Another blog will be built

 to replace this one, which has outlived its usefulness. 

I cried five times

Today got me five times. Life is hard. There aren't they many bird I look forward to. Food. Star Trek. A morning espresso. No pain.

I miss friends. Life is work. Tidying. Hefting. Paying for stuff. Mindless browsing. All the rows. I hate it.

.

Found an unfurnished room in a mad, property guardian place in nm for 500 a month today.Is do it too. Freedom. Options. Familiarity. Fun. A year in there would cost £8k, which I have. I could quit. Design a way out with lorazepam and good whiskey and downers.

Seizures are under control. Whoopee.

I could just take a belt from that drawer, loop it around the garage rafter and kick the chair over.

They'd be shocked, but not much. They'd get what they want. Cash and prosperity they didn't sacrifice anything for. 

Alex W to call tomorrow/Monday. Maybe he'd be better off firing me. Not sure I can be bothered with anything much any more.

Back in black

It came back.

We are waiting to see how serious it is, how operable. How final.

It'll go one of several ways.

1. Operable, best-case: period of medical leave, awake craniotomy, chemo, then palliative. Absolute best outcome:two years from here.

2. Operable, quit work, then awake craniotomy without success, then palliative chemo to fade. Best outcome: 12 months, last two in hospice in Barnstaple.

3. Inoperable. Quit work, palliative chemo on repeat to fade. Best outcome 9-12 months, last two in Barnstaple.

4. Inoperable, elect no chemo, morphine to fade in hospice. Outcome six to nine months, last two in hospice.

Starting out, waiting, and then starting over

 I have one bollock, and more treatment in the offing. Seminoma, a rare and eminently beatable spinoff from testicular cancer, needs getting rid of this time. No comment from the brain tumour since cutting my levitirecetam by 25% a month ago.

Leo is a lovely lad. If I'm not crushed by the orchestrated attacks on my current and future sanity and can withstand his randomness, we have a good time. I love him dearly. He is, after all, unique. That's what I was hoping for. A non-standard human. Oh boy, have we got one of those.

Work has been weird for a little while, and seems to be getting wierder. I spent a total of 11 hours filling out the longest appraisal of my skills ever, and DC and I have managed to review one of my 130 responses in two hours. We are both verbose motherfuckers when we get our heads together, I spose. He marked me as 'Starting Out' (level one of a possible four) on one section, which was a blatant pile of horseshit, similar to that time he 'accidentally' extended my probation.

I then showed him the new system for writing bids in almost no time, and how shit Sarah's standard OC questions were - and how shit the bids we write are as a consequence of the SISO rule - and he goes 'if you demonstrate that, you're at level three.'

This sort of lane-up-to-progress bollocks is manna from Devon for managers. It justifies all sorts. Elle being promoted to Mark's PA by dint of barely surviving having to stand up and talk to 100 people - which I've done. Elle being 'selected for an award' for organisation despite having her organisation being identical regardless of the opp that needs organising and Sarah - her mate - being brought in to 'manage' half of the organising that needs to happen. Elle got promoted immediately following her assessment. 

I've been organising stakeholders, designing templates, writing, proofing, printing and submitting tenders far bigger than these since 2008. I have ample scope to go elsewhere, and will watch this situation. Following the expected all-clear after chemo, I'll surprise them by taking my ball home. This Academy process won't even be complete by then. I'm afraid I'll have better things to do. Shame really, as I'll miss being ludicrously overpaid,but as Daniel has called me the best writer he has more than once, I'm expecting that to be borne out by my scores. I wonder how many Starting Outs Jessie and Alex H will get in their assessments? As the only ones who know the truth are Alex W, Mark, Daniel, and presumably Elle by Christmas (!) the repercussions of this should be interesting.

poem: pecking order

Pecking Order

I wanted to win

I waited and worked

I won

More people came in

Now they also win

They'll be full time, 

Have closer ties

Better connected

I'm just a face

A preoccupied face

On a closed laptop screen

On bid 11, not three

Remember probation extension

Funny looking accident

It's coming back

 Don't tell me how I know. I just do. 

It's coming back. It had a go at my head. Now it's going to find a way in. Through my fucking bollocks. 

I have a blood test tomorrow.

I have two bollocks, conventionally enough. Unconventionally, however, one is three times the size of the other. The smaller of the two - we'll call him Righty - has been hurting, fairly consistently, ever since Lefty started to ominously inflate about a month ago.

I went to the GP today. He said, with the same quiet, sad but authoritative demeanour as my oncologist, that the signs were not good, at all. He referred me to urology on the spot.

There's a chance it's nothing, but we'll find out when there's a scan, which will be in a few weeks, probably. But I know it's not nothing. I know.

Last week, Mike fractured a vertebrae. Nigel's now unable to do the mobility exercises that keep him going. 

The rocket left on its first unmanned test-flight today, but the mission - deep down, my final goal - has just been knocked back to 2026. 

I submitted a load of goals around management, promotion and such today, and DC signed them all off. I love working. So clever, such a challenging. Keeps my mind occupied. I'm tired, though.

Here's hoping.

Leo is rocking life

You've done incredibly well, my little man. 

You're smart, funny, fast, talkative, and you've even started to make friends. I love you, mate. 

From birth to school. How did we get here?

The rain’s falling outside, flanked by the darkness, a static hiss like and old TV, but warmer than that. In here, muffled by the double-glazing, it is safe, comfortable. Sodium lights the way. Nearly five years out now. I’d like another five. In the morning, Leo starts big school. 

The last five years have been the hardest and worst of my life, but also possibly the best five. Honours even. Life is hard, but so am I. The rain falls. I have raised a boy from conception to school, thinks mainly to others. But I’m here, at the bottom of the bucket list I wrote on diagnosis, ready to walk my son to school in the rain, just like I said I would.

What would the stoics think?

I love my life, really. I have got to know love, and hurt, and joy. Pain, regret, stupidity, inspiration, thee good and the bad. And it’s not ending soon any more. No more of that shit for me. I’m divorcing death for the time being. In the morning, when Leo is safely away learning how to be a grown-up from other grown-ups, we can work. We can play. We can fuck. We can plan. We can get our lives down off the shelf, until three fifteen, when he wants us back again. I love that idea; that arrangement. That bargain makes sense. For what feels like the first time in a long time, we - Tamsin and I - are in charge again. Until 3.15, when he wants us back.

Tonight, we’ll drink martinis and listen to the rain. Tomorrow is all his. I’m so proud of him I have cried. I have on occasion hated fatherhood. It didn’t come naturally. It probably won’t now. I have been making it up since day one, because everyone else does. It has driven me to the outskirts of sanity frequently. But I do love him. I love the looks on other people’s faces when they see him. I love it when I can get out  of the now and remember what Tam and I went through, and will still go through. Yes, the future is scary, but it’s also mine, and ours, together. 

Tomorrow will be tough, just as other tomorrows have been. It’s like he’s leaving, and the little boy that comes back will be different. More power to you, little man we made. More power to you. See you tomorrow for another day, then.

Weed

 Me and weed have had a tricky old time of it,  all things considered. But nowadays we generally get along. I suppose that new entente is primarily caused by my need to slow down and weed's need for me to speed up, but I have no real idea. Sitting here as I am, full of post-Covid fog, really good tequila, reasurringly quick Merc qualifying, eight or so of Dr Keef's dots, prime lunatic James Bond entertainment. and nostalgia, I'm also reminded that just three days ago, I was seriously considering quitting work in all its forms, getting back on benefit, and then engineering the most lopsided divorce in history - or at least the most lop-sided divorce since Amber's.

As a teenager, weed was like alcohol squared. Or Boozecubed. Nobody Mknew how it worked, but it only ever appeared if your Cool-Adjacent Friends had some, you for some reason found yourself at an afterparty, well after you should have had alternative transit shit in place. Weed, in any transformational, this-here-is-better-than-Fosters-sense, then, was late on my bus.

The reason for this lateness is that we, as boys who were English and lived in England, got fucking pissed in clubs, pubs and wherever else (I've had a pint in a Pizza Hut at 0130). Since me and my whole generation were programmed that This is How We Can Have Fun from the age of fifteen, is anyone surprised? My friendships were formed on what you liked to do with your free time - drinking while watching football, drinking while watching cricket, drinking while watching bands, or drinking. No fucking surprises. No alarms either, as we'd sleep through them anyway.

Then, bit by bit, along comes weed. The first time I had some, I was walking through Barton, from one field to another, after a big curry and some parent-sanctioned pints to celebrate Chris Hatch's birthday. I felt great: illicit, chatty, funny, dizzy... all of that shit.

Every time me and weed met after that, though, weed was nasty. It made me fall down, get hangovers, forget where I was. Weed, I surmised, was a dick. I steadfastly ignored it for about 18 years, choosing to merely smoke absolutely shitloads of actually carcinogenic cigarettes while blousily rejecting cannabis and all its derivatives as stoner nonsense. 

When I was diagnosed with cancer in 2017, and got through the original, everything-you-eat-tastes-of-cooking-oil onslaught of chemo, I starteed reading. I was told - you're told a lot of things when you have cancer, but this is one of the things that actually helped - that something called CBD and THC was a useful emollient to the deleterious effects of chemo, and potentially a 'cure', such as there is one, for several types of Actual Cancer. So, I did some digging, asking my friends who used to smoke if they could source some.

After a few bonkers 'I can get you a kilo of pure Afgan from Dover if you can fake a Turkish accent'-type responses, a man I know who remains nameless popped into my socials and agreed to provide both a link to CBD that wasn't merely goosefat at £100 a bottle and also some 'liquid THC at over 70% purity. 

A relationship, as you can imagine, was forged. 

Initially, my friend's contributions were, shall we say, 'light on detail', and rather overlooked the fact that, as a brain-cancer survivor, my tolerance for his exquisetly-produced but potent product left me, and I don't think I'm swerving when I say this, fucked beyond belief. Pluckily though, I persevered, and now can manage a dose, a beer and a Bond film with the calm assurance of a magistrate. I'm also certain that my doctors are baffled as to my continued success in the survival field, and would love to attribute this to my being bolloxed on weed, but can't.

A case in point arose only last week, when I couldn't ingest as planned doe to Covid. As well as the virus itself, I felt massive rises in anxiety, anger, confuaion, headaches, weakness down my left side, which we know is down to cancer, and many other things. But put weed back in, and I'm not wobbly, weak, sad, stiff, sore or any of the above. I have composed this whole post on nine drops of Keef's weed (as well as two tequilas and a pint) and while I'm tired, I'm not limping, or haunted by visions of eyeless shapes breathing death into me, which I was last night. And the transformation in my muscle-health and mobility is obvious. It's almost as if the NHS should prescribe it.

...And elegantly clipped away! That's four!

You're four, mate. What a long journey we've been on thus far, eh? Feels like it, anyway. As I type this, you and Mum are playing with your new toys in the kitchen, the sounds of your voices drifting up from below. It's been a big couple of weeks, all told. You are now a dummy-free zone - we're five days into the biggest change in your world since... continence? - and you seem ok about it all, apart from being a bit nazzy at bedtime. But who's not a bit on the nazz at lights out? 

Other than that, you're still convinced you're a girl (you insist on being referred to as 'she' and 'her' when you're tired. You're also having a bit of an obsessive crush on Mummy, have taken to calling Grandad 'Daddy' by mistake - despite me being a foot away - and Mum, you and your grandmother seem to be oblivious to my presence quite a lot. They're just obsessed with you, and you're obsessed with yourself and them, I suppose. I'm ok, though. Let the record show that I'm still around, doing fine, and living my life.

You're also a confident little bike-rider (stabilisers on) and enjoying your new-found turn of speed no end. I'm actually a bit jealous of all your new toys and might get myself a little something for fun too :)

Work is fine, not that you should care about that. It matters to you because it pays for things, and the way things are going, I think we might buy a big toy for the family soon. Maybe a new bike for me? I don't know if I can even ride a bike; it's been a while. Might risk it for a biscuit and find out. 

Some other things have happened, too.

I met Joanna Osborne when Lucy started at Arnewood. From my memory, they were instant friends, and she was around our house regularly. I always thought she was lovely. Friendly, confident, funny, clever, pretty. I also thought she might be hitting on me when she came round. That was nice. I liked her, and despite confirming that she fancied me for ages in 2000, I never did anything about it. I couldn't see us together, as great as she was. 

When Lucy became ill, Jo was a regular visitor, and she's one of those I can never be very far from. She's always been there, on the warm, friendly, not-entirely-platonic-but-probably-platonic fringes of my life, like other Jos, Joannas and Joannes I can think of. My friend Joe asked Lucy if Jo fancied me once. 'Oh, she fucking loves him, always has,' said Lucy at Oasis in 2000. I knew that then, and I did nothing. I liked Jo where she was. Change the status of that relationship, and you change that relationship forever. Making the imagined actual reality is not always a good plan. We all exist on an elevated plane in people's minds, if we exist there at all. On the whole, though, people don't sit around thinking about you as much as you imagine they do. I've been in this position before, and trust me, you tread carefully.

When I got ill, there she was again. She had breast cancer herself by then, and was battling away. She was a tremendous person, so full of life and light and bubbles and positivity.

Late last year she went into a hospice for some palliative chemo, and ended up being in and out of there on rotation, as her health stabilised, then declined, then stabilised, then declined. The cycle that is cancer taking over began, quietly, just like it did with my mum and Lucy.

 Jo called me on my birthday, from the same hospice Lucy and my mum died in, saying she'd been talking to the nurses there who had treated both, and remembered them fondly. 

Her voice cracked slightly when she mentioned you. She knew she didn't have long, and so did I. I couldn't muster the right words to reply properly, much less in the more immediate voice-message form she'd used. I prevaricated. I didn't reply.So Jo died last week. Married with two beautiful daughters, one of whom carries Lucy on in the world as her middle name. Jo had been ill for several years, with cancer that got more and more invasive. 

Then a few days later, her sister Nicky Whatsapped me. Jo had died at Oakhaven, holding a picture of your Auntie, and joined my Mum and everyone else over the bridge still holding it. 

In that context, then, today has been joyous, because you're four, and I'm lucky to have been here to help you celebrate that and all of your other achievements. Sometimes I feel like I'm the ghost at the feast: left to hover in the doorway while you, your grandparents and Mummy played on the floor of the kitchen with your backs to me, I felt ostracised. I said: 'Sometimes I don't think anyone in this family is listening to me.' 'Say something interesting, then', said your Mum. I don't think that was fair. I've loved all of your birthdays, but maybe I'm not as attentive as I was. Maybe I don't read the room very well. Maybe, just maybe, I'm fed up of having to read the room. 

If I can't make myself heard over the noise, if my opinions don't matter to anyone else, if my health is taken-as-read, if my presence is relegated to a nice-to-have more often than not, and if my contribution to life isn't required, I find myself wondering why I should try. 

But what alternative do I have? I have a few options, shall we say, and I'm reminded of them when I'm spat at. I'm reminded of them when getting out of the house takes two hours and a row. I'm reminded of them when I'm asked/told to 'leave the family', which has happened six times in the last year. I'm also the one with the terminal illness, the variable moods and the death sentence everyone else can't be bothered to worry about any more. I'm the one who four years ago was given a year to live, who now has a job and is planning to spend all (yeah, ALL) of that money on his family, so that we have a lovely time. No other fucker is up for this task.

Those that turn their backs on me, that snort, bemused, at the idea of a standing fit versus a falling fit but are too lazy to research my condition; those that studiously avoid talking about anything but the distant past and think nothing of asking for money to pay their mortgages off as soon as they find out I've got cash, while not contributing a fucking penny to their own daughter's wedding? They can watch it all get fucking spent on crisps, for all I care. 

The real amusement for me is the fact that our bravery, our loss, our good sense and our planning will actually end up putting a roof over their thick heads, will pay for their EoL care and funerals, I'd wager, and  then put food in the mouth and shelter over the empty head of their useless other daughter, too. So generous is Tams, and so lazy and profligate they are, I can't believe anything else can happen. 

Pop Quiz: If you have a dog, and you go on holiday, do you (a) pay £50 for a kennel cough jab every year and then pay for kennels when you go away, or (b) 'save' the money on kennel cough jabs by never paying for them and, by extension, never kennelling your dog, thus never travelling at all?

If the answer is (b), newsflash: you're a fucking idiot.

  

Envy

My friend Sam has just been voted the ninth best photographer in London.

I'm still not sure of what to do with my life.

I have never known.

I will never know, maybe.

It's all a dream, anyway.

Bristol, Hope and Pianos

I love life again.

I'm forty three. I'm well enough to be a cool, valued and loved member of this family. I'm good enough at my job. I'm funny. I have lovely friends, like Richard, and Joe, and I'm capable enough - as long as the thing you need me to be capable of doesn't include running.

I'm dreaming again. Sleeping deeply, and seeing. I am a good singer. I can get a tune out of a guitar, a bass or a piano. I am tall. I can buy anything I really need. My family is broadly healthy. My son is strong, and resilient. I love my boy. I am learning his Leo-ness, and he kisses me now, and I see his gifts, his great benefits and occasional frustrations for what they are. He is an aesthetically beautiful, intellectually advanced, playful, funny little guy. He will be fine.

My wife is just plain gorgeous. She loves me. She drives us forward. She helps me see it all for what it is. I do not deserve her.

There is still great sadness in my world. Mike is a poor communicator. Half my family don't know me at all. Beautiful Jo is in real trouble, and I'm afraid to ask.

That girl genuinely loves me, and I just don't know what to do for the best. How long does she have? Should I visit? In so doing, will my visit herald my belief that the inevitable is on its way?  I just don't know.

2022 Begins with a drone

I'm well. Enjoyed the New Year's Eve drone show and some truly excellent wine. Cancer is an ongoing, daily and minor aspect of life. It makes me tired, nervy, jumpy, confused and all the rest, but it's still mine to live with. Four years post-op now - I'd love to send the nurse they call Nails a card, just to say hello.

More importantly, Leo is nearly four now. My expectations re what he can do and what he can actually do are still out of whack. Sometimes he's incredible - building Lego sets designed for six-to-eight year-olds one minute, then being rendered unable to put his trousers on the next. This might be Peak Three.

We managed to get around to signing him up for full-time education at the mighty Buckland Brewer Primary School, a mere four-minute walk from the front door. He starts in September, and when he does, I will have officially run out of things on my bucket list, as 'walk my son to school' is the last one. Completists would argue that I've not ticked everything off but I have three points on that. 1) Fuck completists, they're dull. Take every opportunity to subvert expectation, I say. 2) New things being added to the bottom of the list makes the top of the list irrelevant, and 3) It's my fucking list.

I don't know whether I've mentioned this yet - can't be bothered to check, as befits a recovering journalist - but I've got a new job. After three years of all this nonsense, I'm back earning, and even doing dirty freelance, again. Never been richer, or more tired, but point two far outweighs the significance of point one. How long it lasts is anyone's guess, but I'm not overly encumbered, and each day I finish is another £190 in the kettle, so I don't care, really.

More fuck-it news: I've started playing guitar again, and am enjoying the pure throaty roar of the Firebird a great deal. Sustain for days, tone for months. Lovely. That said, now that I'm earning - and Rob has pronounced my stuff 'pretty damn good', I might buy some more hardware and make some more things. Rob has good ears after all. 

 

We've All Turned A Page

 I got bored of being sad and waiting to die of this thing, so instead of thinking about how much of a failure I was and how much of a disappointment I'd be, despite all this grandstanding about 'my legacy' and how important you are, I thought I'd just shut up and get off my fucking arse. 

So I started to stop wallowing. Three years is a long time in a wallow. First I had my umpteenth no-change scan, then I researched the implications of either working while claiming benefits (tldr: don't) and coming off benefits (tldr: do, for the Right Thing.) Having established that what I wanted was part-time, home-based, writing-centric, facilities or sales-y and ideally matched the days you were in nursery (currently Mon-Weds) that did some pretty major winnowing of the field. 

Then, I had a second revelation. Let's pretend I'm really good at everything I've ever done. Let's not lie, per se, but let's just play this as if, at the age of 42, I've seen some shit and done some good things. Work-wise, I mean. I didn't want a job that forced me to work too hard; I didn't want to work at all, actually, but I do like nice things, and I don't trust our one-salary-will-be-fine aesthetic. That means we're forever one sweep of an HR biro away from ruin, so my return to work, hopefully with a reputable company, not a bunch of useless, overdrawn bottom-feeder fuckers like Interserve, would alleviate any concerns on that score. 

So, I started casting about. Neil, for his sins, advised caution, as working more than 14 hours a week and/or earning £122 a month (ha!) can get all benefits irrevocably stopped, and could even trigger an interview under caution and the involvement of the HMRC's Benefit Cheat Legbreaking Department. We don't want to fuck with them. I asked them for advice, and they were... completely lovely, helpful and supportive. Bouyed by this, I continued to apply. 

I thought I'd go freelance, to be honest, as the hysterically high rates of pay available would mean I'd only really need to work three months of any year to match Tam's salary, but then the lure of a pension, health cover and general miscellaneous niceties took over, and I headed back into CorporateLand.

Holy shit, payrates have gone up since I was away. Also, the pandemic we're all bored by now has (a) stopped all work being done and (b) made the likes of me very, very employable. Oh, and also (c), working from home is now the preserve of do-anything, go-anywhere future-grabbers, rather than pajama-clad, hungover document-botherers of yore. The unshaven have inherited the Earth! News has finally reached the antideluvian oligarchs we are paid by that we don't, in fact, all have to sit in our designated chairs for our designated hours to do our designated jobs any more. 

And, aaaand - mobile communications have, for the first time since the fucking Pony Express was a thing, actually kept pace with requirement. Microsoft took about ten minutes off from implanting us all with 5G receivers or something to roll out Teams, and Office 365 has put it's 'give it a sec, it's thinking' phase behind it, and now pretty much actually works, eerily but seamlessly, fucking just about anywhere. Hats off, eggheads!

 In short all the things Tam and I were bitching about and criticised for when we moved to rural Devon in 2014 - absurdly slow, VPN-crippled internet, not being seen wandering around in Canary Wharf, being too expensive to shout at in person, having to be trusted by our overlords who, themselves, made a packet on expenses and didn't have to leave home to do it) are now irrelevant. In effect, they are now irrelevant because they suddenly became crushingly and overwhelmingly relevant to the aforementioned business-wanker oligarchs. Once the high-ups couldn't stride into an office to Get Shit Done because doing so might make them ill, they had to Get Shit Done Virtually. And some of them, I'd wager, didn't like that, because they didn't know how. 

After all, you don't need £300 shoes to go upstairs, log in and fire up a spreadsheet. You just have to Get Shit Done. All the artifice - the suits, the 'picking things up next time you're in the office', the endless meetings about previous meetings. All gone. All. Gone. Now, it's just you, a computer, deadlines, online planners, various other systems, and the view you pay a mortgage for. I like it. We were right. Now, everybody can see why we got the hell out of the city, and they're all doing it. 

In a climate like this, even with life-changing digital mobility, I was asking for a lot. But, things started to appear. I was first romanced by Atos, a massive 'professional services' company - which means they do dull things with spreadsheets extremely well, and then charge their customers for the result. I did three virtual interviews there, but they were very multinational, and the idea of me returning, slightly reluctantly, to work, only to be 'shared' across several timezones, with bosses in two timezones, didn't really appeal. I turned their £35k, three days a week down, mentally. 

Then I had an email from A lovely woman called Elle, who worked at Sage, the accountancy/payroll/HR people. Elle is lovely. So is her boss, Daniel. So is his boss, Alex. This last reminds me of no-one more than Rob, if Rob had cut his hair and been to Cambridge. They're lovely. Being a person with literally nothing to lose, I just chatted through the first interview, and thought nothing of it. The second, more decisive one was a bit more stressful, but I knew I had it in the bag. I landed a job worth almost twice what Interserve were offering me last time I was well, once you count commission, and once I get my head around the people, systems and general 'ness' of it all, I'll be golden. I fucking love it, and it's the reason we're happier, more generous people. 

It's not just about the money either. Your Uncle Tim once said that 'money isn't real. Money is the absence of worry.' He's right. We've doubled our income, sure, but we've also guaranteed that, whatever comes, either for you or anyone else, we're equipped to deal with it.

For your part, you're bouncing along pretty happily at the moment, I'd say. Still a bit flighty, still potentially needing the soothing attentions of the SEN team at preschool and potentially about to go down with chickenpox, but getting there, generally. 

Like I say, whatever comes, we're OK with it, and we love you. You are incredibly bright, a fast learner, a bad listener, a music lover - your favourite is Here Comes The Sun - and you're an engineer. An inventor. A creator. A schemer and a dreamer. You make me so fucking anxious sometimes, I can barely watch, but that's probably my thing, not yours. You can be demanding, rude, obtuse, violent, passionate, focused, loving, attentive, needy, poorly and well, all in the same hour. I find it exhausting, but let me state this for the record, I LOVE YOU for being so completely you. You're unique, more than anything. 

I worry about most things. I am, as your mother said recently, 'a very anxious person,' partly because I have a lot of factors in my life that could cause it to derail horrendously at any moment, and partly because of the other thing, but one of my main anxiety-multipliers is the fear of the future that comes from not being able to predict, or control,  who you are or how you'll get on in life. If you're on the autism spectrum, or have ADHD, or Aspergers, or whatever - I don't give a shit about that. I do, however, give a shit about the kind of life you'll lead, and how my presence in it, and subsequent absence from it, will affect you in the longer term. That sounds arrogantly like your Mum, Grandad, Nanna and Grandad Mike and Neil won't have any impact, which of course they will, but I won't be involved, and that saddens and scares me. 

I don't know how you're going to get on. But nobody does. I worry because you might not conform. But I hate conformists. Conformists are afraid of their own ideas. If I was a conformist, I'd have stayed at Paragon, on £11k. I left Paragon, spent seven months out of work, and went to Dennis, doubling my money in the process. I was 22 years old. Twenty fucking two! Be brave, my little man. Life is long. Make it interesting if you can, eh?

So Dumb

[I found this on an old computer today] 

Brain tumours are so dumb.

He sits there, burrowed into my mind, plotting my downfall. Months go by, during which my son is born (hurrah!) and I lose my job (boo!). I get  through four rounds of chemo pretty much unscathed, besides a bit of tiredness. 

About three months ago, I started to lose all sense of direction. Big crowds, especially those in places I’ve not been to before, begin to intimidate me. Nevertheless, I negotiate the Rolling Stones live in a big venue; I walk about two miles a day with the dog. I go to London purely for the honour of being made redundant in person, during which HR ask me ‘how little I could survive on’ by way of an opening gambit. Charmers to the last.

Then last week, stuff started to shift on me - my anti-seizure meds are up a bit, and holding, but I’m not as sprightly as I was. Walking to our local shop, once a nonchalant trot of about 10 minutes, now feels like an expedition that needs to be considered before it’s completed. But I am still, broadly speaking, OK. My research has also proven that wine is an effective deterrent to most ills.

We saw the mighty Jenner clan last week, which was and will always be a joy. Hope, were it a candle, would flicker at the slightest breeze, having brought from the dark by friends and family, and those I need. Some mornings I feel like I will be dust at Christmas; until recently, others made me forget anything is happening. But now, all mornings carry a reminder that I am finite, and that below the waterline, the ship is, slowly, sinking.

But I am not sunk yet. When I had my op in January I worried that I wouldn’t be able to play shit bass guitar again. I was right. Slowly though, I have been able to pick up the pieces and play. Initially, playing itself made me dizzy; too much coordination needed, too many inputs, too much data requiring processing. But today, 303 days after my op, I played as well as ever, nice and loud, for 90 minutes. 

This is significant, because if I could have my time again, I would throw myself into learning and playing music more vociferously than i did this time round. Listen to Miles Davis, or Coltrane, or The Roses, or Metallica, or any decent musicians, and what you can hear is the result of someone wanting to make noises that are great fun, or emotional shorthand for something else, with and for their best friends. 

Being in the same room as a bunch of people intent on creating something with you that wasn’t there seconds ago, and if you stopped, would cease to exist altogether, is actual fucking magic. It is a glimpse of the inner workings of the mind. It is the higher state - pure creativity, emotion, clarity, faculty and freedom. It is as close to telepathy as you can get with your clothes on. 

Music has power. It started a civil war in Yugoslavia, and helped to end the war in Europe. It can evoke untold suffering and limitless joy. It is the only thing that can stop a room in its tracks. Humans are driven by it, inspired by it, die for it, are, sometimes, even made thanks to the atmosphere it can generate.

So, to know that I can still command my fingers to hold my bass in such a way as to make a sound I recognise as music, when I was warned that my treatment might - perhaps should - have taken that away by now, is good to know. The reason I started this by saying that brain tumours are dumb? Mine stopped me playing for a year, right? I couldn’t play stood up, like I have since I was 17. In a revolutionary moment, I sat down, giving my brain a rest, as it didn’t have to deal with balance issues that have been increasing for a year or more. With all those issues stowed, I could play, properly, again. 

All I can say is, sometimes it’s best to sit on your arse. 

‘The worst tragedy that could ever happen to anyone, in my opinion, is that when they die, they never sang the song that was inside of them. They were never able to give their greatest gift away.” 

“But the beautiful opposite of that is that if you pass away and you know that you’ve sung your song - that you gave your gift - that’s the greatest accomplishment I could ever hope for anybody.’ - Flea

 All I seem to be good for is getting into pointless fucking arguments, pissing people off, and surfing the fucking internet. Discuss. 

Oh, how I look forward to absolutely nothing at all enjoyable fucking happening. 

Before that, though, my son's just a biting, hissing, spitting, deaf, violent shambles I don't have any patience for and cannot understand. 

It's a good job he thinks Tam is the centre of the fucking universe and I am, at best, a surly, incompetent fucking prop, put on Earth to carry shit, pick up shit, wash up shit and shout at him.

I don't know how much more I can take.

They'll say I'm overreacting. I'm over-dramatic. They always do. They'll say I'm not present. I don't think they want me to be.

I can't say anything.

I can't do anything.

What did we do this for?

 What I actually want to do is go on a big holiday, away from everyone I know - everyone I've ever known - and never come back.

My wife hates me. We have not had sex in four years. I have no interest in breaking that streak. It feels like that's what got us into this mess in the first place.

My son either ignores or attacks me. I am blamed for his every unwelcome personality trait, and asked/told to leave the house if ever I get upset. Yes, I sometimes strike him out of sheer frustration, but never hard, and never without significant provocation. The atmosphere in this house is toxic.

I'm dying.

My in-laws are the least pro-active people I've ever met. Dithering, unworldly inertia isn't my thing. They are 71 going on 85. Look at Mike at their age. They're pathetic. Too timid to meet my parents before my Mum died. Too skint to travel down to Barton because of petrol money. To nervous and afraid of other people to sit in a pub and just chill out for a couple of hours. These are not my people. Quite happy to ask for £10,000 for a loan to pay off the remainder of their mortgage a month after I inherited my money, though. And then too spineless to tell me what it was for, and accept £5,000 instead. So, how much was left on the mortgage? We don't know, but I'll bet some of that loan was spent in fucking Morrisons. 

Actually give them real money, though, and before you know it, they're off pissing it up the wall on camper vans they use to visit... other areas in Devon or Cornwall (£20,000) and holiday lets  which promise 12% returns on investment. Sign me up! Here - have my £54,000! I'm in!

What's that? You need to advertise, promote, insure and physically know how to run a BTL? Oh, well in that case we'll leave it for a year, wait until OCTOBER before asking our daughter how much to charge for it, then realise it has a rodent infestation. Then, realising that we've got an entirely predictable £2,000 annual services charge looming, we'll fucking panic, and sell it for approximately £30,000. We're so stupid that Pam will actually cheer audibly at 'being free of the spectre of that bill.' 

How fucking outrageously stupid. And then too stupid to realise that they'd need money after that.

I have no desire to work. To do so makes no sense. I should just relax and look at the flowers. But flowers are boring. Money is useful. So I'll work. Better that than spend whatever time I have left looking after a child I can barely relate to, in a house 200 miles from anyone I love or know well.

You're still impressing me, fella

 and I'm still here to be impressed. 

You're potty trained, and I'm potty-mouthed. I have to get a handle on that, and am learning, slowly. 

Today is the tenth anniversary of your Grandma Sue, my Mum, dying of stomach and bowel cancer. I've had a hard day. It's incredibly cold - unseasonally chilly Arctic winds are having their way with us at the moment. The radio says the pandemic - or at least, the UK's response to it - is going well, and restrictions are about to be lifted. It's been a tough year for so many people. The suicide rate's jumped, divorce ditto, and London's a comparative ghost town. Meanwhile, you're really enjoying yourself, most of the time. You really liked my car-dancing on the way to nursery earlier, nodding your head like a real hip-hop fan. I should have video'd it. 

A couple of days ago, I posted something I shouldn't have - I was really worn out, and emotional; I get that way more and more these days. You were being really testing, and I had had enough, if I'm honest. I'm sorry. Having a baby was supposed to be the greatest thing I did, and for long periods, it has felt really crushing, and has exposed things about me, and my responses to situations, that I don't like. It makes me sad to think that I frighten you, or you feel threatened by me, because of all the things, that set of emotions is the last I'd want to engender in you. 

History says my Dad was just the same, and I ended up not liking him for it, and I was occasionally scared of him. I was more scared of my Mum, who could take things out on me that were none of my doing - it's not my fault I looked like a small version of the man she divorced, is it. Nevertheless, here I am, heading off down that road of comparing you - a small baby boy - with my fully grown-ass parents, who both loved me and gave me a great start in life before leaving me early. It's all history repeating. I realise that it's on me to change all this, and be better, but I'm racked with insecurity around all this 'take charge', 'be positive' stuff, because it's the sort of thing that my Dad complained about me not doing when I was a kid. Subsequently, I've clearly sought some kind of approval from father-figure types at work, too - older men who love my work and can find nothing wrong with me.  No idea why.

Aim high, believe in what you're doing, eat well, exercise and look after the money, and you'll be good. I love you, my little man. I love you. 

A Little Guide to Living

Being good at something meaningful is more useful then being rich.

Listening to the Beatles, Radiohead, The Velvet Underground, Max Richter, Philip Glass, Miles Davis, Queen, Kate Bush, Sinatra, Alice Coltrane, Elvis and Bowie changed my world

Only stay with someone as long as you are invested in the relationship and can see it grow.

Do not date, sleep with, flirt with or kiss your friends' partner,or someone you know they like romantically.

If you break up with someone, have the courage to do so face-to-face.

If you like someone enough to ask them out, and they are single, ask them, face to face. If they say no, forget it, get out of their orbit for a week, and be friendly Learn to move on.

You are not at liberty to force anyone to change.

Nothing is free. That includes the things you want in the future.

If the world around you feels like its on fire then staying and doing nothing won't put it out.

Some people are simply doing their job.

Those guys in clubs who cop off with lots of girls while you get ignored? They're just cocky and superficial, and worse, they have become immune to outcomes that don't immediately benefit them, which makes them sociopaths who play percentages. If they chat up 100 women in a bar, one or two will be interested, but they will attract the kind of girls who are expecting to be chatted up. Your heart is not a shop. It's not a competition. Let all the fakes pair off and leave you with the nice ones. Chill out.

Do what you love. Do what you feel called to do. Do what feels best. Do it well, and the money will come to you.

When you are 15, people will start to wonder what you should do with your life. I didn't really know, so I went with 'mudic journalist'. I just wanted to be paid to interview Bowie, really. That's an outcome- or experience-driven idea, not a career. Think about it like this instead: there are fields in which you could work: medicine, for example. If you were interested in medicine, then get a medical degree, but don't stop there - that's just the start. Go for the top - neurosurgery, say, or research - and make that your goal. Get ready for a lifetime of learning. Ask Tim about how he got where he got to, and he will say: luck and hard work, but it was fun too. That's your role model right there. 

You will have great ideas when you are pissed. Enjoy them, but don't do them until you are sober.

Some bonds you create are thicker than blood.

Life is a collection of choices you have made. It is therefore your responsibility as much as it is your doing.

Success comes from you. Your attitude, your skills, your endeavour, the advice you receive and act on, and that which you choose to ignore.

It is okay to have different points of view from your friends.

If you can hold the door open for the person behind you without them having to run, do it.

Always allow one car to merge.

More people are physically attracted to you than you will ever realise.

You cannot have everything you want, but you can have anything.

Experiences are worth more than money.

There are no guarantees in anything in life; learn to adapt.

People feel what they feel. No, you do not know better.

There are no ordinary moments.

Keep a diary. You'll forget otherwise.

Nothing happens without a reason, some reasons are just not that good.

You cannot fight every battle. Choose wisely.

Some fights are not worth fighting.

Sometimes it takes more courage to walk away. Other times it takes more courage to stay.

Everybody has their own bubble they live in. Make sure yours does not blind you to the rest of the world.

Always leave one urinal/toilet stall between you and the other person if you can.

You are too old not to start working for your dreams.

At the end of it all, the only one you have to justify your choices to is you. Make good choices now and choices you stand behind so you do not live to regret them.

Sometimes it’s better to put yourself first.

 Remember you can serve the world best when you are at your best.

 

Sometimes people need to be told the hard truth.

Don’t take away someone’s opportunity to learn from the consequences of their actions.

 

Whether or not you commit your goals to someone should not matter, because you will do it if you are certain about it regardless of who knows.

You do not need the world’s approval to live your life the way you want to.

Regardless of who you are with, always have your own life to live.

Destruction is creative. Change enables growth.

Your partner is not responsible for your happiness. And, in the opposite manner, neither are you responsible for theirs.

 

Others will not understand things the same way you do. Don’t assume they are on the same page. 

Explain it one more time.

In most of life, there are no absolutes. It’s almost always a mix of things.

Wine is good for you. Einstein smoked a pipe. Gaugin couldn't paint shit without absinthe. You can see the state of Pollock's mind in his paintings because of alcohol misuse. Beer is fine. Spirits are fine. Cannabis is good. Heroin is in every hospital. LSD cures depression. I'm not saying 'do drugs'. I'm saying 'some drugs are ok'. Don't bother with ecstasy, ketamine, cocaine, DMT or heroin.I would rather you didn't do any of them, but you will. The worst ones? Cigarettes. If you must remember that quantity, quality, control, and context are the key.

Enjoy being in love. Even if the other person doesn't know, or can't know. That feeling when they walk in the room. Don't spoil it for everyone involved by telling them. Sometimes, it's more exquisite if you keep that shit to yourself.

All politicians are liars. It's in the job description. Not all the time, and not all bad stuff. But they are elected based on their ability to convince and win arguments. Think about that in the polling booth.

The vegans are wasting their time. Eat what you like.

Every January, make a plan.

Your people are out there. The best ones are out there, heading towards your life, right now.

A baby

was supposed to be the last great thing I was involved in, but I feel like such a failure. I'm not very good at this. You don't like me, I'm moody, just like my father was, and more then once I've wished I didn't make it this far. Sometimes it all feels like a huge, huge mistake, one from which I cannot escape. Your mum and I fight all the time, and the atmosphere is toxic. You're a challenge as a result, and I feel so totally overwhelmed.

I'm sorry to say I have considered ending myself countless times. I won't though. I can't do that.

Not sure, in retrospect.

 My siezures are getting worse. Weaker and weaker in the left leg, left hand, and not really covered off by the meds. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TTAU7lLDZYU

The opening of Radiohead’s Glastonbury headline set. We listened to this and made our baby.

Weirdly enough, I have been dreaming of a white room that opens out onto a sunny beach since Lucy died. No joke. Watch the video.

Dreamers

They never learn

They never learn

Beyond, beyond the point

Of no return

Of no return

And it's too late

The damage is done

The damage is done

This goes

Beyond me

Beyond you

The white room

By a window

Where the sun comes

Through

We are

Just happy to serve

Just happy to serve

You

Coincidences:

His wife was Rachel Owen. She died of a brain tumour 18/12/16, 

1-e is wearing Rick Owen shoes on the video. Same initial and same last name as his wife. 

2 - He walks through 23 doors in the video, the same amount of years they were together. They are the Dreamers. She is the dreamer. They  never learnt. She went beyond the point of no return. It is too late, the damage is done.  This goes beyond him or her to a white room (hospital) where the sun comes through.

3 - At this point you start hearing a series of painful crying or moaning, as if someone is taking their last breath and the music climaxes. You hear the heavy breathing, as if the female voice leaves, and only the male breathing continues, as he escapes to the mountains in heavy exhales. Then "I miss you, I really miss you, I miss you, I love you so, I miss you so, I need you so". 

He falls sleep, the screen fades to black. The backwards audio at the end is Thom intoning the phrase ‘half of my life’ over and over.

Shame

 I've not got much to say at the moment, and this blog is something I really wish I could

Leo News: You're Off and Running!

...Aaaaand, we're back. Been busy doing some properly intense child-rearing so no new posts for a couple of months, but what's happened since I last hollered into one of these little boxes? Well, you're talking in full sentences, which amuses our various healthcare professionals no end. You can repeat almost anything I say, basically verbatim, on first listen. This means you share a skill for language with me - I can remember being the same when I was only a little older than you. A right little chatterbox, in other words. I love it.

You're also dabbling with potty training, so our bathrooms have these insane wee-Dalek-things on every toilet, should Sir deign to go the whole draws-dropping hog. Sometimes you do, sometimes not, but as with most other things, you're pretty sanguine about things. You seem to oscillate wildly from laissez-faire, laid back little geezer one minute and incredibly precise, intricate, detail-obsessed perfectionist the next. Your personality is your own, but I can see a little man with a face like mine, a demeanour that's a blend of me and your Mum, and some great aspects of your grandparents as well. You stick at things until you're happy with them, like your Mum, but you're impulsive and prone to mood-swings, like me. You're getting braver, like your Mum, but you're prone to timidity and shyness, like me. It's fascinating. You're fascinating. You don't have my obsession with pizza yet, but you appear to like the smell of coffee. You'll do well in the long run, mate. 

Also, you're a genuine pleasure to be around. Sometimes, you drive us both to distraction, and you've caused more arguments than Brexit or lockdowns combined, but only because we both love you to bits and you're a demanding little boy. You make us better at being humans - thankyou for that. You demand food, love, attention, help, praise, comfort, shelter, warmth, challenges, reciprocation of effort, time, money and 99% of the available space in our brains, but we'll let you have all of that. I think you're going to be a hell of a guy, and I hope you'll be a good man, full of life, hope and conviction. I get the feeling you're going to be a handful, as there'll be no little foil for you to compete with for a while, but you'll get there, my man.

The struggle is real

Really not feeling good today, or yesterday. Cancer, it won't surprise you to hear, can be a nails-hard bitch. Today I have been apocalyptically tired, wobbly, easily confused, hot, sweaty, clumsy, permanently spooked, jumpy, tense, emotional, physically weak, fearful over nothing. Bit of a shambles really. I don't like it. Still, tomorrow's tomorrow, which might be different. And knowing this disease, it probably will be.

Called my oncology team today. They were supposed to send me the results of my last scan, which was itself four months late, and finally took place two weeks ago. They didn't send it, though. Why? Nobody knows. Further arse-kicking apparently needed tomorrow, then. None of this is helping matters.

This might be the start of the phase I'll call 'digging in'. For the first time in months, I am actually a bit fearful today. It's real, and it's not going to stop.

If it's right, or right enough, do it.

 "There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures."
William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar.

I am waiting for a long-overdue scan. I have a feeling the result will be bad. I have been in bed this morning, but was awake, worrying, at 0430. This causes my symptoms to make their dubious presence felt.

So: tired + stressed + (symptoms arising from stress) = tired, symptomatic and stressed.

These are the days I would skip altogether. The sun is out, and you are at nursery. You're due back soon, all hot and bothered, and you'll probably go to bed. The dog hasn't eaten. I have. 

I feel no better. Some days, everything is a task, to be tackled or avoided. There is no point to sunshine on days like this. It just makes me hotter, which I do not need.

Poem: In the Long Grass

I fell out, out, out of the plain
Falling, I burn crops off the end of the world
In the long grass, clocks tick, wires hum
A dry-stone edifice cartoon roadrunner brick wall

When I think of it, darling
I've been like this for some time
Go see a mother's real woman, child
Don't ask me to explain why I know

But I am a lighter

I've got a fight left in me

It's going to the wire

All I know is the man in the grey suit knows who wins

She'll extinguish my attitude

I wanna cup of coffee and a smoke on the side
Cos I'm no longer the feeling thing

I'll be, be, be a spectre
Someone's got to tame your monsters before they tame you
I'd do it for crackers, weed and a bottle of booze

My house parties all over me
Cheap wine leaks from the weeds
Grown in grit and rain by my front door

There's no kerosene there, and the earth is soft

But I am a lighter

I've got a fight left in me

It's going to the wire

All I know is the man in the grey suit knows who wins

 

She'll extinguish my attitude

I wanna cup of coffee and a smoke on the side

Cos I'm no longer the feeling thing

My fickle limbs make me sway like Patti Smith
Call me ashamed, sometimes just delight and delete me
Call my name in the dark when you need me
Will I ever learn?

When will we ever learn?

Cures roam the streets at nights

Sodium strip light tight skin slick fang fat twitch muscle split blood food life itch

That's the real deal

She knows that it's here, now

She sees the change in the way that I walk

The gate was open, now the gait's closed

But she'll extinguish my attitude

I wanna cup of coffee and a smoke on the side

Cos I'm no longer the feeling thing

But I am a lighter

I've got a fight left in me

It's going to the wire

All I know is the man in the grey suit knows who wins

Lockdown Music

Hey - thanks for coming back. That's the sort of bravery that gets rewarded around here. 

The good news today is that in yesterday's post, I didn't decide today's would be about politics. If it was I'd be furiously tapping away, railing against Mr Trump and his hoodlums. But no - today is a Music Tuesday. As promised, this is an off-the-cuff, unresearched, ad-libbed treatise on music generally. It's a bit harder than I expected, because the live music scene is effectively shutdown globally at present, thanks to our friend Covid19, so I thought I'd start elsewhere.

Spotify's a divisive, possibly malign presence in modern life, dressed up as an all-you-can-stream buffet of musical choice. A freewheeling, listen-to-anything consumer-led utopia, where everything feels free and instantaneous. When Arcade Fire released Everything Now, they were basically lampooning the cultural shift towards streams, the absence of ownership on the part of consumers, and the masterstroke, pulled off by record labels and the service itself, to convince their former customers to effectively rent things they already own. Simultaneously, Spotify presumably donned the floor-length black cloak beloved of pantomime villains and swept evilly away, cackling at the Moon as it went. 

I knew this day would come the moment the Green Demon launched. I resisted it for a couple of years, bought more vinyl than ever, had long, circular conversations about audio quality with friends, and even started making my own music sound as analogue as possible. But I knew the writing was on the wall. Streaming stuff just feels easier to do, once you get your head around it, and if you don't mind cheating artists out of a few quid now and again. It had been there in plain sight for years. 

The digital takeover of previously analogue media (not to mention the misty-eyed reverie for the crackle and pop of the past) gathered pace alongside faster, more stable internet connections, smaller, more capacious forms of digital storage, and what we used to call 'convergence technology' back when I worked at MacUser. Again, the fact that I'm tapping this out on a Chromebook - essentially a browser with a keyboard attached, with almost no storage to speak of, and no need for anything as crass as an external hard drive or as slow as physical media - should tell its own story. Everything is digital now. Everything. 

Music itself, as far as I'm aware, has to be digitised in order to be distributed these days, too. I think I'm right in saying that unless the vinyl you're listening too was recorded straight from the original analogue master, there's bound to be some ones and zeroes in there somewhere. The record labels (all four of them - ha!) knew this, and realised that all they had to do was keep signing up the cultural touchstones that the Boomers needed to see on there, and play the long game. Eventually, whole generations of kids wouldn't understand 'the  album' in the same way that their parents did, and it wouldn't matter at all. Songs are just songs. Artists are just brands. Listening is still an emotional connection, and that connection is controlled entirely by users now. Things done changed, for real. 

An example of what I mean: In 1974, Stevie Wonder released Talking Book. I think it's a pretty good record, and I bought it when I was at university. I listened to it mainly because I knew and liked his voice, his lyrics and because I admired the fact that he is a black man whose God-given talent enabled him to overcome racism, prejudice and segregation through the sheer power and emotional pulse of his songs. With all that, I only really knew Superstition well, and loved it. Did I listen to the rest of Talking Book as closely as I did that particular song? No, I didn't. Why not? Because I really only wanted to listen to Superstition to confirm what I already knew about it. It's funky as fuck, his voice is amazing on it, and my confirmation bias, effectively, stopped me from learning more about him. Nowadays, I don't think I could name two other songs off that album. 

Spotify knew this all already, of course. They could see that people would just go for what they knew, and wouldn't mind being 'nudged' into the quasi-unknown by a service that had historically served them dutifully and well. The service started suggesting songs users might enjoy after a couple of years, and consumers never really looked back. Increasingly, rivals like Deezer, Tidal and even Apple Music have started to look irrelevant, as the might of Spotify's millions of users started to dictate terms over the rest of the market. Artists started issuing singles exclusively through Spotify - creating a cheap, instantaneous ROI for the labels, and making it easier for Spotify to control who listens to what, when and where. Slowly but surely, Spotify has become the music business, and has taken the payment model away from the labels, replacing it with an arbitrary £-per-stream model. God help struggling artists in currently-unfashionable genres now. 

About a decade ago, I remember reading somewhere - it may even have been out of the mouth of Simon Cowell - that you needed at least a million quid spare to launch a new pop artist to the level where they're on, say, Later With Jools Holland. Once they're there, you need to record an album, tour for two years, get a US and ROW deal and just keep going until you're in the black. That model wouldn't work at all now, would it?

And there's more, too. Former UFC chatterbox and occasional transphobe Joe Rogan's podcast is pretty damn interesting and funny, and he is, to coin a phrase, already absolutely fucking minted. His Youtube channel has 8m-plus subscribers, and he's just been paid about $100m to switch to Spotify from December 1st. Whatever you think of Rogan - I happen to find him amusing, and his guests frequently interesting, funny and left-field - that means he is the biggest 'artist' on Spotify. If that move away from YouTube succeeds and grows the platform, more popular podcasts will join Rogan's. Spotify will eventually become not just 'a distributor' or 'a platform' but 'the only platform that matters' in the longer term. Spotify could become what we used to think of as 'the record industry' itself. 

But is that bad? It seems inevitable that something will come for YouTube in the middle of the night at some point - that's capitalism, folks! - but record labels are already faceless conglomerates owned by shareholders. Does any of it matter to consumers? It doesn't seem to. Also - I used to buy albums by established artists on physical media, for example, 'so that Weller got some of my money, because I want to support him and help him pay his bills.' How twee. As if me buying 22 Dreams on CD the day it was released would help the Modfather out with the next month's Council Tax.    

What matters to me is that there are brilliant, angry, left-field artists out there, doing it their own way. Taylor Swift is all well and good, but Billie Eilish is far, far more interesting. They are both on major labels, but Eilish has a new, bold aesthetic that I've not really seen before. Musicians who shake things up have done just that ever since Little Richard. That's what's important, really. Music shouldn't all be safe, homogenised pap for the masses, and really, as long as there are innovators around, who gives a shit how you got their music into your life? 

To me, Spotify just gives me an easy way to do what I love doing: exploring music, finding new sounds, reliving older stuff and uncovering proper gems amid all the twaddle. Without Spotify, I wouldn't be able to listen to a crazy Purple Disco Machine remix of an old Chaka Kahn record that came out yesterday. That element of discovery is what I've always loved about it. I don't want everything now. But I might want a dazzling breadth of choice, and the opportunity to uncover songs that can brighten my day, change my life, make me cry, give me hope and everything else in between. Spotify can do that, sure, but the medium is not the message in this case. I just love music, and all things considered, Spotify presents an easy way to continue doing that.

I didn't soundtrack this piece of writing, but maybe I will do so in future. I didn't really need to, since my wife was streaming Alanis Morisette pretty much for the duration. I think that's an effective measure of how we work now. 1463 words, off the top of my head, in just under 90 minutes.

The End of Lockdown

Since mid-March, we've been in lockdown, which has basically meant that most shops, offices and pubs have been shut. It's been a difficult time, but you've not really noticed. You're back at nursery, Mummy is back at work, and I am back doing whatever it is I do. We'll call it 'existing' until a better definition surfaces.

I feel hollow, really. Frustrated by my own inadequacies as a father, the overwhelming sense that I'm useless and the notion, even harder to shift, that you don't need me, and I don't really provide anything useful to you. I never thought I'd feel this way when you were a rumour, but there you go. That's what I feel. I don't know where this has come from, but it's made life pretty difficult of late.

Poem: Berenice

I love the Veils, especially their first few albums. This is an Edgar Allen Poe-inspired lyric I like so much I made a screenprint of it once.

Berenice, my hands my feet are worn
As much as yours are
And though my head, my hands, my heart are forming
They still feel worlds apart

Berenice
Beneath it all You're golden
And that's all I'm feeding off

And though my head, my hands, are growing colder
We move circles now

Berenice, there's no release at all
That's not worth dying for

Berenice, my hands, my feet Are worn
As much as yours are

Berenice, there's no release at all
That's not worth dying for
And it's not for our desires but our design that we all fall apart

Berenice, there's no release at all
That's worth crying for
And though I'm on my knees, I still don't don't believe it

But, we all fall down

Mummy goes back to the coal-face

For the last few months, we've been living through what can only be described as a once-in-a-century, global pandemic. You've probably heard about it by now. It's called Covid19, and has fundamentally changed how we live, work, meet up and suchlike for the foreseeable future. As a result, Mum and I have been stuck indoors for three months, while thousands of people all over the world have had to self-isolate - not see anyone etc - until the infection either goes away or a cure is found.

It's been a shitty nettle to have to grasp, but grasp it we have. We are fine - although your uncle Neil's had it and mercifully made a full recovery - but it's meant you've not been able to go to nursery or play with other kiddoes, and everyone's had to keep their distance from everyone else, which, as you can imagine, has been basically farcical since it was introduced three months ago. Essentially, though, we're fine. Grandad Nigel - or GranGran as you call him - has an underlying health condition which means he has to be 'sheltered' at home, so you've not, technically speaking, been able to see him.

That said, restrictions are loosening and you've bumped into Nanna and GranGran a couple of times. It's been a toughie, so it has. I've felt rough as a result of stress caused by it, and in turn been pretty useless here and there. You've been a little geezer throughout, though, and haven't really complained about the lack of playdates or social interaction that's been enforced by the Government. You little soldier, you.

Anyway, restrictions have now been lifted a bit, so Mum has gone back to work today, and has been beavering away pretty diligently today. You're off to nursery tomorrow, for the first time in three months, which we're nervous about, but it's required, and the chances of anything bad happening are pretty low for you and us. Your Mum and I both reckon we've had Coronavirus already - never in my life have I had a virus as horrid as the one that struck just after lunchtime on Boxing Day.

All of which means I am in charge of you today. Luckily, I'm feeling pretty well, all things considered, and you've been a sun-dappled little joy all day. Less fortunately, it's hotter than the seventh circle of Hell here today. Honestly, you could smelt copper on the patio. That said, please don't try that when you're older. My plan for this afternoon's fascinating, educational and inspirational session is to.. stick your dirty little body in the bath, as that's always been a sure-fire way to calm you down. Waking you up from your afternoon nap is always a struggle, but it's one that Radox has always alleviated.

I've also decided to set myself a proper creative challenge using my new and still-excellent Chromebook - I'm going to write 1,000 words per day, every day, for a year, and possibly seek to publish the results. You and doubtless thousands of others can head over to 1keveryday.blogspot.com to check out my latest repetitive bletherings if you'd like.

Right - time to run Stig of the Dump a bath. Love you grubface x

Poem: Shouts from Downstairs

Today's only getting warmer
Too hot, too close for dog's paw or man's feet
The pavements compete with the concrete heatsink
That grey-glowing, surrounds each bright house

Barbecues lit, at a social distance
Embers and cold bottles warming
Screw the pestilence
Paddling pools for wading
Shorts and wet socks
Cut grass and birdsong
Glass in quartz flecks on pavements
And shouts from downstairs

Reverie #2

It will be quiet and full of dappled light in the large, wooden shack. My clothes and everything I need will be on a table in front of me, and sunlight will creep through the gaps between the old planks. I’ll realise nothing hurts, I’m stood up, and I feel great. I’ll get dressed, and bergamot and vetiver will scent my fresh, new clothes. The sand will tickle the soles of my stupid, flat feet. A warm, jasmine breeze will blow through a window to my left, through which a broad, lapping ocean will glitter. On the table in front of me will be a watch, three silver bracelets and a leather one, inscribed TH & AJ. I’ll put them on my left wrist, and my wedding ring on my left ring finger. Everything in its right place. 

I will by now have realises what has happened, and be afraid. I will panic, and try to go back, but there will be no door. I will worry, feel lonely, cry, and then come to terms, and realise that I am OK, and can only go forward through the door into the unknown.

I will dust myself down, breathe a painless and sweet breath, stretch my limbs for the first time in ages, and smile. I will open the door in front of me to find an enormous, idyllic beach - a perfect ocean, with multitudes of people I have known and many I have not, laughing, playing, walking and greeting each other. The surf will be perfect, and I will know that here, I am a perfect surfer. 

There will be a really nice beach bar, with no queue.  I will grab a drink at the bar - most likely a martini - kick my flipflops off, and wander into the warm surf, the sun heating my back. After a time, I will find Lucy, who will ask where I got the martini from. She will take me to Mum, Grandma and Grandad, who will be wondering whether to put the windbreak up. I assume that even in the afterlife, my sense of direction will be crap, too. We’ll greet each other like lost souls, cry and laugh, and stroll around. Grandad will suggest some sort of walk to a distant smattering of rockpools, but I’ll swerve that, as a cheerily-waving Bowie will float over on a bright yellow lilo, and start playing The Prettiest Star for us on Robert Johnson’s guitar. That’s sure to be good.  

After that, I’ll just circulate with the great and the good, top up my tan, eyeball Marilyn Monroe a bit and get a round in. Maybe I’ll sit and play cards with the fam until Hendrix, Elvis and Prince do the sunset/acoustic thing and someone lights the bonfire. Maybe I’ll go and book a meeting on a pedalo with God, entitled Shit That Doesn’t Seem To Stack Up (1 hour). Maybe all things will be revealed unto me, and all this will make perfect sense. Maybe it is my job in life to leave one good man on the Earth to be upstanding and grow old in my stead? Who knows? Chances are, I’m going to find out before you do. Anyway, one night, around the time the stars come out, you guys might even start to show up. No muss, no fuss - take your time.

Practicality

Before I actually pop off, I’ll leave a will, so everything I want to be done will be done right. I’ll be cremated, and I think I would like it if my ashes were scattered in or near water - partly on Barton beach at high tide - where I started - partly in London’s Thames, where I defined myself - and partly in a river in Dartmoor in Devon, where we brought new life into the world and I left it. 

I like the idea that my body will become one with the air, the sea, the fields and the clouds, and this way, will eventually join the cycle of the earth, my ancestors and the entire universe, as we are all made of energy, and energy is indivisible. I would like to think that I will be part of everything and everywhere, all the time and for all time. Carl Sagan, who I will chat with on the beach, will no doubt confirm all this. He’s a smart man, Carl. 

I am only sorry that my son and wife will miss me, but I feel like I will be able to watch them somehow, nudging and trimming their fates, just as I feel my mother has done for me since she died. There is a poetry to the arrival of my son, in some ways, don’t you think? I’ll be rooting for him and all of you, just around the corner, and you might be sad for a while, but you’ll be fine without me. 

I know I will see everyone again as clearly as I know tomorrow is a day of the week. Death holds no fear for me whatsoever. I don’t like pain, or liars, belittlers, or people who let me down, but people are human, too. I have loved far more than not. I have had a good time, despite some bad times. I have plenty of good times to come, too. I have learned a lot about people, and this set of events has finally convinced me that when true friends are truly needed, they truly appear. Everyone is either excellent or capable of being so if they try.  

Religion

I do not really believe in God - I am open to Him being up there, of course, but I sincerely doubt He exists. I love the idea of an idyllic, permanent afterlife, though - as a freedom from pain and suffering experienced here, and a reward for living and dying well. That idea sustains me as I go on this journey. I feel like if that’s what I want to believe as I reach the end, that’s my choice. I want to go to that beach, and rest and recuperate with my relatives, and have fun. So, since that’s my vision - the one I have carried with me ever since I did some hypnotherapy a few years ago, and the one I revisit in times of stress - that’s the one I’m going to at the end. My perception is my reality. 

As far as God’s will is concerned, I can’t help noticing that every time I’ve ever needed help, I believe I have received it not from a spirit, but from a real person. Their motivations to do good by others are sometimes religious or spiritual in origin, but real people do all the heavy lifting. While I believe that my ancestors sometimes seem to have ‘willed’ something into my life - my Mum especially - real flesh-and-blood people are usually the actual architects of change. You don’t need faith or hocus-pocus to build a church after all - they are made of bricks, mortar, people’s effort and willpower. That’s not God carrying bags of cement around - that’s ordinary folk, either working because they believe in Him or because they are being paid to. Simple. 

That said, I sometimes envy the succour that people derive from an unprovable notion that ‘someone up there’ will look after them in the end. Their adherence to an idea that cannot, as far as we know so far, actually be the case, is as impressive as it feels unfounded. I don’t want to denigrate it - faith has, historically, made ordinary people do some extraordinary things, after all. 

I can’t claim religious belief in that way - science makes more sense to me. Then again, science is the enemy of mysticism, and I am quite into that - while I want to believe in the essential goodness of people, I truly hope that all of that positive energy goes somewhere else when the body stops working. 

If it doesn’t, so be it - I will become nothing, with no consciousness - just worm-food; part of the rock you’re standing on in space. Sounds good to me. If that’s the case, I won’t even be there ‘intellectually’ to realise I’m dead. Either way, I am fine with it - my ‘afterlife’ will exist in the form of the legacy I leave for my child and Tamsin’s future. 

In a way, as long as I do good things and leave a mark, I don’t really die at all, and I find that hugely comforting. I don’t regret anything I’ve done, or what I became, or who I am. I am proud to have called everyone I know a friend. To me, this whole thing is just walking through a door. Everyone does it, and it doesn’t even hurt. Just a blues player gone to another town. I’ll see you in the next one - don’t be late. 

I will continue to love and treasure you all, and you know I’ll see you soon.