Tim Robson's Blog

Why is this picture of Katie O’Brien’s out of focus?

Well, I did not expect that.

I was in the centre of Birmingham this week. Work trip up from London. Hotel off New Street. Doing that bar hopping thing. Apparently England had a World Cup game the night before at 1am in Mexico and so most people were sleeping it off. Not me. I don’t give a fuck about football. Not since 1980 anyway. Is Kevin Keegan still playing?

So, Brum seemed unusually quiet tonight. I went to a few bars. Had a curry at my favourite Birmingham curry house The Indian Streatery. Went back my hotel to prep for the conference next day. Yes, dear readers, I’m important and attend events near and far to listen to the worthy, the unworthy, the boring, dear customers, would be customers and industry leaders as they read poorly off Powerpoints or rant randomly. And I get to post selfies on LinkedIn and pretend that I give a fuck.

Once more unto the Brum, dear friends

But something made me go out for one more foray into the goodly night. It was too early for YouTube and lube. So I went out armed with my performative notebook so I could jot down some ‘ideas’. You know, like proper businessmen do. Or posey wankers. Lists and listettes, ideas and ideation. Bullshit from an unobserved corner table - screaming look at me! look at me! - compensatory activity. I’m well versed in this. You should know that I’m not just the face plant guy from Mons. Oh no! I hold down a serious job doing serious things.

So, walking down New Street, I went up Temple Street and into Katie O’Brien’s. As I said, Birmingham was dead tonight apart from the usual quotidian town centre zombie apocalypse types and hoodies on scooters intimidating all comers. But I walked passed them all and climbed up into the bar. Been there before. Usually empty.

But not tonight…

Stepford Wives

Fuck! I’d landed in the valley of the dolls! Literally all the Stepford Wives and their beautiful daughters were arrayed before me. Without sounding too lechorous - oh go on Tim, go on! do - I’d walked into a pub with, how many?, fifty beautiful blonde ladies.

And, dear reader, not a bloody tattoo to be seen.

Everyone of them was wearing a figure hugging dress, had perfect make up and, most particularly, long beautiful wavy (mostly) blonde hair. No tacky extensions clipped just for the night here. Now, of course, I’m from a generation that eschewed tattoos and relegated them to sailors, tarts and prison bitches. Latterly though, the youth of the UK sport sleeves, incomprehensible signs, wordy platitudes nestling with dog names, ex-lovers, flowers, fantastic creatures, football clubs and, generally - let’s be honest - poor designs.

Sit down grandad...

But here I was with 50 Stepford Wives and their daughters. Mainly their daughters. I looked. How I looked! And indeed, how I was caught looking. Of course. And yet still I stared; a street anthropologist discovering a lost tribe of attractive women. Rare. Immaculate. Inviolate.

Of course, and I must for obvious reasons, say; it’s all subjective. I get that. Many people find tattoos and slovenly dress attractive in women. But, nah, fuck that, not me. Well dressed, well coiffured, nice make up, pretty faces with no botox: That’s my preference, your honour. We’re all entitled to our standards of beauty and this is mine, But here, en masse, were fifty fantasies. What had I stumbled on? Had fallen into a time loop and was I now in 1955? Where’s the DeLorean?

An Irish Wedding?

And they were having a good time! Irish music played. Songs of pride. Songs of revolution. Songs of drink. They screamed at each other above the music. They sang. They danced. They drank. And drank again. Vodka took a pounding as did Aperol. Tequilas may have been slammed. The men - their men? - mainly stood around tables chugging Guinness, laughing inclusively, but not interacting with their women folk. No words needed to be said. No danger here. Their presence, my timidity, their beauty, cleaved an invisible Lancelot’s sword between me and the ladies. I could watch, agog, amazed, but unobserved and wilfully paralysed.

Never have I seen so many attractive ladies in one place and never have I felt so invisible. I was there but I wasn’t. My part was to mumble silently in the chorus, my lines were cut, I was but a shade in this vision - just passing through - observing but not participating in this Brummie Brigadoon.

And all too soon, they left in twos and threes, and fours and fives to go to a mythical ‘next place’. Maybe they were transported into another time, a once and future land of reels and dances, good times, smiles and elegance.

I drank my Guinness at the bar, picked up my notebook and left for my hotel. What had I seen? What had I wandered into and through?

Wasn’t bloody Birmingham petal!

Quotidian Notes

1) It’s not to say I diss all tatoos. But their ever present presence, their variable quality, stands as a marker. Time breaths: You were young then, now you are not. The past was a different - un-inked - country. Canute like, it’s useless to rage at the oncoming tide.

2) But what was the occasion? A wedding? A Wake? If only I had the ability to converse. But that night, I was dumb and, frankly, dumbfounded.

3) Why was I in Birmingham? My ways and movements are unknowable. I like hiding in plain sight.

4) Check out my night out in Mons for the face plant. Or my night in Bruges for the Irish bar I went to. Perhaps the night in Breda where I rocked the Dutch?

Mons Station. Great Design. Weird Carpark

Station. Great Design. Clown Show

(Part 3 of my Franco’s Fiesta summer Tour June 2026 . Read about Rocking Out in Breda and The Banjos of Monschau if you want to see the earlier legs.)

Not to cheapen the British army, but here I am, in Mons, flying the flag. My battle is less, braving German machine guns, and more, getting that ‘la même chose’ vibe going.

There was a festival in Mons this week. Still going on but, frankly, it’s in the vinegar strokes. As there were closed streets and chaotic, horn-blaring traffic jams around La Grand Place and, advised by my ever ‘reliable’ AI, I parked at the station. The station building - BTW - is an amazing architectural piece of modern urban design - futuristic, beautiful and functional (Corbusier, hand your pedantic communist head in shame). But, like all big cities (see my Gare du Nord articles), the area around the station is a clown show of human folly, waste and grift. So, urban eyes to the fore, I adopted the head down, ‘non’ to every supplicant and headed out through the rain and into Mons.

The Mons Mount

The centre is on a goddam hill! Who tells you that? In Belgium? To reach the Grand Place, the citadel, you literally have to climb up vertiginous rain soaked cobbled streets. And me - clever me - left my bag back in the station whilst I tracked down the hotel Station. So, I did the Station. Hotel. Station. Hotel thing. Soaked with the rain. Sweating like a bitch in the sun. What’s up the weather? What’s up with the hill of Mons? Forget going over the top, getting to the top in Mons is a fucking push.

The Linguistic Divide

Everyone knows Belgium is split into two. We have the Flemish in the North who speak Dutch and we have the Wallonians (in the South, roughly) who speak French. Brussels / Bruxelles is bi-lingual by law though the lingua Franca is predominantly French. Yes, there’s a small German speaking community (around Monschau BTW) but essentially Belgium is a 50:50 split.

Hitherto (note to self: wanker) I’ve stuck to the Flemish side; Antwerp, Bruges, Gent. This is my first foray (outside Brussels) into the French part of Belgium since, I dunno, 1982? The difference? Well, they drink the same beer, they eat the same food but; how to say this? The Flemish speak English without hesitation - smiling / welcoming - whereas the Wallonians, not so much. Like their French cousins across the border, they don’t feel the need to facilitate tourists with English. That’s okay, I thought, I speak a little French. And yes, I needed it. My advice to tourists, buy a French phrase book and make the bloody effort.

The Battle of the Beer

I know there’s an age old friendly enmity between France and England. But Belgium? Wallonia? What the fuck did we do to screw them over aside from giving then their country (read some history proles)? I feel almost as though Brexit was not a declaration of UK’s independence but a fuck you to the French speaking part of Belgium. Chill, mes amis, we still love you. I’d come to this part of Belgium more often if you opened your insular arms a little more.

I get that I straying cluelessly into caverns of socio-political-linguistic minefields. Yeah, whatever.

But my glass is empty. The barman studiedly ignores this. I have money but, it’s seems there’s a performative dance going on here. Maybe he’s friends with my banjo playing friends in Monschau?

But, let’s run a split test. Two young, attractive students have just sat down. I bet beardy serves them first. As he does so I watch the dregs in my empty glass literally evaporate in front of me. I wait and I wait until I surrender all pride and wave my hands above my head like a hairdresser winning a Liza Minelli concert ticket. ‘La même chose!’

Gruff barman gives me my beer. In a way, I guess I like the Gallic ‘fuck you’ attitude. It’s one of the reasons I love France (and, by extension Rattachist Wallonia). It forces you - with good reason - to speak French.

Lest it seem I’m just a curmudgeon whining about slow service (I am! I am!) read note seven below. As with all these pieces, a cynic is just a disappointed optimist waiting to be proved wrong.

A fashion aside

Okay, it’s a student town but…. Why do ‘students’ wear their hoodies with the hood up? Guys, you ain’t gangsters. I know Wallonia is the bitch of Belgium, but really? Come on. You’re better than that. Magritte? Brel? Jean Claude van Damme (yeah, a bit dicey that one). Plastic Betrand. Put the hoods down, mecs.

Grand Place - A Sport? A Mating Ritual?

There’s a team game going on in Grand Place. A local game, clearly. Part of the festival. No one seems to know what’s going on. I asked the barman - more willingly multi lingual than the last one - and he hadn’t a scooby either. Lots of shouting, nothing making sense just a bunch of men in team colours shouting at each other. And shout and argue they do. The EU as a sport anyone?

The sun has finally come out or maybe my beer jacket is now working as it should. I’m several Belgian beers down and, admittedly, beginning to sway in the non existent breeze. The Grand Place is, like many Belgium centres, beautiful and replete with grand medieval buildings, for example, the city hall pictured below. From my seat I observe. Well, tangentially, of course, as my main focus is the beer and failing badly with les jolies femmes.

Fucks are not being given around here and so - an embarrassing stop off in a student club aside - it’s time to collapse on my hotel room floor fully clothed and sleep uncomfortably until four am.

Yeah, Mons man. It’s a battle. Bought my book yet? Cheap on Amazon.

Bar Review

The still hazy after all these beers memorial write up:-

So many. Let’s see, on Grand Place, L'Excelsior. No wifi. So no marks. The owner seemed more interested in having an argument with some tramp who was trying to use the loos. Good old row with robust opinions stated boldly and loudly on both sides. I left. No one noticed. The floor show continued.

Onto La Vie est Belge at the corner of Grand Place. Had a paddle of four different Belgian beers, some salami, some cheese. I was under an awning outside the door as the monsoon hit which allowed me to tuck into the beer and snacks I ordered. Barman giving a fuck score, 5/10.

Onto Jekyll opposite the town hall. Stayed out on a table in the Grand Place. Nice in the sun and very busy. Frankly don’t remember much apart from that it was crowded, but waiter was more friendly than usual - well, he served me, plusieurs fois - and I think they had wifi. Gallic shrugometre: 6/10

Just down from Grand Place is Marché aux Herbes. Very lively in the evening with students everywhere. Went to Baromètre MONS. It’s a bar on the corner and very busy when I was there which meant that the service was a bit slow for the English guy with the laptop. I don’t blame them TBH, laptop guy will probably just write something bitchy. Oh, I just did.

Best bar? Two, actually.

And the winner is, a split tie between Jekyll - great in sun, probably expensive but I’d got to the state where I just flashed my card, said c’est bon and troughed away - and La Vie Est Belge which, inside seems very pretty. Only went in to the loo though. Me. The Beers. The snacks. The awning and the rain outside. La Vraie Belgique!

Hotel - Martin’s Dream Hotel

Arrived early. They let me have my room. Free breakfast (I needed it, oh did I need it!). Spoke French at the reception and in my few interactions. , is situated on Rue de la Grande Triperie which is well placed to begin your ascent to the top of Mount Mons. Apparently a spa hotel but this was neither offered nor explained. I suppose I was too busy looking for beer.

Quotidian Notes

1) The game they played in Grand Place is Doudou or something. Basically bearded men shouting at each other with little else going on. Important historical festival thing reduced to a ‘what the fuck are they doing’ semi curiosity from pissed tourists.

2) Mons = mount / mountain in Latin. That makes sense. That, Tim, is why there’s a fucking hill you dumb, no-research-before-you-arrive, twat.

3) What about da ladies I hear no-one ask? Well… There was that lady on the next table. No, no. There was that time at that bar. A stumble. Er, no. The club? Oh the embarrassment! These stories will remain untold, unlamented and soon, forgot. Which is a coy way of saying, I failed like a pro waving my shitty stick at all candidates. And you dear reader, do you care? No? Gallic shrug.

4) The tour continued with a stop off on the coast, comme d’habitude, for a supermarket top up for, fuck knows, I dunno, more beers? Mustard? Waffles? Will be added in my forecoming tour summary.

5) The station was designed by Santiago Calatrava BTW. No, me neither. I have unknowingly come across his work in the renovation of Valencia’s river district though. Maybe here in Mons he should have put beds and / or pissoires in the underground car park (cos that what it’s used for).

6) I’ll be back to Belgium. Probably not to Mons.

7) Shout out to the great guy I met in the cavernous and slightly intimidating station car park. I was trying to get out of Mons but how to pay for parking? The carpark is huge - quarter of mile long, perhaps. Sensing my frustration and bewilderment, a Belgian guy exiting the car park, stopped his car, asked if he could help, sat in my passenger seat and directed me to one, solitary pay machine, hidden away at the far end. He didn’t to do this but his help, unasked but so needed, is greatly appreciated. Thank you mate for this act of selfless kindness. We spoke in French.

Read on!

Read about a rainy night in Breda as I revived a Neil Diamond classic. Or perhaps my thoughts on the picture postcard beauty, and variable experiences, in pretty Monschau. The tour as a whole can be accessed thus, Franco’s Fiesta Tour. Enjoy!

Monschau. Flowers. Water. No Banjos

It Rains in Monschau!

Bumped into Kenneth and Miriam by the car park just outside Monschau’s historic centre. They were from Aachen on a day trip. We were sheltering away from the torrential rain. “Why did you come to Monschau?” asked Kenneth. Indeed, why? “Found it on a map,” I replied and he found this funny. I went back to the car, got an umbrella and said my goodbyes. Nice people.

No, I’m not going soft on you but, niceness deserves niceness. I’m a fucking buddha these days. A real karma chameleon. All about that. Still a bitch though, don’t worry.

The Franco’s Fiesta tour moves on. The drive down from Breda was two and half hours as I sweated out last night’s excesses. Was I really a rockstar last night? Nobody who was there remembers, except, mein herren, there’s a video. Watch it. Bask in my short lived glory. Notice the applause died before I left the stage.

Why am I here, in Monschau?

Good question, ladies (and Kenneth). Something about me looking for good continental Christmas markets last year. And ending up going to Dordrecht (on the wrong day FFS, that was a dreary experience) and Bruges instead. You can read about my escapades last Christmas on this website. I called it The Darkness of Bruges. Very mysterious. These depths have hidden shadows (shallows, Tim? What? Just askin’).

Deliverance - German Style

“You got a real prutty mouth there, Typ.”

There are no banjos playing but I think I’ve stumbled into Monschau’s version of a hillybilly shack. Lots of locals crowd the bar looking at me like I’m a Ned Beatty. And they don’t even know me! My lack of German is not charming nor interesting here. Nor is my flowery shirt and jacket. I’m sure I heard one of them say, in German of course, ‘squeal piggy!’.

My attempts at German are met with, knowing smiles between the checked shirt clientele. Of course, my understanding of the local dialect is a little rusty but I’m sure the barman added, ‘for you mate, here’s that flat half pint I’ve been saving since 1990 for the exact moment you, with your fucking flowery shirt and laptop walked in. Let me, clears throat, add to that?’. Again, I may just be culturally unaware… No! They’re a bunch of inbred wankers. Let’s get out of here! (The name of the bar will appear below with the others, you’ll know which.)

Redemption

How different… Marco at Zum Haller. Shit! This guy is good - how hosting should be done. Just across the road from the Deliverance Motel. I can’t praise Zum Haller enough. Tourist… Go there! Run! This bar. This host (and wife, didn’t get her name but equally)… The contrast is ridiculous. One (unnamed bar, below you can guess) all about laughing at the tourist and this one, was night and day. Basically - first bar was - hello, here’s your new cell mate Bubba - and the second a romantic date with a beautiful woman where everything clicks. Do I overstate? No. With a tourist you get one chance. Yeah, hill billy boys, enjoy the bar closing cos it’s tourists who keep you going. See Marco. See Fabian. Hospitality done right.

Marco. Fuck this guy is a star. He makes everyone feel welcome. Invites them to sit at the bar and talk with his other customers. A community feel, everyone welcome. A Germanic Cheers. I was all about - I’m a writer and I want my own table so I can be magestisterial and judge you bitches. He didn’t let me. He pointed to a stool at the end of bar and made me sit there and chat to his patrons.

There were some English. Some Belgians. Some Germans. We chatted. We felt part of a temporary community. All engineered by Marco. This doesn’t happen naturally. It takes skill and a love of humanity. Across the road it was all, “you got a real prutty month on you boy” over at Zum Haller it was all friendship vibes and customer focused.

The ladies…

Erm, more mature here?

I need to add Kiki. She sussed me writing on my table, in my flowery shirt and jacket screaming ‘look at me, don’t look at me! Kept staring at me from across the bar. I know I’m handsome but she was more interested in the writing, it seemed. However, I miss cues like a drunken has been actor during a provincial pantomime run. She paused and turned back as her husband was leaving. Quizzed me about my writing. We played with metaphors and abstractions. Which is a pretentious way of saying, things were left unsaid that er, should remain unsaid. It’s better that way.

The mother and daughter combo sat next to me in Zum Haller. If it were one, or the other, then the night could have been different (Really Tim? Getting up your own arse here). We chatted superficially but the elder wasn’t going to let the younger and the younger would be disgusted with the elder. Which is a lot of words to say, the preselection fairies dropped me from their team sheet.

Frankly, if you’re after action Monschau is all about couples. Couples who are using the setting to ‘reset’ their relationship. Okay, yeah, I failed. Move on.

And Monschau Tim?

It’s pretty. Like the pictures you’ve seen. So, if you like taking pictures of people taking pictures then it’s perfect… It is chocolate boxy and it is full of tourists but there has to be something there in the first place to sketch out the corners of that chocolate box. Personally, I’d like to see it in the snow. It will add a little wintery magic to an already beautiful place. The walk up to the castle is only slightly strenuous - well if you’re a toned athlete like myself of course. Nice views when you get there and worth the trek.

The area in a way reminds me strangely of both Normandy and the Lake District. The slate stone buildings, the rain; very Windermere. The rolling and verdant landscape however is very Côte Fleurie. There’s even a belle époque thing going on here with the very grand houses that populate this valley.

Honest review? It’s probably best seen from within a couple. If you want to show off to your partner and hope for that ‘thing’ you only get twice yearly when you’re a good boy, it’s probably the right place.

Bars In Monschau

I’ll start in reverse order:

MON-Bistro. (Does not deserve a link). Shall we say, a locals bar? Let’s leave it that. Zero stars.

Lütticher Hof - (doesn’t deserve a link) great location with terrace overlooking the river. My advice? Avoid. the service is, how to say this? “Swift and efficient”, and, being politically correct, not effused with ‘German’ hospitality. If you just order a drink then the, er, madam, is very much obliged - to mention to you - several times - that you have to pay cash. Very insistent on that. “Only cash. Only cash!” she says pointing at the plastic covered menu. As I mentioned, great location. But it’s a production line tourists-are-cattle type service. I left after being ordered around too much. Not a great example of Monschau. Avoid - do not go there. Luckily, there are much better examples of German hospitality in the town.

Hotel Horchem- Braukeller - underneath Hotel Hochem. I’ll start by saying whatever Fabian is paid, double it! What a great guy. Exactly the sort of person you want serving you in a German bierkeller. No plastic menus thrust under your nose, no angry intro greetings ‘cash only under €20’. I’d come back here again and again and happily. A basement bar, it's hidden in plain sight - you have to descend into a basement right in the centre of Monschau. Although Germans aren’t quite as good at English as the Dutch (they’re still bloody good it has to be said), what strikes me is how very friendly they are - outside Deliverance Bar of course. Rando observation: When it comes down to it, there’s really no difference between the people that invaded England a millennium (or so) ago and gave us the name Anglo-Saxons! We both like beer. We like to laugh. We’re proud of our countries. I salute that. Shout out to Pascal and his cycling team and sorry I couldn’t help drain your beer fountain.

Zum Haller- top bar, by far. Marco is the Prince, the Kaiser of Monschau. Here I was, recommended by AI that this was my ideal bar, dark, good wifi, able to sit in a corner and write. Wow! No. Marco wasn’t taking any of that shit and directed me to a vacant bar stool and commanded me to sit there saying ‘we’re all friends here’. We were a multi language / country crew but, to Marco, we’re a community in his bar. And - boy! - he works it. Unlike Deliverance Bar above, he makes everyone part of his community. What a skill. The guy - and his wife - deserve their top rating. Go there. He’s the real deal. Interestingly enough, the people I struggled with most were the bikers from Lancashire. They - perhaps rightly perhaps - distrusted my ‘hail fellow, well met’ personality (flowery shirt / jacket blah blah). When I let slip that I’m also from Lancashire, and, with a flourish and a deeper voice, resurrected my Rochdale accent, they looked at me like I just told them I see their wives when they’re out on their biking tours. Oh well, the Belgium couple were nice.

And Monschau? Worth it?

Yes. Bit of tourist trap though undeniably pretty (not prutty). I saw it in the rain and I saw it during the all too brief bouts of sunshine. As mentioned above, probably come here if a) you’re with your other half and want to impress b) Christmas market hunting. Great setting.

Where did I stay?

Haus Stehling. Amazing views overlooking the babbling river. If you can, book this, you’ll not be disappointed. A mini apartment. Very good spot just thirty seconds from the main square. River sounds included so if you don’t like water or are a light sleeper, not the one for you.

Beers etc

Mainly Bitburger. Got ripped off in Deliverance bar with some 0.2cl shit when I asked for a grosse beer. Taking the piss, literally. Food, I had a veal cutlet in mushroom sauce. Or something. I was ‘peaking’ by that point. Standard. Hit the spot though. Need to search for a sausage.

And that my friends, is the ideal mic drop moment.

Read the rest of the Tour

So I toured Breda, Monschau and Mons. Collectively, we call this the Franco’s Fiesta Tour. Why? Because I’m shamelessly - some would say needlessly - plugging a book. One sale. Two sales. It’s all fucking free on Amazon anyway. No one’s getting rich here but I’m an artist. Piss artist maybe but ears remain intact so don’t worry my literary children. Mons next.

Street Scene: Breda June 2026

Flip over. Play the B Side

I was gonna one way about Breda. And then, I flipped it and went hard the other way. Wow! What a night. Didn’t expect that. See the video below. But back to ‘the story’.

“Wise words, Sir, stand the test of time, and I am very glad the House has allowed me, after an interval of fifteen years, to raise the tattered flag I found lying on a stricken field.” Churchill House of Commons 1901

Churchill and Breda?

Winston Churchill, in one of first speeches as a newly elected MP, vainly defended his mad, bad and syphilitic father Randolph. The words echo to me now, sat in Café Bruxelles in Breda, as I also try to raise a different tattered flag from a stricken field.

(Editor note, raising flags from where they lie fallen… Mmm. What could that be a metaphor for? Yeah, doing poor sex gags again. Sorry. Not sorry.)

But my cause is different, though perhaps equally as hopeless. I’m in Breda, in June, surrounded by Belgian beers (yes, I know they should be Dutch, but Heineken tastes like piss) and an empty bowl of bitterballen. I start with a purpose that is clear as I reach down upon ancient literary battlefields, stooping for the pride lost so very long ago.

My novel Franco’s Fiesta.

FF - as it was never known - is not about Breda (though I will get to that, video evidence below, don’t worry would-be tourist doing a quick Google search). As a novel, Franco’s Fiesta was ahead of its time. A prophet without honour in its own chosen field. A dark star obscured on a stormy night. It was the unattributed fart in the lift of literary taste.

Yeah, I think I bought all the copies. And yet, and yet. The ghost of it lingers on, on Amazon. The paperback version - those few copies I didn’t buy - are being resold for high prices. No residuals for me I hasten to add (and at higher prices, goddamn it!).

I read one of my copies every now and again. I like a good page turner. Being honest, there are many things I like about it and several that I don’t. I know what I was trying to achieve, what I was trying to say - who and what I was appealing to. In this, I nearly succeeded. Writers are solitary creatures and I, at that point in my life, needed to turn inwards. So, I wrote a novel in a way I never had before or have since.

Breda, Anyone?

But enough of my yakking. This bar in Breda plays a real eclectic mix of English music. We’re in Smokie territory now ‘Next Door to Alice” for example. No, not the shit one that added “Alice, Alice, who the fuck is Alice’. Love the music selection. Some Beatles now. Music: Our greatest export. The UK is revered the world over for our pop and rock. Next one? ‘Winner Takes it All’ - dammit - the best song ever! From Sweden.

Breda: Things I won’t be talking about for those tourists that have strayed here.

The church (st. fuck knows, highest bellend tower blah blah)

The museums (lace or something)

All the other stuff

Things I will be talking about

Me

Franco’s Fiesta

Bars and Food in Breda. Getting slowly dazed and confused (step away from that laptop, Tim).

Why the fuck it is pissing down in June like Noah needs to build a bloody ark (if they had hills around here)?

Random interactions that a handsome, brown eyed man gets into. For example:

The Two Girls In the Bar

They will - forever - remain the two girls in the bar. It’s too early in the day for quotidian flirting. I’ve not even checked into my posh hotel yet but I’m three beers and seven bitterballen down. Still; there are two attractive ladies in Bar Bruxelles… We sat near each other; they, chatting knocking back wine, laughing, brushing back their hair, me, tapping on my laptop, pretending not to notice. I went outside, they went outside. Tick. They went inside and, er, I followed. So cool, so Alpha unchained. I left the bar unobserved. They’ll think about me tonight.

Back to the plot

The plot? I lost that some beers ago. They’ll be more about Breda but first, let’s talk about me, the misunderstood artist.

This literary device, the awkward pivot, is something I mastered despite not going having a degree in modern dance. A shimmy here, a shake there, a graceful pirouette , this muscle memory allows me to pivot shamelessly from one thing to another with grace and years of practice.

Franco’s Fiesta (for we are talking about this, in Breda) was a unique experience in my literary career as I wasn’t in the novel. Well; a bit, of course, but not much. I deliberately wrote it to get away from my usual ‘short guy whines about not getting the girl’ plot my previous novels explored ad nauseam. (See Two Girls In the Bar Above for a new episode of this old drama).

Interestingly enough, the first 50 or so pages of Franco’s Fiesta were written abroad, in a village outside Valencia. Hence, I had real insight into the local colour, sights, flavours, rhythms and signs. The plot is a rather obvious take on Richard Burton making a movie with a hot, and younger, co-star whilst the Elizabeth Taylor character watches on, observing from one bourbon to another. Add the Falangist regime, a strung out Eric Clapton cameo plus a Marxist director and you have a great story. At least, that’s what I thought.

Although I’m old, so very old, I don’t actually remember 1970 when the novel was set. Consequently I spent ages researching the feel of Spain, of Valencia in 1970. I’d write down descriptions of market squares, of shops, of shop signs, of children playing in the street late on hot summer evenings. The layout of the brickwork in the market square. The smell and look of the vegetation as the seasons changed.

Here’s how the marketing plan went.

A runaway successful novel. Bought by millions. Of course.

Calls, so many calls!, from top drawer agents wanted to represent me to sell the movie rights. I know the difference between net and gross, don’t take the piss, mate!

A bidding war between various studios. “Not less than 7 digits or I walk".”

A multi million advance. Spent well, no revenge spend there. Hi - ex colleagues! Look at me now, bitches.

Chat shows. Think pieces in the broadsheets. Is he the new Amis?

A large salary paid as an advisor on the movie version of the picture. Casting rights? “Just tell again, how much do you want this part?”

Several gossipy articles about how Tim Robson has been seen partying in Hollywood linked to several famous actresses. (Passed on by Tim to every girl in his life, ever.)

Critically acclaimed release supported by stellar box office returns. “Is that Armani, Tim? Who’s that on your arm?”

Rinse. Repeat. Arise Sir Tim

However, my GTM missed the mark on one or two of the above. So let me list those misses:.

All of them.

Bars In Breda

De Heeren van Breda - just off the main square. It rained. And it rained. Friendly staff. WIfi works outside (under an awning). Edited most of this masterpiece in ‘observational tourism’. The main customers seemed to be the bar staff and their friends. Loved how the bar man, knowing I was English, called me ‘mate’.

Café Bruxelles - Large, wooden, central bar, interested barmaid who I gave carte blanche to recommend beers. My type of place. Again; friendly staff. Slightly wonky table as I wrote some of this masterpiece. See two girls interaction. It’s why I do this for you.

The other one - Jaap? Sat next to two alcoholic women balanced by two alcoholic men on the other side. A Dutch sandwich, lightly toasted. I went deeply fried with a plate of Dutch bar snacks. They hold me still in their breadcrumby embrace. Lovely owners. You should go there.

The Next One - Probably won’t write about this. Through discretion or, more probably, embarrassment. Nah, fuck it:

Ended up on stage with a live band at Cafe Lievense. It’s like the 90’s never stopped. See video below. I give this place my whole hearted support. Chatted with owner. Nice guy. Good concept. Fun crowd. I rocked. As you can see yourself!

Flagpole. Breda. Hints.

I was going to write that I hoped I’d find those two girls from earlier on and tell them all about Winston’s flagpole quote. But, no one wins from that Tim, so I decided to go with a few 8% Delirium Reds instead. I know where my pleasures ultimately lie. No one’s going to be talking about flagpoles tonight so, here’s some touristy things:

Interesting that when listening to Dutch conversations between natives they often slip into English to make a point. Also, the rhythm of Dutch and English is very similar. Just got dragged into a football conversation about the Premier League. Had to admit, I know fuck all. The Crises of the 3rd Century? Mick Taylor guitar solos? They invited me over anyway. But… Laptop, yeah? I watch. You talk.

Those tinkly bells on the hour. Every hour. In every Dutch city I’ve been to. You know you’re not in England.

Are there any nicer people than the Dutch? They’re fluent in other languages but also friendly and cool. Always love coming back here. They love me too. And big here. See video below.

Did I mention the rain? Seriously! Every bloody time. Well, not exactly true. I went to Maastricht a few years back, my hotel had a pool next to which I posed in my long shorts (calm down ladies - it’s before I lost the weight!). It was only a few years ago and it seemed cash was king. Now? All about those Apple Wallets. Progress?

Canals. Tick. Bikes. Tick.

Come? Don’t come? Do you think I care? Buy the book.

Getting Down to Neil in Breda Read On

It’s not my first time in the Low Countries. You should check out Me and F Scott Fitzgerald in Delft or Rainy Antwerp or the Darkness of Bruges. Or just the whole lot - Scabrous City Tours.

It’s Important, yeah?

This takes me back.

A phenomenon within both the corporate and creative world is that you need to have an 'elevator pitch'. This is what you would say to someone powerful - someone who has the ability to change your life for the better - in the twenty / thirty seconds available if you accidentally bumped into them in a lift.

It’s a theoretical exercise all young thrusting professionals need to engage with in order to quickly make an impression to a superior. Especially in larger corporates or for someone who has something to sell.

So, for example, if I bumped into the Managing Director of a major publishing company and told them I had written a book - let’s call it Franco’s Fiesta, for example, they might ask "What's it about?" and then I would launch into my elevator pitch. "Well it's about the end of the 60's, the end of fascism in Spain, the making of movie in Franco's Spain, the collision between liberal Hollywood, authoritarian Spain and the ordinary people caught in between." (1)

Yeah - you don't have to say it out loud: Crap, Tim. Needs work, yeah?

Meeting the CEO. In an Elevator.

Let me tell you about one time when I really did need for an elevator speech. I worked for a US multi national company - a titan of the financial world - and I was at a sales conference in Cannes. Hungover to hell one morning, I was late for the first session of the day. I pressed the lift button, the doors opened and there, in the lift, was the CEO of my company, apparently a surprise guest on the conference agenda. For a minnow like myself, this was like meeting God himself.

Well, he looked at me, with my company’s laminate pass, and I looked at him, looking exactly as he did on the company website. If ever there was a time for an elevator pitch, about me, about my career, about my ambitious plans, then the time was now. In a company of 100,000 employees this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to make an impression, to further my career and get my name 'out there'.

But looking at him and then swallowing with my dry mouth, feeling the nausea rising from the previous night's activities, I thought, 'fuck it' and slowly turned to face the other corner. My plan for paperclip harmonisation in the Swindon office - or whatever - could wait for another day. We spent the next thirty seconds in an awkward but conspicuous silence.

I think he appreciated my reticence - who the hell wants to be assailed by wannabes every hour of the day, with their fake smiles, fake positivity, bullshit resumes? "Hi! I'm Donna from marketing, can I tell you about this exciting, game changing project I'm working on?"... "Nah, fuck off, Donna," would be my response. I guess CEO's have to be more circumspect and grimly listen to the widget reduction project in Luxembourg.

My boss reacts. Bad Tim!

My reward for giving the CEO the space and time and courtesy he deserved, was, well, nothing, of course. He got out the lift - executive floor anyone - and I dry retched more openly. My boss, when I told her the story, believed, perhaps rightly, I was an 'asshole'; that I had shockingly given up such a career advancing opportunity. She, by the way, like all powerful people, kissed butt beautifully to any passing superior. You have to drop to your knees to raise your profile. There's a lesson there Tim, somewhere.

Thoughts. Then to Now

Anyway, I tell you this story because I’m Prometheus unbound these days. I deliberately abandoned the big corporate world for fintechs and I'm all about truth and honesty and authenticity these days (which aligns more with the industry).

Yeah. Authentic. Living my own values. Mainlining the personal code, my own brand. But the brand has to be you, ultimately. Has to be your turf you're prepared to fight for. Experience teaches you your strengths and weaknesses. Focus on the former and avoid the latter and don’t lie about either.

Otherwise it's an insincere elevator pitch with a hangover, with a CEO who doesn't give a toss, tired from a transatlantic flight and showing fear of employee intimacy in his eyes.

So, employing my usual awkward pivot, my advice is twofold: 1) Do avoid the wannabe elevator pitch. Imposing yourself unwanted is probably a bad idea. Interactions are better unforced. 2) Having said that, you probably should be able to sum up what you do in a few pithy sentences. Precision and concision helps in business.

Read on

I mainly focus on music and history and scabrous stories from various cities, some visited whilst a non elevator picthing corporate warrior - for example - my playing the blues moonlighting from a corporate real estate conference in Chicago.

Or maybe, the Roman world floats your boat? Or what about my Krakow Trilogy?

Obligatory Notes

1) Notice my use of non gendered language when I describe the powerful executive? Well, young people, this has been a thing for a good thirty or so years and isn’t a modern invention. Especially for graduates of Sussex University. As it happens, many of my top bosses in the corporate world were women. Often not very nice women; whilst the genders may have been equally divided the characteristics of those execs - both male and female - were pretty similar.

2) I originally wrote this in 2015. More jokes. Less knowledge. Invert that and you have my current elevator pitch.

3) The book I never pitched was published. Check it out. Probably Franco’s Fiesta is free now (on Kindle anyway!).

The Beatles rocking out at the Cavern 1962

How Many?

The Beatles officially recorded and released 25 cover songs during their career - including Maggie Mae. Some of these we now associate more with The Beatles than the original artists (step forward Twist and Shout).

Other covers? The BBC radio sessions were available on bootlegs (Swingin’ Pig anyone?) before they were eventually released in the 1990’s. These recordings brought many more covers into the public domain. In the main, they’re inferior to the official Parlaphone studio recordings with just the novelty of new Beatles songs hiding the diminution in quality.

Following on from the Beatles at the Beeb, Apple released the Anthology Series in the mid 90’s which included many more cover versions. Again, whilst interesting, they don’t really add up to much though I do like the rawness of Shout from ‘Around the Beatles’ and the live Swedish version of You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me.

Of course there’s the Decca audition tape which, frankly, isn’t great. Like Dick Rowe, I’d have booted them out too. It wasn’t their time.

So, we’re left with covers from Please Please Me, With the Beatles, The Long Tall Sally EP, Beatles for Sale, Help! and, er, Bad Boy. I think - and this is my blog so what I think is important - the quality of the covers deteriorated between 1963-5. What was a vibrant part of their club and stage act became, by 64/65, merely stale fillers for when the Lennon-McCartney song factory ran dry.

So here are my top ten Beatles covers.

Twist & Shout

How could any list not include this? A whole mythology has arisen just on the recording of this very song. Recorded at the end of a full day laying down their Please Please Me album, we have Lennon, stripped to the waist, bellowing his lungs out like his life depended on it, screaming his way into immortality. The Lennon scream is a thing of beauty employed throughout the Beatles career but never more so than here. Although the instrumentation is standard 1963 chug-a-lug, the roar they created invented heavy rock.

It is now THE definitive version. Who are the Isley Brothers you might ask?

Bad Boy

Overlooked in the UK until put on the Beatles rock n’ roll albums in the 1970’s, Bad Boy is another demonstration of the Lennon yell. This is far superior to the other Larry Williams cover recorded on the same night, Dizzy Miss Lizzie which loses its charm after about two minutes. Bad Boy though, is well recorded, with a rocky background of a group well used to the studio. Even Harrison’s signature repetitive guitar licks don’t annoy too much. In short; a song that is proof - if it were even needed - that John Lennon possessed one of rock’s greatest voices. He really goes for it on this track.

Long Tall Sally

Anything John can do, Paul can do too! Like Twist and Shout, this was recorded in one take. This blistering cover of the Little Richard stable, is a two minute lesson in what rock sounds like. Featuring George Martin on piano, the Beatles lock into that rock n’ roll groove that barrels through this classic going punch to punch with the original. Ending their concerts, the Beatles had a choice now for which screamer to leave their audience’s panties wet.

Baby It’s You

My personal favourite. The Beatles do Bacharach and David. The sha-la-la backing vocals and the sombre playing all lead up to Lennon’s cri de coeur ‘can’t help myself / don’t want nobody, nobody’ howl that finishes each phrase. Seriously, is there a better singer for the dramatic highs and lows than John? We may explore this factor again. Shite instrumental though with a weedy guitar solo allied with some unwelcome cheesy organ. No. No.

You’ve Really Got A Hold On Me

Yeah, John again, leading the group through a muscular version of the Smokey Robinson classic. The second time he sings ‘You’ve really got a hold on me’ where his voice splits up to a falsetto is cut out and keep moment in rock history. George’s undercard harmonies also rate a mention. Solipsistic note: One of my groups used to play this in Brighton in the early 90’s. Always went down well, even when the singer (me) used to provocatively unbutton his two tone Burton’s shirt for the delight of no-one. Read more about my musical misadventures.

Devil in Her Heart

My parents owned two Beatles LPs - With the Beatles and Rubber Soul. Years after they gathered dust, I discovered them in the 70’s and used to play them all the way through again and again. Devil in Her Heart, was always - and still is - a favourite. George takes lead but the vocals are amp’d up by the block call and response harmonies from John and Paul (in the same way they would do to mask Ringo’s atonal renderings). I think though it’s the staccato ‘she’s got the devil in her heart’ which captured and holds my attention. I also remember watching it in the God awful Dick Van Dyke Beatles cartoons.

Leave My Kitten Alone

Left off the Beatles For Sale album - why? - this track was finally officially released in the 90’s Anthology series (though I’d had the bootleg for years). It’s marked by an aggressive Lennon vocal. When he sings he’s going to hit the bulldog on the top of his head, you know John really means it as he snarls the line out like someone just spilled his pint at closing time in some Liverpool dive.

Please Mister Postman

With due deference to the Carpenters, this is the definitive version. Another great John vocal - back then he seemed to sing each song as though his life depended on it. But it’s the enthusiastic backing of Paul and George that really push this song to the next level. There’s a great version in the under rated 90’s movie Backbeat.

Money (That’s What I Want)

The blistering end to the With the Beatles album. Kind of a bookend with Twist and Shout finishing off the previous LP. Roaring John. Tick. Great Paul and George backing. Cranked up by George Michael’s piano. Yes. All the elements were there for a rocking Beatles track, a stellar cover version and some great memories blasting this out through my parents tinny speakers rotating the knob all the way to 10.

Annie (Go to Him)

Shit! Another Lennon scorcher. I guess I have a bias for him either screaming to rock tunes or belting out big ballads. Well, my blog, my rules (you can obviously comment below if you disagree). The emotional, and musical highlight, is when Lennon goes into the big notes on the “All of my life” parts. He really means it man and I guess that’s the clue; whether singing a ballad or a rabble rousing rocker, John seems authentic. He is living the story and you feel it

Honorable Mentions

Ones that nearly made it. Soldier of Love, To Know Her is to Love Her, Some Other Guy from the Beatles at the Beeb. All fine tracks and good performances. Some Other Guy certainly rocks along in the live setting with a particular prominent bass which is missing on the official recordings. Maybe Roll Over Beethoven which is quite spirited. Actually the latter song, I always quite liked the much reviled Hollywood Bowl recording with Paul handling the harmonies.

Nothing from Help! or Beatles for Sale? No, not really into their country and western incarnation. Usually a vehicle for Ringo to monotone his way through a song. Even the rockers are a bit so-so in my view. Kansas City Hey Hey Hey, Rock n Roll Music seem a bit… What’s the word? Inessential.

More Beatles?

Do you want to read more? What about The Best Beatles Album Tracks? Or, it’s obverse, The Worst Beatles Album Tracks?

Or go full for the full Monty of music reviews? Try a Taylor Swift live review maybe?

Overview of SPQR

SPQR ( Senatus Populus Que Romanus meaning, for the Senate and People of Rome, the indelible banner stamped below the eagle standards of the Roman legions) is a chunky book that traces Rome from its beginnings as a bandit village in the 750’s BC through to the grant of universal citizenship across the empire by Caracalla in 212 AD. A period of nearly a thousand years. Or, as Mary Beard writes, Rome’s first millennium. As we all know, the Western Roman Empire continued for another 250 years whereas the Eastern Roman Empire - popularly now known as the Byzantium Empire - lasted for a further 1200 years until its eventual fall in 1453.

The problem with any book spanning a thousand years of history is that - no matter how large - it can only give a surface presentation of the narrative as it moves along. There’s no in depth analysis of each event. If you want that, then specialist books are what you need and that’s what I usually prefer. I get frustrated that the author is, necessarily, constrained and so has to arbitrarily choose what to include and what to leave out. That applies here (Marius and the Cimbrian War hardly get a mention for instance). However, I was gifted this book and so once I started, I needed to finish!

The first part of SPQR, covering the foundation and growth of the Republic through to its subsequent transformation under Augustus in the latter part of the 1st century BC, is episodic but essentially follows a linear narrative. The following 200 odd years, detailing the period of the ‘Principate’ emperors, feels much more rushed and frustratingly thematic. As though Mary ran out of steam. The problem with this latter half of the book is the tendency to indulge in what I call ‘magpie’ historicism - selecting random examples from a wide variety of ages to justify an argument. Part of this is due to the periodic lack of sources handed down to us across the ages. Was Rome’s most thrilling period - the fall of the Republic - so famous because it marked a major turning point or because the surviving source material is so rich?

Why did the Roman’s Succeed?

The central question of any book covering a thousand years is why Rome went from being a tribe of brigands in central Italy to a world power. The usual suspects are present in this book - the Romans’ love of adaption - in army tactics, in building, even in gods. Mary Beard advances that Rome was unique in its ability to absorb its defeated enemies, from Veii, to the Sabines, the Samnites etc, in a loose embrace so all might prosper. The Romans weren’t fussy about local gods or systems of government, they co-opted them. What however was sine qua non was the supply of manpower for wars.

As to the question whether the Romans better in battle or just able to muster more men, Mary Beard believes that - with technology the same, the largest army was predisposed to win. It’s an argument and a plausible if obvious one. There is some truth to this. For example, the Second Punic War where Hannibal, clearly the better general, could win the battles but never the war. Rome kept recruiting armies, harassing the Carthaginians and recapturing towns, in order to continue fighting even when all seemed lost. That was, until they found their own master tactician in Scipio Africanus. Another example may be the most famous if only due to the popular adage that it spawned following the Battle of Asculum. Fighting King Pyrrhus in the 270’s BC, the Romans kept losing battles but extracted unsustainable casualties on Pyrrhus, thus giving rise to the popular phrase “Pyrrhic victory”.

What are my thoughts on SPQR?

I think my major objection to this type of book is that it clearly comes from an academic. Nothing wrong with that, of course. However, there is hair-splitting and ‘on the one hand, but on the other’ isms that can annoy after a while. Much of the book seems to be negative; finding a popular story or commonly held piece of knowledge and then finding issues with it. It’s a tendency I like least in academics, the pursuit of the obscure in preference to the universal. At best this can advance knowledge and provide balance to a flabby prevailing narrative, at worst, it can be obscurantist and distorting. You can lose the big picture by being needlessly pedantic and argumentative. In broad based books - like this - the approach can lose the narrative thrust in a welter of qualifications.

Maybe it wasn’t the book for me but then I never expected it to be. I’ve long moved beyond large overviews of the Roman world - however scholarly - and into more niche areas like Julian or Aurelian. Or source material like Caesar, Appian or Josephus. It’s a choice you make after reading generalist books like these which doesn’t diminish their worth and shouldn’t stop you reading if you’re relatively new to the subject.

A couple of factoids

The word rostrum, for a speaker’s platform, comes from the Latin word for a ship’s ram (rostra). After the naval battle of Antium in 338bc, the victorious commander of the Roman fleet, Gaius Maenius, took the rams from six captured enemy ships and placed them on the platform in the Forum. Hence rostrum.

“They make a wasteland and call it peace,” said Calgacus, ancient British leader, as quoted by Roman historian Tacitus. An interesting quote (wasteland can be interrupted as ‘desert’ or ‘desolation’) which shows as much about Roman freedom of thought to write this down as it does a critique of Roman pacification efforts. Rome usually was magnanimous in victory, the exceptions (like Caesar’s massacre of the Tencteri and Usipetes) providing the exceptions to the rule. They wanted money, taxes, slaves, markets and manpower for the army.

(Revised and updated April 2026 with corrections, links and new thoughts)

Want to Read more on Rome?

For further Roman reviews, try Josephus and The Jewish Wars or what about my Barbarians TV series review? Or go for my history of Rome series?

Or something different? Go to my Features page - More Rome, Urban Noir City Reviews, Walks or Music Reviews?

Mick Taylor - Out in front

The Greatest Rock ‘n’ Roll Band

It's not a secret that I think the Stones were at their best - live - between 1969 and 1973. Collectively these years are known - by those who know these things - as The Mick Taylor Years. During this period, the Stones sported serious lead guitar muscle to match the chops and riffs of Keith Richard. This really was their live golden era (nothing though can match their recordings 1963-1969. Of course).

I won't get into any nonsense about Mick Taylor being the Stones. Clearly, Mick and Keef are obviously the beating heart of the Stones. They are the songwriters, the visual focal point, the direction, but with Mick Taylor, they now participated in the best live incarnation of “The Greatest Rock ‘n’ Roll Band in The World!”

It's one of the reasons - there are a few - why I don't go to see the Stones now. I'm their Number One fan but, pathetically, I want to see them in 1971 with Mick Taylor and not in 2026. I know, I know - I'm complex, capricious and not a little nuts. Deal with it, ladies.

So, onto Mick Taylor and the magic runs and solos he used to such incendiary effect back in the day when flares and drag queen make up marked a rock band. I'll trace Mick Taylor's development and influence in the band through one song over the years 1969, 1971, 1972, 1973.*

Street Fighting Guitarist

Street Fighting Man. Yes, it used to be the Stones’ powerhouse closer. It’s a riff laden ditty that combined fighting lyrics with punchy guitar. One word of caution though!! As I listen to live versions of this song 69-73, what is most noticeable - apart from the gradual rise in prominence of Mick Taylor's lead guitar - is the concomitant deterioration in quality of Jagger's singing. You can't discount the fact that a sloppy, word shortening, dicking about Jagger screws up the overall ambience of any performance. That is a shame because as Taylor gets better, Jagger gets worse.

So, back in 1969, Singer Mick cares and sings and articulates his words. By 1973, he's fucking about and missing out words and shouting. Frustratingly, whatever Guitar Mick did on guitar - if the lead singer is acting like a tit - the band is gonna sound worse. As it happens, I actually think by ’73 such was Taylor's shy dominance, he was getting too far to the front of the Stones. Yes, some of his stuff started to sound like guitar wank. Yes, you CAN have too much MT. Too many notes as they said of Mozart.

1969 - Get Your Ya Ya's Out

Jagger to the fore – “Get Down, boy!” (though there's more than a suspicion of studio touching up). Taylor sticking to the proscribed and approved lead lines. He often just riffs along with Keith which is no bad thing but that’s not why you have a shit hot soloist in the band now is it? As in all versions, Wyman's bass is awesome - propelling the group, shaking the earth and rooting the group in a solid foundation. The Stones as a group in front of 20,000 at Madison Square Garden.

1971 - Get Your Leeds Lungs Out.

Cards on table, I happen to think this is the Stones' greatest ever gig. They are on fire in this small-scale club setting. Taylor's more experimental on his lead lines than ’69 - his trademark fluidity is now evident. The melody lines he fingers, the vibrato he gets from his axe, all mark this version; it’s still a great group effort but this time propelled forward by MT.  Keef’s unusually ‘dirty’ guitar provides a perfect foil to the MT’s lyricism. But as Taylor ascends, Jagger begins to descend, cutting out words, beginning to shout more than sing. But not too much, yet. This is the summit.

1972 - Ladies and Gentlemen...

My it's a close one! The tempo is too quick and Jagger is seriously not singing anymore. But Mick Taylor is kicking guitar ass! Keith gives good backing but it's now the Mick Taylor show. The close is built around MT soloing like a bastard Velvet Underground style. Watch the video below as his fingers - always in control - fly over the fretboard. This is a guitarist knowing he’s the Dog’s Bollocks and beginning to assert himself.

1973 – A Brussels Affair

It’s played too quick and Jagger is now not really giving a fuck about singing – just yelping and swallowing words. I’m sure he looked good but any artistry has gone. However, as Jagger morphs into a Mick Jagger caricature, the music of the Stones has become Mick Taylor and supporting band. I love his sustained note at the end of the final chorus where the live band mimic the clarion ending of the recording. And then we’re into a Sister Ray freak-out fade-out as the group get faster and faster and MT has a completely free hand to solo wherever and however he wants. Distressingly - freed from the discipline and control of the Stones’ format -  he seems to distressingly to run out of ideas. The end of this track – to my ears – is welcome. It probably felt better on the night.

Verdict of Mick Taylor Live

And there we have it – the Mick Taylor years with the Rolling Stones told through versions of just one song over the years. What can we conclude from this pub conversation with myself?

He’s clearly talented, dextrous and knows how to add lyrical lead lines to the riffs of the premier rock group of the era. Mick Taylor operates best when there’s a format he has to fit in with. Here, constrained, he can shine, do the unexpected and sound fresh and exciting. By the end of this period though – 1973 – when Jagger had become a parody and Keith retreated into drugs and strictly rhythm, MT ever so slightly starts to become annoying. It’s really not the Stones.

And the Winner Is?

So – in what order do I rank the years? I’m sure of the best and the worst. Last, 1973 might be a bit controversial but deal with it, ladies. Second and third place are a bit arbitrary and, in another mood, in another place, I’d rank them differently, but here, now and tonight, the 69 tour version beats Ladies and Gentlemen…

1. 1971

2. 1969

3. 1972

4. 1973

More? You all want More!

Mick Taylor kicking Keef’s Ass on Sympathy for the Devil

Mick Taylor’s Greatest Studio Tracks

I know you love it, Taylor Swift live review

Or the mysterious girl who revealed too much to the Writer in a bar in Bruges?

The Blog RSS Silent footage with an unreleased live version of Street Fighting Man added as a soundtrack. both were recorded suring the stones 1972 STP American Tour

 

* Not yet unearthed a decent 1970 performance.

Mick and Keef. The other Mick

The First Time I Heard the live Sympathy For The Devil

They say the Devil has all the good tunes (except when he goes down to Georgia, of course!). But perhaps just sympathising with Old Nick also conjures up a decent tune too.

I remember the first Stones album I bought myself. I was 15. Coming off the back of a couple of Greatest Hits compilations, I went and bought the live album Get Yer Ya Ya's Out. Live albums can often be a mistake as they tend to offer thin, over-emoting, out-of-tune and unnecessarily long versions of well-loved – and crafted - studio songs.

But not so Get Yer Ya Ya's Out...

The Stones 1969 Live Tour

It's a tour album commemorating the infamous 1969 US Tour - yes the one that ended with the screw up that was Altamont. I come back to this album frequently. I can safely say; I learnt to play guitar strumming along with this album. Recorded at Madison Square Garden, it captures the Stones as they transitioned away from Brian Jones and into the demi-god led outfit that included Mick Taylor. Finally, the Stones had some serious lead guitar muscle to complement the Human Riff, Keef. They would get better in the next couple of years, but this is the only official live album of the Stones Mark 2 line up.

My fav track was Track 1 / Side 2: Sympathy for the Devil. (“Paint It Black you devils! Do Paint It Black!”) E-D-A verses dropping to B for the chorus. Brilliant to play along with and attempt the extended guitar solo at the end of the track. Yes, I learnt my pitiful lead axeman skills from this track. Well at least for the first minutes of the solo anyway! Because suddenly the solo gets hard - real hard. What is a rhythm guitarist's best ever solo morphs into a shit-hot guitar hero work-out. You can hear the change about 4:30 into the track. It’s almost as though Keef took a snort half way through and felt emboldened to shout "Oi! Hendrix, Clapton - come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough!"

The Two Different Solos - Mick Taylor to the Fore

But YouTube and the internet have revealed the mystery behind the split personality on Sympathy for the Devil’s guitar solo. For of course – Keef plays the first half and then hands over to Mick Taylor. In less than two minutes, Mick Taylor pisses on Richards and - in the cock-measuring contest that was the Stones – for the next five years, never again would Keith attempt to challenge Taylor. There has only ever been one lead guitarist in the Stones and his name was Mick Taylor.

I’ve written more about this golden era of the Stones. When they really deserved the moniker ‘The Greatest Rock n Roll Band in the World’. But for now, listen to this audio and you’ll see what I mean. Keef starts soloing at 3:18. Mick Taylor takes over the baton at 4:30 and from 5:20 streaks down the back straight to take the tape, the Gold Medal, the whole bloody stadium.

As I said, the Stones would get better after 1969. Taylor would get more confident – aware that his fluid, melodic soloing would propel songs like Midnight Rambler, Gimme Shelter, Street Fighting Man to ever higher levels. But Get Your Ya Ya’s Out is where it began and, on Sympathy for the Devil, you can hear him shyly but definitely, take over the band’s sound.

Enjoy.

More Mick Taylor? Or something for weekend, sir?

Mick Taylor’s greatest Stone song?

Mick Taylor’s Greatest Studio tracks?

Or what about when I was announced as Eric Clapton at Chicago’s Kingston Mines?

The Blog RSS 'GET YER YA YA'S OUT!' Solitary Man / Solitary Note

Revised April 2026 with a cleaner URL, some H2/H3 headings and a finger picking, fist pumping, click baiting attitude. Read my Urban Noir Stories. Like this, you’ll love them!

Iconic Doisneau photograph

Is art preference an indication of character? What do the paintings or photos that we place on our walls say about how we perceive ourselves? About how we wish to be perceived by others?

For almost as long as I can remember, I have placed pictures on my walls. Blue tac, pins; nothing seemed to be framed back in the day. What I liked, I stuck up, starting with posters of football teams, Elvis, The Beatles, leading - from 16 onwards - to real 6*4 pictures from my own life - mug shots freeze framed into vanishing history. Hilariously - it now seems - I also pinned up letters from cabinet ministers and MPs (I collected MP’s signatures like others might popstars or film icons).

Doisneau and the University Bedroom

What posters did I have on my university dorm room walls? Debbie Harry. Raquel Welsh. The Beatles. But I was most proud of a large (and expensive) black and white print of Robert Doisneau’s “Le Baiser de l’hotel de Ville”. Although the photo was taken in March 1950 for Life magazine, it lay forgotten for decades. At the prompting of his publishers though, Doisneau had - in the mid 80’s - sanctioned the image to be rereleased in poster form. Not long after, I saw it in a Brighton shop (Virgin Megastore? HMV? Athena?) and immediately liked it. So I bought it and up it went up onto my Sussex University dorm room wall.

How cool was I?

I probably thought I was just as cool as the guy kissing the girl in the photo. But in reality I was definitely more like the the guy in the beret unwittingly walking past the lovers just as the photo was being taken! Actually, entre nous, I read some story that this stereotypical French mec was an Irishman called Bert on a motorcycling tour of Europe who randomly happened to be in Paris that day. Who knows? Even the identity of the couple kissing was firstly, shrouded in mystery and then secondly, disputed in the courts. Turns out they were both actors / models and were paid for this semi staged tableau.

But why does this photo call to me even now?

Voyeurism?

Well, it’s not the voyeurism, the thrilling sense that we are encroaching on the lovers’ private moment. The angle of the shot from the cafe table looking outwards suggests a photo illicitly taken, grabbed furtively. Perhaps the photographer had his camera on the table and clicked the button at the perfect moment or maybe he was pretending to reset his lens and snuck a shot. Some may like this aspect of stolen moments but I always thought the mise en scene a little too perfect to be a lucky shot; it is - and was - artfully staged.

Time and Place?

Is it the sense of time and place? A fleeting glimpse of world now gone reflecting back at us through the camera? That’s closer. Like children running after a balloon floating above Montmartre , or policemen in caps and capes directing jaunty deux chevaux around the Arc de Triomphe, the picture documents a Paris remembered but lost. This type of reportage of daily life is what Doisneau is best known for. I have a marvellous and chunky photo book of his Paris shots - during and just after the war - which detail life on the streets and in the bars. Smiling faces gaze back at me, so sure, so real but so impermanent.

Carefree Young Love?

Or is it the picture of young love, so carefree, so intense, before life intrudes and ennui gradually chokes off the heady dopamine? This feeling never lasts and is as fleeting as a freeze frame from a video; a frozen moment captured out of time and pulled roughly to the fore. This picture captures the apex of young love, in Paris no less, and as such it represents an ideal of something for which we all search. I know people who are ever tumbling into the vortex of new love, always looking for that elusive high, ever disappointed when it never lasts. I also know people who continually think past the sale and so, to avoid the fall, avoid the climb and never experience the heights.

It’s all our pasts and all our dreams, a once and future representation of humanity. And I think it represents optimism and that, following all the words, is why this picture is on my wall.

April 2026 - TR House

Post Script

I don’t know what happened to the original poster. I don’t believe it survived the 1980’s. Why it was discarded, is lost in time, just like the Paris of 1950. However, I have re-bought the print and it is once again featured prominently chez-Robson amongst the numerous Hoppers and James Hardaker originals. That feels right somehow.

Read More

For more Paris related stories what about my travels to Palais Garnier? Or the traction beam of walking to Bastille?

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