The Little Things That Are Anything But

There are things that stay with you, things that may only last for a moment, but which lodge themselves into the depths of your subconcious and stay there, emerging occasionally when you least expect them to.

One such thing happened the weekend before last.

We were due to visit friends up in the wilds of Yorkshire, and so I got up early to make coffee so that we could hit the road for the four hour journey to sunny Leeds.

As I came downstairs the first thing I noticed, or to be more accurate, didn't notice was that the birds were quiet. Usually they are very vocal of a morning, twittering away and generally making a wonderful nuisance of themselves, but today was different.

They were quiet, and as I walked into the dining area I realised that all was not well in the cage where we keep our two guinea pigs, Aston and Jemima.

Aston was lying very still, which was strange for her as she is the more confident of the two and usually the first to rush to the bars for a treat, but not today. She was still, having shuffled off her mortal coil and gone to guinea pig pastures elsewhere.

The thing that stays with me, though, and broke my heart was the sight of Jemima gently tugging on Aston's ear, trying to wake her. It was such a gentle gesture, born of the refusal to accept that her sister had gone on ahead to wherever guinea pigs end up, and it brought a tear to my eye.

It's these little things, the brief moments that are over in an instant that define much more than we think possible.

Aston is currently being cremated and will be returned in a wooden casket, as have other animals in this household before her. It may seem silly, or a waste of money, but for those who have pets, no matter how small, will understand that they're every bit as important to a home as the human occupants.

She lived a good life, was loved and gave her own brand of guinea pig love in return, and now she's somewhere else, sorting out the eternal guinea pig box for Jemima when her turn eventually comes (a good while from now, I hope).

They may be little things, these moments, but the way they resonate within us is anything but.


R.I.P Aston - you are missed.

The Write Stuff

You may have noticed a distinct lack of activity in this blog as of late (yes, both of you who read it!) but I do have a very good reason, honest!

At long last, some seven years after I first began to plan it, and eighteen months after beginning the first draft proper, I have a genuine, finished first draft of my semi-autobiographical look at the rock music of the late 80s and early 90s.

Clocking in at a shade under 150,000 words, which has surprised the hell out of me as my original aim was to hit 100k, but clearly there's more to this tale than originally met even my eye, I have a fantastic sense of accomplishment, as my previous book was just a third of this length.

That's the good news. The (only slightly) less good news is that I have now jumped straight into the editing process, and this is proving to be very interesting indeed.

I'm reading chapters that I wrote up to a year and a half ago and the difference in quality between them and the final few that I completed is stunning. The first chapters are still good, but it's intersting to see how much my craft has developed even in the last eighteen months, proving the old adage that practice does indeed make (one become that little bit closer to) perfect.

The danger I have now, though, is because this project is finished as a first draft, I need to decide which project is next. I'm decided on the fact that I want to tackle one of my fictional ideas at long last, but I'm torn between them.

Also, for one of the ideas I can see it working well as a book for adults, but equally the whole story could be told from the young adult perspective, which would mean being much less explicit with certain themes and language, but also a challenge to see if I can produce something as good as Darren Shan, who I have recently discovered thanks to Deborah's boy Tav.

Decisions, decisions, but I suppose I shouldn't be complaining, as it's much better to have too many ideas to choose from than to have no ideas at all.

President Pachiderm?

So the US Presidential elections are almost upon us. Finally. It seems almost inconceivable that I was writing about this way back in my entry of 9th January this year, and still we have a week to go.

In the meantime it seems as though America has limped along on the world's stage with a lame duck President (almost a matching pair with our waste of skin that passes as Prime Minister) who is politically just waiting to die.

For what it's worth I hope Obama gets in, as not only would it prevent the septegenarian psychopath McCain from continuing Bush's 'good work', it would also give some of the more red of neck members of the land of the free, home of the brave, a little food for thought, and prove that America is actually still moving forward in terms of progressive thinking. It would be an act that proves that there is more to Presidential policy that building pseudo concentration camps in Cuba for those who dare to question the relentless onslaught of the New World Disorder that the alcoholic cowboy has peddled ever since the aircraft/building interfaces in New York eight years ago.

This time next week we'll know whether we're going to have a historic coloured President or a historic female President (let's face it, McCain's health isn't great so he's a good shoe in for your 2009 Dead Pools), so until then, I'm going to worry about something far more important.

For the second time in my life I'm best man at a wedding, this time my friend Nick, who I've known for thirty years.

My speech is written, nice and short as requested by the groom, and I'm looking forward to sharing this happy day with Deborah, Tavis and Keziah.

Then we have Halloween, of course, so I'm sure I'll be back with something to say about my favourite day of the year then.

A Fair Affair

It's always a pleasure to share something that is important to you, and this weekend I got to do just that.

I was born and brought up in Nottingham, home of not only Robin Hood (think Michael Praed, Jason Connery, or Errol Flynn, please, but for god's sake not Kevin Costner), but also the largest travelling fair in Europe, the world famous Goose Fair.

When I was a wee small lad, I remember my Dad taking me down on the Sunday morning to watch the carnies dismantle all of the rides, and then when in my teens going en masse with my friends to ride the white knuckle rides and see who would be the first to balk at a challenge, or more likely, to recycle the candy floss or hot dogs that we had shovelled down our necks.

This year I took Deborah, and Tav and Kes, up to Nottingham to experience their first Goose Fair. Inevitably it rained, for it wouldn't be a proper Goose Fair without at least a brief shower, but fun was had by all and we cam away with all manner of stuffed toys of various shapes and sizes.

The greatest pleasure for me, though (aside from pointing out the Cock on a Stick stall where I had once worked one year when in my teens), was introducing Deborah to the gastronomic delight that is mushy peas and mint sauce.

Delicious beyond belief, and best served in a polystyrene cup with lashings of mint sauce and eaten in the chilly autumn air with the sounds of people laughing, screaming and eating all around.

Wonderful, too, was meeting up with and introducing my friend Steve (not quite my oldest friend, but he does have a couple of years on me - *waves at Steve* ) to the clan. Equally fantastic, and all the more so due to it being a complete surprise, was bumping into my old friend Martin, with whom Steve and I had been in our first band some twenty years ago.

All in all a great weekend, and another chapter written in the happy and fun life that I have found myself living these last couple of years.

Now all I need to do is find some AAA batteries so that I can try out the air guitar thingy that Steve bought for me........

Dark Messiahs and Ballet Dancers

The last eight days has seen us attending two very different events, both of which have been hugely enjoyable, and both of which, I haveto be honest, I thought would be merely OK.

The first of these was last Sunday at the Indigo club in the O2 arena. We were last there in March to see Gary Numan's run through of his seminal Replicas album, which I wrote about here, and which blew us both away, and we found ourselves back there to once again pay tribute to rock's dark messiah as he played his more current songs, drawn mainly from the Jagged Album.

Now as a lifelong fan I have to confess that I adore the early stuff. Replicas, Telekon, The Pleasure Principle, even Dance, I Assassin and Warriors get the thumbs up in my book, and while I think his output in the last ten years has been excellent, I'd forgotten the power that a Numan gig assaults his audience with, and so going in with average expectations I found myself falling once more in love with his recent offerings.

Then three days later we found ourselves in the company of a new friend and his partner as they took us out first to the theatre and then dinner in the swanky borough of Mayfair (that's Mayfair, London for those of you not residing on these fair shores).

The show in question was Billy Elliott, and again I have to be honest in saying that while I thought it would be entertaining to spend a night at the theatre, something we don't often do, the prospect of two and a half hours watching a teenage ballet dancer didn't fill me with excitement.

How wrong I was.

From the moment the curtain went up to the final bowsby the cast, I was completely captivated, as was Deborah, as the tale of a young man's coming of age set against bitter miner's strike of the 1980s made me laugh, smile and hold a tear or two back in a couple of devastatingly poignant moments.

As Victor Remington almost said, I was so impressed I went out and bought the special edition DVD, which we're hoping to watch sometime very soon to compare the film to the stage show.

Tomorrow night is another change of pace again as I take Kez (13 going on 20) to her first proper rock concert. We've done Pink, we've done Newton Faulkner, but tomorrow night we're off to see the mighty Metallica at the massive O2 arena itself for a 'secret' fan club gig.

I personally can't wait, not only to see the band again for the first time in fifteen years, but also to watch Kez as she comes face to face with the Metallica monster.

I'll let you know how it goes.

A Not So Futile Exercise

I finally relented and caved in and bought a Wii for our household.

Against my will, of course, because I didn't want one at all, oh no, not me. I had no desire to play my favourite shooting game House Of The Dead on the Wii. Nope, not me. Never had the slightest interest in checking out the latest Resident Evil spin-off, The Umbrella Chronicles. You guessed it, not me.

Well, maybe I did. Well, OK then, I was looking for an excuse.

However, though I know House of the Dead would rock, and anything with the Resident Evil name on it draws me ike a moth to a flame, but the one thing I never in a million years thought I would have anything but a fleeting interest with is Wii Fit.

Yep, that balance board thing that allegedly gets you fit while having tons of fun. Not for me, that, uh-uh, no way. Or so I thought.

Last night we bust the thing out of its box at around 8pm and only called it a day just before midnight because I had to be up at my usual ungodlyhour to go to work.

But what fun! I never though that standing on a small board pretending to hula hoop and looking like a kid dancing at the special needs disco could be so entertaining (and we have the video evidence to prove it, not that any of you are ever going to see it!).

I skiied (slalom and jumping), I headed footballs, I moved some balls around into holes like some bizarre hybrid of Marble Madness and Spindizzy, and I even put the controller in my pocket (and yes, I am pleased to see you but really, it is a controller) and jogged, and it somehow knew what I was doing as my little Wii Mii (the avatar that looks scarily like me) followed my every move on screen.

I fear that Wii Fit means that my good work in avoiding all unneccesary exercise has come to an end as I feel the nagging pull of the damn thing, calling me back to have just one more go and try and walk the virtual tightrope across an urban chasm into which I have so far fallen every time I've attempted it.

Kudos to Nintendo for subtly reintroducing me, and many others judging by the similarities between Wii Fits and rocking horse manure in the shops, to the joys of exercise.

Well, now I'm a step closer to fitness, I feel the need to kill me some zombies. Pass the House of the Dead please.

The Final Chapter

Falling out of love is a deeply unsatisfying experience.

For me it's finally happened after nearly 14 years, and I'm kind of upset about it if I'm being honest.

I'd put my faith in this relationship, which started so promisingly with hours of extremely satisfying pleasure, and without realising it had soon become a faithful partner, being there for every significant moment, sharing the highs and the lows, the ecstacy and the agony, and loving every minute of it.

But it began to change, about half a decade ago actually.

Someone else got involved in this relationship, and while initially it was a little bit exciting, as I enjoyed the new input, wondered where this menage a trois might take me, and allowed myself to go along for the ride, little did I realise that things were a-changing.

Without warning there was suddenly another, and another, and another still, and slowly but surely I've come to the realisation that the voice, the spirit, the world that I had fallen in love with had changed beyond repair.

I've just spent the last four days making sure that my feelings, or rather my new state of non-feeling towards this relationship, were really as they seem to be, and I'm sorry to say that they are.

He was once my favourite author, the architect of Alex Cross, one of my favourite literary characters, but James Patterson has lost his identity, lost his bite, lost my interest.

Patterson is these days nothing more than an ideas machine, who gives the synopsis of his latest plot to a 'co-author' and lets them emulate his voice, which they have done with increasing ineptitude over the last few years.

I miss his voice. The early books remain favourites, but having reached the end of my tether with this charade I'm finally facing the fact that I haven't really enjoyed a Patterson book for years. Instead I have dutifully picked up the latest hardback, which have appeared as often as every six weeks of late, like a betrayed partner who clings to the hope that 'things will get better soon'.

So there we have it. It's over.

Yes, I'll no doubt return occasionally for old times sake when Alex Cross is dusted off, but no longer will I be, as Stephen King can still clam of me, a 'constant reader'. I'm done.

It's been fun, but it's time to move on and find a new love.

And Mark Bellingham might just make the cut.....

Birds of a Feather

I sitting here writing this with two pairs of dark, beady eyes watching my every move, and I have to admit that over the last month or so I've become used to it, and even quite like it.

The eyes belong to a gorgeous pair of parakeets that are part of the family - he's Spark, she's Ruby - and the past month has taught me something that I didn't appreciate before, namely that birds really do have personalities.

I'm very much an animal lover, and have owned dogs, cats, and even a dwarf Russian hamster, but in all of these cases their personalities have been up front, so to speak, in their mannerisms, in their voices, and in the fact that, I suppose, they're mammals.

The birds, though, are every bit as individual as their four legged counterparts (which now include a couple of guinea pigs called Jemima and Aston), and fascinate me in the ways that they find to communicate with us.

For example, I'm usually first up and when I come downstairs I'm often greeted with a whistle from the birds, usually followed by one of them (more often than not Spark) then flying to the front of the cage, and hanging on to it with his claws to attract my attention to the fact that they've used all their water and are demanding more!

Also, when we eat I've noticed that regardless of whether Ruby and Spark have been snacking all day, they both make a point of joining in with us, which I'm told by the resident experts is because they consider us part of their flock (or vice versa) and the flock that feeds together, err stays together.

So, what I'm trying to do, I guess, is apologise to the avian world for my lack of faith in their individual personalities. Oh, and just in case they're slightly unforgiving I'm keeping them well away from a certain Hitchcock DVD....

Tinkle and a Twix

One of my colleagues left the company I work for today, so in time honoured tradition a group of us descended on a local hostelry for a few drinks to celebrate, or commiserate, or whatever it is you do when someone leaves.

Well, when I say hostelry, and let's face it, who does say hostelry these days, I mean swanky, wanky cocktail bar in the vicinity of Fenchurch Street that serves all manner of exotically titled beverages that no sane person should ever be seen ordering, let alone drinking.

In the spirit of the evening, however, I'm prepared to indulge such frippery, mainly because they also serve pints of Guinness, which is much more suited to my real ale palatte.

Inevitably I have to visit the Gentlemen's, and this is where I'm suddenly reminded of one of life's peculiar practices that, frankly, I've never been able to fathom.

Lurking in the conveniences is a smartly dressed man with a selection of sweets, chocolates and various toiletries. Now, aside from the fact that it must be a soul destroying existence spending much of your working life in the gents, it begs the question why, when all I want to do is recycle the last couple of pints, wash and dry my hands, and proceed to refill my bladder once more, would I be in the least bit interested in a small plastic bottle of aftershave, a perfumed soap, or a Twix!

I realise that everybody needs to make a living, but (and call me old fashioned) this is tantamount to emotional blackmail. Here I am, having performed one of the most intimate functions of the human body, which may or may not have been observed by my friend at the sink, but for the priviledge of performing the basic sanitary function of washing my hands, thus preventing everybody else I will touch this evening from, effectively, touching my manhood, I am effectively being placed on some huge guilt trip if I don't give this guy some money (and I'm guessing he's not going to be happy with ten pence) to hand me a towel which I'm perfectly capable of doing myself, and then offering to sell me some beauty products and an item or two of confectionary to take back to the bar!

I'm sad to report that I took the cowards way out and fled the bathroom without washing, so if I happened to shake your hand this evening, I'm sorry!

The Vinyl Frontier

It was like an Aladdin's Cave of vinyl, with albums and singles piled up from floor to ceiling in no discernable order, save for the occasional box that was labelled "rock", or "60s" or "disco" or some such description.

On a teenager's pocket money, though, it was a treasure trove of music, all available for a fraction of the price of the brand spanking new article, providing that you didn't mind the sleeve being scuffed, or the vinyl scratched, with the occasional jump.

The place itself was dark, just the right side of musty, and if you held out any hope of finding a particular album or single on your own then you stood about as much chance as finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.

Rob, though, for it was he who owned the establishment, seemingly had the chaos inside his little kingdom mapped like the back of his hand. Asked for a single, say Boston's More Than A Feeling as I once did, he would look skywards for a brief moment, as if seeking divine inspiration, and then suddenly lurch towards a particular pile of vinyl and pluck it as if from nowhere.

In the age of internet record stores and relentless chain stores that have all but driven the independents six feet under, I'm happy to report that Rob's Record Mart is still alive and kicking in Hurts Yard in Nottingham, and should you find yourself in the middle of my old hometown then you really should pay him a visit, as you'll never experience another record shop quite like it.

Oranges and Lemons

I've been working up in the Big Smoke again for a little over five weeks, and I'm finding that I just adore walking through the streets and passageways of The City, for that is where my office is based.

The walk from Liverpool Street Station south towards the Thames is a wonderful juxtaposition of the old and the new. The blue gherkin that has graced the skyline for just half a decade sits peacefully and aesthetically alongside the myriad of small churches and old establishment buldings that house such historical institutions as the Bank of England.

The huge NatWest tower, which dwarfs pretty much every other bulding in the capital with the possible exception of Centre Point and Canary Wharf, rises from behind a beautiful old corner building that sits barely three stories high, but which is crowned by a series of ornate and exquisitely carved statues who seem to guard it like a small army of ancient Briton warriors.

Most intriguing of all, though, is the Church of St Clements, which is just around the corner from my office block. Famous for the bells of the old childrens nursery rhyme, there is often an old priest who sits on the narrow steps, dressed in his imaculate black cassock, and holding a tin which invites donations, though he never solicits for them, but merely smiles at us commuters as we stroll by on our way to work.

One of these days I'm going to drop a couple of pounds in his tin and go and have a look inside, but for now I'm enjoying my daily walk through this vibrant and wonderful city that counts only Paris as a serious rival for my favourite city in the world.

Back From The Real World

After what seems like an eternity offline I'm back in the land of zeros and ones thanks to the lovely people at Virgin coming around at long last to hook our cable and internet up.

I have to say, though, I haven't really missed the net, and the TV has barely been on since the hookup, save for Jonathan Ross last night, and a couple of on demand programmes that we now seem to have access to via the telebox thingy.

It's good to be able to get back to my cyber scribblings here, though - not that any of you (assuming there are 'you' out there reading this) have probably missed my ramblings - as although I've finally been able to make a restart on the final phase of the latest book, it's quite cathartic to spill my thoughts onto this screen and send them spinning off into the cyber ether like a coffin in a deep space funeral.

Tonight's missive will therefore be brief(ish), just to flex my mind once more here in the Asylum really, but rest assured that normal service is now officially resumed, as from the next thrilling instalment which should be winging its way onto this page.....soon. :-)

Who The Hell Is Demolition Stav?

Demolition Stav.

That was his name, though not, of course, his real one. That I never knew, never wanted to know as Nick and I used to stand there watching him clear wave after wave of robots with the most incredible dual joystick maneouvering that youcould possibly imagine (should you want to, of course, and I'd wager that not many of you would).

I was ten years old, maybe eleven, and we were regular frequenters of the dimly lit mecca that went by the name of Space City. In here were all manner of wonderful machines - Tempest, Dig Dug, Bubbles, Gorf, Tip Top, even a cockpit version of Star Wars.

The daddy of them all, though, was Robotron.

Just the mention of this name, Robotron, brings people of a certain age and predilection for video games out in a cold sweat, for it was, and remains, one of the hardest, most infuriating and yet most satisfying video games of all time, and Demolition Stav was the absolute master of this punishing machine.

I hadn't though about Demolition Stav for years, but last night I watched The King Of Kong, an engaging and simply fantastic documentary about one man's quest to become the owner of the world high score record on Donkey Kong.

No, come back, don't walk away! Though those of us with experience of playing video games in the darkened parlours of our youth will dig the many geek-tastic references and memories, this is a documentary that is actually not really about video games at all, but rather one man's quest to become the best at something.

Whether he succeeded, I'll let you watch the film to find out (and seriously, there are few movies that I've seen so far this year that have been quite as engaging as this one, and no, I'm not getting commission on the marketing campaign), but the name Steve Wiebe (pronouced wee-bee as he continually corrects people in the film) is one that is now as synonomous with excellence in the field of video gamin as the long lost Demolition Stav.

It's a long time since those hours spent pumping ten pences into arcade machines in the darkness of Space City, but it's funny how sometimes the most trivial of trivia pops back into your head. It's precisely these little details that makes our memories unique, though.

Ch-Ch-Changes

The last few weeks have been a bit of a blur - I've finished my old job, landed a new one, and tomorrow move from Hitchin to Colchester to begin the next chapter of my life.

I couldn't be happier at the moment.

I must, due to the old last minute packing chestnut, keep this brief, but I'll be offline for a couple of weeks, so play nice while I'm gone and don't miss me too much!

See you on the other side.....

Holland No More

This weekend will be the last time I'm in Holland for some time, and possibly the last time ever depending on what the future holds in terms of travel.

I leave my current job in a few days, on to pastures new in every area of my life, but I take with me some very good memories of my times in Holland.

Yesterday, when I arrived in Eindhoven, I dumped my bags at the hotel and went for a stroll into town to find something to eat and drink. As I walked I noticed several people dressed in orange shirts, but initially though nothing of it. Before long, however, the town began to fill up with hundreds, and then thousands of people - men, women and children alike - all dressed in orange. Some wore hats, some overalls, some sarongs, but everywhere was bathed in the orange glow that reflected from the acres of clothes that were packed into the town square and beyond.

It turned out that the Netherlands were playing Denmark just down the road at the PSV Eindhoven stadium, so we watched in the hotel bar while sinking a few cold ones.

I have fond memories of nights in two different, but virtually identical, rock bars - one in Rotterdam, the other in Amsterdam, and both times ending up deep in conversation with locals about this, that and the other. Tomorrow night I intend to revisit the one in Amsterdam, for one last goodbye to the city that I've become very familiar with over the last couple of years. It'll never top London or Paris, of course, but I've walked its streets enough to have discovered the real city beneath the public image of red lights and stag weekends, and it's a beautiful place.

I'll miss the trains, too - clean, fast, on time, and passing through beautiful countryside on the journey between Schiphol and Eindhoven. I remember accidentally getting off at the wrong stop the first time I took the train, and wandering around a pretty little town called 's-Hertogenbosch (or Den Bosch) for an hour before conceding that I was in the wrong place and that I would need to return to the train station and resume my journey. I've been meaning to go back on purpose but sadly the opportunity hasn't arisen. Oh well, been there once at least.

Eindhoven will remain in my heart, too, for its wonderful churches which I have photographed extensively and despite not being at all religious have stood inside and felt an undeniable calm that is absent from many of the churches I have been in.

So, I sit in the warehouse near Eersel, waiting as the clock moves ever nearer to midnight and the end of my final working day here. Outside it's dark and the neon signs that punctuate the industrial park are shining brightly. Ninety minutes to go and despite the slight feeling of contemplation that comes when something draws to an end, I feel energised and ready to leave this phase of my life behind and stride confidently into the future.....

Seconds Out....Round Two!

Be yourself, they say.

Wise words, I say, and something that I have always done when being interviewed for jobs throughout my entire career, and something that (fingers crossed) seems to have stood me in good stead once again.

Two days ago I went for an interview for a new position, based in London a very handy five minute walk from Liverpool Street station, and one that I think would be a very interesting and challenging role.

The interview lasted just shy of two hours, and my presence has been requested again tomorrow for a follow up. Now I'm not going to jinx anything, but let's just say that I have a quietly confident feeling about the whole thing.......which probably means that in a couple more days I'll be sobbing into my keyboard having not landed the job!

Thankfully I find myself in the great position of not having to worry about landing another job straight away, which will give me ample time to prepare for my move to Colchester in a few weeks, and then another couple of weeks to get the house as I like it, and more importantly all prepared for the three people who will be moving in with me and sharing my life going forwards.

In the meantime I have one final soujorn over to Holland with work followed by a weekend in Amsterdam with a friend from work, and then a weekend racing around catching up with friends in Nottingham the week after.

The recent hospital shenanigans aside, and thankfully Deborah is doing very well and becoming stronger by the day, I have to say that life is very, very good. I've never felt more creative, nor more loved and appreciated, all of which I am sure contributed to the relaxed person that I was walking into the interview on Tuesday. I even managed an online bout of Halo 3 with Professor TJ and Blessed Kitten the other night, and look forward to many more.

So, wish me luck for tomorrow, and I'll see you on the other side of my second interview.....

Next stop, Jaywick.

There are some places that when you find yourself in them, are a little too reminiscent of the Twilight Zone. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, and in fact can be quite refreshing after the relative normality of the rest of the planet.

One such place is Jaywick, a suburb of an English seaside town called Clacton, located on the east coast in the county of Essex.

Clacton itself is nothing particularly special. But for the town's prefix on many of the shops and cafeterias, you could be in one of any number virtually identical seaside towns in the British Isles. It's a pleasant enough place, though, and has one of the finest fish and chip restaurants that I've ever had the pleasure of eating at.

Travel a couple of miles south, though, and you find yourself in Rod Serling territory.

Driving into Jaywick feels very much like stepping onto the backlot of Universal Studios, or onto the set of a movie. The houses on the sea front are essentially glorified beach huts that have outgrown themselves, and at regular intervals there are overgrown paths that lead from the beach into the suburb itself.

The first time I went there, about a year ago, there was hardly anybody on the streets, which gave the place the feeling of an old abandoned film set.

As we walked down on these overgrown paths, however, I noticed a house that was utterley destroyed. All of the windows were smashed, and the remains of curtains flapped lazily through the broken panes in the gentle breeze.

The house was at the end of the row, and faced the ocean, some several hundred yards away over what is ironically one of the most beautiful stretches of beach that I've ever seen around the coast of the UK.

Opposite it, was another empty house, this one burned out, the interior barely visible through the narrow windows.

As we stood looking at it, our curiosity piqued, a couple of small boys walked up to us and stood watching out fascination for a minute or two before one of them piped up, "There's a body in there, you know."

Of course, the rational side of my adult mind reasoned that this was impossible, that the house would have been searched by the fire brigade once they had put out the fire. However, there was a small region of my brain that couldn't help think that I wouldn't have been at all surprised if there had been a cadaver lurking in the shadowy interior.

While a part of me wanted to enter both houses and take photos, there was something just a little bit off about the place, and so we left.

A couple of days ago we were in the vicinity of Jaywick and out of curiosity I wanted to go and see whether anything had changed. Incredibly it hadn't, save for a gaggle of clearly local families sitting outside the pub that was at the other end of this particular overgrown walkway.

It was almost as if Jaywick had been left to die, like a terminally ill patient that nothing could be done for.

In a few weeks I'll be moving house, and we'll be living about fifteen miles from Jaywick. My curiosity refuses to let go of this strange suburb and so I know I'll be going back for a third time, to document it, and perhaps even get up the courage to enter the smashed up house.

Rod Serling would be proud of me, I'm sure, and I'll share my thoughts when I return from my adventure.

If I return.....

Quick, quick, slow.

Time. The one thing that we never seem to have enough of.

When I started this blog I vowed to write at least every other day, then it slipped to every third day for a while, and at the moment we're down to once a week (though there have been extraneous circumstance for this).

I've touched on this subject before, but there just doesn't seem to ever be enough time to write, to watch movies, to catch up regularly with friends. It seems to fly by, to disappear in the rear view mirror at an alarming rate.

Except sometimes it hits the brakes, it seems to stand still. Sometimes it even seems to stop.

Eleven days ago, when I got that first desperate phone call from Deborah screaming that she was being rushed into hospital the hundred minute drive over to Colchester seemed to take much, much longer.

For the whole journey I had a myriad of thoughts racing through my head. I didn't know what was wrong, and so my usually welcome fertile imagination turned on me. Suddenly my partner in crime had become my nemesis as I imagined everything from a false alarm to the unthinkable.

Sitting there in the accident and emergency unit as she lay on the bed in agony, the minutes stretched into hours as I willed the doctors and nurses to do something. They were, of course, doing their very best as quickly as they could, trying to comfort and treat everybody who was wheeled through the doors, but it wasn't fast enough. It never is when somebody you love is hurting.

I'm feeling this time slow down again tonight as I once more wait for news. I'm trying to occupy myself. I've watched a film. I've played GTA IV. Now I'm writing, drinking black coffee and smoking too many cigars. I sit. I wait. I worry.

Time. It always seem to go by too quickly.

Except when you want it to, and then it crawls......

Angels Among The Pain

Miss me?

Over the last week or so I've seen more of the inside of a hospital than I have for many years. Thankfully, for me anyway, I've been on the visiting side of the bed, but it does mean that I've seen the NHS in action up close and personal for the last six days and I'm happy to report that I'm impressed.

Despite the media reports of an implosion and general atrophy in our fine institution, the reality as I have seen it is that the system, in our case anyway, seems to be working well.

I got the call at 9pm last Wednesday evening and hit the road to drive the 60 miles to Colchester accident and emergency where Deborah had been admitted suffering from severe abdominal pains. By 1:30am she had been triaged, x-rayed, diagnosed, admitted and I was on my way home again, having made sure that she was comfortable, or as comfortable as the circumstances would allow anyway.

As she was taken to the ward, I walked behind a porter who was pushing her bed, and for a moment while we moved silently down the long empty corridors, I felt like Boba Fett in The Empire Strikes Back when he is escorting a carbon frozen Han Solo to his ship.

After midnight, hospitals are lonely, quiet places, where the faint sounds of beeping machines can be heard, and I was reminded of the previous September when Deborah and I had walked the corridors of another hospital, just a mile up the road as it happens, whose corridors had been long since abandoned, but where ghosts remained in the peeling paint on the walls, in the empty operating theatres and the vandalised wards.

During the day, the hospital is a completely different animal, the sounds of movement, and conversations between doctors and nurses, between nurses and patients, between patients and visitors. The human landscape is constantly shifting too. Each time I walk onto the ward it seems that at least one of the other patients are gone, replaced by another soul in need of care.

What is constant, though, is the dedication and the kindness of the nurses on the ward. While I was there yesterday Deborah had to undergo a particularly unpleasant procedure that I'll spare you the details of, but the tenderness in the nurse's actions and words were reassuring.

I don't think I could face the suffering and the pain that they have to deal with day in and day out - I wince at the though of an IV needle - but I am eternally grateful for these men and women who dedicate their lives to easing the suffering of others. It makes what I do seem somewhat irrelevant.

So tonight as I write this I raise a glass to these fine people, and hope - in the nicest possibly way - that I never find myself in their care.

Feels Like Heaven

Let me tell you what it feels like.

It's like pulling on a favourite pair of shoes, of the snug, comfortable feel that putting your feet into that well worn leather sends through your nervous system.

It's like wearing that leather jacket that you've had for so long that when you put it on it feels like a second skin - warm, familiar and like, well, coming home.

So what is it that feel this way for me? What fills me with such a deep sense of peace, of contentment, that I can't help but take a satisfyingly deep breath and smile?

Rock music. That's what does it for me. Good old fashioned loud guitars, catchy hooks, driving rhythms and sing-a-long lyrics.

Yes, I love lots of other kinds of music. I adore electronica, being a life long fan of Gary Numan, Alphaville, and other classic bands like the Human League and Fad Gadget. I love what you might term easy listening, or folk, or country, or whatever you want to call it, bands like Counting Crows, artists like Newton Faulkener, Aimee Mann, and Tori Amos. I even dig certain rap artists, like Public Enemy, Cypress Hill, and Ice T (and yes, the true 'gangstas' among you may consider this rap-lite but fuck you, I like what I like).

And I love, love, love Nine Inch Nails, but my adoration of Trent Reznor's work borders on the religious so we'll deal with this another day.

None of these bands or genres really fires my soul up like rock music does, though.

As I write this I'm listening to a band called Junkyard who play hard rockin' blues, and I'm nodding my head and my fingers are itching to run into the conservatory and pick up my bass and just jam until my fingers bleed.

And you know what, I couldn't be happier. There's something about loud guitars that just pushes all the right buttons and I wouldn't change it for the world. Not even for a million dollars (or given the current exchange rate, English pounds).

People speculate on what heaven might be like. Heaven for me would be an eternal Friday night at Nottingham's Rock City circa 1989 (but with maybe better beer).

On that note, I'm going to go and turn it up just a little bit louder, at the risk of annoying the neighbours, and for the rest of the evening bask in my own piece of heaven.

Time Theft Auto

A couple of days ago I was reading about an upcoming Xbox 360 game in a magazine and I realised that for the first time in years I am actually genuinely excited about a software release.

I know there was a frenzy surrounding the release of Halo 3 last year, but being as I hadn't played the first two and was barely aware of who the Master Chief even was, I didn't get caught up in all of this, though I did experience it second hand through my good friend Tav who was just about bursting at the seams at thought of getting his hands on the Master Chief again, so to speak.

This year's big event, however, has me in almost the same state of anticipation, and fearing for my social life which I'm sure will be sucked away for several weeks following the 29th April.

I am, of course, talking about the imminent release of Grand Theft Auto IV, the lastest instalment in Rockstar Games' ongoing series in which you play a bad guy (previously either mob related, or a gang-banger from the 'hood) who basically wanders around a huge virtual city being, well, bad in order to climb to the top of his particular shady food chain.

What makes the GTA series so much fun, for me and many others, is that it is just so immersive. Yes there are the missions that you have to complete in order to finish the game, but the larger appeal of the game is that just like in an major city, you can pretty much live your own life.

Want to raise cash by ferrying punters around in a cab? Fine, do it. Want to get a tattoo, or a hair cut, perhaps a wardrobe full of new clothes? No problem, Sir. Want to steal a car and drive around making insane jumps from conveniently placed ramps and mowing down scores of innocent pedestrians? Well that's all possible too!

Of course, the gaming community is well prepared for the Daily Mail, or Anne Diamond to declare that GTA is the worst thing since, well, anything else ever, and that a nation of children (who shouldn't be playing it anyway due to it having an 18 rating) will brainwashed into stealing cars, planes, trains, and ambulances and shooting, beating, and kicking people to death left, right and centre.

All pure bollocks, of course, but when did that ever stop our beloved moral guardians from trying to spoil all our fun?

All I know is that I'm going to have to make a supreme effort to ration my visits to Liberty City, otherwise it could be verrry quiet around these parts for a few weeks.......

Ace Alive!

Thirty two years ago in a basement in Canada I first heard the band that was to unwittingly change my whole perception of music, and ultimately be responsible for wearing criminally tight trousers with zebra patterns all over them.

But that's a story for another day, and indeed book.

Last Friday I had the pleasure of seeing one of my guitar heroes live on stage for the fourth time, which in itself was fantastic, but given that the last three times he was plastered in makeup and a member of KISS, the band from the basement all those years ago, and this time he was headlining his own show, I was over the moon.

Ace Frehley has never been one of the world's greatest guitarists - he's certainly no Eddie Van Halen, or Steve Vai, or Jimmy page for that matter, but he's got that rare quality in that he knows his limitations, both in terms of guitar playing and singing, and plays magnificently to his strengths.

Backed by three young bucks dressed subtly, but effectively, in identical black jumpsuits, Frehley tore the London Astoria apart for ninety minutes, kicking off with Rip It Out, the opening cut from his 1978 solo album, and ending with a rousing version of Cold Gin.

Though KISS has long been dominated by the songwriting talents of Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley, whenever Ace threw one into the mix it was invariably a great one, and we got plenty of his KISS offerings as proof.

Parasite, Rocket Ride, Shock Me (complete with smoking, literally, guitar solo) and Hard Times had us old KISS fans in rapture, while Snowblind, New York Groove and a blistering Rock Soldiers did Ace's solo canon proud.

Dedicating Breakout to late KISS drummer (and co-writer) Eric Carr, and thanking Paul Stanley for writing Love Gun, which was given a supercharged workout during the encore, Ace proved himself the perfect host for an evening of rock and roll, even rescuing a dwarf from the audience and letting him watch the rest of show from stage left, telling him "We got to look after one another."

Given Ace's yo-yo relationship with alocholoism and rehab, I have to admit I wasn't quite sure what kind of evening we'd be in for, but Ace was back in full force ('cause he told us so!) and delivered a gig that blew our minds and exceeded our wildest expectations in terms of the set list.

Loud, energetic, funny, and above all entertaining, Ace is back!

Nobody's Fireproof

It's a universal truth that if you play with fire, then you might just get burned.

It's also a universal truth that some people have the misguided belief that they're fireproof, and so not so much tiptoe as tango through the raging infernos of chance, oblivious to the fact that they're so very often just seconds from catching fire, moments from the inevitable crash and burn.

The subject of today's lesson most likely had this misguided belief that he and his beautiful fiance, the woman of his dreams, without whom nothing else mattered, as he so tragically and accurately proclaimed, could dance through the flames like asbestos ballerinas.

But he was wrong.

She got burned, metaphorically and physically, and shuffled off her young, mortal coil in a scalding bath, while he slept off his narcotic dalliances in the bedroom.

They played with fire, she got burned, he got branded with the guilt of having taken her hand and leading her onto this particular burning dance floor.

Without her nothing else mattered, he had said, and in the end he was right.

Thirteen weeks of guilt rest awfully heavy on a man's shoulders, and in the end he fulfilled his prophecy. End of the line.

Nobody's fireproof. Nobody.

Something About Nothing

A friend raised the question the other week as to whether modern man can survive without the internet. My initial reaction was yes, of course he can, but he probably wouldn't want to as we've all become somewhat addicted to our daily fix of email, myspace, MSN or any of a hundred million other distractions on the world wide web.

However, having just spent five days in the company of those nearest and dearest to me, mostly hanging out of the south coast, taking in the sea air and generally doing a whole bunch of not much at all, aside from ten minutes on the net yesterday to check my email, this is the first time I've been online for almost a week.

I can't say I've missed it. When it's part of my day to day routine it seems as natural as breathing, and almost as habitual. I log on, I check my mail, I check my Live Journal pages, I check the BBC news page, and on and on and on. I must admit I don't tend to surf aimlessly, just as I don't channel surf my television aimlessly (and in fact aside from when it's being used by my DVD player or Xbox 360 it's rarely on), so generally my online activity is over in fifteen minutes or so.

However, the lack of online action for the best part of the last week proved to me that I have no craving for the internet whatsoever. I can take it, which I frequently do, or leave it, but I know that the choice is mine. There's no niggling voice at the back of my head that resorts to panic if I can't get online.

The one thing I have missed is writing - I enjoy penning this little blog for whoever you are out there reading this, and also for my own satisfaction. It's cathartic, and although you may think that all this is just mindless drivel and inconsequence, it's my equivalent of detox from the world.

So, there you have it - another note from this asylum that I call my brain. Thanks for reading, and have a good day.

A Beautiful Murder

Counting Crows - Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings

Ever since I first heard Mr Jones, the debut single from Counting Crows way back in 1985 I've been a huge fan of the band. There's something about singer and main songwriter Adam Duritz's impassioned and tortured lyrics that, in common with Trent Reznor, really seem to speak to me and understand what goes on in this head and heart of mine.

It seems like an eternity since the Crows last album, Hard Candy, hit the shelves some six years ago, but with their new offering, Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings, the wait has most definitely been worth it.

Flying in the face of their record company's wishes, Duritz stuck to his vision of a record that is for all intents and purposes actually two short albums that perfectly complement each other.

The first six tracks, the Saturday Night of the equation are up tempo rock songs, packing more emotion and musical hooks into thirty minutes than some bands manage in their entire careers. Opener 1492 powers along like a freight train, and has a rough around the edges feel that I've witnessed live with the band on occasion, but which has never been captured successfully on record until now.

The following five tracks are simultaneously fresh slices of Counting Crows' trademark sound while also managing to sound as though each of them are refugees from their various previous records, particularly Hanging Tree which could have sat very easily among the songs on This Desert Life, and contains one of Duritz's finest examples of the raw emotion he infuses his lyrics as he sings "You open windows, And you wait for someone warm to come inside, And then you freeze to death alone."

As Saturday Night's closing tune Cowboys comes to an abrupt end, the more sublime Sunday Mornings side of the album gently arrives in the form of Washington Square, a sparse but devastatingly lonely song that will stop hearts in the live arena.

Having stated in an interview that he approached the writing of this record as if it were to be the band's swansong (though he stresses this isn't the case), Duritz clverly recycles moments from their debut album August And Everything After with the line "I dream of Michelangelo when I'm lying in my bed" in the short but poignant When I Dream Of Michelangelo, reprising the line from the first album's Mr Jones.

Having confessed that he's spent the last few years falling apart, Duritz is at his most beautifully vulnerable in songs like Anyone But You and You Can't Count On Me (which the record company lobbied unsuccessfully to change to the more positive You CAN Count On Me), and even ends his liner notes with another reprise, this time from Recovering The Satellites' haunting A Long December by musing that "maybe this year WILL be better than the last."

There are very few singer/songwriters who wear their emotions so nakedly on their sleeves as Duritz does, but in doing so once more he has created an album that any Counting Crows fan will instantly take to their heart, and which will remain relevant and engaging for years to come.

A literal record of two halves, and one that this murder of Crows can be extremely proud of.

The Guns In Brixton

Velvet Revolver - Brixton Academy, London - 25th March 2008

It's a remarkably mild night in Brixton as we meet in The Beehive and sink a quick beer before heading off to the Carling Academy to see one of rock's current crop of killer live acts, Velvet Revolver.

We're on comp tickets tonight which saves us both the best part of a ton and more importantly to my skewed way of thinking, the need to do my usual time in the queue that snakes down the side of the venue.

We catch the last few songs of the support act, Pearl, during which time I remark several times that their rhythm guitarist looks like the bastard child of Anthrax's Scott Ian. The band itself are pretty good, ending their set with the best version of Nutbush City Limits that I've ever heard before heading off to the merch stand to sign autographs and chat to the fans.

This is a particularly endearing gesture to the fans in these days of high security, not to mention a lucrative one for the band who no doubt sell more than a few t-shirts and EPs on the strength of their pretty blonde singer's promise of kisses for all who come and say hello.

After observing the meet and greet for a few minutes, mainly to catch a closer look at the cute female bassist, not something you see every day,we head back in to the main hall to await the main event.

The lights dim and the band hit the stage with Let It Roll, the opening cut off their second and latest album Libertad, which having only picked up recently I'm still very enamoured with. It's a slice of honest, good old fashioned rock and roll, and translates perfectly to the live arena.

More authentically Guns'n'Roses than Axl Rose's current tribute band, Velvet Revolver bassist Duff McKagen looks lean and mean, his blonde main outshone only by his smile as he locks in with Use You Illusion era Guns drummer Matt Sorum. Slash, looking impossibly cool in shades and his trademark top hat cuts an impressive and distinctive silhouette and he stands in that pose playing his guitar like his life depended on it.

Dave Kushner, the only member of the band not to have previously been in multi-platinum acts, holds his own with Slash with no problems, running around the stage in his lumberjack shirt and baseball cap, looking uncannily like Tom Morello's slighty crazier twin.

It's ex-Stone Temple Pilots man Scott Weiland that really blows me away tonight, though. Not having paid much attention to STP I was aware of Plush and Sour Girl, but apart from that only his reputation as an unpredictable habitual junkie has preceeded him in my book.

Beginning the gig in a heavy duffel coat, he gradully disrobes throughout the show until he is wearing only a ridiculously tight pair of hipsters that threaten to reveal more than he intended at any moment, and a sheen of sweat.

He prowls the stage like a rabid wolverine, looking occasionally like a posessed GI Joe figure, as his voice soars through the thick wall of rock and roll noise that his band mates produce, letting the pace drop only twice during the show, once for the Guns classic patience, giving Duff and Slash the opportunity to take front stage, the latter with a Page-esque double necked guitar, and for their best know track Fall To Pieces.

To my surprise and delight we get another couple of Guns tracks, It's So Easy and Mr Brownstone, both of which sound even more vital tonight than when I'd previously seen them performed live twenty years ago. Judging by the 'STP' chanting crowd's reaction, and the fact that Sex Type Thing aside I didn't recognise them as VR songs, they play a similar number of Stone Temple Pilots songs.

I can never understand why so often artists are unwilling to acknowledge their pasts, so this well deserved showcase of former songwriting glories by both of VR's feeder bands is very welcome and takes the gig from being merely great to being absolutely fantastic.

Rumours have abounded this past week that Weiland is on the verge of quitting the band, fuelled by his very public spat with drummer Sorum on his blog and the recently announced reformation of Stone Temple Pilots, but I for one hope that this isn't the last VR tour, as Weiland had announced from the stage a few nights earlier - a claim refuted the following day by Slash, as the world needs bands like Velvet Revolver to show the young bucks just how it should be done.

(footnote - browsing the web a couple of days after the gig, it turns out that it was Scott Ian on stage with Pearl, looking every bit as young and vital as the last time I saw him in Anthrax nearly two decades ago.)

Things

There are places that mean things to us, but which of themselves are not necessarily meaningful.

Journeying home through subterranean London last night the tube train pulled into London Bridge station and I realised that this place, as ugly and nondescript as is may appear to the naked eye, is in a funny kind of way ours.

This was our access point to that first time, where we emerged, blinking into the sunlight in all manner of ways, and from where we embarked on our maiden voyage of discovery.

We spent a lot of time underground, whether in the cavernous spaces of seOne with the other freaks and fantastic people, wandering the darkened arenas while all around us pain and pleasure were meted out, or in the more cosy confines of a basement Italian restaurant.

This all got me thinking that we have much that is ours, that is untainted by previous histories or preconceptions.

We have the Giraffe, home of the best burgers in London. We have CC&K, which offers an uncommon welcome and serves the finest coffee this side of Twin Peaks. We have the Pheasant Lodge, which served the most wonderful smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for breakfast, and we have the wonderful hotel where we spent my birthday last year, with its amazing lighting, delightful sunken bath and gorgeous four poster bed.

These things are ours, from the ugly concrete of London Bridge tube station to the splendour of our seaside hotel retreat.

These things are us.

The Disappeared

It was like driving through an old movie of my life, but one where if you looked hard enough you could see the ghosts.

I passed places where I'd lived, and wondered if the people who had shared my life at those times were still there, or if not, where they might be.

I saw places that triggered long dormant memories, mostly good but a few that I'd rather had remained forgotten.

I wondered if those who had disappeared from my life were doing OK. Whether they ever thought of me as I was now thinking of them.

It's funny how people just disappear from your life. It's not always intentional, but we move, we change numbers, addresses, lose details and then without even realising it we're lost.

There's a part of me, my saviour complex as Deborah calls it, that wants them all to be doing well, to be happy, to have rich, fulfilled lives, but there's also a part of me that knows that won't have happened for all of them.

Some of them I know are no longer even alive, but the rest I hope are at the very least surviving and happy in their lives.

I have a tendency to try and save everybody - everybody except myself, that is, but I'm learning that life doesn't work that way.

We can't save everyone. At best we can only hope that they're doing OK.

I Remember That! (Or Do I?)

It's funny how your memory can play sneaky little tricks on you. Things you thought you'd remembered perfectly - dates, times, places - suddenly turn out to be incorrect.

This happened to me last night while I was writing a chapter for my latest book, the semi-autobiographical 80s rock one.

In January of 1989 I went for an audition with a band called Whip Me Harvey who were a popular local rock band whose bassist, a guy called Tom who was also a friend of mine, had just walked out on them.

Prior to reaching this point in my tale, I had already written about the genesis of the band I formed that I first played live with in September 1989, but which had actually formed before Christmas in 1988. Or so I have believed for a good few years.

You see, the day of the Whip Me Harvey audition coincided with an event that I vividly remember and which was widely reported in the media. On Sunday 8th January 1989, a Boeing 737 crashed onto the M1 motorway, a few yards short of the actual runway, killing 47 people.

Clearly, this is the sort of event you remember, and so by extension I remembered the exact date of the Whip Me Harvey audition. The problem was that I didn't put together the other band until after I had auditioned for Whip Me Harvey. Therefore I couldn't have put it together before Christmas 1988, and so I had to go back through several chapters and rewrite history to more accurately reflect what actually happened.

Though it was a pain in the backside, and the chronology matters to nobody except me, I gladly put myself through the pain because I wanted it to be as truthful as I could possibly make it. Sure, nobody would ever have known, or cared for that matter, if I auditioned for Whip Me Harvey before I put Alter Ego, my other band, together.

Nobody, that is, except me. As a result of my rewriting, I can sleep soundly knowing that I have effectively rediscovered some of the truth of my life that I had forgotten, despite having been there at the time.

In truth, that's partly why I'm writing this book - for me - so that when I'm old, senile and feeble I can relive my youth through the power of my own words. If anyone else is entertained by my tale, then that's all icing on the cake.

The Past Is Not A Dirty Word

Mention the word nostalgia to certain artists and you'll be greeted with a retort full of hostility, as they insist that the past is the past, and that they're all about the here and now.

One such artist is Gary Numan, who for years has treated his early catalogue with at best indifference and more usually disdain, but who in the last couple of years has finally made a concession to his loyal fan base, of which I've been a part for almost thirty years, and toured two of his best loved early albums.

In the dying weeks of 2006 I saw him perform the whole of 1980's Telekon, complete with all of the b-sides, and with a recreation of the classic light show. Needless to say it went down superbly with long term fans, and so last night we found ourselves at the Indigo at the O2 arena to see him perform a similar show with 1979's Replicas album.

One of the main critiscisms levelled at nostalgia is that for anyone who openly admits a fondness for it, as I do, is accused of living in the past and not wanting to acknwoledge the present, and the future.

I have to disagree vociferously with this senitment, however, as for me the opportunity to both celebrate the music that I loved during my formative years, and still do, and to see many of the songs that I grew up with played live, some of them for the first time, is nothing short of fantastic.

As I stood in the crowd last night singing myself hoarse to the songs whose lyrics I know as well as I do my own name, I felt well and truly among friends (electric and otherwise), and for ninety minutes I was nine years old again, and recalling the feeling of discovering Replicas for the first time.

It's unlikely that Numan will play the vast majority of these songs ever again, which is a shame for many reasons, not least because most of them are genuinely excellent songs, but despite his admission that he has, after all, enjoyed revisiting past glories, he now wants to move firmly forward and effectively erase all but the last few years from his live repertoire.

The sad thing is that Numan, and he's by no means alone in this way of thinking - for years Paul Weller refused to play any Jam songs live, for example, and Morrissey for many years barely even acknowledged that he was ever in The Smiths - by making this decision is forgetting that although those of us who are long standing fans continue to embrace and more importantly buy his curreny output, it is because of these earlier songs that we are doing this in the first place.

The whole nostalgia thing is very much in vogue at the moment, with many bands touring complete old albums in an attempt to recapture the old fans who have since drifted away, and I count myself blessed that Numan has done the Telekon and Replicas tours, but it's a mistake to now refuse to play any of the old songs that made whichever band you care to name famous in the first place.

With music sales on the decline, the main revenue stream for any artist in years to come will be live shows, and so in my humble opinion this should be reflected in a balanced set that draws on all eras of the artist's career.

I'll happily continue to support my favourite bands' new material, but all I ask in return is that they don't forget their past. It is, after all, and as I've said before, where I come from - where we all come from - and has made me in to the person, and the fan, that I am today.

Mass Hysteria, YouTube Style

I saw George A Romero's latest movie, Diary Of The Dead, the other night, and there was a line of dialogue in it that got me really thinking.

The movie, for those unaware of Mr Romero's work, is his fifth 'Dead' film, and rather than carry on his decade spanning social commentary that began with 1968's groundbreaking Night Of The Living dead and culminated in 2005's Land Of The Dead, Romero has reinvented the zombie outbreak that he pioneered 40 years ago and has slapped ground zero, as it were, right in the middle of the YouTube generation.

In the movie, the main character is filming the emerging catastrophy as it happens, believing it to be important to capture the truth of what is happening and uploading it the the internet for the world to see, rather than the reimagined news media versions of events.

At one point when a character questions that what is happening is actually real, someone mentions that they remember the old Orson Welles War Of The Worlds radio broadcast from 1938 which caused thousands of listeners, who had either missed the disclaimer at the start and end of the broadcast that it was a work of fiction or become so wrapped up in the drama that they fell prey to what was effectively a form of mass hysteria, to take to the streets, believing that there really was an alien invasion in progress.

Back then, of course, radio was the only real means of mass communication, and so having nothing to back up, or denounce, the events that the radio seemed to be reporting, the public had two options - believe it, as many did which lead to panic, or disbelieve it, accepting it for the fictional drama that it was.

The reference got me thinking, though - would it be possible to perpetrate such a hoax these days, with the myriad of media sources, both official and unofficial, available to cross-reference the events that would be apparently unfolding?

With sufficient people involved, and enough money and resources, I think it could be pulled off
With prerecorded clips ready to go, these could be uploaded at regularly intervals from various locations around the globe as if they were happening in the present, and the news media could be bombarded with accounts from everyday people who were being caught up in the event.

Of course, this couldn't go on for long, as the fabrication would soon be discovered and debunked all over the world, but just for half an hour or so, wouldn't it be fun to fuck with minds of the planet.....?

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

As Steve Miller once said in his classic Fly Like An Eagle song, time keeps on ticking, ticking, ticking into the future. And he's right.

Sometimes it ticks too damn fast, though, for my liking anyway. When I started this blog I set myself the goal of writing something at least once every two days, and I've almost achieved that on average, but again I find three days have elapsed between entries and it makes me think how briefly we're here.

There are so many things I want to do in my life, but even if I had all the money in the world, and therefore the maximum possible time available, not having to hold down a job just to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly, I still couldn't do it all.

I'm almost finished the first draft of my third book, and while I may write another thirty before I die, I still won't have said everything I want to say, or explored all the creative outlets available just through the medium of words.

On top of that, I love to read, and have a pile of books sitting here that I have yet to read, but really want to (and will), but to devote time to reading is to neglect my writing. Don't even get me started on the number of movies and albums that I want to watch or listen to!

However, I'm not complaining. My philosophy is that despite the fact that I'll never do everything I want to do, I'll make the most of and enjoy to the max those things that I am able to achieve.

It does annoy me, though, when I watch something like the House Of Wax remake as I did the other night. I knew going into it that it was going to be a classic two-beer, leave your brain at the door type movie, but what really pissed me off was it had flashes of inspiration and brilliance, but was exceuted all wrong. I know I could have done better with the script, and the casting - Paris Hilton couldn't act her way out of a paper bag if her life depended on it - and so I'm fired up to write my own horror movie, but the question is when? When?

Ah, well. Maybe one day. In the meantime it's back to the book as I'm closing in on my target of 100,000 words, and look set to go over that by a good margin the way I'm going.

The moral of all this? By all means be ambitious, shoot for the moon, and maybe you'll even get there, but always, always, take pleasure in the small achievements and the little victories.

Hey, maybe I should write a motivational book........ ;-)

People *do* Smile More...

Thursday night found us at the beatiful Roundhouse venue in London's Camden Town to spend a couple of hours in the company of Newton Faulkner.

Looking like a refugee from The Levellers with his waist length dreadlocks and goatee beard, Faulkner is one of the latest crop of singer-songwriters, but what sets him aside from the Jack Johnsons of this world, who I also like very much, is the way that he plays his acoustic guitar.

Not only does he play it the conventional way with a mastery that suggests he's been playing guitars for as long as he could hold them, but he also uses the fingers and palm of his right hand to beat out a rhythm to accompany himself.

This technique is best illustrated on his inspired covered of Massive Attack's Teardrop, which despite the original being such an iconic song, Faulkner has made his own in much the same way that Johnny Cash made Nine Inch Nails' Hurt his own, even prompting an impressed Trent Reznor to declare "It's not my song any more."

Faulkner's album Hand Built By Robots is packed to the gills with catchy pop songs (though whether he'd agree with the 'pop' label is another matter) and so I was looking forward to being entertained for an hour and a half purely on the strength of the material.

However, Faulkner's trump card is his stage presence and, more importantly, his humour. I can't remember the last time I've laughed so much at a gig, for the right reasons, anyway. Cracking jokes at his own expense and coming out with one liners that some professional comedians would kill for, he had the audience eating out of his hand mere moments after taking the stage.

He dropped Teardrop into the set about two-thirds of the way through, and for me I thought that would be the highlight of the set, but his master stroke came with his final song, another cover, that as a veteran gig goer of some twenty-odd years had me as impressed as I ever remember being.

Telling us that he had been tinkering with another cover, he launched into a version of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody using just his voice and his unique guitar playing style. The audience went into rapture, singing along while simultaneously looking on wide-eyed as he again made the song his own, and ending the gig on the highest note that I've ever know a show to conclude on.

We laughed, we sang, and we witnessed the culmination of the first year of what I'm convinced will be a long and successful career.

Teardrop aside, one of Faulkner's best known songs is called People Should Smile More, and for the ninety minutes he was on stage we did. A lot more.

Skip To The Beat

I experienced two things of note today, one that's a reassuingly regular occurance, the other that I haven't experienced in a long, long time.

The first was the deep seated sense of satisfaction that washes over me when I rediscover a song that I haven't heard for an age, but which turns out to be every bit as good as I remember it.

The song in question today was by a rock band from nearly two decades ago called Company Of Wolves. This was a band that I discovered through the guitarist in the band I was in at the time, a decent chap called Sean Homer who I often think about despite having lost touch some ten years ago. Last I knew he was the manager at the Times Square branch of Virgin Records in New York, but when I first met him we were both working at WH Smiths on Wheelergate in Nottingham.

Sean was the guitarist in my first proper rock band, and was one of a couple of people I knew that were at one point closer to me than my own family. We never fell out, or argued about anything, which makes the fact, in retrospect, that we lost touch all the more sad.

Really good friends in this life are hard to come by, and to let them slip through your fingers, as I have done more than once, is stupid. I'm lucky in that I still have some friends from my youth, who have been there through thick and thin. Over the years we;ve reassured each other, supported each other, lied for each other and been there for each other, and I won't let those who I still know slip away, and I know they feel the same.

Now where was I? Oh yes, the song. The song is called Sacrifice Me, and it's a beautiful track played on a couple of steel guitars and with a delightfully raspy vocal. What really works, though, are the words.

It's one of those songs to be played in the dark, with a glass of red wine and a smoke. A song that is equal parts hope and despair. Equal parts elation and sorrow.

Which brings me to the second experience, that of the skipping of a needle on vinyl.

I haven't had a record player for years, and I actually downloaded the Company Of Wolves album because after searching high and low for years I'm convinced it doesn't exist on CD (and if it does, and you know where I can get it, please do let me know!).

While playing this song, though, which was clearly recorded digitally from vinyl, it skipped. Several times actually. While it's annoying in one way, it also kind of adds to the atmosphere and the memories that the song wells up in me.

So, a bittersweet discovery, perfect but flawed, much like me.


"Search for yourself, 'cause you're the hardest thing you're ever going to find."
Sacrifice Me, by Company Of Wolves

The Sleeping Beast

Eight hours ago I was walking the streets of Amsterdam, just me and my camera, and once again enjoying that wonderful feeling of tiptoeing around a sleeping beast.

Twelve hours previous to that I was walking those same streets and the beast was awake and alert, but still unaware of my presence.

As I walked the brightly lit streets under the pitch black sky I observed as groups of young men from all over Europe, and beyond, travelled in packs from bar to coffee shop to prostitute, and back again, watching their behaviour as they succumbed to their drugs of choice, be they alcohol, weed or women.

For despite their language and culture, they all behave the same in Amsterdam. The pack mentality is a strong one, but among the groups there is always, by necessity, the runt of the pack. The one who is the last of the followers, the last in line, and the most easily led.

As I walked the streets and canals, the cold night air desperately trying to work its way through the layers of clothing that I wore, I drank in the atmosphere, for it is itoxicating, but as with my previous visits, which are an extension of work commitments, I always find myself there alone, and so can indulge the writer and photographer in myself and just watch.

I have no need of the drugs or the sex - the former I have no desire for with the exception of alcohol and nicotene, the latter I have no need of thanks to my current relationship being so very fulfilling - and so I am there for the spirit of the place, for the atmosphere.

Last night I stood on a canal bridge, feeling the wind try to blow through me, smoking a fine cigar, and watching as a group of young men stood at the open door of a prosititute in the red light district, clearly trying to persuade one of their number, no doubt the aforementioned runt, to indulge himself.

I smiled as they ultimately walked away and the girl, dressed in a dazzling white bra and knickers combination, went back to flicking through her magazine, waiting for the next potential customer to come along.

The city was truly alive, and by experiencing the one side of it, it always makes my early morning strolls through cities all the more satisfying, as I savour the contrast.

It was already light by the time I hit the pavements, but whereas last night had been acompanied by a constant low humming of conversation and laughter, this morning was as quiet as the grave.

As I walked along the same canals I could actually hear the beating of the seagulls wings as they flew over me, scanning the ground for the remnants of last night's fast food on the ground.

For ninety minutes I walked, and in that time I saw barely a hundred people, which sounds a lot but is nothing for a city of the size of Amsterdam.

The shops, bars and red light windows were all quiet and empty, and if I paused long enough I could almost hear the city breathe as it slumbered. As I walked I felt, as I always do on my early morning city excursions, a feeling of peace and tranquility, something I've felt walking the streets of London, Paris and Nottingham many times.

If you've never done this, then do try it. Take a trip into the heart of your own home town or city as the sun comes up and just walk. You'll be amazed. I always am.

Going Dutch

As I write this I'm sitting in a tenth floor hotel room in the middle of Eindhoven, Holland, about to join some work colleagues for a steak and a few beers in the bar.

I've been here half a dozen times in the last couple of years, and due to an upcoming change in jobs this may well be the last time I ever come here.

Eindhoven is best known as being the home of PSV Eindhoven, a football (or soccer for those of you outside the EU) team who I believe have been pretty successful over the years, but as a non-fan I'm only going on hearsay.

Were I Bill Bryson, and chance would indeed be a fine thing, I would regale you with tales of the quirky local establishments, of which there are a few that I know of, or with the fact that all of the buskers here seem to be of Eastern European origin, and play violins, or accordions. I actually got talking to one of them last time I was here, a young man called George if my memory serves, and he told me of how he had come from Estonia to pursue a better life, and that he wanted to come to London, where he had heard that life was good. I didn't have the heart to put him straight, but I did take a photograph of him and his friend, to add my growing visual catalogue of my life.

This weekend I am paying another visit to Amsterdam. This will be my fourth time, and while it will never steal my heart away as Paris did, and continues to do, there is something about the place that I truly find endearing. Once past the crowds of British stag boys, there are a couple of lovely gems tucked away.

I am looking forward to my third visit to a tiny bar that is run by a rotund, bearded Dutchman, who one day may appear in one of the many novels that I have constantly kicking around in my head. His bar is decorated with all manner of curious artifacts, including a gorilla hanging off a lamp post and wearing a top hat, scores of old bottles, their glass of many shapes and colours, a full size mannequin of an Indian Fakir who stands atop a staircase that goes only to the ceiling and no further, and a hundred and one other curiosities.

I know that once I step foot from the train, it will be one of those rare moments when the writer in me takes a sidestep to allow my other, more recent, passion to take centre stage for a few hours - the photgrapher.

A city like Amsterdam is a joy to capture through a lens, and thus far on my travels ranks only behind London and my beloved Paris as my favourite city to shoot. I long to return to Paris one day and once more drfit like a ghost through its streets and alleys, capturing her spirit once again, and drinking in her intoxicating essence.

For now, though, Amsterdam will be my mistress, my muse, and my subject once more.

In the meantime, there's a rare sirloin calling me, so I bid you farewell for now....

Cold Metal Rhythm

It's May, it's 1979 and I'm nine years old.

It's also Thursday which means that it's Top Of The Pops on the television, which in turn means that I'm glued to it, drawn like a moth to a flame.

On the screen a young man with blonde hair dressed in black in singing in a flat, monotone voice over a heavy, doom laden synthesiser, looking like a rabbit caught in headlights.

The man is 21 years old, from London and is the unwitting innovator of a new style of music that will be variously known as new wave, new romantic and electronica.

His name is Gary Numan and he's singing his number one hit single Are Friends Electric?, a tune that would provide the backing for another number one some 23 years later, almost to the week, but this time with vocals by three teenage girls who weren't even born at the time.

Are Friends Electric? became the first single that I ever bought with my own money, and the album that spawned it, Replicas, the first album I bought with my own funds.

29 years later I'm sitting here listening to the just released redux version, complete with an entire disc of previously unreleased demos from the Replicas sessions and I'm nine years old again, falling in love with this cold, electronic, unemotional masterpiece all over again.

So much has changed in the intervening years, people have come and gone, friends have been born and died, but still I love this album more than pretty much anything else that I've ever heard.

This album anchors me to me, is my constant in a life full of change, and is more important to me than I could ever put into words.

In two short weeks I'll be seeing Numan play the whole thing live, and it'll be akin to a religious experience for me, particularly when Down In The Park is aired, a bleak tale of synthetic friends, rape machines, ritualised death and crippling isolation that I have always found strangley cathartic.

And so I sit here, and I feel absolutely complete. I have good red wine, a packet of smooth cigars, and a deep sense of peace and tranquility as I write of my past, which defines my present and future. I am, in short, in a place that I can only describe as Heaven. If I were to die tonight, then it would be in a state of absolute calm and indescribable peace.

Such is the power of music. For a few short hours I am whole, I am complete, and I am happy.


"We are not lovers
We are not romantics
We are here to serve you
A different face but the words never change"

Down In The Park by Tubeway Army (1979)

Lets Bee Friends

A little ealier than I anticipated, but my bees are back!

Let me explain. When I moved into the house I live in a couple of years ago, I was sitting watching a movie one night and I become aware of a very faint buzzing sound. I paused the DVD and listened carefully, trying to identify where the sound was coming from.

After a few moments I figured out that the buzzing was coming from behind the gas fire (which I have never used in all the time I've been here), but I couldn't for the life of me begin to imagine what could be causing it. Sure, it sounded like a bee, but surely not....

A few minutes later, I had resumed the movie when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something small had appeared on the hearth, and so I once more hit the pause button and got down on my knees to investigate.

Lo and behold, there was the tiniest bee I'd ever seen. It was a baby, effectively, that looked as though it had just hatched from its egg, and was docile enough for me to scoop it up with a piece of paper and take a good close look at it.

Its tiny antennae were moving around sluggishly, and its wings gave an occasional flutter, as if it were trying them out for the first time. After a few minutes gazing in fascination at this beautifully formed creature I took it to the front door and released it into the world.

Over the next few weeks, this happened several times. Sometimes I'd get home from work to find two or three baby bees clinging to the net curtains at my front window, having been drawn by the light but unable to find their way outside. So, in true animal (and insect) loving style I would peform my daily ritual of helping these youngsters to reach fresh air.

I suppose that I should really have called in the pest control people, but I figured that whereas wasps may have been dangerous, baby bees posed no threat to me, and to have them killed just because they happened to be living in my chimney seemed a little harsh.

My bee rescuing activities continued last year, as well. I couldn't help but wonder if some of the young bees I had helped had somehow remembered their safe haven and had come back to nest once more in my chimney.

And so, for the third year running, they're back, and with the liberation of the first one sure to be happening this morning, I'm looking forward to helping a whole new generation of bees get a fair start in life. (Of course, many of them may well be picked up for lunch by a passing Starling the minute I set them free, but such is life.)

The Song Remains

Things come and go, people arrive and depart, sometimes staying for a few brief moments, sometimes for a lifetime.

One thing that always remains are the songs.

I'm sitting listening to August And Everything After by Counting Crows and I'm reminded once again just why this is one of my favourite records. Ever.

It fills my head with images, and memories, and desires. It gives me hope, it makes me despair, the music lifts my soul and the words break my heart because I understand them completely.

Since coming into my life thirteen years ago, Adam Duritz's lyrics have reached into my soul and ripped out my very being, holding it up in front of me, broken and bleeding for me to regard, to consider, to refelct on and ultimately to heal.

There's nothing so powerful as a song that is you, and so many of the Counting Crows songs seem to tell my story, even though I've never been to some of the places, or met some of the people, but still, they're me.

Duritz sings of love, of loss, of walking the fine tightrope that is sanity and of occasionally falling from it. He yearns for solitude and peace, and yet craves company and understanding. He sings pain, he sings joy, he sings from the heart and he sings me.

And I listen, and learn, and empathise, and remember and try to forget and re-live fragments of a life that isn't my own but could be.

If there is something beyond this life that we struggle through, then I have but one wish, that I can take the songs with me. For they are me, and I am them, and as long as I have them then I am never alone.


"We couldn't all be cowboys
So some of us are clowns
Some of us are dancers on the midway
We roam from town to town
I hope that everybody can find a little flame
Me, I say my prayers, then I just light myself on fire
And I walk out on the wire once again"

Counting Crows - Goodnight Elisabeth

Then and Now

The past is a funny place.

It defines who we are, and has shaped us into the people who are living in the here and now.

I'm currently writing a semi-autobiographic book which means that I'm spending a lot of time there at the moment, and it's reminded me of many good memories. Inevitably the mind begins to wander and speculate on what would have happened if you'd made this choice, or that choice, of what might have been, of what could have been, but though it's fun to speculate on these alternate realities, I have to be honest and admit that I wouldn't change a thing.

Instead I look on the past as a favourite movie - I get to replay my favourite bits, and ignore the bad times, and draw upon my experience in this wonderful, scary, mysterious country to be the best person I can be today, tomorrow and until the day I die (which hopefully will be some way beyond tomorrow).

This ability to look back and reflect is an asset that should be regularly drawn upon. When the present hits the inevitable bumps in the road, or sometimes seems to have guided you into a cul de sac, then a quick reflection on past difficulties almost always reminds us that things do get better, that the bad times are usually brief, if intense, and that looking forward is not only positive but an exhilarating experience.

Right here, right now, my life is good. I am loved, adored, worshipped, and respected by someone who brings out the best in me. I have the freedom to write regularly, to indugle my passions for photography, for words, for movies, books and games, and I feel the most content that I have ever felt.

The past is indeed a funny place, but to dismiss the people, places, events and trials that comprise it would be an unfortunate folly. Instead I embrace it, learn from it, and let it help me to put my best foot forward into this bright future that I am about to step into.

Live and Smilin'

I mentioned previously that I'd managed to snag us a couple of tickets for the not-so-secret Sheryl Crow gig at the Scala, so off we went on Thursday night, riding the train into the Big Smoke.

As it was St Valentine's day we were half expecting to find outselves dodging and weaving our way past scores of swarthy looking men asking "Rose for the lady?" in broken English, but no, our path from Kings Cross to the Scala was romantic blackmail free. (Not thatI have anything against Valentine's Day as such, it's just that I'll buy the lady a rose when I damn well feel like it, not when told to.)

The gig was amazing. I've wanted to see Sheryl Crow for years, but didn't want to go and stand in an aircraft hanger for the privilege, so instead we stood at the upstairs bar looking down on the stage, and enjoyed the best part of a couple of hours of live music.

The thing that I really enjoyed, though, was not watching Sheryl (though it has to be said I do find her very easy on the eye, and there's something about the slightly older woman that's always done it for me), but instead watching her keyboard player Mike Rowe.

Here was a guy who was clearly having a blast indulging in his art, something that I can identify with by way of the sheer joy that writing brings to me. The grin never left his face as he deftly switched between the three or four sets of keys surrounding him, and I found myself grinning along for the duration of the gig.

It reminded me once more that while I love music in all shapes and forms, you can't beat seeing it live, particularly when the performers are clearly doing it for the sheer joy of actually being up there on stage and playing.

We've got a whole series of gigs planned so far this year, with artists as diverse as Newton Faulkener, Radiohead, Iron Maiden, Ace Frehley and Gary Numan on the calendar, and I can't wait to see each and every one of them.

First Person Scarer

Last night I found myself running for my life through the darkened streets of Manhattan as buildings collapsed around me, sending waves of masonary-filled dust clouds washing over helpless civilians, and trying desperately to stay alive in the face of some unknown.....thing.

Well, that's what it felt like anyway.

I was actually sitting in the comfort of the Broadway cinema watching the latest offering from Lost and Alias creator J J Abrams, the cryptically named Cloverfield. To say I was impressed is an understatement. To say I was pretty much dazzled and blown away with its ingenuity is much closer to the mark.

I've loved monster movies since I was a kid, cutting my teeth, so to speak, on the old Universal and Hammer movies that they used to shown on television on Saturday afternoons in Canada, where I was brought up.

I've lost count of the number of Godzilla movies I've seen, not to mention virtually ever other permutation of radiation, atomic energy, man-made viruses and animals and insects that have stomped, rampaged, run amok, and in the case of The Blob, oozed through the towns and cities of this ball of rock we call home.

Never before, though, have I been placed right in the action, at ground level, as ignorant, frightened and confused as the rest of the people generally are (except for the one bespectacled scientist who figures the whole mess out in a matter of minutes), and I loved it.

The biggest surprise, though, is that this idea has never been done before. Yes, the Blair Witch Project, which I saw when it came out and was immensely disappointed by, pretty much pioneered the notion of presenting the whole movie from the point of view of just a hand held camera, but aside from a few odd trinkets hanging from the trees and the disturbing sight of Heather Donahue's snotty nose in all its 20-foot glory, there was no sense of unease or terror.

Cloverfield, however, nailed this in spades. No doubt aided by the memories of footage from 9/11 showing confused New Yorkers running scared through dust-filled streets, the images of destruction and the sense of not knowing what the hell was going on had me nailed to the edge of my seat.

Even cleverer than the movie, however, was the (almost) innovative internet build-up. Beginning mid-way through last year with a brief teaser trailer that gave nothing away, not even the name of the movie, the campaign managed to succeed in the viral marketing stakes where so many others had previously failed, and more importantly, delivered one hell of a monstrous punch line.

The only other campaign to even come close was the build up last Spring for yearzero, the most recent Nine Inch Nails album, which led fans, myself included, on a lengthy, intelligent and incredibly deep journey into the background of the concept album, which revolves around events that could realistically happen in America in the near future, and was thus even more chilling than the slightly less likely scenario played out in Cloverfield. (Check out http://www.ninwiki.com/Main_Page for an example of what one man's fertile imagination can conjure up - you won't be disappointed, I promise.)

Undoubtably there will be imitations in the coming months and years of Cloverfield and its build-up, but they will lack the impact of this groundbreaking movie and campaign. See it on the big screen if you can, but definitely catch it on DVD. I guarantee that this is one of those movies that will be spoken of with respect in the coming years as having taken a tired old genre, the monster movie, and breathing new life into it.

Hang on, I just heard something outside. Let me grab my camera and I'll be right back...........

La Mer

We've just returned from a few days near the sea, in a small Devon town called Teignmouth to be precise.

Music fans, and particularly those of a rock persuasion, may have heard of this sleepy little coastal hamlet thanks to it being the birthplace of Muse, but they have long since vacated it to play their sci-fi tinged classical rock (or whatever you want to call it - I just call it great) all over the globe.

While they have abandoned Teighmouth, however, the sea has remained, as it has all around this green and pleasant isle, and regardless of how far inland I normally reside, I always feel a calling.

The sea is my eternal mistress. She fascinates me as she calls, dances, seduces, entices, ebbs, flows, and kills, a timeless body that is dark, delightful and dangerous.

I feel a deep, almost spiritual sense of calm when I am near the sea. Perhaps there's something to the theory that as the moon pulls the tides to and fro by way of gravity, our blood also ebbs and flows through our veins in thrall to our nearest neighbouring planetoid.

She, and the sea is a she - such a mass of delicious contradictions and passions could never be male, is ruled by no earthly force, deferring only to the moon. Since time began she has held man in her gentle, deadly grip, and following in a long, long line of sandy footsteps, I believe that if ever I were to end my life prematurely, I would give it to her, just start walking and not stop until it was as if I were never there............which brings me nicely to this poem, written by yours truly while gazing at the sea a couple of years ago.


Never There

I sit and watch you
As you lap at my feet
Playful
Teasing
Inviting
But I know your motives.

Outwardly calm, but beneath your
Placid surface there lie
A thousand bloated souls
Seduced
Captivated
Called
And I know that this too is my fate.

I have tried to resist you,
But each night you call
Rhythmic
Persistent
Relentless
And finally I cannot deny you.

The sun hangs low in the sky
As I stand and begin to walk,
My body increasingly enveloped by you
Until your surface is still once more.
It as is though I were never there.