Tonight the 11 year old wanted to put on some Jeff Buckley. Therein lay the potential to mine the vein of Drowned Musicians, seeing as my next immediate thought was "and Brian Jones". I excluded rock-gods-found-in-the-bath, and decided against drawing up a playlist on the basis that Corrie was about to start.
The Heathcliffesque Secret-Not-Lemonade-Drinker Peter Barlow is never quick enough. There are now so many glasses and bottles stuffed hastily behind the cushions; luckily for him nobody ever seems to do a bit of cushion-plumping.
I don't think my handle on current affairs is too hot sometimes. My first reaction to the "Fatwa on May" headline was that James, or possibly Brian, must have done something a little inappropriate. But I suppose that's not too bad, seeing as some of the students I work with are qualifying to arrange holidays for people, yet can't even tell you where the Caribbean is. Or Glasgow. There are strong reactions to the abolition of the educational maintenance allowance, one of which was a 10-strong torrent of commas in one of Lucy Mangan's sentences this weekend. Back in the day, I survived teenage life on the dual-joys of John Peel and a full grant at a uni desperate enough to take my mediocre A'level results. Times are tough for school-leavers these days - needing a sugar daddy in order to pay for a degree are somehow mutually incompatible.
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