Valkyrie

Back in the 80s, Heavy Metal was a musical genre lacking a feminine touch. Of course, there were artists such as Ann and Nancy Wilson, Pat Benator or Joan Jett but they were more rock gals as opposed to 'proper' ladies of metal.

  An exception was Doro Pesch, frontlady of German head bangers Warlock. With Valkyresque looks and a line in slinky black leather, Doro was something of an icon for spotty adolescent rock fans such as myself. Sugary pop chicks such as Sinitta or Kylie (as she was then) just didn't cut it compared to this metal maid.

  Easy on the eye, Doro could also belt out a few tunes, whether screaming like a banshee on anthems such as 'All we are!' or showing her melodic side on the haunting ballad 'Fur Immer'.

  I saw Warlock back in 87, (my first gig!) when they opened for Ronnie Dio (RIP) in Birmingham at the NEC. Nearly three decades on, Doro is still recording/performing and - apart from the odd foray into classical - still rocking.

 Whether you love or loath Heavy Metal, Doro deserves some respect for surviving in the fickle music business - long may she continue.

Picture by rock photographer, Ray Palmer (1955-2002), it (or something very similar) probably graced my bedroom wall, circa 1988.

Wake up without the coffee

A guy at work was rubbishing Camp Coffee.

'Absolute dross, on a par with some of the worst supermarket cheap, chicory crap!'

  I have an affection for this sticky beverage, so I beg to differ. A cup of camp made with hot milk is as fine a drink as any (except a good scotch). It's not bad in cakes too.

  So if there's a bottle lurking at the back of your cupboard (probably stuck fast with congealed gunge), give it a go, you may be surprised. It evens boasts a new label with the sepoy and highlander sitting down and enjoying a cuppa together.

 Allright, it's not coffee, but then it's never claimed to be.

 Before this blog turns into a free advert, I must explain the coffee theme. For two weeks now I've given up drinking coffee.

  At work this is dead easy, the coffee comes in those big economy tubs, where after a couple of weeks the contents have the resemblance (and probably the taste) of a tray of cat litter. At home it's more tricky, I like fresh coffee, made in a cafatiere, that fills the kitchen with a fragrant aroma and gives you that morning kick up the derriere.

 I didn't think you could get withdrawal symptoms from coffee, but over the last few days I've had cravings as bad as any when I packed in smoking ciggys.

  Ah well, I have a few more weeks to go yet, so best grit my teeth and enjoy my cup of Redbush tea.

Tying the knot

There was an article on the BBC website about ties, apparently school kids are now showing a new rebellious streak by knotting their ties in outlandish fashions.

 I wonder what school the writer went to? This revelation is nothing new, and for years kids have been wearing school ties in any number of weird styles.

  At my school, the fashion was to tuck the fat end inside your shirt and just show the skinny length; often the tie would be pulled down barely visible, to your jumper neck. A few years earlier, when my sister was at school, the trend was the opposite and ties would be worn in a freakishly fat knot - with the tie often as wide as it was long. Uniforms weren't compulsory at sixth form, and my tie probably ended up in the clothes rag-bag along with the rest of my old school clobber. I now had a tie free time until I started work.

   My first 'job' was a YTS placement at John German chartered surveyors, where the senior partner bluntly told me to cut my hair and put on a tie if they were going to suffer my presence in the office (a bit rich - considering they were getting me for gratis). At my next office, open necked shirts were also taboo. If you forgot your tie, the senior draughtsman would lend you one of his spares. These were a selection of 1970s kippers garishly decorated with paisley swirls - and a surefire incentive to remember your tie!

  I don't where a tie to work now. If media presenters, (seen by millions on national TV), don't bother, why should I - working on an industrial estate? I must admit though, seeing a middle aged TV presenter, shirt askew, as if he's had a rough night on the razzle, isn't too inspiring.

 So the ties have been consigned to the wardrobe, only to venture out for weddings and interviews etc; and if I look hard enough, I'm sure I'll find a paisley number lurking at the back somewhere...