Stages of Blogging

I was trying to explain the Product Life Cycle graph to someone the other day. I failed. It's hard to do over the phone and I decided I'd wait until I saw the person face to face. Of course I'll have to remember top take some graph paper but, even with any other paper, it will be so much easier to explain in person.

Management chaps will probably know what I'm talking about. They learn it in a half hour lesson on a Tuesday afternoon at management colleges. It took me about twenty years, but I had a shitload of fun in the process. It's a graph of the demand for a product or a service over time and it goes through five very distinct phases. The wikipedia explanation of it is here. if you want to know more. I believe that's it's a vital tool in helping to sell and market any product or service to maximise and sustain profit. It's also invaluable in helping a Company know when it should be developing new ideas and products.

But, whilst thinking about it, my mind strayed onto the topic of blogs and how it appears that most popular blogs go through their own product life cycle, a very quick one too.

So here's my blog life cycle:

Stage 1 - Initial ignorant enthusiasm.

When I started my blog I didn't have the faintest idea where it would lead, what I wanted to achieve or who, if anyone, would read it. I didn't know what I'd write about, how it would come across or even if I'd continue with it. I remember the thrill I felt when I got my very first comment, from someone who had randomly come across it and wished me luck. All was new, all was sparkly and the stage probably lasted about two months.

Stage 2 - The ball starts to roll

Now the enthusiasm has that rush of adrenalin injected into it. I had a big stroke of luck and got listed and linked on the web page for "The Apprentice" because of a post I had written about it. I started to get a few regular readers and commenters and the rate of increase in everything, views, comments and posts rose rapidly. At this point I began to try to write posts I thought were going to be about topics that people would find interesting and I became what Darwin would call a "comment whore".

Stage 3 - Levelling out

This is where I feel my blog is at the moment. I know I have some regular readers, I don't know who they all are but many of them I do know. I post as frequently as takes my fancy, I write about whatever is on my mind, whether that's some kind of pseudo intellectual thing or about something totally trivial. I still like to get comments but I am not worried about a post that gets no comments nor am I pleased about one that gets loads.

The best aspect of this stage is that there's no element of writing for an audience. I believe that the best music is that whch is written by the songwriter because he or she actually likes it. It's not written purely to be commercially successful but it still can be. Bands like Muse, Pearl Jam, System of a Down etc are examples of this. The best pieces of writing, whether blogs, books or anything are those that exist just for the love of the writer's craft.

I guess for a blog this state of being can last for anything from a day to a lifetime. I'll keep you posted!

Stage 4 - Legendary Status


I think blogs like Naz's and Java Jones are at this stage. It can come quickly or can take a long while but, once it arrives, the blogs have regular readers and commenters and appear as a leading light amongst their peers. Java has his unique and schizophrenic blog, the only one I read that is clearly inhabited by two very different people. Naz's is the blog that so many people must check out from time to time just to see what's going on in the Barefoot related world.

Tiny Little Fractures is another one at this level. N chucks out some brilliant comments on life and some random thoughts and always gets a shitload of interest.


Stage 5 - Fading Star

I've seen lots of blogs at this stage. The writer still posts and writes, but the frequency decreases rapidly. Often it occurs as the writer gets to a new stage in their life. Their circumstances change, perhaps they don't have the time available that they used to or the "E" key from their keyboard has been stolen. It can happ n you know just not oft n. Lanetop looks to have gone this way recently. I don't know if Yo has been busy or just gone a bit quiet for a while but all seems fairly inactive on his blog. I do hope it returns with a vengeance.

Stage 6 - Dead and Gone

This stage doesn't need a whole load of explanation. It's when a blog is dead. And gone. Indyana's Married with Kids looks to be dead and gone. It was a blog many enjoyed and disappeared almost overnight. Hot Chocolate went the same way. It still exists but hasn't seen much activity for many moons. It was one of my favourites too.

And, so endeth my stages. I read some chap somewhere who said that a blog, if not updated at least every three days, will die very quickly. I must agree. Bloggers and blogs can last if updated less frequently than every three days but us readers have short attention spans and soon forget. We move on and, like everything in this magnificently virtual world, we move on much more quickly than we do in real life.

Seizing the day.

I made a comment on Sach's blog the other day on this post.

I told her that she should "plan for tomorrow but enjoy today".

I read Nazreen Sansoni's post for the New Year, where she quotes something similar.

I thought.

I came to a conclusion.

I probably should not start so many sentences with the word "I".

I came to another conclusion.

The New Year is a time of reflection for many of us and I've done some, to realise that way too much of my life is spent chasing deadlines and working towards targets, I've let things go too far in the way of planning for the future and investing for tomorrow.

Why is this?

Simple really. For a good few years I've done many things that have been targetted, whether it's learning a new drum part, trying to find a new band, achieving P + L at work or waiting for an upcoming holiday.

The irony is that all these different targets, goals or objectives have actually got in the way of letting me enjoy the current day. Because I haven't set my targets properly, I haven't paid attention to the management speak I learned all those moons ago.

I haven't been SMART. As a young management trainee I was taught that a good target is a SMART one. It was one of the few things that stayed in my head. That means it is:

Specific
Measurable
Attainable
Realistic
Timed.

I've been doing it too half baked for too long. I've sat down with myself in a meeting and said

"I'm going to try to learn some new drum fills" or

"I'm going to work harder" or

"I'm going to spend more time with the kids".

But, those kind of things don't really fit in with much of the SMART principle. The result is that, in many avenues, I have felt as if I am continually striving for something, as if I'm on an eternal quest for something. It's not a frame of mind that is all negative; it's good to look at continual improvement, but it's also vitally important to enjoy the present time.

The "work for tomorrow" mindset is one that is so, so common amongst people in the Western world. We put bucket loads of time and energy into working hard to gain promotion or earn more money, so that we can buy the dream house, have the 2.2 children and live the "idyllic" existence in ten year's time. Many people I see and know in Sri Lanka appear to do the same but also manage to live the day and enjoy things as they are. You may say that the people I am judging things by are not a representative sample of the populace of Sri Lanka. You'd be correct.

This all affects me and the way in which I want to live my life though. The significant change I want to make is to try to enjoy the present more. By setting "Smarter" targets I think I'll do this. I'll know that I have achieved things and I'll get more satisfaction from those things.

PS - I actually wrote this post a few months ago and never published it. That's common for me, I write a lot of posts and file them, occasionally I read one, marvel at my wit and chuck it out for public consumption.

Out On The Lash

Saturday night saw me and my brothers on one of our rare nights out together. It's not often these days that we get to spend time together, particularly brotherly time when there are no wives or girlfriends around. So, on this particular one, circumstances had been favourable and we had decided to hit the town. The academic brother, who you already know, was in town for the weekend. The music business brother was available and I was, well, as available as I ever am, which is rather a lot.

The parents were excited as we were all going to stay the night at their place. It meant that my Mum would get all motherly and the old man would pretend to be as calm and collected as ever, while secretly feeling a bit chuffed that his three sons were around. Saturday afternoon consisted mostly of myself and Tarquin trying to set up a wireless internet system thing in the olds' house. It eventually worked rather well, but only after about two hours' worth of calls to AOL. We learned a lot about Indian call centres, my fellow, called Hash, had been working there for three and a half years but was worth his weight in gold, not that I actually know how much he weighs or how much gold costs to be honest.

Then, music biz bro turned up, in his slow moving four wheel drive thing, the sort I thought people under fifty weren't allowed to buy. After the usual splashes of cologne and that men's thing of spending ages getting ready so that we looked as if we hadn't spent ages getting ready, we set off for Richmond. The evening was a glorious sunshiney one, Richmond was going to be packed full to the rafters with its normal mix of chavs and beautiful people and they'd mostly be out by the river. So we headed away from the river to a bar owned by one of Tarquin's friends.

It's a pleasant place, we know a few people there and it seems to attract a slightly older clientele than many of Richmond's other places. So we got there, got some drinks in and settled in to fend off the women, enjoy the ambience and shoot the shit about life.

Music biz bro has a best friend, who is a friend of all of ours', who's a total legend. We all grew up together and used to play football, cops and robbers, cars, bikes and you name it with him and his brother. He's also a drummer, one of the first people that I used to watch playing in detail, and a fine bloke. Oh, he's also a bit of a love god. He's got boy band looks and always has some kind of blonde stunner hanging onto his arm, invariably she's about half his age with very rich parents. His name is Weston.

We'd grabbed ourselves a table by the window and the window was one of those massive french type things that was open. Suddenly there was a flurry of activity outside the window and a noise that sounded like an old scooter without an exhaust screeching to a halt. You've guessed it. It was an old scooter without an exhaust screeching to a halt, with Weston riding it. He dismounted, then got off the scooter, then jumped through the window. Fortunately it was open.

Now, without trying to sound big headed I think it's fair to say that me and my siblings are three reasonably good looking blokes. We get our fair share of looks from the opposite sex and the odd bit of conversation now and again. But, as Weston jumped through the window and proceeded to remove his crash helmet and gloves, we felt like the ugly supporting actors in Happy Days when the Fonz turned up. Even before he had removed the gloves there was some kind of blonde apparition at our table telling him how great his band were last week. With my usual man's intuition and knack for reading people I knew immediately, from the way she ignored me and my brothers, that she was a lesbian.

Weston joined us for a few drinks before going off to a party somewhere. It was reminiscent of Flashart in Blackadder as women swooned at him and he exchanged pleasantries with almost every person in the bar. Rik Mayall was brilliant as Flashart and many would say that his was one of Blackadder's most memorable characters. Lines such as

"You treat your woman like your kite............get inside her at least 5 times a day, and take her to heaven & back!"

Pure genius!

Flashart left us. We told him where we were going to be later that night, at our local curry house, he made a spectacular exit through the French window and we watched as he attempted to wheelspin away into the sunset. I gather that wheelspins on a scooter with an engine about as powerful as a glass of warm water aren't that easy so Weston actually just rode off, narrowly missing a bus that he hadn't spotted whilst waving to us.

We stayed at the wine bar, drinking and chatting about the usual topics that three brothers talk about. I asked them who their perfect woman was, in terms of looks alone. We chatted about this for quite while, in the amount of detail that only a man would fully understand. Music Biz bro said Kelly Brook, that brunette woman. I can't remember what Tarquin said but I, of course, said Jennifer Aniston. We perused the whole subject of women for a while. After the perusal we concluded that they are indeed strange creatures, perhaps you know one, or maybe you went to school with one.

We left the wine bar and headed off into a taxi to the local Indian restaurant. It's a bit of a legend this restaurant. My family has eaten there for about the last twenty years and takeaways to my parents' house are one of the restaurant's regular activities. My parents are convinced that one of the chefs, a Sri Lankan, makes a "special" salad for them. It is special, only if you consider tomatoes, onions and lettuce special though. We ate our way through way too much food, a particular hooby of mine, we did the usual chit chat thing with the manager / owner of the place. You know the score, when you tell the bloke how your parents are, how many kids you've got and what you do for a living, only to have to answer exactly the same questions to the same person the next week.

The restaurant gradually emptied and before long we were the only customers and the door was closed to new customers. The waiters were doing that waiter's thing where they scuttle around in the background to make you well aware that you're required to go as soon as possible. Then, there was a knocking sound on the locked front door. We looked, the waiters looked and we all saw a bloke in a crash helmet outside. It was Weston. He had done his night's partying and womanising and decided to come and meet us. Music biz bro had kindly got all our food put in a doggy bag for Weston, he's probably the type who often doesn't eat for days at a time. We had a laugh for a while and then headed home.

I remember Weston riding around the pavement on the scooter with Tarquin on the back of it, then he deposited his passenger and headed off into the night, doggy bag of Indian food hanging from the handlebars. I imagine the weight of the bag would have about halved the speed of his scooter, but he seemed not to mind.

We walked the short walk back, I left my brothers to play carrom and I went to bed. As I fell asleep I though of life and how it must be for a fellow like Weston; an endless stream of gorgeous blonde women hanging on his every word, wild sex without any commitment or inhibitions, continual partying, singing in one band and playing the drums in a few others.

What kind of like is that?

On "Dropping In"

I was brought up here in England, by Sri Lankan parents. So, my life has been a mixture of Sri Lankan traditions and customs and British ones too.

One of the truly great Sri Lankan things that I have got used to is "dropping in". I suspect that hardly anyone who reads this will have any problem in understanding exactly what I'm talking about. My childhood was full of visits and visitors.

At a moment's notice the family would pile into a car to go and drop in on some, usually Sri Lankan, Uncle and Aunty. It was always a pleasure for them to see us. We'd turn up, kids would play, drinks and food would be served then we'd wander off home. The next weekend there was every chance that the Uncle and Aunty would turn up wholly unannounced at our place and the hospitality would be returned. There'd be no phone calls to prearrange things, no formal invitations and certainly no planning or worries about "what if they're not there?" The answer to the last question was a simple detour to go and drop in on someone else.

It's a concept that the average Englishman finds hard to handle. It only really happens between great friends among the English. An Englishman's home being his castle and all whereas a Sri Lankan's home is everyone else's too. With the English it tends to be the norm that one has to be invited, then the invitation is accepted, or declined, and you arrive within four nanoseconds of the allocated time.

A Sri Lankan, like my Dad, gets invited somewhere, then forgets about it anyway. Then he remembers, invariably after he has double booked for the night. Then he will turn up at the venue, anytime from half an hour to six months late.

This dropping in is extended to people staying too. I can remember a vast array of people that would be regular guests at the family home when I was a kid. They would arrive, we'd be shoved into another room somewhere and all would be quite happy about it. I was talking to a Sri Lankan friend who was brought up in the UK recently and she said that it was the same for her childhood, it was more than likely to have been many of the same people too!

At my parents' house now it's common for me to turn up and find any one, or two or three, of their friends there, who have dropped in. This can even be Brits, those that have known my Mum and Dad for years and understand the whole dropping in concept.

Frankly I love the whole idea. It's a wonderful example of Sri Lankan hospitality and warmth. The one thing I'm unsure of is whether it's a concept that other nationalites do, or is it uniquely Sri Lankan?

What do you reckon?

More Macbook News

So, here I am, sitting here surrounded by parents, waiting for the rain in the West Indies to stop and for Sri Lanka to beat the Aussies in the final. It may be a long wait!

There must be people around the world feeling just like this household does right now. Just want the match to start, I bet none of us want it to have to wait until tomorrow. Sky Sports, the channel of choice here in the UK is showing highlights from the other good matches in the world cup. I wonder if everyone watching this feels as half hearted as I do. No one really wants to see highlights of previous matches right now. I wonder if everyone shares my opinion on Malinga's hair. That's hardly a chap who wants to stay out of the limelight is it? I was thinking of adopting the same hairstyle but have decided that Sanath's shiney look may be one that suits my rate of hair growth more than Malinga's.

My Dad spoke to his family in Sri Lanka this morning, apparently all the boys in his village have got firecrackers at the ready. It's an occasion that I would love to be enjoying in the heart of Colombo. I bet the atmosphere is kicking there.

What else?

I'm getting more used to this MacBook thing I bought. Everything about is has grabbed me. Thanks to all the people who left comments on my first post about it. I now know how to select multiple items in a list and am finding my way around the other idiosyncrasies. The more I learn about these idiosyncrasies, the more I think that they're actually common sense and it's PCs and windows that have weird things and strange illogical design. The more I get used to the MacBook the more I feel that my work PC is clunky, the design is messy and its keyboard is second rate.

I haven't figured out the MacMail thing yet. On first opening it asked me if I wanted to set up an account. I tried, I failed, I gave up. I now get some error message whenever I go there telling me that my password has been rejected. It's not a dealbreaker, just frustrating and annoying. I can't think of anyone I know that actually uses a mac mail address anyway.

I am wondering about my wisdom in buying a black MacBook though. I think it looks better than white, I prefer the general ambience of it. I like black things, not in excess but I'm partial to a splash of black now and again. The problem though is fingermarks; they show up everywhere. There must be some handy tips for keeping these things fingermarkless.

I'm getting used to the dock, to the F9 key, what a great little key that is and the simplistic design. Years of habit mean that I am struggling to recognise the Safari icon as that for the Internet, I'm sure that will change soon.

So, for now, I'm off. The players are out on the pitch, it looks like some kind of match is about to start.

Let's hope my next post is one of the millions that will celebrate Sri Lanka winning the world cup!!

What's Going Down?

There I was the other morning. Standing in the shower and thinking about Colombo.

It's something I do a lot of, particularly recently, what with the cricket going on.

I'm hugely excited about the final tomorrow, as are most Sri Lankans I guess. Here in England most people I've spoken to about it think that the Aussies will probably win. But, they also say that this is a world cup in which the two best teams have ended up in the final, that, if anyone can do it and beat the Aussies, it's the Sri Lankans.

I agree.

Tomorrow afternoon I'll be watching the match at my parents' house. I'll be wishing I was in Colombo though.

Good Luck Sri Lanka!!

I've Got This Energy

My current choice of popular beat combo is the Killers, specifically " Sam's Town" their latest offering.

I wasn't a big fan of this particular band, their drummer, an American by the name of Ronnie Vanucci, is revered as a young up and coming buck in the drum world and I must confess that I would agree. He comes up with some incredibly inventive parts that have a very different sound yet still feel correct for each song. And let's face it, a bloke with name like Ronnie Vanucci is hardly going to be from the South of England is he now? Unless you're thinking of the Ronnie Vanucci from Bournemouth, the ice cream man.

But, I had to learn "When you were young" for the new covers band, I did find myself singing along to the singles and thought I'd buy the album anyway, not that I ever need an excuse to buy an album at the best of times.

As is my usual habit immediately after I'd bought it I whacked it in the car CD player and listened to it at every opportunity. It didn't grab me at first, but I persevered, then bang, it had me hooked.

The first song, called Sam's Town, is a massive affair. Big production, lots of voices and many sections. It's got more complicated sections than some of the harder parts of Dark Side of the Moon and it makes me feel good. It opens with a big intro, all rolling keyboard lines and big cymbal crashes and rolls around Ronnie's drum kit and then it kicks in to a verse that's got about seventeen different drum grooves going on within it, none of which feel wrong.

It's a song that has to be played loud, then turned up a few notches to make sure. But, what captured me in this song is one line which I wish I'd written myself:

" I've got this energy beneath my feet,
like something underground's gonna come up and carry me"

Ok, two lines, but one sentence, albeit with a bit of slang thrown in. I was talking to a friend about the line. He said that he could visualise standing on the ground and watching buildings spring up around him. For me, I can hear the line and virtually feel as if I'm standing still but feeling so energised that my feet are vibrating and, well something's going to come up and carry me. Hardly imaginative but the best description I can think of to be honest.

The song continues to bombard the ears with a mixture of dynamics and clever lyrics then finishes with a nifty quiet bit where the atmosphere changes and goes all harmonious. The next song is an interesting piano and vocal number that serves as a nice bridge between the opener and the big single "When you were young".

But, after some serious listening to each song what has stuck in my mind is that they're clever songs, but not in an arsey way. It's as if each one is a little masterpiece in its own right. As if each one is a song in a musical and all the sections are carefully considered and thought out before being recorded. Usually when I hear an album with "big" production I end up thinking it's been overproduced and that someone has tried to do much. My main love in music is raw and simple things, like good old fashioned funk and Emerson Lake and Palmer.

This album is an exception. Massive production, massive voices, lots of instrumentation and some catchy tunes with it.

It's a keeper!

Being an Agony Uncle

You know the way some chap comes to you, usually a good friend, tells you all about his (or her) latest serious relationship problem and asks you for your advice. Then you give chap the required advice. You know that every word, every single thing you've said makes perfect sense, that one of those Doctors on TV would have said the same stuff only not as convincingly.

Then, some time later, you discover that the friend has waltzed off into the outside world and done the exact opposite of your plan. You've told the friend that he needs to ignore the girl, or he needs to wear women's clothes to impress her and gain her heart, and he has gone straight out and talked to her all the time whilst wearing the clothes of a man. Then he comes back to you in a state of even more upset and anguish because she has spurned him.

So, why does this happen?

Well I've been pondering on this phenomenon lately and have developed a bit of a theory. The first thing to understand is that often the poor fellow in need doesn't actually want any advice, he just wants to talk to someone and let things out.

If advice is actually required then we (the agony Uncles) always look at things from an objective and detached viewpoint. I invariably start by saying things like

"If I was in your position..."

I'll go on to advise the friend exactly what I think I would do if I were in their situation. I'll have taken the facts, as presented to me by the friend, looked at them logically and objectively and processed them in my vastly befuddled brain, the one that is normally miles away from where it is required. Then I'll go off on one and advise the chap on exactly how I see things.

That's the crux of my new theory. I, and I bet you do it too, have given advice based on facts and emotional detachment. Said friend is stuck in the middle of things, his (or her) emotions are set on gas mark "totally involved" and their view of things is enhanced, clouded, filtered or influenced by love, chemicals and all sorts of subjectivity that shouldn't be allowed in the developed world. Or the developing world come to think of it. Our advice is wholly innapropriate, entirely wrong and always ignored.

So how do we avoid this happening in the future?

Well my plan is very simple.

You still listen to the friend in need but, before you proffer a single word of wisdom, just ask them if they want your advice or if they just want to talk and let stuff out. Be genuine and sincere and you'll be surprised how many people don't want to know your advice and are actually happy to say so.

If the chap just wants to talk and has no need for words of wisdom then a useful accesory is an iPod. You can surreptitiously bung the earphones in and listen away to your heart's content to whatever takes your fancy, while the heartbroken fellow spurts on about unrequited love, using sex toys on buses and the other normal things. Just master the art of saying "yes" or "mmm" or nodding your head in agreement at the right intervals. Advanced listeners can even learn a phrase or two to throw into the proceedings but care and due diligence should be exercised. Situations can be embarrassing and painful for all concerned when you come out with

"You're better off without her, I never thought she was right for you" in response to your soon to be ex friend telling you how sad he is because his Mother has just died.

Just be careful, use common sense and always try to make your comments as general as possible, while making your patient think that you're being smart and specific. Some handy phrases are:

"I see what you're going through" and "It can't easy for you at all".

They're applicable to almost any scenario and the fellow in need will think you're listening to his every utterance.

It's worth adding that I have heard stories of people using MP3 players other than iPods. I can neither verify or recommend the practice. Yes there are other MP3 players available, some people argue that they're better than iPods, they may even be correct. But these are poor quality people and their opinions should be disregarded. They don't understand the beauty of an iPod, the pure sexiness in its design. Would you seek relationship advice from a fellow who had a generic MP3 player? Me neither.

Don't shatter you credibility into a gazillion pieces later in the conversation by giving out some advice. No, just listen and shut the fuck up.

However, if they do want your advice, then by all means give it freely. Listen to their story of woe, despite the fact that it will inevtably be about a girl who either isn't interested in the chap or whose interest the chap can't ascertain.

Give good advice based on your objective and logical opinion. Don't try things like looking at it from their point of view, you can't. Just give out the wisdom with the full knowledge that it will be ignored. Be happy about it. Be flattered that you have been asked. Be happy that, like Jose, you are the chosen one. Just be aware that he'll go off and do the opposite.

That's the trick, the golden shower, if you like.

Listen, talk, get ignored then be prepared to do it all again the next time.

Aaaah....friendship!

Black is the new Black- Yay!

So I went out and bought myself one of these MacBook things, in black. Not that I was wearing black when I bought it, but that the actual laptop is in black.

I've been a PC user all my computer using life. Macs have always been for creative types, educational types and trendies. I've never really fitted itno any of those categories. But, good design is something I'm a sucker for, spending silly amounts of money on things that are wholly unnecessary but still sexy is something I'm good at and this Mac stuff looks like it might just catch on.

For the last few weeks I have hanging around the new Apple Store in Kingston. It's a place that has done wonders to restore my faith in good customer service. We Brits (?) can do it if we really want to. Ok I know those Apple fellows aren't exactly British and but the shop is staffed mostly by Brits and they appear to do a fine job. I've been rapidly seduced by the great attitude of its staff, they've been friendly and knowledgeable and, on the rare occasions when someone hasn't known the answer to a question, they've found it out for me. These things matter to me and usually influence my buying decisions massively. I always prefer to pay a bit more for something if that means I'm buying from somewhere that gives good service. I'm definitely not one who asks questions in shops, finds out everything I need to know and then sails off and buys the thing over the internet.

Today I went back and finally bought this MacBook thing. It's the one I'm typing this on, as you can see. In just a few hours of play it has become almost my new favourite thing. I'm totally unfamiliar with Mac software so that's going to be a new learning curve to climb, one that I'm already enjoying. The keyboard is one of these sunken ones, no big keys poking out from the depths, just these little things that feel quite good to use. The display is bright and, as I've never had a laptop before, I'm being continually pleasantly surprised by the way in which I can tilt the screen to suit my chosen angle.

The entire contents of my iTunes library have been imported, this is something I am particularly pleased about, as iTunes and keeping my photographs to hand are the two things I'll use it most for. I use lots of different playlists for keeping sets and songs I play in the bands, as well as for the reasons normal people do. The next tactical move will be to import my photographs, then I'll be free to start playing around with things.

So far I've been amazed and delighted by the simplicity of its design and the ease in which I've been able to do things. There's no vast array of buttons everywhere, flashing lights and things poking out from every nook and cranny. I've still got to investigate all the function keys and many of its little touches but, as that Neville Timberland bloke would say " I'm lovin' it"

One of the best bits is that it's black. As I'm not an Apple purist I saw no need to insist on it being in white. Of course this means I'll have to buy a black iPod at some point too. But I don't feel as if I'm flaunting my Appleness too much.

And that has been what I've been up to, apart from all the other stuff which you just may know about already.

Now, does anyone know how to select multiple items from a list on a Mac? As if you were going to right click and scroll down on a PC, to select several consecutive lines.

Have a good week Colombo!

That Plastic Stuff

I was printing some things on one of the office printers today. It's a new printer that we've had here for about a month, rather nice, it prints and does printer type things like jamming and spilling toner everywhere.

I noticed that no one had taken the plastic protective sheeting thing off the display panel. You know that protective film that all electronic things have on their clear panels before they're actually bought. It's on phone displays, on remote controls, it's on decent watch faces and pretty much anything you can think of.

So I immediately peeled it off, to reveal a sparkling unblemished clear plastic panel underneath.

As far as I'm concerned that's what we are supposed to do. We buy something, we take it home, we peel off all the peelable offable things and have fun. But some people don't do that. They keep the protective film on for the lifetime of the specific device.

Why?

It doesn't make sense to me. It's like owning a classic Ferrari and never driving it or having a beautiful snare drum made from wood found at the bottom of Lake Superior and never playing it. Or, the worst offence as far as I'm concerned, owning a settee and forcing people to sit on the plastic covering rather than on the actual upholstery.

What's all that about then?

What Would You Do?

About two years ago I read a book. It had a section on fear and how to overcome it. It suggested that we ask ourselves the following question as a means of overcoming fear:

"What would you do if you weren't afraid?"

I've since applied this question to many areas of my life, sometimes with rather worrying results. The idea is not that you use the question as a device to help you in driving at 95 mph through Hounslow High St or, for the Sri Lankan crowd, at 5 mph down Duplication Road, those kind of things are just plain stupid. But the idea is that you ask yourself what things you are not doing, or don't do, in your life purely because of the fear factor.

So, if fear is the only thing holding you back, then just do it. In about two years of bunging this question into my everyday activities I've done lots of things I probably wouldn't have done before. It's been a bit about learning that fear is a good thing to have, a nice emotion to feel, but not a reason in itself to prevent me from going ahead and doing stuff.

One of the biggest applications of this for me has been in my day to day dealings with people and in procrastinating. I realised that I would often postpone certain tasks because I was actually afraid of doing them, so now I try to launch into them whenever possible.

A bit of fear is good, it helps to keep us grounded and helps us to avoid stupid mistakes. But, I don't want it to stop me from doing things I actually want to do.

What about you?

What would you do if you weren't afraid?

Those days

Apart from a paper round, my very first job was working in a local camera shop. It was a shop owned by a good friend of my Dad and it was one of those "favours" that ended up being useful to all. In true Tommy Cooper fashion I should also point out that it was only a "local camera shop" if you lived nearby.

I can't imagine that I'll ever forget the first task I was given. The shop had a load of bellows, for close up work, in many different fittings, and was trying to get rid of them. Jan, the owner's wife and manager said to me, and I mean she was the wife of the owner, not actually his manager, although that could be a whole new debate:

"Can you go and stack all those bellows boxes in the window?"

Off I went, to return twenty minutes later to tell her I'd done it. Being seventeen and totally clueless about anything except masturbating and heavy rock was never going to put me firmly on the first rung of the managerial ladder. And, being honest, my knowledge of heavy rock wasn't that good at then either. Jan took a look at my "window display" and started to laugh.
"I meant to make some kind of nice and attractive looking display, not really what you've done."
I had stacked the boxes, like bricks, up against the inside of the window. Each box was about the size of a brick and it had seemed like a good idea. From outside the shop people could no longer even see through the window because of my "bellows boxes" wall.

She viciously and cruelly demolished my wall and then showed me how to make an eye catching display. Over the next few days the bellows flew out of the shop as if close up photography was highly cool and trendy and there was a international bellows shortage and we were the only place in the world to have some left.

Years later I found out that, at the time, close up photography was highly cool and trendy, there was a worldwide bellows shortage and we were indeed the only place in the world to have some. Amazing.

This was in the 1980s and it was one of those old fashioned owner run shops, the type we hardly have around London these days. There wasn't the remotest thought of a no smoking policy let alone any legislation about smoking in public, so we'd happily serve customers while smoking fags and not one customer ever batted an eyelid, unless they got smoke in their eye. The bulk of the shop's revenue came from consumables like film and batteries and developing and printing. But we had a reasonable stock of second hand gear and even a few new things that I always took pride in selling.

I remember being captivated by a little second hand outfit we had once. It was a Pentax Auto 110 outfit (I hope I remember the name correctly). If you're under about thirty you won't have a clue about 110 film, unless you're a photographer. It was a tiny sized cartridge film that was used in compact cameras. The image quality was crap, because the negative was tiny. But, Pentax brought out this little 110 SLR, complete with a few lenses for it. I think it was an aperture priority only model and it was a little beauty. It had all the handling and features of a bigger 35mm SLR, just without the image quality. I played with it for a few days and it so nearly became my first camera until I came to understand that I'd want better image quality.

My first serious camera was to come. It was an old Minolta SRT 101 with a 58mm f1.4 lens. It was a second hand model but a stylish and lovely old tank of a camera. Manual only and with a rather spectacular lens that I still have in my garage somewhere. In those days we learnt about photography in a very different way to today's shoot, view and delete methods. Zoom lenses weren't the norm so we had to actually move to change the framing, film usually stayed in the camera until we finished the roll and we would send it off and wait for the pictures to actually see the results.

Don't get the wrong impression. I have no doubt that today's photographic world, full of digital images, digital cameras and cheap high quality optics is far better than that of yesteryear. Since I went digital I have rediscovered my interest in the fantastic art that photography is. I can learn from my mistakes quickly and easily, I can take better pictures without fear of finishing my roll of film or the cost of developing and printing. I can choose to point and shoot or have full manual control or anything in between, all in an SLR that's about the size of one of yesteryear's Olympus Trips.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I pull out some of those twenty year old photographs and get flooded with nostalgia. They seem to contain vivid memories. Call me old fashioned, but there's something so tactile about those old treasures. That's without even getting started on all the old boxes of Kodachrome 64 slides I've got stashed away.

The shop closed down many years ago, I'm still in touch with Phil, the owner, but sadly lost touch with Jan after they split up. But, I drive past the shop on a regular basis. It's now a Thai restaurant and, whilst the decor is totally different, the windows are still there. I cruise past and gaze at the window, thinking fondly of the bellows wall.

Joys Of Music

I had an extra good Mimosa band practice the other night. Please pull up a chair and relax, pour yourself a glass of wine and allow me to tell you about my joyous evening. Or don't.

The studio where we practice is a typical British rehearsal set up. Now I don't know what they are like in any other Country but UK ones share certain traits. For starters they are always in premises that are cheap. Musicians, apart from the ones with some money, are penniless, that's a fact. So studios are bunged under railway arches, in the back of a printer's warehouse on an industrial estate or, as in the case of our chosen place, in an old iron shed in the back of a builder's yard.

They smell. Of tobacco, drugs, urine and creativity. They're decorated with bits of old instruments and, in our favoured one, with various parts of an old VW Beetle that has been cut up and scattered around. In its reception area is the whole backside of this car. It's been cut in half from a point just in front of the back seats and I often sit in its "back" and chill. It takes me back to my childhood when my parents had a Beetle and I'd sit in the little cubby hole type of thing behind the back seats.

But, the most important thing about every single one of these rehearsal places, is that they're warm, in every sense of the word. Most bands have a regular slot for their practice, ours is Tuesday evening in case you were wondering. As a result everyone gets friendly with each other, as bands vacate one studio they get to talk to the band coming into it and some jolly nice little relationships develop. There are always bands who book a rehearsal studio as a one off, they are accommodated and treated with scorn and disdain by us regulars.

There's a bunch of youngish geezers who are usually in our studio (the large one at the end) immediately before us and I've got to know them a bit. Mostly because I'm obsessively early to everything so I get to see them for a while as we swap places and shoot the shit. They're one of those Indy Rocky outfits, doing their own songs and seemingly good musicians. The drummer, Sam, is a twenty something guy, he's been to music college and plays things that, if I even dreamt of playing, would make me wake up feeling nervous and insecure.

One of their guitarists is in a band with our trumpet player and has seen us play live, so knows us quite well, their singer has got that mean look sorted to perfection. He's got both arms covered in tattoos, he's quite muscular, though not so much that he looks like a twat, he's got a shaved head and usually wears "rock star" clothes. If I didn't know him and saw him as I was walking down the street I wouldn't know whether to cross the road to avoid getting beaten up by him or to ask for his autograph.

Then , when he talks, out comes the most middle class English accent one could imagine. He sounds like one of the characters from a 70's BBC sitcom. He's polite, respectful and thoroughly decent. One of those rare men who I can well imagine never farts in private as it's too rude, but will happily do it on stage for the audience. In ten years' time he'll win The Apprentice and go on to run Amstrad or perhaps even a successful Company.

The bassist, whose name I don't know, is one of those guys who's an automatic target for piss taking, bullying and general mockery. He has that look about him. As if he thinks he's very streetwise but is actually naive and wide eyed, like a rabbit in the headlights. Not one of those "ladies" rabbits either. I was watching a video of the Manic Street Preachers' new song the other day and I realised that this chap must be basing his look on that of Nicky Wire, the Manics' bassist. Frankly I think Nicky Wire looks like an idiot, black eyeliner, longish rockstar hair, tall and lanky, but he can just about carry it off, in the way that multi millionaire rock stars with adoring fans all over the world usually can.

This chap, the nameless one, has a slightly more mundane day to day existence yet still goes for the make up and the general look. It's all well and good on stage at Glastonbury, just a bit weird at the fish counter at Tesco. I'm not even sure whether his local Tesco has got a fish counter. Come to think of it he may be vegetarian, but he's the sort who might be buying fish for his Mum. All his fellow bandmembers mock him regularly and I, with my track record for standing up for the defenceless and the weak, have joined them too. It's all good harmful fun.

Up until about a month ago I'd never actually heard these guys play. I've not been to one of their gigs and our meetings take place as they have finished their rehearsal. But, about a month ago, I was sitting in the back of the Beetle in reception waiting for them to finish when Mike, the singer, came out of their studio. He strolled over to me, he's way too cool to just walk, and asked me if I'd come and have a listen to a couple of new songs they'd written. I was surprised and rather chuffed by this and followed him into the abyss. Of course I tried to do my nonchalent strolling musician walk as I went. I can't get the knack of wearing my jeans halfway down my arse though and my tattoo doesn't show unless I have my shirt off. And good God, I'd catch my death of cold if I wore something sleeveless.

I sat down, after saying a cheerful What Ho to the lads. It dawned on me that, in about two years of knowing them, I didn't have the slightest idea what they'd actually sound like. They kicked off. The songs were all pretty good, one in particular caught my ear. Their sound reminded me of some of the more edgy US rock that is all the rage over there. A bit Creed, a bit Pearl Jam and with well written and well played songs. They asked my opinion. A very stupid thing to ask, but they had done it.

All I could offer was a minor suggestion about the bass drum part during the verse of one of the songs. I thought that it would feel better if Sam, the drummer, simplified it ever so slightly. One of the huge benefits of a tad of experience is the vital realisation that simple can be wonderful. Then I left them to it, they packed up and I set up and life went on.

This week, on Tuesday, Mike grabbed me again. He asked if I wanted to sit in and have a listen as they were playing a few songs to a handful of people that hadn't heard them before. Again I was pleased to be asked and happily trotted in to find several girls there. One of them turned out to be Mike's "new bird" and the others I recognised as a band that practices in one of the other studios on a Tuesday too. Although there is that instant bond between musicians I have to confess to struggling with it when they are ugly women.

I'm a liberal chap, I believe in equality of the sexes, equality of opportunity and I even think that female Sri Lankan Doctors shouldn't call themselves "Dr (Mrs)". But even I have my limits and women in music is fine, but they should be attractive.

So, we sat, we laughed, we listened and we watched. The band ran through four songs, one of which was the new one that I had liked so much previously. It felt rewarding when they played it and, as they got to the first verse, the drummer looked and smiled at me and then played it in the way I had suggested.

The nameless bassist had his make up on and his Timberland boots. He's not the greatest player around but he had a certain bit of life in his playing. He danced around a bit and looked like he was enjoying himself. This is an important factor in my own judgement of a band. They can be the best musicians under the sun but, if they don't look like they're having fun, then I probably won't. Drummer and singers usually do look like fun is being had, as what we do is so physical that it's almost always enjoyable. Guitarists often get one of those faces, you know the one that looks like they are concentrating very hard, usually because they are.

But the nameless fellow was well into it. I liked that. He still looked like an idiot, I'll take the piss out of him next week for that thing his bandmembers told me about, you know, the blow job business, but fair play to him for trying to put on a bit of a show, to an audience of five as well.

They finished their stuff, we applauded with genuine enthusiasm and the girls went off to continue to murder some songs. I hung around, I shook Sam, the drummer's hand and complimented him on his playing. Even thought the little bastard is half my age and twice my ability I still like to show my appreciation. I tried to squeeze his hand as hard as I could though.

Then the Mimosian chaps arrived, we set up and got on with our stuff. I was left with a feeling of wonder and warm enthusiasm. It was nice that we have a little community at the rehearsal studio. What was more apparent and powerful was that music is a strong thing. It brings people together, it touches lives in special ways and it's something I truly can't imagine not having in my life.

Terrific eh!

Drain Me!!!

In the recent past I've started to take an interest in energy. Not the gas and electricity bill type of energy, more the energy exuded, or not exuded by particular people.

I've never considered myself to be a deep person, I'm not spiritual nor do I look at things in a very meaningful way. Except those pictures of Britney Spears on that night out. Like most men I looked rather deeply at those and felt a strange connection, a kind of stirring and that feeling of warmth and friendship.

Britney aside, I've become increasingly aware that different people exude a different sense of energy. Some people can fluctuate on a regular basis; one minute they ooze with positivity and enthusiasm and the next minute they make you feel more miserable than an Indian cricketer.

The types who fluctuate on that regular basis are rare. Most people are one or the other. Up in the big positive league or down in the "depressing all the time" lower levels. I don't know why it's a phenomenon that I've only become aware of recently, maybe other people have known about it all their life, but it's changed the way I evaluate and judge people.

As I plunder and drum my way through my life, with a sort of wide eyed child like enthusiasm for all the things I'm passionate about, I discover and learn things. This has been a big discovery for me and I like it.

I know that I want to be one of the positive ones, one of the optimists and motivators, a person who can portray a zest for life and make people smile. I also know that I don't want have many of those energy "drainers" in my life.

These are the people who make me feel as is they have sucked the energy out of me with their own misery and suffering. You know them don't you. Those ones who just moan, who don't seem to be able to say good things about life. I've got about three or four of these chaps in my life now, they usually mean well but, after spending about a minute with any one of them, I feel as if I've done ten rounds with Leonard Cohen.

That's why I don't like to rant and rave much. The blogs I read, the people I choose to mix with, the music I listen to and the people I love dearly are those that make me happy and make me laugh. Everyone can have a spell of feeling down, just not an extended spell.

I'd never paid much attention to it before and had thought that there are some people who are just a bit negative and depressing. But they're worse than that. It's the ones who, when asked how they are say something like

"Not bad, work's totally busy and I'm really tired"

It's all delivered with a long sigh and a feeling of doom and gloom and makes you wish as if you'd never asked. Why? My only answer to this is that it's because it's much easier to moan and talk about bad things than it is to enthuse and talk about good things. Criticism of the negative variety is easy and cheap. Constructive criticism and positive ideas are much harder to come up with but so much more powerful.

I've got friends in my life who are massive sources of inspiration and positivity for me. They're people I've learnt much from, who have infectious enthusiasm, not to be confused with stupidity, and the types who can also act as role models for me.

My newest aim is to find more of these fellows and to try to take an accurate measurement of their positivity rating as soon as possible.

Positive energy is good. Energy drainers are not.

Out.

Who Gets Your Three Per Cent?

One of the things that I've realised since I started the blog, since I got a reader or two, is that people assume, understandably so, that they know you from reading your words. London, Lanka and drums is, I think, a decent reflection of me as a person. I tend to write about things that are going on in my life and how I see them, my "writing style" isn't a style, it's just the way I report life.

But I don't write everything about me in my blog. It's all true, but it's not the whole me. Recently I had one of those epiphany type of things when I started to think about the people who know me and how much of me they know.

You see, I think I'm actually a rather private person. The things I talk about here are sometimes deep but they're the things I'd chat to most people about. I've met chaps who instantly appear to bare their soul and innermost thoughts and feelings to every passing stranger. I'm not one of them. About sixty to seventy per cent of the real me is what I give away to most friends and acquaintances. It's not that I lie to them or try to put across a false image, just that I don't reveal that thirty to forty per cent of my thoughts to those people.

The next group is my close friends and many of my family. They have access to about eighty to ninety per cent of my mind. I don't tell them everything but those at the ninety per cent get close to knowing the real me, my more private thoughts and feelings. But there's usually a bit held back.

The top group, that elite band of Top Guns is my very best friends and my closest family members. Most of them have almost full access to my workings and feelings. But even they don't get it all. I reckon my closest confidantes get about ninety seven per cent of me. They know me better than anyone, they get to hear all my crappy stuff that no one else is interested in. They know the things that go on in my life and they are the people I care most for and who care for me.

But, that tiny little three per cent is very private. No one gets it. It stays inside and doesn't get revealed to anyone.

What about you?

Do you always keep something back or do you bare your soul to many?

Or is there one person who has access to your three per cent?

Sri Lankan Dads

Not tonight Dear, I'm on my cycle!

You know, that line makes me laugh. My brother, when he reads this will laugh for the same reason.

My Dad.

He has an infectious sense of humour. Usually it's because he finds things so funny that, when he relates them to others, he's laughing so much that the audience can't help but get caught up in his laughter.

Watching him with my daughters is heartwarming and interesting. They swap jokes, they mess around and he makes his famous "animal out of a handkerchief" that fascinates people of all ages. No one is sure exactly what animal it is, looking a bit like a mouse or a gerbil, but it's rather classy. It's usually hard to tell the adult from the kid when you listen to them hard at play.

But he's also quite mad at times, infuriatingly so. It's my observation that Sri Lankan men have a few common characteristics in the way they, or we, age. There's that sleeping after meals thing to start with. I really haven't noticed many western men doing it but I've seen just about every Sri Lankan man I know do it, including me, although I haven't seen it as such, just heard afterwards.

The whole pretending to be awake thing, as the eyelids start to feel heavy, the alcohol kicks in and the weight of the rice and curry begins to make you drift off. Invariably the subject is sitting on a chair, legs stretched out in front and feet crossed and shaking. (the feet, not the subject). There'll be a hint of snoring and then, as someone speaks to the person there's the standard response. A response passed down through generations of Sri Lankan men, it has hidden meaning and can take years' of training to express perfectly.

Literally translated from Singlish into English it actually means

" I wasn't asleep, I heard you perfectly, but would you mind just repeating it as I just didn't quite catch that last word?"

It sounds like this

"Aaahh".

Deceptive, but actually quite hard to master. To the onlooker things can get confusing. They start off by seeing a man who they think is fast asleep. But, in the short time it takes for that man to say the "aaahh" he goes from a state of sleep to fully awake, with nothing in between. There's no stretching, no eyelids opening, no perceptible movement, just an instant state of full awareness. It must be genetic, that's the only explanation.

Another ageing sign is the driving thing. This worries me greatly. As a man who would class driving as one of my hobbies I really don't want to get to a stage when I begin to drive like my Dad does now. A friend was telling me recently about his Dad in Sri Lanka, how he drives as if there is no one else on the road. That's exactly what mine does too. In Sri Lanka it's bad enough but here in the UK there are rules to cover everything, even driving. I realise that may be hard to believe for many Sri Lankans but it's true, I assure you!

So, don't pay the expense of going to Thorpe Park or Disneyland. Give me a call and I'll happily arrange for my Dad to give you a lift somewhere. The feel of danger and excitement, the permanent feeling that you could get beaten up at any moment by a stranger, the pure joy when you reach your destination, they're all much, much better than you can get from any theme park.

It's an amazing sensation to go round a roundabout and be aware of traffic all around, even in other lanes and then realise that you are the only person in the vehicle who has this incredible ability, almost a superpower. I have considered the idea that, at a certain age, mirrors become invisible, or perhaps it's just other vehicles that do.

I heard a story today of a friend who was being driven by her Dad in Colombo to the Cricket Cafe. Said friend was telling me how her Dad struggled with the darkness, the new one way system and the general act of pointing the car in the direction of its required destination at all times.

Now I have to say that Colombo's new one way system is a unique thing. No one quite understands it. I know there are maps, websites, blogs and all types of instructions but they don't make things much easier. Different times of the day mean different directions and the whole thing is a masterpiece of Sri Lankan planning. The extra money spent on the massive cabinet has clearly been well spent if their collective brain power can come up with something like this.

It's not just a Sri Lankan thing though. Stick my Dad in a car and ask him to get to Heathrow Airport, or any place within about ten miles from his house and he'll get confused. Most people I know will get to learn a route by practicing it, not the old man. And it's definitely not because he's busy concentrating on other road users either. When I was a kid I recollect going on holiday to Denmark with my parents. We used to do this regularly as my Mum's sister lived there and it always used to be by car and ferry, a huge big adventure. Every year we'd travel efforlessly halfway across Europe and get lost when we were within about half a mile of my Aunt's house.

One time my Dad stopped the car and went to ask an ice cream man for directions. After some time he returned. With a strawberry ice cream and no directions!

Above all, like those dogs, you can guarantee that a certain phrase uttered in the direction of my Dad will trigger one of his few jokes. Not that dogs tell jokes of course. Or give guarantees. As my best man said in his speech:

"Uncle J, now there's a man with a joke for every occasion, and I've enjoyed hearing it again tonight"

So if you are within earshot of the old man, just mention "Not tonight dear I'm on my cycle" and you just know the old joke that will follow.

I still laugh when he tells it too.

Mad as a badger, I wouldn't swap him for the world though!

Superfuckingmassive!!

I had to share this.

It's one of those glorious spring London days. The sky's blue, the temperature's not warm yet but we just know it will be and the atmosphere is one of good things to come.

As I drove into work this morning I felt excitement. It was a momentous journey. The match last night was heartstopping wasn't it? I won some money after betting on Sri Lanka against Gaz, my business partner. You can guarantee that he'll always bet on England, whatever the odds, whatever the match, whatever the sport. He's like that, but useful in a fight.

There was only ever going to be one song to listen to this morning. When I am playing the drums I often get to an "in my place" feeling. One in which I'm totally absorbed by the music, the feel of it and the joy in the sheer act of playing. It doesn't matter if it's an audience of five hundred or none, that feeling can just be there.

And it was. The music was so loud that I almost couldn't hear it, but I could sense it. The bass and drums were vibrating through my chest and I was lost in it. I was also driving through Hounslow, which I wasn't lost in. A good thing as that can be dangerous.

Optimism, freedom and Colombo were on my mind.

What do you reckon the song was?

If you know the answer you just might win the best prize ever!

This gender and inanimate object thing

I just can't do it.

You know the way some people, usually men, refer to inanimate objects as "he" or "she". Captains of huge big ocean going ships affectionately talk about their craft as a "she".

Sri Lankan guitarists blog about their guitar called Kalpana and it becomes a female. That post by Theena made me want to write a passionate response about my drum kit, wax eloquently about it being my mistress and its gorgeous curves and generally chuck in a load of metaphors about women and sex and rude stuff.

But I couldn't do it. It's a drum kit. A lovely and stunning one, but it's still a drum kit.

As an unashamed gadget freak I have immense fondness for my car, my iPod and the plethora of useless and useful gadgets I have. But, try as I might, I can't think of them as anything but inanimate objects.

My car is a huge big bit of machinery, put together rather fantastically and it's a joy to drive but it's a machine and that's all it is. It's not a she, it's not a her, it's not a person.

I've got a couple of lovely snare drums, both made from Birch that was found at the bottom of Lake Superior. The Birch was about 600 years old when it was felled, it was then floated across Lake Superior but sank, only to get discovered about 100 years later. This wood was made into various types of musical instruments. There were some guitars and some very exclusive snare drums. I bought two out of the one hundred made. One to play and one to keep untouched. They sound like a dream, to a drummer's ear. But they're not referred to as shes, or hes even. No they're drums.

Is there some kind of deep psychological yearning for friendship or something in these fellows?

So what is it with you people who talk about these inanimate things as people? Are you missing out on something or am I lacking in something?

Or is your car a girl? Are you one of them?

On Muse, Levis and Decision Making

There I was, in the Levi store trying on a pair of jeans. Shocking but true. The reckless days of seeing an item of clothing, picking my rough size and then buying without trying it on have long gone. Mostly because, after about twenty years of this behaviour, I discovered that I had a wardrobe full of great and lovely clothes. Great and lovely clothes that mostly didn't suit or fit me.

Frankly it wasn't good enough, a waste of money. I don't want to sound too pikey of course. I'm not the type who fills up their mineral water bottle with tap water or anything, but I have my limits.

As I've got older I've noticed that there are people with that natural sense of style about them. The types who know what looks good on them and which things suit them and aren't just slaves to fashion. The sort who don't have to be told that socks and sandals just don't go, that you don't iron creases into jeans and, most importantly, that look was pretty damn good on Jennifer Aniston or Lily Allen but on you, at Tesco buying groceries....No! Particularly if you're a man.

I have a next door but one neighbour, a cute and sexy lovely blonde woman, not that I've ever noticed her much. She's an incredibly attractive woman who wears fantastic clothes. But, they're just not fantastic clothes on her. Every time I see her I think how much better she'd look without her clothes on. And I mean that in every way possible too.

She ain't got no style, she looks like she's dressed herself from a magazine without thinking about what suits her shape and her colouring.

Then there are those characters, both male and female, who make themselves appear slick and sensual from their clothes, despite the fact that they are actually rather plain looking. We all know them in real life and they are people to be admired in my book, with a sense of confidence and self assuredness that is often contagious.

So, as I've got older and wiser (ha) I've tried to develop my own sense of style. Okay, before anyone else says it I know I've failed abysmally but I've tried, I just don't have a clue.

There I was in the Levis shop, in the changing rooms trying on a pair of jeans. I was undecided. I looked at them in the mirror. I walked out of the changing room and looked in another mirror. I saw a woman checking her own reflection out and possibly she was as undecided as I was. Frankly her arse was way too big for the tight jeans she was trying on, but I chose not to tell her.

My mind was split, my decision was unclear and my purchasing finger was itching. On the one hand, if I hesitated for much longer, I'd most probably have turned into a woman, I've heard this can happen. On the other hand I needed some kind of guidance, a sign or a nudge.

I thought, I listened. They were playing Muse through the shop's stereo. The song was "Hysteria" one of my favourites.

Done. That was the sign.

I bought them.

This style thing's not that easy sometimes is it?

You shake that ass and I just die

I wouldn't normally write the word "ass" unless I was referring to one of those donkey things. I would always go for the English "arse" as in the context of, well an arse.

This time things are different because I'm quoting from a song by Orson, who are American, and it's in American. Therefore when they say "ass" they mean "arse".

Just a pop song really, a nice grooving little number that probably doesn't fit my profile of the type of songs or music I like. But it makes me smile. The drumming reminds me of Ringo's playing, never too flash, never doing cartwheels just to show that he can, but perfect for the song.

I guess the song was in the charts here about a year ago but I must hear it at least once a day on the radio, it's one of those lingering tunes that will get played for a while yet.

Why did I just think of it?

Because someone said to me the other day, in writing, "kiss my ass".

I thought "Mmmm.... I never knew you had a donkey."

Testing Times

Life is a learning curve for me. I like to soak up knowledge and I like to gather information. More often than not the things I learn sit in my brain, probably somewhere near the right ear, waiting to be used at the appropriate moment.

Then, when that moment shows up, often a long time after said fact has been digested, my brain forgets that it ever knew the fact and sails on regardless, just when the little bit of knowledge would have come in useful. The following day, which may as well be the following year, that now useless bit of knowledge springs to the surface again and I think "Ah if only I'd said that".

But, I continue to learn. There are three drum magazines that arrive at Rhythmic Towers every month, there are shelves of those management theory books and there are magazines of every type on my desk. If there's an old management adage, like "mistakes are good as long as you learn from them" or "there are no problems, only opportunities", then you'll probably hear me spouting it at some point, if spouting can be heard, but I suspect it's silent.

So, as I go through a fairly big event in my life, it may come as little surprise to people who know me that I am treating it as a learning experience, a fuck of a massive one.

And one of the specific things I am learning in this is who my real friends are. In a short time I have made some surprising discoveries. Coves who I had thought were good buddies have surprised me with their inability to show empathy and chaps who I had thought were idiots have amazed me with their generosity of spirit and friendship.

That's what happens with friendships isn't it. You can have one for years, then a situation occurs that stretches it and it gets tested to its limits. I'm continually fascinated by friendships between colleagues. I've had many of these that have seemed to be real and strong but, when one of you leaves the Company at which you had both worked, the relationship fades into oblivion.

I've had seemingly strong ties with others when we have both been in the same band that have gone the same way into oblivion. Sometimes I have realised that our bond has been quite superficial. It's a bond based on a fragile bedrock. When that bond gets broken and there's no area of mutual interest left then problems arise.

On the other hand a true friendship can last through different periods and stages in a lifetime. Brothers can be good like that, they can be annoying at times but, in times of need they're always there.

So, I'm learning about friends, who my true ones are and who my flakey ones are. And, by a strange coincidence I have a plain chocolate Cadbury's Flake bar on my desk as I wrote that. Alanis would probably call that ironic. It's not.

Then, with this great mysterious happening in my life, I've ruminated at some length on whether I should blog about it. I know I've got some regular readers and still haven't decided on the issue.

It's deep, it's personal, it's got lots of happiness and lots of sadness, rather like the very last episode of Father Ted. On one hand I feel as if it could be quite good to chuck my innermost thoughts on a very personal issue out in this blog. Yet, on the other hand, I don't think it would be fair to many.

For now, I'll probably just continue to ramble on about random stuff, treat the whole thing as a massive learning experience and drum.

Have a good weekend all.

PS - The Flake has been eaten. Damn fine!!

Help!

Can anyone out there give me a good explanation of when I should use the word "practice" and when it should be "practise".

I've habitually used the "practice" one when I'm talking about "drum practice" or "band practice", you know, the act of doing something to get better at it. But I looked both words up in the dictionary the other day and that has led to untold confusion.

Is it just the case that the "s" one is the Americanism or does one refer to a Doctor's practice etc and the other refer to mastering a skill and stuff?

Anyone?

Searching, looking for......??

Every once in a while I take a look at the search statisitcs for my blog; the words and phrase that some people have googled or maybe even used a different search engine to get to London, Lanka and drums.

It always throws up some hilarious thoughts in my head. I extrapolate their search words and try to think of exactly why someone might need, or want, to know about these things. Usually I don't know why people have ended up here on London, Lanka and drums but here are some of my recent favourites:

"Fuckmesilly" - Just strikes me as a strange phrase. Good, strange and a bit comedic.

"shit floats to the top" - Was this a plumber looking for the solution to a drainage problem?

"clippered ladies" - A strange fetish, someone looking for skinhead girls perhaps.

"London Man run down by steamroller" - OK, anyone who didn't think of a cartoon flattened man as he got stuck to the large wheel of a steamroller is just not normal, or as childish as me. But, how the hell could anyone really get run over by a steamroller, why would someone search for the phrase and what on earth brought them to my blog?

"Lankan Aunty hot" - The mind boggles!! This brought back memories of an old Aunty, only my brother will know who this is. She was very attractive in her day and a bit of a flirt. I must add that she was a Sri Lankan Aunty, not a real relative. Whenever she would kiss a young lad, she would always make it a lip to lip kiss, which none of us minded. There was always a competition between myself and my brothers and a friend of ours to see who would be the first one to be able to "get a bit of tongue". There was never a declared winner, I'm not sure that any of the participants achieved the objective, but it wasn't me for sure.

"What's the best Canon lens for Friday night football" - I laughed as I wondered why just Friday. Would brilliant sports photographers have a different lens for each night of the week?

"Sri Lankan sexy girls and aunties" - It still boggles!

"Shrinks you said Jade Goody to be locked away 6 months" - ??

"BMW does not start after standing in the sun" - I have spent many minutes chuckling over this. You see it was done by someone in Zambia. My mind, which often goes off on tangents and then some, couldn't help itself here. I pictured a puzzled Zambian bloke staring at a melted BMW after he had left it in the sun for too long. It still brings a smile to my face.

Sarongs - How Do You Wear Yours?

I don't have vast experience of sleeping with men. So, my recent flippant comment about the fact that I always wake in the morning with my sarong wrapped around my ears, or anywhere except in its correct place has sparked a bit of discussion.

Child of 25 said that it's quite usual. Someone else said that she's never heard of another man that this happens to and I'm now left bewildered and flummoxed.

Here's my story; I go to bed, sarong clad, looking sexy. Like all men the first thing I do after getting into the bed is to adjust my balls and fart, then I untie my sarong and let it drift. I never, ever sleep with my sarong actually tied around my waist, it's uncomfortable and unpleasant.

During the night the Rhythmic sarong floats around the bed, I know not what it does, but I'm sure it has a life of its own. Well, I suppose I know it floats around the bed but other than that I'm lost. When I wake it can be anywhere in the Greater London area. Often I find it in some far corner of the bed or tucked away under a pillow. But usually it's wrapped around the upper regions of my body.

I had always thought that this was normal but now I'm not so sure. I'm wondering if other chaps sleep with the sarong tied so that it stays put, for them to wake up with the cloth in perfect position.

Sarong wearing at night men of the world tell me please.

How do you wear yours?

This identity thing......again!

I published this recently and it got a few comments. To be honest the comments from someone called JIT initially pissed me off, quite a bit. But then I thought about them and decided to write this post to try to put my views across. Perhaps JIT didn't intend to sound as aggressive as my first reactions suggested but the comments made me think. They made me think about what right I have to call myself both Sri Lankan and British.

It's a topic I've ruminated on before and I'm sure this won't be the last time. Academics have done PhDs and numerous intellectual pondering on it and it's something that I have a keen, strictly non academic, interest in.

JIT asks me in his (although it may well be a her) first comment which team I would support in a cricket match, England or Sri Lanka? Then JIT goes on to say, in response to my answer of "Sri Lanka":

"Isn't that a form of disloyalty to your nation, whose citizenship and you hold, given that you enjoy the benefits of such citizenship! "

I'd like to expand on my answer.

In terms of passport and citizenship I am British and have been since the day I was born. I was born in London to Sri Lankan parents. Since then I have lived all my life in London, and I'm proud to think of myself as a Londoner and a Brit. I've got one of those dreary South London accents, Hounslow is pronounced "Aaarnsler" and a geezer is a bloke, not one of those things that spurt water out of the ground, or out of Iceland, or any other supermarket. Most importantly I understand the offside rule.

Oh yes, I live in London, work in London and adore it.

On the other hand both my parents are of Sri Lankan origin, I've travelled regularly there since I was a small child. I can kiss people by doing the cheek sniffing thing without batting an eyelid. I can stand in a lift and listen to people doing the nose clearing, throat gurgling thing that would get you arrested in London, without even noticing it. I can pinch the cheek of a small child and say "my how you've grown" like the best of them and I can wake up every morning with my sarong mysteriously wrapped around my ears like I always do. Come to think of it I'm unsure whether the sarong movement thing is just me or all sarong at night wearing men.

I have more relatives than I can count in Sri Lanka, far more friends than I deserve and many are people I feel as if I grew up with, such was the amount of time we seemed to spend in each other's houses. The older I get the more often I travel to Sri Lanka and the more I discover of its people and its places. The more I discover the more I grow to appreciate my heritage.

Yet none of that changes my affinity for London, England or Great Britain. It's not an "either or" situation, it's an abundance situation. My fondness for one doesn't reduce my fondness for the other.

Parents will recognise this straight away but it's the best example I can think of; When you have your first child you think that it's impossible to love anything any more, that your love knows no bounds and has no limits. Then, when you have the next one you feel the same amount of love for that one too, without reducing the love for the first.

Well in a way that's how I feel for my two Countries. The UK is wonderful in so many ways and I have been lucky that my parents were able to settle here and give me the opportunities I have had, many of which I may not have had in Sri Lanka. But I also think I have, and do, contribute in many ways to the UK and its economy. I work, I pay taxes, I employ people and, above all, I spend a vast amount of money in its drum shops.

Sri Lanka is my heritage, of that I am proud. But it's deeper than just an affinity for it because I went there once on a holiday or because I've got an Aunt there somewhere.

I met someone recently who told me a theory on what she called "third culture" people, a new culture of which I am a member. Third culture people are those whose parents are of one culture but who then live and are brought up in a different one, resulting in them having a "third culture". I scraped in as an honourary third culture person even though I was actually born in the UK.

Now there is an interesting angle to this theory. Said friend told me she thought third culture men are "deeper" in many ways compared to others and that this appeals to some women. I think I proved her theory totally incorrect with my shallowness and lack of sex appeal but it made me think. If I could find women who shared her opinion and I could talk about deep things then I'd be a lady killer, if I was good looking.

Apparently there are loads of third culture kids out there, I'm guessing at least twenty or maybe twenty five. But, do we share the same opinions on identity? Do we all feel that we are of one common identity? Or does the fact we are all third culture kids give us an identity in its own right?

I can't see it. I can see that a third culture, by the definition given, does exist. I'm just not convinced that it exists with many similarities. I've got two brothers, both brought up in exactly the same circumstances as me, we even have the same parents. Yet two of us share a passion for Sri Lanka and the other one doesn't. I've got a close friend born to Sri Lankan parents and brought up in the UK who would probably prefer to be white and of English heritage if he could choose.

There are others who share my passion for Sri Lanka, who have been born to Sri Lankan parents and brought up all around the world. Sri Lanka is actually a very easy Country to feel passionate about isn't it? Sometimes people ask me why I feel the way I do about it. People who have the same passion never ask, they just know.

There are lots of possible reasons; the most obvious is that it's a Country that has an abundance of natural beauty and colour. I wonder how I would feel if my parents were from a less exotic place, like Belgium or Norway. They're both lovely places I'm sure, I just wouldn't want to be from one of them. I like chocolate but give me a good rice and curry any day, I've got nothing against fjords but really do prefer a good tri shaw.

I was in Colombo a few weeks ago and was talking with the Warrior Bee lady. She mentioned that she saw me as very British compared to herself. Yet she normally thinks of herself as quite British anyway. Java, when we were out and conversing in intellectual mode, said that I was less Sri Lankan than he had imagined me to be. When we tried to figure out why this was the only feasible explanation was that my accent was pure "sarf London". I didn't sound Sri Lankan enough, yet from reading my blog Java had expected me to be slightly different.

Even more confusing is the fact that, if I meet someone here in London with a strong Sri Lankan accent, I'll usually think of them as more Sri Lankan than myself. I'm easily confused though.

The most interesting aspect about these statements is the fact that we often look at two cultural identities as being mutually exclusive. So, in my case, there's often a mindset that the more Sri Lankan I am, the less British I am or vice versa.

It's actually a scarcity mentality. Taking the approach that there's a 100% nationality which is then divided into its components. That's all well and good when we're looking at bloodlines and heritage but I don't accept it for myself. I would class myself as 100% British and also almost 100% Sri Lankan. Why? Because I really feel that I'm very lucky to have been blessed with both cultures.

My overall conclusion is that cultural identity is a matter of personal choice, of individual feeling. I don't think it's about your passport or which cricket team you support.

It's about what's in your heart.

What do you think?

Boring, Boring Stuff!

We were having a conversation at work. Neil, a chap who has worked for me for many years, whose real name is Nick, but I don't want to reveal it, said:

"I went to M&S yesterday and they had some really great offers on half price pants"

I stopped him in his prime, I had no choice, no option and certainly no interest. Salespeople are trained to show interest in things that they aren't interested in, man managers are trained to demonstrate interest in their team and what's going on in their lives, but there are limits. A chap can only be pushed so far before he breaks. I had been pushed to that point.

Sometimes I can tell, call it a sixth sense or blogger's intuition, but I just felt that this was going nowhere, at a serious rate of slowness. His opening line was a tiny clue too.

"Neil" I said, although I actually said "Nick".

"Yes Rhythmic"

"I genuinely don't want to be involved in this conversation."

"What do you mean?" he asked, with a wounded tone.

"It's a conversation about Marks and Spencer and how you got some cheap pants there."

"Yes but they're very good quality" he replied.

"I just don't feel old enough to have this conversation. It's not remotely interesting. I'm just not capable of it yet."

His pride was hurt, I could tell. I didn't care though.

Sometimes these fellows have to be told.

Now if it had been cheap drumsticks that would have been different.

Colombo!

My favourite junction.

I can't explain it, but something about Colombo has captured me.

The look, the feel, the musky smell, the slightly almondy taste, the sound of its mind ticking over.

It's fraught with danger and uncertainty but there's a feeling of promise too, of warmth and comfort, of intense excitement and thrilling adventure, of great times ahead, of anything can happen and it probably will.


The best thing?


Easy. It's filled with laughter and energy.


And I think I might be getting poetic.


Oh bollocks!

Magic moments

I was chatting with one of my business partners the other Monday. You may remember him from previous posts.

He's a salt of the earth English bloke, from a working class background. A "gift of the gab" bloke loved by ladies and adored by his friends. I've known him for about 20 years and during that time we've done just about everything together that normal alpha males do. From playing in the same football team to catching a credit card fraudster to starting a Company, we've done the lot.

As our Company has grown our relationship has developed in such a way that we don't often see each other socially, yet we're both comfortable with that. We spend a shitload of time together during the working day and have our own lives outside that. Rather like one of those long lasting and well worn in marriages we often turn to each other in times of need and will pretty much do anything for the other.

He's the sort of chap that, if I were on my deathbed, I'd ask through the mist of my teary eyes to look after my family after I'd gone. I would pass away peacefully knowing that they would be well cared for in every way.

On the other hand I could lend him vast amounts of money and know, with immense confidence, that I'd never see it again. Not because of dishonesty, just because he'd forget he owed to me or lose it on a horse or something.

So he was telling me about his weekend, how the party went and how he got very drunk very quickly. He's a seasoned hardened drinker so it's unusual for him to get very drunk quickly, although it's entirely usual for him to get very drunk.

"It was great thanks Rhythmic. One of the neighbours came and we got pissed really quickly. I think it was because he brought a nice bottle of RSVP and we steamed into it."

"Gaz" I said.

"Yep" he replied.

"You mean VSOP don't you? RSVP is what people put on invitations."

"Yeah, yeah, that's the stuff."

And then we carried on running our Company.

Audition

Mimosa, the funk band, is musically fulfilling and very interesting. Since we've been together I'm sure that my drumming has improved leaps and bounds, but more importantly, my skills at being a band member have improved too.

What I mean is that I have learnt so much about a side of being in a band that I wasn't at all familiar with, the whole songwriting side. We do our own material, with the exception of just a couple of covers. So I have picked up knowledge on developing a groove that is appropriate for the song, on coming up with fills that feel right and serve their purpose and, possibly most importantly, on interacting with a group of seven people who often all have different opinions.

On top of that we've done some great gigs, we've done a nice three track demo and we've got plenty more stuff lined up. But, I've always had the feeling that there was something missing. It's the "rocking out" thing, the fun that I get when I'm blasting out a Nirvana or Faith No More song. Funk is special, if I was told that I could only play one genre for the rest of my life then funk would be it. But rocking out is fun too. The sheer musical prostitution of playing some Chili Peppers songs to a pissed up audience at the local on a Saturday night is a blast.

So I've kept my eyes and ears open for a covers band that fits the bill. One that doesn't necessarily rehearse every week, one that consists of people that I think I'll get on with and whose company I'll enjoy. That does a few gigs, nothing too frequent, that plays for fun but also plays well.

I joined one band a few months ago and it was a case of nice from far but far from nice. The songs were decent, the bassist was great but other stuff didn't happen. From the first time I played with them I knew it wasn't a long term thing and, sure enough, the guitarist (and founder) had a wobbly and disbanded it after a while. Then, shortly before I went to Sri Lanka a few weeks ago, I got a phone call from a bloke that I sort of knew, who had seen me play a few times in MLC, the best covers band I have ever played in.

He told me that they were looking for a new drummer and was wondering if I was interested. Much of their material I knew and they didn't rehearse every week, they didn't gig too often and it all sounded highly interesting. I told him so and arranged to go along to an audition. I was given six songs to learn and learn them I did.

Now auditions here for drummers are a fascinating topic. Or at least I think they are, which might just be because I find most drum related things fascinating. I have had a few of them in my time. Some I've got, some I haven't, but they've all been interesting and good learning experiences. One, probably about a year ago, when I thought the band was crap, total shit, utter poo, yet I didn't get it, taught me a lot.

I was gutted. I had never thought that I'd be unsuccessful. I learned that sometimes the personalities aren't right, sometimes a person might be a great player but just not of the required style, or sometimes I might not be good enough. The important thing is to get positives from these experiences and use them to do better next time.

There was another memorable one about the same time. A bunch of nice people but the music was a bit too straight for me, just too rocky. And the guitarist's hair was too long. The memorable and funny thing was the singer. The band hadn't rehearsed for a while because the singer ( a lady) had had an operation. So, I arrived for the audition and went in. Every single audition I've attended has this same awkward period, which I'm sure must be the same for most drummers in most auditions in most bands.

You get there, go in and are then confronted with the minor task of setting up your equipment. For a guitarist or singer this is easy. They just plug something in, stick a pair of socks down the front of their trousers, forget the words to every song they know and bang - they're ready, not that guitarists ever go bang. (thanks C!)

For a drummer this is slightly different. Even on a studio kit we tend to use our own cymbals and snare drum and maybe bass pedal. So these things have to be swapped over and the height of stands on the kit has to be sorted out. None of this is fundamentally taxing. The bit I find awkward is that it has to be done whilst making idle chit chat with the other band members. They want to impress you, you want to impress them, but all anyone wants to do is get on and play. In a band in which you're alredy a member the set up time is enjoyable and a bit of a laugh. There's "how's it going?" type of conversation, there's usually a fart or two, some jokey things and general banter.

But, when you're being auditioned it's all a bit strained, uneasy on both sides. Necessary but uneasy nonetheless. Anyway, at this other one I was telling you about, while I was setting up, the guitarist and bassist were talking and I heard one of them say that he was looking forward to seeing Julie, the singer, to see "what they're like". Now it's probably quite obvious to you, as it was to me at the time but I couldn't resist and had to ask what he was referring to.

"Well don't say anything, but the actual reason we've haven't rehearsed for a while is because she's just had a boob job" he told me. "This will be the first time we've seen them."

This was exciting news, as any bloke will understand. I must confess that I've seen women on TV that have had boob jobs and I'm positive that I've met many in real life too but, until this point, I had never met anyone who I had known categorically to have had one. This was going to be a challenge. Like most men looking at breasts is one of my favourite pastimes, but here was an extra special reason to stare coupled with an extra reason not to (I was auditioning).

All was made worse by the fact that she didn't know that I knew. I kept catching her admiring her new breasts in the reflection when she thought no one was watching, she was obviously pleased with the results. I maintained my cool and my professionalism. Almost. At the end, as I was leaving, she was at the bar with a girlfriend having a smoke. I went in to say goodbye and thanks. As a last thought I said to her

"By the way Julie, they look great you know!"

She was shocked, pleased, embarassed and didn't know where to look. Unlike me. I didn't get the job either. I don't know exactly why!

The single hardest factor is that you usually don't know what you're up against. For the one this week I was told I was one of six drummers who the band were seeing. I didn't know who they were or how good or bad they might be. In one way that's irrelevant, as long as I do as well as I can then I can live with that.

Of course, that's the theoretical stuff. As it happened I turned up on Monday night feeling vastly underprepared. I had done a lot of practice but there were two songs that I didn't feel comfortable with. One of my first teachers used to say to me that, when learning a song, you have to "make it yours". He meant you have to know it so well that you can feel what's coming next, you don't have to think about it. This becomes more confusing too as the more experience I get the more I find I'm able to feel my way through an unknown song.

But, I really didn't feel as if I owned the two songs; Do you want by Franz Ferdinand and Golden Touch by Razorlight. We blasted through the following:


Vertigo - U2
Do you want? - Franz Ferdinand
She sells Sanctuary - The Cult
Spitting Games - Snow Patrol
Golden Touch - Razorlight
Rock 'n' Roll Star - Oasis
Brown Sugar - Stones
Dakota - Stereophonics
Chelsea Dagger - Fratellis

It's funny. I hate Snow Patrol, just can't stand their music. Sorry Jules and sorry Child of 25, but they just don't do it for me. But I love "Spitting Games". I used to play it in the last covers band and it's a song I've always liked. It's the dynamics, the way the it really kicks up in the choruses but is nice and mellow in the verses, yet it moves in a subtle way.

As soon as we started to play I felt good, there was an instantly good feeling with the bassist. Sometimes it happens. He struck me as good player and hopefully he thought I was a good player too, but it's not about that, it's just that there are some drum and bass partnerships that gel better than others. During "Sanctuary", a song that is technically easy, we were in a world of our own as his bass and my bass drum locked in nicely. I made some mistakes, which was good and expected. I always make mistakes, it's how we deal with them that matters.

Then we were done. I packed up and left them to talk. When I left I thought about it and came to two conclusions. The first was that I just knew, or felt, that I was going to either get it or to be the second choice. The second was that I enjoyed the audition in its own right. Rather than treating it as a test I had just enjoyed the moment and had a blast, as I think they had.

The following day I got a call to thank me and was told that they hadn't come to a decision but would decide between me and one other bloke. Then, the next day I got the call to say I got it.

Great. I'm pleased. Now I need to go and do some practice. And stop writing these huge long posts.