Slinger

Ten Easy Pieces

Dear Chroniclers,

so who knows where time goes ... ?

It seems like just a few moments ago I was celebrating the arrival of my half-century, but so much has happened since then. Not for the electrofried's the slowing waters of middle-age - everything in our lives right now appears to have been turned upside down, and you find us spinning like some Pooh-sticked flotsam and jetsam well out from the left bank of humanity's torrid and ever-hurrying stream.

Downwardly Mobile

If it had been just one thing it would be taken in its stride, but no, change assaults us on all sides as loudly as the competing banshee wails of shop-soiled muzak that assailed our ears this very morn as we made our way though the market-stalls of Little Wittering in search of some new mobile-phonery for my dear mrs. electrofried.

Regrettably, the half-brick that occupied much of her hand-tooled marmoset embroidery bag these years past, had all but given up the ghost. We took teenygoth with us for protection. At least she was sufficiently proficient in the language of the street to interpret the strange guttural grunts and techno-speak that passes loosely for speech these days. Just what is a "mega-pixel" and why does every telephone appear to come ready-equipped with blue dental-wear? Life is just too darned confusing!

A Puzzling Affair

Much to teenygoth's mortification, mrs electrofried seized upon the spottiest of the spotty work-experience shop-assistants who staffed the cacophonous shop we ended up in. Meanwhile, I took up position on the side-lines, pointedly ignoring the entreaties of the strangely pneumatic lady manager who spotted me dawdling in the aisles.

"Can I help you, darling?",

is perhaps not the best of opening lines in life's endlessly amusing catalogue of sales-pitches. I turned the other way, and set to with my Sudoko whilst mrs electrofried and teenygoth merrily pressed buttons and compared memory capacities. Frankly, the whole thing was a complete mystery to me and I contented myself by pencilling in a few random jottings to the squared puzzle before me.

At length, the transaction was completed. Money exchanged hands and mrs electrofried emerged blinking into the daylight from the blackened abyss of "Phones'R'Us" clutching a carrier bag containing the spoils of her foraging.

The swirl of time

I mentioned life has become a spinnying eddy of late.

Family issues spring up like the gaily-coloured daffodils and tulips that currently adorn the grounds of the House. We've moved churches too, and become Methodists, though I've yet to summon up the courage to announce this to the Vintners of Little Wittering who depend so much upon us for their livelihood. The credit-crunch will appear little more than a minor book-keeping blot in the annals of their balance-sheets once the endless stream of alcohol-related orders from the House dries to no more than a trickle. And time in the horology factory is ticking slightly faster than the norm.

But even amongst all this chaos, there is hope. Teenygoth has taken to purchasing the NME at regular intervals and in a recent, unguarded moment confessed a passing interest in the contents of the electrofried music-library. At last, a scion of electrofried who may be fit to inherit her father's burgeoning collection! So tonight, as I sit in my bath-chair sipping a restorative glass of the finest triple-strength Chimay (yet another sin to be confessed come the morn) I've set my mind to ""Ten Easy Pieces", a short catalogue of electrofried's life to date, as set to music.

This posting is accordingly dedicated to my youngest ... and I shall await, with no little trepidation, to see if she deigns post a comment in response. Welcome then, darling teenygoth, to the music of your father - the rhythm that has restored, enthused and enthralled me through a half-century and more.

And so here it is "Pop-pickers"!

10. Fresh in at no. 10, the sound of Siouxsie and the Banshees live at the Tynemouth Plaza, on their very first UK tour. I won two tickets on a (non-mobile) phone-in by spelling, "Siouxsie" correctly - not a particularly difficult task given my infatuation with her kohl-stained cheek-bones. Your mother, no more than a teenager herself, was embraced tenderly to the cascading feedback of "Mittageisen"!

9. The theme to "Midnight Cowboy", a sound tracked memory of a film that even now reduces me to tears just thinking about it. Is the reverberating harmonica of life just a last post to a sad existence, or the turning point to a bright new future in the sun? Discuss. Alternatively, you could watch the DVD once you're old enough to satisfy the British Board of Film Censors.

8. "I'm only sleeping". There has to be a Beatles song in there, somewhere. And what could be more apposite for a somnambulant father whose cat-napped existence is punctuated by the most piercing of snores?!

7. A non-mover at no. 7, the chiming guitars of "The Byrds" with, "Chestnut Mare", a particular favourite of your mother.

6. When I was but a teenager myself, I stole on occasion into my elder brother's bedroom in search of a particular album that still thrills me to this day. As you practice guitar up in the East Wing of the House, dear teenygoth, reflect on the genius that is Jimi Hendrix, and his stunning debut, "Are You Experienced".

5. "T Rex", is, I'm afraid, yet another sound of my youth. My very first foray into the purchase of music involved an off-line transaction behind the school bicycle-sheds, in which money changed hands and your father acquired a second-hand copy of the inaugural album of the freshly abbreviated, "Tyrannosaurus Rex". I sense an imminent negotiation with Master Amazon to acquire this afresh once I've finished with my tawdry list of musicology.

4. Over the last few months you have borne stoically the depletion of an ever-dwindling inheritance as yet more Miles Davis box-sets have made their way to the tradesman's entrance of the House. When you are much older yourself, spin "Kind of Blue" in memory of your father, for he found much peace amongst the space of these crystalline modal forms.

3. David Bowie, much like Miles Davis, mastered many a transformation in his time. "Heroes" is, forever, a favourite of your mother and I.

2. Sometimes life has shades of darkness, and in "Joy Division's", "Love will tear us apart", there is no finer.

1. But, as always, there is hope too! I think it unlikely you will ever chance upon the full King Tubby extended mix of this glittering jewel, but you will find the original version of "Love is a Treasure" on a Pressure Sounds' Carlton Patterson compilation called, "Psalms of Drums". It's secreted deep within the electrofried music library - enjoy, for love is indeed a treasure ...

... and much love to you, darly teenygoth!


as ever,

electrofried (mr)

p.s. mrs electrofried has passed by briefly to view my random jottings en route to the bed chamber and a relaxing infusion of Horlicks. Ears have been soundly boxed concerning the omission of anything by the Doors, the Clash and many others besides. Anyone for an extended electrofried Top Twenty?

Through the Doors of the Sunflower Lounge

Dear Chroniclers,

oh what a day! A celebration of shared greetings in time and space, a gathering of the clans that still reverberates mightily as I settle down once again into the bath-chair to tap out yet more incoherent ramblings on the keys of the trusty Remington Noiseless.

A Virtual Meeting-place

Many of our honoured guests here at the House enter through the well-worn portals of the Mojo Forum. It's a cyber-playground of some strange delights, and a popular destination of your host as I while away the hours in penitence, banished to the Tower and waiting in vain for an early re-admission to the warmly-padded bosom of the familial TV room.

In case you've not encountered the Mojo Forum before, I've asked Fetlock the Butler to paste a link to it below. Given his literal interpretation of even the most basic of commands, chances are the pasting will take the form of a clumsy hand-written note secured to the screen with a liberal splattering of Solvite. Apologies in advance, should it gum up the works of your personal computerette.

The link is, however, worthy of your investigation, as tucked away in one of its dustier corners you'll find a thread entitled "Praise the Lord, it's the Awesome Brummie Jolly-Up!" And jolly jolly it was too!

The Invitation Arrives

It seems like an age ago, but it all began way back in February. The very first entry on the "Jolly-Up" thread says it all and I quote from the source-text ...

Aim: To gather as many sad, music-fixated, under-achievers into one room as is humanly possible.

Mission accomplished ... in some style!

Voice of the Cynic

Perhaps I should have expected better.

Much to my surprise, I awoke on Saturday morning to find teenygoth, youngest fruit of the electrofried loins, perched at the end of the four-poster. Not accustomed to seeing her pallid form during the hours of sunlight, I imagined, fondly but mistakenly, that she had risen early to share some tender words of endearment with her dear father before he embarked on the "Big Adventure", as it had by then become known in the House. Sadly, this was to prove well short of the mark.

"Dad, are you all going to be wearing matching anoraks???"

Mrs electrofried giggled beneath the duvet as I summoned Fetlock to ready my outfit for the day. How cruel family can be!

Clothes that Maketh the Man

Much to my chagrin, when Fetlock slid back the bolts on the electrofried wardrobe my favourite smoking-jacket and matching carpet slippers were nowhere to be seen. The finger of suspicion currently points in the direction of Cook, following the subsequent discovery in her garret hideaway of a small crate of Buckfast medicinal wine and a crumpled ticket bearing the name of the local pawnbrokers.

Denuded of my first-choice attire and running short on time, I had little option but to instruct Fetlock to select items at random from my extensive collection of XXXXL-sized black costumiery.

Meanwhile, my dear lady had descended to the kitchen to summon up a little light refreshment for the journey. I eschewed her kind offer to prepare a warming flask of Horlicks and some fish-paste sandwiches and instead, went in search of my mackintosh and top-hat. Suitably attired, I made ready to leave the electrofried ancestral seat. By now, a small throng of well-wishers had gathered by the gates to the estate, the inevitable Fetlock lurking suspiciously at the back.

A Parting Gift

As I strode out toward the pot-holed lanes of Little Wittering to hail down a passing charabanc, he dashed out from the crowd and thrust into my hand a garishly-coloured matchbox of Slovenian origin. Cautiously, I opened it to examine the contents within.

At first sight, the matchbox appeared to contain a small selection of that curious confectionery delight more mature readers may recollect fondly as "Revels - the box of chocolates in a bag". A somewhat bold assertion to make, as the average contents of said bag usually comprised a sad assortment of chocolate-coated raisins, a random bullet or two of indigestible toffee and sundry fruit-cream concoctions that owed their existence primarily to a frothy vat of ill-mixed E-numbers.

I was just about to sample one when Fetlock gesticulated to me wildly,

Magic Moments

"No, meister electrofried ... box is lucky turnip charms, yes!"

After ten minutes of close-combat interrogation I wrestled the chilling truth from our anglophilically-challenged man-servant.

Apparently the objects in question were the partially digested remains of a turnip planted in a field whose carefully guarded location rests somewhere on the outskirts of the south-eastern region of Dolenjsko. Having passed relatively unscathed through the alimentary system of a mountain-goat (the coating from which still adorned these iconic fossilised offerings) the turnip-pieces had assumed magical qualities. A Slovenian lucky-charm perhaps, but never had chocolate-coating possessed such little appeal.

Hurriedly closing up the matchbox and secreting it deep within the cavernous pockets of my mackintosh-noir I strode out in search of an early-morning charabanc.

The Natives are Restless

Fortunately, it was not too long before one arrived. Proffering my Senior Citizen bus-pass on entry, I made my way to the rear, only to fall blissfully asleep as the miles sped by.

It was the loud "kerpfffff" of a ring-pull that brought me rudely to my senses as we neared the chosen destination for the Jolly-Up. A merry native had boarded the charabanc with a twinkle in his eye and a freshly chilled can of branded super-strength Continental lager clasped firmly in his hand.

Yow, babs ... fancy a supp??

An omen of things to come, I declined his kind offer.

One Small Step

Eventually the charabanc coughed its diesel-smoked way to the the very heart of Birmingham, whence its occupants were discharged, kicking and spluttering, onto the streets. Declining a supplementary invitation from my new-found friend to crack open a fresh bottle of"zoider" in celebration, I pulled out the directions to a rough coaching-inn that plied its trade under the unlikely name of "The Sunflower Lounge".

I found it eventually behind the Bull Ring, sandwiched handily between the Holiday Inn (flop-house of choice to the discerning Mojoer) and a variety of "adult" themed outlets of dubious origin. Pausing only to purchase a small glass of some strangely bucolic wheat-beer, I took a seat by the window, brushed down the pile on my top-hat, pulled tight the lapels of the mackintosh-noir and adjusted my Predator sun-glasses. Remaining incognito has always been a great gifting of the electrofrieds!

A Pleasant Diversion

As I awaited the arrival of sundry Forumers, my attention was drawn inexorably to a muted TV screen mounted on the wall just in front of me.

The FA Cup Final was due to kick off in a little over an hour's time and I was treated to the spectacle of a silent commentary from the Grandstand team, accompanied by a bizarre stream of sub-titles which I assume were being typed either by a deranged lunatic profoundly under the influence of illicit substances or a software programme that was barely out of its beta-nappies.

I cite, by way of illustration this glorious malapropism ...

"What a fantastic line-up Manchester United have - you've got to get past the likes of Ronaldo, Skol and cakes ..."

The Clans Gather

Fortunately, it was not too long before a group of tousled strangers entered the watering hole, some members of the entourage clearly looking a mite worse for wear than others. Beers were purchased at the bar, and as they claimed a table in the middle of the room I got to my feet and sidled up to the leader of this motley crew.

"The eagle has landed ... ", I whispered cryptically, conscious that loose words cost lives.

Yow what, babs ... ow, it's 'fryed lads, it's fryed!!

And so I was welcomed, with a warm embrace and a cold pint of the Sunflower's finest, to the world of Brummie Jolliedom. Within a few precious moments I was introduced in person to fellow on-liners who previously I had encountered only as a series of virtual messages displayed on a flickering screen in my darkened study. Yes indeed, they were for real!

The Downing of Sherbets

Before long, the table before us was strewn with a miscellany of drinking vessels - half-emptied flagons of strong sherbet and the odd schooner or two of cooking sherry (there being ladies present). I have it from a good source that our afternoon at "The Sunflower" resulted in their best takings ever in a single afternoon. An excellent example of exactly what international rapprochement can do for the economy of the country. And truly, it was an world-wide gathering of the clans. They came from Ireland, Wales, Finland, Greece, Canada, the United States of America ... and Bourneville!

Not only were the nations richly represented, our select gathering boasted a huge range of talents including chocolatiers (two), carpenters (two), an overseas student, a baker, a lorry driver, the manager of an advertising agency, an expert in procurement, a star of "YouTube" and a practitioner of the sublime and dark art of public company proxy voting.

Oh, and two Scotsmen arrived half-way through the afternoon!

Light Chat and Dark Chocolate

And so the hours flew past in merry banter. Sherbets were refreshed at regular intervals, and one of our chocolatiers circulated a red octagonal box containing a selection of foil-wrapped goodies freshly made by his own fair hand.

Regrettably, some of us misunderstood the precise nature of Kaspar's "stash", but doubtless somewhere there's a market out there for, ahem, "smoking-chocolate".

Oh What a Picture .. What a Lovely Picture!"

You may have guessed I had come prepared for the Jolly, a Box Brownie loaded with freshly-emulsioned glassy plates secreted carefully about my person. It lay hidden beneath the capacious folds of my mackintosh-noir ready to spring into action, and now was the time to release the shutter!

The Mojo folk were a most patient lot. They were flashed and snapped at regular intervals, then shepherded into position for a series of mildly perplexing group and individual shots. Not once did they complain. Even the young couple sitting opposite our table were very understanding. Mind you, I did have to pass myself off as a Social Worker leading a Care-in-the-Community Programme. Unsurprisingly, they took little convincing.

Some of the fruits of my work adorn this miserable and meandering corridor. Should you wish to see more, may I suggest a visit to Mojo-world courtesy of the link pasted by Fetlock below. I advise you to take ear-muffs - some of the language is a little rich, but beneath it lies hearts of gold. I think!

In Search of Sustenance

Whilst the FA Cup-Final was played out silently on the screen above us, stomachs began to rumble - one more than others, as we were to discover subsequently. The match reached its muted conclusion and it was time to set out in search of food.

The cab-rank was but a hundred yards or so away and most of the party was still capable of negotiating a relatively straight path. Accordingly, our Birmingham hosts assembled us at random in an increasingly jolly school-crocodile and despatched us en-taxi, four at a time, in the general direction of Ladypool Road, home to some of the best Balti houses in the country.

The back-streets of Birmingham flashed past as our handsome cabs picked up speed, a miasma of charity outlets, cornershops and Indian textile-emporia. Before we knew it, we were there. Taxis duly decanted, we set up trough in a fine specimen of Balti-house called, "Shaleems", along opposite sides of an exceptionally long table. We even managed a small overflow trestle.

A Meal to Remember

I had the good fortune to be seated at the end of the long table, directly on the "red-run" to the small, but pleasingly hygienic, toilet facilities. Accordingly I encountered much passing trade during our extended wait for sustenance.

I fear the size and general hilarity of our party rather threw the catering staff of Shaleems, for it was some considerable time until the first whiff of Poppadum. It so impressed my neighbour, a quietly-spoken and delightful American gentleman who goes by the on-line name of Ipecucci, that he was quite overcome with emotion. Or conceivably the vast quantities of Stella with which he had been thoughtfully force-fed by our Brummie hosts throughout the course of the day.

By the time our meal was at an end, young Ipecucci had become well acquainted with the "red-run" - a meal he is likely to remember for some time to come!

The Canals of Birmingham

With stomachs refreshed, or emptied as the case may be, we returned to the delights of Birmingham city centre, travelling in convoy despite the attempts of one Mojoer to leave the handsome cab whilst still in transit.

This time we hit the "Mailbox", home to that rare breed, the trendy Brummie. You may not know this, but Birmingham is home to more canals than Venice. Regrettably, little if any of its architecture, ambience or general culture comes anywhere close to its more famous water-wayed competitor.

The Mailbox is sited on a confluence of the inner canal system and is home to an ersatz Gondola, the closest the Midlands gets to gaudy Las Vegas-style excess. I shudder at the memory of one of our Scottish friends regaling us with a festive chorus of "Just one Cornetto ... ", whilst wearing an improbably ginger-fringed tam'o'shanter and what I have subsequently heard described as mid-life crisis trousers. Pulling my topper down low, I made haste towards "Penny Black's", a bijou drinkery selling the very finest bottled beers at prices that would have purchased a candle-lit dinner for two with wine at the Sunflower Lounge.

Alas, it was at this point I realised, Cinders-like, that my pumpkin would be arriving soon. Pausing only to down one last farewell drink with my new-found friends I made off into the cool night air, my mackintosh-noir swirling cape-like behind.

Final Thoughts

Darling teenygoth greeted me the next day, keen to inspect my increasingly corporeal form for evidence of fresh tattoos or indelicate piercings. I was a grave disappointment to her, being able to produce only two compilation CDs of the event, an "Awesome Brummie Jolly Up Special" and "The Soonds of Auchterteuchter" (for which many thanks to Panama) together with a curious postcard emblazoned with images of the spandex-clad Kiss in all their pompadoured finery.

In truth, I carried back far more with me from the day. It may seem strange to some for an on-line community with little apparent connection other than a love of music and too much time on their hands, to meet together in person - but for me it summed up perfectly what life should be about. Celebration, companionship and adventure.

Thank you so much to all my friends at the Mojo Forum, you're a great bunch and here's to the next time!

very best regards

electrofried (mr)

Post-script

Oh, and before I forget, did anyone eat those funny little Revel-like sweets mixed in with Kaspar's chocolate stash? I fear they must have fallen into the octagonal box when it was being passed round.

If so, please do let me know. I'm assured by Fetlock they are perfectly safe to eat, though you may find yourself growing mountain-goat ears come the morn.

http://ubb.mojo4music.com/showflat.php?Cat=&Number=437273&page=0&view=collapsed&sb=5&o=&fpart=1

Brummie Jolly Up - Gallery 1

Dreams of Prague

Minstrels' Gallery

Pictures at an Exhibition - the Horologist's Cut

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

one of our regulars to the House left a comment in the Visitors' Book yesterday concerning the possible inclusion of a "Gallerie Photographique", and who am I to spurn such request. Accordingly, earlier this morning I instructed Fetlock to suspend dusting temporarily and fetch me down an album from the Library shelves.

The results are duly exhibited further down the page.

Flights of fancy

Before I provide a little more detail concerning the pictures, I must first bring you up to speed with the exploits of my late Great Uncle Electrofried.

Following his ill-timed and disasterous punt on the malted beverages futures-market, Great Uncle struck upon a brilliant idea to restore the fortunes of the House - namely, the construction of an airport on the outskirts of Little Wittering in order to relieve the congested air-ways above our over-crowded capital City.

Terminal Velocity

Heathrow and its ilk are well known to collectors of frequent-flyer awards, but few will be aware of the existence of Gnatwyke, a once-bustling terminal located just three miles drive from the House. You pass it on the left-hand side as you travel north toward Eudor's horology factory.

Constructed initially to receive light passenger traffic, it was not long before Great Uncle was tempted to extend the activities of the airport to commercial cargo. Work accordingly commenced on the construction of a second runway and plans were put in motion for a grand Opening Ceremony.

Special Delivery

It will come as a little surprise that Great Uncle insisted the first cargo to be delivered to the new facility should be a bulk load of a well-known bedtime beverage from the Slough HQ of Horlicks.

To add to the fun of the occasion, it was to arrive not by airplane but on board a huge dirigible, constructed especially for the purpose, in the shape of an Indian elephant - said country being, at the time, the number one market for the beverage in question.

Excitement approached fever-pitch in the village as the Big Day loomed. Bunting was duly bunted and the local Womens' Institute set about work to bake the biggest scone in cream-tea history.

First sightings

At long last, the time arrived for the grand Opening Ceremony. Great Uncle Electrofried, accompanied by representatives from the WI and the entire Parish Council of Little Wittering, stood waiting by the newly constructed runway, heads craned sky-ward to catch sight of the approaching dirigible.

She was first spotted by a small child who leapt up and down pointing to an indistinct, vacillating dot in the far distance. Parish records disclose her name as "Preteeny Goth", but one suspects this may have been a pseudonym.

Suffice to say, her cries of, "It's going to crash, it's going to crash!!", were roundly ignored by all except her mother, who wisely picked up the child in her arms and carried her off in the general direction of the cake-stall.

Crash, bang, wallop!

The rest, of course, is history. The dirigible duly hove into sight, cutting an eccentric path toward Runway No. 2 and with a marked lean to the portside. Understandably, the assembled crowd below fled for their very lives, leaving the air-borne wanderer to lurch to a premature and resounding halt in the cream-tea tent.

All hope of beating the WI scone record came instantly to naught as the dirigible discharged its cargo of Horlicks-bearing elephants into the very heart of the mix. The contents were duly splattered to the four corners of the runway, but fortunately no elephant perished in the bake.

Black Box Recorder

We now know the cause of this unfortunate scone-base debacle. The black box recorder, subsequently recovered from the smouldering hull of the dirigible, revealed all.

Apparently, the constituent members of a small herd of Indian elephants hired especially for the day by Great Uncle from a local circus, had chosen simultaneously to look over at the view on the portside of the wicker basket - with disasterous consequences for all concerned.

Depressing Coverage

The "Little Wittering Bugle" expressed little sympathy. Its report of the events of the day appeared under the banner:

"Elephants in dirigible strike fear into the heart of Little Wittering's Womens' Institute at newly opened Gnatwyke Runway No 2."

A snappy headline, if ever there was one, but sufficient to promote a wave of cancellations from prospective incoming airlines. The inevitable closure of the entire airport facility followed shortly after, leaving Great Uncle Electrofried to lick his wounds and scrape the remainder of the well-dispersed scone mix from Runway No. 2.

Little Wittering - the Annual Quilting Exhibition

Of course, the story doesn't end there!

When we inherited the House some years ago, title to the estate at Gnatwyke passed with it. Mrs electrofried was determined to put to good use the disused aircraft hangar at the end of Runway No 2. Accordingly, shortly after we took up residence, she launched the first of Little Wittering's now legendary Annual Quilting Exhibitions under its freshly dusted rafters.

The latest took place just a few weeks ago and, as Photographer-in-Chief, I was duly charged with the task of covering the day. A few sample snaps appear in the pasting immediately below.

Remembering our fore-bears

Notwithstanding the disasterous events of the Opening Ceremony, mrs electrofried still insists, to this day, on celebrating the work of Great Uncle.

Should you ever choose to join us at a future Exhibition, you will find tucked around the corner of the quilting stands a small kiosk staffed by representatives of the local WI. They serve, as you may well have guessed by now, elephant-shaped scones.

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

The curious case of the imploding Victrola

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

today, as can be seen from the graphic illustration above, things have gone steadily from bad to worse in the House of electrofried. If only I'd listened to teenygoth ...

"Loud, Proud and Home-Baked"

Regular visitors with a day-pass to the House will be aware of mrs electrofried's long-standing dj slot at the Little Wittering branch of the Women's Institute. "Loud, Proud and Home-Baked", or "LP+h", as it is now known amongst the cognoscenti, has become a veritable legend in the world of institutionary.

LP+h's loyal following extends well beyond the boundaries of the village. Revellers have, in the past, joined us from such far-flung exotic locations as Greater Wittering.

A jam to remember

On one memorable occasion, the hall even played host to a touring charabanc-party from the birthplace of the British WI movement - LLanfair PG, or, to give it its full name:

"Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch".

Regrettably, by the time the charabanc operator had announced, over the feedback-infested tannoy system, the full name of the touring party, mrs electrofried's slot was all but over.

Had it not been for the timely arrival of the clotted cream teas, a small-scale disturbance seemed the inevitable conclusion to proceedings. Fortunately, all thoughts of riotous tumult were put to one side in the rush to score copious quantities of scone.

Even more fortuitously, this historic session was captured for posterity on the infamous limited-edition bootleg album, "Mrs electrofried meets the forces of Madge Watts in the House of Dub". The occasional copy can be found on E-Bay, and it commands a premium that frankly beggars belief.

Bangers and Mash

By custom and practice, LP+h usually takes centre stage at the Friday meeting of the Institute. Accordingly, mrs electrofried has been engaged most of the day in putting together her set-list for tomorrow.

Her favourite style of the moment is the "mash-up". Having discovered, from a stuffer in "Quilting Monthly and i-tunes", the black art of illegally combining otherwise unconnected songs in a rich melange of sound, mrs electrofried is regularly to be found hunched over the Remington Noiseless downloading MP3's from a variety of dubious wonderweb sites.

... and it was here it all started to go wrong.

Heed the warnings

Conscious that Friday was fast approaching and further melodies were still required for the set-list, I set off in search of teenygoth's MP3 player, certain in the knowledge it would be full to the gills with suitable material. As always, it was to be discovered beneath a mountainous heap of discarded garmentry and mould-encrusted table-ware.

"Leave it, Dad ... " protested the ever somnabulant teenygoth, "... you know you'll end up breaking it."

Undeterred, I seized the player and made off in the direction of the music room, screwdriver in hand.

The Overload

In just a few moments the front to the Victrola was off and I had it fire-wired to teenygoth's MP3 player with a length of flex purloined from the angle-poise in my study.

Just as I flicked the switch to initiate the download procedure mrs electrofried arrived, an accusative teenygoth in tow.

"Electrofried ... " she cried, "... not my Victrola??!!!"

Rewind, bo selecta

We did manage to put the flames out eventually. However, I fear we are in urgent need of some replacement valves and a new nickel-plated Horn Elbow. So once more, I find myself banished to the Tower as mrs electrofried and teenygoth seek to make good the damage.

Pray spare a thought for me as I ponder on the cruel events of the day. "Bo selecta, rewind", indeed!

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

Life's a Beach

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

tonight I sit in rather splendid isolation in the pasting room. Teenygoth has long since retired to bed to practice her presence, whilst Cook tucks into a freshly cut Mills & Boon, a half-drained litre of the finest super-strength continental lager close to hand.

Up in the servants' quarters Fetlock is, for some reason best known to himself, exploring the arcane mysteries of a Slovenian wonderweb search engine. The last I heard, he was attempting a translation of "my pomegranate is richly vibrant", which I feel sure will go down a treat, come the morn, when he tries out his best English on the unsuspecting burghers of Little Wittering.

Silence abounds

For her part, mrs electrofried is quilting a cover for her trusty Victrola. We plan an approach to certain well-known music magazines for a sponsorship deal and, keep this under your hats dear readers, we're quietly confident of a major bidding war between the likes of "Kerrang" and "Q" for the privilege of plying their wares before the massed crowds of the Little Wittering branch of the WI. Mrs electrofried has a stencilled motif prepared in readiness.

Even the nether regions of the House have fallen silent. The Black Dowager remains several feet beneath the basement, her ears trained, as ever, upon the sound of a laughing young girl up in the attic. One day, God willing, they may be re-united.

Picture this

But enough of such light banter. Now we are alone, I feel it's time to tell you a little more of the beginnings of the current line of electrofried. Picture if you will a classroom of hormonally charged Fifth Form boys.

Sitting at the back is a particularly unprepossessing specimen. In his mind's eye, he attempts to piece together some loosely worded descriptions from the well-thumbed pages of "Virgin Soldiers" to create a technicolour picture of womanhood. All the while he pretends to pay attention to the teacher.

Enter the Headmaster

His thoughts are rudely interrupted by the arrival of the Headmaster. The boy listens half-heartedly to his request for volunteers to help out at an evening club for the mentally disadvantaged - a place of respite for their long-suffering parents.

No volunteers are forthcoming until the Headmaster adds these few vital words, "And there's girls ... "

One hand is raised swiftly, and the rest is history, for this is young master electrofried we see before us.

Fast forward

And now we're at that very same evening club. Master electrofried spies at the other end of the room a shy, and rather beautiful, young lady who's repeated glances in his direction cannot be ignored. The two gravitate gently toward the table-tennis equipment and play out a game, oblivious to the general mayhem around.

Eight weeks on they're an item, six years later they are mr and mrs electrofried, and thirteen years from when they first met they cradle their newborn second child. Little do they realise that reallyfried, their son, will take them right back to nights at the club ... for he too, it will shortly be revealed to them, is mentally disadvantaged.

And now ... the beach

So why, may you ask, is there a crudely rendered photograph of a beach at the beginning of this increasingly tedious pasting? It's because it's the place that holds the very deepest of memories for mr and mrs electrofried - most happy, just a few that are sad.

For it was here we courted, holding hands to explore rock pools and things that would make teenygoth blush beetroot red. It was here we walked on the first night of our married life. All the way to the fish and chip shop at the far end to purchase supper with the few shillings left in our newly conjugal purse.

It was here, too, that Dr Phlegm, the electrofried family physician, splashed in the waves with his newly christened Godson, the baby reallyfried. Just a few months later it would fall to him to break the news that all was not well.

Bittersweet memories

Scroll up for a second, if you will, to the photograph. How does it speak to you? If you have bittersweet memories of a place in time then spare a moment to add a comment in the Visitors' Book before you leave the House.


yours as ever

electrofried (mr)