I Cheated Death - maybe!

After a successful two day trip to Belfast in order visit a sick uncle I caught the plane back home to Gatwick yesterday evening. The plane was full and two men had to move in order that I could get to my window seat. I stowed my small case and my coat in the overhead locker first.

When they started going through the obligatory safety instructions it occurred to me that my mobile phone was in my coat pocket and still switched on. I had two choices. I could ignore the instructions, therefore putting my own and everybody on the plane's life at risk. Alternatively I could ask the two chaps settled in beside me to move again and get my coat out and switch off the phone, thus looking like a bit of a nana. Needless to say, I chose the former option.

The flight was perfect in every sense. Take off and landing were on schedule, there was no turbulence and a clear sky afforded good views of the Isle of Man as we passed by. It does make me wonder whether the phone ban is just to maintain a peaceful environment, rather than having any affect on equipment. The NHS has recently admitted that mobile phones had no effect on medical equipment. Most hospitals now allow them to be used, much to the chagrin of the private company that supplies bedside phones in most places and imposes extortionate call charges, both incoming and outgoing.

Musical discord

I can sympathise with this chap. I have to persevere my wife's Indian music at home and in the car but, as soon as I try to introduce some Jethro Tull, The Who, Pink Floyd etc, I get told to "switch that rubbish off". It's just not fair!

Nothing is easy, you’ll find

Jethro Tull

by Wayne Gladstone

I have loved my wife for over ten years. And running just as deep and long as my love is my wife’s vast and unbridled hatred for Jethro Tull.

To you, perhaps, Jethro Tull is a joke. They’re the flute band who, inexplicably, beat out Metallica for a Grammy in the hard rock/heavy metal category back in 1989. Or maybe you’re perplexed because the name Jethro Tull conjures up not thoughts of music but methods of modern farming and the invention of the seed drill. Jethro Tull, however, is a band (not a person) fronted by singer, songwriter, and flautist Ian Anderson. From the late sixties to the early nineties, Tull composed numerous concept albums featuring some of the most complex musicianship in rock. Their lyrics touched on everything from the abuses of organized religion to Celtic folklore to the deleterious effects of politics and business. Their staggeringly broad musical palette ranged from straight blues to aggressive hard rock to intricate and delicate baroque orchestral arrangements. Tull, along with the Beatles and the Who, occupied a sacred place in my childhood where all music was dramatic, wise, and special. And my wife, who exhibits those very same qualities, ruined it.

How is that possible? Did she dissect the musical construction of Aqualung or provide an unflattering analysis of the lyrics on Songs From the Wood? Certainly not. In order to do such a thing, my wife would have to listen to Jethro Tull. And that is simply impossible. She has to be kept from Jethro Tull the way the kid a with a peanut allergy has to be quarantined when someone brings a bag of Reese’s Pieces to school.

Jethro Tull makes her itch. It disturbs her. When it’s on, she can’t breathe right. It’s like someone has requested she hold their pet spider in her armpit for a minute. Or, perhaps, like someone handcuffed her hands behind her back after applying a dollop of mayonnaise to the tip of her nose. In any event, it is the kind of suffering that no loving spouse can abide, let alone inflict.

Of course, I have tried to investigate the specifics of her complaints, but when it comes to Jethro Tull my wife’s responses are more visceral than analytical. Apparently it has something to do with the beats and syncopation, and that flute’s not helping matters. It’s true that Tull features many songs based around riffs that aren’t confined to the straight 4/4 time signature, but the weird thing is, even if I can play her Tull that is in 4/4 and devoid of any flute riffs, her reaction will be the same. She’ll twitch, swat at the imaginary mosquito in her face, and exclaim, “See! There! That part right there. Doot, doot, diddly-doot. Aaiiiggghhhh!” You can only ask the kid with allergies to go into anaphylactic shock so many times.

The real tragedy is that now, even when I find a moment to enjoy Tull alone, my head is filled with the image of my wife in full blown St. Vitus Dance. And then comes her phantom accompaniment: “Doot, doot, diddly-doot. Aaiiiggghhhh!” Talk about a moment-ruiner.

Despite this tremendous obstacle, our marriage has managed to last over seven years. That’s because marriage is a compromise. You have to work at it.

Also, I am always harsh on her old Cure records.

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