Love Comes in Waves

I've mentioned my dad once or twice around here; although I love him dearly, he has the ability to infuriate the hell out of me. But then again, whose dad doesn't? I've also mentioned his nom de plume: my father, Gordon Medd, is Jigsaw Man; as Superheroes go his ability to do a thousand piece jigsaw may be a pretty rubbish super power, but, hey, he's my dad and I won't hear a word said against him (after all, that's my job).

In the past he's done circular jigsaws, double-sided jigsaws, single colour jigsaws; you name it, he's done 'em. Many of them have come by way of Christmas and birthday presents from me; yes, I've long since stopped fretting over what to get dad as December 25th approaches.

But his latest project has turned out to be his toughest assignment yet: Hokusai's The Wave had my dad teetering on the verge of madness. I was getting progress reports, photos, even selfies, of just how tricky this latest puzzle really was. It would appear that every piece, excluding the border, was exactly the same shape.

Each and every piece had to be painstakingly offered into position tens of times, scores often, before finding its rightful place. Dad's texts to me made for harrowing reading.

He told me that he would wake up in the middle of the night troubled by the most recent tricky section; dad would come downstairs in the wee small hours and to try and find a home for a few more pieces. It was only when the final piece was slotted into position that he could could finally breathe a sigh of relief and get his life back. 

That's when that I realised I couldn't just let him dismantle it and put it back in the box. I had to preserve it. The Jigsaw Man had invested so much time - so much of himself - on this amazing picture, I couldn't bear the thought of it being turned back into a thousand tiny pieces. So I rang my friend Ed at Paramount Pictures in Nottingham and brought him in as chief framer. 

Tasked with carefully transferring this labour of love  from dad's beloved 'jig-roll' into a beautiful dry mount and frame, the finished artwork - which looks amazing - is now on display at Medd Towers (with all the above photos on its flip side). As Rod said, every picture tells a story. 

Andy Bell - Love Comes in Waves (2020)

Getting the band back together

The Reunion

It's Friday evening in a sleepy Lincolnshire market town. Pop Medd is playing host to his two sons - they're jetting in from nearby Nottinghamshire and Rutland - and making up the quartet is his grandson - training it all the way from Greater Manchester. It'll be the first time all four of them have been in the same room since January 2016 - that's  five and a half years in anyone's language. Added to which it's the first time young James has had a beer in Grantham on a Friday night; his last visit being his grandma's funeral back in July '15.

So what brought about this multigenerational gathering of 'lads' - age range 31 to 85 - all bearing the same four letter surname? As has been touched upon round these parts previously, apart from me and James (my son, Pop's grandson) we Medds are not what you'd call tight knit; not by a long chalk. However, I think, deep down, we all wish we probably were; it's just that nobody wants to admit it. 

And was the night an unqualified success? No, not really. But it was good fun nonetheless. There was plenty of laughter - mainly at Pop's expense - he was (quite literally at one point) the fall guy. Did the two brothers bicker; yes, of course they did. But, and here's the thing, they both regretted it deeply afterwards. Always the way. Bloody drink. But James was the glue that kept the whole thing together; if he reads this he'll probably say "was I?", but his presence probably kept the evening on the rails. 

Best gag of the night? Well, that would be mine - obviously: in one of the many hostelries we frequented the subject of where we'd be dining later was discussed: it was decreed that we'd go to a Nepalese restaurant called Everest - "So that would make this place Base Camp," I said. These are the jokes, as Ronnie Scott used to say.

My duck curry was perfect. The taxi back to Pop's was eventful. And the Mario Lanza and Jimmy Young on the sterogram fitted the mood at the end of the night perfectly. We'll skip over the last bit when the brothers tried to turn everything serious over too many tumblers of whisky and fast forward instead to 9am...

After a Full English, and hugs all round, we parted company, still bleary eyed, with flimsy promises about "doing it again" and "not leaving it so long next time." Maybe, let's wait and see shall we?

(Old) School

Whenever I take a selfie of me & dad we both go into 'wary' mode

Something I read on Amy Rigby's intoxicating blog the other day really resonated with me. Long story short she said that even though blogging may well be seen by many as outdated, tired or not on trend "I'm just gonna keep chugging along like an old man's dinghy in a stream of slick, shiny yachts." In other words, and I've said this here many, many times - I'm writing this stuff for me, essentially. If others a. find it and b. heaven forbid, like it, that's nice but not why I do it.

...

I went to see Dad on Monday. Since restrictions began to ease I've gone over to Grantham a couple of times now for lunch. We generally walk to the park and have a coffee and a sandwich. And a side order of chips; food tastes better sitting on a park bench I tend to find.

Wyndham Park is a very well kempt park and also near to the grammar school I used to attend when I was not long out of short trousers. I asked dad if he wouldn't mind indulging me while I had a nosey through the railings. It's nearly 50 years since I started my first term at King's. A time when masters still wore gowns and mortar boards and thought nothing of a bit of light corporal punishment to while away the time. Luckily in 1972 there'd been a new intake of staff (teachers, not masters) who wore civvies and were actually decent human beings. Mr Roper, our Geography teacher and form teacher, being one of them. Along with a couple of other good eggs he was probably not long out of teacher training college when he came to the school and, looking back, was probably only ten years or so older than us.

Not a playground; it's a quad

My nosey through the railings turned into a bit more when realising the school was closed for Easter I asked the caretaker in the security hut if I could have a look round the old quad. Fill yer boots she said. So many memories came flooding back (mostly good, but not all) as I was transported to a time when Edward Heath was PM and every single one of my exercise books was covered in pictures of the Sweet. I took a few photos and even snuck in one of my old classrooms. Finding it quite emotional I went back outside where my dad seemed to be taking just as many photos as me. 

St. Wulfram's Church

On the way back we went through the neighbouring churchyard of St Wulfram's. Our old music teacher, Mr. Lank, was the choir master and organist there. I remember he let me and my mate Phil Noon talk about Slade for ten minutes in one of his classes; the things you remember. Walking back to dad's he told me that Mr Roper's 'not so good at the moment.' When dad says someone's not so good it's usually followed by an obituary in the local paper (Dad's seen a lot of friends and colleagues in there over the years.) Anyway, that's what I did on Monday.

I couldn't find my blue plaque anywhere

Menacing

I was made aware this week of a rather significant (and genuinely newsworthy) anniversary: My childhood hero Dennis the Menace has just celebrated a significant birthday. Apparently, young Dennis first graced the hallowed pages of The Beano on 12 March 1951, so I make that 70 years. And because he arrived as a fully formed 10 year old that would make him 80 if he's a day. 

I began reading about the naughty schoolboy's scrapes in the late 1960s when I was a little bit younger than him; though, I've got to hand it to him, he's aged a lot better than me.

Along with The Dandy (for my younger bro) I remember both comics dropping on our doormat religiously every Thursday morning. Looking back I don't think my parents cancelled the subscriptions at the local newsagent till both my brother and I were well into our teens; I would often find dad poring over one or the other in his favourite armchair, guffawing loudly. Happy Birthday, Dennis! 

Sensational

As a youth it always struck me as odd that whilst all the bands I was routinely listening to at the time were way younger than my dad (with quite a few being not that much older than me), there was one glaring exception: step forward Alex Harvey. Born and raised in Glasgow's infamous Gorbals and playing rock & roll in pubs from the time he could walk, Harvey's life did not, in any way, mirror that of Gordon Medd; yet they were both born nearly five years before WW2. 

"He's older than my dad" I can remember me saying on the bus down to south east London when I saw him support the Who at Charlton in 1976. "He's older than my bloody dad!" Though when he and his band burst onto the stage that afternoon and played the opening bars of Faith Healer, any thoughts I may have had regarding either Harvey's mobility, or indeed faculties, were soon dispelled.

The Sensational Alex Harvey Band - Faith Healer (1973)

Alex Harvey passed away in 1982. My dad had never heard of him. 

Steppin' Out

It's hard to think of your parents as young - having a life before you arrived. When everything stretched out before them; when everything was possible. I'm paraphrasing Ben Watt - please read his account of his parents' lives before he arrived. You'll be glad you did. In the meantime, here's a photo of my mum and dad (before I came along) when they were on the (b)rink... 

Joe Jackson - Steppin' Out (1982)

My Father's Name is Dad

Dad's just rung. He thanked me for his card and then proceeded to tell me that he's going travelling round Ireland at the end of the month. He's 83. Respect. I think the last time he took the car on the Holyhead to Dublin ferry he was driving a 1963 Ford Anglia. And they still had the Punt. Cars and currency may change but my dad's determination is locked-on. There will be stories when he gets back; to be sure, to be sure.

The Fire - My Father's Name is Dad (1968)

The Incredible Shrinking Man

Who's got a tape measure?

I know I'm six foot tall. I've been six foot since I turned 16. It says six foot on my passport. Just because the nurse at my local GP surgery recently clocked me in at 5'-11" does not mean I'm 5'-11". No way Pedro. If you look carefully at the above photograph (taken on Saturday at James and Janni's wedding party) I'm kinda leaning in - and down - at the same time. James is not a seven foot giant - he is a mere 6'-4". Just to set the record straight. And, to set it straight even further, dad is not taller than me. He must be standing on a book, or something. Must be.

I'm glad I got that out of the way.

A big thank you to my friend Adele who texted me earlier this evening and put a smile on my face. I'd sent her the photo and she replied back:

"Nice pic of the 3 Amigos, looking very trim xx"

(Can I be Steve Martin, can I?)

Brought to you in Technicolor

Feed the birds, tuppence a bag

I love this photograph. That's my mother on the right, and her younger sister Carmel (my favourite auntie) taken in Trafalgar Square c.1954. Mum would have been 20, Carmel barely 18. It's quite obvious, looking at them over 60 years ago, they hadn't got a care in the world - their whole lives ahead of them.

Although mum's not around anymore, I decided to bring this photo to life, blow it up, frame it, and give one copy to Carmel and one to my dad - both very much alive and kicking.

I've been following Andy the Photo Doctor (@andythephotoDR) on Twitter for a while now - he restores historic black & white football photos and, with the knowledge of old football strips, can kickstart a once tired tired image and make it look like it was taken only yesterday. I asked Andy if he would do a commission for me, we agreed a price and then it was down to business.

As mum and Auntie Carmel weren't wearing football shirts the day they visited the capital in the mid-fifties, my only markers were hair colours and maybe the livery of mum's coat. My email to Andy last week must have read like gibberish: 'Mum had dark hair in her twenties, not black as such, but not brown either. Her coat would probably have been dark blue - but I haven't really got a clue. Am I making sense?'

No, but then, when did I ever?

But fair play to Andy, it was only a couple of days later when I got this sneak preview - the crop on the right (Duffle Coat Man had to go) was my edit. I liked this version so much I took it to my picture framer straight away.

And then, only a couple of hours ago I got the finished article. Again I'll probably crop matey on the right - you never know who's behind you when you're having your photo taken, do you? In an ideal world I'd also want to air brush the guy standing directly behind mum; but no worries, I'm absolutely made up with the final image.

It's Carmel's birthday soon, and Father's Day, so when I get them back from the framers I'll hand deliver both presents and watch as they peel away the wrapping, and travel back in time...

The faintest ink is better than the best memory

The older I get the more I write things down - I always carry a pad and pen; a pen, anyway (you can write more on a napkin or beer mat than you'd think). And I always have my camera with me wherever I go - so much better than a phone. I like to record things. Words and pictures. Hence this blog, I guess.


But do I fear for my memory? Am I getting more forgetful? Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. Let's put it this way, if I was running a bath I wouldn't trust myself to turn the taps on, leave the room and come back five minutes later. Is that normal? Who knows. My mind wanders, that much I do know.


When my dad came over for my birthday recently I had a nightmare flash forward, a vision of me in 25 years. James was here at the same time and he probably looked at me and thought the exact same thing. In fact I know he did - we spoke about it. And had a laugh about it. I do remember that.

Warm hands

My second* favourite picture of James & Janneke

James and Janni made a whistle stop visit this weekend; it's so much easier for them, now we don't live in the arse end of nowhere. As always, we crammed a lot into the 24 hours they spent with us. We even had a 'conference call' with James' pop - a kind of low budget two-way family favourites. And Gordon, to his eternal credit, was able to announce to the pair he was doing a spot of giving with warm hands. Grandparents, eh? They never cease to amaze.

* This being my favourite

Hold the Bells

I'm neither an inventor nor a maker - I leave that to the Number One Son. But, I have, in the last couple of weeks, invented a drink. A cocktail, if you will. This, I assure you, is my first venture in this sector; I don't claim to be a mixologist. First things first, let me give you the back story.

Whenever Gordon comes up to see us he always comes bearing gifts - flowers for Jenny, some obscure 1960s cutting from the Hull Daily Mail for me and wine for all of us. And, invariably, he augments all of the above with a bottle of Bell's. My parents have won more bottles of hooch over the years in raffles, Conservative Club draws and Golf Club tombolas than you can shake a shitty stick at. A fair percentage of this haul has been Bell's whisky. And because neither of them were whisky drinkers they've been stockpiling this most average of blends in their pantry under the stairs.
However, now the old man knows I like whisky (I do love single malts) he is now siphoning off his whisky lake and flooding us with the stuff instead.

Of course, I can't tell him that I really should be cleaning the drains with it. Instead, I grappled with the idea of disguising it - and that's when I had my light bulb moment.

So, here is my step-by-step guide to make a perfect Hold the Bells. See what I did there?

* In a long tall glass shovel in a generous helping of crushed ice

* Into it pour two fingers of Bell's

* Top up with Dandelion & Burdock

* Now suspend belief and add 3 or 4 dashes of Hendersons Relish, Lea & Perrins if you don't have South Yorkshire's finest

* Whisk to within an inch of its life

* Job done!

There you go. Make one tonight and impress your sophisticated (and not so sophisticated) friends. Money back guarantee if you're not fully satisfied.

Don't forget the Joker(s)

My dad knows one card trick. He's very proud of it. He'll shuffle a complete deck of cards, offer you them face down and ask you to pick a card, any card. He will then proceed to tell you which card you've just picked. 'The Joker', he'll say, smilingly. And, sure enough, it is the Joker. However, considering this pack comprises fifty-two Jokers, it's hardly magic. But it keeps my dad amused.

I'd like to think Lemmy would have liked it too.

Lemmy: b. 24 December 1945, d. 28 December 2015

Five things I've discovered in 2015

I always like to learn at least one new fact each day: something I didn't know the day before. That and counting three good things that have happened to me each day before I go to sleep. Some days that's easier than others.

But discovering new things that you know will enrich your life forever is something that doesn't happen every day. And if you think I mean discovering inner peace or lining up my chakras then you obviously don't know me very well. No, I mean things that have blindsided me out of nowhere. You may call them trivial, but I would argue otherwise. So here are five things that I discovered this year.

Frozen Grapes

I recently ordered the cheeseboard in a newly opened pub in Leeds and was taken immediately with the bunches of frozen grapes that accompanied the cheese, crackers, cucumber and pickle. Each bite was like an instant sorbet rush that, to many, may well set their teeth on edge. Not me. Rest assured this delicacy will be coming to a menu near my dining table soon. And often.

Black & Tan

I like beer. Who doesn't? And I like real ales. Again, what's not to like? I'm even, for my sins, a card carrying member of CAMRA. I go to beer festivals and everything. But, at the end of the day, I like the taste of beer. And as a result I'm not precious about where it comes from or, indeed, whether it calls itself cask or keg. Or Craft. And trust me on this one, many many people do. And will debate for hours about how they will only drink a particular style of beer that is brewed in a particular way and kept a particular way.
So when a friend of mine said to me recently he's rather partial to half a pint of stout and half a pint of bitter in the same pint glass, I was intrigued. So intrigued that since this recent discovery I've drunk nothing else since. The purists probably hate it. Their loss.

Art

Now obviously I didn't discover art in 2015. But what I did discover is that I like doing it. And other people quite like it too: I even exhibited my work for the first time. Nothing has pleased me more this year than doing paintings for friends, especially my Penguin range, and creating unique pieces of art I know they will treasure. My friends Adele and Darren being two that spring to mind.
I've got some great ideas for 2016 and hope to show some of them here in the not too distant.

Guitar solos make all the difference

Ben Watt writes some great songs. You've only got to take one look at his output with Everything But The Girl to appreciate that. But last year he made a delightful album with Bernard Butler. And it was Butler's deft guitar work that transformed many of those tunes. Not least, this live version of Never Forget.
James Medd did something similar for me only last month. My song, What Are You Waiting For, had been languishing in the long grass for ages before James brought his magic to it.

Dad

I know I said this list was going to be trivial. But I can't put this year to bed without mentioning the most seismic thing that happened to me this year. After mum passed away in the summer my dad could so easily have hit the buffers and given up. In fact, if dad had gone first that's precisely what would have happened to mum. But he didn't. Yes, he mourned her loss (and still does, obviously) and yes he continues to live in the same house they shared for the last forty odd years. But dad is slowly coming out the other side. And, what I've discovered, certainly, is a new version of my dad. I've touched upon it before so won't dwell on it here. Suffice to say he'll be back again in a couple of weeks and will spend Christmas (and my birthday) with us and that's the only present I want this year.

Bridging the gap

Nick Lowe, not Gordon Medd

Dad's up with us again for a few days. Oil and tyre pressures would have been checked yesterday morning before the wing mirrors were positioned and driving gloves put on. And a new PB of under two hours was set. It really is a good job that there are no fixed speed cameras in this part of the world.

I look forward to him coming up and enjoy his company; since losing mum, I look forward to our conversations which, by turn, are gradually becoming more and more wistful. He's more open than he ever used to be and we seem to have reached that point, on a number of issues, where we each know that nothing more needs to be said - we have an understanding.

Before we went out last night for a couple of beers and a bite to eat, we played cards. Mum and dad were always inveterate card players and they taught me and my brother all sorts of card games from when we were old enough to count. It was while we were playing a few hands late yesterday afternoon that he dropped into conversation something I'd never even thought about before. After mum died he can't play bridge. Or rather, he can (obviously the rules of the game haven't been wiped from his brain), but not without a partner who can second guess how he will bid and lead and all the other complexities and subtleties that make Bridge Bridge. Mum knew what he was thinking. She probably knew him better than he knows himself. How do you replace that? You can't. But dad's readjusting. He's moving away from being someone who always had a life partner on hand to tell him what to do next, to someone who can work it out for himself thank you very much. He's bridging the gap.

There's no fool like an old fool

I'd had all month to write a new song ahead of last night's Songwriters Circle, but, not for the first time, I missed the deadline completely. Damn you Noel Gallagher - you say these songs are falling out of the sky waiting to be caught - why don't you start sending a few my way? I did, however, write a song straight off the bat when I got back. How perverse is that? It's called There's No Fool (Like An Old Fool) and was inspired by a line from my dad's recent postcard: he's just completed his first solo vacation in I don't know how many years following the recent death of my mother.

As missives go it was probably the most information packed script ever to fill the reverse side of a 7 x 5 picture of The Med. He missed his calling - he should've been a copywriter and no mistake. Or a stand in for Michael Palin.

The Jigsaw Man

'I'd rather be doing a jigsaw' Gordon Medd (right) c.1953 

Dad's coming up to see us for a few days. It'll do him good. He's hitting the Great North Road just after lunch and should be with us by mid-afternoon. It'll be a first - with no backseat driver to point out the shortcomings of his driving skills, 'You're too close Gordon', he should be able to set a new PB.

I call him the Jigsaw Man because he's always got a jigsaw on the go: 500 pieces, 1000 pieces, solid colour ones, ones with no pictures on the box, double sided ones - you name it, he'll fix it.

We've got a full itinerary lined up for him. I rang him last night to confirm his booking: 'I'm just packing', he said, 'are we going anywhere with a dress code?'

'Dad, believe me, the places I'm taking you definitely don't have a dress code.'

My dad mustn't be confused with former Everton striker Stuart Barlow who was also, rather cruelly, known as Jigsaw because he always went to pieces in the box.

The one you never hear about

Father, son and brother

The Number One Son, as you can see from the side bar on the left, often gets name-checked on this blog. Even the Old Man has made his way into several back issues. But the bloke pictured on the right is a newbie; we share a surname but not a lot else. However, on Thursday he came good.

My brother and I may not see one another again for a year or two but I know, if needed, he'd come good again. I'd like to think he knows I'd take a bullet for him too.

Too late

There is, in existence, only a minute and a half of movie footage of me as a child. I know this because, in around 1980, I found a yellow cardboard Kodachrome box amongst my dad's slides and asked him what was on it. 'Search me' he said. I replied that the father of my girlfriend at the time had a cine projector. 'Take it' he said, 'and tell me what's on it.' So I did.

Although it only lasts for about 90 seconds, it is a very moving piece of film: only a handful of days after I was born, sometime in January 1961, friends of mum and dad shot a (very) short reel of 8 mm cine film of them bathing their new born. You've never seen a more happy and proud young couple. And, as you can imagine, I am both very young and very clean. Priceless.

If only I hadn't lost it.

Or at least, I thought I'd lost it. Three Sundays ago after we returned to dad's after visiting mum in hospital he gave me a load of slides. 'I'm making you custodian of the Medd photographic archive' he said. Well, not in so many words, but that's what he meant. This next bit is quite hard to write, because, in amongst the the plethora of slides he gave me was the very same distinctive yellow Kodachrome box I thought I'd lost all those years ago. I recognised it straight away - but didn't say anything: I'll get it transferred onto DVD as a surprise, I thought, and we can all watch it together. My folks will be made up.

'It'll be ready next Tuesday' said the man in the photo shop when I took it in a week last Friday. 'Brilliant' I said. 'Mum's not so good at the moment, it'll make her day.' And then some.

It would have done too. If only she could have hung on for a few more days.

I'm seeing dad tomorrow. We'll watch it together and pretend mum's there.

Mum

Smiling on the inside - us Medds are made of stern stuff

Mum was rushed into hospital at the weekend. How long she'll stay there is anyone's guess at the moment. She's on oxygen and morphine so isn't always on the same page as everyone else. It's knocked my dad off his perch - but like my mum, he's made of stern stuff. They'll get through this. I hope.