So far it's been el crapolata for me.

Mine of course, since I am a bloke, is military strength so that I have a voice like Paul Robeson eating a lump of coal and a nose like Rudolph (the Reindeer - not Hess).

I'm off to Glasgow for Celtic Connections soon, so I'm hoping it clears up before then.

Donald Shaw, who runs the festival, is a bit of a genius and has devised the Classic Album Live series.

In previous years Dick Gaughan has performed Handful of Earth, John MartynSolid Air and Paul Brady & Andy Irvine have done their classic duo album live on stage.

This year it's Richard Thompson with his A Thousand Years of Popular Music, a terrific album that he put out a few years back with some truly amazing tracks on it.

To save you looking it up,here's RT's own quote on the subject: "The idea for this project came from Playboy Magazine. I was asked to submit a list, in late 1999, of the ten greatest songs of the Millennium.

Hah! I thought, hypocrites,they don't mean millennium, they mean twenty years - I'll call their bluff and do a real thousand-year selection.

My list was similar to the choices here on this CD, starting in about 1068, and winding slowly up to 2001.

That they failed to print my list among others submitted by rock's luminaries, is but a slight wound - it gave me the idea for this show.

The idea is that "popular music" comes in many forms, through many ages, and as older forms get superceded, sometimes the "baby is thrown out with the bathwater" - great ideas, tunes, rhythms, styles, get left in the dust of history, so let's have a look at what's back there, and see if still does the trick."

You can check out the track listing of the CD on Richard Thompson's site. A fairly eclectic list and probably not one that Playboy would have wanted up there with the others. Mind you, you never know, I've heard on the grapevine that Hugh Hefner was a dab hand on the Northumbrian Pipes.

Perhaps the Buddha, because he said that the past must not be hankered after since it's done and gone and there's naff all you can do about it (which really makes taking people to court for crimes they committed more than a nanosecond ago a bit of a non-starter,  I would like to be tried in a Buddhist court if I ever do anything really bad: "When did you nick that Martin guitar? Last week? Case dismissed").

Anyroad up, where was I? Ah yes, I was going to say something about the year that's gone.

What a damn fine year it has been: loads of great albums and tons of great festivals - far too many for me to list here.

Yes, I know it was a lot better when we all sang in folk clubs for nothing and knitted our own concertinas from recycled policeman's bicycles, but life is a state of constant flux and folk is a broad church in which there is room for everybody: Harry Cox and Seth Lakeman, Bert Lloyd and Bella Hardy, The Queensbury Rules and The Yetties - and long may it be so.

 I used to get a tingle in my belly when I drove over the North Yorkshire Moors to Whitby Folk Festival, and got my first glimpse of the sea and the abbey ruins, because I knew I was in for a great week of singing and playing.

I get that same feeling still when I put on a new CD that has just arrived, and hear the first bars of something that I know instinctively is going to be great.

This last year I've had a lot of tingly bellies.

Listen, thanks for listening over the last twelve months, you've been good company.

Have a peaceful and people Christmas: shun the mall, turn off the telly and have a natter instead - and with new albums already in the pipeline from people like Martin Simpson and Cara Dillon and rumours that the Eddison Bell Spasm Band might be playing Glastonbury next year things are looking good.

As Pangloss said, just before his nose fell off: "All is for the best in this the best of all possible worlds".

Keep listening - you know it makes sense. See you next year.

Like Jeremy Paxman and the late and wonderful George Melly, I have a secret life in which I wear rubber and mess around with bits of fluff and feather which I then chuck at trout in the vain hope that I might persuade one of them to come home, wear a foil overcoat and jump in the oven.

Well, for once I'm not going to drift off back into the Blue Remembered Hills and tell you how Annie Briggs and Johnny Moynihan once slept in our airing cupboard, but I am going to say "shoulders of giants".

I suppose "giant" is hardly the word, since Anne was a slim slip of a lass, but she was a giant in the world of the folk clubs of the sixties.

It's easy to forget, listening to her now (try Classic Anne Briggs: The Complete Topic Recordings, Fellside, 1990).

Like The Watersons, she drew on the tradition, absorbed it, and like all great singers (Bob Davenport is another that springs to mind) made the songs her own.

Raw, uncompromising but straight into the heart of things, her versions of Reynardine and Blackwaterside are pure classics.

Today we have great singers like Cara Dillon, Julie Fowlis and Ruth Notman and all the digital wizardry in the world at our disposal.

Anne Briggs' waif's voice coming pure and true out of the smoky folk clubs of that analogue age still seems to me, like the best of the singers of today, to be what the Irish call "The Pure Drop".

So, Anne will be there in the next request show on Wednesday 14 January, which is really why I started writing this bit, to get you lot posting your requests up here on the blog.

It's cheap (free) and will give us here at Harding Towers some idea of what you'd like to hear and why.

(The request shows are favourites of mine - not because I'm too lazy to programme the show but because they make for really interesting lucky-bag programmes.)

So, I'm off to tie some fluff and feathers round a bit of wire now - get those requests in!

He was a life long socialist (no surprise really when you consider that his father, Raymond, wrote one of the best histories of the English working class), and when Bagpuss merchandise started to appear Oliver sent most of the money to Romanian orphanages and to a centre that looked after unwanted cats.

There are no five second scenes, flashing violent images, loud ear-ripping soundtracks; just a brilliantly imagined narrative, good animation (for their time) and great characters.

What has all this to do with folk music? I hear you scream. Quite a lot actually.

The Pugwash theme tune is the old folk dance tune The Trumpet Hornpipe, and one of the most successful of Postgate's creations, Bagpuss, had the great luck to have Sandra Kerr and John Faulkner as singers and musical directors.

Two great folk musicians, they sang traditional songs, adapted traditional tunes and wrote their own folk-based material throughout.

One of the joys I have now when I sit with small children to watch Bagpuss is spotting the trad tunes and folk song variations in the films.

My dream ticket now would be for Ardmann Animations to work with somebody like Jez Lowe, John Tams, Maddy Prior and Julie Fowlis on an animated series of folk tales for children - now there would be something; and I¹m sure, wherever Oliver Postgate is now, he would approve in spades.

It was while I was writing the above piece that the sad news came through that Davy Graham had died of a massive seizure, aged 68.

He'd been suffering from lung cancer. I'm still quite shocked because the man seemed indestructible.

Born to a Scottish father and a Guyanese mother, Davy was one of the true originals of the British folk scene; a man who could play everything from jazz and blues to traditional music and who wrote what is probably the most played folk guitar piece ever - Anji.

Just as most rock and roll guitarists started off with Apache or Stairway To Heaven, most folk guitarists cut their finger ends on Anji, a simple sounding but pretty difficult piece to play.

A giant of a man and an amazing performer in his heyday, he made many great albums and had a huge influence on people such as Paul Simon, Bert Jansch and Nick Drake.

Please do send your messages of condolence if you wish.

Both revolve around what belongs in a genre and what doesn't.

The first was about the fRoots Critics Poll, won by an English folk act for the first time in ten years.

The second was over the Young Folk Award, won by Megan and Joe Henwood - fine performers of self-written songs, and which I was lucky enough to be a judge of.

The inclusion of three English albums (Matachin by Bellowhead, Dreams
of Breathing Underwater by Eliza Carthy, and my own Low Culture) deprives other
acts from around the world of exposure they could benefit from and so these
albums should be barred from inclusion.

Regarding the YFA, the argument goes that no matter how good the winners are (and Megan and Joe are really really good) the songs they sing
are "not folk and so should not be allowed in the competition."

In some technical way, at least the term "World Music" has its roots in a meeting at The Empress Of Russia pub in Islington in 1987
where representatives of WOMAD, Channel 4, label owners like Nick Gold (World
Circuit) and Ben Mandelson (Globalstyle), and journalists such as Ian Anderson
of (as it was then) Folk Roots and Charlie Gillett decided they needed a new
way to categorise the stuff that didn't fit anywhere else.

The object was to have a neat label under which to promote artists from around the world that would otherwise slip through the net.

In a gesture that would never happen now, the creation of World music was launched with a cassette tape on the cover of NME.

Moray's Law: As a folk music messageboard goes on, the probability of a thread entitled
"What is Folk Music?" approaches one.

I don't have the answer to the "what is folk?" question any more than anybody else, but if you're asking me, England is as much a part of the world as any other, and music with roots in English tradition should be able to take it's place next to music with it's roots in the traditions of Mali on an equal footing.

I also think that songwriting that reflects the songwriter's thoughts on the world around them, has always been a branch of folk music, and always will.

It might not be to everyone's taste, but there's room for all tastes here.

Perhaps those at the Empress of Russia were right in 1987 - these labels are just a marketing term. No more, no less.

That's one of the great things about being from the North - when in Londonc city you can have a good old moan about everything - particularly the South.

The main moan last night was about the lousy pubs down here.

Then it struck us that - with a few exceptions - the pubs back home were lousy too, so we had a god old moan about them as well...

With them should go the brewers' ideas men and interior designers.

They are responsible for the death of the Great British Boozer, not the smoking ban.

Some bright brewer's marketing consultant, realising that people drink more standing up,
turned all the pubs into stand-up, lager-drinking joints where people who'd
already drunk a bottle of vodka before they came out, could stand up and drink
alcopops and shout at each other over the Ibiza mix.

Out went the old gaffers with their dominoes and their Jack Russells tied to their
ankles, out went anybody over thirty who didn't want to drink until they
vomited, and out went the banjo and fiddle players because the landlords didn't
want any "diddly diddly music" because people who listened didn't drink fast
enough.

One of the best sessions in Manchester was in a pub near Piccadilly station - one night I watched 17 great musicians playing away like good 'uns from eight until closing.

The next week - nothing.

The musicians had been binned and there were more stools and high tables for
the non-listeners to shout across.

Another good pub ruined by the brewers. It's empty most nights now and will soon be up for sale and/or demolition I guess.

The Great English Boozer was a confessional, a marriage bureau, a burial
club, a care home (not seen old for a few days better go round and see if she's ok) and a place of music and song. I lament their passing. 'Sic transit gloria boozeri' - as Caesar might have said after a few pints of Timothy Taylor's Landlord.

A great singer and a good songwriter, Rosie was one of the mainstays of the Manchester folk scene of the sixties.

So was Harry Boardman, one of my all time folk heroes whose work for Lancashire folk music brought all kinds of people such as myself and the Oldham Tinkers out
of the woodwork - would that his old vinyl albums were available on CD - some great stuff waiting to be heard again.

There were the usual emails about the Leader/Trailer vinyl archive with its classics albums by artists like Nic Jones, Tony Rose and Dave Burland.

All I can say about that is that nothing has changed - as far as I know.

One album I would dearly love to see in print again is the work of one of the most likeable nutters it has ever been my privilege to fall across, ­ Trevor Crozier.

A pipe-smoking, crumhorn playing West Country boy who was as happy playing Breton dances as he was singing his own Piddletranthide Jug Band song he was a true original - his album Trouble Over Bridgewater should be rereleased on CD immediately in the nation's interest.

In a separate work area away from the mixing desk and the microphone was a mountain of feathers, fur, thread and hooks waiting to be turned into fishing flies for a book I'm writing.

So, I went to the pile of CDs, put one on the player, turned up the volume, rolled up my sleeves and set to.

By chance the CD I'd picked was one I'd bought only the other day - A Cut Above by June Tabor and Martin Simpson.

I still have it on vinyl from the year it was recorded, 1980, but I've been replacing all my old classics on plastic with CDs recently and this was one.

Lord above I'd forgotten how brilliant that album was.

When you get two wonderful musicians together the end result is not always the sum of the parts.

In this case they obviously pushed each other on to greater things because the end result is magnificent; just listen to Heather Down the Moor, Davy Lowston, Flash Company - they are magnificent; and you'll never hear a better version of Bill Caddick's Unicorns.

It almost made cleaning up the Augean Studios worthwhile.

But in all seriousness, it is such an honour to be a part of this fantastic project with all these superb musicians. And so different from anything I have been involved in previously. The other day whilst Julie Fowlis was rehearsing her new song for the first half of the show I was blown away. I said to myself, 'I'm sorry I can't take this, it's all too beautiful!'

Jim Causley

Hear a track from Under One Sky on the Mike Harding Show this Wednesday from 7pm.

Been to see the live show? Let us know what you think by posting a message here.

So this is all very exciting for me. The best bit for me is that I'm getting the opportunity to work with musicians who I wouldn't normally get that chance to. Especially the Scottish half of Under One Sky, why isn't this sort of collaboration done more? (Because it's expensive?)

Next we shall have to do a Welsh Under One Sky and an Irish Under One Sky and to think of it why is the Transatlantic Sessions just Celtic artists on this side of the
pond? Let's open that one up too! And then there's the pop stars. Mr Tams and
myself were jesting that in rehearsals they get to swan in, do their bit and
toddle off again and then with that Mr McCusker informed us that we were no
longer needed that day so we joyfully popped back to the hotel and discussed
Percy Grainger's life over a bottle of Semilion, what a life!

Jim Causley

Hear a track from Under One Sky on the Mike Harding Show this coming Wednesday, 3 December from
7pm.

Been to see the live show? Let us know what you think by posting a message
here.

Ooh what a busy boy I am! After a month of Mawkin and living on Dave Delarre's sofa during touring/recording new album in October, I was blessed with a couple of weeks at home in surprisingly sunny Devon and then off on a Flybe from Exeter to Glasgow (I sat next to the rear gunner) for Under One Sky.

Man, I love those. I also love Christina Aguilera who has played a vital part in keeping me sane during these full on folky times. Everybody needs an antidote! Anyhoo, we're all off to the Highlands tomorrow which I'm very excited about as apparently the tour bus has reclining seats, a DVD player and a toilet so if you see me on the motorway watching Bridget Jones on a reclining toilet, give me a wave.

Jim Causley

'Check this band out,' he said 'they're great' and then he was gone off into the murk of that December night.

Cara Dillon, of course, went on to do other things, culminating in a solo career
that has taken her half way across the world and back. Over the years she has
produced some wonderful albums, but none (I feel) as good as her latest Hill of
Thieves. It is simply stunning, a great collection of mostly traditional songs
sung with great soul and accompanied by a band to die for. The album isn't out
until January but I did manage to get hold of a copy and there's a track from
it on my programme for each of the next two weeks. News of the CD can be found at Cara's website. I've listened to it three or four times already and, in my humble opinion, it is one of the finest albums of the last ten years.

Some modern songs, I believe, will make it into the canon. In another hundred years people will still be singing songs like Blackwaterside, I Live Not Where I Love, The Cruel Ship's Carpenter and The Bitter Withy alongside songs like Deportees, Tunnel Tigers, Never Any Good, The Sun's Coming Over The Hill and other great contemporary songs.

I wonder if someone a hundred years hence will pick one of those for their Desert Island Disc?

Without Lonnie there would probably have been no Beatles or Stones and certainly a very different folk revival. I met the man in London a few years back and had a great afternoon listening to him yarning about his life and times. Shortly before he died I wrote the following poem. Allow me to indulge myself by printing it here - it's not very often I have a captive audience

All Pig Iron (in memoriam Lonnie Donegan)

How many boys in cold front-rooms
Their fingers, crippled spiders, stumbling on
Steel strings, brass fretwire, fumbled for three chords:
E, A, B7, scribbling down the words
On Basildon Bond -

I got sheep, I got cows,
I got horses, I got pigs?
'Cos the Rock Island Line is a mighty fine line,
The Rock Island Line is the road to ride...

Cold, front-room dreams,
As before the living-room fire,
Dozing fathers snored to Billy Cotton,
Red sails met the sunset,
And, in steam-filled kitchens, mothers beat
The gravy free of lumps.

Three-chord-trick fantasies. You gave the children of
The suburbs and the post-war slums
Swagger; brought to Burnley's cobbled streets
And Surbiton's mock Tudor towers these things:
The mud stink of the Louisiana levee,
Jack o' Diamonds in the stern wheeler's saloon;
Sylvie bringing a little water to the baking cotton field;
The old engineer, his hand still on the airbrake,
Scalded to death by the steam.

Brylcremed, crepe-soled, drainpipe daydreams.
In bare-bulb, damp, church-halls across this wintry land,
Washboards and tea-chests thumped their way
To the Cumberland Gap, and a generation of Lost Johns
Started putting on the style. We built the Coolee Dam,
Fought The Battle of New Orleans,
And ran with young Tom Dooley from the law;
And mostly, we rode the old Rock Island Line.

I fooled you, I fooled you
I got all pig iron, I got all pig iron.
'Cos the Rock Island Line is a mighty fine line,
The Rock Island Line is the road to ride.

Nobody's children in cold front-rooms,
You gave us songs to sing,
You gave us dreams to dream.

Mike Harding