The Railway Station

On Sunday evening I went to meet my daughter at York station coming back from her Children in Need weekend in London, where on Friday night she saw various celebrities and singers live at the BBC raising money in the annual extravaganza. I know they do a great deal of good work with needy kids, but charity is no substitute for a fair society - perhaps one day we will really have that ? Just because a banker earning a few hundred grand phones in every November to donate fifty quid doesn't mean we should all cheer - it does more to salve their conscience than really create a more equal Britain.

I used to travel quite regularly on trains, but now rarely get to see our nearest major station at York. Growing-up in a railway city, which some might say was more of a chocolate city or even a heritage city, it was hard not to be sucked into the magic, particularly as we have such a majestic structure to contain all the comings and goings, enhanced by stepping outside to see the ancient city walls right in front of you, and over to the left the soaring Minster. It's no accident that York is home to the wonderfully free National Railway Museum; even if we have lost our carriage building works down at Holgate.

My partner thought it strange that I'd want to go and stand around waiting for so long before our daughter arrived, but I just wanted to absorb all the atmosphere, which was extra strong on a dark and foggy November tea-time - shame there were no steam trains to enhance the mood yet further. The place was extraordinarily busy with people milling about the concourse, in the newsagent/bookshop, getting a hot drink, sandwich or giant pasty.

I saw the Sir Bobby Robson locomotive arrive from Newcastle on its way to London; such a shame that the great footballing legend is no longer with us, and I'm sure that the hundreds of passengers were much more concerned with their personal journeys than noticing a shiny nameplate commemorating some old guy who died of cancer.

The basic structure of the station hasn't changed much since I first visited as a lad in the sixties; I'm pleased to say I was never a lonely train-spotter clutching pad and pencil - just an ordinary youngster gazing-up at the soaring curved canopy of metal and glass, railway clocks and sturdy footbridge. Of course, the cafes and other outlets are now trendier and more expensive, and the general ambience of the station is much less grubby than it once was, but the business of (hopefully) rapid transport will always be the same.

My daughter's train was only a few minutes late, unlike the journey down when it broke down and they had to swap to another one, resulting in a delay of one-and-a-half-hours. Mum had told her that I'd be waiting on the platform, but perhaps recalling the days when you used to purchase a cardboard platform ticket, I was hanging about at the front near WH Smith, which allowed for a few more minutes idling around in the no-barrier open station - they have talked about bringing back the fence and ticket-checking, but I hope they don't. It will only restrict those who wish to simply wander and take-in the busy beauty of one of England's finest railway cathedrals.

Pesto Pasta

At least once a week I'll cheer myself by having a lunch of green pesto pasta - a meal that is quick, very tasty, and only has two ingredients - dry pasta and basil pesto from a humble supermarket jar. Of course, you can make it much more complicated by making your own basil sauce or even fresh pasta, and adding stuff like olives, bacon, olive oil, cream, herbs etc. etc.

For some reason I have no liking for the red version of this paste; the primary elements of the delicious green are: basil, olive oil, pine nuts, parmesan and garlic. If you've had a weekend of fried eggs and bacon and an enormous Sunday roast this vegetarian delight is both pleasurable and very filling, which means no need for a large Mars bar at three in the afternoon. Simply boil some water, cook the pasta for ten minutes, drain, and mix whatever shape of pasta you have chosen with a few spoonfuls of pesto. It is made even better with a grated Italian cheese sprinkled on the final dish, or even a good quality mature English with a nice kick of flavour.

I find that pesto pasta is a bit like Marmite - not that you either love it or hate it, but that however many times the meal is served it's impossible to tire of the unique concoction, particularly if you toss in some scraps of bacon or olives to vary the recipe. Our Tibetan Terrier is also a big fan; I'm not sure if this goes against veterinary advice - at least an Italian vet is unlikely to object, and it's much better than giving them chocolate or chips.

I then try to prolong my period of pleasure by preparing a strong mug of tea and sitting in a comfortable chair to read a book - currently Smith's Gazelle by Lionel Davidson, the author of the wonderful Rose of Tibet and Kolymsky Heights. After a while I will feel the urge to nod-off, mimicing the siesta time indulged in by our hotter European neighbours.

A chance to drift off into the dream time, having satisfied the primitive urges of hunger and thirst; more shadowy needs and desires can now take control of the snoozing mind as one slips away from the petty demands of the conscious world.

The alien at the end of the bed

It's always good to escape the sometimes stale inland atmosphere and feel a strong sea breeze slapping your cheek as an antidote to the hysteria of modern life; and it's lucky that my sister lives very close to the chilly North Sea, with fragile mud cliffs constantly collapsing on to pebbles and sand below.

She wasn't there when we arrived the other day, but her bloke was, looking a little pale but still managing a smile for the unexpected visitors.

'Everything alright luv ?'

'I didn't sleep very well, that's all.'

'Better get to bed early tonight with a mug of cocoa.'

'Yes. Do you want a cup of tea ?'

It wasn't long before my sister arrived back with the dog - a very small Chinese specimen that insists on humping everything that moves.

'Has he told you then ?'

'Told us what ?'

'About screaming the place down in the middle of the night.'

'No.'

'Reckons he saw a little green man at the bottom of the bed !'

'Too much Wensleydale last thing at night ?'

'More like some bloody film........Starman, I think it was.'

'But that's a great story. No little green men though - the alien travels across America in the body of a dead house painter - and very friendly he was too.'

I don't think my sister's area is particularly noted for alien visitation, despite a minor RAF 'listening' station very close by. It seems unlikely that this was anything more than a bad dream, which caused much hilarity amongst family members. Why do we always laugh at those with mental disorders ?

It turns out that these episodes with her partner are not uncommon - in the past he has accidentally struck her while being under the influence of rapid eye movement; it would be very unwise to leave any weapons or kitchen knives in close proximity to the bedroom. Most folk don't seem to experience such extreme reactions to their nightly brain adventures - his harrowing scream was said to be loud enough to wake many of the slumbering neighbours.

I would recommend Starman though, which starred Jeff Bridges and Karen Allen, in a gentle love story with an extra-terrestrial dimension. Even one of the more recent offerings - Paul - is quite a jolly film, starring the stereotypical little green man as a wise-cracking healer trying to return to his own world. We might not be laughing at my sister's bloke if it turns out the real thing has landed on the Yorkshire coast not far from Scarborough.

The Gig

John Cooper Clarke is perhaps the most stubborn and remarkable survival of the UK punk heyday of the late 1970s and early 1980s; and we waited until November 2011 to witness the man in action at the York Duchess - an uninspiring cellar of York's ugliest and most derided building - The Stonebow. The fascinating history of one of England's finest settlements has given us the magnificent Minster and extensive city walls - all we can manage in the twenty-first century is out-of town shopping centres and numerous Park & Ride sites.

The fact that Cooper Clarke has done the voice over for the Domino's pizza TV advert might suggest the guy has sold out, but his performance couldn't have been more different from the slick advertising of today's media. John is often described as a performance poet, yet most of his act is little different from a stand-up comedian, with a few verses of swearing thrown in. He has a loyal cult following built-up over several decades of assaulting our tender ears with rhyming and non-rhyming rants that puncture any safe view of the world, while ignoring the insistence of our 'advanced' society on political correctness.

A local student had the unenviable task of being the warm-up guy for the great man, struggling to raise more than a tiny ripple of applause with his version of performance poetry, without the many hilarious asides of the old master. With a great deal of bravery and persistence the young academic might eventually carve out a career of wordy comedy, but very few will survive the harsh decades of public indifference.

An evening with John Cooper Clarke is about as far as you can get from the usual Saturday night diet of appalling game shows, Strictly Come Dancing or the X Factor, but I'm glad we made the effort to leave the comfort of our sofa in the middle of rural nowhere for a blast of poetic comedy that is truly unique - though not for the faint-hearted. Long may he continue to tour the obscure haunts of Britain - keeping it real; some appearances on post-watershed telly are also long overdue for the Salford lad, now for some inexplicable reason living in Essex !

I can only hope that John achieves the ultimate ambition to own a disabled parking badge (despite no obvious disability) allowing parking directly outside any place he wishes to visit. If this dangerous trend develops it could be an end to the infamous Park & Ride as we know it.