And there’s no cable, we write on death row.

Each line could be our last breath.

We leave without saying what we really needed to, what we had to.

The gap behind us closes up way too quick.

Within a year our friends have forgotten our middle name.

The words are curly notches, counting up not down.

In the end, we pull the plug ourselves.

Now we’re immortal.

The writers who take their own life are the ones whose work accrues twice the praise allowing them to go down in history as a cult figure when really their writing was so-so.


She set off to walk around the world. A month into her journey, she met a man. They made love. On she walked unaware of her pregnancy. As the ninth month drew to a close, she knelt down and that night gave birth to her one and only child. On she walked with her new born daughter, Budd, named after the bare footed runner from South Africa, where by chance, she was born. She fashioned a sling from an shawl, where Budd slept and saw the world pass by.

Two breast fed years later, they’d encircled the globe. Once the fame died down, they settled in Bexhill and ran a Krispy Kreme doughnut cafe. Like her namesake, Budd never took to shoes. Sadly, she never took to running either.

But in the education arena, her name will forever be linked to the abolition of examinations.


This morning a 5 year old said to me: ‘Dad, eat quick-er-est-ily’. I loved the way she slowed the word up by making it longer. Inspired by her, I opened a plastic surgery clinic for words that are unhappy with their appearance. None came forward. This could have been due to their lack of hearing or my lack of advertising. I was about to abort the whole exercise when there was a sudden knock at the door.

‘Come in’, I said.

‘Hi’, Hi said.

‘Hello Hi, so…you feel a little abrupt, yeah?’ I said.

‘I do’, Hi said.

‘People think you’re shallow, yeah?’ I said.

‘They do’ Hi said.

‘You’d like a extra syllable and you’d like me to make you do what you don’t want to do, yeah?’ I said.

‘Badbye’ Hi said, and left with the face of a serial killer.


I’m no typist. I use two fingers, four if I’m feeling cocky. Tonight I’m anything but cocky. My prime typing fingers are sodden in chlorine – I’m not preserving corpses, I just went swimming today with my daughter. It’s late and I’ve rubbed my tired eyes. They now sting so bad I’m closing them every 3 seconds to try and re-lubricate them. Maybe i should try onions. The open/shut effect is a strobe screen. Or the first day after laser surgery, so I’m told. So my blurred point is this. Save yourself a grand. Go swimming. Take the pain. See like a hawk come the morning. Sleep well and don’t forget to stare at that dream.


This is not some anti-Andy Burnham rant. It is a mild observation that footballers and politicians have lost the ability to speak their mind. They answer indirectly. This approach is governed by fear. It is a path rarely crossed as the line of questioning is often as dumb as the answers. Richard Nixon, and more recently Joe Kinnear, have spoken their mind, through provocation or otherwise, and experienced the toxic nature of the media. If only Tony Benn hadn’t hung up his boots.


Next time you’re looking for a seat, stoop a little lower. Before you hit the ground, hit a step, or a stair, or even a one-off lonely plinth. Sit here and think. You will be amazed at what emerges. Should you sit long enough, you may solve big things, like bees do. The key to this simple intellectual happiness is the 1/4up:3/4down ratio.  Low slung chairs and sofas don’t count. They are premeditated. Stairs and steps are not. Their primary purpose is for your feet. They’re not used to buttocks. They not used to stationary buttocks. If you go up or down stairs on your arse (ie: bouncing buttocks) you probably need to see a doctor.


There is an age when growing up into a grown up stops, sighs, and cannot go on growing older.

At this point we are 67% spent and the 34% left wants to grow young.

There is always 1% that wants to grow both young and old.

It is this 1% that will save the human race.

You can find these statistics on most cereal packets.


This is a 3 minute tale of a girl who whinged about hard work. She grew up in an age of entitlement and assumed all things were free. She downloaded a prince online and went to meet him in a Hummer, the showy cow. He had a small penis but took pills to make it appear more regal. They were just about to get it on when Bonnie Tyler appeared in rags and mashed a pumpkin over her head. The incident proved fatal. The world lived happily ever after.


Do you sense you can’t remember things like you used to? Phone numbers – forget it. It’s not just you, we’re all at it. We all mislay things all the time. My train of thought is on constant derail, like a goat on water skis. Sorry for that terrible image. I will try my hardest to keep this one on track. I wonder why we leak all the stuff we used to store so easily. Is it because we’re too busy making, writing, sending, receiving and doing that there is no time or space left for recollection? Or is it the amalgam fillings spewing mercury into our brains? Do we care. Well, I for one care. I’d like my memory back please. If you see it looking lost, leave it in the comments bin. Thanks.

NO IDEA IN MIND (# 74,942)

Sometimes you just need to write. It doesn’t have to be about something. It doesn’t have to stand for something. It doesn’t have to be something. It just has to happen. Like respiration. And sleep. This wasn’t ever written longhand. It just fell out of idle fingertips who begged to go to bed but the wrists said no. Now they’re all getting on and having a low key party, no key gag meant.

Predictably, an idea is now evolving. The idea that writing spawns ideas. Just as characters write themselves. If they do, they’d be sat on my lap. And they might be heavy. Or smelly. Or just a twat. But that’s me being tired and giving in to the false dawn of an idea that never really was.

On that bum note, I’m off.