The Sex Pistols accompanied me to work this morning; MOST unusual, as I usually rely on the calming sounds of the car’s ventilation fan to insulate me from the dullards queuing around me or indulging their moronic desires to occupy the bit of road my sensible car wishes to continue to exist unscathed in.

Oh yes, dullards.

Stuck behind drivers without the knowledge of how tiny their insignificantly-wide city car happens to be as they sit immobile before a gap through which my leviathan of a sensible family car fits with ease, I often ponder the meaning of life. Or wish carnage on the individuals around me. And their families.

So in my next life I should like to be a Time Lord; omnipotent, free of the petty restrictions polite society imposes, and with the ability to rearrange, er… things. (I’m assuming I’d work out the detail at the time.)

Every time someone intrudes, does something that bends, or breaks, the laws of British roads, I lose something.

Reasonable-ness? Benevolence? After this morning’s commute am I the same as I was yesterday? I don’t effing think so!

(sighs…) It wasn’t BAD per se, but the stupid WAS strong today. Maybe The Sex Pistols helped me make sense of it. Not bad for a near-forty-year-old band.


14 again

If you’re a certain age, grew up and entered your teens in a pre-Internet era, you’ll have had a limited choice of music. Ok, I don’t mean a limited choice, I mean it wasn’t instantaneously there, at your fingertips.

Take your favourite streaming service, look at the breadth and depth of music; from classical to the latest ephemeral nonsense. Er… no, let’s not let prejudice intrude here eh. Simply put, aren’t we lucky? If there’s nothing on a self-produced play list, pick a ‘station’ thrown together by someone else, find inspiration from RANDOMNESS - something not available even at the height of the anarchically-sited radio stations of the golden age of radio!

Yes, lucky.

Right now I’m not listening to my old stuff (late-seventies to early nineties), no. I’m instead listening to twenty one pilots’ Blurryface album. Over and over again. Played loud on my rather nice Bluetooth headphones.*

A journey of discovery. So yeah, I’m 14 again and, do you know, it’s not all bad.

*Bluedio R+ Legend. Look them up. They’re comfortable, well-suited to my ears, maybe they have a bit of a heavy low end, and leak a bit around the edges… but heck, so do I these days!


Heading into the festive season most people would assume the worst of 2016 would be over by now.

It just got worse.*

It’s been getting worse for some time, but…

There’s one thing** that would lead me to believe there is hope for a brighter future: that the US President would attend Fidel Castro’s funeral. Officially. Sure it’d upset a metric shedload of closed-minded morons, but for the rest of us…

I’m not talking here about an indicator or a signal, I’m not inclined to use the weasel words politicians use when they cannot bring themselves to explicitly state a POSITION. I’d like Barack Obama simply to state he’s going to pay respects to another head of state.

We’ve been given only hope that lots of things will be brighter soon, we’ll be more prosperous soon, enjoy greater safety in SO many areas… soon. Or eventually. And yet the political classes simply cannot state HOW.

So let’s have the classy, though outgoing, President of the greatest country on the planet*** send an actual message to the future. No, he’d be better sending it to the present.

The message is a simple one: it’s not about them and us, it’s about us.

I for one want something rational, easily-explained, to be included in a process (even if it’s to be spoon-fed an outline of the plans affecting my future) and something that can’t be taken back, something that isn’t vague promises or populist soundbites.

It seems though that 2017 isn’t going to bring us stability, to benefit ‘normal’ people.

So, @POTUS, how’s about a trip to Cuba?

What other indicators do we have that this modern age of enlightenment is NOT about to end?

*And, do you know, the year is not over yet, not by a long way.

**If you’re interested I do have more than one thing.

***Hmmm… even self-proclaimed isn’t right any more, the current message is about making it great AGAIN, implying it isn’t now. What a sad admission.


It’s fair to say that 2016 has been a bit of a shocker for most, both in celebrity deaths and in the confounding of many’s preconceived ideas of normality.

In the main I follow like-minded social media accounts. Ok, like-minded people. But there’s a downside: my views are confirmed in by those from whom I take my barometric measurements.

I’ve decided that, to ensure I’m better-prepared for the nasty surprises (and those nasties I’m EXPECTING!) during 2017, I shall look outside my comfort zone. Proven psychic ability, especially in the arena of celebrity death precondition, I’ve an open mind about.

If you understand and you’ve any recommendations I’m all ears.

Equilibrium, please.


I’ve already established that I cry when we go to the movies. I cry when we watch movies at home. My personal record is the afternoon we watched ‘Up’ and ‘Toy Story 3’ back-to-back.

I LIVE the film, the novel, the rolling saga, the trilogy in seven parts, I live ALL of it; it’s the only way I know to approach storytelling.

Well, it seems that there’s a second medium to add to my waterworks-provoking repertoire: the novel, spoken out loud.

I’ve been reading J.R.R. Tolkien’s ‘The Hobbit’ to my daughters for a while now; this evening we reached the chapter of this blog post’s title.

Boy, is this good stuff! I’m there within the cosseting gloom of bedtime, doing all the voices and then… I simply could not continue. The emotions of the tragic scene unfolding before us, after LIVING the preceding tale spilled over and…

After a few false starts, and Just as I’d managed to compose myself, my youngest daughter, oh-so-nearly 7, wondered aloud if maybe I didn’t know how to pronounce the words on the page, and offered to read on my behalf.

And yes, that kindness again stopped the story reading in its tracks; I had to excuse myself, promising to restart the chapter following evening.

And so I shall.