Number 1

I started to get dizzy. As the blood ran from my face, a cold burst of panic sparkled in my chest. I was on my way out. Miche was looking right at me and she knew the signs. She gripped my hand a little firmer, smiled gently and winked at me.

"We'll be fine Scott" she said with her eyes, "Just stay with me now. I love you."

Deep breaths then, nice and calm. Keep it together son.

Micheal broke my anxiety when he announced "We're here today to celebrate the joining of Michelle and Scott in holy matrimony."

So the ceremony began, and it was beautiful. The medieval church resonated with the vicar's rich voice. The sun, which had threatened not to shine, blazed through the stained glass windows. Dust of centuries danced right through it.

As Micheal gave his sermon on the nature of God's love we faced each other. I found Miche to be no more beautiful than when she'd left the morning before. Her dress was magnificent for sure, and her hair was set like a goddess, but underneath she was still my Miche. The same woman I knew every beloved inch of.

We could have been in a sewer for all I cared. The promise was what counted. This was our place - four foot square, in which we would give our lives to one and other.

The sermon finished as we knelt before the choir. They sang a Scottish air over our heads in near perfect harmony. Whilst it was an honor to have forty people sing for us, we knew that this pomp was as much for the congregation as it was for us. For our mothers with their tissues, proud fathers in their top hats, for our siblings and friends, the church faithful and their bystanders.

Micheal knew this too. Because for all his holiness he was still a man of the world. When we'd shook hands years before, he saw my lost soul. He heard that it was deaf to the word of his god. Yet he remained warm and kept his counsel as he was a big man, in both stature and gravitas. No stranger to graft, his hands were calloused through engine repair. I felt in this rugged grip an acceptance of my reality.

So throughout his service he would look at me whenever he mentioned god. Knowing that in a way, I was there under false pretenses. My promise however, was solemn and heart felt. No amount of witness, be it divine or otherwise could have added to its conviction. So we let him invoke his god as he so wished.

We used this magic language too, as we found that it gave dramatic effect. Besides, the audience would have been disappointed if they weren't given the full works. So we made our vows in front of angels and fairies, gods and pixies and any other mythical creature that would grace our union.

I cared not, for when we said "I do" and sealed this pledge within our rings, I was in heaven.

The remainder of our day was as steeped in tradition as it was in the church. All the criteria for a good English wedding were checked off. The stately home, champagne, the throwing of hats and background baroque music. It was all there for the benefit of the audience.

When it came to our dance however, we pleased ourselves for the first time that day. I held Michelle close as we danced to "By Starlight" by the Smashing Pumpkins.



Apologies for the awful vid, it was all youtube had. Thanks to Mojoey for the inspiration.

Number 2

Perhaps there's a point in all of our lives when we find the benefits of being an adult perfectly balanced with the hedonism of our youth. At last, you have the money and freedom to consume what you want. Consume all that you can, if your so minded. Yet because of youth, you can get up the next morning, dust yourself down, and get on with pretending to be a grown up.

For me this year was 23. Miche and I had been together for some time. We'd had enough of the pretense of living separate lives in rented accommodation and had bought our first house together. It was a modest home, small and to the point, but it was ours to do with as we pleased.

I have fond memories of that place. Like the intimate dinner parties with close friends, when we pretended to be intellectual. Only to descend into drunken debauchery by 12am.

Like the fortnight that we'd decided to stop smoking, only to be given a carrier bag full of weed by one of our more 'interesting' friends. We agreed then, only to only smoke when we were 'smoking'. There were some Carl Sagan insights in those weeks, I can tell you. I've rarely touched the stuff since.

We adopted our first child there and called him McLeod (pictured left). I don't care how mushy this sounds, that scruffy mutt was our Son. We loved him dearly. Still do for that matter. He's twelve years old now and getting a bit dog eared. Bless 'im.

We also got married whilst we lived there. Though this story will be recounted, perhaps predictably, in number one of this top ten.

There was a lot of music in that house too. Our combined CD collection burgeoned. Also, I still had pretensions of being a musician, so had a ramshackle studio in the spare bedroom. The place was packed full of guitars and old synths. Happy days indeed.

There's one track that epitomises life in our little starter home - Björk's, Hyperballad. Both Miche and I love her music. Which says a lot, as our tastes for these things converge infrequently. In this house we danced together occasionally to this song, just the two of us. Simply for the hell of it.

Number 3

We live in a semi-detached house. Our neighbours are quite nice. Alice, the old lady across the road, keeps an eye out for us when we're out. Sometimes she brings dandelion leaves for Meg & Dom to feed their guinea pigs with.

Brian, two doors down, polishes his car twice a week. It really is quite shiny. I have a company estate car which is black, and a bitch to keep as shiny as Brian's. My garden however, is nicer than his.

To the untrained eye, I look the same as a billion other men. Really quite ordinary.

Don't worry though, because just like you, I'm extraordinary in a myriad small ways.

For example, I have a talent for picking things up with my feet. They're like secondary hands. I don't know a single person with foot picking up dexterity as well developed as mine. Not only that, they're as hairy as baboon feet. Quite extraordinary.

On a related matter, there's some sheep living in the fields behind our house right now. I can't help but anthropomorphise their baas. One of them I swear, is a miserable old drunk. "Meh" he grumbles at his flock, his deep voice broken by Marlborough's and beer.

"You sad bastards, the lot of ye. " He shouts, "Just look at yourselves, munching on the grass. Mehhh."

There are some that would balk at our parochial existence. They would ridicule us, like the drunk sheep, thinking that our little lives have no meaning.

Of course they'd be right, for there's no meaning to anything. But frankly, I couldn't give a damn. I like my little life. Looking from the outside it may be banal. Looking from inside out however, things seem pretty rosy thank you very much. Despite the whole lot feeling absurd.

So, to the song.

No Suprises by Radiohead sum's up these sentiments exactly for me. Not only that, it's a favourite song, from a favourite band of mine. Thom Yorke is one of the few people I'd rather be than myself.

Thom is notorious for never explaining the meaning of his lyrics. This most wonderful of videos, I think, explains his thoughts on the matter quite clearly. Listen to the lyrics as he takes his first breath after the water recedes.

Number 4

I was twelve when my parents bought me my first computer. A Sinclair ZX81. They still have it in the loft I think, complete with a 16k ram pack. At the time I loved it more than anything else.

Even then, there were games to be played on it. Unlike today, with our DVD's, Steam and Bittorrent, they were printed in magazines for you to enter manually. Lines upon lines of indecipherable code. Each with its own number. 10, 20, 30... With numerous GOTO's. How sweet.

I thank my Dad for it today, but back then I cursed him when he refused to buy me these magazines.

"Scott, you should learn how to program the thing yourself. I've not spent all this money for you to be a parrot." He'd say to me.

So I read and re-read the book that came with it. ZX81 Basic programming. Eventually its arcane contents revealed themselves to me and I began to understand algorithmic thought.

Finally I eked out some functionality from the machine. My first hello world application was, perhaps predictably;

10 Print "Scott"
20 GOTO 10

I hacked and hacked at it, until eventually I made it do some modestly cool stuff.

Such as my first top down scrolling racing game. I remember my mates queuing up to play it. Those that had their own zx81's would wait as I saved the game to their C15 tapes.

I've not been without a computer since. This is my tech history;

ZX81
ZX81 16k ram pack
Spectrum 48k - soft key
Spectrum 128k - hard key
BBC Micro B+ (School)
IBM 286
IBM 486
586 / Pentium

After this it gets blurry, as I'm sure it does for many. My Pentium based PC was the first and last computer I bought outright. Previously they were hand me downs. Since then, I've always hacked together components and built them myself. My current PC's have evolved into what they are today. None of them can trace a true lineage. Bless 'em.

I have boxes full of unused components rotting away in the garage.

I often wonder why I didn't pursue IT as a career. I do have an aptitude for it. The problem is, it bores me silly. To be frank.

I enjoy a programmatic challenge, I'll admit. But the thought of doing it full time is horrific. That said, I've found myself amateurishly developing my companies clinical databases, which are now served over our intranet (SQL Server, IIS, .NET using C# & VB.net). However, it's just something that I do, so that I can help myself and others save some time and get on with the stuff of real substance - being with people.

When I code, I listen to two things. Mozart or Electronica. Back in my Sinclair days, I listened to Newcleus, (Push the Button) in particular.

These days, my favourite coding music is Four Tet, the brain child of Kieran Hebden of Fridge fame.

This is my favourite track. I write beautiful, graceful code when I listen to it.

Number 5

Number five is easy;

1992, this corner on the way to Miche's flat in Jesmond, in my first proper fast car (Astra GTI - 2 litre Turbo, limited slip diff, big end flange, triple whotsit...), 80 miles per hour and this song.

It doesn't get better than that ;-)



Why do we have to grow up?

Number 6

I moved in to student accommodation at St Mary's Psychiatric Hospital on January 20th 1991. You could say it was a shock to the system.

The place was full of people dependent on the hospital to meet their every need. It fed them, clothed them and provided for their meagre social requirements. They terrified me.

You see, the hospital was isolated from the wider community in every way possible; Geographically, as it was in the middle of nowhere. Socially, because who in their right mind, would choose to enter an asylum? Economically, as the hospital was pretty much self sufficient in those days. Perhaps most crucially, it was psychologically separate from the community it served. For if you were admitted to the long stay wards, you were there for life. Society would rather forget you.

I was shocked by how little people hoped for their lives. All that was and all that would ever be, was the hospital. They denied the possibility that the new Community Care Act might mean the end of the asylum.

Many had delusions of grandeur, believing that they were better than others, and could therefore dictate in every sense, what others did. They also believed that they would never recover. Not ever.

Whole families lived within this system. Mothers, fathers, sons, cousins and daughters. All they knew was their perverse, closed system of psychiatry.

The patients on the other hand, were often quite nice.

Suffice to say, I hated it with every fibre of my body. Through each week, I would dream of my two days off, when I would drive the 47 miles back to the relative sanity of my home town.

I'd recently discovered the joys of Jethro Tull. They remain one of my playlist stalwarts. Skating away on the thin ice of the new day seemed to sum up beautifully, all my feelings of absurdity and the need to run the hell away from it all.

The words of the song remain meaningful to this day. I can't help but sing along, in the same way I did, driving down the A1 to Darlington. All those years ago.

Try it yourself. They're below the video, you may enjoy it.



Meanwhile back in the year one --- when you belonged to no-one ---
You didnt stand a chance son, if your pants were undone.
`cause you were bred for humanity and sold to society ---
One day youll wake up in the present day ---
A million generations removed from expectations
Of being who you really want to be.
Skating away ---
Skating away ---
Skating away on the thin ice of the new day.

So as you push off from the shore,
Wont you turn your head once more --- and make your peace with everyone?
For those who choose to stay,
Will live just one more day ---
To do the things they should have done.
And as you cross the wilderness, spinning in your emptiness:
You feel you have to pray.
Looking for a sign
That the universal mind (!) [sic] has written you into the passion play.

Skating away on the thin ice of the new day.

And as you cross the circle line, the ice-wall creaks behind ---
Youre a rabbit on the run.
And the silver splinters fly in the corner of your eye ---
Shining in the setting sun.
Well, do you ever get the feeling that the storys
Too damn real and in the present tense?
Or that everybodys on the stage, and it seems like
Youre the only person sitting in the audience?

Skating away on the thin ice of the new day.

Number 7

There are brief moments, when circumstances converge into a perfect instant. Number Seven is such an occasion;

Where I grew up, had a small, but lively rock scene. My band was only small fry, but there were still numerous venues for us to play in. The best, by a long shot, was the Cellar.

As the name suggests, it was the cellar. Whilst small, dark and damp, the Beatles' Cavern still comes to mind. Though I doubt it smelled as bad. It was my favourite place in the world. You see, I was seventeen and for the first time ever, I felt like I fitted in; just another misfit amongst the goths, crusties and metal heads.

Upstairs, the Cellar was salubrious. It was the bar for the 'trendy' set to drink in. If you went to back of the pub however, and down the circular staircase, reminiscent of the path to the underworld, you would enter my alternative reality.

Anyway, let me cut to the chase.

Kerrie, the landlady, took a shine to me, and I to her. How could I not. She was 28 and hot, in a kind of vampish, landlady like way. She was also very assertive. So, like a doe eyed, 17 year old rabbit, I allowed her to take advantage of me. Repeatedly.

Now, I could delude myself that my rugged good looks and charm won her over, but looking back on it, I think it was more to do with pissing her ex-partner off. At the time however, I didn't give a flying fuck. For that was what I was getting. And that, my dear reader, was important beyond anything else.

Kerrie had some F-list connections in the wider music scene. One of these was Mark. He drove coaches for a living. Sometimes his firm got contracts for bands touring the UK.

Imagine my delight then, when I discovered that he was touring with one of my favourite bands - The Pixies. I loved them, still do for that matter. In my view, they were the most influential band of their time.

So Kerry, bless her, arranged for us to meet Mark and The Pixies at the Mayfair rock club in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. We arrived two hours before the show. The roadies were still assembling the PA.

I didn't recognise Frank Black at first. He registered in my peripheral vision as the unassuming bloke at the back of the club. Mark introduced us.

Now, I've no recollection what we talked about, but suffice to say, I gushed a bit. I do remember however, what a nice guy he was. There are some, who enjoy only talking about themselves. Perhaps, like Narcissus, all they see is their own reflection in others. Frank appeared quite the opposite.

He seemed to give his time willingly and chatted aimlessly with Mark, Kerry & I for what felt like ages. He bought us a beer and we hung around until the audience started to enter the club. I felt so damned cool, stood next to Frank, as his fans double took.

Later, we managed to find a great spot to stand, right next to the mixing deck, on the balcony above the crowd. A place that only those who had passes could be.

So there I was, stood behind the sound engineer, in a club that I shouldn't have been in, drinking beer that I shouldn't have drunk, stood next to a woman that by rights, I shouldn't have been with, watching my new mate Frank raise the roof.

They opened with Debaser.

The crowd went wild.

Number 8

There are drawbacks to growing up in a terraced house. Not least, the ever present noise of one's neighbours. Doors closing, feet thumping, toilets flushing, beds creaking, sometimes rhythmically. There is constant kerfuffle.

The brain however, is an efficient filter. Once sufficiently tuned in, it can divert this cacophony away from the attention. It does it so brilliantly, that your ears hear only silence.

When I left home, it was weeks before I could get a good nights sleep. My digs were in a Psychiatric Hospital, exiled from society, in the middle of the countryside. It was so deafeningly quiet there, that I couldn't sleep for the noise of my own breath.

There was however one night, that living in a terraced house was of great benefit to me.

I was lying in bed, about to drop off, when I heard through the wall, the most wonderful noise. It sounded like the biggest string orchestra I'd ever heard, holding a single note for what felt like forever. That alone had my ear against the wall.

Then I heard those first clear notes from David Gilmour's strat. E, D, E...

I decided there and then I wanted to be a guitarist. The next morning, I knocked on Mark's door and asked him what tune it was. He told me, and generously gave me a copy of Wish You Were Here on tape.

These days I can't abide Pink Floyd. They represent to me, the worst excesses of self indulgent toss-rock. Back then however, I thought they were fabulous. Especially Shine On You Crazy Diamond. I remember saving up my pocket money to buy the cheapest guitar I could get, simply for the purpose of learning to play Gilmour's solo.

It was a battered Encore Strat copy. It cost no more than a tenner and came with a set of worn out 12 gauge strings. The guitarists amongst you will know that these are pretty beefy strings. Better defined as cables, I suppose. Bending them, like Gilmour does, isn't easy with 12 gauges. It's even less easy for a fourteen year old with delicate skin on his fingertips.

I swear, I practiced so hard to play this song, that my fingers bled. No joke.

Number 9

In 1984, my Sunday evening entertainment was Northgate Methodist Youth Fellowship. I was thirteen, and without knowing it, an atheist. The whole God thing bemused me. Now, I sang all the songs, and listened to all the sermons. I even tried 'opening my heart to the Lord', but it was something better done in the presence of an anesthetist, I thought. The whole malarkey was ludicrous.

However, there was one thing that kept me coming back.

Emma.

I was besotted by her. She was, by any teenage measure, lovely. She had long brown hair, deep dark eyes, and a womanly confidence that belied her thirteen years. She had breasts too!

Being new to this puberty thing, I had no idea what to do with this obsession. Even if I did, the shackles of shyness wouldn't have let me.

So, I did what any self-disrespecting geek would do; pretend, as hard as I could, that I wasn't interested at all. I opted instead, to rely on Brownian Motion. I dreamt that she would randomly bump into me at the back of the church hall and spontaneously fall in love. That way, I'd needn't risk rejection and confirmation that I was the Sunday league to her Premiere.

Eight-thirty each Sunday, the fellowship walked home. A great gaggle of us tripped up North Road. The Boys, being boys, pushed and shoved. The Girls, being girly, gossiped out in front.

One summer night, my Brownian strategy paid off. By some serendipity, our groups hadn't split and I found Emma next to me. She didn't look at me of course. She was laughing with the cooler guys to the right. They did buzz around her.

As was my way at the time, I dropped back behind the crowd. Not a chance, I thought. Emma slowed with me. Again we found ourselves together. You'd have never seen it, but inside I exploded with joy.

So, we walked home together, the two of us. All the way up North Road, left on to Thompson Street and way past the Crematorium. A whole fifteen minutes of her and me. I could have died with happiness.

"Bye", we said awkwardly outside her front door. Nothing more. Not a jot.

The next day at school, she didn't acknowledge me at all. I did the same, of course.

So it went for the entire week, until Sunday evening. On the way home I hung back, chicken like, hoping for a repeat of the previous week. It seemed that night, my 'prayers' were answered, as she loitered with me again. Emma chose to walk home with me. Yes me!

Once more, we did nothing at her front door other than say bye to each other.

So it went, for the entire summer. Sunday evenings, Emma and Scott walked home at the back. Mid week, Monday through Friday, they ignored each other. Each Sunday they loitered at her front door, both knowing what they should do, yet neither of them having the guts to complete on the deal.

Until one autumn night, she lost her temper.

"Oh for Christ's sake!" She said, and grabbed me behind the neck. She pulled me on to her and kissed me in open mouthed relief.

My first real kiss.

Now, tunes have a habit of sticking in one's head. That night, that moment even, the Art of Noise 'Close to the Edit' was running through it.

So it was, that my first snog went like this;

"Hey! Hey! Hey!"

Number 10

Schopenhauer said that music is "the highest and best form of human artistry." He considered it to be completely abstract and therefore a pure aesthetic. He was also a rampant anti-semitist, so his logic could well be considered flawed.

Nonetheless, I do think he was on to something. Like Mojoey, music is hugely important to me. I would, in all honestly, struggle to live without it; it has a most powerful effect upon me. A pure experience, it could be said.

Putting aside my love of Miche & the kids, music provokes in me, the strongest feelings of delight, happiness and wonder. It has a very real effect on my body. It is part of who I am.

Therefore I am delighted to join Mojoey in listing my top ten songs. Now, I would struggle to decide on my top ten songs of all time. They change by the day. I know that any list I decide upon, would change unrecognisably by the time I'd finished writing it.

So, my top ten is more a description of my musical awakening. I plan to tell you about the music that is significant to me, and how it defines key moments in my life.

So, where to start? The beginning I suppose;

In 1980 I was eight years old. I went to bed at eight o'clock. One evening per week, (I think a Thursday), Top of the Pops (TOTP) was aired on BBC1 at 7:30. Before this fateful night, TOTP and 'popular' music for that matter, wasn't of any interest to me. Dinky cars and mud were more pressing priorities. So, as usual, this programme only registered in the background.

Until I heard this song.



I swear it was an epiphany. I'd never heard anything like it. Never seen anything like it, for that matter. I immediately fell in love with the song and remain infatuated to this day.

This marks the start of my musical journey, and my ongoing love of all things Bowie.