In Which I Downloaded Rotatey Diskers. Deep Joy!

For anybody growing up in the sixties in Britain they might have heard of the comedian and inventor of Unwinese", Stanley Unwin, whose only vinyl recording is this slice of wackiness from 1961. He was featured sporadically oin radio programmes  such as "Just A Minute", plus TV series such as "Secret Service", and an appearance as a landlord in the film "Carry On Regardless".

This download came from the Trunk Records website for a mere fifty pence for the weekend. He also featured on the Small Faces seminal "Ogden's Nut Gone Flake" album as "Happiness Stan".

 The full version of "Happiness Stan" - all nineteen minutes of it.

Deep joy!

My tweets

• Sat, 22:09: Vinylphilia http://t.co/6k0CneIgh6
• Sat, 22:40: Collecting gone mad http://t.co/1zM6oFR7bC
• Sat, 22:45: Scouseploitation records http://t.co/pAAqEVrzzl
• Sat, 22:47: Listening to Miles Davis Nefertiti album on CD
• Sun, 11:09: In Which I Downloaded Rotatey Diskers. Deep Joy! http://t.co/Nvg70o9O4p

Today I Have Been Mostly Listening To ...

Music i have played  so far today -





Neil Diamond - Do It
Small Faces - Happiness Stan
Various Artists - Folk Britannia
John Fahey - Days Have Gone By
Nick Drake - Five Leaves Left
Linda and Richard Thompson - I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight
Various Artists - Electric Eden
Pentangle - Cruel Sister
Ola Gjeilo - Ubi Caritas
Traffic - John Barleycorn Must Die

Poetry Spot

I sometimes read the Saturday Guardian when the Independent on the same day feels less edifying. I first look at the arts pages followed by the sports and then look at the Saturday poem. This is from a new poetry collection called "The Poetry Of Sex"

And - by Alison Brackenbury

Sex is like Criccieth. You thought it would be
a tumble of houses into a pure sea
and so it must have been, in eighteen-ten.
The ranks of boarding houses marched up then.
They linger, plastic curtains at their doors,
or, still more oddly, blonde ungainly statues.
The traffic swills along the single street
and floods the ears, until our feet
turn down towards the only shop for chips,
to shuffling queues, until sun slips
behind the Castle, which must be, by luck,
one of the few a Welsh prince ever took.
Or in the café, smoked with fat, you wait.
Will dolphins strike the sea's skin? They do not.

And yet, a giant sun nobody has told
of long decline, beats the rough sea gold.
The Castle rears up with its tattered flag,
hand laces hand, away from valleys' slag.
And through the night, the long sea's dolphined breath
whispers into your warm ear, 'Criccieth'.