It seemed like it might never happen, but like everyone from Lily Allen to Reginald Smallthorpe and his Percussive Flea Orchestra, I now have a MySpace page, where you can listen to (but not download, unless I change my mind) my tunes. You can also check out my groovy Friends, including the great Al Lindsay and the outstanding Paul Goodwin, whose heroism in the face of my computer imbecility deserves a Victoria Cross. Having said all that, the link probably won't work, but I'm sure you can manage to type it yourself if not....

http://myspace.com/tomconwaymusic

Just spent the last 2 days marking what must have been at least 100 Advanced Writing exam papers at the Moller Conference centre at Churchill College. Talk about a different world. While washing my hands in the gents, I wondered why the soap wasn't lathering, til I realised that, of the 2 dispensers, I had mistakenly pressed the one for handcream. I innocently asked my team leader on the phone on Friday if lunch was included. She wasn't exaggerating when she said it was the highlight of the day. Suffice to say I haven't had a meal like it since Christmas dinner. It made the grinding tedium of the work more tolerable.

The papers themselves were interesting. By far the best came from Romania- seemingly mostly by mature adult students, though some very bright younger-seeming ones. Some from Croatian youths who, like most young ex-Yugoslav students I've encountered, seemed (understandably)desperate to shake off preconceptions about the war years and prone to either melodrama, pessimism or good old-fashioned Balkan pomposity (having lived in Greece for 4 years, one of those in a flat shared with a Serb, I'm quite familiar with it).

It all comes in handy. Who knows, I might be able to afford a holiday this year after all.

Goodbye to another week, though I'm going to be working all weekend marking exam scripts. Good thing next weekend is Easter.

Watched "Borat" on DVD this week. For some reason I was revving myself up to not like it, but I was still braying with laughter at a lot of bits. There's no doubting the guy has balls of steel- there are some bits where he risks an absolute kicking, and another with a certain very famous celeb where he himself could quite easily have been charged with assault.

Other times you wonder why he's bothering- the person involved doesn't really seem to deserve it, and the overwhelming feeling is just mutual incomprehension. And the depictions of "Khazakh" life at the start I can understand might just put out some of that country's populace. If the artifice helps to mislead some of the people who he's prompting into saying hateful things, great, but we KNOW it's a front, so what's the point of caricaturing poor people as ignorant and inbred ? The Romanians who actually populate the village where it's shot don't seem to mind though.

Played a great "charidee" gig last night, for the premature birth clinic at Addenbrooke's hospital. Attentive crowd, CD sales (via the website today as well), great vibe. The headline band were Dolittle, featuring the former singer with the 90s band Eat. He still has some fairly devoted followers, virtually all of whom were mouthing the lyrics verbatim. Spoke with him briefly, but thought it best to leave it at that, as I have a habit of sticking my foot right in my mouth with such people.

Revisionism time- bought a CD of "Loveless" today, to replace my long neglected and deeply buried cassette. There's actually a new little book entirely devoted to it, which I just read, and prompted me to approach it again with different expectations. It's great, though "Sometimes" still sounds a bit dirgey. Play late at night, in the bath, or when engaged in the physical act of love- the loops of Bilinda Butcher oohing and ahing will never sound quite the same.

Went to see the new David Lynch film, Inland Empire, last night. It was probably the most outright surreal film I've seen by him, or anyone, though it's hard to top "Un Chien Andalou". "Un Chien" also has the advantage of only being about 40 minutes long. "Empire" is 3 hours, something I normally have a problem with anyway. Ever since fucking "Titanic" it seems film can't be less than two hours.

I'm not so thick as to expect a David Lynch film to be reducable to something as obvious as even a Freudian analysis (though I did dream about Laura Dern last night- mmmmmmmmmmmm). I like the wild association of images, and the way that their interpretation is totally up to you. The images and ideas are rich and varied enough for endless amounts of that. Just to scratch the surface- maybe it was all a nightmare in the hooker's mind as she watched the rabbit sitcom on TV ? (Yes, you just read that- and the film is 100 times wierder).

But, frankly, after 3 hours of sitting anywhere, my arse is turning to stone, my spine is starting to compress and my circulation is down to a trickle. Maybe the endurance test is part of what makes "Empire" so mind-bending. But I would have thought images and speech would be enough.

When I was about 10 I had a brief stint in the Scouts (yes, really !) One week at school I wrote in my diary that we had had a scouting excursion at the weekend, and one of the guys had got in some kind of trouble- something incredibly minor like being late for a bus or something. I was aware that my teacher was actually the mother of said guy, but didn't suss that this might be something he'd want to keep from her. Before the next scout meeting, he and his mate got me up against a wall and told me in no uncertain terms to avoid repeating any such thing.

At the risk of repeating the same thing, I'll just say that work at the moment is fucking trying. I'm also knackered from doing a gig last night. Whatever, I'm ensconced in my boudoir, Gene Clark is on the stereo and the water is on for a hot bath. Flump.

Truck on down to your local branch of Borders or Smiths in a couple of weeks, and you'll find this on page 75 of April's "Maverick " magazine.........

Tom Conway, "I'll Wait for the Paperback"

..... a pretty impressive collection of observations, comments and ramblings. He manages the smart balance of seriousness and lightheartedness that gave the likes of Tom Waits, Harry Chapin, Randy Newman and John Prine their legendary status. He complains about life's trivialities on "Perspective", a catchy talking blues number which should resonate with us all, jokes about rejection in "No Wonder You're Single", and shows rare sensitivity about scrubbing up for a night out in "You Look Fine", a delicate song about a woman's insecurities about her looks.

"Mr Goodtimes" is a funky r&b-flavoured bluesy tune that's completely unlike the other songs that surround it, adding a touch of variety that helps to make this record such a pleasant low-key listening experence. I'd guess Mr Conway is a pretty good live performer if this short-but-sweet album is anything to go by. * * * *

You know you're getting old when undergraduates are writing their dissertations on albums that you bought when you were a student yourself. Apparently a guy at some American college has just written his thesis on My Bloody Valentine's "Loveless", which came out, after endless delays and accumulating mystery, in 1992 (my 3rd year).

The Valentines, as we called them, were my most favouritist band in the whole wide world until I heard "Loveless", but it's now lauded as their absolute highpoint. To me it had the feel of a band who'd spent too long in the studio and had just lost the plot. Of course, that's its appeal to many, but I preferred it when guitarist/leader Kevin Shields was working under pressure to produce the EPs that came out in the long, long pauses between albums. He is famous for hating working in such conditions, but if the result is skewiff combinations of fey and brutal like "Feed Me With Your Kiss" and "Drive It All Over Me" then I'm not complaining at all. The "Tremolo" EP that preceded "Loveless" gave a taste of what was to come, but was just long enough to intrigue without boring.

This thesis discusses MBV "within the context of the shoegazing scene" apparently. Really, who wants to remember ? All those bands claimed the Valentines as an inspiration, but their approach was so utterly prosaic I honestly couldn't see any resemblance whatsoever. They reminded me more of low-rent Jesus and Mary Chains. Superficial resemblance (feedback, tra-la vocals etc), but that was as far as it went. I fancied Miki Berenyi of Lush something rotten, and was massively jealous of Mark Gardener of Ride, who was devilishly good-looking and rumoured to be knocking her off- the music went in one ear and out the other, mostly.

Other memories ? Spliffs, trying to dance funky to the Stone Roses, Penguin Modern Classics piled up around library desks on deadline week. Student life. Wonder what the thesis's writer will do when his time in the real world comes (if it hasn't already).

Fighting cynicism is a fairly good thing, n'est-ce pas ? I've always had a habit of looking a gift horse in the mouth, but if you're offered an opportunity then it's stupid to turn it down. Last year I was contacted about writing reviews for a local listings website, and I hardly took advantage of it. Now I have access to virtually every big gig in town, like the one by the Bees at the Junction tonight, which was great. Roll on life !

That was a long old week. Started getting a virus yesterday and feel pretty rough. On the upside, spring is here, I've been offered part-time work doing oral exams and writing marking (MONEY !), and my new CD is going to be reviewed in a national magazine. And I should be going to see the Bees on Sunday, for free. (That is the rock group, not the insect race).

Who knows ? Blair might yet survive. He still sounds remarably unfazed whenever I hear him. He seems to assume that the broad mass of the public don't give a toss about Iraq. He may be right.

Went to the memorial annual gig for Eric Roche last night. Eric was a phenomenal acoustic guitarist who was on the verge of real success when cancer took him about 2 years ago. He was just a little older than me. It raised money for his kids and Addenbrookes hospital. There was a rendition of one song by one of the performers which, although I didn't like the way it came out, reminded me of him very much. RIP, Eric.

I heard a phrase on a radio news item about the impending split within the Anglican church which took me right back over the years- "actively homosexual". It reminded me of a Spitting Image sketch in which a Cof E priest asks George Carey what it means to be "non-actively" homosexual. Carey replies that it's Ok to wear a leather cap with a chain, with a leather waistcoat, and dance to the Village People, and proceeds to do just that, as the Church around him turns into a gay club.

"Organised religion" is starting to sound just as meaningless to me. You hear it from people who claim to be developing some kind of spirituality, but object to "organised religion" because boo, hiss, they repress sexuality, persecute minorities etc. As far as I'm concerned, if you're going to invest your faith in a non-existent being, then at least choose one whose followers have contributed to the history of morality. A bit paradoxical given my aversion to religious dogma, but at least it avoids the kind of hooey that the likes of Madonna spout, and which you can buy in shops that sell incense, prayer mats and other such tat. I'm actually with God's Rottweiller on that one- relativism sucks.

Catch me on a bad day and I'll stick the boot right into any kind of religion, but most priests and ministers I meet are more concerned with others' well-being than most. When I was at a very low point a few years ago I went and spoke with one of our neighbours, the local priest, and she was a bigger help than anyone, despite my stated atheism. It can't always be bad to train people in contemplation and compassion.

Another recent effort here. This one's taken a while and I still don't feel 100% about it, but here it is for now.

It's not very cool to admit, but I actually like..........

The Mock Turtles, "Can You Dig It"- This got a slagging in both its incarnations. First time around because they were an indie band who dared to get a decent production job and scored a hit, the second because it was courtesy of an ADVERT (boo hiss !). But it's just insanely catchy, with a glorious wah-wah guitar solo. Lighten up, indiekids !

Sheryl Crow- OK, it may have been the trousers initially. But the songs are just great (apart from "If It Makes You Happy", which is an utter dirge). Check out the You Tube clip of her and Shelby Lynne singing "The Difficult Kind" at the Grammys. It's not her best song on record, but the two of them transform it.

I know it makes me an insufferable cliche, but I still hate-

Whitney Houston- Comparisons between her and Aretha Franklin just fill me with rage. Listen to the closing bars of "I Say a Little Prayer", and you'll hear ONE SINGLE EXAMPLE of the type of octave-stretching that La Houston does in every syllable, when she (Aretha) sings "For me there is no-o-o-o-o-o-o-oone but you". Which do you think is more affecting ?

Try though I might, I just don't get.....

Van Morrison "Astral Weeks"- No, wait, I LOVE Moondance, (most of) St Dominic's Preview, his R&B stuff. But even when stoned, this is just a mess.

Meryl Streep- Just one pained glance at the camera has me reaching for the remote.

(Most of ) Emmylou Harris- As above, substitute "vowel" for "glance".

The West Wing- IT'S JUST NOT LIKE THAT. FACE IT.

I never used to like, but am now actually quite fond of..........

New Order "Power, Corruption and Lies"- Got it out of the library recently, having junked my old cassette years ago. The dull songs are still dull, but the nice ones are great and the great ones are sublime.

Leaving Las Vegas- Thought it was overacting masterclass first time I saw it. Then saw it again and was blown away.

Beetroot- But only with olive oil dressing.

Dogs- My sister's one is dead cute.

Here's how she's progressed in the last 24 hours.

Couldn't wait to upload this, black and white, pencil lines and all. It came out so easily, Amy I love you.

95 dead just today. 600,000 in total. And the fucker still won't resign. I don't really give a chuff about the whole cash for honours brouhaha. The whole institution is so bent who cares how this particular government choose to abuse it ?

It'd be cool if there were some way of tracking which music I've listened to most over the years, the same as you can website viewings. At a guess, going by how dog-eared they are, it might be-

The Byrds boxed set
The Doors, "LA Woman" (yes ! and I'm NOT ashamed !)
Portishead, "Dummy"
Miles Davis "Kind of Blue"
Tom Waits, "Rain Dogs"
Thin White Rope, "Sackful of Silver"
Saint Etienne, "Foxbase Alpha"

I discovered a while ago that the bus ride from CAmbridge to Victoria, although about 40 minutes longer than the train, is quite an interesting bus tour of London. It approaches via the East End, goes past the Tower, then through Aldgate and WEstminster, then down Embankment to Victoria. It's also much cheaper.

So I jumped on the 8.30 bus this morning, and got off in front of the Tate Britain. I've been there 2 or 3 times before, but the stuff doesn't exactly date, does it ? There were also the stands and banners of Brian Haws' antiwar protest, recently banned from Parliament Square. Among the photos of blinded Afghan and Iraqi babies were the names of the MPs who voted in favour of the war. Depressing to see Dennis Skinner was one of them. It might have seemed from one thing I wrote last year that I supported the invasion. I didn't- I wrote letters to the press, had massive arguments about it and based lessons on material from CND, the New Internationalist and a biog of Gertrude Bell. I would have gone on the anti-invasion demo if it hadn't clashed with my brother's 40th birthday in Scotland. I was just bemused by Blair- that rapidly turned to disgust.

There was also a special exhibit in the Tate of three watercolours that Turner painted in Switzerland. Absolutely amazing- actually better than his oils that are ten times the size. Then off to browse the guitar shops of Denmark Street. Well, a visit to London just wouldn't be complete without it.

Some things in life at the moment are so fucking like something out of a JG Ballard book it's unreal. I was slumped over the photocopier at work waiting for my lesson to finish printing when I realised I was quite enjoying the warmth coming from it. It's more likely to give me cancer. As I watch music clips on YouTube my hand rests permanently on the house. Take it away and I might suddenly expire in a heap.

You Tube can provide some absolute gems, but some glimpses of a past I'd sooner forget. Watching a band on a programme I actually remember watching when I was 18 gives me the willies. I love the music, but then suddenly remember something my skin wasn't thick enough to deflect at the time. Nostalgia is a dangerous thing.

I've had a couple of dreams in recent months where I was in cities that were composites of places where I've lived. In one I was homeless in a cross between Musselburgh and some other place. Last night it was Glasgow crossed with Athens. In the dream I had woken up and couldn't tell if it was day or night, despite wandering the streets. Then I woke up for real. Deconstruct that if you dare. It still doesn't top being chased, hand in hand with Meg White from the White Stripes, by a zombie Judi Dench. That was a CORKER.

Favourite songs just now-
"More Adventurous", by Rilo Kiley
"All these things you are", by Dizzy Gillespie
"BE here to love me", Townes Van Zandt

I teach a language to foreign adults, so, as their langauge level is usually equivalent to that of an infant, I usually have to have an infantile level of communication with them. That's OK- they accept it, I try not to patronise them and I try and be as patient and tolerant as any teacher should be. But what the FUCK can you do when someone turns the handout you give them upside down and starts doing a completely different lesson from the one that you're conducting and everyone else is obviously participating in ? Or when they ask you, 3/4 of the way into a writing lesson, who "the reader" is ? Or when you spend 20 minutes helping them to prepare questions for a conversation, which they then ignore, and start to improvise questions which are inevitably wrong and irrelevant to both the topic and the answers their partner has prepared ??? It's NOT misunderstanding, it's sheer outright stupidity and I'm amazed at how far my tolerance of it has evaporated over the holidays.

And while I'm at it, a word to any toothless gripers who've got nothing better to do than whine at me about pushing my bike beside me (NOT riding it)on the pavement , as this has happened twice this week. It's NOT against any by-law, and I know because I asked the Police. Now fuck off back the bingo and drain the caller of HIS will to live.

The last few days have been a strain. Being back at work wasn't so bad, but had a rather nasty scene with a neighbour last night, with resultant lack of sleep. Suffice to say it's patched up now.

I spent most of the last week of my holiday composing emails to a long long list of art editors, and phoning venues for gigs. At times I think I haven't changed at all since I was a child. I beaver away frantically, like when I tried to build a boat out of plywood offcuts, aged 10 or so. I never work with others. I just don't trust their input. But I try to do absolutely everything alone, and as a result either don't finish it, or finish it and am too exhausted to take it anywhere. I don't know if that can explain why I ended up crying while watching "Iris" on Sunday night. It may well ahve just reminded me of my gran, though she never lost it that badly. Bumping into my ex in the street that morning may have helped too.

Anyway. A guy is walking down a country lane when he sees a guy shagging a donkey. Somewhat alarmed, he goes to the farm and knocks on the door, and a young guy opens it.
"I'm sorry", says the guy, "but there's a bloke in your field- I don't know if it's your father or a farm hand- fucking a donkey".

"Oh yeah", says the lad. "That's my father. Don't worry- hee-HAAAWllways does that".

Happy New Year, folks. Here's hoping for-

1) Eliza Dushku's imminent relocation to Cambridge, and sudden taking to wannabe cartoonists/songwriters.

2) George Galloway's debut in Ballamory.

3) Scottish independence, and the banning of references to 1978, 1707, any other year with a 7 in it, collocations of the word "English" with "poof", and the pensioning off of the Proclaimers.

4) The replacement of David Cameron by a snowflake.

5) Wayne Rooney's debut on University Challenge.

6) The abolition of winter.

7) The distribution of red wine tokens.

8) The inappropriate use of black American slang by British teenagers joining high treason as the only remaining capital offence.

9) The appointment of Matt Groening to US Secretary of State.

10) A rocket up the arse of the next person to ask me if I possess, or have ever worn, a kilt.