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About Me

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BLOG NOW ABANDONED, PURPOSE WAS ORIGINALLY to present restored VINYL albums of both Folk & Jazz. Lack of interest and comments has resulted in me deciding to throw in the towel... Once specialising in vinyl restoration. Although I would have preferred to only post albums that I have paid for, or those of close friends, I was open to suggestions and offers of rare Folk items that need tender care and restoration, provided the supplier had the right of ownership of the physical item. NOT JUST an MP3 COPY of it. To give you an idea, I was prepared to restore vinyl belonging to another person, IF I received a decent quality scan of the front, back and any relevant information that comes with the LP, preferably at least 2400 by 2400 quality, (600DPI scans for back) along with the sound files in FLAC format as waves are a bit too large to transfer. Then I would check their suitability for restoration. I tried to maintain the requirement for a decent set of scans for each item, where possible, as I felt the music is incomplete without it. Sometimes this was just not possible as a lot of my stock came from broadcasting organisations that had their own heavy card sleeves.

Friday 16 January 2009

A Poem by Mike Harding (before he became JUST a radio presenter)


by Mike Harding

Bring on the rosy-cheeked girls,
Bring on the smiling ones, the light-footed dancers,
Those that sing with their eyes,
Those with the warm breasts and the soft hands,
Those that look deep in the eyes, and not at the garbage of garb.
Bring on the dark, the fair, the brown-as-a-berry,
Bring them on, all of them, with their wet, laughing mouths,
The fat, the thin, the short and the lanky,
Let them be as full of life as a pod with peas,
Let them be as company-comfortable as an old friendly jacket, young or old,
But most of all. . . . let them be merry

And then take all the others.
All the tight-lipped, crab-faced, mewling, mithering,
Niggardly, sour-faced, crab-mouthed, cold-titted, tight-arsed,
Moaning, sullen, frozen-legs-together, money-grubbing bitches!
Take them and heap them all together
On some cold, bleary, dreary moor
In the howling sleet and moaning drizzle of November. . . .
and leave them there!
For it deserves them, and they each other.

Then bring on the lads, the smiling lads!
Open-handed, shoulder-to-the-wheel lads,
Lame-dogs-helped-over-stiles lads,
Take-a-pint, stand-a-round lads,
Good, laughing lads.
Lads with a quart of life in their hands
And eyes that look straight. . .
Bring on the tall, the short, the long,
The runners, the walkers,
Those that can hammer, those that can turn out a song,
Bring on the fat, the thin, the bald and the hairy, young or old,
So long as they sup life by the gallon. . . .
So long as they're merry

Then take all the others.
All the sly-eyed, twisty-mouthed grabbers and fumblers,
The shifty-faced, two-tongued, lead-swinging lizards,
The snotty-nosed, mardy-arsed bullies and false friends. . . .
And stick them up to their necks in the foulest stinkpot of an old bog you can find. . . . Head Down!
And leave them there!
But for God's sake, not too near that moor with all the old whores. . .
If they meet up and breed. . . we're all buggered!