Reading the BBC on my late evening rounds, I caught the very sad news that Neil Aspinall passed away earlier today at the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York. Neil, commonly called the fifth Beatle, was until last sumer, Chief Executive of Apple Corps, the Beatle’s music label. Aspinall was the driving force behind the Beatle’s sales after the band split, and also was pivotal in ensuring that the 1987 release of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band on CD (the band’s first CD release, and a massive rework of the original Mono recording) was surrounded by a media and publicity frenzy.

In the time I spent working with Apple Corps, the few times I dealt with Neil were all wonderful. Likewise, working with his wife Suzy was always a pleasure, and I would look forward to the calls. Neil will be missed, but his influence on one of the greatest musical acts of our time will not be forgotten.

Between this, and the passing of Geoffrey Quinn (alias Paul Raymond, another former employer) it’s been a sad month. Here’s to hoping that the next is somewhat more cheery.

Not the delicious Belgian Pale Ale, but actual, honest to God rumblings of the ground. At +53° 19′ 15.60″, -0° 18′ 50.40″ 00:56:46.0 UTC there was a distinct rumble as the ground jolted about, and again, a few minutes later, there was a mild aftershock. Initial reports peg the quake at a pretty sedate 5.3, but it was still enough to wake me here in London, a good 150 odd miles away.

More as the BBC reports it in the morning. Edit, Auntie just put a small snippet up. No doubt, it’ll be updated as more information comes to light.

I’ve no time now to go into the specifics, but right now, I’m in Studio One of AIR listening to a live set from KT Tunstall and Billy Bragg.

All I can say is that this is one of the best musical experiences of my life, ever. It’s right up there with Sigur Rós. More later.

Busy doesn’t quite cover my last week. I’ve been doing nothing but waking up, going to work, and then passing out when I get home. Hopefully the next week ahead should give me some time to recover to some small degree. I’ve been a busy bee. Today (coincidentally my birthday) is the first day I’ve had to rest up properly in about two weeks.

Wednesday saw us being evacuated from work for three hours, after some poor unfortunate soul get himself electrocuted after drilling through a power line and a gas main.

And then on Saturday, Camden Market went and caught fire. Most of the market has made it out without too much damage, but around forty odd stalls and a fair few homes have been reduced to shells. I’ve not been to Camden in the best part of a year or more now, but I expect it’s going to feel rather different next time I step off the Northern Line.

One would think that sitting at a commuter train station, cold and hungry, with no train home in sight would be a pathetic existence. Lord knows I once did. Week in, week out I’d find at least one services subject to delay, outright cancelled, or, most commonly, defeated by the wrong type of rain.

And once again, tonight I’m at Wimbledon, Platform 9. I’ve come back from Sloane Square, hopped off the Tube, and down the platform, up the concourse, along, and down to 9. And there, on the board, blinking at me in taunting day-glow orange LED, **SERVICE CANCELLED**

I should have stayed in bed, this morning. Lord knows I was tempted. In a toss-up between warm soft sheets and a the prospect of a late breakfast, and the cold pavement, a shave and commuting, then bed wins. Every time. Apart from this morning, when I got up, had a shave, and braved the District line yet another time.

Which reminds me. Most commuters, you know, the kid that zip in and out of the Xity? Fine. These people I can happily deal with. But now and then you get the odd person who honestly has no concept of who, what, where, or when they are. Seriously. And they also always seem to be the ones with basic hygiene problems. Getting off one of the trains today I could hardly contain my breakfast; the carriage stank of this one chap and what seemed to be the smell of stale cocoa butter, curry, and dirty hair. Utterly vile. I’m quite certain that these people have no idea of the stench they produce. If they knew, surely they would make some effort to clean themselves… non?