If you're having girl problems, I feel bad for you son, I got 99 blogs...

I found myself in a James Cameron movie the other day. I didn't mean to be there. I was looking for BBC i-player on my PlayStation.

uk.playstation.com

I registered onto the PlayStation Network and the next thing I knew I was presented with a menu to select my avatar for PlayStation Home. PlayStation Home is a free roaming virtual cityscape where PlayStation Network users can go, explore, play games and interact with others they find there through their own avatars. I am sure it is Utopia built exactly to the specifications of an American geek.

I registered, the first menu bar informed me, luckily in the hour I could choose a sponsored theme avatar. I could either enter this ethereal quasi-world as a human person or in the guise of a giant spray can of Lynx Deodorant with legs. I chose the humanoid because, ironically, I didn't want to repel anyone.

Selecting gender, hair type and eyeball length was simple enough. Then up popped a menu for my avatar's attire options.

I spent longer scrolling through my avatar's wardrobe of clothing than I do when I am getting dressed to go out. Into the REAL world. Where REAL people judge me.

I actually pondered if I, through the embodiment of my avatar, could pull off sneakers with combats. In REAL life I select the necessary items of clothes so I don't get funny looks/arrested that happen to be nearest the door. Now I was scrolling between a grey jumper and a green polo shirt 5 times like a mild form of OCD.

Once I settled on an outfit, I confirmed my choices and was transported into Home. I was on a plaza precinct at a shoreline.

Home is, in fact, the best single example of what would definitely happen if the real world adhered to the physics of cartoons and combined with the moral values of Twitter.

Yes, PlayStation Home is a godforsaken place.

Basically, if everyone in the real world, outside the TV screen, was s(h)macked clean off their nips all day, like the addled bloke I saw a few hours ago who periodically jabbed an accusingly pointed finger at the postcard carousel display outside a corner shop while simultaneously spinning it round with his other hand at breakneck speed, conveniently ignoring his senses informing him of everything else around him, such as the tourist wondering if he could be swift enough to pick out a postcard [Which incidentally leads me on to: why do hard drug addicts insist on wearing grubby sports fashion? They are fooling only themselves with that] then there would be no difference between this and PlayStation Home.

If you don't believe me, there is plenty of footage on YouTube to back this description up. Look at this video [from around 2:30 you begin to get the idea] :



No one is having fun when you instruct your avatar to dance. Trust me.

My avatar - clean-cut, colour and textile super co-ordinated - and I both looked around feeling like the guy taken on a Star-Trek away mission wearing the red top who the main cast keep getting his name wrong until they eventually settle on “buddy”.

We stood motionless as tens of other avatars mainly walked into street furniture, their bamboozling avatar names floating above their heads, or stood like mine, in uncertain wonder at the polygon crowd chaos, our bamboozling avatar names floating above our heads.

I began to take my avatar about the streets. BBC i-Player had to be around somewhere.

I wandered until I got to the Fair Ground Zone or whatever it's meant to be. It was not as well populated which was a relief, but generally avatars seemed more intent on avoiding contact more than anything. I suppose we all had our reasons.  Possibly the strong suspicion that everyone was not who they might seem.

That avatar shaped and coloured in as a hot nurse? Definitely a 45 year old man who lives in his parent's basement between night shifts at the old meat compressor factory. That innocently apparelled man other than the out of place cowboy hat? FBI Agent. The huge dude with the afro throwing gang signs by himself? 12 year old from Dorset.

As For me? I just wanted to watch this weeks' episode of the Apprentice on my PlayStation.

Home is a world populated wholly by lunatics and people who just want to find the way out. I think that sums it up.

I took my avatar to a bench and gave him a seat. There was no legitimate reason for this. He doesn't get weary and I was already sitting down. Two avatars in the middle of the street, one dressed as a panda angel [I kid not] and one looking like a reject from a boy band were grinding hard at each other as close as the spacial impact coding would allow, in my vision. It was both deeply depressing and disgusting. I got my avatar up and moving into the fun park.

And as God is my witness I had a go on the Ferris Wheel. Jeezus.

Of course I didn't actually go on a Ferris Wheel. I pressed X and my avatar stepped on and sat down in one of the booths. Then my avatar and I went round on it for 6 or 7 minutes. That was 6 or 7 minutes of my actual REAL life spent, I guess supposed to be enjoying the experience of sitting watching a representation of me enjoy a ride on a Ferris wheel that I had made it get on because I didn't want to watch... whatever... that was with the panda thing back there.

And I felt like I had formed a bond with my avatar. I didn't want our relationship to be sullied by him thinking I enjoyed watching that kind of futile act of perversity now animating some 60 feet below us.

If Oscar Wilde had his writing career over again today, he would undoubtedly write the modern schlock novel, The PlayStation Avatar of Dorian Gray.

Dorian would be out in the world, dancing at people, dancing by himself, giving meaningless gestures in crowds, hanging about arcades, making sexualised approaches to anything with legs and wonderng if he has the ability to jump over this bench that he just can't seem to walk round, while his avatar grows unhappy, scarred, old... his blue T-shirt with white under shirt becoming splattered with photo-realistic blood customisations of real life murders of those who learn of Dorian's secret.

After the 4th revolution, and my avatar doing a spectacularly creepy impression of a horror character dawning on me: it being the only "person" riding round and round on a slightly rusty, creaking and dated Ferris Wheel, I decided that none of this going on was worth The Apprentice.

I took my avatar to his minimalist apartment overlooking the sun kissed marina.

Every avatar gets an apartment in Home. You can "invite" other avatars over to it. Why, I genuinely haven't a clue. You can store more options and accessories in a chest of drawers there, I think. By far the best feature of the apartment, as I could make out, is you can sit on your IKEA styled sofa and contemplate how you ended up here, without interruption.

In your apartment, you can arrange your furnishings how you like. But, being a virtual world, you are not presented with a floor plan schematic and able to point and click to where you want the chair, no, Home provides you with the full immersing joy of having to grab and drag the chair across the floor in real time. Thereby wasting my REAL time.

Once I dragged my chair about for a bit [is this one of their online Home games that Sony rave about?] I could take no more. It was time to end it here.

I walked my avatar to his veranda and got him positioned to gaze out over the coded clear sea, listening to the Wav. File of clinking boat moorings.

And as I left him there to wonder how he came to be placed in this strange place and if his next leap would be his leap home, I swear I heard Simon & Garfunkle's Sound of Silence play, tinged with foreboding, in my head.

Honestly, they should make prisoners play it in their cells

An exclusive for the fans of Greville and the Tombstones

For some reason there has been increasing rumours that I have a band. I don't. I have no idea where this talk has come from.

Anyway, further to the big announcement during the hour of noon today on my Twitter feed, revealing the name of my band's next album, I thought I would make this day a real treat for our fans, the Revelairs.

So, just for you guys, are the lyrics to a new song.
I am not sure that this is the summer feel good hit I had been aiming for, but it will be our summer single.

I call it - No One Hates Me More Than Me

Sometimes it’s comforting to know,

That no one hates me more than me.

You may see the things I do,

You may know the man I am

But you can’t despise me in all the ways I can

Yes, sometimes it’s comforting to know,

That no one hates me more than me.

When you’re in the doorway,

The flicker of flint lights up a smile,

I live with me forever, but you only stay for a while

Yes, sometimes it’s comforting to know,

That no one hates me more than me.

Disgust, betrayal – I let you down,

I see it’s all played out in your eye,

But mine sheds a bucketful for every tear you cry

Yes, sometimes it’s comforting to know,

That no one hates me more than me.

If I could start again, no regrets to carry,

If I could start again, all new,

We could both be happy, but I would sure miss you.

Sometimes it’s comforting to know,

That no one hates me more than me.

And now for a special added bonus! Here is the very first look at the LP front cover art for the Album: It took the body parts of 7 men to make him, but only 1 woman to break his heart, made from 3 men’s hearts.

I know, right? Considering there is no band, or record - Wow.

A social quandary

Hi guys, if you have been following my tweets you probably already know that I very much enjoy the TV show New Girl (C4 and C4+1... and 4OD). I may very well blog in detail the reasons why at some stage soon. However, suffice to say for now that if New Girl was a beverage then it would be hot chocolate in a Christmas mug and Zooey Deschanel is a legged, winsome mermaid whose cookie words are a psiren call to me.

Tomorrow evening I am diaried to go out for a fancy meal with my work bosses. A real posh affair. I wouldn't at all be surprised if the waiters take your coat when seating you, that sort of style. But the meal starts with canapes at 7. It means the meal is in direct conflict with New Girl. Whereas I much more need it in alignment.

So, you see my problem, clear as the many blue eyes on Zooey.

How should I excuse myself?

I am thinking either:

A: Be honest from the start.
Chances are your bosses will all be New Girl fans and understand. Someone might even give you a lift home.

B: Be really honest.
Chances are you will have eaten at least half your main by the time you need to go. Simply explain that you feel the conversation has now ceased to be of interest around the table and you will miss more of life through missing New Girl than staying here a minute more. Thank your bosses for what was, until this point, a charming evening and leave without looking back at them.

C: Be deceitful.
Set your phone alarm to ring in good time to catch New Girl on the TV. Act as if a phone call is happening. On “answering” the “call” look concerned and say: “I understand, Commissioner” at least 4 times. Explain to your bosses that there has been a breakout at the local prison for the criminally insane and you need to contact your friend,  Super New Girl Man to alert him and go with him in order to document him saving the city. As you rise from your seat, begin to loosen your tie. Look stern and steely eyed. Do horse like gallop-jumps out the restaurant.

D: All of the above.

If any of my Revelairs Society or Twitter followers want to vote or give me advice, feel free.

Follow my tweets tomorrow night to see what I decided!

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Post meal round-up for those who missed the exciting live Twitter happening!
Well, I did consider option B...
Especially at the point of the conversation where one of my bosses spoke to me: "I took the boat out round the coast on Saturday. Did a bit fishing off the stern, that sort of thing, you know. What did you do on Saturday?" To which I replied: "I watched Gillette Soccer Saturday. It's basically a scrolling computer graphic on TV that tells you the football scores... erm, well..."

But the evening turned out to be very enjoyable and I ended up breaking the glass on Option E: To stay until the end of the meal and ensure that you tune into T4 and watch New Girl then. It is only for one week. You can put up with T4 for one week.

And I did watch it on T4 - And I did it for you, Zooey.

The deliverance test case

Ok, enough meandering prose about Roadtrips and blogs about paper puppet dream Triceratopses. This is really where it is at: Legal opinion pieces about serious court cases.

I clicked over this article in the Case Law Digest section of the Daily Mirror [Note: don’t worry, there is no case law digest section in the Daily Mirror. I was being sarcastic] and had to share. I think it is a case which will be taught and referred to in law colleges throughout the land such is the brilliance of the defence stratagem deployed in it.

It is a report of a man who was eventually found [SPOILER] not guilty of performing a solo intimate act upon himself in a train carriage in front of a female commuter.

The Prosecution submitted that a blonde [it is the Daily Mirror after all so these details are absolutely vital to get accurate] commuter’s attention was drawn to the accused who was, at the time sitting on seating opposite on the train, when she witnessed the newspaper on the lap of the accused “jumping up and down” and swiftly concluded that the accused had placed his hands under it to do, let’s say, the Devil’s handiwork.

The defence though, and this is what law students will be learning for generations to come, pulled out a masterstroke of a counter.

The defence lawyer submitted that the accused, contrary to the accusation, was doing no such dirty thing but was, in fact, innocently – and who here hasn’t –“strumming a pretend banjo” under the newspaper. A pretend, as in, not actually there, banjo. A banjo of figment.
                Not unreasonably, one of his hands was down his trousers at the time – he was innocently adjusting his briefs to relieve a discomfort in his groin whilst simultaneously doing the aforementioned strumming of said “pretend banjo”.
               And as for the heavy breathing which accompanied these perfectly innocent joint activities – this was simply due to an innocent lung infection at the time, which has now, happily cleared up.
               So, you see, it was all just an innocent set of unfortunate co-incidences which can be naturally explained away.
              We’ll all look back and laugh about this gross misunderstanding of events later, you know, M’Lord.

What! I mean, really, properly, WHAT?!?! That was the defence? It’s worth typing again: WHAT?!?!

Was the accused some sort of real life Mr. Bean? His days filled with increasing mishaps of hilarity building upon each other - the inexorable path from his morning commute air banjo incident until head butting of the Queen with an ill-judged bow while his middle finger is wedged out his trouser zipper affecting a penis, before bedtime? Whilst the trial was ongoing did he find himself wiping his hands on the judges’ robes in the bathroom and manhandling the boob of the court transcriber due to innocently groping out to find a door handle all because he put eye drops in his eyes at recess and his vision was blurred?

If the prosecution didn’t follow up the euphemistic “strumming a pretend banjo” declaration with a quick fire cross-examination asking with equal inferred euphemism if he was sure he wasn’t boasting and it wasn’t more truthfully a ukulele instead then, frankly, the prosecution lawyer should be done for contempt.

Anyway, incredibly, this case then spirals into complete farce.

The jury – yes there are other ordinary people being subjected to this protracted lunacy – are then given a live re-enactment of the air banjo / pants adjusting / heavy breathing combo of innocence by the accused to show how easily the act could be misconstrued as pleasuring oneself in the direction of a woman (who is probably one of those bloody troublesome feminists you sometimes get on a train, am I wrong?).

I would dearly, dearly have loved it if the accused gent had purposely positioned the basic wooden chair after carefully taking time to assess the jury in order to sit opposite the hottest female in it. Sadly such details are not disclosed in the report.

The prosecution, in summing up, concedes that the accused does play a banjo but stated that no one sits on a train adjusting their underwear, and basically, this whole explanation and defence is – to coin a legalese phrase – altogether mental.

It is at this point the judge, who also has a crazy name, Judge Recorder Jeremy Donne, intervenes. He orders the prosecution's comments be struck from the records and for the jury to completely ignore them.

You see, Judge Recorder remembered watching a documentary once that demonstrated men are prone to commonly placing their hands to rummage about their nethers in public. “The TV show made that very point. They had a series of films of men walking down the street and fiddling with themselves," said the judge. Just what sort of documentary was this? “Men may be rude to reorganise themselves in the presence of women but in some cases it can reveal the early signs of prostate cancer.”

Astonishing. Has Judge Recorder just set a legal precedent for men to touch themselves in front of women on the basis that it is for the good of their health? Did anyone check he isn’t a nightclub DJ?

The climax of this case is, of course, importantly the accused was found not guilty by majority verdict. This outcome should not be taken lightly. Honestly, bravo Mr Defence Lawyer – that is a sublime bit of lawyering to convince the Jury. Particularly so, because, come on! He obviously was at it. At least some of the jury thought it. The argument should have the lawyer’s name attached to it and in years to come when prosecutor’s hear the opening gambit: “Tell me, do you play any instruments at all?” they will turn to one another and talk in hushed, worried tones about the Banjo Defence as if it is the opening move of an ancient grandmaster at Chess.

Bringing a whole new meaning to
being arrested for lute-ing

But what will it all mean for the man on street? What is the upshot?

I can see it now: Men all over the land claiming to be riffing on pretend Fender guitars in coffee houses, air fluting in public WC’s and Cello miming at bus shelters. “I don’t like what you are insinuating. If the young lady doesn’t want to be looked at by a single guy sitting on a park bench practicing for the concert by shaking a non-existent tambourine down his chinos, then, officer, that is her prerogative. If she thinks I am doing something more sinister, personally I think she’s a bit pervy.”


All things considered, this may be the most ridiculous proven defence, well, pretty much ever.

In the words of Lionel Hutz: “Case Closed”.

If life could be a dream... I'd be naked getting chased off a clown all the time

80's Dreamboat, apparently

A follower from my Twitter account asked that I blog about one of my recent dreams.

Dreams, in general, are short on explanation, detail and ultimately, only meaningful to the dreamer and his therapist. Mine are no different.

In this dream I am walking along the pavement next to a US city park. It is around lunchtime and it is a glorious summer’s day but curiously no one else is around. It is very curious. Getting near to the end of the park I look to my left and see next to some large rhododendrons, a time travelling Triceratops.

Although never a fan of the Triceratops I realise that I may never again get the chance to study a live Triceratops, so I approach it. The first thing I study is how passive aggressive it is. Fixing me with a languid stare, it starts to charge at me. I begin to run from it and quickly climb a tree in the park. The second thing I study is that Triceratops’ are good tree climbers.

I mean, who knew? This fact certainly wasn’t in those dinosaur picture edutainment books from the 70’s, when we were crazy mad for the dinosaurs. Those were the coolest books in the classroom bookzone, weren't they? Pictures of giant roaring dinosaurs, with shooting meteors scorching the sky above them. One of the very few times you could make sound effects when reading and be forgiven for doing it, you'll find with experience. Anyway, back to the dream:

Since my mind had no point of reference for a Triceratops climbing a tree, it filled in the blanks by having it's climb depicted in my dream in the third person using the paper silhouette puppet theatre technique of the Chinese.

As I climb I reflect on how much other supposition we have made when it comes to dinosaurs. There must be loads. By me witnessing this dinosaur widely believed to be strictly a ground dweller climbing after me I am fundamentally changing what we thought we ever knew about these once impenetrable creatures. Maybe that's why it has travelled in time, to put right what was once wrong. A Triceratops Dr. Sam Beckett.

I am out at the top branches of the tree. The Triceratops, though lumbering stiffly, attached to a couple of sticks in the cutaway silhouette scene, is going to reach me soon and I figure, will fix me again with its glowing red eyes and then inevitably eat me (yet another fact consigned to the big Jurassic book of incorrect theories thanks to all this). There is nowhere left for me to go. I begin to panic. Will I survive the fall if I jump?

But don’t worry! It is fine, I did survive! Because, you see, I woke up and it turned out it was all just a dream. A dream that meant 1986 never existed at all.

Many thanks to my follower Space_Librarian for suggesting this blog. As I move into my 2nd century of blogs, I may very well continue to document my dreams as and when they recur nightly to me, here in my little corner of the blogosphere.

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4 more blogs to go until blog 100! The hype is growing! [here’s hoping I don’t have 4 more dreams about dinosaurs debunking the agreed conventions amongst dinosaur experts any time soon, eh?]

Nothing sounds Roadtrip more than a second bowl of grapefruit segments

The roadtrip began in the colourless moon dust morning amongst the built up blocks of the city.
City streets and potholes townsfolk could lose their fashionista dogs down quickly dissipate behind the car as we head for the open road. It is not long before countryside fills the windows and flecks of white are dotted around small hometeads are grazing on rolling hills.

The idea was to get away from the hustle of things and venture out to do some relaxation in and around the remoteness of the land in the hope that I would become inspired with more creativity for the forthcoming album from Greville and the Tombstones (yet unnamed).

Looking out the side window walls, hedges, fences all blur into a great delineation of our speed. Up ahead is a small village promising home crafts, historic paths and structures along with a hot coffee and pastry to cheer our stay. We take the turn off.

Stopping in the only car park, I pay and display. I get a ticket for 4 hours, given it is the most rounded expense on offer. We make way on foot along the single street - shops selling everything from woollens to cast statues of fairies and antique bronzes. All closed.

One shop door explains the situation:

"During Off Season November - April this shop will remain closed"

No one was going to buy a crafted Sasquatch for another month.

With 4 hours parking paid for there is nothing else for it but to walk up and down the main street for as long as we can muster. 23 minutes later we are back on the roadtrip once more...

Rivers string the way of the roads for us to the left and old log cabins and proud houses jut into view to the right. Deflated cottages ploom out dirty pine smoke as a condor crosses the sky overhead. A church with a headstone garden sits weary into the landscape. Farms, rickety from over work with hulking machines, rusting with dilapidation, mark out a queer sinister intent to me.

All too soon, as I am feeling the creative juices of song flowing, we arrive at the hotel in the next small town, our day over.
I had chosen the hotel as I had many good memories from previous stays many years ago.

The hotel, now boasting 28 spacious rooms, WI-FI and a good line in marketing the local attractions (a talk on local walks and Alvin Stardust playing next week in the local community hall) has changed immensely since I last stayed. What is now Bedroom No. 1, was once the hotel TV Room. The TV Room was where I would settle down with other guests and by some form of democracy / agility to reach the buttons, programmes were settled on. All I watched was Bonanza episodes in that little room. Or, more accurately, all the episodes of Bonanza I watched, were in that room.

We make ourselves comfortable, unpacking and lounging before eventually leaving to a local restaurant for a bite of dinner.

The evening is quiet and we retire early. It gives me the unwanted chance to watch new BBC2 sketch show, Watson & Oliver.

Watson & Oliver is like a female Hale & Pace. Yes, it is this dreadful. The structure is as dated as the set ups in the sketches. They have neither the nuance nor the acting skills to convince that anything they are attempting is supposed to be funny. Even in the rarity of a semblance of a good idea, it only serves to give clear argument that good acting is required to pull off TV sketch shows in these modern times and they should consider being writers instead of performers, much in the same way Bob Dylan passed on his songs to people who could sing them during the 60's. Only they are not Bob Dylan but, you know the boy who remixed a weird noise and turned it into the Crazy Frog ringtone? They are the boy who made that weird noise that he sampled. And Bob Dylan is actually preety good at singing his songs too. The thing smacks of a comedy revue by 1st year University students who call university "Uni". My only hope for them is that they purge themselves of their older Fringe Show material and are forced to write better things as a result.

By the time we arrive at the hotel dining room the next morning for breakfast the conclusion is unassailable. We are the only guests.

The dining room is set out with a full array of breakfast options (3 jugs of fruit juices, 4 bowls of soft fruits a veritable platoon of mini-boxed cereals regimented on the long table as well as cooked food are on offer) and has several placings of tables for two. During the time we breakfast not another couple or otherwise make their presence. Those other tables are set, clearly, to provide us a choice.

For the rest of the day, we go walking, glad that in this larger town shops and cafes are doing trade. In the morning we venture into shops selling everything from tweed suits to VCR blank tapes. I consider purchasing a gun belt. In the late afternoon we pub crawl along the route back to the hotel. Which, considering there are only 2 pubs, it proves less a crawl and more a case of playing the part of the ball in a lonely swing-ball contest.

That evening we take the opportunity to try another restaurant in the town. A longer walk results in destination Dissapointment. The restaurant only opens in season and this is, as we are getting good at realising, out of season. Walking back to the place we ate at the previous night I have a revelation. I am wearing the same outfit from yesterday! Not wanting to appear crazy, I insist on detouring for a  return to the hotel room to change my jumper.

Other guests must have arrived. There is a babble of noise in the small hotel bar, just round the corner, out of sight.

We get to the restaurant from the previous evening at 7:40. It was open until 10 so in good time. The waitress ingores us at first, busying herself with some napkins. We continue standing at the counter to be seated (it in itself a moribund task, given we are the only customers). The waitress eventually comes to us from round the counter. "Sorry" she says, "But we are closed." I think it is a joke, imagine what she would have said if she had seen me wearing the same jumper. But it is not a joke.

Oh.
"We are really quiet tonight, you see."
Well I am not surprised if you are turning away patrons like this all night. "It's OK, we will find somewhere else" I say. The waitress gives us a sad look.

We head towards the resaturant over the road and through a lane next to a delightful water turned wheel. A notice reads: "Serving food until 9:30". We go in for the barman to explain the chef has stopped for the night but he could ask him to go back into the kitchen to prepare us something. We wisley decline the offer (of bin burger with spittle dressing) and head onward and upward. The Chinese Take-away is closed for the night, the Chip Shop Man - the very bastion of edible last resort - is washing out the deep fat friers behind a locked door. It is 8pm.

We begin the walk back to the hotel, then, like the Mysterious Cities of Gold, we discover a Co-Op 7/11. We search the shelves for food. This is what a roadtrip is about. Living by our wits, off the land. Foraging. If only they sold microwaves.

We return to the hotel. The building: silent. The bar: in darkness. The dining room: re-set once more with the tables for 2 as this morning. There are no other guests after all.

We dine on our hotel beds straight out of packets of processed cold meats. Like men. I wonder if the hotellier will have seen me come into the hotel and leave after a change of attire only to return a short while later with a Co-Op plastic bag and have thought to himself: Those city folk are odd, all dressing up to go to the Co-Op. Yep, I figure, this had made me seem far crazier than going to a restaurant 2 nights in a row with the exact same jumper on. Ordering the exact same meal. After I finish my platter of cold meat selection from Italy, I brake the monotony by riding a tricycle round the hotel corridors.

Next morning we are swift to check out after another breakfast for 2 in the gigantic dining room all set up with tables for breakfast for 2 (although I made full advantage of the sitaution, helping myself to a second and then a third refill of apple juice). The hotellier says to us, "Did you find your stay quiet?" Yes, very quiet. "It is closed season you see. No one comes up here usually, round this time." Quite.

We are soon heading back home. Rivers, all jaunty, change to rail tracks, all serious. Trees are changing into street lamps. The percentages of seeing men with shotguns and possibly dead pheasants hanging around their necks are replaced by increasing chances of spotting men with bird necks hanging about and possibly shooting up. And the pale new sun of spring is in our eyes. And I am happy as I am full of song ideas. Mainly about how we had barely escaped with our lives.

Roadtrips are ace!