Cuban Rhythms, Salsa and Mambo but had a new sophisticated and of course soulful projection to it. Latin Soul was a short lived genre of the 60’s but through labels like Fania and Cotique gave rise to the 1970s Hispanic dominance of Harlem Jazz Funk & Disco.

Englishman of the week - Douglas Bader

Douglas Bader was a model national hero. At the age of just 21, as a young officer in the Royal Air Force, he had both legs amputated after he crashed his aeroplane, but through sheer guts and determination he learnt to walk again. Then, after being allowed to rejoin the RAF at the outbreak of World War II, he went on to become Britain’s best-known pilot – the most famous of ‘the few’ who helped save their country during the Battle of Britain.

Nor did Bader’s heroism end there. When his plane came down in France on 9 August 1941, he didn’t sit out the rest of the war quietly in a prisoner-of-war camp. Instead, his constant attempts at escape, despite his disabilities, led to his incarceration at Colditz Castle – the special German prison for officers who were repeat escapees, which famously had more guards than prisoners.

New Rockit Flyer

The Ashes- Update

I well and truly eat my sunhat. England beat Australia at Lords today. More to follow when I can control my amazement at a truly spectacular Test.

Featured record label- Bluebeat

I personally do not enjoy record banter. I find it tedious and utterly soul destroying. To be locked in room with two people talking about obscure British Psychedelia is something I can only compare to speed dating with Stephen Hawkins. An honest omission dear readers but full of earnest, I assure you! I find myself though in a tad of a quandary as my particular votes of music is steeped in the intellectualising of such. For example, Northern Soul is a fantastic music scene but plagued with men who could pass the time wearing mackintoshes either at Paddington Station or flashing middle aged woman. It is a fine thing to know the ins and outs of music, a vital thing to survive and beat the competition as it were, but when it becomes mind numbing and makes what is an exciting medium turn into slumber corned beef one has to put their foot down. But for enjoyment sake I turn myself to introducing Record Label of the Week/Month whichever is relevant at time of writing. This is not a lecture more a What Ho to instrumental providers of recorded sound.


Bluebeat is a label that excites me. In fact when I don a deerstalker and get to the task of sleuthing for records, Bluebeat feels me with a cocktail of joy, fear and confusion all in equal measures. The reason for this melodramatic sense of mixed emotions for this particular brand of Anglo-Jamaican music is one that defies the normal aspirations and text book rules of rare vinyl collecting. Bluebeat 45’s have a tendency to be rather beaten up. They seem to be the only vinyl where it is an expected thing. You wait on tenterhooks for each crackle and hiss like it was throwing a priceless bit of wooden tat on a roaring country fire, waiting for the crescendo of sound affects that only the ring of fire can produce. Goodness knows what those crazy cats in the 1960s did to them although we could blame the Skinheads.


Bluebeat was spawned from the partnership of Siggy Jackson & Emil Shallit. Shallit owned the Melodisc label which since 1947 released Jazz, Doo Woop and boogie. During the mass exodus from the West Indies it began marketing Calypso and Mento to the music starved arrivals of the Commonwealth. Back home in 1950s Jamaica an amazing newly found sense of self worth was forming, since the Island had gained its independence. Musically a new style was being formed that owed heavily on the American R&B that was flooding the country from Uncle Sam. Jamaicans began experimenting and trying to recreate the sounds of people like Sam Cook, The Flamingos and Fats Domino but instead of carbon copies, a curious sound developed that stamped a mark of genius on it. The sound was shipped over to England where Melodiscs new subsidiary took control and began to filter it through the West Indian London club scene. Bluebeat became not only the prime label but also lent its name to this new exciting dance music. The importance of this label cannot be overlooked as it laid the groundwork for SKA and Rocksteady and in turn opened the floodgates in the UK to new, ever changing sounds from Jamaica. A family tree that Dancehall, Jungle and more recently Dubstep can boast the membership to.


Bluebeat released in excess of 400 records, some proving more elusive to get hold of than others. Below are three wonderful examples.

Extract from my soon to be started again novel- No title at the moment

I couldn’t quite understand such complexities in my current climate of thought but I obviously pondered what on the subject. Such sights and surroundings could surely not be fathomable by even the most scholarly or seasoned minds but I, being somewhat of an adventurous and dare I say forward thinking kind of chap debated going forward.


And so, that is how I left it in the end. I could positively have pursued the question in hand but decided the gentlemanly thing was to fix hat and turn tails. Of course, the next day regret swept and shook my body like a ravaging cancer, eating away at ‘my previous eves morals’. I even in the darkest hindsight wished I had been induced in an opium gin like state; a walking phantasm with not the dickens of human compassion nor the old Etonian spirit that has served me well for so long.

And so the cock crowed, the dawn chorus came screeching through my bed chamber window, that awful chirp that signals another day or intrepid boredom. I reached over to the laudanum bottle; of course the blighter was empty. "Dash it" I exclaimed to the heavens, "Dash it."
And with that I leisurely pulled myself off the trusty steed that serves me so well night after night. Slightly shaken on unsteady foot I proceeded the walk of despair to the bathroom, each step I cursed to our Father for why I had not managed to wake, say nine this eve. After attempting the necessary morrow duties the more enlightening and joyous task of the days wears came into consideration. A slightly off white Oxford shirt, perhaps the club tie, a rather burnt coloured tweed and yes definitely the club tie.

And so my first intrepid task of the day had been achieved and was over. Euphoria cascaded over me like the Highland rains.

When I approached the front door it suddenly dawned upon me that neither Mabel the maid nor Thomas, my occasional valet were anywhere to be seen. A day off I thought and with a shrug my hand reached for the handle to let the outside world in and my glorious self out.


It was around 3:30 when I reached the chaos that is Piccadilly Circus. My reason for this venture into the westward parts of Doris dear London was a scheduled visit to an old chum of mine, Simian Wayters, whom I had penciled in for a diddy and a chat the night before last. Well I believe it was then. As I approached the grey, dreariness of The Young Lions Club it dawned upon me what a frightful place this was.
Now for those not in the know about The Young Lions Club it is a ghastly place that in its stone clad, medieval like structure encases a membership of awful patronage. From over bearing aristocratic hoodlums keen of a bit of wartime roughness to old front liners who came nowhere near or ever thought of getting up close to the front line, who now dribble on to such ‘upstarts’ like myself about what good a bit of the old battle fatigue would do. No thanks and dash to that I say, dining at the Gay Hussar is enough of a battle for me. Anyhow you get the jist of the ferociousness of the lions encapsulated in this old cage.

"Ahhh Napoleon, there you stand before me." Only Simian refers to me in that name charge of yesteryear.
"So sorry to drag you here of all places, but secrecy’s a must and what better place to dwell in secrets than a venue of military prestige."
"Oh, ho hum, not to worry old sort, I am in fact quite partial to this old haunt." Hoping he would sense my incurable sarcasm. Well that’s what one is often told.
"Now my dear fellow, we must chat about what occurred last night. It is of frightful repercussions that we find a way out of this beastly arrangement."
"Oh yes, what. we must."
At this point I must confess the normal thing a chappy would do would be to ask for a reminder, but for reasons of not appearing the class muse I refrained, hoping in a Sherlock Holmes type of fashion that it would become, elementary is it?

Simian looked at me in a rather odd way, his face scrunched up and contorting like a foreign breed of canine. "I’m all partial to a bit of the old gun ho national pride bit but I really don’t think I’m ready for the old battle charge yet. I have only just got engaged to Daphne you know, and the last thing she would want is me running off to some ruddy war."
"War?" I perked up a bit.
"Yes war. The regimental chap from last night. The dotted line. Come on Horatio sharpen up!"
Now by obvious note the news that last night's, once looked upon, forgotten revelry now had some sort of military undertones struck me like a rather large circular thing shaped lead balloon.
"Ahhhh, oh-uh"