As for me, the last time I updated here, I bemoaned the fact that I’d been neglecting this blog for far too long and promised to remedy it. Granted, that was back in June of last year, but I don’t recall issuing a time limit, so no matter how long it’s been… I still win.

The reasons for the paltry activity levels of this blog are manifold, but due mostly to the fact I’ve been so busy. An influx of copywriting work has kept me on my toes and a roof above my head and takes up the daylight hours of most weeks. I have also been busy with Head Full of Snow, ensuring regular updates over at my psychedelic, prog and folk rock review website. My intention is to give that a new lick of paint sometime in 2011. Whether I find the time is a different matter entirely.

As you can see, this here site underwent a bit of a spruce up recently, with a new decor and the copywriting services - and all the other main pages – getting a complete rewrite. A change for the better, methinks.

There is also the novel I mentioned I was writing, well over a year ago. After several false starts, a change of subject matter and the digging out an old script I wrote for adaptation, you might be pleased to hear I have finally finished the first chapter. I can reveal the title: The Monastery Broadcast, though I’m not at liberty to divulge anything further. Its progress is a saga set to go on and on.

There’s also some other things upcoming, which I will hopefully find the time to mention here in the near future.

So all it remains for me to say, for the moment at least, is a belated merry Christmas and a happy new year.

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2011 and Beyond is a post from: Nick James

Yes, Ray Harryhausen, the man who gave us the wonderful creatures that inhabit films such as The 7^th Voyage of Sinbad, The Three Worlds of Gulliver, the original Clash of the Titans, and, of course, Jason and the Argonauts, is 90 of the Queen’s years old.

Long before the shiny and sparkly CGI was used to divert the attention from a lack of character development and plot, Harryhausen was providing the special effects that brought to life mechanical Minotaurs, giant Cyclops, towering Krakens and an army of skeletons.

So many different fantastical creations… in fact, too many to mention here. And it was these enchanted embodiments of evil, lumbering leviathans and dastardly denizens of the deep, along with Doctor Who and Star Wars, that first sparked a young Jeffman’s imagination and instilled in him a love of the impossible, the fantastic, and the out of this world.

The promise of a Sinbad film, or another similar genre piece, on the TV at Christmas, Easter or any other school holiday was always a highlight. More often than not featuring the result of Harryhausen’s handiwork, these magical films played a part in fashioning the aspirations I once held and whereas others my age wanted to be footballers, firemen or whatever, I wanted to be a writer and create worlds like this for myself. Ones as far from the reality as it was possible to get.

Let’s not dwell on how that would go on to play out; after all, you make your own luck in this world… apparently.

But thankfully the love of the fantastic never went away. Every now and then one of these films will be shown on Channel 4 or Film4, of a morning or afternoon, and I’ll still try to catch it (although the cowboy meets dinosaur-fest that is The Valley of the Gwangi, never seems to get shown). Of course, it all looks very dated now, but as a collector of old Doctor Who DVDs, I’m desensitised to the occasional dicey effect or three. It’s not that which counts anyway, it’s the connection to my childhood that’s hardcoded into me and the nostalgia such films evoke.

It’s probably even played a small part in the music I listen to, courtesy of the trippily outlandish worlds of psychedelia, folk and progressive rock.

We had Doug McClure battling a giant Octopus in The Warlords of Atlantis (granted, not one of Harryhausen’s creations), what have the kids of today got? Blurred vision from watching too much Avatar.

And just in case you’ve forgotten, here’s a four minute compilation of Harryhausen’s work. Allegedly every creature he has ever brought to life:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9kmjW73-v4

Ray Harryhausen, on the day of your birth, I salute thee.

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What Ray Harryhausen taught me is a post from: Nick James

I’d like to say I’ve been travelling, harvesting inspiration and generally living the life of the well-paid writer and gadabout town, financially freed from the shackles that bind and able to write whatever the hell I want.

I’d like to say all of that but I can’t. And if I did, I’d be lying.

Instead, here’s an amusing video of a stop-motion AT-AT behaving like a dog, entitled ‘AT-AT Day Afternoon’. See what creator Patrick Boivin has done there?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-CVYOCMpJRY

Brilliant stuff!

I had such a beast in my own childhood. It never did anything like this though, more’s the pity. If it had, who knows where I’d be now?

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Imperial Walkies is a post from: Nick James

A combination of HFoS, research, various other writing projects and a shouty daughter have conspired to keep me from filling you in on all the tedious details of my life. However, a brief respite from the unforgiving schedule of staring blankly at a laptop screen between bouts of nappy wrestling gives me the opportunity to share a spot of news regarding the old writing thing.

Not usually being one to blow my own trumpet, I’m hoping that doing so, just once in a while, doesn’t smack of the self-obsession that festers away at the putrid core of certain members of the blogging community. If it does, then you have my permission to shoot me down forthwith, with whatever weapon of choice you deem fit (no guns please).

Anyway, all this nonsense is to pad out the rather dull news – for anybody other than myself – that the esteemed Record Collector magazine will be publishing an article of mine in their May issue (that’s the actual date, not what’s on the cover).

It’s a piece on the short-lived psychedelic group, Dantalian’s Chariot, who sported amongst their ranks both the legendarily bonkers Zoot Money and future Police guitarist Andy Summers.

Make sure you all rush out and buy a copy, helping to keep me in the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed.

I shall endeavor to keep a slightly more regular radio presence within these pages from now on.

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Not one to blow my own trumpet… is a post from: Nick James

Justin Lee Collins persuades Lee Majors to appear on ‘Bring Back… The Bionic Man’

I remember watching the TV series as a nipper and I’m sure we always referred to it simply as ‘The Bionic Man’ – in fact I’d have wagered that this was the UK title (in much the same way that Top Cat was renamed Boss Cat) but I appear to be wrong on that count. Couldn’t find any evidence to back it up, anyway.

Nonetheless I read up a bit more on The Six Dollar Man, as is my inquisitive nature when it comes to such trivial matters, and found that the character originally appeared in a series of books by American author Martin Caidin. The first of these was titled Cyborg and portrayed Steve Austin in a slightly different light; a cold-blooded killer as opposed to the mother-approved Lee Majors version. He also had a poison dart gun in his bionic arm! Imagine that.

I also discovered that a big-screen remake has been touted for the last twenty-odd years, at one point even linking – horror of horrors – Jim Carrey to the lead role. Which begs the question, if a remake ever did get the green light, would it still be called The Six Million Dollar Man?

In the 1970s, six million dollars was an unattainable figure that could rebuild a man (and woman, in the case of Jamie Sommers) as a reinforced steel super-being, nowadays it wouldn’t buy Steve Austin a new toe. Yet the figure remains just as unattainable.

The Bionic Man, a title that seems only to exist in my half-imagined childhood, would probably be better. At the very least it would remain a little more inflation-proof.

Anyway, I hunted down the original title sequence for no other reason than it keeps me off the streets. The theme tune alone, which kicks in towards the end of the intro, is as memorable today as it was back then.

Edit Ahem… It would appear some miserable bastard at either YouTube or Universal Studios has blocked The Six Million Dollar Man intro from being embeddable on third party websites. That means if, like my good self, you’re champing at the bit to hear the theme tune whilst watching Majors being bolted back together, you’ll have to click through on the po-faced link that appears when you hit play below. Such is life.

Thanks to @stonemonkey45 for the heads up. I should really check these things first myself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=woOLEEu8RLI

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“Gentlemen, we can rebuild him…” is a post from: Nick James

We now have a homepage, a portfolio (of sorts), and this blog has shifted to its own parent page.

That means if you’ve subscribed via the RSS feed (and if not, why not?) then no further action is required. However, if you’re a regular reader of this hastily assembled nonsense and arrive here via either a link or bookmark, you’ll need to update them to the new blog address: http://havepenwonttravel.com/blog/

Also, if your website is linking specifically to the blog, note the change of address.

And there you have it, a quick heads up before the inevitable tide of punters desperate to put my pen to good use, overwhelms me… *tumbleweed drifts by on an audible wind*

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Regeneration is a post from: Nick James

My psych and prog website, Head Full of Snow, gets quoted following a review of one of the label’s acts, The Witch and the Robot.

Reading the quote back in this context it does come across as a little bloated, but that’s a good thing as, safe in the knowledge there are eyes watching me,  it spurs me on to improve next time. And, like I said, it’s not everyday I get listed among such luminaries of the music press and, unfortunately, The Sunday Telegraph.

Not much, I know, and barely worth shouting about, but I read blogs every day from smug new media-types harping on about how “special” they are and endlessly self-promoting, so I thought why not get in on the act. All being well, normal service will be resumed next time.

Thanks to Feral of LateMag for bringing it to my attention.

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Mentioned in the same breath as NME is a post from: Nick James

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qyd916l1w78

As in the case of Telly Savalas Looks at Birmingham, this clip from 1973′s Take Me High serves as a mini-travelogue of the city following the 1960′s slum clearances and redevelopment scheme. Albeit one featuring Cliff-(insert your own favourite expletive)-Richard. Ar kid wouldn’t approve.

Horror of horrors, he even sings, so you may wish to mute your screen.

Give me the “liquid tones” of Telly Savalas’s ‘Who Loves Ya, Baby’ anyday.

Edit Bugger! It appears Cliff doesn’t wish to appear on Have Pen, Won’t Travel. Ah well, if the prospect of his asinine cat-strangling hasn’t put you off, you’ll just have to click on over to Youtube to watch.

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Cliff Richard Looks at Birmingham is a post from: Nick James

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GxZ1xn2ml10

Filmed in 1979, the city shown has changed a great deal in the intervening years and would probably be unrecognisable nowadays to those who’d not known it through the 70s, 80s and for the greater part of the 90s. Despite the cheesiness of Kojak’s dialogue, it’s still a rare treat to see the old town as it once was. An artefact of a time long passed.

So long Birmingham, indeed.

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So long Birmingham… Here’s lookin’ atcha! is a post from: Nick James

This time last week I dismissed the snow as little more than a light dusting; a passing sprinkle that despite bringing a woefully unprepared country to a grinding halt, was NOT like the stuff we had in the late 70s and 80s when I was a lad.

Well, I stand corrected… to a certain extent.

Two to four inches certainly doesn’t constitute the knee-high stuff that Birmingham may once have enjoyed, but even this morning the schools were closed again and reports of gridlock around the region were coming in thick and, indeed, fast. This is a whole week after the first downfall.

It has to be the longest space of time that snow has lasted around here since the late 80s.

So I may have been a tad hasty with last week’s assessment. It just goes to show that there are rare instances when even I get things wrong… ahem.

Still, even the few inches we have had doesn’t justify the near-hysteria of impending apocalypse proportions it’s managed to cause. Panic buying in the shops? Grit shortages? I ask you.

I look forward to next week when I’ll inevitably be reporting on the six foot of snow stopping my getting out the front door.

See also: Snow News is Bad News

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Near-hysteria of Impending Apocalypse Proportions is a post from: Nick James

Great Barr – Where the snow lay roundabout, deep and crisp and even

It’s has become somewhat the cliché to state that with the first sign of snow, the country grinds to a halt. Even so, to employ yet another tired cliché, there’s no smoke without fire, and it’s been proved time and again that the slightest dusting does indeed bring things to a standstill.

Since the passing of the eighties, winter snow, anywhere south of Newcastle, has become the rare commodity indeed, so much so that years have passed by without even a flutter. The tentative science of Global Warming promised warmer winters, and for a brief moment there, it looked like they could’ve been right. However, the past couple of years have seen a return of snowfall to Birmingham, and if the buzz on Twitter is anything to go by, the rest of the country too.

Snow over the M6 motorway (behind the fence)

Where we differ from the likes of, say, Canada or Greenland – who seem to have little trouble in negotiating the odd dumping of two foot of snow in less than an hour – is that we’ve become used to a snow-free existence, and the councils have mirrored this by setting less and less money aside to tackle the situation when it arises. Hence, we grind to a halt because it’s not deemed serious enough to send the gritters out until it’s too late. Mix in the fact that a good proportion of today’s drivers cut their teeth during the dry days of the nineties and the first half of the “noughties“, and have therefore never driven on snow in the way previous generations have, and the seeds are sewn for this particular catastrophe of a winter wonderland. And, of course, we mustn’t forget that old chestnut of it being “the wrong type of snow“.

Even so, this is still a mere dusting. A couple of inches doesn’t constitute a national emergency, although the London-based media mafia do their best to have you thinking to the contrary.

Snow on the garages and old quarry/landfill beyond

Anybody who grew up in Birmingham during the late seventies and early eighties will know what proper snow is. Snow that reached up past your knees – granted, our knees were a lot closer to the ground in those days – and could fall anytime from November onwards. Build a snowman in January in those halcyon days and the dome of its head would still be visible on the wet grass in April. Snow fell deep, lasted ages, and got you days off school or sent home from work.

We ploughed on regardless, with Wellington boots, wet feet and rosy-red, snowbitten faces, through blizzard conditions and snowflakes the size of dinner-plates. If we saw a return to those days, I’m assuming the country would not only grind to a halt but pick up its hat and leave via the nearest exit.

Still, it would keep two national obsessions, those of the weather and complaining, ticking along nicely, and, of course, give chancers such as myself something to write about.

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Snow News is Bad News (For the UK, at least) is a post from: Nick James

Despite an almost overwhelming sentiment of badwill to all men, for me the Spaghetti Western makes perfect Chrimbo viewing. Not entirely sure why. Possibly because the first one I ever saw was A Fistful of Dollars, one Yuletide, a very long time ago. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Also, as predicted – in my mind, at least – the original published viewing list changed, mood and circumstances dictating what was chosen for review. The amended list turned out as follows:

Sunday: California
Monday: If You Meet Sartana, Pray For Your Death
Tuesday: Johnny Yuma
Wednesday: Death Rides a Horse
Friday: The Great Silence

If you’re so inclined you can read the reviews by clicking on each title or go here for the complete list and one or two more of my Spaghetti Western scribblings. Thanks to feral and fiona for entrusting their site to my less than capable hands.

I shall be watching more Spaghetti Westerns in the run up to Christmas, the Dollars trilogy being a particular favourite during the festive season, as well as those old faithfuls of Christmases of yore, Laurel and Hardy. There’ll be no further reviews this side of 2010.

An aside to all this, and of little interest to anybody except myself, was an offer from Sebastian at the Spaghetti Western Database to contribute to their site . One I may well take up in the new year.

As for 2010 right here, there’ll be a few changes to this site’s layout, but nothing too traumatic for me, or anybody else happening to pay a return visit. Head Full of Snow will also return in the new year.

In view of the un-christmassy weather we’re presently enjoying (Snow? At Christmas?), I’ll leave you with the trailer to the extremely snowbound The Great Silence, my final review of Spaghetti Western week and one of Italy’s finest.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RAJI-UQ4Tak

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Badwill to all Men – The Spaghetti Western Reviews is a post from: Nick James

Last Friday we paid a wintry visit to Stratford-Upon-Avon, the Bard’s birthplace, and here be a few of the photos. The delay in posting isn’t because I’m still using film and had to get the photographs developed. No, I originally wrote several paragraphs of nonsense to frame them, but then realised I had very little to say. So here they be, minus the nonsense.

A few notes. The shop all lit up like a dog’s dinner, with the abandoned pushchair containing the shouty daughter outside, is the Nutcracker Christmas Shop. Step inside and with one breath of the cinnamon-scented air you’ll think it’s Christmas all year round.  Which it is. In this shop anyways.

The old looking house, doesn’t just look old. It is old. The very house where the Bard first drew breath, in fact, which gives it at least 400 years on me.

And finally, the two pubs, The Pen and Parchment – famous for getting flooded whenever the river Avon decides to stretch its legs – and Cox’s Yard, are probably the finest drinking holes in all of Stratford.

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A wintry day in Stratford is a post from: Nick James

Beginning Sunday 13th December, I shall be watching at least one Spaghetti Western a day and then posting a review at LateMag.

The running order, presently, is as follows:

Sunday: California
Monday: If You Meet Sartana, Pray For Your Death
Tuesday: Light the Fuse… Sartana is Coming
Wednesday: Day of Anger
Thursday: A Bullet For The General
Friday: The Great Silence

The review of California is already up and running, and I will publish the complete list of links to the other reviews at the close of Spaghetti Western week. If nothing else. it keeps me off the streets.

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Spaghetti Western Week is a post from: Nick James

On Sunday I began the novel which will see me set-up for life once it’s written and published. Can’t give too much away, for obvious reasons, but it’s set to be a rip-roaring adventure of Edgar Rice Burroughs proportions, with a tongue that remains firmly in the cheek.

I’m not new to this novel-writing lark. In fact, I’ve probably written more novels than is healthy for a mortal man to admit to… well started more novels, anyway. Never quite got around to finishing them all though. Such is the cross that someone with a haphazard imagination and the attention span of an inebriated gnat, has to bear.

Nevertheless, as with all the novels that have passed before, I’m determined to finish this beast. I’m not getting any younger, after all. I anticipate the hardest part will be finding the spare time to knock out the requisite 80,000 or so words, though this is subject to change at any time…

As is anything you’ve just read. Particularly the part about setting me up for life, but there’s nowt wrong with a dream.

Anyways, the first two chapters are planned and an there’s a rough outline from thereon in. Let’s see where it takes us. A strong heart and dogged determination are what’s required to ensure the momentum isn’t lost and the chronicles of Jeremiah Galen don’t end up on the “to finish” pile with the rest.

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Edgar Rice Burroughs Proportions is a post from: Nick James

The web wizzard in charge of Roy Wood’s official website has been in touch and a copy of my article, as it stands at the moment, is now in the hands of Birmingham’s finest, and beardiest, bard.

As this is the time of year Roy Wood tours with his Christmas show, I’m not expecting to hear anything until the new year, but hey-ho, I’m one step closer to pinning the man down than I was a week ago, and that’s got to be better than a poke in the eye with sharp stick.

More news, if and when it happens.

*Useless Information is the name of a Roy Wood-penned track from The Move’s 1968 debut album. It also makes a rather apt title for this post.

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Useless Information* – Seeking Roy Wood pt. 2 is a post from: Nick James

So off I ventured onto the half-built estate that’s sprung up on the grounds of the old St. Margaret’s Mental Hospital and, more importantly, into the woods that surround it.

The research I undertook (all 30 seconds of it) prior to my expedition paid dividends, as instead of the tangled jungle of undergrowth I encountered last time, the woods quickly opened onto a steep, makeshift drive, lined by trees and the ruins of outbuildings, which inclined down to Great Barr Hall… or what remained of it

As the view of this Grade II listed building opened up to me, I was once again amazed by the eerie silence that hung in the air. This is despite a nearby building site, main road and motorway, all within spitting distance and prone to providing a perpetual ambient hum. I found the fact that there wasn’t the apparition of a shadowy, cowled figure watching me from within the light-starved recesses of the woods, more surprising than if there had been.

The Hall has stood in some form or another since the mid-17^th century. It was once the residence of the Scott family, local landowners whose name lives on at the nearby Scott Arms pub and shopping centre. It has served as a children’s home and as part of the Mental Hospital, being the first building in use at the “Great Barr Idiot Colony”, as it was called in its early-20th century inception.

Today it’s a partially collapsed, burnt out shell, penned off by security fencing and two guard dogs who, if their bark was anything to go by, would happily take off a leg and have it as a light snack between meals.

Reportedly, Bovis were given permission to build the new housing estate on condition that Great Barr Hall was restored. The building was set alight just prior to the commencement of construction on the new homes. That was four years ago, and Great Barr Hall has remained untouched ever since, whilst less charitable types suggest that the timing of the arson attack was more than mere coincidence.

I managed to get some shots of the side of the building, but when I moved around to the front a security guard informed me that I wasn’t to take photos. Now as far as I know, there’s no law that can be enforced to stop me taking snaps of this once proud wreck. I hadn’t breached the barrier fence and as far as I was aware I stood on a public byway. However, he was an amiable enough bloke so I’d not the inclination to challenge this. Besides, if he turned there were two bloody great dogs foaming at the bit to remove the camera and possibly my arms if the need arose.

He told me that he was under instructions (presumably from Bovis) not to let anybody take pictures – a curious direction, this isn’t the MI6 building, after all. It’s almost as though Bovis have something to hide, or perhaps they don’t want it becoming too public that four years down the line, the proposed restoration has yet to begin. As I said previously, a good deal of Great Barr’s population are unaware the hall even exists. He also told me that the building was due be done up soon, and would become part of the new (as yet unfinished) estate.

Whether that’s been the party-line since the arson attack, I couldn’t say.

What is evident is that a piece of local heritage is being allowed to rot, and like the lake upon which it sits, remains off-limits to the people of Great Barr and elsewhere.

See also: Don’t Go into the Woods Alone

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Don’t Go into the Woods Alone… Again is a post from: Nick James

The thing is, I mostly pay for the stuff I review myself, therefore giving a completely unbiased view from the perspective of a man who, like the punter who’s reading it, has weighed in with the appropriate sum and lightened the load on his pocket.

However, nowadays I’m getting sent more and more stuff from artists, record labels and PRs for review, which, as long as it fits in with my own remit for Head Full of Snow, I’m more than happy to do.  But it beggars the question, now that I’ve thumbed a ride upon the corporate gravy train, so to speak, can my words still be trusted?

After all, if I’m sent something really bad would I risk the wrath of the PR, and ultimately losing out on more freebies, by reflecting said shabbiness in my review?

Well it’s not really the fashionable thing to discuss, after all, everyone claims to be honest. But when the chips are down is it worth losing out on a good thing in a world where they’re so few and far between?

In traditional media, a million miles away from that of the one man blogger sat in his room expressing his thoughts on the latest godawful-looking cinematic excursion from, say, James Cameron, press junkets are a tax-deductable folly. Big companies buy journo’s favours by showering them with gifts, excursions, or whatever else the PR budget will stretch to. Nobody questions this. The occasional free CD or invite to a press screening, supplied in good faith to a blogger, is little more than a press junket shrunk down to 1:48 scale.

The good people inhabiting the world of traditional media are seen to be the torchbearers for journalistic integrity, and after all, who would ever question the ethical motivation of someone as honest as Piers Morgan or anybody who collects their 30 pieces of silver from News International? Yet as their slice of the market diminishes they turn upon the freedom of information provided by the internet and make sweeping generalisations towards those inhabiting the so-called blog-o-sphere. A lowly blogger can be bought, after all, with a free CD, whereas their price is much higher.

Which brings me back to the question of whether I would risk a healthy relationship with a record label’s PR by slating their release?

The answer, unequivocally, is yes. If I have a price, it’s certainly not a few CDs. If my words upset a PR, then so be it. I rarely dance, and when I do it’s to nobody’s tune but my own.

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Dancing the PR Tango is a post from: Nick James

Image ©EMI/Harvest

You’d think it would be a problem easily remedied. But oh no, not this time.

Roy Wood is proving to be slightly more elusive than Lord Lucan in pinning down.  His website, agent and even the Sunday Mercury, for which he writes the occcasional column, have all been approached for the purposes of securing an interview. But to no avail.

I’ve also gone on to find out that the former Move, ELO, Wizzard and Wizzo Band dynamo is notoriously reluctant when it comes to giving interviews – a refreshing attitude towards self-promotion of which I heartily approve. Still, it’s a bad thing as far as the article is concerned.

Nevertheless, I shall press on in attempting to root out Birmingham’s finest bard. In these atomised times of email and the internet, if things get really desperate, I may even have to pick up the phone.

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Desperately Seeking Roy Wood is a post from: Nick James

Big Jim “H” certainly knew what he was doing when he set foot in the studio to lay this beast down.

If you read my Head Full of Snow website, you’ll be aware I’m a big fan of the Hammond organ, a staple ingredient of psychedelic and progressive rock. Its distinct sound adds an alternate, often haunting, dimension to many a good tune.

I can only imagine Big Jim “H” and his esteemed “Men of Rhythm?!?”, when playing the “smash hits of today”, stay true to the old adage of “Any song that contains a Hammond organ can never be bad”.

Or maybe not. One suspects lift music is imminent.

The track listing reveals the likes of ‘Power to the People’ rubbing shoulders with the ‘Theme From Love Story’ – pseudo-left wing sympathy mixing it up with a song about a dead bird.

I’ve no idea what it sounds like, but you only have to take a look at the expression on the faces of the two groovy cats gracing the cover to know it’s probably a winner.

Big Jim, we salute thee.

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Hammond Organ Dance Party is a post from: Nick James