Good afternoon on this lovely Monday, hope your weekend went well and don’t let the bastards grind you down this week. That’s my advice anyway. I’ve got a few minutes spare today so thought I’d see what new things have surfaced on the internet and newsfeeds over the last few days. As with most things in life The Clash are my soundtrack and so it is with football. There was a big Clash at Old Trafford this weekend by the way, with a Magnificent Seven goals scored, happily The Leader Manchester City scored six times with Manchester United kept Prisoner in their own half due to Ghetto Defending. I know Manchester United fans will Deny that their team will be second best this season but Listen, don’t be Hateful.

Meanwhile in London Arsenal were in Complete Control whilst taking care of Stoke City who really are a team of Dirty Punks. A few miles west (just off the Westway) Q.P.R. took care of Chelsea who decided before kick off Let’s Go Crazy and chose Death or Glory and ended up with just 9 men on the pitch. How we laughed. Another big match on Merseyside and Time is Tight for Liverpool who failed to beat Norwich City at home due to a great Equaliser, even though when you look at Norwich you’d probably ask What’s My Name their supporters realised that the long trip to the northwest wasn’t a Train in Vain. Something About England also means some poor sods are born supporting Tottenham, when I see Spurs on TV I just want to grab the Remote Control and show my dislike One More Time. It’s a shame White Hart Lane wasn’t burned down when London’s Burning back in the summer.

Finally I was wondering if Kolo Toure fell over in the penalty area would it be a Junkie Slip? Most of the results at the weekend made me think there was Justice Tonight and even though Arsenal are still struggling I’m Not Down. Tim

Good morning and thanks for dropping in, my apologies if you’ve again had troubles accessing the site in recent days. Hacking bastards have been striking wordpress sites on our hosting company this week and being a nuisance, if it happens again we may need to change to a hosting company with better security than Gadhafi. A drain pipe? Seriously, I thought these types of chaps were supposed to have a secret hideaway inside a volcano. I’ll even venture that we have no idea what really transpired in Libya this year. Anyway, it’s extra frustrating when I write this and people can’t access it to read it. Going back one post I’ll have part two of Joe Strummer/Palmers Green put together as soon as I can. For the time being I hope your weekend is good and you’ll spend some time reviewing some other news that I needed to get current on. Please check back Sunday/Monday as I’ve got something Clash related that might make you want to move to Australia or at least visit.

This story reminds me of when an old footballer has to sell his FA Cup medals to pay for surgery but it’s pretty sad to read that Alan McGee is selling off his old Oasis memorabilia, even though the clear reason as to why isn’t documented. You’d have to guess cash though surely? I know Mick Jones (as evidenced by his Rock and Roll Public Library) is a keen collector but do you wonder what Bernard Rhodes might have sitting in his flat from the early days of The Clash? Rhodes is someone that causes a lot division amongst Clash fans but you can’t overlook his contribution to what the band were – I know the band acknowledge his impact. For better or worse he tends to keep a very low profile these days and as a rule has caused controversy on the rare occasions when he opens his mouth. In the very early days of the blog I tried to write about Rhodes and get some sort of pulse beyond all the accepted wisdom. I genuinely believe the truth is that his return to the band was the single most important ingredient in both The Clash reaching new levels of success (work harder boys!) but also planted the inner tensions that led to the band removing Topper and later Mick Jones. Whether one day Rhodes will tell his full tale looks pretty unlikely at this late stage but I think we’ll find out a great deal more next year with some Clash related books I’ve been expecting. (more on that soon).

Back in 2009 I even exchanged a series of semi-cryptic emails with Bernard Rhodes but they led to a mounting pile of riddles versus something quotable. I offered him a forum to tell his side of some events or simply tell us about the intervening years, instead I was asked numerous questions about myself and why I would be interested in looking back at something that was so misrepresented. That misrepresentation was inferred rather than stated but it was clear that Mr. Rhodes was not that keen on how history (or at least the history of this band) has marked his card. What can’t be doubted however is that were it not for him in the first instance the very idea of The Clash as we know them could probably never have happened. That in itself dictates enough attention to explore in more depth if you ask me.

The last time I communicated with him was immediately after the sad loss of Malcolm McLaren to offer extended condolences for which he thanked me. While the two men are seen in hindsight at great rivals (they were) it can’t be overlooked that they were also deep friends and inspirational to one another. The real tale of Bernie Rhodes will probably remain known to him and a few others only which is a shame as it’s one I know people would love to know. He still is an observer and a man with a profound legacy on an era of music and counter culture (the counter culture was truly his greater focus) that mattered a lot to so many of us. Moreover punk but what followed because of it changed the industry forever and indeed changed many of us just as dramatically.

If by some odd chance you read this Bernard, I hope all is well with you and the offer stands if you ever want to share even a part of your past or indeed your present with us. We’re a pretty open minded bunch as far as I know. I know only one thing for sure – he would love all of the #occupy events taking place globally, he’s been writing about the corruption for years on his website. I know many readers of the blog have had some very unique brushes with The Clash but did any of you ever have any experience meeting their manager either during his two stints in charge or during the subsequent years? I hope it’s not just me who sits and wonders about many such details? Right then I’m off to play football but you can t remember you can keep current via Facebook, Twitter get the RSS feed for the blog or email me and as ever thanks for reading and circulating the blog wherever and whenever you see fit. Tim

Hello once more and thanks for your continued support of The Clash Blog, I do appreciate you taking the time to read with your morning tea/coffee or late night pale ale. It’s a quiet night here in the desert and I found myself thinking back a long time this evening, back to the early 1970′s in fact. This might be a strange post….

I’ve got no great claims to greatness, I don’t really know anyone famous and my two most stretched associations would be that my Mum grew up in Dublin on the same street as the Wogan family. You might know their little boy Terry who then became the voice and face of BBC light entertainment on radio and then television for a good few years. As for the English side of the family my grandfather was the personal tailor for John F Kennedy’s famous (infamous) father Joseph Kennedy when the latter resided in London as the US Ambassador to Great Britain. My grandad said he was a ‘dreadful man, rude to everyone but appreciated the suits that only we could create for him’ and my grandad downplayed the fact that his son became one of the most famous names of the 20th century. My grandad also helped with tailoring for the coronation of the Queen in 1952 and the living room in their North London home had curtains made from leftover velvet from that event. In fact it’s their house in Southgate, London N14 that causes me to write tonight. This post is part one of a tale about a happy coincidence, there was no to be ‘Charlie Bucket’ moment for me clutching onto a golden ticket to visit a chocolate factory, nor even an invitation to see an early rehearsal of The Clash in 1976. What there is though is a happy coincidence and looking back that’s enough for me.

Windmill in the village where I grew up...

I was born about 30 miles north of there in the corner of the countryside where Hertfordshire & Essex blends with Cambridgeshire, very close to London (30 minutes by train) but another planet compared with the most populated city in Europe. Whilst my siblings were born earlier in London near tube stations and red double decker buses I was born on a road that had a farm at one end and some woods at the other, a country bumpkin. Therefore I loved the fact that my grandparents still lived up in London and all that it offered. As a child it meant red rover passes and bus trips all over the city with my brother or cousin to London Zoo, The Imperial War Museum or St. Paul’s. As I got older it meant record shops, pubs, clubs and concerts. Crossing the divide between being a kid and an adult was my other great love – my football team – Arsenal. My grandparents house was just 7 stops on the tube to Arsenal or about a 15 minute drive if we didn’t mind seeking out a place to park somewhere near the ground. As a result a family trip to the grandparents for a cup of tea and sandwiches followed by going to watch Arsenal (leaving behind my sister and Mum, Mother only came if it was warm and then just sat misty eyed looking at O’Leary and Brady) was a guaranteed day out every other Saturday for nine months of the year. There was no football on Sundays in those days.

This routine happened for years before I was old enough to remember and by the time I was about five I followed in the footsteps of my brother, my Dad, my Grandad and his father too and became a regular down at Highbury, going to watch Arsenal every other weekend (and sometimes away matches too) is my clearest memory of the early-mid 1970′s. I know that London back then was a city where bowler hats were still worn in the city, the idea of immigration was still ruffling feathers (and most immigrants were in very specific parts of town) and even the fact that my Mum was Irish would cause concern to others in those IRA active times. London seemed huge to me, full of people and stories, seemingly oblivious to young people it seemed to be dominated by people commuting to and from work and not very friendly. Yet, in streets like the one where my grandparents lived everyone knew each other and I was always jealous of the family next door who had two kids about my age – they got to grow up in London the lucky sods, I was growing up in an area best known for its jam and marmalade orchards.

As I mentioned my earliest memories were about age five or six and concerned football but within a year or two of that I was also aware that my brother (7.5 years older and now with a

My grandparents lived just a short walk from 'the green' in Southgate, note Palmers Green on the sign

girlfriend) had found another wonder that London offered which was the chance to see live concerts. I know he saw David Bowie, T Rex and less impressively David Essex whilst I was at an age when I was listening to The Wombles. I didn’t forget that the city offered the music too though and promised myself I’d move there one day which thankfully I did as a foolish, poor and naive teenager. Anyway, that’s a later tale to be told but I wanted to focus on the earliest years I can recall. Southgate to be fair was (and remains) a leafy and rather lovely suburban part of London, not in the least bit full of urban decay but instead offering a village green that featured cricket and parks full of sunbathers and dog walkers. It wasn’t Brixton, not even close. But as a kid I would sit in the car watching the countryside fade away until we reached the city, fields replaced by warehouses and then endless tracts of houses as you entered outer London. As we drove up the Great Cambridge Road to visit the grandparents we’d finally leave the busy road and turn right onto Hedge Lane in Palmers Green which led to Bourne Hill. Little did I know then and only found out many years later that on one of the side roads we passed after turning every other Saturday morning, a side road which was perhaps 1,200 yards from my grandparents house was named Ash Grove, and in 1971 a then unknown 19 year old young man named John Mellor had just moved into a shared flat at number 18 on that very street.

Much more on that in my next post.

Art deco tube station at Arnos Grove from where all journeys into London began