Not so long ago I used to have friends. Then I downloaded Instagram…
Not in that way, what on earth were you thinking? This is footage of Class A performing I Touch Myself live at Wall Hall Summer Ball 1998 in deepest darkest Hertfordshire. This was the final line up – Lead Vocals – Claire Barker, Bass Guitar – Jon Millership, Lead Guitar – Darren Collis, Rhythm Guitar – Me (!), Drums – James Dean (no, not that one!), Backing Vocals – Becky Jones, Faye Hampton and Jen Owens. Good Times.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, there was a band called Class A…
When you’re taking videos of your kids on your iPhone, it may surprise you
to see what your parents were shooting on their Super 8 Cine camera 35 years earlier…
In memory of my Grandad who passed away in 2011.
I run.
I run because I am a runner. That may sound obvious, but like alcoholics need to drink, so I need to run. I’ve tried giving it up, I really have, but the need to run is rooted so deeply within me that I just can’t stop.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an athlete. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I don’t thrive on the adrenaline rush of finishing top of the pack (or even in the top half). I’m a plodder. Never once have I had to push my chest out to break the finish line tape a few milliseconds ahead of an Ethiopian ultra athlete. I plod. I just get in my groove, switch off, and run. My body becomes a machine. It’s like mobile meditation.
I first started running when I was at school because, relative to my peers, I WAS good at it. I was the tall lanky kid who always got put in goal because I was all arms and legs. Who kept falling over his ridiculous size 11s. Who got put in second row at rugby just for the line outs and not much else. Then I started to run. I could beat most of the other kids at school in the long distance stakes. Result. After school came college and girls and smoking and beer and life and running kind of became less important. But it was always there, like a mad woman locked in the attic, frantically scratching at the loft hatch trying to break free.
These days I run for lots of different reasons (and definitely NOT because I am good at it). I run to think about things, I run to forget about things, to make decisions and to put off making decisions. I run to see my Downs covered in snow, in sunshine, in mud (usually mud to be honest). To be with people. To get away from people. I run to get rid of hangovers. To prime myself for a night out drinking. Sometimes I even run to try to get fit, because there is no embarrassment like the embarrassment felt when you get beaten over the finish line by someone dressed as a stormtrooper, or giant furry bear carrying a bucket full of charity change. Lots of reasons.
But mainly I just run because I am a runner.
This is beautiful. Listen to it.
Hmmm, not sure if this is a joke or not…? There’s something mildly appealing at the sight of fully grown men of religion brawling in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem on Christmas Eve.
I’ve always viewed religion with a mix of cynicism, intrigue and humour. I have to be honest, this little Pythonesque episode doesn’t do it any favours…!
Merry Christmas!
On that lean Winter mourning,
Our nods and back-slaps
Routed by the growling thunder
And the stair rods curling
Over the brigaded brollies ,
Your awkward call to arms,
I carried your dead weight.
Bent double like an old beggar
Clumsy with stage fright and grief,
I launched what was left of you
(that analogy would have pleased you)
Onto the yawning gunmetal grill.
Not two weeks before, we had sat and mulled
Intimately; of this moment, of love,
Of Menin.
Then I watched while you gasped awk-
wardly for every breath.
And your surrender.
I am immune to that emotion;
Exempt, I bag up brains and smithereens,
Bring order to the bedlam,
Box file and summarise.
Bulletproof.
But I still burn.
Soon now I will board,
Unfurl the sails and nod East,
Slip into the hungry mist and leave you here.
You will remain, hidden, silent,
Embedded in me.
Like shrapnel.