During the 1960s, music was like oxygen to me. On the radio, DJs not only played Elvis, Rick Nelson, Bobby Vee, Roy Orbison, Simon and Garfunkel and the Beach Boys, but they introduced the British Invasion. That included the Stones, the Beatles, Pet Clark, Gerry & the Pacemakers, Manfred Mann and countless others, including Herman’s Hermits, Freddy and the Dreamers and the Yardbirds, to name a few.
Someone once said a chicken crossing the road is poultry in motion. Sorry about that. But I have chickens on my mind.
The 12 days of Christmas are gone ... almost as if they hadn’t come at all.
The English aren’t perfect. Heck, I could list ten or more character flaws which give me chronic acid-reflux regarding the Anglo-Saxons.
I visit the Rougham Hill Waste and Recycling Centre as regularly as I visit my barber (well maybe slightly more regularly than that).
I spend lots of time in Cambridge. Its official tourist Web page shouts: ‘Be inspired by its many beautiful museums and art galleries. Admire the beautiful architecture and majestic college buildings. Explore quaint passages…,’ and, well, you get the drift. “Tab” – Cambridge’s time-honoured nickname – is where it’s at for culture, aesthetics, and entertainment.
Last week we published the first chapter of Dr Michael Apichella’s novel The Chronicles of Johnny Pilgrim, which is set in Bury St Edmunds. The adventure continues in the next instalment here.
Visitors to a gallery viewed the abstract art on the ground floor. They got up-close and personal with the interactive sculpture on the first. The featured-exhibit was housed on the top floor. As punters filed into that arcade, however, many kicked aside a dusty pile of bricks, unaware that was the actual exhibition.
Too bad about the restaurant on the moon. Great food but no atmosphere.
All the bergs where I’ve lived have nicknames. Oxford – the City of Dreaming Spires. Chicago – the Windy City. Paris – the City of Light.
I love Bury’s charmant characters. There’s cheery Vergisstan, selling the Big Issue in Abbeygate Street with his big smile, friendly “hallos”, and his pooch.
Everyone’s got a pet peeve. Mine’s the “Welcome to Bury St Edmunds, A jewel in Suffolk’s crown” sign. It always gives me indigestion. “THE jewel in Suffolk’s crown!” I yell as I cruise by.
From Palmer’s to Springfield Garage; from Sunrise to Baxter Court Sandwiches. Walk in any local shop and you’ll be greeted with a sincere smile making you feel appreciated.
As astute King Edward VI student Alan Everett wrote in Youth View in February, most young Brits are a smidgen anti-royalist, questioning how our queen has hung on to her job when most European noble families have gradually lost their privileges or their heads (or both) since the French Revolution made regicide trendy.
People who say they’ve only one life to live must not read books. The guy who first spoke that pithy line might well have been Stephen Cook, erudite owner of Churchgate Books here in Bury. We go way back, and I’ve always considered Stephen the ideal Brit: a blokey intellectual.