Colonel Moseley's BROADSIDE

Times are increasingly difficult. Ordinary citizens feel more threatened by spiralling prices and duties, deteriorating health care and public order and arrogant public authorities and companies. First and most importantly, this needs to be recognised by those at the receiving end and those inflicting the pain. Secondly, intelligent steps are needed to try to rectify a worsening situation.

People are more aware of these difficulties and are angry and concerned that they have been allowed to arise. They are anxious as to what, if anything, is being done to remedy them. They are not to be fobbed of by the formulaic categorisation of every problem as global and outside the remit of our government. Accordingly, thousands of voters have marked their genuine concerns by inflicting three successive massive by-election defeats on the government and sent a loud message to Mr Brown. This broadside is intended to amplify that clear message.

Many more electors are annoyed at being subjected to unreasonable increases in the prices of essentials such as basic foodstuffs, lighting, heating and petrol. They are frustrated at being patronised and treated without consideration or respect by self-serving public authorities and large companies – often powerful bodies which are effectively monopolies and which the consumer cannot avoid by exercise of choice.

Ordinary citizens – we who pay taxes, receive no benefits and obey the law- are becoming more concerned. If we continue to be ignored, other ways of expression will be found, so government and large companies, please listen.

Here are a range of typical issues –some seemingly trivial and others more important. They all combine to frustrate and worry the people our government is supposed to represent. We do not want:-

• Profiteering on power, fuel and commodity prices bringing unfair profits for suppliers and unbearable increases to the consumer. Why are increases in this country massively higher than in the rest of Europe? Why are our reserves so much lower than others countries in Europe, making us so much more vulnerable to fluctuations in wholesale markets? What is being done to protect the UK consumer?
• Hypocritical politicians manifestly feathering their own (first and second) nests with excessive expenses whilst urging restraint on those they are paid to represent. In other circumstances they advocate freedom of information, yet resist disclosure of their own expenses on the spurious basis of security. Why the obvious double standards?
• Fortnightly refuse collection and draconian rules and bins that have to be pushable with one finger. What about the interests of the householder – particularly the elderly or infirm?
• Any cold calling for sales on the telephone or at the door. They are often intrusive and bullying and should be prescribed by law. It’s time the rights of the householder came first.
• Companies forcing the use of direct debit for payment. It’s no longer good enough to pay a bill promptly. The customer should always be entitled by law to pay a paper bill without any kind of penalty
• Utilities refusing to come and read meters and to bill on actual usage. At a time when dramatically rising bills for gas and electricity are the biggest worries in many people’s lives, the anxiety is increased many times over by reliance on estimates. Consumers have an even greater need for certainty over what is an unavoidable expense and regular meter reading should be recommenced immediately. Again, what about the interests of the customer?
• To be terrified of seeking treatment in hospital due to fear of infection or humiliation in mixed wards. Why is national health dentistry no longer widely available? Why has our treasured national health service been allowed to disappear or change into something to be feared?
• Call centres where staff are insufficiently trained or based outside the UK where we cannot understand what is being said. Call centres have not improved efficiency or service and are infuriating. What about the interests of the customer?
• Government to compound problems by ill-considered measures such as the abolition of the 10p tax band, excessively extended licensing hours and inappropriate increases in car tax and petrol duties. Why does the government announce measures so ludicrously ill-judged that they have subsequently to be reversed?
• To feel increasingly unsafe in our cities where disorder and the threat of gun and knife crime are manifestly increasing whilst we are infuriatingly told crime rates are diminishing. Why not stop insulting our intelligence with foolish spin? It’s right and easier just to tell the truth – particularly when it is self-evident.

So those in power in government or large companies, please listen. These concerns are valid and considered; they deserve to be listened to and acted upon. They are not rocket science or insoluble, global problems. They can be fixed. Just do it

Colonel Moseley Asks ~ What About Us?

As I look out from Moseley Towers just now, I increasingly want to pull up the draw bridge and exclude the world. Not exactly John Donne and no man is an island, but there you go.

Since about the time poor Mr Brown became Prime Minister, life for many in this country has become less tolerable. Sadly, many political and economic chickens have well and truly come home to roost. I know I wasn’t the only one concerned about what was on the way; I only wish more of us had spoken up earlier.

As with issues such as the removal of the 10p tax band, once the majority stop being silent – and, more particularly, once MPs become fearful of the likely personal consequences - something is actually done about it.

For what it’s worth this late on, here are some current and very obvious concerns:

The real rate of inflation: The official inflation rate isn’t just something used for scare-mongering in the Daily Mail. It is applied to fix pay and pension levels that directly affect the lives of millions. As I have pointed out before, inflation on food, heat and light and petrol is massively in excess of the official rate which includes various non-essential consumer fripperies. As a direct consequence of this distortion, many pensioners and others spending a greater proportion of their income on such essentials are being massively disadvantaged and pushed further towards poverty. The government seems to be intent on ignoring this unfairness and will do so until more voters show we are concerned – so speak up, write to newspapers, express yourselves in blogs or contact your MP before the situation becomes even more critical

Dustbin Stalinism: like most people without any real say in the matter, I now receive fortnightly refuse collection. First, I don’t want fortnightly collection. It is inconvenient and unhealthy to store rubbish for this period, particularly in the summer. Secondly, rules about contents and lid-closing often appear to have been clumsily, unhelpfully and even officiously enforced. Press stories are only the tip of the ice berg. The collectors complete their rounds speedily yet seem able to find fault with one’s refuse, stick a snotty label on the bin with a few boxes ticked flagging up one’s transgressions and leave the bin un-emptied. The public do need to try to co-operate, but implementation of this regime has been heavy-handed and inconsiderate with hardly any recognition that house holders who obey the law and pay income and council taxes merit a modicum of respect and consideration. This may seem trivial, but it’s a symptom of an insidious trend in the exercise of power - all stick and no carrot.

Petrol prices: over the last six months there has been an significant increase in the price of petrol – particularly diesel. Prices to oil suppliers have risen markedly on world markets. In parallel the profits of the major oil companies have rocketed to record levels. This increase seems unfair and untoward and should give rise at least to consideration of a windfall tax. Similarly, the burden upon consumers in this country is excessive and made worse by penal excise duties. The government should recognise the undue pain being suffered and take action to ease it. No-one is convinced by their hiding behind expressions of environmental concern. They are taxing fuel primarily for revenue.

Gas and electricity prices: similar concerns apply to domestic heating costs. Global markets do show record prices, but our power utilities also show high profits. The weakest in society are hit disproportionately by these price increases for gas and electricity and a one-off winter bonus may capture a few headlines, but does not address the underlying problem of manipulation of volatile markets for the advantage of a few at the cost of the most vulnerable. The first step must be to recognise that there is a problem.

Large companies: dealings with commercial behemoths, particularly the utilities, banks and in telecoms have become an impersonal nightmare whether it be compulsory enforcement of payment by direct debit or Kafkaesque telephone systems that take so much time and rarely lead to a successful outcome. Many companies’ use sugary verbiage to stress their mission and desire to please the customer. In reality nothing could be further from the truth. Unfortunately often the customer has no alternative than to deal with these outfits. Frustration, anger and resentment are building up and one day will find expression. In the meantime, if you feel you are a victim complain vocally – eventually we will all be heard.

Islington detachment: From whatever side of the political fence they stand, we seem to be governed by a breed of callow politicians who simply do not share the life-experience of most people or really recognise their problems and concerns. They are capable, for example, of referring to statistics showing that violent crime is falling when more and more people are frightened to be in certain city centres late at night. Many people now visit their town centres and feel it is no longer theirs; they no longer feel any connection with the people, place or sometimes even the language spoken. Our political class need to re-connect with ordinary people and recognise and hopefully sympathise with the realities of their lives, their hopes and fears. If our democracy means anything, the feelings of the majority need first to be recognised and if valid, catered for.

What about savers? With the credit crunch, market conditions have hardened for many borrowers. Parallel to this, one would expect some increase in rates for savers. Paradoxically returns seem to be diminishing. With even less incentive to save than before, it seems everybody loses. I guess it may be a matter of securing the profits of the major banks who brought about the malaise in the first place by the reckless marketing of loans – but why the paradox and does no-one remember, let alone value, the prudent saver?

What happened to our NHS? Regardless of all the so-called performance statistics, how many people do you know who have waited an unconscionable time for a necessary operation or been forced to endure the embarrassment if a mixed ward? How many people avoid treatment they should properly have because they are terrified of MRSA? Why do we have to fork out for private dental care simply because there aren’t any available NHS dentists? What we treasured as our NHS clearly hasn’t been safe in their hands for some time.


So there you have it. It’s rare if ever that anyone – let alone me - should need to quote Michael Jackson, but “What about us?”

The self-serving politicians and short-sighted and greedy management of large companies seem to have reached a point when they simply do not properly consider or perhaps care about the effect of their decisions.

Statistics such as those on inflation are used to bamboozle and huge groups in society such as pensioners are increasingly sold short. Petty regulation is enforced without due thought or planning and often hides behind the excuse of imposition by the higher power of Brussels. Again, the weakest suffer.

Vested interests secure rocketing prices for essential commodities claiming that it was an inevitable result of market forces and yet coincidentally go on to declare record profits.

Large telecoms and power companies employ billing and call centre systems that are frustrating and ultimately insulting to the customer who has increasingly limited chance to express a viewpoint or obtain redress. The whole charade is compounded by an assertion that the customers call is important to us and that the system is intended to improve service. Nothing could be more false.

Overall, the interests of a substantial part of society are being ignored. The overlooked tend to be the quiet, law-abiding people who pay their taxes and try to save. They are increasingly disregarded, poorer, threatened by crime and worried over the failure of once-cherished institutions, such as the NHS.

This insidious deterioration is presided over by an often shallow metropolitan political class with insufficient understanding of this country and the feelings of its people. This nonsense has gone on too long and it’s time that these widely-held and obvious concerns are recognised and acted upon.

Colonel Moseley takes a Dim View

What ho and belated New Year greetings! I don’t know if you feel the same, but haven’t we seen the last few weeks before; I believe the term is déjà vu?

It’s funny how the tawdry lives of a few politicians and 'C'-list celebrities can sum up the state of an entire nation. I couldn’t help noticing how some of the farcical press coverage of the MP who engaged his offspring as paid researchers read like an extract from a novel by Evelyn Waugh. Queen Sloane would not have been entirely out of place in Decline and Fall or Vile Bodies sharing a table at the Old Hundred with Lottie Crump.

We seem to be experiencing a period of decadence. Excess and conspicuous consumption accompany unprincipled behaviour at all levels.

The questionable conduct of those who pompously consider themselves to be in public life, may characterise the death throes of the phase that began with the triumph of New Labour. It certainly heralds an uncertain future. Battered by much eye-watering hypocrisy, the ordinary person – if anyone considers themselves as such when we all see celebrity just around the corner – is ever more cynical.

Following the US sub-prime crisis, the run on Northern Rock, Mr Brown’s fatal wounding of final salary pension schemes and apparent impending recession, if not global depression, possible parallels with the inter-war period are obvious. It is against a background of spectacular mismanagement, greed and cant that I thought I would share with you a few of the incidents and issues that have been on my mind to varying degrees since the turn of the year:

Scotland and Wales: I know I have poked fun at the domination of English politics by Scots, such as the Prime Minister. I still feel that this is wrong and that Scottish MPs should only participate in the government of England to the extent that English MPs have a voice in Scottish affairs. This feeling of injustice is compounded by material differentials now appearing in health- care and education between parts of our United Kingdom. In cannot be fair that whilst certain anti-cancer drugs are prescribed free of charge in Scotland, those suffering from the same condition in England are required to pay the very substantial full cost, which may mean the difference between life and death. This is not a trivial issue: the discrimination is wrong

Pensioners in handcuffs: this morning I read of the imprisonment of former soldier of 76, Richard Fitzmaurice for non-payment of Council Tax. He took his stance for the sake of pensioners affected by an unfair system and was photographed being led away in handcuffs. At a time when the Court finds a thug bailed on assault charges has drunkenly beaten an innocent householder to death and a Jihadist extremist receives £20k a year in benefits whilst plotting the murder of a British soldier, my blood boils. What about Mr Fitzmaurice’s dignity and human rights? That picture brought a tear to my eye.

Taking with the other hand: most people agree that the fuel allowance is a good thing to help vulnerable over 70 year olds to keep warm in the worst of the winter weather. If you are 70 however and wish to continue driving a horse lorry you have to extend your licence and supply a medical certificate. This is fair enough; it’s in the interest of the elderly driver and other road users. Unfortunately, however, an NHS doctor charges over £100 to carry out the brief examination and sign the certificate. Where is the logic in that? Do they assume that anyone who needs to drive a lorry must be able to afford to pay the equivalent of half their winter fuel allowance?

Silver surfers: nowadays a surprising proportion of the elderly are computer-literate and use their PCs daily. Like everyone else, they appreciate the speedy response of Broadband and are inconvenienced when it doesn’t work. It is an interesting experience to get reconnected when your Broadband goes down, suffers an outage - or whatever it’s called. The first step is to go through the self-diagnosis notes on the PC - if it’s still working. These are usually indecipherable and do not match up to the software on one’s machine. This exhausting process will usually also involve disconnecting and reconnecting all telephones in the house and carrying all one's PC equipment (box, screen, mouse and assorted cabling) downstairs to the test socket in the lounge, reassembling it and finding that the Broadband connection doesn’t work there either. Next you telephone BT Broadband on a costly 0845 number to spend ages in a queue and choosing from a menu of options before being connected to a call centre in India. Accent is occasionally difficult but the staff are pleasant and polite. Considerable further time is spent satisfying them that one has gone through all the diagnostic hoops and that the fault lies outside one's house or at the local exchange. An appointment is eventually made for an engineer to call and one foolishly thinks the worst is over. After some delay when no engineer appears, one rings back and has to go through the whole phoning, waiting, menu, and explanatory process again, to be told that the line is at fault and that it is the responsibility of BT. This is annoying since one’s repeated diagnosis and the fact that one is speaking on the line demonstrates that the line is in order. This frustrating process is repeated two or three times with Broadband and BT blaming the other until it is agreed that the fault requires investigation. An appointment is made for an engineer to visit the local exchange and then my property and, sure enough, the night before the visit the connection is miraculously restored. It’s nice to be able to ask what the weather is like in Mumbai, but I would rather not lose my Broadband for days on end and somehow be made to feel it’s my fault. You couldn’t make it up.

Insurance cover notes: do you remember years ago when you used an insurance broker? When you were buying a new car you ‘phoned up to explain and were sent a cover note that day. Nowadays, once you have queued at the call centre, circumnavigated the menu and endured an inordinately long inquisition – which may be recorded for training purposes - you are lucky to have it within a week – subject always to the post. They call it progress.

Strictly Worse: on a lighter note, the Mem and I are addicted to Strictly Come Dancing; it’s compulsive viewing. Why did they have to spoil it by splitting it over Saturday and Sunday? Clearly the actual contest and results elements are recorded on the same evening and split into two to increase ratings. In doing this the drama of a live contest is lost and the show diminished. We do hope they see sense and return to the original format that made Saturday night quite special.

Tough steak, hard cheese: The Mem and I enjoy different types of food and have appreciated the recent proliferation of restaurants and gastro pubs in our area. We note however that, once established, the standards of many fall both as regards the quality of food and service. In what had been a favourite place we were recently served a meal parts of which were barely edible. On pointing this out politely no apology was received and no refund offered. Retauranteurs should be advised: harder times may be coming – even in relatively affluent areas. One of the first sectors to feel it will be the hospitality industry and, when the reckoning comes, the slapdash and surly will suffer earliest.

True inflation: the government has great pride in its achievement of keeping inflation down. It is a vital marker for the government's reputation and in determining the level of public sector wage and pension increases. We have all noted how much petrol, gas, electricity, council tax and food prices have shot up particularly in the last few months, yet the official rate of inflation seems to remain paradoxically low. Is it me or doesn’t it add up?

So there you are, there’s a lot wrong at present - and I haven't even mentioned income tax or plumbers. Our government and many big companies seem to have lost sight of the views and needs of the decent majority. In this country common sense, truth and fairness are increasingly just options, like those on a call centre menu, rather than the foundations of daily life. Life may be a Cabaret but, like Weimar Germany, we should be very wary of what follows such decadent times.

The Mem speaks...again: Surviving Christmas

Hello dears and early season’s greetings! I have to admit that the festive season does not seem to bring out the best in my husband, Wilfred. You may think of him as opinionated but jovial Colonel Moseley, but in some ways he resembles Scrooge more and more.

This year, for example, he said that my Christmas present “would be something money can’t buy.” Naturally, I was excited at this prospect and racked my brain as to what it might be.

You can imagine how I felt to be told it was being allowed to write something for the Colonel’s weblog at the start of the festive season. Call me shallow, but try as I might and honoured though I was, I would have preferred something money can buy, such as shoes or some jewellery.

This entirely typical behaviour set me wondering how I manage to get through Yuletide each year. I thought I would use this “special present” to share with you my top ten tips on how to survive Christmas:

Be specific: if you are asked what you would like for Christmas, don’t be coy and disingenuously say “Oh, I don’t know. Just something small” because that’s what you will end up with. Be clear, precise and honest. You may not be surprised, but stand less chance of being disappointed with a toast rack or set of table mats.

Make sure he keeps the receipt: ensure that your other-half or relatives understand that it is absolutely essential that receipts are kept to ensure that any mistakes in size or taste can be rectified by exchange or cash refund very early in January.

Christmas presents are a serious business: gifts are powerful things. They have the capacity to thrill, annoy, disappoint, depress, send messages and cement or wreck relationships. In most families selecting gifts or interpreting their significance requires the insight and understanding of the diplomat. Be casual at your peril. Never forget: it’s the thoughtfulness that counts.

Be realistic about the amount of food and provisions required: honestly, it’s not a siege or competition. No-one will die - or even notice – if you can’t get five packets of Marks & Spencer smoked salmon and blinis to go with drinks on Christmas Eve.

Enjoy the run-up to Christmas Day: I always think the weeks before are the nicest part, when the tree and decorations are up and can be enjoyed and the over-consumption hasn’t started. Christmas Day itself is vastly overrated and seems to be over in a dyspeptic flash.

Avoid Christmas shopping in the January or summer sales: let Christmas take care of itself at the right time. Life is far too short to be shopping for Christmas gifts in frozen January or in a summer heat-wave. Why not enjoy what each season has to bring in its own right?

Avoid Christmas-based clothing: A dog is not just for Christmas, but jingle bells socks are not for Christmas or any other time – nor are festive Yuletide ties, tee shirts, jumpers, reindeer slippers or battery-powered flashing earrings or swivelling bow ties.

Stock up on alcohol: one of the main advantages of the festive season is that one can go to the off-licence or booze warehouse and buy vast quantities of wine and spirits without appearing a lush. With a little forethought, stocks can keep one going well into March. It almost makes Christmas worthwhile.

Keep in touch with friends and family: it has become a cliché to be cynical and criticise cards and gatherings at Christmas. Without this one major reminder in the year, think of all the people with whom you might lose contact. Embarrassingly, in this respect, Christmas serves a constructive purpose, although it’s unfortunate that postage is so ridiculously expensive and some of the family are such hard work.

Enjoy the rest: Christmas does come at that grim time midway between holidays and before the worst winter weather. It is a good time for a rest and to pull up the drawbridge and enjoy Brief Encounter on television with a gin and tonic and box of Milk Tray or, as my nephew Egbert says, “Whatever floats your boat”.

I hope you share some of my views on the festive season. Wilfred joins me in wishing you all a Happy Christmas and whatever floats your boats in the New Year. Bye, dears.

*this piece also appeared in Birmingham 13

HARVEY ANDREWS: Twelve Songs

Some time ago, I wrote a profile reviewing the forty year career of Birmingham-born songwriter and performer Harvey Andrews. Constraints of space meant I confined myself to biography and wasn’t able to focus much upon my take on Harvey’s life and beliefs, as reflected in his songs.

With some trepidation, as a fan with no musical background, this is my attempt to explore twelve songs selected as representative of the artist and the man and that I still enjoy listening to in 2007.

Once I had decided to do this, I revisited his albums to decide what criteria to apply to single out just twelve songs. I put the songs into broad categories to establish what he wrote about most and to work from there.

The exercise cast an interesting light on Harvey’s output thus far and helped me decide which songs most fully reflected where he came from and his values.

I didn’t quite go so far as producing a pie chart or even a Venn diagram (remember those from school?) but most of the songs fitted into particular categories. The largest groupings related to social or political issues, emotions, exploration of the past and examination of a performer's life. Subsets included personal dramas, romance, humour and the family.

This exercise led me to appreciate which subjects interested me most by seeing under which heading my favourites fell. Hardly any of my all–time favourites were full-on politics or humour. Virtually all were gentler and more personal; they evoked the past, family or life as an artist.

The first three songs come from Harvey’s debut solo album Writer of Songs which was recorded in 1972.

In some ways it is more interesting to consider why some obvious popular songs from the repertoire were not included in my list. Many would expect well-known and successful compositions such as Hey Sandy and particularly Soldier to be included.

For me however, it’s just matter of personal taste. I admire both songs as skilful examples of the writer’s craft and appreciate the drama each entails. They both tell their story and make a valuable point with integrity but they are quite intense. Sometimes less is more – particularly if you’re devising a small selection of discs to be listened to repeatedly on your metaphorical desert island.

This takes me to my first choice, Boothferry Bridge. Harvey admits that this song was founded on the idea that English place-names don’t have the resonance of those in America –which is why no-one sings of leaving their heart in Catford or being 24 hours from Penge.

Boothferry Bridge has a kind of lilting California coolness about it. It’s a wistful road song. It may be entirely tongue in cheek and its title may make conscious use of assonance, but it does its job perfectly in conveying the feelings of the person on the road whether gigging musician or ball-bearing salesman.

Beautifully arranged and produced, it has brilliant tinkling sub-honky tonk piano accompaniment by Rick Wakeman that embroiders the vocal and a consummately tasteful bass line. It’s a soothing and relaxing song of which I never tire.

Another favourite is Gift of a Brand New Day which Harvey sings to an intricate guitar accompaniment by Ralph McTell. This song encapsulates the joy of a young couple bringing home their first baby. It is song of pure optimism and unfettered hope for the future

The driving, positive melody pushes the song forward without pause right up to its simple, confident final bar. The song is life-affirming and can always be relied on to provide a lift on a bad day.

The 1989 album 25..Years on the Road begins with this song updated for empty nesters who now have time to be on our own now that the kids have grown. So, it’s all good.

The album concludes with its title track, Writer of Songs. I love this song as an unselfconscious hymn to aspiration. Few artists have been prepared to lay out so clearly what first excited them and attracted them to their work.

Nowadays, many youngsters yearn only for wealth and celebrity. Harvey’s aspirational daydreams appeal to me because his role models were writers, artists and great creative men – Picasso, Frank Lloyd Wright and Brunel.

I take pleasure in the admission of being stimulated by examples of brilliance and being inspired to excel too. In these anti-competitive days, some educators have made pursuit of excellence anathema. This song reminds one that the young and gifted can and should aim to fly high. After considering a range of heroes, he concluded with his modest and very English decision just to be a Writer of Songs

And I’ll just hope that someday someone will rate them
And maybe someday investigate them – seriously

- which is basically what this piece is trying to do.

Writer of Songs was followed in 1973 by the well-received, Friends of Mine. This classic album was very much of its time and seems to reflect the new freedoms that marked the new decade. Poignant songs such as The Mallard look back to the isolation of a sensitive only child or have a melancholy introspection, such as Autumn Song. Others such as Sweet Little Fat Girl and the title track capture the heady sense of personal freedom and unbridled opportunities of an exciting time in Harvey’s career.

For me however the stand-out track on this milestone album is For my Father, another autobiographical song. It has a fine vocal and guitar accompaniment with a delicate arrangement of strings and woodwind rather after the manner of Eleanor Rigby.

It’s a track I returned to particularly after reading Harvey’s Gold Star to the Ozarks with its depiction of cycling down quiet Shropshire lanes, farm holidays and shared hours in the countryside.

The narrative covers teenage disaffection and the rapprochement of maturity when father and son spent more time together, came to talk and rarely disagreed.

The song has a balance and reflective quality that makes it a true record of changing relationships and the comforting way these things can run full circle.

For those who have attained that accepting understanding in their closest relationships, it is a reassuring song; for the dysfunctional who have not, it gives an insight as to what might have been

My collection includes the CD Someday Fantasy which combines Fantasies from a Corner Seat made with Graham Cooper and Harvey’s next solo album, Someday. I’m particularly fond of it since it is autographed and inscribed To the Tony Hancock Society. Hancock was the subject of the excellent Mr Homburg Hat. The albums were made for Transatlantic Records in 1975 and 1976 and have recently been re-released under the title I’m Resigning from Today.

The album marks further development in Harvey’s song-writing during a time when he admits “I wanted to write songs about life as it was lived now” and wanted songs that were “short stories about our lives”.

From this fertile period several songs have stood my test of time. They include He played for England a meditation on former glories inspired by the hard times experienced by former England centre forward Tommy Lawton after the cheering had stopped.

The vocal line is accompanied by a hypnotic piano and bass which build dramatic impact and atmosphere. The lyric is sparse and evocative – such as, we saw him on the news-reel, he was talking to the King. It immediately summons up grainy black and white film of a foggy Wembley, baggy white shorts and thousands of supporters in gabardine raincoats and flat caps cheering, smoking Woodbines and waving rattles.

Lines such as He played for England once leave one wondering whether this was on one occasion or many times, long ago. This song is like a good play or painting; it creates a picture, tells a story and stimulates thoughts and emotion. It’s a very good song.

Another favourite from this period is Song for Phil Ochs.

One can review Harvey’s career and work out his obvious influences including Buddy Holly, Harry Chapin and Tom Paxton.

From the early 1960s, folk music tended to involve an earnest interest not only in the roots of English and American song but also radical politics such as the civil rights movement in America and other liberal causes. Bob Dylan and Joan Baez sang after Martin Luther King spoke in Washington and were seen as continuing the tradition of Woodie Guthrie.

One of the leading figures in the field, Phil Ochs appealed particularly to Harvey both for his music and idealistic views. Harvey came to know Phil and put him up for a few days in the mid-1960’s and Song for Phil Ochs laments the passing of both a hero and friend.

The tone, pace and gentle guitar accompaniment remind one of Don Maclean’s homage to Van Gogh, Vincent released in 1971. The song is a simply constructed, sincere expression of grief for the loss of someone who’s talent and values he shared.

For Harvey’s generation, Phil Ochs’ decline and death may also have represented the loss of youthful idealism and the realisation of a necessarily greyer mid-life ahead: the saddest song I’ll ever sing.

One of Harvey’s particular strengths is the ability to recapture the past and sum up our feelings about the effect of time passing. The ultimate song in this sepia-tinted vein is Margarita: to Harvey what Maginot Waltz is to Ralph McTell.

It tells the true story of Harvey’s blind great aunt who used to serve him tea in her perfectly preserved Edwardian house and show him the framed photograph of her fiancé. Nobody ever told her the sad truth that the image had faded and disappeared. The song is not shallow sentimentality; it is a bittersweet evocation of real loss – loss of sight, of a loved one and of the life they might have had together.

Harvey casts further light on his boyhood with Dear Miss Allyson, which I always think of as his original version of Judy Garland’s Dear Mr Gable (..you made me love you).

The song takes the form of a fan letter to June Allyson who he found (and still finds) magical in The Glenn Miller Story. The formal and ingratiating language has all the innocent charm of a child of 1943 - so different from today

The forties-style piano accompaniment and opening and closing reprises from Moonlight Serenade are atmospheric. One is taken back - exactly as Harvey intended.

Harvey uses the same device –I guess it’s now called sampling – on Blue Moon Memories from the 1995 Snaps: The Family Album.

The song begins with the theme of Blue Moon. Accompanied by a lilting piano and gentle dance-band snare drum, Harvey first sings of teenage lovers by the canal with his father singing their song gently in his mother’s ear.

Later in the factory, as sirens sound, his mother hears her name on the wireless in a dedication from her husband fighting abroad and her hips gently sway to Blue Moon. As a piece of writing that line is perfect; it recaptures the rapturous moment when music captivates a person and lifts her out of a grim present to a better place and time.

Their song has been with them through all the key moments of their lives and sums up their love. At the end, after father has died, mother pauses, closes her eyes and remembers her boy singing that song to her and.. Now I’m no longer alone.

Some of the most meaningful art recognises and describes the virtually un-describable moment or feelings that real life involves. This song does just that.

I admire Snaps. It concerns the people and places now passed – childhood, Saturday morning buses into Town, funny uncles at parties, war, peace, but mainly family through happy times and sad.

The song Birthday Boy evokes the world of Saturday morning pictures through a child’s eyes. It’s not one of Harvey’s songs telling a story or making a political or social message, but is a gem.

The insistent guitar accompaniment has the feel of a children’s song or round. The vocal has a wide-eyed quality of wonderment at a world focussed on cheering for Roy Rogers on the screen, choosing sweets and swapping football cards. The breathless enthusiasm of birthday parties and reading with a torch under the sheets speak accurately of more innocent and nicer times - before rap and drive-by shootings.

He admits growing up isn’t easy but has a presentiment of a normal future of falling in love and marrying and going on to a life of domestic bliss with a roast on Sundays. The vision of the future may or may not be realistic, but is founded on a truthful insight into a happy, uncomplicated time in childhood that few songs achieve.

My penultimate choice She Saw him Smile rather surprised me. It’s an understated song. Unlike Birthday Boy, it reflects on the passage of time from later in life rather than its beginning and portrays the last months of his parent’s happy marriage. The loyal wife spends time caring for her husband, who no-longer really knows who she is, save for the odd fleeting smile of recognition, before sadly leaving him and returning home.

It’s an understated song that has a Continental feel of Charles Aznavour or Jacques Brel. It speaks of remembrance of the past and the cruel effect of time that has done its worst. The devoted wife hums their song and they remember happier times as newly-weds. When she leaves, the contrast of yesterday’s happiness with the loneliness of old age is poignant.

Again, the restrained dignity of the lyric makes the song ache with melancholy. Harvey has seen right into the heart of the painful trials that life brings in the ordinary course and crystallised them in a wonderful song.

My final selection is The Journey, the title track that brings Harvey’s 1997 album to a close.

When I first obtained the CD, I focused on the opening track Manet and Monet which immortalises the minutes of the Yardley Arts Club outing to Ludlow in 1949.

Harvey’s cover notes sum up the appeal of this unique, quirky and touching recreation of a special day for a group of innocent dedicated self-educated working class men and women – including his father Victor Andrews -who believed in the power of education and art and used their miserly leisure time to the full.

As with songs such as I’d Rather Read a Book, this track is a significant indicator of what seems to make Harvey tick. With a light touch, it points towards some of the things that matter in life - self improvement, creativity, fellowship, but always being an individual and marching to your own drummer. I’m only able to exclude Manet and Monet from my final list of twelve tracks because I see it as an evocation rather than a song.

When I recently returned to the album, I listened more attentively and realised that the title track was also very special in summing up a view of life that possibly only fully dawns on one at the age of 54.

Over restated piano chords with a tasteful double bass line and with a hypnotic repeated Morse code-like theme on keyboard, the mantra: It’s the journey is repeated - followed each time by the tentative, rhetorical isn’t it: the uneasy question of a small man in a large universe.

This journey is initially presented almost prosaically as where we go in the time we’ve got: the joy we make, the dream we chase, the hope we hold, the chance we take. It’s what we say, do and try to win or lose because that’s what you do on the journey.

It’s at this point that the piece turns into a song about love, support and reassurance: so when you came to me to walk along, you made the stone a garden, made the sea a song for the journey. Touchingly he continues: So here’s my hand...all else above for good or ill for now until…there’s only love. He concludes, love’s the journey.

The Journey addresses big themes. It manages to be a love song and to suggest a meaning for life: not a bad achievement.

So there you have my selection of twelve key Harvey Andrews’ songs. The choice is entirely personal and subjective. I wanted to identify tracks that had stood the test of time for me and would continue to bear repeated listening.

In working out my preferences, I could see I most enjoy strong melodies and well-crafted lyrics that show respect for language and sensitivity and insight on their subject matter.

I still enjoy Harvey’s many songs that tell dramatic stories like Soldier and Lot 204 or use humour to target the bad guys - estate agents, fly-tippers or centre-lane drivers.

Similarly, I admire and agree with his issue-based songs such as Spring Again and PG. Harvey has addressed a long list of ills in songs too numerous to list here; they range from modern planners to Thatcherism to mistreatment of the elderly. I haven’t selected them because of the self-imposed artificial constraint of nominating just twelve songs that meant most to me personally.

Looking at my list they seem mainly to relate to integrity and worthwhile values and an examination of the past from many angles – family, growing up, love, aspiration and the life of an artist through an artist’s eyes.

In my last selection he manages to sum up the only plausible answer to it all with the phrase Love’s the journey – and quite a journey it’s been.

Website: http://www.harveyandrews.com/

Colonel Moseley's MOZQUIZ

Here's a light-hearted quiz I prepared covering the last year or so on Birmingham 13, Moseley's premier neighbourhood magazine.

Since January, we have covered most things from profiles to haikus to constructive criticism, so for a change and in the spirit of Moseley in Bloom and Mozfest, I give you MOZQUIZ. This is intended to examine your knowledge of what’s gone on in Birmingham 13 this year, combined with a cunning personality test:

Literature: Which famous writer was born locally and based his bestselling books about the quest for an item of jewellery?
(a) J.K. Rowling
(b) J.R.Ewing
(c) A.A.Gill
(d) J.R.R. Tolkien

History: What date was shown on the cover of the August edition of Birmingham 13?
(a) August 2007
(b) Summer solstice… man
(c) Septuagissima
(d) April 2007

Spelling: What is the correct spelling of the name of the famous local man exclusively interviewed in the April issue of Birmingham 13?
(a) Mozzam Begg
(b) Mozambique
(c) Moseley bog
(d) Moazzam Begg

Current affairs: Which anti- social driver did I criticise in my piece Colonel Moseley Returns?
(a) Van Morrison
(b) Vin Diesel
(c) Vin blanc
(d) White Van Man

Celebrity: Who was profiled in the first of my occasional series Brummie Heroes?
(a) Julie Andrews
(b) Eamonn Andrews
(c) St. Andrews
(d) Harvey Andrews

Geography: Which thoroughfares in Moseley past and present have not been contrasted in recent issues of Birmingham 13?
(a) Salisbury Road
(b) Alcester Road
(c) Victoria Parade
(d) Oxford Road (leafy location of our own dear Moseley Towers)

Botany: What is the correct name of the campaign which funds the floral display in the Village and other work?
(a) Moseley in Bloomers
(b) Bloomin’ Moseley
(c) Moseley Shoals
(d) Moseley in Bloom

More celebrity: Who was extensively featured at the Moseley Garden Party in a questionable striped shirt and improbable hat, clutching tongs and fork?
(a) Jamie Oliver
(b) Sylvester McCoy as Dr.Who
(c) Nigella Lawson
(d) The esteemed Editor of B13

How to work out your score: Score one point for (a), two points for (b), three points for (c) and four points for (d). Total your score for all eight questions

How to interpret your points total:

Between 0 and 7: Isn’t possible - but you may have a career as a government statistician or in local politics.

Between 8 and 12: You are either wilfully ill-informed or a bit silly. Alternatively you may be above quizzes and consider your score is ironic in a wry, post-modern sort of way...sadly, we shall never know.

Between 13 and 17: You are moderately knowledgeable and mean well although somewhat inclined towards gullibility. Beware adverts for personal injury lawyers, stair-lifts and debt refinancing on daytime TV and UKIP brochures

Between 18 and 24: You are a worldly-wise Moseleyite with an impressive grounding in history, geography, celebrity-culture and even spelling. Your towering intellect and erudition suit you to write for Birmingham 13. Ever thought of trying? Go on, give it a go!

*this quiz appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley Returns

What ho! You can’t really win, you know. Over the last few months I have tried to compensate for the lack of summer by showing my softer – some would say, less argumentative – side in this blog.

Accordingly I have profiled Harvey Andrews, reviewed Ibiza and even tried my hand at the exotic haiku. What do I get: thanks, praise for my versatility or what I gather is now called, positive feedback? Not on your life. All I’ve had is one comment that You’ve lost your edge and another You’re mellowing with age, old man.

These misconceptions can’t be allowed to continue, so in an effort to show that the real Colonel Moseley is back and as sharp as ever – well, he never really went away – here are this month’s top ten things that make me seethe – or at least get a bit tetchy:

Advertising on daytime television: many adverts seem to be cynically aimed at those perceived to be weak (at best weak-willed, at worst weak-minded) including overpriced CDs, household manuals and debt consolidation. It pains me to see even the most esteemed presenters peddling debt in this way. I also sympathise with hard-pressed parents whose impressionable children are bombarded with glitzy toy adverts between their programmes.

Volvos with their headlights on all the time: this isn’t Scandinavia. Whether you call them daytime running lights or not - to me they're still headlights. They seem unnecessary and irritating. My compendium of updated sayings and similes would include Smug as a Volvo driver, but that’s another argument for another day.

The length of adverts on Channel 4 and satellite channels: apart from being moronic, dull and irritating, they are far too frequent, too long and too noisy.

Sharp practice on eBay: buying on eBay is a new interest of mine – good fun and an excellent source of bargains with many honest dealers. I notice however that a minority of sellers actually make quite a lot of money by offering goods cheaply but charging an inflated sum for postage and packing. The overkeen novice or the gullible are relied upon to overlook this to their cost - so watch out!

Hazel Blears: what on earth’s that all about?

Personal Service: have you tried recently to make an appointment to see a specific person at the local branch of your building society or bank? When I tried, I had to telephone far away Sheffield and when I turned up at the appointed hour, the branch had no trace of my appointment. When will they realise that this won’t do? If you feel similarly frustrated make a point of complaining and eventually they may get the message

Ingratitude: do those for whom you have opened a door or let into a queue of traffic increasingly take pleasure in ignoring your courtesy? Expressing thanks and acknowledging the kindness of others should be the invariable norm from an early age.

Home information packs: call me cynical, but it seems that HIPs will not materially speed up house sales or tell buyers what they could not easily have found out previously. They may provide employment for hundreds of new inspectors, but I suspect they will make selling property slower and even more expensive. It doesn’t look like progress to me. It makes you tired.

White vandals: I applaud hard graft and individual enterprise, but don’t think anonymous white van drivers should necessarily get away with manic and inconsiderate driving and bad manners. I read sociologists now refer to them as folk devils: good job too.

Telephone selling: I will never ever buy any goods or services offered in a cold telephone call. Unsolicited sales calls at home are an intrusion and waste of time. They should be made unlawful unless you have voluntarily registered to indicate a willingness to receive them - especially during Countdown or Deal or No Deal

So there you are, there’s plenty left to seethe about - even without mentioning the Scots. Fortunately one can always rely upon the therapeutic effect of Countdown and a Country Slice. Pip, pip!

*a version of this article appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley takes a Haiku

What ho! Earlier this week the Mem said she needed to go into our local bookshop to pick up the latest Delia Smith (or was it Wilbur Smith?): anyway, some book or other. As usual, she bumped into one of her cronies from the Townswomens’ Guild amongst the Danielle Steeles, so I occupied myself browsing for twenty minutes as they put the world to rights, dissected it or whatever it is they do.

I happened upon the poetry section which, as you might imagine, isn’t something I’ve done since the obligatory doses of Wordsworth and Tennyson at the old alma mater of my youth.

One slim tome in the bargain bin caught my eye. On the cover it had a picture of a pagoda in front of Mount Fuji, entitled The Art of Haiku.

It seems a haiku is a poem or epigram that has to have precisely seventeen syllables and be in only three lines of five, seven and five syllables respectively, no more, no less.

As an aficionado of Carol Vorderman and sudoku, this mathematical angle appealed. This was particularly so when it occurred that the haikus didn’t have to be very zen or concern snow slipping off the branches of willow trees or the wistful allure of the geisha.

I bought the little book and took it home. Having learned all that can be realistically expected of a chap of my age of this precise form, here are some first efforts with a contemporary Moseley twist:-

HAIKU: bittersweet

Just like a haiku,
Loving you is short, sweet and
Rather hard to do.

HAIKU: Miss Pargeter’s confessional

In my pew in church
I fancy making love to
Frank - and then Nancy.

HAIKU: end of the affair

An assignation,
For fornication – oft ends
With termination.

HAIKU: adieu syd barrett #1 ~ after e.j.thribb

Farewell then Syd - not
Sid James – the one they called a
Crazy diamond.

HAIKU: adieu syd barrett #2~ after chas 'n dave

Both Chas 'n Dave wave
’n rabbit: Gertcha, crazy
Diamond geezer.

HAIKU: half-century

Though "fifty" rhymed with
"Nifty" on my birthday card -
It was really hard.

HAIKU: redundant

Being told to go
And stubbing your toe hurt -but
You're too proud to show.

HAIKU: confession #1

I'm not a treasure;
I’m broody, moody and quite
Unlike Dame Judi.

HAIKU: confession#2

My only real vice
Is Countdown with a Mister
Kipling Country Slice

So, subjects for haikus can be more Oxford Road than The Road to Mandalay. They can range from daydreams to love and from the bittersweet to the confessional; they aren’t necessarily eastern or epigrammatic. Pip, pip!

*A version of this article has also appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley's Stereotypes: The Opera Buff

Barry had been devoted to the opera ever since Aunt Margaret had given him a tiny dansette and box of assorted Puccini for his tenth birthday.

His mother’s sister had been a seminal influence in Barry’s early life, steering him away from the rough and tumble of boy’s games to more refined pastimes of music, painting and the arts.

Indeed, it was on trips with Auntie Mags to the municipal art gallery, at the sight of the rippling muscles, stern expression and mini toga of the young centurion in the pre-Raphaelite room that the first funny warm feelings had manifested themselves below that never really went away.

Whilst other boys collected stamps or train numbers, Barry built up his collection of opera records and books. Rather than footballers he worshipped the great divas from Tebaldi to Callas to Sutherland.

As he grew up, his life was punctuated by the plop of Opera Magazine onto his doormat and the construction of more shelves of racking in the lounge, soon overflowing into the spare room to accommodate his burgeoning collection.

He remembers being taken for the first time as a child by Aunt Margaret to the holy of holies, the Royal Opera House. He adored the formal grandeur of all that red velvet and gilt, the glamorous dresses and frenetic gaiety of the laughter and champagne in the rush at the end of the interval.

Time spent in this wonderland of liveried footmen and sparkling chandeliers influenced Barry’s life. His flat, although modest, was plush-curtained, gilded and chandeliered within an inch of its life.

Barry had more dress suits and white tie ensembles than you could shake an ivory topped cane at - and more silk lined opera capes than was strictly necessary in the wardrobe of a chartered accountant.

The crush bar at Covent Garden was Barry’s most favourite place. He adored the idea of so many attractive and like-minded young chaps crammed together in such high spirits for such a sort space of time. He called it “My kind of scrum” and always seemed to make new friends there. Rarely did a visit end without a supper afterwards or a new phone number tucked into his pocket Letts.

On holiday in Gran Canaria each March, Barry would lie in a nook on the dunes near Maspalomas without a care in the world, catching some rays, whilst revisiting a rare recording of The Ring” on his iPod.

At parties, conversation amongst Barry’s circle of opera-loving aficionados revolved around reviews of the latest performances and the niceties of favourite sopranos, lightened by the occasional funny story of diva-ish excess or rivalry.

By the time Barry reached a solitary middle–age, his flat was a shrine to dear Joanie and the divine Maria. Visits there were enjoyable for those in the know, although fans of the Ink Spots or Alma Cogan struggled.

Colonel Moseley's Stereotypes: The Foodie

There only thing that Robin liked more than waking up to Giles Coren on a Saturday morning, was breakfast in bed on Sunday with A.A.Gill. Personally devoted though he was to these giants of culinary criticism, however, Robin’s only real passion extended to food.

As a child, Robin’s parents saw nothing unusual in their little boy having no problem eating egg whites, broccoli or liver. What seemed a little strange in a nine year old was a precocious taste so early for organic produce or what he termed “real coffee” and “decent bread”. Although a little unsettled, they sighed and took comfort in the thought that fastidious eating habits were to be preferred to glue-sniffing.

In time, as Robin’s precocity extended to plover’s eggs, artichokes and foie gras, they began to wonder where they had gone wrong. Perhaps if they had insisted on his reading The Bumper Fun Book for Boys rather than Elizabeth David’s “Mediterranean Food”, this unnatural vice would have been nipped in the bud. They recall thinking it was a phase which would soon pass, but came to recognise how wrong they were. Soon, he graduated to even more exotic fare, such as the works of Eliza Acton and even Brillat-Savarin. By the age of fifteen, the die was cast; their Robin was a confirmed and practising foodie.

As a young man a considerable proportion of Robin’s income was spent on his passion. Birthday money and savings were invested in Le Creuset cookware and a full set of Michelin Guides, rather than rap CD’s and trainers.

Day trips were made to the culinary centres – Bray for The Fat Duck, Ludlow and Hibiscus and Anthony’s in Leeds. Foreign travel was also gastro-centric. For Robin, Florence meant Enoteca Pinchiorri rather than the Uffizi. Lyons was synonymous with Paul Bocuse. Rather than MoMA and SAKS, New York meant Balthazar and Gramercy Tavern.

Latterly, Robin’s overriding interest lay in molecular gastronomy. A poster of Heston Blumenthal adorned his kitchen wall. He loved the invention and wit of some of his signature dishes: sensory jokes with hot and cold and confusions of colours, aromas and even noise. It was food where nothing could be taken for granted, where memories could be triggered and games played.

This led him to devour all he could read about his hero, the originator of this gastronomic necromancy, Ferran Adria. Each year Robin planned his prospective holiday around the possibility of securing a booking for dinner at El Bulli, Adria’s legendary restaurant in Roses near Gerona in Spain. Every year along with literally 400,000 other supplicants, he failed.

Invitations to dinner at Robin’s were much sought-after. Guests relished the eclectic mix of dishes and wines, with many a reference to current celebrity chefs: from Heston’s egg and bacon ice cream to Gordon’s peanut butter parfait. Unfortunately, Robin’s exquisite taste and discriminating palate was so well known and intimidating that no-one was ever brave enough to invite him back.

Colonel Moseley's Brummie Heroes: Harvey Andrews

What ho! Nowadays, people don’t seem to have heroes. Perhaps it’s not cool to admit admiration for anyone else. Years ago, heroes abounded - in sports, the arts and even politics. Today we have celebrity instead. Ordinary folk are interested in the famous simply because they are well-known. They envy glamour and wealth and don’t need to think beyond what they read in Heat or see in Pimp my Crib on MTV. They don’t necessarily admire the person or his or her achievements.

To counterbalance this, I want to flag up some men and women from our area who have succeeded in putting together an impressive body of work and whom we should celebrate for being brilliant rather than just famous.

For a long time one hero of mine has been Harvey Andrews, described as “unquestionably the most influential English songwriter of the past twenty or so years: a consummate entertainer, craftsman and raconteur” (Stables Theatre programme).

Over forty three years, Harvey Andrews has produced fifteen albums and written songs recorded by more than fifty artists, ranging from Christy Moore and Max Boyce to Mary Hopkin. His numerous television appearances include The Old Grey Whistle Test, Rhythm on Two and specials, The Camera and the Song and The Same Old Smile. On BBC Radio 2 he has hosted Folk on Two and on Radio 4 a Kaleidoscope special was devoted to his work. He also performed sessions for John Peel.

As well as appearing at virtually every folk venue throughout the country over decades on the road, Harvey has performed at five Cambridge Folk Festivals and many abroad including Denmark and Canada. He has appeared in North America and throughout Europe and given a solo concert at London’s Queen Elizabeth Hall.

He wrote and sang the theme tune for the TV series Golden Pennies and The Haunted School and the songs for the musical depicting life growing up in Birmingham in the 1940’s and 1950’s, Go and Play up your own End which enjoyed sold-out runs at Birmingham’s Rep, Hippodrome and Alexandra Theatres.

Born in the Sorrento in Moseley during the war, Harvey’s roots are pure Birmingham. From childhood he enjoyed singing and became interested in American folk music whilst at college training to be a school teacher. He emerged onto the scene with his appearance at Ian Campbell’s Jug O’ Punch in 1964 and appeared on an EP with folk revivalist Martin Carthy in1965. Turning full-time professional in 1966, he released his debut solo album Places and Faces in 1970.

After his first appearance at the Cambridge Festival in 1970, his reputation grew with his well-received follow-up Writer of Songs in 1972. This landmark album contained a strong selection of tuneful melodies in varying styles with perceptive lyrics that were to become his trademark. Many star musicians are credited on the album including Ralph Mc Tell and Rick Wakeman.

The most controversial track on Writer of Songs is Soldier. It was written after the renewal of violence in Northern Ireland in response to the death of Sgt Michael Willetts, caught in a bomb blast whilst trying to evacuate a room of civilians. It was reported that the crowd abused his remains as they were later removed. Although Harvey made it unambiguously clear at the time that the song was only about the senselessness of violence, some incorrectly interpreted it as a pro-establishment glorification of military heroism.

When released, the song was banned by the BBC - lest feelings be exacerbated in the nationalist community. I understand that soldiers are still advised not to sing it in pubs where it might cause trouble. A song-writer runs risks when trying to address such moral dilemmas where art and politics necessarily overlap. Soldier provides a salutary warning of how a song intended to transcend sectarianism can be kidnapped and used for the purposes of others. One can only respect Harvey for his humane motives and sympathise with him over the unfair resultant flack.

Also reflecting the politics of the time, Hey, Sandy recollected the shooting of Sandra Scheuer by National Guards at Kent State University in the anti-war demonstration of 1970. These songs of protest contrasted with the lilting domesticity of Gift of a Brand New Day, written to welcome home his wife and new baby and the gently lyrical Boothferry Bridge.

Years later Harvey explained he was driving to a gig in Hull and musing on the fact that Americans had evocative place-names like Wichita that lent themselves to song. Crossing Boothferry Bridge, its name hit him: full of vowels, it sang well, symbolised travel and made a very romantic song. The only problem is it was a rusty old swing bridge near Hull and not the Golden Gate!

In the following year Harvey toured with art rock band Focus and completed his third album Friends of Mine. The critics again reacted positively, recognising the quality of Harvey’s voice and his way of saying things that most of us feel but few are able to explain.

1975 saw Fantasies from a Corner Seat with Graham Cooper and in the following year, Someday. Harvey subsequently formed his own Beeswing label which released his Margarita, Old Mother Earth and PG.

After Brand New Day, 25 Years on the Road was released in 1989 featuring only Harvey and his guitar - like they see on stage - with no backing musicians. The 1990s saw Spring Again whose title track celebrated the newly-won freedom in eastern Europe and Snaps, which Harvey called a Brummie album from top to toe. It is one of my favourites: an absorbing trip into the past with family sketches ranging from his bookie and entrepreneur great grandfather George Pearce of Digbeth to Punch and Judy Man redolent of summer hols in Blackpool and Aberdovey – although Harvey preferred darkest Shropshire – where he now lives!

Snaps deals with diverse topics and emotions ranging from the World Wars, a girl in trouble and the sadness of family separation to the jolly Jowett Javelin and happy family sing-songs. The secure life of the young Harvey is reflected in Birthday Boy authentically evoking Saturday morning children’s pictures and The Old Tin Bath. The enchanting Blue Moon Memories touchingly recaptures his parents’ special song “incorporating Blue Moon” – an early and superior form of sampling.

What really comes through this truly family album is nostalgia for times when a bus to town on Saturday morning meant shops to call at before cakes and tea - whereas now it’s a ghost town with charity shops and boarded windows.

The album is crowned with Fifty Years On dedicated to Harvey’s parents and those who at war’s-end voted for a promise of health and education now being betrayed. It makes for a bitter but truthful ending.

The sounds, faces and places of Harvey’s childhood are also recalled with warmth and insight in his recently-published book, Gold Star to the Ozarks. This beautifully-written musical memoir charts a journey beginning with singing cowboy Roy Rogers through many by-roads such as Gilbert and Sullivan, film musicals and Family Favourites on to rock and roll and folk. The real heart of the book lies not just in music but in its depiction of family life after the war. It explains the importance of education as a means of escape. Harvey and both parents are vividly portrayed in a memoir which is actually about aspiration and fulfilling personal potential.

Since 2000 Harvey has released The Gift, a fond and occasionally wry retrospective of the folk scene. This was followed by The Journey which opens with Manet and Monet, a transcript of the minutes of the Yardley Arts Club's outing to Ludlow in 1949. In his cover notes Harvey refers to the members (which between 1947 and 1977 included his father Victor whose lino cut is on the cover) as innocent, dedicated, self-educated working class men and women who believed in the power of education and art and used their miserly leisure time to the full. As so often in Harvey's work, it is warm, funny and uplifting.

Harvey's most recent album Somewhere in the Stars concludes with his evocative lines about his trips to Shropshire years ago and unusually the American David Mallett's song about lost yesterdays Can't go home Again. He makes the song his own in a wistful understated rendition with a stunning string arrangement.

With his standing as a lyricist firmly established, Harvey’s lyrics have been used in course work for the national GCSE English examination and included in the Oxford University book of English Traditional Verse.

Harvey’s influences from this country and the USA are too numerous to list. I single out Buddy Holly, Phil Ochs and Harry Chapin and also Hoyt Axton and Tom Paxton as Harvey did, perhaps because they rhyme. It was only recently that I realised Harvey was a close friend of the sadly-missed Jake Thackray, the French-influenced, Yorkshire Noel Coward, whose work I have also long admired and enjoyed. Jake called his friend Harv the Marv. By your friends are you known and if the great Jake Thackray said he’s Harv the Marv, that’s more than good enough for me.

By any standards Harvey Andrews has an impressive body of work covering many themes and styles. They range from the social and political to the artistic, from the domestic and romantic to the humorous and nostalgic. He is recognised as one of the most powerful song-smiths England has produced. In live performance he creates real intimacy with his audience with impeccable delivery, accomplished musicianship and engaging humour.

One columnist observed that since his first gig in October 1964 Harvey has been using his native wit and clear insight to lay bare the English soul with songs having the ability to strike right at the core of the matter. Another remarked that he examines our lives and reminds us what it’s all about. Tuneful melodies and intelligent lyrics will never go out of fashion and Harvey Andrews was and still is a master of both.

Born in 1943, Harvey was a pre-Baby Boomer. His formative years as a performer were in the Sixties – which, as Joe Boyd said in the Prologue of White Bicycles, began in the summer of 1957 and ended in October of 1973. Many of his early songs reflect the idealistic mind-set of those changing times. For me, his most lyrical work points to the values and integrity of better times. It has been a pleasure to observe his journey. To his credit, Harvey has continued to reflect his values without succumbing to cynicism. He has honoured his origins without becoming, as others have, a professional Brummie.

Back in 1972, the title track of Harvey’s second album spoke of his ambitions as an artist. Tellingly, he admits his ultimate contentment just to be a writer of songs and modestly concludes with the understated hope that someone will rate them and maybe some day, investigate them - seriously.

Surely it’s now long overdue to do exactly that and give even more serious recognition to an all-time great writer and performer of songs: a worthy Brummie hero.

“Gold Star to the Ozarks ~ a musical memoir” by Harvey Andrews (Haska Books 2007)

Website: http://www.harveyandrews.com/

*a version of this profile has appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Modern Fallacies

What ho! I was just looking through my weblog. As well as reviews and horse-related items, a good proportion of my posts do seem to consist of sharing my grumbles. Despite this, I was proud that I criticised Mr Brown’s removal of reliefs for pension funds months before the story really took off.

Today, there’s quite an industry of grumpy senior citizens. Richard Wilson, Germaine Greer and a few others seem to have cornered the market in stating the irritably obvious. I suppose it pays for holidays in Tuscany or suppers at the Ivy or whatever it is media folk of a certain age spend their grey pounds on nowadays.

Despite appearances, I don’t get much satisfaction from mere cynicism. What’s needed is a willingness to test accepted misconceptions. Anyone can be curmudgeonly or sarcastic. It’s much more useful to challenge perceived truths, especially those promoted by spin by our government, public authorities, media and large companies. Each seems to want us to continue to accept a tawdry and deteriorating status quo.

So, in the spirit of the innocent child who pointed out that the emperor was somewhat unclothed, here is my take on ten widespread modern fallacies. In my opinion, all the following statements are simply untrue:

Unemployment levels are historically low. No, they’re not. How many people do you know who were made redundant or “retired early” and find tiny savings or small occupational pensions debar them from any benefit, so they just don’t register? How many disappear into the black economy? How many opt for the disability allowance route? None show-up in the employment statistics.

Global tourism is a pleasure: Not to me it isn’t. To move such numbers, air passengers are now treated like cattle. Airports are overcrowded and unpleasant and, in economy, airplanes uncomfortably cramped with poor food. The destination may be worthwhile, but the demoralising journey makes the whole exercise questionable.

Violent crime is reducing: Stop the spin. Many folk simply do not feel safe enough to go out at night, particularly into city centres for fear of drunks and muggings. Many incidents go un-reported. Any sane observer can see drug-related crime and use of guns have increased.

Customer care is important. Pull the other one. How easy is it to obtain help in some shops compared to a decade ago? How long do you wait and how much does it cost to use a help-line? How many consumers are overcharged by banks and utility-providers? Nowadays, the customer is always…bullied and it’s getting worse.

Female equality exists: Tosh. If there was no longer a glass ceiling, a greater proportion of CEO’s and main board directors would be women.

Standards of food have improved: Not so! Many more people are interested in what they eat and value fresh ingredients with fewer food miles. There is a huge demand for local produce and farmers’ markets, but not enough of them. The domination of major supermarkets is increasing together with the tasteless, mass-produced product often transported unnecessarily from the other side of the world. Frustratingly, the more we understand the problem, the worse it gets.

Being gay is no longer a disadvantage. Get real. How many openly gay men or women hold senior positions in mainstream industry or commerce? In reality, the majority of our companies are still bloke-ish. Go to any business dinner or golf day; conventional orientation is still presumed and required. At work normal stereotypes prevail: it’s competitive and a stable family man is still ruthlessly preferred. Even after the Civil Partnership Act, it’s not compulsory for surviving civil partners to be treated equally with spouses as regards occupational pension rights accrued before the Act.

Standards in the health service are improving: ‘Fraid not! The government may have thrown more money at the health service. It seems that doctors’ salaries have increased, but for patients and nurses morale has fallen whilst levels of infection have risen. Statistics on shorter waiting times for operations don’t correspond with the experience of anyone I know.

English regions are important: Says who? There’s no denying that Scotland and Wales are deemed significant. Each has devolution and its own legislature in which the English do not participate, whilst Scottish and Welsh MPs continue to play a leading role in Parliament. In politics and the media the English regions have no real voice. All that counts is London – oh yes, and Cardiff and Edinburgh

Birmingham is a global tourist destination: Que? I yield to no-one in my admiration of our second city. It is a great business and commercial centre with fine galleries, theatres and restaurants. It hosts exhibitions and conferences brilliantly and has some fascinating parts such as the Jewellery Quarter and Bourneville. It may have more canals than Venice but isn’t yet a must-see holiday destination like Barcelona or even Amsterdam.

There’s nothing like a little de-bunking for giving one an appetite: time for tea, a Country Slice and Countdown with the Mem. At least there are some things one can still rely on. In tribute to automatic promotion, Keep right on! Pip, pip!

*this article also appeared in Birmingham 13.

Colonel Moseley on the Joys of Summer

What ho! After Countdown today, I was reflecting on the summer ahead and how hard it is now to distinguish between the seasons. Mild wet winters merge into hot dry summers, interspersed with sporadic alarming extremes including high winds.

As well as orderly and predictable weather, seasonal events seem to be a thing of the past too. In the High Street, if there is such a thing now, sales happen all the time and aren’t confined to January or mid-summer. Holidays are taken throughout the year, especially during the myriad of half terms, not just two weeks at the beginning of August.

In place of these landmarks on the calendar, the only fixed points in the year now seem to be the monoliths of celebrity and reality TV. The summer is dominated by thirteen weeks of Big Brother, the autumn is the X Factor, the winter sees Ant and Dec flying off to Australia for I’m Celebrity Get Me Out of Here and the Celebrity Big Brother and the springs means Dancing on Ice. I guess they may be our modern fertility rituals marking the passage of time and placating the gods of “OK” and “Hello”.

Anyway, enough ironic social observation: in no particular order, the constants that seem to feature every summer are:

Sporting disappointment: most years our summer is punctuated by the punctured dreams of the great British public. Last year it was the anti-climax of the World Cup. Previously we have underachieved in everything from the Olympics to the Davis Cup. Annually we have the traumas of Test cricket and trials of our tennis players in SW16, alleviated tantalisingly by occasional brilliance. When, once every so often, it does go right and we win the Ashes or Rugby World Cup, the whole country is lifted sufficiently to face the gloom for the next few years.

Queues at airports: Industrial action by French air traffic controllers or baggage handlers, security scares, inclement weather or just sheer volume of traffic all conspire to ensure the holiday has a miserable delayed start and uncomfortable finish.

Silly season stories: with Parliament in recess and our rulers in Tuscany or in Cliff Richard’s mansion, there’s not much to spin and the newspapers are left to dig up stories about the golden weddings of large groups of siblings, musical animals and rudely shaped vegetables.

Extremes of weather: with drought, floods, whirlwinds and lightning, our summer weather seems to grow more biblical every year

Big Brother: sadly, forget dear Johnners on Radio Three from Lords or Dan Maskell’s “Oh, I says” from Wimbledon; the sound of summer is now the theme music from Big Brother and that booming Geordie voice reminding us that “You decide…” The producers decide a lot, but that’s another story.

The Edinburgh Festival: in August a good proportion of our arts commentators disappear up to Edinburgh and report on the festival. They obviously enjoy the trip, meeting old friends and having some excellent dinners on expenses. Hordes of foreign tourists are attracted. The trouble is that it happens in Scotland. Also, even for someone with a good general interest in the arts, much of the programme isn’t that relevant and the coverage is surprisingly dreary. It’s a jolly for the media types and a shame they don’t just keep it to themselves: end of.

The Birthday Honours List: leaving aside issues under police investigation, as each year passes the Honours List seems to become more laughable and discredited with minor gongs for weather girls and ageing footballers and knighthoods for various luvvies and the odd captain of industry who has kept his nose clean. It gets more tawdry with every passing year

The Proms: despite the populist ending and the TV relay to the masses in various parks, I still find that the Proms cater mainly for the musical establishment. If they have a mission to bring the joy of music to a wider audience, why not broaden the repertoire even further to include even more diversity with much more popular and modern material? With ingenuity, this need not mean dumbing down. Why not focus even more on entertainment and accessibility?

Plagues: we have endured Old Testament quantities of house flies, ladybirds, crane-flies, wasps and sand from the Sahara. Maybe it’s to stop us getting complacent.

Exam results: I’m not going to rant about standards and exams getting easier: good luck and congrats to all who pass. I am, however, very bored with the clichéd ritual of the staged outside broadcasts where four or five nervous students open their results live on air on breakfast or local TV and are simply thrilled.

It’s enough to make you look forward to the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, but with global warming that may soon be in February. Pip, pip!!

* a version of this piece appeared in Birmingham 13

The Mem reviews "Nella Last's War", "Birmingham at War" and "Moseley, Balsall Heath and Highgate"

Hello dears! My husband Wilfred – you probably know him better as Colonel Moseley - thought it best if I wrote this weblog. His piece about his Ten Ultimate Gripes seems to have upset more people than usual. This time, the disaffected are an unlikely grouping: they include teachers and social workers riding motor cycles, fans of local television and Alan Titchmarsh, wearers of hoodies and the entire Scottish nation. This implausible alliance wasn’t quite enough to make him feel a pariah, but a little uncomfortable in the queue at the supermarket; so he's lowering his profile which I think means the same as keeping his head down, so here I am.

At Moseley Towers it’s my husband who watches most of the television. As you may know, each afternoon in the week he is glued to Countdown. Only occasionally do I wrest control of the remote. Last year I managed this feat for a splendid one-off drama, Housewife, 49 by Victoria Wood. This was based on the wartime diaries of Nella Last from Barrow-in-Furness, written for Mass Observation. I admired its sense of period and performances of David Threlfall, Stephanie Cole and Ms Wood herself.

The program prompted me to read Nella Last’s War edited by Richard Broad and Suzie Fleming (Profile Books ISBN-10: 84668 000 X). Like the drama, the diaries involve and move from the outset. Apart from recreating the events, atmosphere and attitudes of wartime, one is given an intimate insight into the viewpoint and emotions of a middle-aged wife and mother struggling in the Blitz to cope with her own nerves, a withdrawn and repressive husband and sons leaving home. Through all this, Mrs. Last was determined to cope and do her bit in volunteer services.

As well as following the war and Nella’s work at home and for the WVS, the reader can look between the lines and decipher her relationships with her gloomy husband and much-loved sons. One can’t help but wonder, for example, if Nella ever came near to understanding the truth of her son Cliff’s relationship with a navy flier, tragically to be lost in the war. Her integrity, fears, joys and sadness, insight, loyalty and sheer hard work are vividly portrayed in what might be regarded as an early form of blog. I found it compelling and thoroughly recommend it.

Nearer to home than Barrow in Furness, I also enjoyed Birmingham at War, a pictorial account by Alton Douglas (Brewin Books ISBN 0 947731 93 8). In his preface the author talks of thinking, when researching the book, of marching men and women, devastation, mugs of tea, comradeship, heroism and above all of wonderment that the human spirit could survive and triumph over anything (even some of those mugs of tea!).

Birmingham at War captures the spirit of the time from the preparations for war through to victory. All the paraphernalia of war is shown from gas masks and sandbagged buildings to barrage balloons and shelters, the evacuation of children, rationing and endless queues. There are many photographs of the city’s industry making aircraft, engines, vehicles and munitions. The continuous and real threat is literally brought home by German military target maps showing Saltley Railway Carriage & Wagon Works and the Austin at Longbridge together with extensive bomb damage, including Oxford Road in Moseley. Other aspects of life are featured from entertainment and sport to victory celebrations. Birmingham at War evokes perhaps the most important years in the last century.

Finally, I commend Moseley, Balsall Heath and Highgate, one of the Images of England series by Marion Baxter and Peter Drake (Tempus Publishing ISBN 0 7524 0680 9). The book presents previously unpublished photographs from the Birmingham Central Library collection, ranging from houses of the great and good, rich and poor to street scenes, churches, transport, art and leisure.

In bringing these pictures together, the history over two centuries of a relatively small but diverse and vibrant area is presented. The photographs of Moseley Village and St Mary’s Row in the late nineteenth century are fascinating and show scenes little changed from today - apart from heavier traffic!

The unique character of Moseley, described in Kelly’s Directory in 1896 as a pleasant suburb, is emphasised with over twenty five listed buildings, a private park created from the Moseley Hall Estate, the Chamberlains’ family home, Highbury and even the Moseley Bog. As well as images, the book contains insights into what made Moseley different from its neighbours. Apparently, the refusal to put workmen’s trains on the Birmingham to Gloucester line and the absence of third class tickets on the trams helped to maintain Moseley’s exclusivity. Its sporting, literary and musical heritage is touched on together with the proximity of Birmingham University which has given a decidedly student and cosmopolitan flavour to the streets and pubs of Moseley.

I found that the photographs and their interesting and quirky captions illuminated Moseley’s history. These images linked the past and present in a real and recognisable way and were an excellent introduction to the subject.

I hope you might enjoy some of these books as much as I did. Bye, dears!

* a version of this review appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley's Ten Ultimate Gripes

What ho! I had been fairly mellow over Christmas enjoying a plentiful supply of decent claret and white burgundy and hardly any distracting visitors. However, no sooner had Jools Holland officially ushered in 2007, than the dyspeptic void of January and February stretched before me. This was made worse by the lingering memory of the cricket Down Under and the vapid nonsense of Celebrity Big Brother at home.

This was not the ideal mood in which to write a piece, but trying to make a positive out of a negative, I decided to turn my morose New Year sentiments to constructive use. It’s time to say what’s too often unsaid and blow a raspberry or two. Here are this year’s top ten gripes and objects of loathing:

1. Renta Presentas: it may be sacrilege, but a few presenters seem to have cornered the market on television and are invariably called upon to front-up coverage on most issues. I have no problem when they are in their own special fields, but not where they have no particular knowledge or experience. It is done because producers think the public will only be comfortable with familiar voices. Thus we are often blessed with Alan Titchmarsh or Tess ‘n Vern. Please give us a break.
2. Dull local television: with rare exceptions, local television features are uninspiring. They tend to be token efforts demonstrating non-existent regional autonomy and are used by local TV journalists for self-promotion and to get to London, which sadly is still the only place that really matters.
3. The Chancellor: Gordon Brown’s stealthy removal of various reliefs did enormous damage to final salary pension schemes and helped undermine a system of provision that really worked. Although few seemed to notice this apparently technical change, its effects were profound and deplorable
4. Personal stereos and mobile ‘phones: a whole generation walks around obliviously with earphones or apparently holding loud conversations with themselves. They are saying “Don’t enter my world”. These gadgets are more anti-social and isolating than hoodies.
5. Expensive telephone lines: companies remove opportunities to obtain information or do business in person and force customers to use costly 08.. ‘phone lines to do something which should be free. It is an insult to one’s intelligence; so complain or check out the SAYNOTO0870.COM website.
6. The son also rises: anyone who has tried to build a career in the media will have noticed the early starts some way up the ladder of many of the progeny of the famous: the Corens, Schulmans, Geldofs - say no more.
7. Help-lines: I don’t object to call centres being in India or Aberdeen. Wherever they are, I loathe having to listen to long lists of options before being held in limbo subjected to irritating musak, informed that “You are in a queue” and being made to wait far too long. I particularly hate being told that “Your call is important to us” whilst self-evidently it is not. They should remember that they owe their living to customers and treat them with respect.
8. Naff celebrity advertising: ever since Dennis Compton and Brylcream one has come to expect some star endorsements. We can live with glamorous campaigns for perfume by Nicole Kidman but how can any self-respecting celebrity flog loans, sofas or frozen sausage rolls?
9. Motor bikes: in my opinion they are noisy, dangerous and too fast. Although many may be responsibly driven by off-duty teachers and social workers, they should be as thoroughly policed as motor cars.
10. The Scots: why should we accept the fact that the Scots fervently support any opponent of England in any sport whilst we wish Scottish football teams, tennis players or racing drivers well? Why do the English have no say in the deliberations of the Scottish parliament whilst Scottish MPs play such a prominent part in the House of Commons? Why must so many leading figures in English politics be Scots? Could they please have Messrs. Brown, Reid, Campbell, Kennedy and others back and give England its independence?

Remember to voice your views or the baddies will think they’ve won. I think I’ll finish off that claret now. Pip, pip!

* a version of this piece appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Power and Spin

What ho! Recently I have been mulling over some of life's more daunting questions. Is Countdown quite the same with Carol talking more and doing less tricky sums? Now that we have become accustomed to Des, rather than dear old Richard, how will we cope with yet another new host?

I tend to dwell on these escapist issues and seek solace in a Mr Kipling Country Slice when I'm depressed about the state of the nation.

As you might imagine, as a former Guards Officer and MD of Moseley Engineering, I have no problem with authority. It's just that at the moment, if one believes the Daily Mail, we seem to be governed by an assortment of freeloaders, adulterers, caravanners and as if that wasn't enough - Scots.

None of this makes one inclined to trust those in charge or to have any faith in their view of the world. A lot of my concerns stem from the blind self-confidence of our leaders whether in politics or business. Ever since Reagan and Thatcher, our rulers have tried to show they have what they call "conviction" and "vision". These are very dangerous words when not constrained by common sense or humility.

Today, power is concentrated in fewer hands, is subject to less control and is camouflaged by clever PR. This empowerment of the few is reflected at work as much as in politics and is often obscured by perception management, otherwise known as "spin".

Whether in government or business, many leaders exhibit a range of fads and prejudices which are concealed or made more acceptable by spin; beneath the PR, however, they are often:

1. Fattist: the chief trains and runs marathons. His ambitious lieutenants do so too. The flabby or unfit need not apply for jobs or expect promotion; they are lethargic, self-indulgent, undisciplined and to be despised,

2. Ageist: whilst he is under 50, the boss considers anyone older is a burnt out and exhausted husk, lacking in drive and energy

3. Sports-mad: the captain of the team firmly believes in a healthy mind in a healthy body and the value of team sports. Any male who does not play or demonstrate a detailed knowledge of cricket, football or rugby is suspect and unlikely to progress. An ability to discuss the merits of a flat back four is essential.

4. Ascetic: our leader dislikes food and alcohol. Meals waste time and are an unnecessary interruption of work. Hunger reflects weakness.

5. Upholders of family values: the big cheese has a feisty wife and lovely children whom he adores. He relates best to others with offspring and hardly at all to those who have none or do not loudly espouse what he considers "family values". A "normal" church-going family background conclusively demonstrates the suitability of any individual for virtually any senior or managerial post.

6. Worshippers of youth: until he passes 50, the man at the top is hugely impressed by the vitality of those under 30. Any lack of experience, or judgment is to be ignored and any criticism of younger colleagues dismissed as unduly cautious, defensive and retrograde.

7. Subject to mood swings: the gaffer may shout, bang the table, kick furniture, throw small objects, humiliate and abuse. His apologists point to overtiredness resulting from overwork and dedication. This may be so, but he's also a bully.

8. Prone to tokenism: to counterbalance his capricious dislikes, the supremo likes to adopt and advance the career of the odd unlikely candidate. This demonstrates his originality of thought and brilliant hunches. It often results in an under-qualified individual with no experience being over-promoted. This person is secure whilst in favour, since no sane colleague will wish to be seen to contradict the view of the boss. The consequences may not emerge until the person eventually falls from grace. This can take years and cost a fortune.

9. Sexist: the PR-conscious leader wants to be seen advancing the careers of a few selected women. They are normally the ones who see things his way and do not make waves. In reality though, the proportion of women who climb the greasy political pole or management ladder remains small.

10. Conventional: the head honcho does not approve of attitudes or ideas he does not share or understand. The key to advancement is emulating the mindset and lifestyle of the boss, whatever they may be. Conformity is still the key to the corridors of power and the executive washroom.

So now you know how some of our ruling and managing elite operate. I need another Country Slice. Pip, pip!!

* this article also appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on.... My Favourite Things

What ho! I hope you enjoyed the Mem’s guest blog. During my mini-sabbatical, I looked back through my contributions. As I read, I began to suspect that readers might regard me as grumpy, possibly curmudgeonly and, almost certainly, cynical. I asked the Mem if that was how I was perceived and she diplomatically commented that it was possible that people who didn’t know me very well might consider me “a tad brusque”.

To be honest I was shocked at this, since I’ve always considered myself a generous-minded sort of chap. Still, if that’s the perception of my readers, it’s down to me to put my image straight. I may not have a PR guru like Max Clifford or Alistair Campbell, but I have this blog, so here we go.

The trouble is: how do you demonstrate convincingly that you’re a good egg and a cheerful one in less than 900 words? Previously I have highlighted my view of the failings of motorists, restaurants, families, bosses and the like. I have even stated my Ten Least Favourite Things. Although I’m no Maria in the Sound of Music, perhaps I can list my favourite things, which incidentally don’t include brown paper packages tied up with string, which always sound to me like consignments of illicit drugs. Also, when the dog bites or the bee stings or you’re feeling sad, I would recommend a visit to the doctor’s or the off-licence rather than relying on this list. Subject to these caveats, here are my ten favourites (after the Mem, of course):

1. Countdown: not surprisingly, nothing lifts the spirits on a rainy afternoon at Moseley Towers more than Carol Vorderman providing a brilliant solution to 987 using four large and two small, whilst one enjoys a Mr Kipling Country slice and a cup of tea.
2. Divas: another of my weaknesses is great women singers with soul. Some have sad stories, but all are glamorous and gifted. Starting with Judy Garland and Edith Piaf, my favourites include Billie Holliday and Dusty Springfield.
3. Eating out: whether it’s a balti house, gastro pub or the Ivy, I still get a kick out of eating out with the Mem and friends. The food should be fresh and robust and the experience should be fun and an event.
4. Paintings: I’ve never been one for the Old Masters, but can be transported by the work of Stanley Spencer, Van Gogh, Bacon and Matisse. For me the best art strikes a chord and prompts an emotion.
5. Alcohol: a chilled white burgundy on a hot afternoon is one of God’s more inspired creations. I would also take this moment to thank Him for gin.
6. National Hunt racing: what was more uplifting than Desert Orchid or the sadly missed Best Mate in their prime? My favourite kind of sport involves great performances, real characters and true sportsmanship. Give me Henrietta Knight or Jenny Pitman over Jose Mourinho, any day.
7. Theatre: I believe theatre should entertain or move. Say it very quietly, but I know all Stephen Sondheim’s shows backwards; they are brilliant, literate and undervalued. I have been lucky enough to have seen a few actors who capture you entirely: Maggie Smith, Ian McKellen and the incomparable Judi Dench. They are national treasures and add to our quality of life.
8. New York: only a few destinations have something for everyone. My favourite is the Big Apple, specifically Manhattan. I have a romantic view of it with Gershwin playing in my head as I walk around. I love catching glimpses of the Chrysler building and doing all the touristy stuff from 5th Avenue, Tiffany’s, Central Park, great museums and delis, SAKS, Bloomingdales, the Rockerfeller Centre, shows on Broadway; the list is endless. If you are fortunate enough to get the chance, please do it.
9. Trashy TV: I don’t like soaps but am embarrassed to admit that as well as the football on Sky, I quite like relaxing with junk TV like Celebrity Big Brother and Strictly Come Dancing. It’s a harmless diversion and occasionally casts a light on human nature and modern preoccupations (or that’s my excuse).
10. Birmingham City FC: this is another one to mention quietly. It’s not something I shout about, but once you really support a club, you are put in a good mood if they win and downcast if they lose. I know it's also in my list of Least Favourite Things, but life is complex. It’s in the blood I’m afraid and that's that.

So there you are; so many words and not a negative one amongst them. I shall have to go and lie down in a darkened room. Hopefully normal cynical service will be resumed shortly. Pip, pip!

*a version of this piece also appeared in Birmingham 13

The Mem Speaks: Surviving Retirement

Hello dears! You may not know who I am, but my name is Letty Moseley. I live in Moseley Towers in Oxford Road with my husband Wilfred, retired MD of Moseley Engineering and formerly of the Queen’s Hussars. Wilfred writes pieces for this weblog and sometimes for Birmingham 13. You may know him as Colonel Moseley and me as “the Mem”.

Last week we had just watched Countdown and were having tea and some of Wilfred’s favourite Mr Kipling Country Slices, when I happened to comment on how that Des Lynam with the moustache and twinkling eyes was appealing to ladies of a certain age.

Given the adulation lavished on Carol Vorderman by Wilfred most afternoons, this seemed entirely reasonable. Surprisingly, however, my innocent remark seemed to unleash the green-eyed monster in Wilfred – for the first time since a young subaltern had asked for one valeta too many in a dance in the officers mess in Poona all those years before the war.

I may be flattering myself, but whatever the cause, this put Wilfred in a jolly bad mood. Trying to change the subject, I made what I thought was a constructive comment on his last piece. But like the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo, one thing led to another and Wilfred flounced out proclaiming “Well, old girl, if you can do better, have a go yourself” and I said “Alright then, if that’s how you feel, I will!” So here I am.

The trouble is, unlike my Wilfred, I don’t really hold myself out as an expert on anything in particular. After racking my brain, I suppose there is one thing I am qualified to advise on more than anyone else. So here are my top ten tips on how to survive retirement:

1. Make sure he has a hobby: after all those years of concentration at work, he needs something interesting to occupy and absorb him, whether it’s pigeons, fretwork or brass-rubbing.
2. Get him out from under your feet: try to find him some activity that’s extra-mural. Golf, walking or bowls mean you have some free time in the house again.
3. Get a dog: dogs provide companionship and require exercising to varying degrees out of the house.
4. Take holidays: if you are fortunate enough to be able to afford it, get away occasionally. A change of scene and some sunshine does wonders.
5. Allow him friends: retirement shouldn’t be a prison sentence or solitary confinement. Try not to lose contact with all the friends from your working days and hopefully make some new ones together in retirement.
6. Stay well: the key to everything is good health, so try to keep agile in mind and body and keep off the sherry until after six
7. Have fun: if you are healthy, solvent and together, celebrate it and look on the bright side. A good laugh is most definitely the best medicine
8. Do some things together: it’s good to have some “us” time as well as “me” time, so make a point of doing what you both enjoy at the same time. This doesn’t mean twin bob sleighing down the Cresta Run, but could include ballroom dancing, whist or bridge
9. Break the routine: you’ve got this far together, so don’t make the mistake of getting into a boring rut. From time to time do something new or off-the-wall. Keep trying new things: food, books, films, clothes, trips...whatever. Just because you’ve reached a certain age doesn’t mean your mind is closed.
10. Keep romance alive: much as they pretend it is, love is not the sole preserve of the young. The odd compliment, bunch of flowers or candle-lit supper for two alone can do wonders for morale.

Remember you’re a person, not just a pensioner! I had better go and give Wilfred a large gin and tonic before supper. Bye, dears

* a version of this article has appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley's Summer Awards

What ho, readers: cor what a scorcher! By the time you read this, I hope the summer weather has remained temperate with none of the vulgar extremes of last year. The Wizard of Oz doesn’t play well in Oxford Road or Stoney Lane.

Referring, however obliquely, to unleashing powerful forces of nature, did you notice the prescience of my piece on my least favourite things? Written some weeks before, I had no idea that immediately on publication Birmingham would sadly be relegated and Mr Prescott so entertainingly exposed. With some trepidation over the apparent power of my Parker fountain pen, I thought this month I would share with you my Top Ten Silly Season Awards for this summer to date:

Most apparently reluctant hostess: did you see the Queen’s expression at all those children making the pristine garden of Buckingham Palace look so terribly untidy? There goes my chance of an MBE; the Mem will not be pleased.

Most plastic: A tie between Sezer and Grace from Big Brother for their behaviour towards those labelled “freaks”. Sadly, even now they don’t understand why the great British public loathed them.

Person you would least like to sit next to on the ‘plane to Ibiza: It’s the rotund and sexist John Mc Crirrick, by a short head from Cherie Blair.

Best Big Brother housemate: it has to be Pete for his tolerance and the remark about loving people for their differences. Hopefully, he has also managed to improve understanding of Tourette’s Syndrome without losing his dignity.

Dreariest World Cup TV commentator: Mick McCarthy, by a short header from David Pleat. One begins to understand why Roy Keane was so cross.

Saddest retirement: Michael Owen. Life can bring disappointment, even when you seem to have everything

Best Wimbledon commentator: John McEnroe by a street. You cannot be serious if you think there’s any other contender.

Best TV moment: when Sir Cliff grandly rubbished his own wine. Nice one, Gordon!

Undiscovered day-time reality TV gem: Coach Party on Channel 4. It was a mobile big Brother featuring thirty days of backbiting, pettiness, bickering and tantrums: the essence of the triviality of the modern British summer.

Most deserving of retirement: you guessed it, still John Prescott…please!

My commiserations to those of you unlucky enough not to win an award this summer: to paraphrase Andy Warhol, in the future we shall all have an award for fifteen minutes, so it might be your turn next! Pip, pip!

* this piece also appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley's Book Reviews: Memories of Childhood

What ho, readers! It has been a sad year for aficionados of the blessed Countdown, that stimulating stop-gap between lunch and the first snorter of the evening. I am sure I speak for many people who will miss the genial and quirky Richard Whiteley, who gave the programme much of its unique spirit. Of course, La Vorderman is as appealing as ever and the Mem speaks highly of that new presenter chap with a moustache, but our afternoons will no longer have the same charming Englishness and slightly eccentric edge.

On a more positive note, the Mem decided we should make constructive use of the extra time in mid-afternoon, when Countdown was off our screen. Decorating and gardening were to be avoided, so I opted to catch up on my reading, which normally doesn't extend much beyond the latest Alan Bennett or Bill Bryson.

It's funny, but when I put together a list of my favourites during this period, a theme emerged: all the books were biographies, but a good proportion of them described childhood. They also demonstrated the sad truth that this time of life is not invariably happy and depicted how problems or conflicts were tolerated or overcome .

I hadn't consciously decided to look out books of this type, but whatever the deep psychological motives for my selection, here are five of the biographies I have enjoyed reading most over the past six months.

Having been fascinated by Hong Kong since my first visit, I was immediately interested in Gweilo by Martin Booth (Doubleday). The book is subtitled, "Memories of a Hong Kong Childhood" and paints a realistic picture of the author's life as a bright and inquisitive seven-year old around the vibrant streets of the colony in the early 1950's . The licence given to the boy due to his blond hair, which signified good luck to the Chinese, enabled him to experience a local world normally hidden to foreigners.

There is a dual backdrop to the story: the exotic location and Martin's warring parents. His mother was broad-minded and interested in Chinese culture, whilst his bitter and bigoted father was preoccupied with preventing his wife and son from "going native".

The book recreates the boy's wanderings around the bustling streets, shops and stalls. He visits parts normally closed to a gweilo, or pale fellow, such as the forbidden Walled City and encounters incredibly colourful people, with names such as Nagasaki Jim and the Queen of Kowloon.

"Gweilo" is a remarkable evocation of both place and emotion: one can almost taste and smell Hong Kong and empathise with the discomfort of a child with a father at odds with both his wife and son. It also implicitly advocates open-mindedness and receptivity to new experiences. I found it engrossing.

The Road to Nab End by William Woodruff (Abacus) is a bestselling autobiography and is subtitled "an extraordinary northern childhood". It evokes a life of extreme poverty from Woodruff's birth in 1916 in a Lancashire cotton mill until he broke free to find work in London.

This beautifully written book recreates the author's childhood and key figures such as his grandmother, parents, siblings and a range of characters from a deprived community in Blackburn. Woodruff's stories ensure that no one has a sentimental vision of working class life, the truly tragic impact of poverty and the absence of any effective welfare safety net.

The Woodruff family history and William's own story is lucidly and absorbingly told in a way that amounts to social history. Anecdotes depicting experiences at home with the family, in the neighbourhood, at school and at work help one understand the development of the mindset that led him to leave for the South to pursue a chance of self improvement and a better life.

The sequel to The Road to Nab End is Beyond Nab End (Abacus) which picks up the story in 1933. Sixteen year old William Woodruff leaves Lancashire in the depth of the depression to seek a job in a foundry in London. The un-glamorous way of life in the East End in seedy digs and with seedier fellow tenants is described with an almost photographic clarity, enabling one to empathise with his determination to progress and seize upon education as the route to progress. The events of the time are effectively evoked from street fights with the Blackshirts to the War and ultimately to Oxford University. This story of success against the odds is vividly told in a way that avoids sentimentality and is ultimately inspiring. It is a book to encourage vision, determination and hard work and to shame the lazy or complacent.

My next recommendation is Keeping Mum by Brian Thompson (Atlantic books). On the cover Michael Frayn comments "A wonderful book that brings vividly to life one of the oddest childhoods I've ever read about". I agree entirely; this description of wartime childhood is both vivid and odd. It is also compelling since, just as in Gweilo and the Nab End books, the reader is fascinated to learn how a child from this unpromising background could grow up to become a successful author.

Brian Thompson's childhood features two huge characters: his outrageous depressive mother who ranges between going out with GIs and being the belle of the school dance to a chainsmoking recluse and a talented, driven but ultimately bitter, father, absent in the war and afterwards pursuing his career. A boy's-eye view of a strange adult world growing up in Cambridge and London is funny and touching and graphically depicts the winding road to adulthood. Again, the picture isn't rose tinted and one wonders how, after so many hard knocks, a successful author emerged. One also wonders how damaged the adult may have been by the process - but most autobiographers tend not to share this with us. "Keeping Mum" is lively, refreshing and entertaining and just a little bit strange.

Finally, I want to recomend to you my favourite book of the past year, Bertie, May & Mrs Fish by Xandra Bingley (Harper Collins) . I praised this book highly in a review of horsey books elsewhere, but make no apology for doing so again. I still agree with Jilly Cooper, who described it as "utterly enchanting and quite unputdownable". It is subtitled as "Country Memories of Wartime", but is much more than a simple memoir.

I can best describe the style as impressionistic; without self consciousness, the author often uses a stream of impressions, sounds, sights and feelings to convey her experience in a way that is almost like cutting in film. The book evokes country life through the eyes and ears of a pony-mad, young girl. Without ever being cosy, it depicts the wonder of childhood along with a sometimes complicated and harsh post-war, adult world. The evocation of rural pastimes, conversations, smells and tastes is sensual, authentic and remarkable.

Like the other books Xandra Bingley's early life has a darker edge, stemming, in particular from her father's infidelity. This is conveyed with a light touch appropriate to a child's perspective. The book reflects acute powers of observation and a strong sense of time, place and mores; it is writen with genuine panache and is a remarkable first publication.

I hope you enjoy my recommendations and come to share my enthusiasm for each book. They are all different, but are well written in a way which depicts time, place and people authentically. In each case the author was strong and individualistic and underwent some form of struggle to become successful. Each, in a different way, demonstrates the truth of Wordsworth's line that "The child is father of the man". Pip, pip!

*this article has appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley's Least Favourite Things

What ho! Yesterday I was enjoying a Mr Kipling bakewell slice after Countdown and idly thumbing through a few back editions of Birmingham 13. Although I had been trying hard to eschew cynicism and giving constructive advice on topics ranging from weddings to problems at work, I noted that the by-line of my column had descended from an encouraging “Moseley Musings” to “Moseley Moaner” and even “Blah, Blah, Blah”. As Kenneth Williams once said “Charming!” – or was it “Ooooh, matron”?

Anyway, I drew this to the attention of the Mem who advised that I should write something in keeping with my feisty by-line. Although I couldn’t stretch to the vituperation of Julie Birchell, I must admit I rather fancied myself as the iconoclastic Will Self of Oxford Road, so here are my current ten least favourite things:

Smoking: I’m in favour of personal freedom, so do what you please unless it harms somebody else or frightens the horses. For the life of me, however, I can’t see why anyone should be forced to breathe in someone else’s smoke against their will.
Metro-sexuals: I first noticed this when the Mem kept going on about that wonderful David Beckham and AA Gill and remarking on their immaculate grooming and “lovely skin”. For some reason, it seems that ladies of a certain age are impressed and attracted by the sight of straight chaps in a sarong with a working knowledge of moisturisers or able to wax wittily about molecular gastronomy at the Fat Duck at Bray. It’s all very unsettling.
The Deputy Prime Minister: I don’t want to comment about easy targets like the Blairs, so what about this man? Leaving inarticulacy and fisticuffs aside, can anyone tell me what The Office of the Deputy Prime Minister has achieved or any good stemming from policies on regional assemblies in England or building on the green belt?
Supporting Birmingham City: if you are a genuine football fan, once you have a team, it’s yours for life. However hard you try, Saturday nights are made better or worse by that day’s result. In the case of the Blues, it’s always been tricky, but so far this season it’s been misery with no remission. Can anything be done about that gypsy curse?
Smug cyclists: some cyclists do it for environmental reasons, some for fitness… but some because it’s really cheap.
Winterbreak - political correctness gone mad: I believe that a wider knowledge of diverse cultures and beliefs will increase understanding and prospects of peace. Multi-culturalism, however, doesn’t require the renaming or deletion from the public calendar of festivals, such as Christmas. All faiths should be celebrated authentically with offence to no-one.
Middle-aged trendies : men past 45 should avoid brightly coloured waistcoats, cheeky-chappie bow ties, small ethnic woollen hats, novelty socks, ties and tee shirts and all Lycra, especially cycling shorts.
Wrapping – not Eminem, packaging: I don’t think it’s just advancing years, but should it really be so hard to open a milk carton, vacuum-packed 13 amp plug or container of soup?
Manic mothers: assertiveness on the school run in very large 4 x 4's is a worry to lesser mortals : I know it’s tough, but please slow down.
Close votes: in every viewer’s vote on TV, whether it’s Big Brother, Strictly Come Dancing or Dancing on Ice, it’s invariably “too close to call”. We all know it’s actually about maximising income, so come off it, Davina, Brucie or whoever….

I’m afraid whiskers on kittens didn’t make the list, but then I’m not exactly Julie Andrews. Pip, pip!

*this piece also appeared in Birmingham 13

Profile: who is Colonel Moseley?

Colonel Moseley – retired and daring to give advice

Until recently, Wilfred Moseley was Managing Director of Moseley Engineering. He now lives comfortably in retirement with his long-suffering wife Letty – affectionately called “The Mem” - at Moseley Towers just off Oxford Road in the leafy and multicultural suburb of Moseley in Britain’s proud second city of Birmingham.

Letty and her twin Bunty came from a good Warwickshire county family – the Tittertons of Snitterton - and were well versed in a range of country pursuits, particularly riding.

A shared love of horses gave Wilfred and Letty something in common on meeting at a tennis party between the wars. After marrying in Birmingham, the young Subaltern Moseley took his pretty bride back to his Cavalry Regiment in Poona for many happy years.

Now making the most of his retirement after promotion to Colonel and a lucrative subsequent career in component engineering, Wilfred fills his days at Moseley Towers. He is found useful tasks by the Mem and enjoys simple pleasures ranging from avoiding family gatherings to eating Mr Kipling country slices whilst watching Countdown most afternoons.

Keen to give something back to the community, the Colonel also submits helpful articles on a range of issues to local neighbourhood magazines and equestrian publications. His extensive body of work includes the insightful portrait of life in livery in a yard in the leafy Vale of Vaysey owned by an old school-friend of the Mem's, snappily entitled, "Bunty Pargeter's Lazy Pastures".

Colonel Moseley on Motoring

Today, I want to share with you my thoughts on some of the things on the road that really increase my blood pressure. My current top ten objects of irritation, if not loathing and derision are:

1. Suburban mum on a weekday morning causing traffic congestion by chauffeuring Angelica-Louise and Tristan to school in an enormous Edgbaston tractor, aka a 4 x4.

2. The same suburban mama causing more mayhem on Saturday morning in the same huge gas guzzler, frantically late, taking Angelica-Louise and Tristan from mini-rugby and jazz-tap to riding lessons,

3. Salesmen in the outside lane, mobile glued to the ear, with three shirts hanging up in the back, suddenly appearing close-up in your rear view mirror and flashing their headlights to overtake,

4. HGV drivers who never signal before pulling out and spend forever in the centre lane overtaking,

5. Motor bikes with engines tuned to be painfully loud,

6. Any car or lorry driver, motor biker or cyclist who is rude or inconsiderate to horses or pedestrians using the road responsibly,

7. Drivers who stay in the outside lane after road narrowing signs and force their way in at the very last minute, thus increasing the delay for those politely getting into lane earlier

8. All caravanners, with or without trilby or flat cap

9. Mile after mile of coned-off motorways with no work going on, and

10. Absolutely anyone driving a Nissan Micra, anywhere at any time!

Anyway, safe driving, peddling, riding, walking or whatever. Pip. pip!

* a version of this piece first appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Christmas

Here is a Yuletide piece....bah, humbug!

What ho, ho, ho ! Festive Greetings to one and all. I'm not sure whether in this day and age, I am permitted to single out Christmas or whether I should greet you inter-denominationally and include additional felicitations for Divali and Hanukkah. Alternatively, perhaps I should substitute secular greetings, in which case "Festive impending Winterbreak" to all readers.

The Mem is up to her armpits in tinsel and stuffing and has sent me out of the way to the study with a mulled pink gin. I thought I would use the time to share with you my thoughts on the impending annual ritual: so here are my top ten gripes and objects of derision on Christmas:

1. It starts too early - just after the shelves at Sainsbury's are cleared of Easter eggs,

2. Exchanging Christmas cards with scores of people with whom you never have any contact is mindless and expensive,

3. Most Christmas gifts are pointless and costly; the process epitomizes precisely the opposite of the values that Christmas is supposed to promote,

4. Family Christmas newsletters are formulaic, boastful and yet another unfortunate import from America; they should be sent back together with Halloween, Father's Day, sleepovers, family values and therapy,

5. Supermarkets in the week before Christmas are a zoo - and that's being unfair to zoos,

6. Christmas facilitates family get-togethers; these events are unnecessary and stressful. Lubricated by resentment and drink, they usually end in tears and often in breakdown or divorce,

7. Similarly office parties promote unnatural proximity, familiarity and even abandon with objects of loathing, fear or lust; they amount to a heady cocktail of anger, alcohol and lechery and frequently end in tears, a brawl or redundancy,

8. Too many people nowadays seem to aspire to the vacuous celebrity/Hello magazine version of Christmas, where Cilla, Dale and Michael Winner exchange gifts in diamante by the pool at Sandy Lane; they are sad and deluded,

9. Christmas is overrated and fattening. Like the Titanic, it's too costly and too long, but still holds a morbid fascination, and

10. To risk stating the obvious, most of us have lost sight of the whole point of Christmas.

I hope you survive it and enjoy the Happiest of New Years. Pip, pip!!

*this piece first appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Holiday Airflights

What ho! Gloomy old time of year, what? These cold grey winter days are rather depressing with only Carol Vorderman to brighten up that dull period between lunch and the first snorter of the evening.

The Mem and I spend a lot of time just now poring over the seed catalogues and loads of brochures from Damart, Thingies of Stow and Saga. They seem to be the only things, other than brown envelopes, to come through the letterbox each morning.

To counteract the black dog or seasonal affected disorder or whatever it’s now called, the Mem and I debate where to holiday in the coming year. I call it a debate; it’s actually a chat before we agree to go where and when the Mem wants.

Everyone must agree that holiday brochures lie. Sea and skies are never that blue, views are never that perfect and one’s fellow revellers are never that attractive. My absolute bete noir on the subject of holidays, however, is holiday airlines; here are my top ten gripes:

1. At the best of times air travel is tiresome and debilitating. On package holidays the problems are compounded many times over and it takes forever. It may take less than two hours to fly to the Balearics but you have to deal with the motorway system to get to the airport and check in several hours before take off,
2. At the worst of times air travel is impossible. Assuming you can get to the airport on time, check- in queues may be monstrous and flight delays interminable, especially when the French air traffic controllers or baggage handlers strike, as they seem to do every summer. The discomfort of delays on the way back in sticky foreign holiday airports with insufficient seating and dubious sanitation is infinitely worse,
3. If you do succeed in pre-booking and paying extra for a seat at the front with additional legroom and reassuring proximity to the exit, you are subjected to muttering and malevolent stares from less far-sighted passengers boarding and throughout the flight,
4. Aircraft lavatories are disgusting fairly soon after takeoff and the queues are humiliating,
5. Without extra legroom, seating on holiday flights is cramped, uncomfortable and, with the threat of DVT, potentially life-threatening. This discomfort is augmented by knees in the back from behind and concussion when the tired and emotional passenger in front reclines violently to the fullest extent as soon as possible after takeoff,
6. The charm of the staccato drumming of children’s sharp little feet in the small of the back throughout the flight and their constant screaming escapes me,
7. Holiday aircraft food – beef or salmon – is utterly revolting,
8. Many of one’s fellow passengers, modelling shell suits, ear-rings and tattoos (including the men) appear to be able to take the whole extended family on holiday in the Mediterranean several times a year on benefit, child allowance, the fruits of the black economy or crime. To put it politely, not a great deal of taxed income appears to be spent,
9. Cabin crew are, at best, disinterested and, at worst, downright rude. They are only concerned to get through the “service” of food and drink quickly so as to get onto the more profitable business of selling overpriced perfume, pens and inflatables and then gossiping in the galley,
10. Luggage is often misdirected, delayed, damaged, pilfered or just lost. There is a special final humiliation at the very end of your holiday in waiting at the carousel until everyone else has collected their luggage and gone. You then watch the carousel go round and round empty apart from a solitary beach umbrella and cardboard box tied with string, wearily knowing that out of three hundred cases only yours has been lost. You must queue up yet again to persuade someone to speak to you. You are then permitted to fill up a form on the off-chance that the case containing a fortnight’s washing may turn up: a fitting end to the holiday flight experience

It looks like Eastbourne again this year. I think I just have time to write to Mrs Miggins at the Braemar before Countdown starts. Pip, pip!!

*this article first appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Family Gatherings

What ho! Funny time of year, December. The approaching festivities seem to give rise to perverse desires and practices. They range from drinking advocaat, not normally to be touched with a very long (and appropriately Dutch) barge pole, to an implausible wish to “see more of the family”.

I guess I should have seen it coming. Yesterday afternoon, just after Countdown, the Mem decided it was opportune to dust off the Christmas card list. Understandably, my resistance was at its most feeble after my weekday dose of the lovely Ms Vorderman. She had coyly shared a particularly brilliant solution to 931 using six small ones, but I digress.

I really ought to have known better. As the Mem, apparently casually, ran through the list with suggestions for inclusion and exclusion, in my reverie I distractedly said “Yes” and “No, M’ dear” in what I thought were the right places. Before I knew it, I had negligently agreed to entertain the Mem’s sister Bunty, her dull husband and their brood for the whole of Christmas Day and Boxing Day.

Thus was a prospectively pleasant, relaxed and solitary Yuletide converted to tribal misery. Let this be a warning to all, of the heavy price to be paid for too deep an absorption in even the most attractive and numerate of daytime TV presenters.

This also leads me to share with you my top ten insights into the use of mild deception at family gatherings and how to make more effective use of your status as “elderly”:

1. Like cold-sores and Morris dancing, family gatherings are best avoided if at all possible. To do so full use can be made of excuses and white-ish lies. Favourites include: illness, simulated or exaggerated, bereavement, distant and unverifiable, urgent business afar, broken-down cars, inclement weather and acts of God. It is important that the option selected is plausible. It is sensible to keep a list of those used to avoid repetition giving rise to suspicion,
2. If attendance is unavoidable, it should be limited to the shortest time possible. This may be flagged up in advance, on arrival or more dramatically by a prearranged ‘phone call requiring one’s immediate attendance elsewhere. Again, it is prudent to keep a record of circumstances used to avoid any duplication another time,
3. Cover up your complete inability to remember the names of family members by using your own mode of address for everyone. In my case it’s “my dear” for the ladies and “old boy” for the chaps. Done correctly, this manages to be practical and yet endearing at the same time,
4. Sleep is a great comfort during long days en famille. Whether genuine or feigned, it provides a break from the interminable conversation. With advancing years this refuge of the terminally bored is tolerated and even expected,
5. Tedious tasks such as looking through family photo albums or playing board games can be avoided by “accidentally” leaving one’s spectacles at home. In extremis, they can be broken in situ, but this is an expensive final resort and to be saved for cases of desperate need,
6. Watch out for the “nephew and niece promoters”. They are ruthless, devious and persistent. If you are childless and reasonably solvent, even if not actually well-heeled, you are likely to be targeted by the cash poor and child rich and encouraged to bond with tiny Torquil or Petunia. This is done in the hope that the little beasts will feature in your will, or at least, that you will fund their gap years abroad. Such predators should be avoided or put off with protestations of poverty and, if necessary, hints of prior claims from a string of illegitimate heirs in Torquay,
7. Family bores can safely be ignored by faking deafness. Certain large national health hearing aids give added authenticity to this deception and can be converted to radio reception, enabling one to tune into the cricket instead of the family,
8. Only regular practice will enable one not to cause embarrassment by compulsively mentioning any of the one’s relatives’ afflictions, ranging from hare lips and lazy eyes to flatulence and obesity. Happily, occasional faux pas are allowed by the elderly and even considered quaint,
9. Feigned infirmity can be used to avoid tiresome family rituals such as the birdie song, conga, charades, karaoke and long country walks to build up an appetite. Any mention of a hip replacement or flash of a surgical boot is as good as a note from mother to get off PE, and
10. Above all, truth has very little part to play at family gatherings. Like Christmas newsletters, the role of conversations with relatives is to perpetuate comforting myths and give the deluded the strength to carry on. Topics where it is acceptable to blur the truth beyond recognition include fidelity, wealth, career prospects, weight, looks, age, sexual prowess and, most particularly, happiness.

I hope that helps. If you have to grow old, do it disgracefully. Pip, pip!

*this piece first appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Weddings

What ho! Spring seems to be on its way, judging by the snowdrops in the garden and the slap of wedding invitations onto the mat when postie calls each morning – or rather early afternoon most days, but that’s another issue altogether. Presently the mantelpiece in the morning room at Moseley Towers is awash with stiffies. The Mem and I seem to be invited to the impending nuptials of half of South Birmingham and surrounding counties.


It takes me back to my younger days – a time before Carol Vorderman took Maths “O” level. I remember being a young subaltern, back on leave from India and first catching sight of the Mem at a tennis party somewhere off Oxford Road. Letty Titterfield, of the Snitterfeld Titterfields, was a beauty and quite a catch. She caught my eye playing doubles with her sister Bunty. Later she offered me seed cake at tea and that was that: there followed courting for six months, a year’s engagement, three dinner services, several toast-racks, marriage in St Mary’s and a sit-down wedding breakfast for one hundred and fifty at the Plough and Harrow. Then off we went to start wedded bliss in married quarters with the Regiment in Poona.


Sadly, wedding planning seems to involve as much forward planning, stress and sheer terror for all concerned as the D Day Landings. It seems unfair that no campaign medals are awarded in recognition. Although my views on its logistics and consequences may have tarnished somewhat since my own Great Day, I still feel able to share with you my top ten tips and pointers on weddings:


1. Always look at the prospective bride’s mother. It may not be conclusive, but it’s often a good indicator of what’s in store as regards looks and attitude,
2. Try to hold the stag or hen night at least a week before the big day. This should allow enough time for cuts and bruises to heal, hangovers or even alcoholic poisoning to be treated, bail to be arranged and groom, or perhaps the bride, to be shipped back from Tierra del Fuego,
3. Avoid little-known hymns at the service. Fewer folk go to church nowadays and an unknown, tuneless dirge or embarrassing, happy-clappy, folk-rap hymn only adds to the discomfort and feeling of desperate unfamiliarity,
4. Clapping in church when the knot has been tied is not very English,
5. Get a professional photographer or video maker. Do not entrust Uncle Norman to create your record for posterity. Unless you are very lucky, he will screw it up,
6. Make a conservative choice of best man. Better a dull but competent best man’s speech than an amusing but controversial account of premarital sex and other lurid, past dalliances,
7. On the whole brides should avoid crinolines, ra-ra skirts, Doc Martens, exposed mid-drifts, fluffy mules, piercings, tattoos and anything resembling or that could be described as a “meringue” or “blancmange”,
8. Couples should be dissuaded from writing their own vows. Such expressions of intent are usually nauseatingly sentimental and recklessly optimistic. Just because they say such things on “Friends” does not mean they play well in Birmingham 13,
9. Avoid serving or drinking cheap and nasty sherry, wine or champagne at the Reception. It only ends in tears, nasty stains and probably a fight. It’s better to supply or consume less of something decent and, beyond that, to have a pay bar, and
10. Consider avoiding the whole grisly business, saving the money to use as a deposit on a house and eloping to Gretna Green or St Lucia.

The Mem instructs me to express the hope that this should not put you off the fine institution of matrimony. I need a drink. Chin, chin!!

*this piece first appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Leaving Do's and Don'ts

What ho! After my concerted effort to be constructive about trouble at work in my previous article, I seem to be in the Mem’s good books. Last night I was allowed three glasses of red with dinner. This pro bono approach clearly has its advantages. Hopefully this month’s even more helpful advice might be worth a few glasses of port and perhaps a cigar.

Leaving jobs can take many forms. In my day you tended to join a firm and stay until you retired with a few promotions in between. Leaving do’s tended to be a finger buffet in the boardroom marked by a speech from the Chairman and the presentation of a clock from the company and garden furniture paid for by a whip round amongst soon-to-be-former colleagues. This was followed by a tentative and emotional speech in response by the tearful but relieved retiree. In some cases the retiree’s good lady was wheeled to partake of the sausage rolls and sherry and to be given a bouquet.

Nowadays employees seem to be more mobile and companies are much more ruthless about chopping off dead wood. As a rule, staff leaving due to dismissal or naked ambition to move on after twelve months to get a Mondeo instead of a Clio, don’t merit a leaving do.

Redundancy or other culling at any age over 50 is generally masked as “early retirement” and is usually further camouflaged by a do. Such occasions always generate a myriad of conflicting emotions, unspoken anger and seething angst. Here are my top ten tips to cope with the termination process, including the “leaving do”:

1. Always take the precaution of saying what leaving present you would prefer before the collection is completed. If you want a Mont Blanc and there’s only enough in the kitty for a Platignum, hopefully the company will feel honour-bound to make up the considerable shortfall,
2. Be careful how much you drink; you know what they say about “in vino veritas”. The leaving do is a place for many things, but veritas is not one of them,
3. Always try to get someone who likes you to make the speech about you. Like the vicar officiating at your funeral, that person may not know you but should preferably at least get your name right,
4. Accept the fact the majority of people attending your do will be from accounts and completely unknown to you. Always remember, they have given to your collection and are entitled to as many sausages on sticks and glasses of Jacobs Creek as they can sink,
5. Take great care in preparing your farewell speech. Do not make jokes unless you are good at it,
6. Try to avoid most of the following: foul language, slander, break dancing, tears, conjuring tricks, any threat of violence, and group hugs,
7. Remember that what you do not say can be just as potent as what you do say. A thoughtful tribute to colleagues who have been kind and helpful will magnify the impact of failure to thank or even mention a line manager who has made your life a misery. Most of your audience are well versed in what has been going on and will get the message,
8. Do not do anything which will impact on any outstanding reference or compensation,
9. If you do know where the bodies are buried, try not to forget; corporate memory may come in useful one day,
10. Once you have left, leave. There’s nothing sadder or more humiliating than someone who just has to keep coming back.

I hope that equips you to cope with the trauma of leaving; should be worth a port or two! Pip, pip!!

*this advice first appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Trouble at Work

What ho! Enjoying a cup of tea and a Mr Kipling country slice after Countdown yesterday, I was telling the Mem that I thought it was about time I explored political correctness.

She used the word “combustible” again, and went on to comment that my views were “ a tad grumpy”. “Couldn’t you try to be a little more constructive?” she said. Not being the sort of cove to resist a challenge, I thought I would dip into the wealth of experience gained from those years leading the troops in the Regiment and then at Moseley Engineering.

I appreciate that the world of work is now more and more a jungle. The days of a pleasant chat over the tea trolley and jobs for life are over. Now it’s all bullying in the workplace, stress induced illness and tribunals. So this month here are ten ways to know you’re in trouble at work. It’s probably time to take the hint, move on and change your job when your boss:

1. Never lets you finish a sentence,
2. Looks six inches above your head, never at your face,
3. Rejects all suggestions you make,
4. Forgets to invite you to any company functions,
5. Throws things at you,
6. Contradicts any statement you manage to make,
7. Removes the best parts of your job,
8. Kicks your desk and/ or filing cabinet,
9. Belittles any part of the job or achievement you consider important, and
10. Prefers anyone else to do your job, including the Chairman’s niece.

I hope that helps: even more constructive advice follows next time. Pip, pip!!

*this advice first appeared in Birmingham 13