It seems whenever I have travel crises I console myself with drink and nostalgia TV. When my flight to Edinburgh at xmas was cancelled the other year due to storms I watched Fast Show videos and sank Scotch. When I missed my train (6 hours) and had to take the bus (12 hours) yesterday, I arrived at my Mum's empty flat and watched several hours of This Life, punctuated by Father Ted, and drank lots of Kronenbourg.

I haven't seen the anniversary special of This Life, but inevitably the original looks a bit dated now. If it were made now, Miles and Egg would be surreptitiously downloading porn (maybe the girls would too), Millie would be at odds with her relatives over her wearing or not wearing a veil, Keira would be a rank underachiever rather than a taboo-smashing whirlwind. Anna would be a self-harming binge-everythinger and nobody would have a problem with Warren's homosexuality, least of all himself. Their Tube journeys to the office would be fraught with delays and paranoia, and they would be taking coke, not E. Any allusion to E would involve depression or downmarket teenagers flogging it for a quid a throw. And of course, their computers, not their stereos, would be playing Gnarls Barkley, Lilly Allen and Babyshambles, not Underworld, Sleeper and Portishead. That's the problem with the bleeding edge- it soon heals up. Happy Christmas to y'all.

In the unlikely event of you buying a postcard or poster with a cartoon on it, what would it be ? I've decided I'm wasting my time drawing people that I like and admire-it's time to give 'em what they want.

Bike thieves saw through my chain and nick it. I buy a new one. The gears are crap. I take it to the shop. They fix them. They're still crap. I go again. The shop is closing. I cycle off. I get a puncture. I push it home. I fix the puncture. I have dinner. Now I'm so knackered I can only spend about an hour on the drawing I'm working on (my first "proper" commission, for "proper" money). To be fair, I still have about a week, though it's amazing how fast time can fly. Hopefully I can finish it this weekend- last night was a marathon session that resulted in finishing most of the B&W draft.

In the meantime-

Alexander Litvinenko- A Russian spy ! Poison ! A leggy blonde ! If only routine massacres in Chechnya for the last ten years had fascinated our media so much.

Princess Diana- Face it, she's dead. If you cried at her pointlessly young death but bought any of the rags that hounded her in her life, then you're still a hypocrite. Now concentrate on turning your guilt into contempt/envy for Jordan/Kate/Robbie/Whoever.

Impending Wogolanche - The photo that's been printed in all the papers this week of a thronging visa queue outside the British Embassy somewhere in Slavowogobongobongoland is several years old. If we can't get the actual words right, can we at least try with the pictures ? It would be ever so nice.

I suppose I deserve it. What other result could there be of reading the Express,other than high blood pressure ?

I don't mind playing gigs for no money, to no people, with crap sound, in draughty rooms upstairs from pubs where people would stab you for a laugh. (Not that last night's gig at the Cambridge Boathouse was anything like that). I just get incensed by how completely oblivious some singer-songwriters are to the cliches inherent in the format. I've said it before, but I'll say it again, to anyone who is thinking of picking up an acoustic guitar and a dictophone-

1) What makes you think that your emotional torment is any more worthy of public broadcast than anyone else's ? If you're going to take your lyrics direct from your diary then do us a favour and at least change the first person to third. Or here's a real challenge- write a song about the person/people who you believe to be the source of your misery and then change the 3rd to 1st ! Dare to try something other than begging your audience for sympathy !

2) Mumbling does not make you sound like John Martyn.

3) Screaming does not make you sound like Jeff Buckley.

4) Hitting the odd deliberate bum note does not make you sound like Ravi Shankar/John Renbourn/Jimmy Page/Davey Graham/whoever.

I read an interview with John Prine recently where he said the great thing about Bob Dylan was that he made OK to still perform music even if you didn''t sing like Pagliacci. That may well be, but listen to "Bob Dylan's 115th Dream" or "Tombstone Blues" and you'll hear a torrent of ideas and imagery which prove exactly why he could get away with that. It was also 40 years ago, as was the angst of Leonard Cohen/Joni Mitchell etc ad nauseum. It's the idea of being unable to escape the shadow of all that, especially in the utterly diluted form of bedsit whiners, that really makes me want to sell my guitar.

Recent musical acquisitions-

Charlotte Gainsbourg, "5.55"- Most reviews of music by the children of established stars spend 3/4 of the review declaring that s/he should not be judged in the light of their famous parent, and then spend the last 1/4 doing just that. Of Charlotte Gainsbourg I shall say just that she is the daughter of Serge, and if you don't know who he is then go Google him.

You might expect any album by a contemporary French artist to sound like Air, and this does- mainly because it was largely written and played by them. Jarvis Cocker and Neil Hannon contribute as well, so there is some edge and angst, but the musical feel is the dreamy flow of Moon Safari. As La Gainsbourg's mother is Jane Birkin, it's no surprise that she sings in English, but the real surprise is her cut-glass diction. At times it's like listening to the posh bird behind the M&S checkout considering Sartre. If you like any of the names mentioned above in their own right, then this will probably do it for you.

Aimee Mann, "The Forgotten Arm"- A little like Joni Mitchell, though nowhere near the same extent, Aimee Mann is a great songwriter whose voice just grates on me sometimes. Thankfully, the sound of this album is far richer than "Bachelor No. 1", and her vocal doesn't strain high and dry in a trebly surround. And it rocks a good bit harder too. Ostensibly a "concept" album following a junkie couple's tribulations, the drums, guitars and pianos crunch behind unflinching lyrics. Brilliant.

"Live Forever"- Pure nostalgia, I admit. A bunch of hits from the mid-90s, ostensibly "Britpop", but including the likes of Garbage and Massive Attack. Mostly still sounds great, apart from those that were already clinkers. Echobelly really did rock ! "Live Forever" is actually a good song, despite overplay ! "Alright" was great but is now too familiar. The Lightning Seeds are still utterly soporific. And her out of Republica really could not sing, but looked great in leather strides.

I keep reading these ridiculously alarmist articles about "The Tartan Timebomb" and the imminent breakup of the UK. For what it's worth, my utterly unreflected upon and personal take is thus-

Anyone who still believes in independence, or even devolution for Scotland due to its history as an independent nation is a sentimentalist. Scotland has not done badly at all out of being united with England, and the only good reason for devolving power back up north is that it is generally a good thing if decisions are made down the road rather than 100s of miles away. If you still believe all that crap about how much Scottish industry et al has suffered then go look at Liverpool, Newcastle, the Midlands and any other part of England that has suffered from the decline of manufacturing.

Now that Scotland has its own parliament, it is only right and proper that Scottish Westminster MPs should renounce the right to vote on issues which MSPs in Holyrood actually have authority over in Scotland (the so-called "West Lothian question"). English MPs have no such double mandate, so why vice versa ?

If the issue of actual independence or dissolution of the Union actually becomes a real issue, I expect most people north of the border to brick it, basically. The scottish national spirit is one that appears only briefly, at times of international sporting events, and rapidly recedes. If it was the dormant lion rampant it's made out to be, then the Scottish population would have turned out in sufficient numbers to achieve the meager margin required in the 1979 referendum, and would have given the 1997 vote a far more ringing majority. (Maybe if Braveheart had been even more riddled with historical inaccuracies that might have happened).

When faced with the prospect of governing their own country, already characterised by farcical overspending on the parliament building, the immediate onset of graft within the Labour party and the pantomime which is the SSP, most Scots will pine for the days when they could just blame it on the English and the 1978 world cup, just like they always have done.

Greetings to my massed audience of millions. As I might ask my students, may I enquire as to your perceptions viz a viz this picture ? Prithee, what do you think he's doing, and where do you think he is ? (Though admittedly when it's reduced to Blogger siz e you probably won't be able to tell either of them)

Listening to "Stranger's Almanac" by Whiskeytown, which a friend burnt for me when I moved to Cambridge in 2001, and it reminds me very much of that time. Starting work at a new school (literally) while still my DELTA course part-time, and being in a constant state of stress. Turning 30. 9/11. Sharing a series of chaotic houses. The most depressing (and now just embarrassing) crush I have ever experienced (from me on someone else, I hasten to add). The omnipresence of Kylie Minogue's arse.

Generally a lot of grief (except the latter). But I survived it. Apart from getting knackered a little easier, I suppose there's nothing to stop me surviving the same sort of thing again. Actually making a proper fist of something creative might be similar.

Haven't written anything in a while, which is quite a good sign in terms of having a life, however I did up spending last night (Friday) scoffing cheap wine and watching DVDs (Dig !- hilarious, The Libertine- tedious).

Dig ! is a documentary following the relative fortunes of two bands, The Dandy Warhols and The Brian Jonestown Massacre, over almost a decade.

The Dandy Warhols will probably be familiar now to most people courtesy of their song "Bohemian Like You", used in a Nokia ad a few years ago. However, at the film's start, in 1995, they are just as unknown as their friends and compatriots the BJTM. Despite their rampant egotism, the Dandys retain enough professionalism to get a record deal, tour consistently and achieve success. The BJTM, meanwhile, spiral into chaos, mostly generated by their psychotic vocalist, Anton Newcombe. The BJTM is basically him, as the Fall is Mark E Smith. His various triumphs include-

-You have a gig where the reps of a certain record company will decide whether or not to sign you. Of course the sensible thing to do is to start a fight with your guitarist.

-You get a record deal and are given the money to house your band, build a studio and record an album. Naturally, you develop a heroin problem.

All of this is so typical it's almost tedious, though the scale of Newcombe's problem makes it more compelling. The interesting revelations mostly concern the nature of the music industry. Most of what it describes is now almost out of date. Most companies cannot afford to operate any more on the basis described. Basically, indie companies usually had one major act (eg Oasis on Creation, Depeche Mode on Mute), whose mass success cushioned the failures of other acts (on a scale of only 1 in 10 albums actually recouping its costs). As is observed in the film, no other industry would tolerate that ratio of risk to success.

It's a little depressing for someone on my scale. I've just finished recording, mixing and mastering enough songs to release a new "album", but really, who cares ? It would be feasible for me to get it into shops, pretty much, but without widespread reviews and radio play it would just gather dust on shelves. I doubt if the download generation would be interested in the noodlings of a 30something songer-songwriter, so that just leaves me with the traditional means. That would involve potentially massive debt, even if I were to succeed in getting some exposure.

Life-changing stuff, which would shift the nature of it completely from its present status of glorified hobby, but with the risk of complete failure, like any business venture. Fuck.

Sometimes it hardly seems worth forming an opinion on some things in the news- so much of what you hear is literally someone "making an issue of something", where none existed before. When you question someone's motives for raising something is that cynical ("what's he really saying ?")or naive ("do we really need to bring this up ?").

I do seem to have a knack for rubbing up sound enginers the wrong way. I've never regarded them and musicians as natural enemies (a la doctors and surgeons, builders and architects etc), but as soon as I open my mouth on the subject I seem to end up implying either "your gear is crap" or "you just twiddle knobs really, don't you ?".
Anyway, if he's prepared to speak to me again, then my mate Roger should be mastering my next CD for me, and who knows, maybe I'll even get round to opening a myspace account with some of the tracks from it.

So, I'm walking down the road to the co-op, when two guys cycle by, carrying pints of lager. Actual pint glasses. Well, that's illegal and stupid , think I. One catches my eye-

"WOT ? WOT ? WOT YOU FACKIN STARIN AT YOU CAHNT ??!"

I'm tempted to give him the finger, but that reaction in a similar encounter nearly led to me getting my face stoved in.

My other recent brushes with the nicer side of the English populace include- some charmer knocking my bike down from the lamp-post it was chained to and crushing the front wheel; another bozo suddenly running out of nowhere across the exit I was pulling out of, and screaming at me to watch myself. When I dare to respond-

"WOT'S YOR BEEF, EH ? WOT'S YOUR BEEF ? ISSA PAAF, INNIT ? ISSA BLOODY PAFF AN I CAN CROSS IT !" (No, actually, it's a path which is bissected by a road, meaning you have to stop and do your Green Cross Code, you southern ingrate).

I don't know if it's just a sign of the times, or just that I haven't been near a Scottish housing estate in a while, but it had me googling the words "Edinburgh Language School vacancy". Behold, there are a few more schools in Edinburgh now, a couple with vacancies, but I'm unlikely to do anything about it. The grief of buying this place is still too recent to move so soon. In the meantime, might I just say fuck Wayne Rooney, I love Ronaldhino and if you're some moron who's born into the comfort of England in the early 21st century, but still think you're living in an Ice Cube video, then you're a sad piece of pathetic scum and I look forward to the day your diet of burgers and Bensons ends your comtemptible life.

The news is depressingly predictable, or predictably depressing, that I can't stand to listen to it in the morning. I've taken to listening to Radio 3 instead. I can't pretend that I understand or enjoy all of it, but I've made a few discoveries.

There's a sequel to the film "Clerks" in the cinema now. The original film was taken, among a few other things, as indicative of the mentality of "Generation X". People like me- in their 20s in the early 90s, a bit arty, a bit lefty, University educated but mouldering away in service sector jobs through a mixture of economic recession and personal inertia.

I didn't see the original til about 5 years later, by which time my card was marked as an EFL teacher. As it is mostly a fairly scatalogical comedy involving, variously, rooftop hockey games, tobacco-inspired rioting, the finer points of hardcore porn and the revelation that your girlfriend has fellated 32 other men, it shouldn't be treated as too profound. There was one thing that made me wish I'd seen it at the time though. At the finale, the main character's best friend loses patience with his constant "over-compensation". He reacts in an absurdly defensive manner to everything- probably the defining characteristic of adolescence, as you might also see in Catherine Tate's "Am I bovvered ?" If I'd seen it then, that revalation might have genned me a little quicker into growing up. Or maybe not.

I doubt if I'll go and see the sequel. Apparently all that's changed is that the characters work in a corporate franchise rather than the local 7/11. I've left that behind, thank God. Hopefully I've done the same thing with a few attitudes.

After 14 years of faithful service, my vinyl copy of Miles Davis' "Kind of Blue" finally acquired a scratch recently. This may not sound like a big deal, but to imagine the effect it has on that particular track, imagine if a microsecond were stolen from your orgasm. The first thing that strikes you about the CD is that it's a fraction slower and thus about a quarter-tone lower. Apparently that's the way it was done originally- not that it diminishes the beauty of the music in the slightest. Nor does the remastering.

Even if you aren't a jazz fan, the £5 this album will cost you will be amly repaid over the years. Or burn it off your spoddy jazz-fan mate. Every solo will be as recognisable as an old friend, and yet still elude prediction. It is simply beautiful.

Time for an experiment in phonetic spelling-

One weekend, the Jones of Deptford, proud working-class Londoners to the core, received a visit from Aunt Julia. Though no less proletarian in background than themselves, Aunt Julia had married well and had acquired a few airs and graces. One evening, while perusing that month's "Tatler", Aunt Julia was interrupted by young Frank, who required assistance with his homework.........

Frank- Ar d'yer spell "orse" ?

Aunt Julia- Ey beg yower pahdon, Frarncis ?

Frank- Ar d'yer spell "orse" ?

Aunt J- Do yew bay any charnce mean, "horse" ?

Frank- Yer.

Aunt Julia- Well, please pronince it in thee corrict feshion, Frarncis. Then ey shell inform yew of thee corrict spelling.

Young Frank falls silent, until a few minutes later.

Frank (insistently)- Ar d'yer spell "orse" ??

Aunt J- Frarncis, ey hev orlready teyold yew, it is "horse".

Frank (screaming)- AR D'YER SPELL ORSE, AUNTIE JULIA ?!

Aunt J (sternly)- Frarncis, ey shell not till yew again, it is "horse".

Frank- I'VE ALREADY GOT THE BLEEDIN' "H" !!

Boom boom.

Album covers don't come much more 80s than the one for "Sulk", by the Associates, from 1982. Singer Billy MacKenzie and keyboardist Alan Rankine sit on facing garden benches, covered in dustsheets, looking more like they're in a drained swimming pool. Both are dressed like a cross between Star Trek crew members and Hitler youth, and leer poncily at the camera. They're surrounded by what is probably fairly standard British vegetation, but the lurid lighting makes the whole thing look more like they're on Mars.

It stood out a mile in the window of Ace Music, in dreary old Musselburgh. It spoke of a world of impossible decadence and sophistication, like the first line of the hit single "Party Fears Two"-

I'll have a shower and call my brother up
Within the hour I'll smash another car

Actually it turns out to have been "I'll smash another cup", but I'll stick with the former. It's still a great song, rolling along on a sprightly piano line, and with Mackenzie's voice swooping up and down with a degree of melodrama that would shame even Christina Aguilera. It was followed by "Club Country", more urban decadence, with a rhythm like train wheels clacking, and stabs of cossack-like keyboards.

The rest doesn't really stand up. They produced a few more albums throughout the 80s, which made no impression on me. Rankine became a lecturer and helped launch Belle and Sebastien. MacKenzie attempted a solo career, producing several albums, but killed himself about 5 years ago. I don't know if it's a tale of how the music biz doesn't sustain careers, or how certain people can't handle being anything less than a gilt-edged star. Maybe it's just a sad case of someone who only had so much good art in him, and never regained that peak. But it burned itself onto my childish psyche enough for me to recognise it again and buy it 24 years later.

I've been taller than most people I meet for most of my life. There was a brief spell when I was about 10-12 when other guys started to catch up or even take over, but then BANG ! Puberty took care of that. I've been 6' 5" since I was about 20- I guess that was when I finally stopped, as at was the first time in my life that I gained any weight in a short spell.

I don't give it a minute's thought usually, unless I see spmeone taller, which is rare. People joke about it, usually tolerably, sometimes not. The simple fact is, it has a massive impact on people's perception of me, but I have no clue. I don't feel uncomfortable with it, but I did as a teenager. I remember one day walking down the corridor outside the school library. There was a bunch of kids leaning on either wall, obviously looking for trouble. I just wanted to vanish, and stooped like a cripple- I was sick of aggro. Every day at school was like a fucking battle. It didn't work, but the stooping became habitual, until my Dad started to nag me out of it.

I've never made any conscious attempt to exploit it, though I'm aware of when it is advantageous- on stage, in class, when I'm angry. People are generally scared of 6'5 skinheads with a cob on. When I look back at a lot of the women I've fancied, they were often tall, though I didn't realise it then. It would be handy if I were the competitive type, but along with my Dad's lankiness, I seem to have inherited his mellow streak. It pisses me off occasionally, when I think about opportunities I've squandered, especially with women. My contrary streak has contributed to that as well. Suppose I'm not the only one.

Having soldiered through Virginia Woolf's "Orlando" (actually really good til the end), I indulged in a bit of pure "High Fidelity bloke" reading recently, namely "Please Kill Me". It's an "oral history" of American punk music in the 70s, in that it's purely a collection of quotes from those involved, arranged by topic. The absence of any comment is highly effective, as most of the protagonists make it quite clear that they are the most narcisstic, parasitic, manipulative, degenerate bunch you could conjure up. I might, just might have been thrilled with some of the squalid behaviour they triumphally describe when i was 15, but now I'm just sickened. The thing is that I still love a lot of the music- the Stooges and Ramones in particular, but there are a few stone classics among the various others.

Truth is, I've always been more of a hippy, man, even when sighing and poncing my way through the indie 80s and 90s. I was reading the book this evening while listening to David Crosby's "If I could only remember my name". Far out.

Apparently "multiculturalism" has failed. Does anyone really know what they mean by it ? It's been described as the concensus of the last 20 years, in which case it corrals the beginning of my own education/experience in those matters almost exactly. In my last year of primary school (1982), an Indian and a Chinese boy joined my class (bear in mind this is an East of Scotland fishing town, not Brixton). Any racism they experienced at first was just pure childish ignorance. We asked them if they could speak to each other in "their" language. We couldn't pronounce the Indian boy's name (Ranvir). I'm not exactly glowing to admit these things, nor that I went with the herd when it did get malicious later (though Ranvir did tell me that he knew I didn't mean it after a bunch of us were given a group telling-off for it). He went on to study medicine (I think) and now no doubt has an income and grown-up staus that would put me to shame. A few years ago it was a national news story that Tony, the Chinese guy, had been abducted by a racist sadist and tortured. It made me especially sick when I thought about how much I'd frozen him out in later school years- I just found conversation with him really awkward.

I remained fairly good mates with Ranvir throughout secondary school, and we worked together on a project about vivisection in what became "Social Education". In my first year it was still of the plain old-fashioned "Religious" variety. It was taught by a guy known as "Bomber", who used a Scots dialect version of the New Testament and had a reputation for throwing classroom furniture around. The new "S.E" teacher was an attractive young woman who'd recently graduated from teacher training college. I can't remember the initial curriculum, as it rapidly descended into chaos- I sat in the corner and read various kiddy introductions to world religions, which still form the basis of most of my knowledge of Islam, Hinduism, Sikhism etc. She later exerted a bit of authority, and we worked on various "social" projects like the one me and Ranvir did. Religion didn't feature at all.

I've no idea what is taught in those kinds of classes these days, in Scotland or England. I sincerely hope it isn't some nebulous, happy-clappy attempt to water down the identities of those in the class. I actually think the melting pot is a fairly cringeworthy idea if it is "taught", rather than just happening. If someone has clearly defined religious beliefs and cultural tenets then I'm happy to leave them be unless, and here's the crucial bit, they impinge upon me. I "respect" those who live by strict religious precepts until it dictates what plays I can go and see, which cartoons I can look at etc. Present generations of immigrant communities may feel victimised in that respect, but I would extend the same attitude to any Christian who tried the same. The notion of basically secular education seems to have ruled since Bomber hung up his cane- to what extent it's allowed different social groups to fall into mutual mistrust and non-communication I don't know.

Going on holiday tomorow, and the first thing I'll have to do is phone the water company and beg them not to send the bailiffs round. Undelivered bills and cheques which are in credit, but from an expired book, mean that Wednesday is the deadline for final payment, and as yet they've received nowt from me. Paid by giro slip at the Post Office on Saturday, but don't know if that will process before Wednesday, what with the Bank Holiday etc. Only hope they believe me when I tell them that- I'd even fax them the giro stub if needs be. I really hate this kind of shit.

It's really unfortunate that the whole Polish issue has co-incided with the subject of relations with the British "Muslim Community" (whatever that means). The two are different in several major respects, but have inevitably been conflated by the rightwing press, and a few narcissists on the left who enjoy the frisson of pissing off their readers. Usually along the lines of "No more !/I've changed my stance !/Time for a rethink !" The causes of such about-faces are usually such dire events as-

1) My flight was delayed.
2) There was no drinks trolley.
3) Those scowling chaps with the beards are nowhere near as servile as the ones who used to clean Daddy's pool when he was Ambassador to Mumbai.

Sorry, but if you want to do an Enoch, then there was an event thirteen months ago which maybe deserved a little more ire.

And if you've already passed verdict on the men who were arrested the other week, who haven't even been tried yet, might i remind you of the Sun headline the morning after Jean Charles de Menezes was shot, when no-one even knew who he was, let alone if he was a terrorist-

1 down, 3 to go.

Makes you proud to be British. Even prouder when the image of thousands dying in the Twin Towers is further debased by being printed alongside stories regarding said men, and COMIC STRIP (literally) versions of "what might have happened". No-one ever heard of "innocent until proven guilty" ?

Regardless of the figures, there are a few perennial things in "discussion" of immigration that crop up consistently-

To take someones's job- This is an interesting concept. It creates the idea that a job is something that can be snatched from someone's hands, like a pint or a handbag. Unfortunately, if it happens like that, then the work is most likely black market, and is likely to involve only illegal foreign labour, generating a product or service at a great, but unfortunately illegitimate, saving to the very people who bluster about jobs being taken.

If it's legitimate employment, then, in my experience, this is usually what happens. A job vacancy appears- one which, if it's the kind of thing a newly-arrived immigrant can do, probably became vacant because it's so tedious, demeaning or poorly paid that its previous incumbent had his/her fill and quit.

The employer considers various applicants, and selects one on the basis, probably not of skills (as these are minimal), but how long the applicant is likely to remain in this lousy post, and how hard s/he is willing to work to keep it. Again, since a newly-arrived immigrant with minimal language skills is not likely to have much in the way of choice, chances are that s/he will come up trumps in that category. It may well be that, as one of my neighbours recently claimed, that they are willing to work for less, but if it's above the minimum wage then I'm afraid that's just capitalism. And if it's below, then that is also the case, but in the old-fashioned sense of "outright bloody exploitation/alienation" (oops, put that Marx away).

Even if you live in an area with high immigration impact, seriously, how many unskilled natives do you know who are unemployed ? According to the Faggot, sorry the Independent, quoting the DoE, although unemployment has risen recently there are still more people in employment than at any time since it was recorded. And how long would you expect those people to remain unemployed ? Not long, I'd reckon, if they're not "wasters" (as I read British workers described by one employment agency that prefers dagoes).

And who with a grain of sense would turn away skilled workers when we constantly hear about the lack of them ? One third of the health service is staffed by immigrants. Stick 'em on the boat back to Key Worker Land !

It may well be that this changes when marauding hordes of Olgas and Vanyas "pour in" over the next two years. I've no idea what right overseas EU members have to welfare if they have held no employment at all. I very much doubt that someone could arrive and, if they had no luck job-hunting at first, just sign on. And if things did get to the bursting point that the redtops predict, then I imagine word would get back to their home countries and their little brothers and sisters would probably decide to stay put. Especially since they will most likely be "taking" British jobs in the form of overseas outsourcing by then. The BASTARDS ! They don't come over here, take our money and we drink their beer !

I take it all back. Had a chat with 'er downstairs the other day, and apologized if I'd woken her at the weekend. She bemusedly answered that she hadn't heard a thing.

End of the week. A "recovery Friday"- the party pumps will stay on the mat til tomorrow night. In the meantime-

Tom's Desert Island Discs no. 4- "Do Right Woman, Do Right Man", by The Flying Burrito Brothers

The who ? No, honestly missus, that was their name.

History is all written in retrospect of course, seemingly more so in art than anything else. In the rare event of a tag or category being invented at the time of what it describes, it's often an insult at first, like "punk" or "impressionist". Music writers love tags more than most, to the extent that they often seem to invent them because they sound neat, and then run around looking for acts to squeeze into them.

"Cosmic American Music" is one of the few cases I can think of where an actual musician undertook this process. In the late 60s (as you might guess from the word "cosmic"), a cosetted Rolling Stones hanger-on called Gram Parsons produced said moniker and set about trying to make a kind of music that encompassed rock'n'roll, country, soul, blues, gospel and other uniquely American genres. Amazingly, he succeeded.

You may know the original version of "Do Right..", by Aretha Franklin. If you don't, imagine her signature song "Respect" slowed right down, with the same rock-solid rhythm and defiant vocal. For all that she demands respect and equal terms from her lover, her vocal often sounds on the edge of breaking. These demands are based on experience, not a workshop.

The Flying Burritos were California hippie rockers, by contrast to Aretha's southern R&B band. They take the song as a country waltz, a piano loping along on the exact beat of the drums, unlike the church organ that seeps throught the groove of Aretha's version like Delta humidity. Gram Parsons and Chris Hillman sing in close harmony, the like of which you might hear at a family singalong in the Appalachians. Parsons' voice is often knocked as high and reedy, needing the support of his later singing partner Emmylou Harris, but he sings divinely here. Throughout, the vocals are beautifully punctuated by the pedal-steel guitar of Sneaky Pete Kleinou, who also turns in the most graceful, swooning, minimal solo I've ever heard on that instrument. At the conclusion, David Crosby (one of the greatest ever harmony singers) adds an aching high part to the vocal. They don't alter the lyrics at all, which unfortunately transforms the middle eight from feminist to male supremacist, but the whole thing is so beautiful you can forgive them. I doubt it was intentional (at least I hope not, given the relatively neanderthal attitudes most hippie blokes still had towards da sistahs).

A rock line-up performing a soul song country style. Cosmic, maaaaaaaaaaan.

The design of these flats is a real fucking drag. I've bent over backwards in the last year to not generate neighbour-bothering degrees of noise, but this weekend I had a friend around and was up til about 2 on Friday, then got back from a party last night at 2.30, and was serving munchies for about another hour. My neighbour declares today that she's "tired", which is coded language for "you kept me awake". I feel like I'm sneaking in aged 17, trying not to wake my parents. The galling thing is, I can hear it just as clearly when she takes a 3 Am piss, or when she gets up for her early shift. The guy upstairs is morbidly obese, and sleeps on a futon. I can hear it EVERY TIME he turns over, farts and some other things I don't want to speculate on. He also goes to the bog every other night in the wee small hours.

GET A FUCKING LIFE, THE LOT OF YOU.

The current bloodbath has prompted me to dig out my copy of "The Palestine-Israeli Conflict", which I first read a couple of years ago. It seemed quite a good primer, being a history written in two halves by two UK-based academics, the first by Dan Cohn-Sherbok, the second by Dawoud El-Alami. Both are utterly candid about the atrocities perpetuated by their own side. There is also a blog-style exchange of 3 short responses each at the end. My edition is from 2001, and interestingly, Hizbullah don't get a single mention. There's also a few claims in the exchanges in the end which may no longer hold quite so true (if they ever did in the first place)-

El-Alami, p210- "You should look more closely at the image of the uncivilised Arab in Western culture. This image is promoted and accepted in a way which would be totally unacceptable with regard to Jews or any other ethnic group. Israel is portrayed as a civilized Western country surrounded by hostile barbarians."

"The greater part of the Arab world does accept the existence of the Israeli State as a fact and is prepared to do business with it".

Cohn-Sherbok, p202-3- "By rejecting the majority decision to partition Palestine ((in 1948)), the Arab nations had placed themselves above the fundamental democratic process on which the UNis based. Since the creation of Israel.......Arab nations have repeatedly denied Israel's right to exist. While Jews have sought peace with their neighbours, the Arabs have waged war."

"Surrounded by its foes, isolated from external support, the Jewish nation has continually sought to safeguard itself from aggression. But it has not been the aggressor in these conflicts. Rather, as a young and relatively tiny country, it has continually sought to defend itself from attack;nonetheless, in doing so, Israel has constantly struggled to live in harmony with its neighbours".

And here's one I couldn't even comment on without reading shitloads more, from El-Alami- "..the history of Jewish Palestine ended effectively in 137 CE. Until the middle of the twentieth century, there had not been a Jewish majority in Palestine since that time over eighteen hundred years ago."

Presume CE is some equivalent of AD.

If Syd Barrett were still alive, I imagine he would be as bemused as he was in life as to why people were still so interested in his brief career 40-odd years ago as the founder of Pink Floyd and then as a solo artist. I don't know if he had the wherewithal to take such a degree of perspective on himself, but I suspect that was a period of his life he viewed with some regret, with it being the time he did himself the mental damage via LSD which rendered him unable to function as most people do.

Living in Cambridge, his legend felt even more present than it had ever done in the teenage hours I spent listening to "The Madcap Laughs", "Barrett" and "Relics". Details, both mundane and macabre, drifted around town like tumbleweed. He lived in his Mum's old house in Cherry Hinton. He was in and out of Fulbourne mental hospital on a regular basis. He hadn't been a recluse before, but for some reason, maybe the internet, he had more snoopers than ever in recent years, and had stopped answering his door. Then there were the sadder ones. His routine was often made up of visits to the chemist- not to buy anything for his mind, but tampons, or talcum powder, which he would sprinkle over his head, like the brylcreem and mandrax pills he once crowned himself with on stage at the height of his public decline. He once broke all his windows and chucked out his furniture. These stories may have grown in the telling, but they come from people I know who lived in the same area, the same street.

So why do all the magazine profiles dwell on the handsome but haunted 20something, and not the harassed-looking baldie on his bicycle ? Well, that kind of legend just sells, doesn't it ? Sad but true. I wish they had printed the loving tribute by his sister that appeared in the Cambridge evening news, which mentioned how he had retained his love of music, jazz in particular, his love of kids, and his passion, not for songwriting anymore, but DIY (most of which unfortunately fell apart).

I bid my own farewell to Syd a few days after his death when someone in my local, and utterly unpsychedelic, pub put "See Emily Play" on the jukebox. I stopped dead and listened, the layers of familiarity peeling away. It's a great psychedelic pop song. Catchy, with a quirky lyric and vocal, and freakout instrumentation which is instantly identifiable with its era but in no way dated. It reminded me of when I looked out of my bedroom window and caught my dad dancing to "Gigolo Aunt", which was on my stereo at the time, or when my mum came into my room and asked me to put on "Effervescing Elephant" again, because she thought it was so sweet and catchy. Of course doomed rockstars appeal to tortured adolescents, but if you are feeling lost or lonely then of course a song like "Won't you Miss Me" or "Dominoes" will appeal to you, at whatever age. I know a lot of people were a pain when you just wanted some peace, Syd, or Roger, as your loved ones still called you, but they must have started somewhere, and that was with your brilliant songs.

Tom's Desert Island Discs no.3- "Whenever, Whenever", by Shakira.

Only joking. I do quite like Shakira though- that mix of basically naff and painfully earnest. And what a fantastic derriere.

Tom's Desert Island Discs, no. 2

"There She Goes", by The La's

Blah, blah, more music-press approved muso guff, why can't he just admit to loving Sinitta and Kylie ? Well, far from waiting for muso approaval, I can tell you the first time I ever heard this song. On a radio session for Liz Kershaw's early evening Radio 1 show, some time in early 1988. I knew the La's from their indie hit "Way Out", and quite liked them, despite their obvious 60s affectations, which every other indie band did at the time and was tediously ubiquitous.

"There She Goes" makes no attempt to hide its 60s influences. The title is a virtually direct steal from the Velvet Underground, and the riff could easily have wandered off one of the Byrds' hit singles. But what a riff. What a beautifully keening vocal. What a stately waltz rhythm. I bought it as soon as it was released as a single, though it wasn't the hit it deserved to be until it was re-released in the wake of the Stone Roses, a year or so later. I walked onto a dancefloor and danced to it, walking stright away from the girl who properly broke my heart for the first time. There were a few more to follow............

Who cares if it's about a woman, or smack, or philately ? It's just, as a colleague of mine once said ,as he heard it on the radio for the first time, a nice little song. I actually think it's more-it's a beautiful little song.

Nice to know I can get spam even here. What the fewk.

Thought i'd indulge myself. In no particular order, here is one of

Tom's Desert Island Discs

Because the Night, by Patti Smith

1978 was a pivotal year in popular music. Punk rock was shaking the foundations of Britain and America, disco was smuggling homosexuality into the mainstream, while Kraftwerk were inventing electropop. So the high seers of music journalism attest- I, however, was not an NME reader at that time. I was 7. "Remember You're a Womble" had recently been supplanted by "I've Got a Brand New Combine Harvester" in my then Desert Island Discs. But I remember "Because the Night" more clearly than any other rock song of the time.

I remember the restrained piano intro, the keening vocal of the first verse, the sudden explosion of drums, the vocal turning impassioned, the lady with this big scary, growly voice singing about how the night belonged to lovers. I had no idea what she was really on about, but whoever these "lovers" were, they obviously were not messing about. I remember Pan's People dancing to it on TOTP, and my Dad's head making one of its occasional appearances from behind the paper. Wouldn't you ?

I don't buy most of the orthodoxy on Patti Smith. I didn't spend any teenage nights in a reverie to "Horses". I had the Smiths for that. I never felt the desire to buy any of her albums, despite loving this song (written by Bruce Springsteen- maybe that made the difference). I don't want to own certain great songs, for fear that I'll play them to death and they'll lose their appeal. But I did finally buy this, on the "Land" compilation a couple of years ago. It was, and still is, glorious. "Desire is hunger is the fire I breathe, love is the banquet on which we feed".

My best mate and his girlfriend have recently asked me to do a cartoon of them. I can imagine if Kate Moss were to marry a plastic surgeon and ask if he could touch her up (so to speak..), how he would feel............. Just started it and suffice to say it will probably use up a LOT of sketch paper............

Was accused of "looking like a clean living sort" the other day. Of all the bloody cheek. Been drinking like a fish ever since. How else can you sleep in this heat ? Well, OK, there is that. You dirty-minded shower.

Before I attempt to form any sort of opinion on what's happening in Lebanon right now, can anyone inform me to what extent Hezbollah represent the consensus of Lebanese political opinion ? And why would any Lebanese person co-operate with Syria, when Syria assassinated their PM about a year or so ago ? This is not sarcasm-I'm seriously bemused.

Was subjected this week to that oh-so-American thought experiment where you have to read what you see in the phrase "LOVEISNOWHERE" (did you read "love is nowhere" ?- shake off that negative mindset ! It's "love is now here"!)I thought I'd try something similar. Yes, it's been that boring a weekend so far- what can you perceive in this one, kids ?

bitchyearmuffingertipplearyankleenexplanation

Just back from Edinburgh. Hotter than a snakeshit on the train, and no aircon........ Still, beats hanging around in airports. Feel pretty rested, though the oppressive weather is a drain. That plus drinking til 1.30 and getting up at 7.30.

Do you ever find you that the pressures of everyday modern life make you feel "frustrated" ? Does this "frustration" ever get too much to cope with ? My advice to you is- stamp on someone's groin with a studded football boot. You will feel so much better- and if any retarded authority figure attempts to reprimand you for this, then just remember, he's old, slow, and his wife don't give him none. Repeat this mantra as many times as possible under your breath as you head for your early bath. Or, if you wish, sing it to the tune of "The Camptown Races". Oh, dee doo dar day.............. And never fear, for the next day, your national press will imply that your victim had it coming all along. Oh, dee doo dar day...................

Long break since my last scribble- been busy recording, drawing,attempting to get a life. Been wondering recently if I'm not getting a bit too cynical for my own good. I recently borrowed the DVD of "Before Sunset", which I did actually see at the cinema but didn't remember too much of as I was more preoccupied by the woman I was with. I didn't expect to have much sympathy for the characters, even though they're about the same age/mentality as me. I was expecting a load of "boo hoo, I'm in my thirties and life isn't working out quite the way I'd hoped". But they were drawn sympathetically enough for me to go and buy "Before Sunrise", which I only saw scraps of on a plane when it came out. Again, I expected them to be cliches- "ooh, I'm in my twenties and isn't life a big adventure !". But there was a lot more to them than that.

The bit that hit me most in the older incarnations was Ethan Hawke's character talking about aspiring to his "better self"- the one that cares for his son and endures the alienation he feels towards his wife. But the loneliness and the recurring dreams about Julie Delpy's character he describes are really moving. It contrasts quite sadly with his younger self saying that he knows he would be a good husband and father, but doesn't know if he could face dying without excelling at something. The fact is that he succeeds in all those things, but at the cost of his own happiness. Who knows, maybe he's a lousy husband ? We only get his version, and perhaps he then proves it by going off and shagging La Delpy again- we don't know of course, as the second film leaves that particular one unresolved.

I often feel that my own concerns are crawlingly trivial by comparison with those who have kids and marriages to maintain. But what can I do about it in the meantime ? I don't know if my present way of life and mentality makes those things impossible. Who has that degree of perspective on themselves ? If you sit down and try to deconstruct it you end up just depressing yourself. So you may as well crack on.

It's a drag when you go to see a film and suspect that the person you're with isn't enjoying it. Hey ho. Just saw "The Squid and the Whale", which shows a middle-class family breaking up. It's set in the eighties, and the older of the two sons is an awkward git about the same age as me, so there's a superficial resemblance at least. The parents, the father in particular, are archetypal baby-boomers- self-absorbed, over-intellectual. What he passes off as honest "rapping" is just self-indulgent twaddle. That's where it diverges from my experience. I never wanted for anything, emotionally or materially. Didn't stop me doing me doing the whole rebel bit, which I often still feel like I haven't grown out of. Suppose that events just come along and slap you out of those sorts of mindsets.

If all goes well, the latest Photoshop doodle should be here- another old one enhanced with the Devil's technology. I know that Iggy Pop is a little more musclebound these days, but he's remarkably unchanged in every other respect.

Great weekend with friends around here on Saturday night. Tonight's music is Bill Evans and Jim Hall again- "Undercurrents". Dreamy jazz guitar as it should be, and sublime piano.

Thank God for "Scrubs". Even when you feel as abject as I did by last night it can always put a smile on my face. Thanks to my divine colleague Vani for the loan of Series 3.

Stinking hangover today, cured by coffee at the Trockel and Ullmann cafe on Downing Street. Lovely place, why is it closed so often ? Looking forward to having a few mates around next week and then playing in Yorkshire the week after.

Current contender for best opening verses of all time, from "Calling It Quits", by Aimee Mann-

He's a serious master
shake his hand and he'll twist your arm
With Monopoly money
we'll be buying the funny farm

So I'll do flips
and get paid in chips
froma diamond as big as the Ritz
then I'm calling it quits

No idea what she's on about, but it's just great, and continues to be for several more verses.

I was back in my old neighbourhood of Mill Road in Cambridge, and I must say I miss it. There are loads of shops to browse in, places to buy your food where the staff smile and don't appear to hate you/their jobs. Met about 4 people that I knew and chatted about the price of cheese. Then back to Arbury/King's Hedges, where there is fuck all apart from road, one pub that I would consider drinking in, and the default facial expression is the scowl. Hey ho, the realities of the housing market dictate that this is my home now.

Been listening to Neil Young all evening, and thought I recognized the guitar sound-then realized it was the sound of my new Gretsch, what I bought partly because Neil played one. It's sweet, but it growls. Fenders are such pussies by comparison, they put up no fight whatsoever. Isn't she lovely ?

Utterly knackered again, though if I had got slightly less pissed after playing at a mate's Dad's birthday the other night I suppose I would attract a little more sympathy. Also played at APU last night- 20 minutes to try and get the attention of an indifferent crowd, armed with a malfunctioning guitar. Not good.

Nothing profound to say I'm afraid. Been listening to Bill Evans, now the Stones, by way of contrast. Any women out there who resemble Kate Winslet and share my interests in musical obscurantism and caricature are welcome to accompany me to a quiet drinking establishment some time. Don't all mail at once, mind you, we don't want the site to crash.

It isn't often I'm awake before 7 AM, usually for the wrong reasons, but today I was. Having been gigging/drinking for the previous 3 nights, I hit the hay fairly early last night, and woke up about 6.45 as a result. I could remember my dreams, usually a bad sign in recent years, but wholly pleasant this time. I felt perfectly content.

My sister nags me that I see things as being really average or really crap, and it's certainly true that I can name the times when I've felt really happy, so they must be fewer in number. Isn't that how it should be ? Food loses its allure if it's on a silver platter every day. I certainly don't feel miserable most of the time, though. There's just constantly something I feel I need to be getting on with- all pretty selfish in nature. I don't have anyone to provide for other than myself. What's selfish about not squandering your talent, though ?

Contentment and happiness are two different things, but maybe they get closer as you get older. For me, happiness is still a pretty fizzy thing. Being in love, playing in a good band, listening to the McGarrigles singing "The Swimming Song". Contentment usually goes with silence. One time recently my flat and block were completely silent, just the sound of traffic on the main road, quite distant. It reminded me of my parents' old house. My own mental chatter just ceased. That is a simply blissful feeling. This morning was a kind of cross between the two, so that's how it's eked this out of me.

Holidays rock. Seem to have spent the greater part of my time off so far on my own, but can't really say I care. Solipsism rocks too. Spose my job involves a lot of "people-handling" so that must explain it. Plus I'm just a wanker. Going down to London tomorrow to see an old friend and his new wife, so there you go, I do have room for other humans somewhere in my life.

Was going to do some work on the book of drawings I've been doing tonight, but I've done loads over th elast few days. Plus it's after 10, the Byrds are on the stereo.............Would have a drink, but want to be up bright and early tomorrow. Middle age and sobriety rock.

Just been listening to a very earnest radio documentary about ASBOs, whilst reading a Guardian article about "the New Snobbery". Must say that I find it hard to take a sympathetic view on the topic. Since moving to Cambridge, people who, I'm afraid to say, yes, were wearing shellsuits and baseball caps and speaking in broad Estuarian accents, have swerved cars at me, thrown beercans, lit cigarettes and bricks at me, verbally abused me and jostled me. My offence ? Erm, walking. Cycling. Existing. Not looking like them.

The radio show interviewed some kids who had been ASBO'd when younger and they sensibly suggested some shock revelations. Give kids something to do. Discipline them better if you are a parent. A social worker suggested that before using ASBOs, young children could be encouraged to sign up to "behavioural contracts", promising not to do "simple things" like scream in the street and throw stones. Wow.

I haven't met the parents of the kids who've given me grief. I doubt they're pleasant, in general. I don't doubt they're working-class. I don't doubt that they are poor, and that they have to cope with pressures which prevent them from exercising strong discipline. Or maybe not- I was fairly horrified when I saw Frank Field, who for years was Labour's leading guru on welfare reform, saying on TV that he'd reached the conclusion that the only way to deal with antisocial people was to ghetto-ize them.

I can only compare it with my past experience. I grew up on a middle class street just down the road from some estates. Any aggravation I remember I would put down now to kids being kids towards each other. As a student in Glasgow I spent my first year in a hall in a working-class area quite far from campus. We were given advice re behaviour which basically amounted to "don't rub it in" (they're long term unemployed and Catholic- if you're neither then keep quiet about it) and "watch your step" (there was only one pub considered safe for us). Violence in Glasgow is always implied very subtly but powerfully, apart from in areas where heroin has removed the rule of law. I still have the naive notion that, as those were the dying days of grant-maintained tertiary education, my fellow students and I were from a fairly broad range of society and didn't actually represent inherited privilege to the people of Maryhill.

I suppose that polarisation exists a hundredfold in Cambridge. But I still resent being a target for random oubursts of "proletarian" rage. What have I done ? And look at your lot- materially, is it really that bad ? If you have a car to swerve at me, then sorry, you are not poor. If the problem is simple lack of respect or lack of a culture of respect then I just despair. Like I said above, the rules of respect are fairly elementary (I would swear to make that more forcefully felt, but, to exemplify the notion of respect, I will refrain). If it's lack of opportunity, then I have a couple of suggestions- try attending school, and try voting. They're both free ! And if people's notion of how those two institutions relate to them is so eroded then I really don't know what to suggest.

Another weekend come and gone- blink and you've missed it. Good gig at the Cambridge Folk Club on Friday. Some of my students from my TEFL dayjob came along, and I think were a little nonplussed by the contrast of having to survive the bar of the Golden Hind, followed by the folkies sitting down quietly to listen upstaits. Tried some blue humour, which I think may have been the wrong idea. A few eyes popped. Will probably be at the Barking Dog open mic in Bury St Edmonds on Wednesday, so see you there if that's your manor.

Sometimes Photoshop just seems to easy, but then it doesn't really differ all that much from the "colouring in" I used to do with pen/ink and watercolour. It's just musch faster and cleaner.

Just watched a DVD of "Heathers", a film I very clearly remember seeing when it first came out. Had forgotten some aspects- the dreadful 80s sound and colour, Christian Slater's abysmal Jack Nicholson impersonation. But still feel the same amazement that the American media didn't grab hold of it 11 years later, in the wake of the Columbine shootings.

Given that it depicts a character in a black overcoat pulling a gun in a highschool canteen and shooting two jocks, it sure beats whatever Marilyn Manson might have been dribbling about in 1999. OK, slater's character actually fires blanks at the jocks, for which he is only suspended- maybe the whole idea seemed so absurd at the time that the writers could only imagine a response so trivial. Or maybe his being expelled/arrested might have just brought the narrative to a premature halt. Go figure. He then goes on to actually kill several fellow students, with Winona Ryder's unwitting conivance, disguising them as suicide. The film in general is fairly fucking absurd, but hey, it's allegory, dude.

Maybe the extremities of absurdity and the large swathes of pseudo-sociological guff that often comes out of the characters' mouths meant it was all too much for the shockjocks and rentaquotes to take in. Maybe they'd just forgotten it. But how on earth could such a loaded (literally) tale have been so overlooked ? In many ways it's a brave attempt to confront the very issues that would eventually contribute to Harris and Klebold doing their stuff.

The main thing I remmber while watching it aged 17 (same as the characters in it) was amazement at just how rich and overdressed they looked. They all had cars. Musselburgh grammar school looked kind of tawdry by comparison. And though i had my own issues with "popularity" (or lack of it) and adolescent notions re love, death, revenge et al, I was glad I wasn't in an environment where it was quite that stoked, plus with real guns lying around. Fuck only knows what it's like now in the wake of Columbine- if British schoolkids are lucky, they'll be at a stage where "Heathers" just looks like some very dated pre-pre-precursor to "Buffy", and not like everyday life.

So it seems like the solo singer-songwriter style is more popular than it has been for about 3 decades. How odd. The main thing that I wonder is not why this is so, so much as why do people choose to adopt it ? I'll admit that when I first started playing the guitar I was emulating fairly obvious idols- Neil Young, Nick Drake, Van Morrison. But you quickly realise it's a very generic and very over-suscribed genre. You see the same stereotypes at every gig/open mic- willowy hippychick cooing nothing much at all; wounded bloke extracting revenge in song; babyboomer who's just recently found time to reconnect with his/her younger self. I suppose even if they're not old enough to really remember it, they still have that general revulsion towards the tawdry, overproduced sound of the 80s. If they're not too old they'll be tired of dance music's domination- if they're older then they've probably always hated it. Certainly sampler or sequencer-based music can't claim precedence anymore just due to being innovative. It's part of the furniture and has ceased to progress fundamentally, plus people like Beck crossed it with "real" music so effectively that the battle-lines aren't as stark as they were. So what can a poor boy do to differentiate himself from the rest ? 1- Spare us the angst, go out and live a bit, 2- Try to write about other people than yrself, 3- Think about why you've chosen to write and play your own songs, rather than just sing someone else's. I recently asked a girl at an open mic what kind of songs she wanted to write- she looked at me like I'd asked her for the code to the human genome. Why bother if you've got no fucking idea why ?

Listening to "She Hangs Brightly" by Mazzy Star, the latter half of which I used to find fairly tedious, but I've played fairly constantly since I got a CD copy a couple of years ago. Hope Sandoval tended to sing fairly flat, but her voice is so lustrous and sexy, combined with the stoner musical setting, it still kills me.

Wrote another song today- another outpouring of verbosity, this time of the somewhat wounded and bitter variety. Butit's actually about the futility of writing wounded, bitter songs. Come to my gigs, where the fun's at !

Might I just say as well that Kirsten Dunst is awfully pretty. I know there are many millions of men who think the same, but thought I would chip in my own ha-penny's worth. G'night for now.

I recently discovered a couple of old pencil-sketches during the year I lived in Grevena, in northern Greece, of the singer and bouzouki player from a local folk band I used to go and see quite often. Thought that, ten years on, it was high time I finished them. Brings back good memeories, though I must admit through the haze of collosal amounts of booze. They're below, since I couldn't figure out how to upload themn with text.

Had a bit of a funny turn last Friday at an open mic night. A guy (English) was singing "Caledonia" by Dougie MacLean, and a Scottish acquaintance behind me started singing along and asked me if it reminded me of "the Old Country". I'm afraid I snapped at him that it meant fuck all to me. Honestly, it doesn't. There are plenty of things I miss about about Scotland, but things like that just can't get past the underlayer of English in me (Brummie and Yorkshire parents). I'm afraid if you put my soul under a microscope, the greater part will consist of tea, toast and constant apologising for no reason. Not hugely fond of that either, but we do what we can.

Blimey, I actually seem to have a readership, even if it is just the two buggers that I work with. The 15,000 figure was a stab in thedark, I admit. One of the neo-cons in the Independent claimed something even lower (if you can consider 15, 000 "low")- I vaguely remembered looking at the iraqidead site a few months ago and seeing 12, 000. Of course that was a few months ago, and the scale of destruction in the meantime has pushed it up to a level I wouldn't even have dared to suggest without checking. 33, 000 people............. why are phrases like "a city the size of Peterborough" only used regarding immigration and not this ?

It was screamingly obvious right from the start that Britain and America didn't have a post-war plan. They had to mobilize quickly to exploit the momentum of the all the dodgy "evidence" of WMD they had, in lieu of UN backing. What a lethal combination- the American desire for a quick fix and the British ability to implement a discreet bodge.

See even the neo-cons are chorusing we should get out of Iraq. Just took 15,000 Iraqi dead, 2000 Americans and 200 (?) British to jog them along. Up til then, I was reluctant to join the general leftie slagging of Tony Blair, but from the minute Baghdad fell, I thought he can just fuck off, the pious, naive little prick.

I am NOT an all-purpose sceptic. When he supported the invasion initially, I hoped and prayed he was playing it the same way he did the 1997 election. For the two years between his election as Labour leader and then, his silence was deafening, but it was a Trojan horse. When the elction came around, he just suddenly produced a whole array of policies from his inside pocket and just blew the Tories away. Scoff all you like, Trots, but without him we would still have had Tories in power for at least another term. I hoped that once the invasion was over then there really would be WMD piled up behind the schools and hospitals, though my overwhelming suspicion was that there wouldn't. And of course there weren't, in fact.

So, reasons for his back ing it ? Could be

1) He believed whatever trumped-up evidence of WMD Shrub and Rummie showed him, and thought we had to avoid a Chamberlain appeasement situation. Verdict- naive little prick, resign now.
2) He doubted whatever they showed him, but still thought that it was worth deposing Saddam's dictatorship, if it was done for it's own sake, not oil. Verdict- naive little prick, resign now.
3) He somehow thought he could sneak nice, fluffy policies into the neocon agenda once Saddam had fallen- "Hey, guys, could you take your mind off the oil for a moment ? I want to send that nice Clare Short over to give them, y'know, electricity and running water." Verdict- naive little prick, resign now.

Went to the launch of a new Nick Drake biography last week, and have been thinking again about characters like him. I'm like any male muso- look through my CD collection and you'll find stuff by loads of doomed characters who died young- Gram Parsons, Tim Buckley, Jim Morrison, Ian Curtis, etc ad nauseam. i like to think that I do take them on their merits, without the attendant mythology, and in most cases I think I do. Tim Buckley actually does very little for me, I haven't listened to Joy Division in years, Jim Morrison without the Doors was crap and vice-versa (take it from me, I've heard both the recordings he made without them and and them without him- they're dire.)

Nick Drake.............I have periods where I think he was over-rated and I should have grown out of it now. But he just creeps back in. Maybe because he's dead and never got the chance to soil his image with crap material- not that there isn't some crap on his albums (the instrumentals on Bryter Layter, drippy nonsense like Thoughts of Mary Jane and Way to Blue). His music has just drawn me in- he's one of the few people who I could tell you what I first heard, and where (sitting in my bedroom, proabably drawing, age 16,listening to a radio documentary about Island records- they gave a 5-minute life-story and played a snippet of "Fruit Tree"). When I listen to him now, it feels like I'm giving time to someone who's too honest and inscrutable to cope with usually, and who you feel a bit guilty about brushing aside. Does that somehow still romanticise his young death ? Don't know.

Handy hints for home-recording musicians- don't leave your microphone preamp switched on and leave it indefinitely- the same thing that makes it very hot will cause it to eventually burn out completely. Oops. Just pray to God the mic itself is OK- that's the expensive bugger.

How divine is Souad Massi ? Truly I am in love. Buy everything by her- if an Algerian woman singing in French and Arabic over North African/Gypsy/singer-songwriter music sounds like your bag, then she is it. And the sound of the oud is just the most luscious instrument. Other sounds of the moment- Fela Kuti, The La's, Donovan (quiet at the back !) and Muddy Waters.

Looking at the property supplement that came with the free newspaper while listening to the
Gang of Four was quite a strange experience. Couldn't help but tamper with one of the adverts
in the manner of old Go4 album sleeves- it's too big to upload onto this post, but will try it independently (so there'll either be nothing or an image called The Wait is Over

Plenty of OBM this week (Old Bastard Moments)- namely "All the music around at the moment
sounds like [insert name of band you were passionate about as a teenager]". Well, sod it,
Arctic Monkeys are the Wedding Present and I claim my £5.

Guitar shop staff must get so sick of people who either know nothing or pretend they do (I fall
squarely in the second caregory). Whatever, I'm no nearer to finding an electric guitar I feel
comfortable playing- til then I'm still an acoustic saddo.

So the middle of February is upon us. Still bursting with New Year's resolve ? Apparently last Monday was the biggest day of the year for gratuitous sickies. Must admit to feeling a little jaded myself, but nothing that listening to "Bryter Later" can't cure.
Despite having progressed to passable competency in most things computer-related, had to admit the other day that I've never managed to successfully cut and paste something between Word documents ! If the high heejuns of the University world are to be believed, I could never pass for an undergraduate in that respect..........Anyway, if I manage to carry out aforementioned operation, there will be below this a little ramble I wrote a while ago. Hope it entertains you........

Making out in the movies

It’s probably fair to say that most people, in the West at any rate, receive at least some of their sentimental education from films. That awkward first date, first kiss, first time…..but also the very first hurdle before any of them. Whilst watching Scorcese’s "Taxi Driver" again on TV the other night, I began to worry I had picked main character Travis Bickle’s approach as the paradigm of how to approach women. I first saw the film when I was nineteen, and still fairly desperate for any kind of clues as to how this men/women thing worked.

Travis is, of course, deeply disturbed, most likely by his Vietnam experience, which the film only briefly alludes to, at the start. His courtship of the beautiful election co-ordinator, Betsy, begins to progressively reveal this, as his attempts at romance include a visit to a porno movie. A shame for them both, after the very promising start he makes, and which still looks like a good example.

Travis has a very stressful job, with little meaningful human interaction- most of his passengers are the "scum" that he wants, and later begins, to try and eradicate. Each day he sees a woman in the same place, through her office window, and, as people are wont to do, loves her from afar. She notices him, and remarks on it to her male colleague, with whom she has rapport but no empathy.

What can anyone do when lumbered with a crush ? Live with it, and hope that, like a headache, it will eventually go away ? Or act on it, give it your best shot, and accept that even if you fail, at least you tried ? Travis would be unlikely to accept that latter condition, so it’s just as well for Betsy that she accepts his invitation to go for a coffee and slice of pie. This, however, is just one of two possible outcomes for Travis when he first strides into her office, leans across her desk and tells her she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, before delivering the above-mentioned enticement. The other is the big fat "R", the rejection that threatens to pull the rug from under any man’s resolve.

The notion of stalking didn’t exist in the mid-70s, and when combined with his daily leering, Travis’s directness would probably qualify as such. But Betsy is impressed by his nerve, especially his accurate response to her challenge of why she should accept- namely that she’s lonely. Being played by Robert de Niro, he also cuts a swarthily chiselled figure, by comparison with her nerdy, bespectacled co-worker, who glares jealously on. Crucially, while she deliberates over his response to her challenge "why ?", he admits briefly to how it ain’t easy for him standin’ here- so he has guts but not arrogance.

Compare this with another, more recent, film example, this time shown to be a good one, from the end of "Roger Dodger". Whilst attempting to instruct his 16-year-old nephew Nick in the ways of New York womanising, silver-tongued advertising exec Roger realises that his style has finally collapsed into arrogant confrontation, brought on by rejection by a woman he actually loves- not only that, she’s his boss. In the film’s final scene, he visits Nick in his Ohio hometown and sits with him and his friends in their high-school canteen. He elicits the name of the girl they all lust after and asks how they might think of approaching her. No response ensues, so he suggests the following strategy- walk up to her and tell her, Angela, I notice you every day, but every time I try to approach you I get so nervous that I can’t. So I wonder if we could go for a soda and just talk.

Naturally, Angela’s response to this brave but honest approach would depend on what kind of girl she is. After his uncle has left, Nick turns around to find that, on his way out, Roger has sent her over to him to hear something that "will really blow her mind". But we never do hear his answer or her reaction, as the end freeze-frames over him opening his mouth in reply. Maybe he adopts this strategy, though judging from his expression, he’s probably about to deliver one of the killer chat-up lines that Roger forced him to improvise earlier in the film. Women like a GSOH as well as good looks, bravado and vulnerability, you see.

Hi folks, this is the blog for genial beanstalk singer-songwriter Tom Conway. Expect navels to be examined, gigs dissected and crass humour in excelsis. Who could resist ?