Gary Hall’s Weblog

After several polite verbal attempts at rousing Gail, Jane decided to enhance her wake up call technique with a boisterous banging campaign, which Gail eventually acknowledged by wrenching the door open and hurling a stiletto shoe at Jane, missing her head by millimetres. As Gail was fumbling around for more missiles, Jane - well versed in the art of stiletto evasion and determined not to ruin her mother’s big day with any sibling rivalry – began a rapid retreat downstairs.
 
However, just as she cleared the bottom stair and was only a few short steps from the refuge of the living room, a second shoe struck her just above the left ear. Jane hit the deck harder than an unlucky skydiver and released a deafening wail, interspersed with a varied array of insults, which brought Colleen running in from the kitchen.

‘What the fucking hell is going on here?’ Colleen bellowed, immediately leaping on top of Jane and pinning her to the floor to reduce the chance of any further reprisals. Once satisfied Jane was completely secure, Colleen continued,
‘Look, you little bastards, I’ve been slaving away all fucking morning in that kitchen trying to get these orders sorted out in time to sign on and get myself ready for this afternoon and all you two can do is piss about like a pair of fucking social workers. Have you no consideration for others?’
‘All I was doing was trying to get the fat cow out of bed like you told me to, Mum.’ Jane bleated breathlessly from the floor, still struggling to free herself from Colleen’s clutches and wreak revenge on Gail.
‘Who are you calling a fat cow, dog breath?’ Gail hissed menacingly from the landing, now armed with a fresh arsenal of shoes and clearly ready to rumble. Before Jane had a chance to respond, Colleen stepped in once again with her own distinctive style of parental guidance.
‘Look, if you two don’t shut the fuck up right now, I swear to God, I’ll freeze the fucking pair of you out of the family business and you can both pack your bags and piss off, do you understand me?’        
‘Oh yeah, and who the fuck are you going to get to help you run things around here if you chuck us two out?’ sniped Gail petulantly from the landing.
 ‘I’ll get young Chardonnay Murdoch to sort out any orders I can’t cope with myself and she can help me with the pirate DVDs as well.’   Colleen retorted.     
‘Chardonnay Murdoch is just a snotty, jumped up little brat that sucks up to you.’ Jane protested, still in a crumpled heap beneath her Mother.
‘Well, she may be a snotty nosed little brat to you, Jane, but she was an absolute fucking Godsend to me this summer when you two buggered off again on your 18 to 30’s jaunt and left me in the lurch for the third year running.’
‘And you reckon she’ll be able to deal with all the coppers, bailiffs and awkward customers then, do you?’ Gail sneered sarcastically.
‘No, but her Mother will. In case you’ve forgotten, smart arse, Liebfraumilch gets out of the nick next month and she’s already looking for new business opportunities on the outside. And, as I’m sure you’re both aware, Liebfraumilch Murdoch doesn’t take any shit from anyone. Remember what happened last year when we were all having a drink outside the Flying Bottle and her probation officer walked past and refused to kiss the family pit bull?’

After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, Colleen realised that her parenting skills were starting to have the desired effect. Rising up slowly from Jane’s ribcage, she got to her feet and then hit the girls with a knock out blow.

‘Oh, and one more thing, if you two can’t make the effort to be fucking civil with each other on today of all frigging days, you can both keep well away from that community centre this afternoon, do I make myself absolutely fucking clear?’ And with that Colleen slammed the door behind her and marched back into the kitchen.

Although both girls knew deep down that Colleen would never freeze them out of the family business, nor see them out on the street, they recognised the threat of being excluded from the award ceremony as a very real one.  Everybody in town knew just how much this award meant to Colleen and that no one - not even her own flesh and blood - would be allowed to ruin her special day.

Gail and Jane realised they had a big decision to make, and quickly: either call an instant halt to their hostilities or risk missing out on the award ceremony and, more importantly, the chance to bask in all the reflected glory.  

Things weren’t always this volatile between the Synott sisters. In fact, until Gail slept with Jane’s first husband, Mick Fletcher, hours after he discovered his blushing bride in the back of Jim Mumford’s taxi  ‘paying her fare in kind’, the girls had been very close.  But ever since that fateful night, Jane has never been able to forgive Gail for sleeping with her now ex-husband, (something she still does from time to time to wind Jane up) and Gail has never been able to forgive Jane for throwing her marriage to Mick away so cheaply after only six weeks of wedlock. ‘All that agro for a one pound eighty fare’ Gail will exclaim disparagingly, every time the subject of Jane’s infidelity comes up ‘You could at least have got a fucking airport run out of it.’          
      
On this particular occasion Gail was the first to weaken. She tossed the shoe she was holding on to her bedroom floor and began walking downstairs towards Jane. Sensing her sister’s desire to call a truce, Jane rolled tentatively onto her side and hauled herself up a few inches from the floor to meet Gail’s outstretched hand.
      
‘Come on sis’ Gail said as she pulled Jane to her feet and gave her a playful punch on the arm ‘If we don’t get ready soon we’re going to be late signing on.’ Jane smiled, threw her arms around Gail and gave her a big sisterly hug.

Whilst hugging Gail, Jane suddenly grabbed the stray piece of kebab meat that had been clinging stubbornly to the side of Gail’s face throughout the whole ordeal and began waving it in front of Gail’s eyes as a hypnotist would with a watch. As soon as Gail realised what it was, she let out a loud, piercing ‘Oh-my-god-what-a-silly-cow-I-am’ cackle before snatching it straight back out of Jane’s hand.

‘You can get your own fucking breakfast next time’ Gail screeched, lifting the piece of meat high above her head and dancing around the hallway with it hanging from her fingertips like some mad Morris dancer dangling a manky hankie. Jane was laughing so much that no matter how hard she tried to make her sister drop the meat, Gail somehow managed to evade her and keep a firm grip on it. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Jane spotted a Christian Aid envelope on top of a pile of final demands that had been lying around for weeks next to the ‘phone on the hallstand.

‘Stop, Gail, stop, give it to me!’ she squealed ‘I’ve got a great idea, you’re going to fucking love it, trust me, just watch this.’ Reluctantly, Gail handed over the piece of meat and slumped down on the bottom stair to catch her breath as Jane proceeded to take the piece of meat and drop it into the envelope, seal it up and then place it back on to the hallstand ready for collection.
‘Well they’re always fucking moaning about having no food aren’t they the miserable bastards’ Jane howled uncharitably, instantly causing both girls to collapse into uncontrollable fits of giggles once again.

To be continued…

www.freespeechbooks.com

Gail Synott staggered through the front doors of the False Tan Tavern and flung herself into the bleak Sneath night with all the poise and finesse of an Easy Jet baggage handler. The moment the fresh air hit her Gail began to feel faint and steadied herself against the police van parked outside. She managed to remain upright just long enough to light a Lambert & Butler and take a few deep drags before that old familiar force they call gravity came back to haunt her once again.

By the time Gail was back on her feet, the autumnal chill had already started to penetrate the warm glow of booze in her bloodstream. She wrapped what little she was wearing around her flabby frame, re-adjusted her thong from barely visible back to blatantly obvious, and set off for home at as brisk a pace as possible to try and combat the cold. After an abundance of brief bouts of synchronised slurring with simpletons in a similar state, plus her obligatory visit to Kardiac’s kebabs, Gail finally turned the key in the lock of forty-seven Cairnsmore Avenue at 1.57 am. The second she opened the door and saw the house in complete darkness, Gail realised that the promise she had made to her Mother and sister (five pints and six shots earlier) - to be home in time for an early night - had been broken.

The following afternoon was to be a very important milestone in the criminal career of the Synott family and they were all well aware that they would have to look their best. In just over ten hours time, during the annual ‘Crime Pays’ ceremony held at the Sneath community centre, Gail’s Mother, Colleen, was due to be presented with a lifetime achievement award for her continued commitment to catalogue fraud from Janine Pierrepoint-Browne - Sneath’s very own Crime Invention Officer. Mindful of the fact that her big night had already eaten into her Mother’s big day by several hours, Gail immediately wobbled upstairs to bed for some much-needed beauty sleep.

The next morning Gail awoke to the familiar sound of a pounding head and the distinctive scent of stale meat. She opened one of her bleary, blood-shot eyes and managed to locate the Paracetamol packet, balanced enticingly against a bottle of Bacardi Breezer on the bedside cabinet. She reached over, popped two pills directly from the foil tray into her mouth and washed them down with the dregs that were left in the bottle. Then, after peeling the remains of last night’s kebab from her pillow, she disappeared again beneath the duvet.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Gail’s Mum, Colleen was already hard at it; sorting through the day’s consignment of knock off goods that were ready for delivery. Although the ‘Crime Pays’ ceremony didn’t start until midday, she still needed to get all her customers’ orders prepared, sign on down the Social and get dolled up for the big occasion. In the living room, Gail’s elder sister, Jane, was sprawled out on the sofa watching the Trisha show whilst lovingly polishing her vast collection of sovereign rings and garish gold trinkets.
‘Give our Gail a knock and tell her to get her fat arse out of bed will you Jane.’ Colleen shouted from the kitchen.
‘In a minute, Mum, I’m just watching a really fucking rocking Trisha repeat, I’ll go up during the adverts.’
‘Which one is it?’ Colleen enquired.
‘The one with that fella with the shaved head, whose missus was doing the rounds while he was banged up for armed robbery.’ Gail replied.
‘What that bloke with the ‘cut here’ tattoo on his neck and those big, beautiful, visit-me-in-prison-eyes?’
‘Yeah, that’s the geezer, do you remember him?
‘Do I remember him? How could I ever forget such a fine fucking specimen of a man, Gail? Kick boxing champion. Did his first stretch aged fourteen. Seven kids to six different women. Never worked a day in his life and a Granddad at twenty-nine. Is that the one by any chance?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one. You’ve just missed that fucking brilliant bit where Trish gives him a proper tongue lashing for attacking his son in law with a chair and wrestling with the studio security staff.’

Colleen stopped what she was doing and hurried excitedly into the living room. She parked herself down on the sofa next to Jane, where they both sat in silent rapture, super-glued to the screen until the commercial break broke the spell.
‘Well, that young man can leave his shotgun under my bed anytime he fucking likes.’ Colleen drooled, winking at Jane as she got up and wandered back into the kitchen.

Ever since Jane had caught Colleen in bed with a teenage waiter during a holiday in Torremolinos five years ago ‘helping him with his English’, the thought of her Mother ‘entertaining’ a toy boy had repulsed her.
‘You’re nearly fifty, you dirty old fucking slapper’ Jane muttered to herself in disgust as she was climbing the stairs on route to rouse Gail - desperately trying to ignore the disturbing vision flashing across her mind of Colleen being ridden rigid by yet another shite in shining armour.

To be continued…

www.freespeechbooks.com

If you are to have any success writing the perfect English folk song in this day and age, your song will need to be directed at a specific target audience - which we refer to in the trade as the bushy beards, beer bellies and bad breath brigade. These are the kind of people who run folk clubs so they can get up for a few numbers during the floor spot each week and strut their bumptious stuff in alluring Arran knit wear and come to bed hiking boots, still think booing Dylan for going electric was a good call and despise any songwriter that is young, talented and struggling to drag the true spirit of folk music in to the twenty-first century.

Ok, now you know the level of common denominator you should be trying to appeal to, if you are still intent on having a crack at writing the perfect English folk song, you will need to adhere rigidly to the four following rules:

1) The song should possess the minimum amount of chords, so that the more musical members of your target audience stand a chance of learning how to play it.

2) The melody of the song must be extremely repetitive so that people who are pissed on real ale will still be able to slur along.

3) The rhythm and tempo of the song will need to be ‘half-hay friendly’ so that Morris dancers can shake their asses to it.

4) The lyrical content of your composition must be written in a faux Olde English style, tell a story about a character of little relevance to anyone in today’s society (such as a milk maid, highway man or pirate) and be slightly saucy and comical in a wink, wink, nudge, nudge say no more kind of way. The addition of a supernatural element is also a welcome addition.

Here is an example of a set of lyrics I prepared earlier, featuring a selection of the essential ingredients mentioned above:

Heathen Hotpot

Come gather round childer and lend us an ear
For a cautionary tale about culinary cheer
Based on a recipe by the milkmaid of doom
Who killed highwaymen and pirates with the food on her spoon

It tasted so good that no man could resist
Filled with mutton as tender as a bloody big cyst
With tatties and onions and a secret addition
Her dish became legend for its taste and nutrition

But all those that ate it would soon pass away
Writhing in pain and ruing the day
That they ever set eyes on the milkmaid of doom
And tucked into that hotpot from off of her spoon

For the milkmaid of doom were a witch in disguise
Who danced with the devil at full moon and high tide
It’s no wonder her hotpot were such a big hit
With Satan the caterer doing his bit

So the moral of this story is simple and plain
Never trust heathens in the catering game
Because the secret addition that folk thought were kidney
Was arsenic soaked sheep shit - try saying that line quickly

So long as you stick to these rules, and resist any urges you may get to breathe new life into this once highly regarded, yet now - thanks to these bodhran bashing bigots - mainly ridiculed art form, your efforts should reap rich rewards.

www.freespeechbooks.com

Here’s an interesting fact for you concerning a member of that honest, selfless, forward-thinking gang they call the New Labour Government, which, particularly if you’re a British taxpayer, you may find mildly amusing (in an ironic sort of way.) 

In the summer of 1999, against the wishes of people who paid attention during their economics classes, our ‘prudent’ Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr Gordon Brown, started selling off over half of Britain’s gold reserves (three hundred and ninety-five tonnes in total) for a knockdown price of around $275.00 a troy ounce.  If you’re dull enough to know how many troy ounces there are in a tonne please feel free to move on to the next paragraph.  If not, I’m sure you’ll feel considerably more indispensable in any future pub quiz in which you may partake, to discover that there are 32,150.7.
     
Since the summer of 1999 the price of gold has been rising faster than an MP’s pay packet. In fact, the last time I looked, it was hovering around the $610.00 a troy ounce mark.  I’m no mathematician, so it would be difficult for me to give you an exact figure of how many billions of pounds this specific financial faux-pas of Fife’s finest has cost the country thus far, but I feel pretty sure it would have paid for at least a new hospital or two, with perhaps even a little loose change left over to help a few destitute pensioners with their crippling energy bills – what do you reckon?
      
However, what I find even more remarkable than Gordy Boy dropping such a big bollock with our bullion is that, apparently, there are still some people - so dazzled by that confident manner, foppish charm and masterful  “Agnes that smells rank, no more Scotch broth for you!” brogue of his - who seem totally unconcerned that, if Prudence does become Prime Minister, he’ll bring the country to its knees at an even faster clip than the current nit wit we elected. 
     
Therefore, out of idle curiosity, I’ve devised a survey to assess the general public’s views on this particular ‘prudent’ pursuit of our Gordon’s, which, if you have a moment, you may be kind enough to complete.  All you need to do is answer A or B to the multiple-choice question below:

 Loading …

If you answered A to the above question please ask an adult for permission to contact me and let me know how you managed to arrive at your somewhat controversial conclusion.  Alternatively, If you answered B to the above question you may find it mildly amusing (again, in an ironic sort of way) to check out the website www.goldprice.org from time to time over the coming years, so that you can observe for yourself the price of gold continue its relentless rise. 
    
However, if you find that with each repeated visit to the website that your thirst for irony is diminishing almost as fast as the price of gold is rising, until it actually reaches the point were you find yourself kicking your computer screen in a fit of uncontrollable rage, you may find that taking a few deep breaths and then reciting the following mantra to the tune of ‘Golden Brown’ by the Stranglers will offer some comfort. 
    
      Gordon Brown, you’re a buffoon
      We’re billions down, all thanks to you
      You’re squandering more than ever before
      There’s no other clown like you Gordon Brown

www.freespeechbooks.com

As you are probably aware, world domination in rock ‘n’ roll is no easy gig in this current cutthroat climate. Many of today’s more talented artists seem to spend their entire careers trying to stay afloat, whilst hordes of hapless half-wits achieve great success by simply appealing to the lowest common denominator.
     
Nowadays, even more than musical ability or song craft, the ultimate no no within the music industry appears to be artistic integrity.  Unfortunately for that dying breed who persist in creating their music for all the right reasons - regardless of reward - integrity is usually an essential element in their work.
     
Although there is no denying that this current situation is extremely frustrating for anyone with genuine artistic integrity - all is not totally lost.  As history has demonstrated on countless occasions, there is still one tried and tested way of combining genuine artistic integrity with commercial success.  Die young and undiscovered. 
     
That said, it is imperative for anyone considering this route to stardom to pay particular attention to the pecking order involved when popping one’s clogs.  If someone was to believe say, that a fatal reaction to an anaesthetic during surgery to remove an in-growing toenail, is as glamorous a death as taking a drug overdose, committing suicide or dying in a ‘plane crash, they’d be sadly mistaken.  However, assuming that the death is suitably rock’n’roll there is a good chance that, even though the artist won’t actually be around to enjoy the earthly pleasures that new-found fame brings, they will at least, at some stage in the future, be able to have an ironic chuckle from beyond their trinket-laden, graffiti-adorned graves at some of the lies people - whom they never met - are telling about them in various unauthorised biographies.
    
Once the industry has a pretty corpse, their back catalogue, outtakes and the film rights, and, more importantly, is safe in the knowledge that the deceased don’t ask difficult questions, answer back, get old and fat or send their fans mixed messages by mingling with Monarchs, the myth making can commence.       
     
Within a matter of months anyone who once had a reputation in the business as a bit of an awkward customer can now be re-packaged as a misunderstood master of vision, just as any artist, once deemed a miserable bastard, will suddenly turn out to have been a tortured genius all along. And every song that was once considered too impenetrable to be unleashed on the pliant public will now be marketed as a complex piece of music that benefits from repeated listens, which, I’m sure you won’t be too dumbfounded to discover, will be dug out decade after decade and used time and time again as an extra track to bulk up a bevy of B sides, best of’s, and box sets.
     
Let me give you an example, involving two great white soul singers, which illustrates perfectly how lingering around too long can be lethal for that legendary status later on. Tim Buckley, one of the greatest recording artists ever, who, (whilst living and breathing and all that other boring stuff), had to spend his final days playing America’s chicken in a basket circuit in order to make ends meet, is nowadays recognised as a great white soul singer, whose legend will continue to flourish, thanks to him dying tragically young from an accidental heroin overdose.  On the other hand poor old Rod Stewart, who, had he experienced an equally as glamorous death a few months after recording Every Picture Tells a Story, would now also be considered a great white soul singer, but due to out staying his welcome, will be committed to memory for eternity as the bloke who once used the world’s stage to enquire if people found him sexy or not, whilst prancing around like a tit, decked out in leopard skin. 
    
Also spare a thought for all the great artists who although managed to refrain from any similar tawdry tactics throughout their careers, still never got to enjoy the recognition they deserved whilst living and even now don’t get the deification they deserve in death.
     
One such example is the mighty Gene Clark.  After a thirty-year career creating achingly beautiful, groundbreaking work, Gene finally gave up the ghost, with very little fanfare, in May 1991.  Whereas fellow cosmic cowboy and ex-Byrd, Gram Parsons, whose body of work, though mightily impressive, but as anyone in the know will tell you, not as impressive as Gene’s, is now a bone fide legend with a capital L.  Whilst the tribute album to Gram, for example, had celebrities such as Sheryl Crow, the Pretenders and Elvis Costello queuing round the block to croon his tunes, Gene’s tribute album had to make do with contributions from the dulcet tones of ‘household names’ such as Jim Basnight, Chris Von Sneidern and the Grip Weeds. (All of whom you may hear a lot more of in future should they meet a suitably sticky end.)                                    
     
Do you think it’s possible that because Gram’s story involved dying the ultimate rock ‘n’ roll death, aged just twenty-six and having his pretty corpse kidnapped so that it could be honoured with the ultimate rock ‘n’ roll cremation out in the Joshua Tree desert, compared to Gene’s story, which involved dying from plain old natural causes at the ripe old age of forty-six could, perhaps, go some way to explain their ever-expanding gap in god-like stature? 
     
The irony that, while Gram was alive, his albums (although just as glorious then as they are now) were as popular as the pox amongst the pop pickers of the day, still seems lost on the ever-increasing crop of Johnny Come Latelys currently riding the ‘Gram is God’ band wagon.    
    
Having said that, when it comes to really disastrous record sales during an artist’s lifetime, I guess it’s hard to beat those of Nick Drake.  The total worldwide sales of all three of his albums between 1969 until his tragic death in 1974 were under fifteen thousand – that’s less than three thousand sales per year. However, after a thirteen-year period of steady myth making, when Heaven In A Wild Flower (the first Nick Drake compilation album) was finally released in 1987 it sold twenty thousand copies within weeks in the UK alone!
     
It is, perhaps, worth mentioning at this point, for the benefit of anyone so insecure about their musical taste that they wait until the media say it’s OK to enjoy a particular artist’s music before they will buy their records, that, just as the Mona Lisa was a masterpiece the moment Leonardo’s brush graced the canvas for the last time, (not hundreds of years later when deemed valuable enough to reside behind bullet-proof glass), Nick Drake’s ‘Pink Moon’ was a masterpiece the moment he finished writing it, (not thirty years later when Volkswagen decided to use the song for a TV campaign to flog their latest Golf Cabriolet).
     
 If you yourself, due, perhaps, to peer pressure, have ever been tempted to buy an ‘industry approved’ album by a dead legend in preference to one of equal or superior merit by someone still alive, and after reading this are now feeling so ashamed of yourself that you wish to make amends, you can take your first step on the road to rehabilitation right now by simply answering YES or NO to each of the five questions listed below.
     
1) With the cause of death of so many dead legends being suicide, (often brought on by severe depression), do you think it’s possible that some of these, often fragile, sensitive souls may have still been making marvellous music today, had they been given a fraction of the recognition they deserved when they were still alive that they now ‘enjoy’ in death?

2) Do you think that Eva Cassidy, who had to suffer a slow painful death from bone cancer before eventually being ‘discovered’ some years later, might have found her passing a little easier to accept, if she had known on her death bed that, even though her own time on earth was almost through, at least her music would live on?

3) Do you ever feel when you’re listening to these previously unreleased songs that turn up with alarming regularity as ‘bonus tracks’ on various re-packaged, re-released, re-mastered dead legends’ discs, that they may have been unreleased previously for a good reason?

4) Do you agree that there have been considerably more column inches written about Townes Van Zandt over the last ten years since his death, than during the final ten years of his life, when press coverage was essential for his survival due to performing in small clubs to small audiences (twenty eight last time he played my home town) to promote albums he was making for small labels at the time?

5) Do you agree that it would be more difficult for a music mogul to ‘cajole’ an artist with integrity in to doing things their way while that artist were still alive and kicking (like allowing a song to be used to sell cars for example) than to ‘cajole’ a grieving, vulnerable and often financially destitute next of kin at some later date?

If you answered YES to all five questions above – Halle-fucking-lujah! CONGRATULATIONS!  At least now you can see that by paying more attention to the myth than the actual music you have been seriously stunting the growth of musical evolution. 
     
Now you’ve come this far why not continue your rehabilitation by making some further attempts to discover tomorrow’s dead legends today.  All you need do is stray off the beaten track every once in a while and scratch around beneath the surface a little bit.  I’m sure you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the wealth of great artists out there making magnificent music who unfortunately, due to a lack of people like yourself searching their music out and supporting them, could at any stage, through sheer desperation, decide to go over to the other side and start appealing to the lowest common denominator in order to earn a decent crust or, even worse, for both themselves and their loved ones (although potentially great for their posthumous career) plump for the other more drastic option.
     
If, on the other hand, even after reading this, you still had the bare faced cheek to answer NO to any of these questions: may the Lord pull the plug on your purchasing power immeadietly and the Devil deliberate the details of your demise.

www.freespeechbooks.com

Have you ever woken up, and, for no apparent reason, just wanted to sink immediately back beneath the covers and disappear? Well, for me this morning was one such occasion.  I can’t honestly remember feeling as despondent since hearing a nasty rumour, way back in the mid-eighties, that the Beatles were considering reforming with Julian Lennon taking his dad’s place in the band. Even after I’d eventually managed to pull myself up from my nightmare-infested slumber, injected my system with a full pot of strong Lavazza coffee and endeavoured to lift my spirits by watching a couple of episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm, there was still no sign of those dark clouds disappearing.

Then, to add to my inexplicable gloom, real life suddenly kicked in; more war, crime and famine in the newspaper, nothing but bills and abuse from Fab Four fans in the mail, a cold coming on, the usual computer trouble and to top it all off, a phone call from an old friend experiencing worse financial difficulties than the U.S. Federal Reserve, who rang for a rant in the midst of my mid morning melancholies.        

Trying to write on days like today is never a good idea.  The head won’t work. The heart won’t work. The hands won’t work. It’s like being trapped inside an emotional straight jacket with a constant itch you can’t scratch. Even though it’s at times like these that I feel the urge to get my feelings down on paper more than ever, I actually ended up spending most of the afternoon staring at a blank screen, whilst simultaneously trying to ignore the sad eyes and occasional whine of Big Bear Henri (the King of the canine world), who, regardless of my foul mood and the relentless rain outside, was not prepared to settle for a quick piss in the garden and was holding out for his daily W. A. L. K.

In fact, it was only when I finally caved in and decided that, despite the weather and my state of mind, it was time for us both to get some fresh air and exercise that the dark clouds suddenly disappeared - metaphorically at least.

Within minutes of leaving home I found myself in a rain-sodden garden on Mulgrave Avenue performing my ‘Responsible Dog Owner’ duties.  As I was knelt down, I heard what at first sounded like a donkey braying, but on closer scrutiny appeared to be human cackling and screeching coming from inside the house of the garden I was in.  As soon as I had pulled myself up to my feet, I couldn’t resist tiptoeing over and having a quick peek through the window where the noise was coming from - half out of curiosity and half out of genuine neighbourly concern – to find out what all the commotion was.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget as long as I live the sight that greeted me through that window. It was a spectacle so distressing that it instantly put all my so-called troubles into context and reminded me of the fact that no matter how bad my problems were there is always somebody, somewhere, worse off than yourself… through the half open curtains, I could quite clearly make out some poor bastard sitting in his chair watching the Paul O’Grady show! 

www.freespeechbooks.com