Lexin

I had an interesting weekend; I went up to see the Aged P. on Friday. She was in fine fettle for a woman confined to bed, but tried to tell me that up until her long stay in hospital last year, she'd been "quite spry".

Bollocks, mother dear. (I didn't tell her in quite those words.) I can remember back to Christmas 1997, which is just after Dad died, when she and I went on holiday to Benidorm and she was using two sticks to get around in the hotel and if we went out she was in a wheelchair which only just fit in the hotel lift. Not long afterwards she started to use a three wheeled walker and has just got weaker since. In short, she hasn't been 'spry' since about 1995.

Her memory's going a bit, too. She said she can't remember what Dad looked like – this despite the fact that there's a picture of him over the end of her bed, just where she can see him.

The Enid

On Saturday I travelled to Birmingham to see a band I've liked since the early 1980's called "The Enid".

I love The Enid to little tiny minty balls, and this concert totally lived up to expectations. It was at Birmingham Symphony Hall - which has painfully narrow seats for someone as fat as me but is a splendid venue in all other ways.

They had a full orchestra (the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra) and a full choir and a conductor who wasn't Robert John Godfrey. This meant that the music had a slightly different sound – it was interesting to hear it interpreted by someone else and with a wider range of instruments than one normally hears. At times the orchestra was in the background of the sounds, and sometimes it was right there at the forefront. I've signed up for the CD of the concert, which should be interesting.

RJG didn't look well at all; I gathered from my friend Dave (who'd arranged the tickets – thanks Dave!) that Robert had had an accident of some kind and had broken his leg. As a result, he was on crutches. But it wasn't just that he was on crutches that made him look unwell – he looked grey even from where we were sitting.

It also had Alan Moore dressed as Dumbledore reading a poem about the history of the gay liberation movement – which could have done with being about five minutes shorter. Honestly, it did slightly outstay its welcome, as a couple of the audience pointed out somewhat vociferously towards the end. As for why it was there, perhaps curiously Dave and I both had a similar thought about there always being a part in a show for the producer's girlfriend. I mention this because it was an odd thing that we both thought of the quote, not because I intend to insinuate anything about anyone connected with the concert.

In short, brilliant concert; loved it to death but could have done with less of the talky bloke in the robe.

I've got an earworm, but I can't find the song on iTunes...

It's called "Women of the Working Class", and you can find versions on YouTube, mostly sung by working class choirs, but I can't find another version that I can have in MP3. Does anyone have it?

Here's a version by a Nottingham women's choir.

It's amazing what you overhear in the Ministry of Magic's canteen – or rather, what becomes mangled between someone saying it and my ear. I was minding my own business trying to cope with spaghetti bolognese when I overheard two blokes at the next table, one of whom was saying to the other, "He was in a band call the Gelatinous Poodles."

A quick google search shows up that there is no known band of that name, so what on earth can he have actually said?

Somewhat similarly, I'm convinced that I once saw a band called "Careful with that axe, Eugene". It was in a pub, in a back street in Birmingham in the mid-to-late 1970s – the best I can say is that it was before I left school, but only just before. I know that there's a Pink Floyd song of that name, but as far as I'm aware there's no band.

Now, I could have misremembered or misunderstood - perhaps they did that track and I've remembered the track as the band name, or something like that. Or perhaps they did just one gig and never played again. I'll never know.