Several shakes of a spoonful of mayonnaise

  Lummy, it's as if I'm giving you all my thoughts in one dollop, isn't it?  Or, if I am to make this simile more accurate, several shakes of a spoonful of mayonnaise.  As is nearly always the case with these blog entries, I am sitting on a train, after having played my last show of 2012, at The Sun On The Hill in Birmingham.  There is a couple sitting in the seats behind me, necking quite audibly, and the only thing I can think, instead of your usual "that sort of thing shouldn't be be done in public," is that I'd sort of forgotten what that sounds like.

  I ought to admit that I'm not really much of a prude when it comes to Public Displays Of Affection.  If two people kiss in the street, I'm actually happy that they've found each other amid this sea of bastards and cretins, and that they are not so self-conscious that they feel they have to hide it.  Obviously, if they're on the verge of copulating in the street, then they need to get themselves home sharpish.

  Even all that business with my previous neighbours this year - I didn't begrudge them their bedroom hi-jinx, it was just uncanny that they managed to get it on whenever I was reading, or going to sleep.  I wonder where they are living now?  I do hope it's a detached house, or, at the very least, an end terrace.

  It is funny how things can shape your year.  Up until October, as soon as the headboard started rattling, it would set off an agony of longing, as if someone who you fancy was stroking your neck, and would continue so to do, on the proviso that you didn't react to it.  There were times when the sound of them having a funny conversation (the walls really are that thin in this house) was like being forced to experience old memories, ones you hadn't yet reconciled as being part of your past, and ones that, if nudged gently enough, would suddenly feel like part of the present.

  (The kissing woman has left the train at Wolverhampton, she's very pretty.  Her partner in lip-lock, still on the train, looks like a cross between one of those long-handled retractable brushes you can get to sweep the corner of your ceiling, and an anally-traumatised ferret.  Opposites do attract...)

  Anyway, the strange thing was when they moved out, it was as if they took my past with them. , and that "agony of longing" went too (but not before I'd written a some reasonably intense songs on the subject).  Ever since then, the music got a better foothold on the scheme of things, and I decided that the only way I would ever be happy would be if I kept moving forwards and doing what I love, as closely as possible to how I want to do it (which in itself, now that I think about it, is another "agony of longing").

  This makes me think of the piece I wrote yesterday, and also of something I wanted to include in it, but never managed to wrangle the words in that direction...

  Last weekend, as I mentioned previously in this blog, I went to Nerina Pallot's Christmas show, and my good friend Michael Linford, whom I have not seen since May (but have kept in digital contact), was there.  He has just written a book, 'Music For The End Of The World', and part of his mission, as well as writing the book, getting it published, and into the world, is to stand up for the little-known, independent writers, artists and musicians that don't get heard much outside their own hometown circles. (I have just seen a train platform guard wearing a Santa hat.)

  Mike and I were shooting the breeze at The Tabernacle, as we waited for Samuel Taylor to start his support set, and talk turned to Sports Personality Of The Year, and the sporting year that 2012 had been for the UK, generally.  He said (and here I wish harder than anything for an eidetic memory, because the amount of detail I could give about this conversation would be very useful) that all the money that gets pumped into achieving 'sporting excellence', and finding Britain's highest-achieving sportspeople (this year's Olympics being a prime example) could, and should, also be directed towards finding Britain's most deserving creative people.  I don't think people like Michael & I should be given special treatment, but imagine if, instead of creative pursuits being regarded as a hobby, or something you do in the background to "a proper job", they were more widely recognised as a trade, the creation of a thing.  Imagine if people looked as earnestly to find a good band as they did to find the best runner, or swimmer, or cyclist.

  I'm not for one minute saying those searches are unworthy, but the thing I find upsetting is that when you say, in my example, that you're a singer-songwriter, the first reaction is "Why don't you go on X-Factor?"  I have lost count how many times I have politely rebuffed the notion of this in conversation.  Not to knock the good intention behind it, but there is something about these talent shows that I do not trust.  With one or two exceptions, it is not the stepping stone to a productive, and creative career.  It is a marvellous vehicle for a certain record label, and no doubt a very useful boost to the coffers come Christmas time when the winner's single is released, but is it really celebrating the nation's musical talent?  There is so much to this format that could be a positive reinforcement to people for whom music really is the driving force behind their every breath, but until it lays down the foundations of an artist's development, so that they produce interesting work as they get older, and gives the prospect of a career, I could never give the programme a second glance.

  That's not to say that if there were something worth trying, I wouldn't enter it, though...

  Anyway.  I've gone on for ages now, and have even stopped writing this by hand, as I am back home.  The last two paragraphs happened on my computer.  What started off as questionable handwriting has become normal-sized Hevetica in a text-box on my screen.  I feel a little bad that my notebook contains an unfinished blog entry, maybe I will copy the last three paragraphs longhand into it, for closure's sake.

  2012 (I may have said this somewhere before) has been quite an exciting year.  I've gigged regularly, I've written songs that I really love playing, and I've made new friends, and some of them (combined with old friends) enjoy playing songs with me and launching them into the stratosphere.  All in all, it's been quite magical.  If you want to read Michael Linford's book, you can order it here or here.  Just be sure, once you've finished it, to leave a review on the site where you bought it.  I can't wait to do precisely that.

  I will sod, as they say, off now, but given all my talk of writing songs, published authors and suchlike, will leave you with this paragraph from a book of essays/a recipe/short stories by the aforementioned Nerina Pallot, which sums things up about creativity rather nicely:

  Of course a book, or song, or crocheted bed-jacket, or film, or painting - literally any result of creativity - is like a child.  You might help it into being, you might recognise the odd brushstroke or familiar melodic motif as your own, but really, it's as if you had nothing to do with it.  It was always there, just waiting for everybody to notice it.  Any song is just the sound of 'life's longing for itself'.  (Yes.  Even the 'Macarena'.)  Creativity is a constant quest for true connection, because words are only ever signifiers in the end; and when it's done right, it is the thing itself, the agency of love in action.  And it belongs to everybody, but it means only what it means to you.  Isn't that wonderful?  Doesn't it make you feel less alone?  I don't know about you, but creativity keeps me warm at night, and it stops my heart from breaking at five o'clock in the afternoon.

If curious, you can find this book here - It really is a wonderful read.

We shall see if another blog entry appears before 2013 - It's about right that I don't blog for weeks on end, then pour out about four or five within a week.  Peaks and troughs, always.  In the meantime, goodnight, and sleep well.

Merry Christmas,
Love,
John xx

P.S:  My gig tonight was fun, and I enjoyed it.

Moderation isn't as bad as you think it is, in moderation

  I am not the sort of drunk you would want at your party.  I am more fun to you sober.  Back when I was a naive teenager (all the way through to being a naive twenty-something, as opposed to now, where I am a naive thirty-something), people I went to college/university/work with wondered what I would be like if they got me blotto.  The answer is reasonably straightforward, but for the fact it's me giving the answer, ergo it might go around the houses a bit.

  I was barely 17, and was invited to a birthday party the day before the day before New Year's Eve - it was 1997, I think.  I mingled with my college chums, drank a can or two of beer, and elected to leave it at that.  I parked myself on a settee during a bout of karaoke.  Being the naive, trusting sort, any time I was offered a glass of orange juice, or lemonade was a welcome refreshment, not a cue to suspiciously sniff each glass for traces of spirits (not least because I didn't have a clue what spirits smelled like - naif barely covers it).  Until I stood up, and realised I had little to no coordination of my eyes or limbs, I felt fine.  Then it became evident that something was up, and one by one, my classmates all admitted they'd poured "a few other drinks" into my orange juice.  I stood in the kitchen, evening ruined, knocking back glasses of water and apologising for having been spiked by everyone else.  And then everyone found out what happens when you get me drunk.

  I decorate your bathroom with sick.

  Oh, the shame.  I can still remember being slightly too late getting upstairs, and just launching my guts at walls, the floor, you name it, everywhere except the loo.  I can remember the poor birthday girl's parents, mopping up the mess.  I can remember the echo of my voice as it apologised from the bowl of the sink.  (Porcelain is very cooling, isn't it?)  I can remember saying sorry to Dad, as the back of my head really took in the texture of the passenger seat's headrest while he drove me back home.  I can remember hearing Mum say to Rachael, my sister, "Just stay in your room for a few minutes," as I staggered upstairs, cleaned my teeth, and went to bed.

  All of this happened before 10:45pm.

  I know exactly what my alumni were hoping for.  You know how there's the sort of person who, with a few sniffs of the barmaid's apron, becomes the life and soul of the party, dancing on your coffee table, ringing taxi companies for a laugh and trying to tie a washing line to next door's pitbull terrier before setting a firework off from the roof of your shed and legging it home?  I am not that kind of drunk.  I am no fun, unless your favourite kind of inebriate is the one who sits at the table, staring at the grain in the wood, and thinking about things past.  There is also the point where I just fall asleep (such is my introspection that I kind of crumble in on myself), and that becomes fun for people, for a bit.  There is that hi-larious five minutes when we next meet up, and all my friends show me the photo of myself, sideways on a settee, face buried in the cushions, after everyone had coated me in toilet paper.  I'm that drunk.  I have seen photos of me passed out on a settee during a work's cocktail night (of which, sadly, I am not in possession).  I also took this photo of myself the morning after said cocktail night, as a reminder:

2004, post cocktail-night.  Note the greenish tinge to my face.  For the rest of that day I ran a shop from the back room with my head in my hands.

  I prefer to be in control of myself.  Always have done.  This, even now, baffles me as to why I have chosen to plod a path with, in so many ways, little control.  Far less control than you might think.  I believe that when music chooses you to communicate through it (and I do think, faintly, that music does choose you, after a fashion), that very process affords you very little decision-making, in terms of "career path".

  (At this point, we skirt around the very tricky issue of how much choice anything in life gives you, and how all our lives appear to be spent reacting to whatever circumstance throws at us, be it love, death, children, disease, cardigans, accidents, food poisoning, eviction, or finding out that you're responsible for the welfare of seventeen children after a set of freak paternity cases proves you to be the legitimate guardian of all of them bar one, who, it transpires, belongs to an estranged uncle.  We can only skirt around this, as it is rather late and I have been out bowling, and if I carry on, my nose will be touching the keyboard.)

  (It is now the next day, I have slept, made a cup of tea to drink in bed - which I just about stomached, although the milk was, I believe, "on the turn" - and found my hastily-discarded work shirt from yesterday draped on the toilet seat before I shaved and left the house to go bowling.)

  So, where was I?  Control!  I decided quite early on, after having one or two tipsy gigs, and seeing some quite severely drunk people playing music at muted audiences, that music was no fun if you were completely out of it, and the self-conscious quality I own when under the influence came to the fore yet further when on stage and slightly steaming.  The one thing music deserves is dedication and focus.  You can have the best ideas in the world (or at least in your hometown, or at the very least in your own house), but if you aren't compos mentis enough to physically and mentally interpret and broadcast them, you won't be able to achieve much, positively speaking.  In this interview with Zane Lowe on Radio 1, celebrating 2002's 'Songs For The Deaf' record, Queens Of The Stone Age's Josh Homme rather nicely articulates what I'm getting at:

Zane Lowe: At the time, you guys were also known for enjoying yourselves when you were on the road, and I think it's safe to say - without sending the wrong message to anyone listening who's impressionable - that you were considered a drinking band, and possibly even considered a drug band, and considered a band that enjoyed a good time, and lived your life freely.  'Songs For The Deaf' sounds so focused, does that feel like it captures that time for you as well, or were you completely focused on the record when you were making it?

Josh Homme:  "Well, I mean, we always had the philosophy that you can be who you want to be in 'Queens...', you know, and so I think in a lot of ways we got that notoriety because we were a sanctuary for a lot of people that just wanted to be themselves.  We never sort of judged, or told you what you needed to do.  But one thing that we always had was you could do whatever you wanted, as long as you work first, and if you're going to be a 'party person', you party after.  And that's still the ethic that the band has, that, you know, you should be yourself, but you owe it to everyone else to work first, and I think that's what always makes a difference, that you work hard first."

  I suppose this is why I don't drink much, and have never been tempted to "dabble".  I enjoy the way my brain sifts through the world, and reconciles it to day-to-day life, and aside from the fear of addiction, there is the fear that I could irrevocably damage the way I see the world, and the way I look at things.  The way I perceive my personality to work is that I am fairly excitable, and have a rather crooked slant on the world, which either produces very silly jokes, or songs that I am particularly proud of.  Imagine if I took something that interfered with my brain chemistry in such a way that I never looked at anything that way again.  Ever.  I am terrified of that ever happening.

  And so we get to the reason that control is the theme of this little diatribe.  As I said earlier, there is less control than one might think when pursuing music (and I am pursuing it), or at least, to do it the way you truly want to, unless you're massively lucky.  This is not to say gigs aren't fun and exciting, but we all dream of that gig in a theatre, and a rapt, attentive crowd (nay, audience), and we dream of going on a tour, of being able to make records and of getting as many people as possible to hear our music.  This makes the gig where you're playing one of your more lilting ballads, and battling against the pub drunk for volume, so heartbreaking.  You come off stage, knowing that you had a good time, but that one guy's "BEHHHHAHAHAHAHHAHEEERGH!" laugh really knackered your flow, and were it not such bad grace to do so, you would have stamped your little feet and demanded that the world stop and acknowledge how hard you were working, because this, after all, was supposed to be your moment.

  It wasn't your moment.  Not to the world at least, only to you.  And in all honesty, every moment is your moment, you just have to know how to play it.  But the best way to play it is with clarity and positivity.  I have played some lovely gigs this year, and some great moments have come out of them, and that control over my music has been strengthened by sharing it with three wonderful musicians.  I hope that 2013 allows some more options, and more magical adventures which I can share with you via the medium of technology (although mostly, not to mention preferably, via the even more magical medium of you being in the room with us as we play).

  Control comes from taking the music in your head, arranging it into a good song, and doing what you can with it.  It takes the love of music, and harnessing the enthusiasm that your band has for it (I am very lucky that my band get behind my songs as much as they do - we get it right in practice, right down to the mood of the song, and we're all mentally hugging each other, not physically though, because you can't properly hug someone over, say a drum-kit, a synth, or an accordion).

  Enjoy riding this year out and travelling into the next, and please don't associate bits of this blog post as a cry for Prohibition, more as a cry for clarity and positivity.  The darker your times, the less good drinking will be to you.  You don't make problems go away, they just come back stronger.  The more you deal with life head on, the more having a drink actually feels like a nice thing to do.

  In the meantime, here is the free-to-download podcast I made with Paul Hancock and Angela Lazenby from my band.  Merry Christmas!



Lots of Festive Love,
John xx

"How many of you have ever had to put your hand up a hot goose?"

  My train is leaving London.  Sadly, it's too dark to watch it properly, so I get brief glimpses of train platforms, and lights floating past the window at varying speeds, depending on how far away they are from us.

  I have had a few conversations over the last couple of years, about what living in the capital would be like.  My position has changed considerably over this time, initially having been "No, never, I'd be too lonely, and too intimidated."  I have since decided that the way you deal with your surroundings and similar situations comes from within, and that you are only as lonely as you allow yourself to be.  My state of mind these days is such that I wouldn't be feeling that way for long, and that big city fear has gone away slightly.

  That's not to say my feelings on things London are not still with a degree of reticence, but it is now purely on the basis of that concept - 'London Prices.'  The fact that that is the prime factor of resistance really rankles, because the thing I find fascinating about London (or the idea of London) is the potential to discover pockets of artistic (specifically, in my case, musical) communities, and networks of creative folk, and finding things that are happening in these sorts of fields.  For example, my sister has lived in London for a couple of years (hence the conversations I've been having), and has made friends on her university course.  In a short space of time, she has gone to a screening of a documentary by Mark Gatiss (with Mr. Gatiss sitting directly behind her during said screening), been to a test run-through of material for Radio 4's 'Cabin Pressure' with John Finnemore, and also attended a recording of the same programme!  So, I can only imagine what adventures I could get myself into, were I a Londoner, with a little perseverance!

  This is why my feelings on big city living have softened, and the thing that will no doubt always remain is "What if I suddenly couldn't afford to live there?" or worse, never being able to afford to live there whilst living there.

  As mentioned earlier, I am writing this on a moving train, with the intention of typing it up later.  What is making this really difficult is that there is no flip-down tray on the back of the seats, and as such, there's nowhere to rest my notebook so I'm resting it on my coat, which is, in turn, on my lap.  Only now am I looking back at my scribbling  and praying that by the time I sit at my computer to put it on Blogger, I will be able to decipher this mess of pen-strewn pages.  It's not too bad for the most part, but every so often we go over a bumpy bit of track, and my e's often look enough like c's as it is.

  (Also, I've just peered down the train and it looked as if someone was sleeping on the luggage rack!  Panic over, it's a coat with a fur hood & a pink scarf draped over it.  Look!)

Coat and scarf, thrown on the luggage rack.  It looks like a woman with her hand draped over the edge.  I nearly messed myself...

  Here's something I was considering the other week, regarding dreams and the workings of the subconscious.  A couple of weekends ago, I had a dream that I was visiting a bunch of friends (during this visit, Sam asked me why I kissed his girlfriend - a detail he found endlessly entertaining when I told him the following day), and as we were walking along a road, one of my party clambered up on top of a wall, lay down and just rolled off it.  The landing he made resulted in a loud "WHAM!" noise, and he bounced away down the road, whamming merrily away.

  I woke up, and the sound of my friend's repeated impact on the tarmac continued, which is the sort of thing that will always be quite unnerving.  Being not entirely awake, I dashed to the window to see if the poor sod was bouncing down my street, then realised the sound was coming from my new neighbours,* and that it was actually the sound of a man shoulder-barging a door.  At three in the morning.  It went on for about two hours, with no other sounds - no shouting, no speaking, just "WHAM!  WHAM!  WHAM!"** and I'm still not sure why it happened. He could have been doing that in his sleep (you'd have to be if you're doing that for two hours), as it had never happened before (and it's not happened since).

  But here's the weirdy bit:  We've all had dreams where our radio alarm has filtered a song into our heads, but this was the first time that a loud noise from next door had insinuated itself in a perfectly logical way (despite the actual content of the dream being utter nonsense).  This lead me to think about how the subconscious processes external stimuli depending on whether we're awake or asleep.

  For example, when you're awake, you process sights, sounds and smells immediately (or seemingly so), but in this instance my ears physically received the sound, and my subconscious created a context in which the loud barging of the door would make sense to my dreaming brain.  It's as if there's a satellite delay in the reception of the noise (ear to consciousness), while my brain processes it into something that won't jar me awake.  Or something.  Maybe.

  So, while you're all thinking about that (and please do offer me your thoughts on that if you like - I'd be curious to know what you think!), now seems like a good time to tell you what a great weekend I've just had (after the sort of week that really made me feel as if I was incapable of doing anything without getting stumped at every hurdle).  I have been to The Tabernacle in Islington, for Nerina Pallot's Christmas Extravaganza.  It was a great gig, the music was fantastic, as always, and lots of fun was had as we enjoyed the sets by Samuel Taylor and Nerina & her band.  I also loved meeting friends I haven't seen for seven months, and it had better not be as long again when I see them next!

  Nerina and her husband Andy work so bloody hard, and they do so much for the people who love her music, be it webcasts, EPs, special gigs, you name it (Nerina made about 150 mince pies for yesterday's shindig), and so much time is made to try and talk to everybody in attendance, it's just untrue.  There is so much goodwill in the room for her gigs, I have never seen anything quite like it.  For all those things, and add to that her songwriting and quality of performance, she will always be a shining role model of how a good musician should be, with one of the best attitudes in the business.  I salute the Chatterleys, they are an absolute delight.

  Plus, how many gigs do you go to where you are asked "How many of you have ever had to put your hand up a hot goose?"

  None.  That's how many.

  Back to the train home.  A large man has sat next to me, and is scribbling in and reading a book entitled 'The Big Book Of Brewing'.  I really don't know what to make of this.  Wow, this bit of track's quite bumpy!  I shall sign off, with a cramping hand and readiness for a cup of tea in my own house.

[Which, now that I've finished typing this up, I shall make!]
John xxx

*I have new, non-sexing neighbours.  There is barely a sound from there now, except for their plumbing, which seems to be horrifically loud, all of a sudden.  Every flush of the toilet produces an odd clanking sound, I can only assume that they've had the cistern moved upstairs, while the toilet remains on the ground floor.  Bit too nervous to knock on and ask, in all honesty.
**Please keep any jokes about George Michael & Andrew Ridgeley finding a third band member to yourself.  Thank you.

Conversations You Will Never Have

Bob:  Alright Terry, where of you been?
Terry:  I of just been to the shop for a bottle of milk and some luminous key-straighteners.
Bob:  Did they of what you were looking for?
Terry:  Nah, I'll of to get the bus into town and try there.
Bob:  Terry?
Terry:  Yes, Bob?
Bob:  Could you get a dictionary while you're out?  I of got a sneaking suspicion that the word "of" served no relevant purpose in our chat.
Terry:  Apart from when I said "bottle of milk"?
Bob:  Apart from that, Aye.
Terry:  I'll ask them if they of one in stock.
Bob:  Champion.

On Gemma Hayes, and Things We Forget

This blog was written in my notebook, longhand, over the course of the day, and has had one or two paragraphs swapped around as it was typed up on this site.  Just thought you'd like to know!

Gemma Hayes and me, after her concert at The Plug, Sheffield, Wednesday 24th October, 2012

  It's very odd coming back to a city where you've had some sort of strong, emotional bond.  I am sitting in a cafe in Sheffield (and have just had a sneezing fit so prolific that it would almost have been preferable, not to mention less embarrassing, to just stand up and spray hot shit down my leg), and have spent today walking from one part of the city to another, in order to find 'Record Collector', the independent record shop.  And I'm glowing with pride because I found it, after seven years of convincing myself that Sheffield was Satan's Maze, seeing as every time I've come here, visits have seen me getting myself catastrophically lost, walking from street to street for over two hours at a time, like a panicky rat.  Somehow, this time, I found my way from my hotel to Broomhill, and back again, inadvertently causing a lost memory or two to emerge from the mist, wave cheerily, and sink back into the ether again.  

  I found myself telling bits of what you're about to read to my friend Claire who lives in Sheffield, as one or two memories dislodged themselves as we walked through the city centre.  It's very nice to come to another town and see a friendly face, and we would have caught up more today had a whiteboard not fallen on her during the course of yesterday.  Send well-wishes, please.  But yes, as we chatted over junk food & some quite frankly startling laughs from passers-by, I remembered one or two things about my previous visits to Sheffield, which really snowballed today.

  Seven years ago, I went out with a girl with whom the relationship lasted precisely a month - 1st September to 1st October.  We met, started dating, she went to university in Sheffield, and soon afterwards realised that we weren't going to last.  Short but sweet is probably a very apt cliche to use.  I did go to Sheffield once after she moved away (before we broke up), and we had a very nice couple of days wandering and chatting.  Some of the wandering was done solo while she went to do enrolment stuff, during which time, whilst being very lost and panic-stricken, I nearly fell over a local news cameraman during the filming of a report.

[I am now writing this from a train, which has been at a standstill for so long that some of us are starting to eye each other up, deciding which ones to eat, should the need arise.  I am really playing up my cold symptoms, in order to make myself a less desirable prospect.]

  On my way to Broomhill this afternoon, the walk became startlingly familiar, for example - walking past a pub that we'd had been to for a pleasant outdoor lunch (September had been very sunny and hot that year), and I had also tried one of her plastic rings on while finishing our drinks, and there ensued a rather intense couple of minutes when it wouldn't come off.  I also spotted a wall that I'd been sitting on after getting lost during the induction hour.  Between that and the cameraman, I'd covered a lot of distance without realising where I was.

  One of the first shops I encountered on my first trip in Sheffield was actually Record Collector, which we had gone into out of curiosity (mostly mine, as I recall), and I noticed a copy of Erin Mckeown's 'We Will Become Like Birds', which I had known was due for release, without knowing when, just sitting on a nearby "New Releases" shelf.  As if it doesn't get better than that, I was given student discount.  Being neither a student, nor local to the area, I continue to wear this as a badge of pride.

  After fishing around Record Collector and picking out some good albums for members of my band, I walked back to the city centre, and realised I was doing so in two separate time zones, 2012 and 2005.  I had completely forgotten walking down this road that lead past two hospitals and the university campus, but suddenly it was all too familiar, right down to the set of steps from which I waved goodbye to my girlfriend, and then fell over an old lady's pushcart (which nearly caused me to fall down the steps).

  The last leg of the walk back was down West Street, the base of which I had only seen in 2005, bathed in warm, late-afternoon sunlight, and I recall it being one serene moment in a cloud of desperation, after having gotten terrifically lost again after the pushcart incident, and I very much needed to find the bus station.  Even now, walking through Sheffield Interchange, I remember being so hot and bothered as a result of trying to find my way around, that I ducked into the gents toilets, hid in a toilet cubicle and mopped the sweat off me with toilet paper, and then got changed into some clothes I had bought from Topman that day.*  We broke up a week or so after I got home.

  For so many parts of Sheffield, I have been terminally unable to piece them all together to form a whole city, until this week.  For example, just before I left this afternoon, I found the street whereon sits The Leadmill, where I went to see Gemma Hayes in March 2006, a mere six months after tumbling around in a heatwave and knocking over the shopping of the elderly.  It was one of the coldest evenings I can remember, and I was still smarting from the break-up.  Arriving in Sheffield again so soon was quite weird.  I got lost again, only this time, after having walked in entirely the wrong direction for two hours, suffered the extra ignominy of giving up and flagging down a taxi, the driver of which drove me round the corner and charged me four quid.

Just outside The Leadmill, where I went to see Gemma Hayes in 2006

  And now, six years later, I've come back - a happier person, a more confident person, and evidently not as lost, as I saw all these different parts of the city and made an entire place out of them.  Instead of wallowing in memories, I have simply waved at them whilst continuing to move.**

GEMMA HAYES

Gemma Hayes, performing with Ann Scott, at The Plug, Sheffield, 24th October 2012

  As I may not have mentioned so far, the reason I have been to Sheffield was, again, to see Gemma Hayes.  It's only fair that I write about the gig a little.  Gemma was on good form, and has always had an uncanny knack for reducing a room to a reverent hush.  Everyone is always focused on the stage and on listening, during songs and between-song chat.  Her tale of Louis Walsh is becoming something of renown (you may remember me blogging about it a while back), and the quietest I've ever heard a crowd was while she was telling us the story of the song 'Oliver'.  I think I could sense the audience being stunned during the telling of this.

  Stand out moments for me were 'Keep Running' (a song I will always love), 'Back Of My Hand', 'Ran For Miles', 'Ruin', 'Happy Sad' and 'Out Of Our Hands', which I have found myself almost singing aloud at various points this afternoon.

Ann Scott, opening for Gemma Hayes at The Plug, Sheffield, 24th October 2012

Mention must also go to Ann Scott, who opened the show, and also accompanied Gemma throughout the gig.  Ann's songs were brilliant, as was her performance of them, and I recommend heading to http://www.annscott.net/  to avail yourself of her work.  The song 'Mountain' stood out for me, with some wonderful combinations of lyric, chord structure and melody.  That's my "Must Listen".  Ann's voice compliments Gemma's perfectly, the two of them create some unexpected, but beautiful, harmonies.

So that's me done.  All in all, a very interesting two days in Sheffield.  I've waved at the past, seen one of my favourite musicians, met a friend, and didn't get lost at any point during the proceedings!

Until next time,
John xxx

*I also remember walking through Sheffield Interchange on my way back from the 2006 Leadmill Gemma Hayes gig, and noticing that each of my trainers had a squeak - one high-pitched, the other more of a squelch.  There was only one other person in the Interchange, right at the other end, and I could see him wondering what the "EEP!"  "SPLAT"  "EEP!" SPLAT" noises were, echoing around the building.

**At the very least, I waved simply.

The Ken Dodd Of The Acoustic Scene

Bloody hell.

  Has it really been so long since I sat here and wrote at you?  I seem to remember having a good old waffle about smartphones dominating any meeting place and sucking all of our attention out of our bodies.  Since then I have walked into two signposts and a bus shelter whilst looking into the ether, but I have made slightly more effort to not stare at my phone every two seconds.  (As I said before, just knowing that everything is right there! to look at and catch up on is far too tempting, isn't it?)

  But anyway, that was two months ago, and I've been a busy bee.  I have a new guitar, named Lola by Bryony (who is helping with social media duties, and doing a cracking job of it, too), and I now have two beautiful-sounding acoustic guitars, instead of one good one and one naff one.  Gigs have taken me hither and yon (mostly the Old Brown Jug, with still another two sets there to come), and have loosened me up - most notably a gig on The Sugarmill's rooftop for Stoke Sounds Sessions 2012.  That was a big deal and a lot of fun, I'm looking forward to hearing it back (I am told there is a recording...).  I went on holiday, which loosened me up yet further, and shook three workable songs out of my head.

  There's a lot to be said for unwinding and getting out of the daily routine, because you don't realise you're in one until you stop, and then for about a day you're completely disoriented, exhausted, and (if it's exceptionally good) spending the first half a day asleep.  I went with my family to Center Parcs, and almost everyone had a headache on the first day there because we were shell-shocked.

  What else can I rabbit at you about?  See, on Twitter the other week, I asked for topic suggestions to blog about, and my friend Phil came up with such a good, involved one that I've not known where to start with it.  I could have written it on holiday, but I forgot my computer.  Even now I'm mulling it over, knowing that I will have to do some research into aspects of culture from between 200 and 40 years ago (it will all become clear when I've actually written and posted it, but Lord knows when that will be.)  I have concluded that this is why I haven't blogged for two months, because if I just sit here and waffle on a load of old nonsense, then I'll be slighting him by not writing writing what he asked me to.  However, enough is enough and I'm here now, so there's not a lot we can do about it, is there?

  I'm a fool to myself, really, because if there's one thing I'm never short on, it's ideas.  If I let myself relax, and idea pops in, then crystallises when I can do nothing about it (ie, navigating busy roads, having a shower, trying to mend my curtain rail, etc), so that it then becomes a frantic race for the pen & paper (stop me if you've heard me go on about this before, oh wait - YOU CAN'T!  HAHAHAHAHA etc).  The odd thing these last few months has been the influx of ideas concerning music releases.  I made yet another list this weekend, of songs that I want to put on recordings and this one looks fairly final and definitive.  I've done all the songwriting I feel I can do for now, and it is time to start putting things together.  (If you want me to be pernickety, it was time to do that months ago, but I never did.)  I have an EP's worth, followed by an LP's worth, and eight songs that haven't made the potential cut.  I'd like to record those eight at some point anyway, and see if they end up fitting anywhere, but for now: six for the EP, twelve for the LP.

  "It's all well and good being an ideas man," I hear you bellow from your comfy chairs as you read this on your iPads, laptops and mobile phones, presumably spitting Krispy Kreme krumbs crumbs from your indignant mouths, "but how does that relate to actually making stuff to go down my ears and tickle my brain?!"  Well, calm down, dab your face with a tissue and wipe the grease from your touchscreens while I tell you.

  I have hit a point where there's only so much I can do on my own.  (Which is why my aforementioned friend, Bryony, is helping my with thing internetular.)  It is time I start collaborating with people to help make things a bit more concrete.  I'm preparing to meet folks to discuss things in relation to making recordings of a quality that is above "This is definitely a home demo, innit?" and more akin to something you'd buy from a shop.  With assistance.  At gunpoint.

  This is not to say I am not proud of my demos up to now, but my ideas are getting larger than my capacity to realise them, and sharing the load lightens it, so if I communicate my ideas to someone who can help me turn them into actual sounds for you to digest, then it has to be done, or I'm selling myself short.  As I say, there will be more news as it arrives as something more definite, but I hope to have good news for you soon.

  To this end, I have spent today practising all the songs that I wish to record (eighteen, not counting the eight cast to limbo, if you were doing your maths right earlier - if not, I advise practise), which was an edifying experience, because I pretty much remember them!  With a little extra lyric-learning, I could bore you out of your chairs for about an hour and a half with a show comprising all of them, and that's not taking into account all the talking (then you're probably looking at two hours!).  It's just as well that all my sets have time restrictions, otherwise I fear I could become the Ken Dodd of the acoustic scene.

  Speaking of which, how does he get away with it?  His shows are now renowned for their interminable endlessness.  My family, in 2004, took me and someone I was, at the time, working with to see Ken Dodd at the Victoria Hall in Stoke, and do you know, I've been to some horrific theatre events in my time (a production of MacBeth at the Crewe Lyceum springs to mind - you've not lived until you've heard a PA system blurt "MacBeth, MacBe... oh damn!" during the interval, then seen a messenger walk on in the second half and freeze up as he forgets his lines), but this took the biscuit.  Ken Dodd's show was interspersed with tributes to variety theatre, including one nightmarish sequence in which about twenty small children danced on stage whilst wearing masks of Laurel & Hardy, Charlie Chaplin and Max Miller etc.  TERRIFYING.  Aside from that, everything "Doddy" said seemed to bypass us.  I have found Ken Dodd hysterical when appearing on television.  He's amazing with a crowd, and actually very funny, but his tours are more like feats of endurance, and his delivery was mumbled on this occasion (perhaps because of the PA?  Who knows!), and all of us started to look at each other as if we were about to burst into tears (this was by around midnight), at which point my parents mouthed "Shall we go?"  And we mouthed "YES!"

  The most we laughed that night was when we got out of the theatre and onto the car park, and a sort of "survivor's hysteria" kicked in, and we couldn't stop laughing.  (Oddly enough, that night turned out to be my friend's and my first date, of sorts.)  We heard later that the show had gone on a further two hours, and there were also stories of people getting taken out of the auditorium by St. John's Ambulance workers.  (I believe this is a cunning ploy by people who don't want to be rude and just leave the auditorium - far more dignified to feign a medical emergency - which leads me to wonder how many Ken Dodd-related deaths might occur per annum?  Do send me any statistics you can find on the matter.)

  I have no idea why I thought it would be a good idea to write - at punishing length - about Ken Dodd, but I'm not deleting it now because it makes for a healthy word count (or an unhealthy word count, depending on your perspective).  I shall sign off, but not before mentioning that this year (and in the last couple of months particularly), I have met some brilliant bands and musicians, so I'm going to be all selfless and nice and point you to some people I've been hearing about for a while, but only now begun hearing them and seeing them.

First, Faux Feet.  I have been lucky enough to share a billing with them twice within three days back in August.  They are lovely people, with great songs, and you can buy their first three-track EP from Bandcamp here: http://fauxfeet.bandcamp.com/.  Make sure you see them live, there are songs in their set that will not leave you.

Second, Marc O'Reilly.  A superb guitarist and songwriter.  You can check out a stop-motion animation based on his record cover, and buy his debut album (which is also brilliant) here: http://www.marcoreillymusic.com/

Third, and lastly, Aaron Mobberley.  I also shared the billing with him at the same gigs as Faux Feet, and he's fantastic.  He and Marc O'Reilly co-headlined The Sugarmill last night, as Aaron debuted his new music video and gave his first performance with his new band.  You can find him here: https://www.facebook.com/aaronmobberleymusic

And so I leave you.  I will not leave it another two months before I blog again, and in the meantime, here is Aaron Mobberley's new music video, 'Unison Harmonies':

Take care, until next we meet, bloglets.
Love,
John xx

The Smartphone Zombie Apocalypse Is Nigh

  Back in the heady days of the year 2000, these as-yet unkissed lips belonged to an eager 20 year-old, who fell in love, became a fiancee, spent a further year finishing a university degree in Drama & Creative Writing to get a 2:2 (which I occasionally wear to parties), and went out into the big wide world to work libraries (six months) and a shop (five years). Partway into this retailistic sojourn, the lad got a promotion to management staff, and the engagement sadly evaporated. Never having experienced this sort of emotional trauma before, it was undoubtedly a bad time to be plunged headlong into a retail-based Christmas Nightmare at shop-management level. If you're reeling from the dissolution of a four-year relationship, you don't want to be running a late-shift in a shopping centre, with 30 boxes of stock deliveries, three members of staff, and an army of moronic shoppers asking for refunds and trying to buy non-existent DVDs featuring the Churchill Insurance dog.

  Nevertheless, this was the situation in which I found myself, age 24, surrounded by stock with no hope of getting it all done before the centre shut, queries coming from all sides, Muse on the shop stereo, and Bing Crosby being piped in through the rear corridors (audible from our stock/staff room). Borderline madness. Then I knocked a pile of DVDs over, and my fuse blew.

  I do make it a rule not to lose my temper with people. If I have ever done this to anyone reading, it was a rare incident, and I would have apologised to you at the time. So, in my frustration and anguish (not to mention eagerness to not bellow at the staff in my charge), I did what any rational human being would do. I abandoned any pretence of booking on deliveries, and proceeded to welly the plastic boxes of stock with a broom handle (I even removed the brush-head so that it wouldn't fly off and hurt anyone). Those on the tills, serving customers, would have heard "SPINK! SPINK! SPINK! SPENK! SPERNK! SKENK! SCHENCHK!" until eventually, the broom handle broke. (I imagine the stereo was turned up a little at this point.) After I achieved this feat of strength, I took a permanent marker and wrote "FUCK CHRISTMAS TO FUCK!" on the side of a cupboard.

  The following day, my manager and I had a little chat about my feelings.

  This incident was affectionately referred to as "John's little breakdown", and the cupboard bearing my Festive inscription was henceforth used as a place to blu-tac newspaper articles of note, photos or posters. Pretty much anything that covered up the evidence of my blip, really.

  And it has to be said, in this age of mobile communications via multimedia, photos of the evidence from my outburst would have gone down a storm on Facebook & Twitter. Equally, though, they would almost certainly have scored me the sack. Had I a smartphone back in those days, utterance after utterance (either by customer or by colleague - both hilarious, but the former unintentionally so) would have been turned into social media comedy gold. I took photographs prolifically back in those days, and the sort of stuff that fills up that photo album would have been crammed onto Twitter in the blink of an eye, courtesy of a handheld link to the interwebs.

  I find it amazing the way social media is so accessible these days. My phone is not just a lifeline to my friends and family as it was in those days (my aunt once called my mobile to congratulate me on my aforementioned promotion while I was on the work toilet), it is also a window on everything. I talk often about how media such as Twitter, Facebook, Bandcamp, and more besides, have revolutionised the way I conduct my music affairs. The other thing I mention alongside it is the sheer number of people (and this is primarily via Twitter) that have been brought into my life via series of 140-character vignettes. People that I have, over the last sixteen months, come to care about a great deal.

  Now, sometimes, the question I have to ask myself is "Is this a problem?" I present unto you this small quote from an interview with Conor Oberst, of the band Bright Eyes:
"To walk into a room and it's a bunch of people going like this [pretends to type on a cell phone] it's so depressing. I do it too, so I'm not pointing fingers. But when you project into the future and you think, 'Well, this is eventually going to be archaic. We're not going to need the keyboard anymore. We're just going to be connected.' It'll all just be information-ideas space."


  Now, you know what this is like, and so do I. Like Oberst, I do not point the finger because I do this all the time, when time allows. My weekends are like marathons for my phone's battery, because I am catching up with Twitter, and sharing my life with it. I want to communicate with people, I want to know that Claire is okay! How did Max's meeting go? Is Kai having a better day today? I just heard/saw/thought of something funny that I bet will get a laugh!


The other weekend I went to my parents' house, and we watched the Wimbledon final. I was livetweeting it. It made me laugh, perhaps it got a few chuckles in Internetland as well, but I was in company. Part of me is a little bit sorry that I did it. But it is exciting to be so connected to everything, and the capacity to see something clever or funny and show them to your friends is overwhelming, which is why we do it. You don't want to miss your moment to catch someone's attention (especially if you follow someone who makes work you love) for that magic re-tweet or 'like'. And I play that game. I want to be noticed by people for being a witty and nice chap, because the chap that you see in that smiley avatar is the same chap that's sitting in a chair, in a music room full of fading sunlight, typing this.

  But sometimes I need to know when to put the smartphone down and look at the world with my eyes open. Last night I went to town to use a cash machine, and as I walked back along my street, I visibly and audibly jumped because someone two doors down from my house was standing in his front doorway, smoking a cigarette. I didn't see him from the far end of my road, because I was staring at my phone. That, to me, says "John, they will be okay if you don't look at them for half an hour or so. Put the phone down for a bit."

  But that doesn't mean I don't love you, okay? You get me through the quiet nights when there's no one in the vicinity but me and two bonking neighbours. You make me laugh when I'm having a down moment. When I make a thing, you're there straight away to tell me whether or not you like it, and the fact that you pay any attention at all (right down to reading this) means everything to me. And egotism aside, I am glad that I can be there for people who aren't having a great time themselves. It always makes me happy to know that I've cheered someone up or made them feel better.

  I'd say that overall, by and large, if you're having a hard time, it's better to reach for a smartphone than a metal broom handle.

Lots of love, speak soon.
John xxx

P.S: I know I called this "The Smartphone Zombie Apocalypse Is Nigh" - I don't even think it is, but if scaremongering works for the Daily Mail, what the hell!

I WANT TO PLAY SONGS FOR YOU

My bathroom always feels rather small.  This morning I closed the door and it seemed much larger, and I realised that I rarely did that and as such, the door acted as a kind of partition.


  That may seem an odd thing to start a blog entry with, but then it's been that long since I have written one of the blessed things that I should just go with the first thing that came into my head, so here we are.  It's mid-evening Saturday, the sun has shown its face once or twice, and there is a surreal piece of radio happening on Radio 4 Extra, in a collection of documentaries and pieces created by the BBC Radiophonic Workshop.  Currently, it's a lengthy piece called 'The Dream', which attempts to recreate the feeling of dreaming.  The workshop sampled descriptions by different people talking about their dreams, and edited different abstract parts of their descriptions together, with synthesised sounds reflecting the moods and feel of their recollections.  It is a piece that can render one quite soporific in a matter of seconds, and it currently feels as if I am typing with weights tied to my wrists and face.  I am going to make a cup of tea before carrying on.


Do please talk amongst yourselves.


  I'm back.  The sun has reappeared for the third time this afternoon, and now an episode of The Goon Show is getting an airing to demonstrate the Radiophonic Workshop's oeuvre.  Of course, having just gotten stuck on the next sentence, the Goons have finished, and an audio representation of Einstein's Theory of Relativity has just started, which frankly so unlistenable, I have turned the radio off altogether.


That's better.


  Of course, I didn't expect this to be a blog entry about writing a blog entry.  I had been getting rather good at it in May, having had what I can only refer to as a blog-splurge (for the only reason that I can't think of a better, not to mention less messy, term).  I have had some rather nice gigs since May, playing once again in Leeds, and also The Old Brown Jug.  August promises to be a fun month, with a gig in my hometown for a local event, Oatcake Day, which Stoke DJ Terry Bossons has been doing since 2010.  I am not, sadly, taking part in the actual Oatcake Day shenanigans, but another related event the day after.  Two days later I am proud to say I'll be playing at The Sugarmill for local music group Stoke Sounds.  Stoke Sounds run a blog and host at least one radio show in the area, promoting and reviewing the bands and musicians from around these parts.  I have done a session on their 6 Towns radio show recently, and am very glad to get the chance to not only play at The Sugarmill, but to represent Stoke's musical side, and support Stoke Sounds themselves.  It goes without saying that if you can come to this event (Saturday, August 11th, 4pm onwards), you really, really must.


  That brings me on to something I would actually like to blog about.  Gigs.  To be more specific, attendance of gigs.  This could get quite involved, so I promise I will put a video at the end of this post, that you will enjoy.  Right - I am going to quote from my friend Andrew Tranter, who writes songs and sings in acoustic duo Headsticks.  I had the pleasure of playing at one of his Song club evenings last week.  The following day, he wrote on Facebook:


  "After around 13 years of gigging, probably nearing 1000 gigs with Jugopunch, The Clay Faces and now Headsticks, I can honestly say that last nights Song Club at The The Old Brown Jug was one of, if not THE most enjoyable event I have been a part of! I don't know what it was about the night....but I'm still buzzing! Elly Kingdon was as ever a delight, John MacLeod his usual loveable self, Giro Junkie Rich Bloor was, I don't know how to explain, but he was so true to his music and delivered it with such passion... and I can't find words for how good Shaun and the Special Sauce were...and as for Headsticks, well we were alright for a couple of miserable duffers.....


 Only disappointment was a very average turn out for the show and this is a worry....how to get people off their backsides and down to a venue these days! Soon venues will start to question the viability of these events (if they are not already doing so), and the fact is that they don't add up and business is business....so gigs get pulled and maybe venues get shut and what then for local music,for local bands? It is really important that the local music scene receives your support....many acts deserve to be playing on a bigger stage to bigger audiences and are actually at least as good as the acts being played mainstream, many are better but just need exposure.....that's where you lot come in!!!! Please support the local venues/bands/events before it is too late!!!! If you have never been to see a local gig give it a try...you may just enjoy it!"


  There's not a great deal extra I can add to that.  I will be the first to admit that I am not out every night seeing bands, but when I can - I do.  Often, I am writing or working on new material, and because I am holding down a full-time job at the same time as making music work, sometimes I just need to stop and make sure that I'm not burning the candle at both ends - I have been there, and as a consequence didn't play for two years.

  But the point is that folk like myself need your support.  The concert that Andy's talking about in that post was a wonderful evening.  It even started early enough for people to see the whole thing, but as the night crept on, by the time the headlining act were playing, the audience were somewhat diminished,  and one or two pockets of the people there were noisy enough for the whole bar.

  So - my plea to you is threefold.

1:  If your friend is a support act and you come to watch, don't just disappear after their set - stay for the whole night.  You could suddenly discover your new favourite band in the space of an evening.  And just think - the headlining band have been seeing how many people are in the crowd and actively looking forward to playing to you.  Yes, YOU!

2:  If you're a support act, or playing in a lineup of several acts in a showcase, don't just turn up for your set and sod off after it unless you have a darned good reason!  The only excuse for this, in my opinion, is transport.  I recently played in Stafford for an evening of music in celebration of the Olympic torch having passed through town.  Not only did I get caught in standstill traffic on the way there (forcing me to miss my first set), but I had a stupidly early last bus out of town, and so couldn't stay for the whole night.  You can bet your life I did a circuit of the bar and apologised to everyone for that, though.

3:  If you're going to a music event, try and listen.  Trust me, I know what pubs are generally for.  They are for meeting up with your friends (that perhaps you don't see as often as you'd like to), and catching up, being funny, making each other laugh, maybe even talking through things that are troubling you.  And, at an outside guess, getting a bit pissed and falling off your chair.  I know this.  Sometimes, though, I find it hard to reconcile when a pub is putting a gig on.  At my very core, on those nights, I am a music appreciator.  I can concentrate on little else when someone is playing, because I want to see them play.  Similarly, when I am performing, there's a level of ambient noise over which I can easily play, but there's also a level of ambient noise which grates on my nerves.

  If you're reading this, I WANT TO PLAY SONGS FOR YOU.  So does pretty much every musician I know (and so do the ones I don't know, if I really think about it).  Be a good egg and come to some gigs.  You will be welcomed with cuddles, songs, and, one day, some high quality merchandise.

  In the meantime, as promised, here is a nice song from a musician I have just started listening to.  I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you for reading,
Love,
John xx

Return Of the Fat Ankle

  I would like you to imagine that I am typing this in the most obscene opulence.  I am in a palatial gazebo, reclining upon a chaise longue, while being wafted by giant feather, er, wafters in this oppressive heat (honestly, it's like Duncan Goodhew here - airless).  Whatever you do, don't picture the reality - which is me sitting in a hot lounge, having just eaten a Chinese takeaway, and listening to the radio on the internet. 

  Life is full of mysteries, folks.  Why do electricians finally turn up just at the exact moment you sat on the toilet?  How can mobile phone signal just disappear when you haven't moved, leaving you waving the damned thing in the air like a tricorder?  How on Earth is it possible to only have a bit of chocolate & leave the rest of the slab in the fridge?  There is one prevalent mystery in my life, Blogwatchers, and now it is the most perfect of timings to introduce you to my Fat Ankle.

  It was Summer, 2006.  One week in July, I got a small pain in my ankle, which felt like a bruise.  Within a couple of days, my ankle-bone was rather hard to discern among the swelling.  What was worse was being unable to put any weight on it.  On my way to work one Sunday (which at that point involved a train journey), my foot gave way and I fell over.  This, coupled with my already-slow pace, meant that I missed my train, and when I finally did get to work, I spent most of the day sweating profusely in an un-air-conditioned shop, lying down with my foot atop a box.

  Naturally (and this is another of life's mysteries), the pain had subsided by the time I went to see a doctor with it, the following day.  She was baffled, and said the only thing my ankle put her in mind of (apart from a grapefruit) was gout.  Seeing as I don't drink much alcohol, and do drink a pretty good amount of water, and I don't eat a massive amount of rich food, it was hard to know what could be causing it.  Blood tests didn't show much to help either.  (As an aside, I informed a manager about the falling-over-with-swollen-ankle that caused me to be late, and when I then told her that my doctor reckoned it might be gout, she said "You can't get gout from falling over!", which is true, but reversing that logic for a moment, you can fall over from gout.)

  Now it's 2012, and it has reoccurred about twice, missing out a year or two, which makes me forget that it happened, until now.  You can now picture me sitting at my computer if you wish, but now imagine me putting my foot up on a drumstool.  The pain bit has started, and I'm hoping it doesn't go to drastic swelling, otherwise I will be hauling myself to my gigs this week with a walking stick (a rather nice deep blue wooden stick, if you're curious).

  So, Blogwatchers, this is where I am.  Elevated and listening to the radio.  If any of you have a feathery wafting thing, make your way here post-haste!

Ta-ta,

John xx