Flip to animoto

If, like me, you like playing with low-tech visual media, (I am the proud owner of a Holga, Lomo and of course Flip camera) I recommend animoto . This app will turn a mix of stills and video into a seamless little visual presentation knitted together with a synchronised music backing track from your music library. If you crave words, these can be added, caption-like, and the result is strangely reminiscent of silent movies, but 21st century-style. Anyway it's free if the film is under 30 seconds, it's easy, and has a massive range of applications including corporate presentations. You can sign up for a whole year for $30. Oh - and it's available as an iPhone app. Natch. Goodbye PowerPoint, hello animoto.

The power of the moving image

Much is written about the iniquitous impact of the moving image on human sensibility. What you see translates into what you do. Violence begetting violence. Etc etc.

But how about the positive impact? How about using video for positive messaging?

How about movies that put you off. Right off.

Twitter makes the first draft of history

Much has been written about Twitter overtaking FaceBook in the social networking popularity wars, but for me the search or navigation part of Twitter has to get a good deal more sophisticated before FB need worry. If you're not on Twitter 24/7, you will miss the few tweets you really wanted to read in the vast avalanche of advancing messages that arrange themselves chronologically in real time on your home page. I dip in and out and have to spend much longer than I really want to sifting through the garbage like a magpie looking for the glint of something attractive. It's dull work, and will soon have me finding quicker, sharper alternatives.

This real time dimension does, however, have one inalienable advantage. When a major world event happens, Twitter captures real time eye witness accounts that add up to crowdsourced journalism, or history in its first draft. You Tube has revolutionised the reporting of controversial news with immediate, individual eye witness accounts beamed across the world, and Twitter does the same with its instant sharing of tiny messages.

How useful would it be now if there had been some passengers on the AirFrance Rio-Paris flight urgently uploading tweets on what was going on in that plane?

BlackBerry, Apple or Pomegranate?

I'm not quick to jump on new tech gadgets however quick I am to read about them. So I've been letting reviews, personal recommendations and a few hands-on sessions percolate through the stubborn layers of indecision before upgrading my antediluvian brickbat of a phone. (Actually I decided today that for all my love of all things Apple, I was going to be sensible and go for the BlackBerry Curve 8900). In the course of many happy Google hours interrogating the fruit salad of options, I came across the Pomegranate. Someone out there had even more time than me - check out especially the coffee brewing and shaving options.

Is it all vanity?

Over the last few months I've found that I was being asked quite frequently for examples of my various verbal outpourings, and being naturally disorganised, was spending silly amounts of time scanning in pages from dog-eared copies of the FT or various magazines and emailing them off. Then I thought why not put all this stuff together on a personal site? Much more sensible.

So it came to pass that lizbolshaw.com was born. It's unavoidably self, self, self and writing about yourself in the third person is somehow cringe-making, but on the other hand at least now people can drop in and find my various musings on Web 2.0, interviews with entrepreneurs and even a rather surreal piece on extravagant treehouses.

It comes as I succumb to Twitter and connect with old friends on FaceBook and generally paddle in the shallows of social media. All this mental junk food gives one a hunger for a bit of Proust or Foucault to chew on.

Opentable IPO

A quick trip to Sardinia to lie on the sand and swim in transparent seas, and I almost missed the Opentable furore. I have to admit to having followed this intently - as soon as Silicon Valley grinch Sarah Lacey poured scorn that it would never float let alone fly. And has it flown...

Here's VentureBeat's summary:

Online restaurant reservation site OpenTable (trading as OPEN) has stunned the market with the best IPO performance of any company since 2007 (Orion Energy Systems), reaping a 59 percent gain with share prices closing at $31.89 on the Nasdaq — a staggering upsell from its anticipated $20.

The stock spiraled as high as $35.50, a 78 percent gain, as market analysts watched, both concerned that it was overstepping its bounds and positing that the small size of the offering was buttressing its price. Only 3 million shares were sold. In its success, OpenTable defied the economic downturn — not only the recently frozen IPO market, but also a dip in business from its core customerbase: restaurants.

So far, the San Francisco company seems relatively untouched by its reported 10 to 15 percent drop in reservations between 2007 and 2008. The recession has eaten into consumers’ dining budgets and restaurants are clearly feeling the pinch. As mentioned in previous articles, the main reason OpenTable was even poised for an IPO is its consistent revenue stream from restaurants, which pay for the installation of its software system and monthly subscription fees. But the downturn cuts both ways. The site says more restaurants are actually signing up these days, viewing the service as a convenience that could lure more customers. Overall, OpenTable’s revenue rose 36 percent in 2008 (despite a net loss), and 21 percent in the first quarter of 2009 (bringing it back to black).

It's tempting to equate the UK's toptable with OpenTable, but that would be to overlook some substantial differences in the two companies' business models. Toptable has concentrated its efforts beyond the convenient and transactional to providing a much richer consumer experience for its user base. There's very clever personalisation going on behind the scenes - even more so since the launch of its bigger, multi-lingual site some weeks ago. The proof is in its revenue streams that include a healthy slice of third party advertising on top of restaurant booking fees and marketing. If toptable can break across borders to capture audiences in Europe, as it has set out to do, it will be a very serious force to be reckoned with.

Death of the Word

If you haven't read it and aren't yet sick of all things social media, Throwing Sheep into the Boardroom is a good place to get your head around the roots and branches of this explosive tree. Author Matthew Fraser is an academic at Insead and has one of those highly polished domed foreheads Victorian phrenologists would have loved. I'd also recommend his blog. His latest post about the demise of newspapers and more serious magazines isn't original but it's a useful summary of where things are.

We're about two weeks' in to the launch of digital magazine, Smart People. It's very American in that loud yet improving sense and on current form won't be getting my $25 sub, but it's good to see people getting together to launch digital, interactive alternatives to newspapers. Richard Addis, who knows a bit about newspapers, has been arguing for digital innovation in news for some time, while he goes round the world relaunching papers of the traditional kind. I'm a firm fan of la Huffington whose digital organ continues to do what it does better than the competition.

Suwender to Twitter

Yesterday I finally gave in and got myself a Twitter account. To be honest I don't really get it yet, but within a few hours some 30 people I have no connection with are my followers. Some of the time it feels as though you are at the centre of a massive crossed line eavesdropping on conversations that you barely understand: the next you plug into something unexpected, immediate and wonderful. I have drawn the line at Denver Real Estate, web-dating and half a dozen earnest female Christians pushing out depressing messages of hope that belong on motivational posters of sunsets and seascapes. I mean really. Forster's "only connect" may be the motto de jour, but surely a small degree of editorial control is permissable.

Here, in a life-affirming paean to the power of a laptop and a few microphones, is a Twitter find. The digital world bringing raw street music together.

Stephen Fry has almost half a million followers, and no, I don't understand how he has time to breathe let alone tweet.

Do I have a witty, ironic avatar? No - if you really want to see me dribble, I'm lizbolshaw. As usual

A Butt of Sack

There is something rather wonderful about Carol Ann Duffy finally being appointed Poet Laureate, after she was apparently rejected last time round by a Tony Blair, nervous of the impact of her sexuality on a blushing Middle England. The anachronistic royal appointment famously carries remuneration in the form of a £5,000+ per year stipend (which Duffy has asked to be donated to the Poetry Society to endow a new prize) and a butt of sack. Interviewed on Radio 4 this morning, Duffy said that she had discovered that outgoing Laureate Andrew Motion had yet to receive his quota of sherry so she had asked to get hers up front. A butt = 600 bottles.

It may have taken 341 years to get here, but raise a glass with and to her.

If, for any reason, you don't know her work - start with Rapture, her astonishing collection of love sonnets.

The T word

There is hardly a news story now not centred around the R word - the economic reality that started as a slow-down, grew quickly to be an acknowledged recession, and for some particularly lugubrious columnists, is darkly hinted at a possible depression. But to stay with the majority, let's call it by the R word. Working, as I do, writing about and sometimes for business, I am acutely aware of the multifarious ways that the R word is impacting on the culture and behaviour of businesses affected by the nervousness, strangled cashflow and retrenchment that fills the corporate air now. 

Lymehound works for a range of businesses in different stages of their lifecycle: some are babies at that fragile point when idea blooms into reality; others are mature and street-savvy, playing the media, ducking and diving. Like any other business, we have to collect debts to survive, and we have been very lucky in having honourable, well-meaning clients who, because they're pretty happy with what we do, pay us on time or thereabouts. We know that sometimes that has been at personal cost, and we appreciate it all the more because of that. We do the same. Why? Because we have an instinctive knowledge that we should act as we want to be acted on, so to speak. 

Interestingly, the only real problem we, as a new media company, has had in collecting our debts, has been with our biggest and oldest client. This client is one I have known personally for many years, and one I admire. It never occurred to me that this high-profile, well-established, highly-appreciative firm should be our one late payer. I left it a while. But when I was getting no replies to emails or phone calls, I started to worry. Here was a vibrant, savvy firm, led by a high-profile CEO who speaks with gung-ho positivity at numerous events and conferences, who would regularly email me perhaps six or ten times a day, simply going silent on me. I decided that I couldn't sensibly continue to work without communication and said so. And today, she called me to tell me she can't afford to work with someone who needs to be paid on an agreed timeline. It was kind of my fault for having the unreasonable expectation of getting paid in a vaguely timely fashion.

Now I'm a grown-up and know there will be many business relationships that for all sorts of reasons come to an end. But what upset me about this wasn't the fact that Lymehound was being sacked (incidentally in open violation of a contract, initiated and signed by the client only weeks ago) but the absolute breaking of trust. "Trust men and they will be true to you," said Ralph Waldo Emerson. Trust is so much more valuable than legal contracts. Trust is what makes you bust your gut for a client; over-deliver; introduce them to valuable business contacts without any payback or chance of payback. Trust has to do with a feeling that you understand the lay of the land and you are working to do something important together. Trust stops you billing for every hour, every train journey and expense. Trust makes the world go round. 

When  you can't pay a supplier, call him. Ideally call him before he calls you. Tell him how it is. Don't suggest it's unreasonable to expect payment or any other game you might play. Just level with him and keep close. You may think you can do without your suppliers - plenty out there clamouring for your business. But at some stage, maybe next month, maybe next year, you're going to need business relationships that are based on trust. If you've forgotten that, the R word may be the least of your worries. 

Alex Kingston and the Middle-aged Actress

The Sun reports that Alex Kingston is returning to ER for the very final episode, shooting early 2009. Alex Kingston was famously fired from the series for that peculiarly feminine sin - becoming old. Not even old, just less young. Alex's eight series' body of work as Elizabeth Corday in ER, at reportedly $150,000 per episode, was in itself a living example of one of my favourite George Herbert quotes, "Living well is the best revenge." After a bitter and difficult marriage to Ralph Fiennes, for my money she deserved every dollar. 

Why should I care? Well, Ralph and Alex happened to live in the flat above mine in the then rather risqué East Dulwich, and proximity being what it is, we became friends. They were then struggling actors with the RSC, evenly matched in typical thespian penury. I fed them and got lots of free tickets. It was a perfect arrangement. I witnessed Ralph's supersonic rise to fame, memorably including a slightly drunken supper when the phone rang and one of us, among the invited rabble answered it, giggling loudly – it's Steven Speilberg, Ralph, for you. Yeh right, we all collapsed. But, of course, it was. And the call was the approach that was to lead to Ralph's astonishing performance as Amon Goeth in Schindler's List. 

I held loud parties in those days, with French windows wide open to rather a lavish garden at the back and a balcony with beautiful wrought iron that had escaped, due to its location at the back of the house, requisitioning for the War Effort. Ralph used to appear, in indigo silk dressing-gown, remonstrating in a Noel Coward way, about the noise. It was entirely reasonable and didn't seem to dent our friendship. When not engaged in learning lines, or preparing for a new role, he was an enthusiastic dinner guest and danced with the rest of us to UB40 before slumping into an armchair and falling quietly asleep. Always serious. Always self-conscious, many found him difficult. But he was charming to me (and of course then meltingly handsome) and we used to find a quiet corner to discuss literature and occasionally philosophy.

Everyone adored Alex. She was always more beautiful in real life than in front of the camera and generosity shone from her in a completely winning way. Alex, you felt, could not but be herself. I was lucky enough to go to their wedding in Suffolk – and another old friend, Joelle Dupont, was tasked with taking the photos. Which she did rather badly, by missing out half the important people. There were droves of unmistakable members of Ralph's illustrious Twisleton Fiennes clan including a towering uncle in Greek Orthodox robes and resplendent beard. I remember standing in the buffet lunch queue behind Ben Kingsley. No-one talked to him, so I did. Fame can be an isolating attribute. The two went away in a pink Cadillac – a kind of premonition of the Hollywood lives they would both individually build for themselves. But even then the marriage was creaking and it creaked badly before they finally broke apart in the uncomfortable glare of the press. 

Later, when Ralph was filming the Kathryn Bigelow cult classic, Strange Days, I went to stay with him in his own movie set in the Hollywood Hills. We'd arrived late at LAX and wound our way through the warm and fragrant night from the urban smog below in our vast, cream convertible Chrysler le Baron. Ralph was waiting at the gates to his house, dressed memorably in wafty white, and waved us through the sleek and minimalist house to a terrace where champagne lay chilling next to some delicate sushi, with a technicolour, widescreen view over Los Angeles which took one's breath away. It was my first visit to the States, and I will never forget the sheer thrill of it. Somewhere David Hockney talks about his first experience of America being like breathing oxygen for the first time - and that's how I felt. High and energised. Ralph was an attentive host, considering his weird daily schedule that required a nocturnal existence - Strange Days being filmed exclusively at night. He was then newly acquiring the behaviour of a Hollywood A Lister: a masseuse arrived daily; the hazlenut-roast coffee was delivered; he would nonchalantly slip from a towelling robe (as we slurped morning coffee by the pool) naked into the water. We went on-set and met co-stars Angela Bassett and Juliette Lewis, like giggling schoolgirls.

Many years later I was in LA on business and called Alex on the offchance. Alex, husband Florian and I growled away in their 4x4 from my hotel in Beverley Hills to a classic diner where we had huge calorific breakfasts. I still have the photos. And the love handles.

Now Ralph and Alex are both appearing in costume dramas – Alex as Mrs Bennett in Lost in Austen and Ralph as the cruel William Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire, in The Duchess. In real life, Ralph is famously restrained, private. Of course it doesn't always work: that Qantas air stewardess was never going to stay stum about their short-lived liaison at 35,000 feet. But mainly Ralph's life is his own. Alex has always been more open with the press - talking of her struggles to have a baby, for example. Her daughter, Salome, was born a month after my first son, Louis. They never met (and never will, because unfortunately Louis died last year from a brain tumour) but it remains a diurnal connection.

All this from a brief news story in The Sun: what would we do without our red-tops?

Money, money, money

Over the weekend, Reg "I'll get you Butler" Varney left this world aged 92, after many successful years as the Cockney bus conductor in 'On the Buses' - but his place in history was made, not from comic acting, but from making the first withdrawal anywhere in the world from an ATM machine in 27 June 1967. The bank was Barclays. The branch was Enfield in North London.

News of Varney's death came hot on the heels of another historic stat in the development of money and how we manage it. In October UK banking customers completed one million financial transactions (checking balances, paying bills, transferring funds) on their mobile phones, using the fast-growing Monilink service. Check it out here.

And in 687BC Herodotus reports the creation of the first rudimentary coins in Lydia.

Album downloads from iTunes

Although I am a fan of vinyl and the 3D nature of the sound, I continue to be lured into the iTunes store all too frequently and find myself exploring dark corners of the site for little-known recordings -  usually of early blues music or trashy 70s pop. I don't personally find digital music quality (assuming some decent equipment to harness your computer to) significantly worse or flatter than CDs. Occasionally maybe there is a tendency to that 'bright' tone but I think you'd have to be unusually acoustically fastidious to really notice the difference. (Listen to Blue Note vinyl recordings though and I defy anyone not to be amazed how much better they are than any of the digitally remastered CDs that followed the iconic label's heyday).

One major gripe I do have, however, is with the digital sequence of large albums, especially classical recordings. I've just downloaded a 1956 recording of a seminal Glyndebourne production of Figaro (easily my favourite opera) and because individual tracks are arranged alphabetically, you do not listen to it in any kind of sensible sequence. It is absolutely infuriating to have to manually scroll through arias to put them in the right order. And occasionally testing too. Half way through you suddenly come across the overture. It's not exactly astra physics to sort this out iTunes. Please.

RIP MacBookPro and hello MacBook White

I never thought I'd own the shiny white baby of the mighty Mac range: altogether too cute for me. But when yesterday my second MacBook Pro hard drive died in under 9 months, and the fact that it has had to have a new keyboard too, I decided to go simple. Yes I know I could have had another hard drive under warranty, but honestly how many chances can I give the right hand of my life? 

So here I am smiling inanely at the pleasing clickable keys, deep glossy screen and altogether ease of use. I was an early adopter when it comes to Macs. I've had the odd PC affair, but all my main loves have been with the apple way back to neanderthal times when wireless was something your parents listened to. I'm quite glad it's not the ubiquitous aluminium and the keys don't automatically illuminate as dusk falls. Thanks to the new dual core processors it's as fast as my 12-month old top of the range MacBookPro that cost more than twice as much as the albino baby. And it still comes with two firewire ports (unlike the all-new, improved MacBooks).

I may regret this, but so far, my latest love looks like we may go the distance. 

In praise of lunch

In my first career in book publishing, the institution of lunch was the cornerstone of my business life. Lunch took up at least a third of the day, was the focus of all business deals and the only serious activity ambitious editors had to get right. Lunch was king. But then republican bean counters and efficiency monitors deposed Lunch and we all got used to dribbling bits of sandwiches over our keyboards. Deals were done in stuffy, anodyne meeting rooms and occasionally over a skinny latte in Starbucks. Lunch, like eating, was so yesterday.
So it was something of a surprise when, trying to catch up with Karen Hanton, queen of the starry Web 2.0 company toptable (an institution in its own right), she suggested we have Lunch. Last time I went to the offices of toptable, they were housed in an incongruous part of private medicine-land west of Harley Street. Now they are comfortably settled in the heart of Clerkenwell, and we walked past another threatened institution, the gaudy, municipal high-Victorian architecture of Smithfield, to a local Italian restaurant in Cowcross Street. The restaurant, like Lunch, was reassuringly passé. At one time there were hundreds of family-run pasta joints like this one: now they are hard to find. Over my linguine and her fettuncine, Karen and I caught up. Because we were having Lunch, conversation ranged, like a revolutionary, across the borders of private and business life. There were no agendas, PowerPoint presentations or meeting notes. We were able, in the course of a modest, relaxed hour or so to talk a good deal about business, but almost without noticing.
Toptable has put immense care and effort into building a best-of-breed platform in its space. It hasn't had an easy time of it but its numbers are now not just robust, but spectacular. It leads its peers in the analysis of its customer base and their behaviours; its expertise in search engine optimisation leaves so-called seo companies standing; it is as sharp a consumer-focused, market-leading web company as you will find. And having poured talent and money and energy into its platform, it is now scaling out at a rate that is eye-watering, delivering something as old-fashioned as Lunch: bottom line, cash profits.
The first time I interviewed Karen I learned of her roots as the daughter of crofters whose daily graft sucked every ounce of colour and blood from both parents and the young family too. Those roots have built an extraordinary entrepreneur whose clear-sighted, absolutely focused vision is now delivering extraordinary results. And she can still stroll round the corner to a local Italian gaff and chat over pasta. Long live Lunch.

read this e-journal

Part of day job is putting together a monthly journal for Julie Meyer's company, Ariadne Capital. If you're interested in early-stage companies in the broad media, tech and telecom space then it's not a bad read and occasionally a very good one. Through the Maze comes out the third week of every month and is free to subscribe to. I'm always looking for interesting stories and writers too, so if you fall into that category, contact me.

Is Google making us stupid?

This was the title of Nicholas Carr’s article published in Atlantic Monthly that sparked what has become a firey debate between the guardians of old culture and the nouveau tech. It’s a debate that interests me profoundly, not just because I don’t just sit but live on the fence between the two, but also because of the more scientific research that has begun to show neurological changes in a whole generation intellectually engaged with Playstation, Facebook and MSN.

John Walsh in this Sunday’s Independent, iterated the case that there are increasing numbers of people now unable to tackle what might be called ‘difficult’ literature: Joyce, Beckett, Homer, Milton. Actually that should read difficult and long. Because the argument goes that given the way we engage with information on the web, ‘power browsing’, we are increasingly unable to apply the necessary intellectual concentration needed to sustain meaning over the long distances of big novels or other works. This inability is mirrored in structural changes to the fore-brain, or the parts of the brain that are involved with language and abstract logic.

I’ve just finished reading Susan Greenfield’s ‘The Quest for Identity in the 21st Century’ (no, not that long). Professor Greenfield is the eminent Oxford neuroscientist whose work has been popularised in various forms over the past decade. She writes, “At a microcellular level, the infinitely complex network of nerve cells that make up the constituent parts of the brain actually change in response to certain experiences and stimuli.” So the brain is plastic and malleable, like a muscle. Use it or lose it. She quotes a fascinating research study undertaken by the Harvard Medical School. Three groups of adult volunteers with no prior ability to play the piano are given a week in an identical room with an identical piano. Group 1 is given intensive piano practice for five days; group 2 has nothing to do with the piano and Group 3 is told to imagine that they were spending five days intensively practising the piano. Comparative brain scans showed Group 2 had no change; Group 1 had significant structural changes to the parts of the brain associated with fine motor control and – big surprise – Group 3 showed almost as much change to the same parts of the brain as Group1. In other words, the impact of the imagination, or higher thought process, is not just real but physical.

My late father studied Classics at Cambridge and then went on to carve out a very classical career as a mandarin civil servant. He always maintained his education had taught him how to think, had trained his mind. I, of course, poo poo-ed such Byzantine thinking until, in the immortal words of the Fonz, I realised he was right just at the point when I have a son who thinks I’m wrong. (And aged four, wants nothing more than to master Playstation).

I don’t really think the Sony Reader with its galactic memory (160 books-worth) and leviathan battery life or Google Book Search (with its millions of scanned books out there free on the web) are a threat to the world’s creative imagination. To me physical access to ideas is always good if it’s expanding: I think people will always choose to lose themselves in a good book, with paper and ink and easy pages to turn at some time. What does concern me, though, is if somehow the democracy and vastness of the internet, with its multiplicity of views and sources, turns us away from the deeply-researched, long argument posited by a single, deeply-thinking person, and worse, makes us unable to follow him or her on a deep intellectual journey.

Beanz meanz Heinz...or Branstons?

OK now we know the credit crunch is real. Sales of baked beans are up 12% on last year and Branstons beans are up 22%. I'm a Heinz girl myself - and the full sugar version too. They can't do them in France where the name says it all - haricots blancs à la sauce tomate - so I wonder what hard-pressed French families are eating more of? Let them eat cake.

In a world where...

Don laFontaine has died aged 68. Until his death no-one outside his niche knew his face – even his name. But his voice sold over 5,000 of Hollywood's most blockbusting flicks from Dr Strangelove to The Terminator. He'd started as a radio engineer and then progessed to a few radio ads before finding his real talent. Overweight and unglamorous, he is probably one of Hollywood's most hired actors. In his 33 year career he single-handedly created an industry of voicing movie trailers with his signature sound of an insomniac's throaty base rolling like thick black coffee over gravel. He had a pregnant voice; a voice that held your attention and promised and suggested. How can one man's voice be so iconic? So unrepeatable? So resonant for so many people across all the world. Earlier today I was doing some early work putting together Ariadne Capital's next journal to Maria Callas belting out arias at high decibels across the Somerset countryside. It got me thinking about other voices I love: the unfashionable 50s tenor, Beniamino Gigli and the rasping bark of Sid Vicious (strangely also admired by the great interpreter of German lieder, Ian Bostridge) and Tom Waits and Dylan and Louis Armstrong. They've all got highly individual voices that are drenched in experience: unmistakable. So now we can look forward to many laFontaine immitators and how dull they'll be.

The soundtrack to your life

If, like me, you have a large, unalphabetised and long-unvisited collection of vinyl, the Ion USB is like an instant time machine that will transport the soundtrack to your teenage life onto your iPod within minutes. Turn the past into the future, goes the marketing spiel. And it does. The turntable comes bundled with Audacity software (good for PCs or Macs) and Bias Soundsoap 2 which irons out some of the worst cracks and splutters of those much-abused discs. My own time journey is so far incomplete but an unexpected rediscovery were several of John Cooper Clarke's idiosyncratic works or oeuvres as I feel they should be called. Like Morrissey but funnier and darker, the sardonic Cooper Clarke still pounds the circuit in his black drainpipes, big hair and outsized sunglasses. The bard of Salford delivers his bleak vision through devastating puns in a flat Northern monotone against what are often trite tunes.  His first LP – Où est la maison de fromage? – was released in 1978 just as the Sex Pistols were shaming glam rockers into retirement. More recently The Arctic Monkeys cite Cooper Clarke as a major influence. It is difficult to convey the full effect through quoted lyrics but here are a few lines from Beasley Street:

The boys are on the wagon

The girls are on the shelf

Their common problem is

...That they're not someone else

If you want to, you can trace his verse back through a very British tradition - to Betjeman and Noel Coward - of small quotidian life and something nasty in the woodshed. Here he is in rare, romantic mode with I wanna be yours:

I wanna be your vacuum cleaner

Breathing in your dust

I wanna be your Ford Cortina

I will never rust

If you like your coffee hot

Let me be your coffee pot

You call the shots

I wanna be yours

I wanna be your raincoat

for those frequent rainy days

I wanna be your dreamboat

when you want to sail away

Let me be your teddy bear

take me with you everywhere

I don't care

I wanna be yours

I wanna be your electric meter

I will not run out

I wanna be the electric heater

You'll get cold without

I wanna be your setting lotion

Hold your hair in deep devotion

Deep as the deep Atlantic ocean

That's how deep is my devotion