THE BEST BEFORE DATE - 1981 & 1983 - Homosapian & Telephone Operator by Pete Shelley

With the disbanding of The Buzzcocks Pete Shelley struck off in an entirely new direction. His first single as a solo artist was Homosapian. Largely electronic, which was still thought radical even in 1981, his approach also became more personal. 

Homosapian strongly made the case for love being the same whether it was within a heterosexual or homosexual relationship. Shelley was bi-sexual. and was taking a brave step in being so publicly frank about his feelings in song. This was pioneering at the time. Predating Bronski Beat by three years, in releasing a campaigning song defending queer love and relationships.

And it is a danceable addictive song too. One of Shelley's best, delivered with huge passion and gusto. Despite all this it never reached the UK Chart. The BBC reputedly discouraged it being played, without actually banning it, because of an allusion to gay sex in its lyric. But it did chart in the US, Canada and Australia, and became a huge dancefloor filler in nightclubs, gay and otherwise, across the world.

Two years on, and the single Telephone Operator, is another electronic driven love song. This time its a guy who thinks he's in love with a telephone operator. So he phones them over and over again. It's a really offkilter song, with overtones of stalking to modern ears. But that was very much Shelley's compositional style to place love in an less sympathetic, even discomforting context. It also contains one of Shelley's finest vocal perfomances.

Telephone Operator didn't chart either, only reaching No 66. Though often gaining critical praise for his recorded work, this was not transfering into sufficient sales to sustain a solo career. There was in his appearance, that constant staring directly into camera, there was always something sneery and provoking about it. Shelley, though small in stature, was not remotely cuddly, and would never have been, nor would have wanted to be, the archetypal pop star. At the end of the eighties The Buzzcocks reformed, but this was strictly for fans only. Further commercial success continued to evade them.

THE BEST BEFORE DATE - 1978 - The Light Pours Out of Me by Magazine

Meanwhile, post leaving the Buzzcocks, in an entirely other realm of 1978. Howard Devoto, having had the briefest sojourn away from the limelight, reveals the first fruits of his distinctly peculiar vision.

Magazine, formed in 1977 were one of the first bands whom you might call Post Punk. There was the sense that Devoto just wasn't going to wait for the punk bubble to burst as it inevitably would, he'd puncture it first himself. Releasing Shot by Both Sides in January of 1978 which reached 41 in the charts. Perhaps encapsulating in song the furore that greeted his leaving the Buzzcocks.

There was always a feeling that Magazine were really the then unfashionable thing - an albums band. So it was not til the LP Real Life that you got a fuller more rounded sense of what they were really about. This album contained a cache of songs that Devoto had originally written with Pete Shelley before he'd even left the Buzzcocks.

The stand out track is The Light Pours Out Of Me. It has the most recognisible and instantly captivating openings of any song. The pounding opening drum, the rumbling thrum of its bass and the magisterial guitar that proudly rings out the architecture of its riff. As though declaring the entrance of some beast, emporer, or nascent thing of importance. Its also as moody as hell. There's the expectant build up, then enters the hammy theatricality of Devoto's proto goth vocal intonations. Bleakly menacing as though the living dead were given voice - Time flies, Time Crawls, Like an insect, Up and down the walls - The light pours out of me. 

As with many Devoto songs there's an existential dilemma being worked out through imagery in song form. The tune is addictive listening, but it's lyrical opacity is so deliberate. Evocative but not allowing you to perceive its true meaning - Is this person deluded, a danger? Who on earth do they think they are? Some sort of Magus, a demon, a godlike figure? What drug are they being consumed by?

Devoto's visual style of performance possesses no charm, a nerdy creep, rather than creepy.. He was fortunate to have assembled behind him a band of hugely talented musicians, containing the inestimable Barry Adamson and John McGeogh within it. The Light Pours Out of Me has just one of McGeogh's guitar riffs and its a classy corker. It's not for nothing he is rated by his contemporaries as The Guitarist of his generation. But his contribution to Magazine was not to last long. McGeogh left in 1980 to ornament the golden years of Siouxsie & the Banshees, and Magazine entirely folded the following year.

CHURCH LARKING - Cley Next The Sea Parish Church

What strikes you about St Margaret's in Cley Next the Sea, is how unlike any other parish church along the North Norfolk coast it is. Beautifully and richly ornamented architecturally, this sort of work does not come cheap. They had royal and noble patronage, but why here, in what is now a small village?

It's hard to imagine Cley as a major English port, that had a close trading relationship with the German Hanseatic League. Norfolk in medieval times was one of the wealthiest areas of England, due to the economic dominance of East Anglian wool and weaving. Cley exploited access to this market.

The quality, size and age of the many substantial buildings in Cley. betrays this rich trading history. The era when numerous large boats would be in the harbour, plus a thriving port area just at the bottom of the current churchyard.

The main channel allowing access to the port, did over the centuries begin to silt up. This forced the ports harbour to move nearer to the sea where the channel remained broader. That silting up process was further accelerated by a local landowner embanking and enclosing surrounding land. There was also a major fire in 1612 that destroyed much of the original medieval port buildings.This is why we now find St Margaret's at the far end of a small village, with little building surrounding it to indicate its former centrality to a port.

So this is where the money came from to fund the expansion and decoration of its central religious building. Take a close look at its highly decorated porch, and the clerestory with its alternating gothic pointed and quintrefoil circular windows. These are much larger than is usual with beautifully executed ornate tracery. The church originally had two elegant side transepts that have since fallen into ruin. Probably this ruination parralleled the decline of Cley. With no money available to execute repairs. It was at one time more widespread, but there has been extensive restoration work in the late 19th century.

The church tower was originally quite squat. Its current place is to one side of the current nave. So most likely there was an earlier narrower church preceding its expansion in the 14th-15th century to the current size and style. There are filled in romanesque shaped apertures on two sides of the tower. This suggests the age of that earlier church is most likely to have been 12th Century.

The large clear glass perpendicular style windows with coloured borders, look very like Victorian replacements. As is the current Chancel, apart from a piscina and sedilia that are likely medieval. The height and light of the nave is elegant and spacious. Before the Reformation figures of saints would have adorned the ornate canopied plinths above each pillar. There are two remaining blocked up doorways to the left of the Chancel arch, that used to lead to the gallery of a medieval rood loft.

Cley is then a deceptive church. From the outside it appears relatively small in length. Only when you enter do you experience how broad and high it actually is. The glory of what it must have looked liked at its height in the 15th century, still suggested by what remains.

SHERINGHAM DIARY No 89 - A Prevalence of Double Crutches

In life, you know when you are on a roll. Things go smoothly in a positive upwards direction. Equally, there are times when you know the portents are agin yah. And likewise, you just have to roll with the painful consequences of these. It's an Ouch, but, hopefully an instructive Ouch. Such was the Farmers & Makers Market at Fakenham Race Course 

If one read and noticed them, the augeries were all there. E.mails stating a spaced out arrival schedule for stall holder's - they don't get to everyone. The lack of any advance publicity or even basic roadside signage. So when we arrived and joined a long arthritically slow moving queue of cars and trailers, this did not bode well. We arrive at 8am, didn't get on site til gone 9am. They needed food stalls to go in first, but many were arriving late, spaced out amongst this ever lengthening queue. Tempers became fraught. Fourteen year old stewards were sworn and berated at.

By the time we were stressfully setting up our stall, the punters were arriving. The morning up to lunchtime was only 'showing promise' sales wise. But after lunch everything went incredibly quiet and continued as though a plague had suddenly hit, until at 3pm we could start packing up. 

Markets are long days, with a lot of advance preparation involved. The outlay of time, sheer effort and fee, is not insignificant. So for it not to be financially worth it, well that's more than a little disheartening. After two dud craft shows in a row, we are reviewing, yet again, what our criteria for choosing markets are. 

We know what we have to offer is good. But finding where our customers are, is not proving easy. Nowhere near Fakenham apparently. We need to be nearer to catchment areas that more likely to have surplus income. 

What was the most notable thing about the folk who attended the Farmers Market? The incredible and widespread obesity, male or female, young or old, whole families of them shaped like Russian dolls. Women in particular, who were so morbidly obese they had double crutches or zimmer frames that could barely support their weighed down frames, curved spines, hunched torso. All with such tangibly painful movement and restricted agility. 

It was actually quite shocking to see the level of it's prevalence at this Market. I don't think I'd be exaggerating if I were to say 20% obese. When we hear about the coming obesity crisis, this is what they are talking about. It has, apparently, already arrived in Fakenham.

What we saw in Fakenham was primarily local folk turning out for a Market, to buy a pie or two. and a craft beer for later. Then going home. With the complete lack of meaningful publicity no one from further a field had any knowledge it was even on. Relocating the market from The Raynham Hall Estate to Fakenham changed not just the atmosphere but the clientèle it attracted quite radically. 

MY OWN WALKING - Puts You There Where Things Are Hollow.

It is educational to note, that as one grows older so do the heroes of your youth. In my case those I lionised were mostly musicians. And whilst Bolan and now Bowie are dead, many are still around and, most shocking of all, still touring. Milking their youthful career highlights to augment their pension pots, their urgent need for rehab, or to raise the down payment on a place in a retirement community.

There is something to be lauded, in being easy going and relaxed about one's own aging process. How one's former heroes cope with it is of genuine interest, as they are often older than you. Which makes observing the existential travails of our heroes, once so godlike, now reduced to the mortal frailty they always possesed - at least instructive. And so we find the surviving spectre of our idols, now looking more like they ought to be our accountant or vicar. Or worse, resemble a nefarious Uncle who everyone warned you was a bit pervy, so steered clear. Others bare the beaten looking visage of boxers, except the pugilism has mostly arisen from being subject to bruising encounters with alcohol or drugs. 

Few are charmed with musical career longevity. The ocassional duff album you might be forgiven, but two in a row might prove terminal. Wither the one hit wonder much lauded for a month or so, failing to follow through on their limited appeal and potential. A three minute monster single, followed by decades of genteel obscurity subsisting in the Cotswolds. 

Even those whose careers do continue to thrive are often mentally damaged by the stress of sustaining it. Regularly reconstructing it with as much frequency as their faces have been to the plastic surgeon. Any music career is inclined towards 'erectile disfunction' from time to time. If you can't get it up by natural means of innate talent, then maybe it could benefit from some chemical stimulation, or a collaboration.

The youthfully defiant unconventionalism, of saying unsayable things, of teenage rebellions against the norm, can become reduced in crotchety middle age to the lazy tropes of right wing patriotism, with all its suspect sentimental assumptions loudly declared. When all but the most loyal of fans have only a vague idea who you were, a bit of controversy reminds them what a twat you currently are. Maybe always were.

Its as though, post fame, it's never going to be kind to our heroes. Their minds addled by increasing age and inflexibility. Finding themselves hankering for a career and a time before arthritis or slerotic arteries were even thought of, let alone experienced. They are after all, human.

The transitory nature of fame, is just a micro example of the transitory nature of everything. The energy, idealism and optimism of our youth, worn down by experience into world weariness, cynicism or abject fear. Change, once so enthusiastically welcomed, is now strenuously resisted. We all want to make our presence felt, to leave something behind of value, to be in someway remembered. Whether that is by fans, friends or family. However, the circumstances that support remembrance are also likewise transitory. Adulation is fickle, as is memory, history and the internet.

'Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth. You pull on your finger, then another finger, then cigarette. The wall to wall is calling, It lingers, then you forget - Oh oh oh oh, you're a rock n roll suicide.'  

David Bowie - Rock n Roll Suicide

THE BEST BEFORE DATE - 1978 - Love You More by The Buzzcocks

Having survived Devoto's abrupt departure. The Buzzcocks needed to capitalise on the momentum their Spiral Scratch EP had created. Their next single, released in November 1977 was deemed so controversial, it was banned 

Orgasm Addict, was a peon to masturbation, including a mock ejaculatory outcry. It was still part of the zeitgeist to provocatively offend. What Pete Shelley did subsequently was to refine, then entirely alter the future mood music of punk. Evolving it into the New Wave. This still had the propulsive speed and energy of punk, but allied it to broken hearted love songs with melodies.

Two singles later, the Buzzcocks songs were mellowing, yet still hovered outside the top thirty.  Love You More was the simplest of love songs. It got a tiny bit closer to the main chart, at number 32. Its protagonist is worried about how long his new love will last - I don't want to end up like a nine day wonder -  he opines. Was the lack of longevity in relationships linked to him not loving someone enough?  Otherwise it will last until - the razor cuts - and then the song abruptly ends. Doesn't sound healthy does it? Shelley knew how to bring the suggestion of an edge to even the most conventional sounding love song.

After Love You More, a series of propulsively driven love songs, with catchy lyrical hooks and Pete Shelley's whining vocal style were released. Ever Fallen In Love With Somone You Shouldn't Have Fallen in Love With? finally broke into the top twenty peaking at No 12. Two other top twenty hits followed. The next single ended just outside the top thirty again. At which point the band split due to difficulties with their record company. But in truth, they had already wrung the life out of their current musical style by then.

FINISHED READING - A Plague On Both Your Houses by Susanna Gregory

Matthew Bartholomew is a doctor in a Cambridge college, Michealhouse. There are, as ever, a lot of tensions and competitiveness between academics, students, colleges, between town and gown. This is the 13th Century, and the growing rivalry  of Cambridge with Oxford is also in the air. There is a rumour going round that infiltrators from Oxford are trying to undermine and bring down their competitors in Cambridge"s burgeoning colleges.

Sir John Beddington, the college principle  is found dead, at first its thought he 's committed suicide, but Matthew realises it was murder. Looking back there have been a series of mysterious deaths. On the surface they look uncontroversial. Closer examination shows something is not quite right about them. Then an elderly monk Augustus, who'd previously warned about something nefarious going on, is found brutally murdered. And then his dead body goes missing. What is going on here?

Set with great detail and realism in the 13th century - A Plague On Both Your Houses, opens in the weeks leading up toThe Great Plague spreading to Cambridge. Gradually as it draws nearer and consumes Matthew's workload, it becomes harder to discern what deaths are due to the disease, and what to homicide.

This is the first of a multi volume series of Medieval detective novels featuring the character Matthew Bartholemew. You can tell Susanne Gregory is still finding her feet here,  her way into the characters, period and style. It's a overwritten in places, one too many sub plots, charaters and red herrings. By its conclusion I was no clearer in my own mind, why the group responsible were doing what they were doing. There are a couple of genuinely surprising plot twists and reveals. A good first novel though, very readable.

CARROT REVIEW - 4/8

SHORT STORY - Mission Creep

I looked at myself in the bedroom mirror, and there it was, the fungus the bogeyman face. During the day I successfully became yet another variation on a human being. Yesterday an unsightly and obese boy, tomorrow perhaps I resemble a desiccated human walnut, a good deal older. Not always masculine either. Some times the race or gender shifts, even a little indeterminately. Lets just say I can receive funny looks - of the 'what is that?' -  variety.

When I pull myself away from the truth that inhabits mirrors, I imagine myself as this perfect simulacrum, perhaps young, unformed, even gauche. All those small tropes of behaviour that help define the human, the usual things they like to eat, drink and be merry with. 

Once I side glance my reflection in a shop window all of this falls away. Pretences? No longer convincing. Mirrors will not lie. They tear down facades, dissolve any artificial perception filter I've erected. That this happens solely within my vision and no-one else's, is unsettling. My being, being so bloody changeable. This is not why I am here on earth, surely? To visibly hold my sense of self together, with gaffer tape, for the good of the Misson.

I can't remember when this slipperiness in my appearance started. Was there a multiplicity always present? How I was made in my DNA? Except, I've always assumed I didn't have any. I'm made to pass as human, no more than this was required of me. No one will ever know otherwise. I move around, and each gender disguise is never seen through. Successfully I concoct yet another new 'appearance' to add to my wide range of recognisible personas. My being, mind and body is a 3D blank canvas upon which my line managers paint.

Today I was a teacher, I walked into the local comprehensive. I taught mathematics there. I ate my lunch in the canteen, I conversed with the students, with other teachers, the caretaker, nothing went remotely amiss. They all appeared to see me for who I was; a kind and capable supply teacher.  I returned home happily convinced by my own portrayal. A moment of shock, taken a back again. I was a woman, a middle aged woman, smartly dressed, high powered and businesslike. Had I changed gender during the tube journey home? I was a man for sure when I left this morning. Same cheekbones, chin too perhaps, but definitely male. The worrying thing is I didn't notice any change happening.

I've little control left over who I am. It used to be I could set in concrete the gender, the character and career etc. Now it can roll over of its own accord. Its anyone's guess who I'll become any day, any hour, any minute. So far nothing has altered whilst I've been out on assignment. Well, not that I've noticed. Which is fortunate.

Each evening I melt into the armchair and let whoever I've been that day evaporate away. Back to the fat glutenous blob I really am, that only I see in a mirror, its not pretty, not humanly handsome. I sit, an open channel processing and offloading my experiences of that day. Then downloading the life mantle I'm to assume tomorrow. Absorb the notes and details, then prepare for the constructing of the facsimile the following morning.

I've not told my bosses about the unannounced shape shifting. They'll just blame it on me, I know they will. Even during my training I found conforming to a fixed identity hard to maintain. Something within me wants to rebel. Though I thought I had a good handle on it. Obviously not.

I have this intentionally boring foundation character I assume at home, a Mr Average. Its just so I don't arouse the neighbours suspicions. Onto this base is layered today's experiment. Today this surface level is a younger man, early twenties, works in a call centre, hates his job, hates himself, just broke up with his partner of two years, currently on a bit of a downward spiral. Not a cheery chap to be, or be around

He feels considerably more fidgety mentally. I really have to grapple to keep hold of him, more than most 'appearances'. A strong undertow of depression. Everyone I'm encountering so far avoids him. He stinks a bit of piss and liquor. People walk to the other side of the street. I hung around on a park bench for a while, fell asleep, till a park warden gave me a sharp poke with his stick - 'you'd better move on mate, before the bill are sent for, don't make it harder for me please

So I get up, walk around the park a bit, down the edge by the canal. It's quiet here. Until I encounter a group of men. They begin to tease and taunt, and this ends in them manhandling and joshing me. I lose my balance. I fall in the canal. My 'appearance' is totally unable to swim, so I instantly flounder and thrash about ineffectively in the dingey water. I ask for their help, they jeer and walk off. I fight for air, sink and gasp  till the weight of my clothes begins to get the better of me. I become entangled in something in the canal bottom. All my energy to fight for life, proves insufficient. I submerge beneath the turbulent surface. As I slowly descend into the murky sediment, all I can think of is - is this what they do when you begin to malfunction? Am I being taken out?

THE BEST BEFORE DATE - 1977 - Boredom by The Buzzcocks

It is a story now approaching myth and legend. The Sex Pistols play the Manchester Free Trade Hall and simultaneously launched punk in the North of England and numerous notable musical careers. 

Before Punk there wasn't any Indie music movement. These days the Internet can launch a career from a single Instagram post. In the seventies it was very much a hands on affair. The self produced, self cover designed  self publicised and self distributed single, assembled in someone's bedsit or squat, became the archetype of those who were truly independent. There are likely many competitor's for who did this first. But the one that set the template was The Buzzcock's ' Spiral Scratch EP.  From now on anyone could do it.

The Buzzcocks in 1977, there they are on the cover fuzzy in black and white. The creative force and lead singer at this point was Howard Devoto. Though everyone sang in those days in permutations of Johnny Rotten's style. Devoto gave it a sardonic darker twist. And though he gets most of the songwriting credits, there was also Pete Shelley hiding in the background perfecting his writing chops, as well as the obligatory insolent straight to camera stare.

The defining style of an era, and the prototype for the New Wave, is in one track from Spiral Scratch -  Boredom. Driven on minimalistic propulsion and a lyrical hook line that goes Boredom Bore..da..am Badum Badum. Plus a guitar break so minimal  consisting of two discordant notes played over and over and over, becomes genius. The timing of it, two minutes fifty two, is short, but quite immaculately conceived.

This version of The Buzzcocks barely lasted a few months after the single took off. With Devoto leaving in order to - forge a new musical direction for himself. Which left the way clear for Shelley to assume main songwriter and lead singer duties. And hence the blossoming of a masterful songwriter of three minute power pop.

FILM CLUB - The Tales of Hoffman

Powell & Pressburger Season -  1951

Its six years after the end of the war, and one of the first things The Archers have come to realise, is that the terms under which any film is now made have radically changed. Its much harder to raise the finance to get a film off the ground. There are increasing pressures on film making to be commercial and make money at the box office. The moral boosting roll of film has disappeared, as has the hands off policy of their producers and commisioners.

During the war Powell and Pressburger were given a huge amount of creative freedom. which allied with supporting the war effort, helped produce their best films. War restrictions helped. Shortages of colour film stock meant many films had to be made in black and white. If there wasn't the budget or ability to film abroad, you made the best of studio space and film techniques in the UK. All these things required them to dig a little deeper.

In the post war the inventive teamwork between Powell and Pressburger does not noticeable flourish under the pressure  of financing and film distributors. How they then raised enough money to film Offenbach's opera The Tales of Hoffman in colour, well that's anyone's guess. Maybe calling upon the cudos of having made The Red Shoes might have helped. 

Yet this is a very niche film. If you don't appreciate opera, however light it is, then this film will not change that. It was definitely aiming to make it accessible to everyone. It has high production values and their are many examples here of The Archers Team pulling off some bravura cinematography, staging and editing effects. Conjuring up very other worldly dream like sets and scenarios. But I get a sense that somewhere along the line of its production they lost sight of the magic their war period films had.

All the old Archers favourite performers are assembled here, just like in the old times. The mix of part mime, dance and opera leads to quite an uneven performance style. Robert Helpmann in particular does his most broad and melodramatic expressiveness, as though he was in a silent movie. Which would be OK if everyone else was pitched at the same level of intensity. But some are going for light mime, others for naturalness or comedic caricature. In short this is a rather beautifully conceived, if patchy,  bit of a mess.

CARROT REVIEW - 4/8

CHURCH LARKING - West Runton Church

West Runton has always been the larger village of the two Runtons. It has had its own Medieval Church, Holy Trinity for 800+ years. Whereas East Runton Church, St Andrews is essentially a redundant primary school building converted and dedicated in 1959. Both villages are but a stones throw from each other. Building, sharing and supporting any church has never been easy, particularly if you were without wealthy local benefactors

East and West Runton's origins were as part of a series of small fishing villages running along the Norfolk coast. Some of them not much more than a staithe and a handful of houses. East Runton reallly came into its own with the arrival of the post war tourist boom, and the many caravan parks now strewn along the coast from West Runton to Cromer. And hence, by the 1950's felt the need for its own modest Church facility. St Andrews is quaint, with a semi circular apse added. Apart from this it is 'architecturally speaking' an unremarkable vernacular building.

HolyTrinity in West Runton is placed at the highest point in the village, and set well back from today's coastal road. It is every inch the well kept traditional village church. With a small squat humble looking tower with a crenelated top and modest pinnacles placed to crown it in more recent times. The tower is probably the oldest surviving part of the church. With its Early English lancet windows. Which indicates the churches foundation may stretch back, at least, to the 12th Century.

The church fabric is generally a 13th- 15th century creation. Mostly Decorated in style with idiosyncratic Perpendicular insertions. It possesses an elegant font and cover that is in remarkably good condition for its age. It is quite common for rural churches by the time they reach the 19th century to have fallen heavily into disrepair. And they are then subjected to heavy Victorian restoration. In West Runton's case, not once, but twice, in the middle and late 19th Century.

In this case it no doubt was partly due to the Anglo Catholic Gothic revival in Norfolk, emanating out from Walsingham. There are tablets around the nave picturing the stations of the cross. It is currently part of the Quintet Benefice, five churches on this stretch of the Norfolk coast allied with Walsingam. All of which indicate it maintains a firm and long standing allegiance with the Anglo Catholic wing of the C of E.

Judging from residual marks on the nave side of the tower, the height and angle of the roof has been adjusted. Most probably during one of those Victorian restorations. Distinct side aisles and chapels created and a squat but blind clerestory added. This has left a number of the windows in the nave sitting uncomfortably close to or directly abutting the eaves. This brings its own haphazard patchwork charm to its frontage. These were not designed to be that way, but it was a necessary consequence of the original steeper roof being replaced with a tiered shallower one. The current Chancel is very largely a Victorian upgrade. The church contains a lot of very fine examples of 19th and 20th century stained glass.

SHERINGHAM DIARY No 88 - Life Is But A Breeze

We'd booked to do a Maker's Market on the Crowning Day of Sheringham Carnival. Sheringham, in this context at least, operates in a world view straight out of post war England. Where parades of specially themed and decorated floats exist, as do glamourous granny competitions. best baby, and Carnival Queen. All traditions apparently, worth still upholding. Its on the one hand quaint, but on the other a  slightly baffling series of anachronistic events. Particularly to still be in existence in 2023. When locals chant the imperative to 'Keep Sheringham Special' it is this 'as if living outside the present day zeitgeist ' that is being referred to. 

As the weekend of the market neared, the weather forecast was increasingly foreboding. Torrential rain, gale force winds, the weather seemed to be raising a warning - do not set your heart on doing this thing. Yet with every day the forecast turned around slightly, was less bleak. First there would be little rain, then no rain at all, then a less stiff intensity of breeze. Ever the optimists we decided not to call it off.

As we were now in seven day opening mode, this was also to be the first Sunday opening in the shop, to which the Market was an addition. The prep for any Market goes on for weeks beforehand. Raising stock levels etc. There is always a degree of tension and stress around this. The weather being just one of the uncertain players in its staging. Setting it up and breaking down at the end, make these markets a long tiring day.

Once our stall was set out, it was clear our gazebo was only just standing up to the strength of breeze. Another stall holder's gazebo before getting fully erected, blew away and hit someone. We had to weight some of our stock down to prevent it blowing away. I went back to the shop to open up and trading to begin. The stall sold a key ring early on and then Hubby had to literally endure hours of nothing. We had made a questionable decision here. The day was really all about family and friends coming to support younger members in their participation in competitions and performances. No one here was thinking about shopping.

But the 'Makers' market offering was not good enough. There were only a handful of stalls booked for it. Not enough to make it a sufficient draw. Where it's held is way out of the main retail area. The whole thing was not organised well and the idea of a Maker's Market in that context, in retrospect, was totally misconceived. The stall had a flurry of two customers just as we were in the process of packing up early. We'll not do anything like this again, and the first whiff of a 30 mile an hour gale, we shall confidently cancel. We have learnt our lesson.

So there has been a lot of activity around Carnival Week in Sheringham, as is usual in the first week in August. And it is also usual for us to not have a good week of takings during it. This year is so far proving to conform to our expectations. Why this is so does not require a degree in retail. It is a combination of a number of things around the focus of a tourists attention.

Generally during the high summer season non food shops struggle to get purchases if the weather is too hot. No one comes out in a heatwave. If they do they head straight for the beach. High Street retailing in a seaside town is one that is constantly in competition with the alluring magnetism of the beach.

If you introduce a second thing to draw folks away from the High St. It provides yet another focus elsewhere in the town. It divides tourist attention still further. The issue for us with the Carnival, is it holds lots of events aimed at children, some also on the beach. There is a huge fair parked on the Station Rd car park for two days. A beach at one end. A fun fair at the other. The high street acting only as a thoroughfare between them.

Carnival week tends to attract a particular class of tourist and puts off others. Carnival  attracts younger families. More of them book for Carnival Week because they know there are these free events for kids, more than at any other time. Young families with kids tend to have a limited budget to spend on other non essential items. More so during a cost of living crisis. So our daily takings decline accordingly, though we have a larger overall number of sales its for single smaller amounts. Carnival Week tourists are for us inherently very 'off brand'

SCREEN SHOT - Barbie

I must preface this review with a disclaimer. I viewed so many clips and interviews about this movie I am confident that it did affect my experience of the full movie. ending up feeling I'd already seen the best bits of it beforehand, so what had remained unseen left me significantly unimpressed, nonplussed, even at times indifferent. 

All its best gags, and Gosling's brilliant self parodying performance in particular, were so heavily trailed. It raised my expectations of it being a joyous laugh out loud irreverent camp fest. But no, this proved not to be. It was an entirely different, less inventive and, surprising, a much more predictable movie than I'd thought it would be. Its OK, but appears to lose its energy and sense of humour to the delivery of its no doubt well meaning and empowering message.

Stereotypical Barbie finds herself thinking about death and her fallen arches. The reason is someone in the real world has lost faith in what Barbie is meant to represent, that women can be awesome. Along with Ken she goes to the real world to find them. In the process Ken discovers a male dominated world where men are not just sexless blond bimbos and Barbie side kicks - they too can kick ass. Returning to Barbie world he delivers this message to the other Kens. The Kens take over Barbie World. A battle to return Barbie world to its feminine ideal state ensues.

The opening third of this movie truly is a lot of fun. As it gets itself increasingly entangled in empowering message delivery, it becomes a bit too laboured if not lame, the comedy  flabbier, more cartoon slapstick. Not helped by Will Farrell, the king of lame, having far too much screen time. The film could have benefited from being half an hour shorter and with much tighter wittier dialogue through out. At some point it forgot it needed also to imaginatively engage and amuse.

There were times when you could be forgiven for thinking you were watching a movie constructed entirely for Mattel product placement. Aimed, primarily, at a pre- teen audience, and, unsurprisingly, not for a sixty six year old gay man. But to say its doing well, understates the supreme effectiveness of its promotional juggernaut on cinema takings. It obviously has tapped into something that has a cross generational appeal, some of whom will get the irony in it. Performance wise Ryan Gosling pretty much steals it.

Structurally it sets itself a bright engaging story trajectory that it then has to work out how to extricate itself from, and find some happy resolution. The clunky machinery of the latter, led to my interest and patience largely dwindling in the process. The idea of this movie is much better than the actuality. Hence the deflated nature of my disappointment.

CARROT REVIEW - 4/8

CHURCH LARKING - Cromer Parish Church.

I begin my Church Larking journey with the North Norfolk coast and with Cromer. This town sits, though not literally in the middle, but certainly at the Norfolk coast's heart, from whence you can venture up and down it. This is to be my intended journey plan for the next few months to follow the coast west then east.

Cromer Parish Church, dedicated to St Peter and St Paul, is an inescapable building. Visible from all approach roads, slap bang and central. Its the tallest church tower in Norfolk at 160 feet. A tower that is very elegantly proportioned too, crowned with four delicate pinnacles. Standing proudly in the middle of town, unrivaled by anything else. You can usually climb to the top of the tower, but they currently have a Peregrine Falcon nesting up there. So no beautiful coastal panorama on this outing.

The other fine features of this church are its exterior flint work, with external arcades of arches stone infilled with knapped flint. There are also the sheer massiveness of the churches many clear glass windows. It experienced a long period of neglect, which may explain the lack of surviving Medieval glass. But has had some recent stylish stained glass inserted into two windows. 

The overall style of Cromer Parish Church is mid 14th Century Decorative, on the cusp of Perpendicular. With its consequent architectural emphasis being on stretching the sense of height. Because there is so much clear glass the light quality in the church on a sunny day can be absolutely glorious. Creating a sense of the interior as this vast cavernous space, which may or may not produce a beautiful acoustic for music. 

Its built on fluted pillars with an unusual inverted V decoration at their base. Structurally these pillars lean noticeably and alarmingly outward. Hence the exterior flushed buttresses to prevent them literally pulling the nave apart. 

This church was constructed in one architectural era. It is devoid of much charm or character. A feeling of bland uniformity pervades it, depriving it of approachable warmth. It's not the sort of church you fall instantly in love with. Unexpectedly sterile on the ambiance front. Not helped, by its falling into such serious decline, then being saved by, but subjected to, the thoroughness of a Victorian architects restoration. And the inevitable over tidying and cleaning up of interiors and exterior, this usually entails.