The ice age is coming, the sun’s zooming in Meltdown expected, the wheat is growing thin Engines stop running, but I have no fear Cause London is drowning and I, I live by the river

Except it’s not London. It is in fact, Bristol, and we are in fact overlooking the docks, the SS Grate Britain and the River Avon. But that was The Clash and that was London’s Calling. It’s been a long and winding road that has no turning…..or the M4 as the locals call it. But dear listeners, the good news is that I am alive. So far, so good.

I’m sorry. I’m getting carried away. It’s only Englandshire. It’s not like going to somewhere really dangerous like the Royal Highland Show through in the fearsome East Coast, lawless and heathen place, just beyond Cumbernauld, home of etc, etc. And despite what you may hear, there are no werewolves in London, thanks to the Vampire Slayer (gratuitous reference) and what I noticed as I flew down (in a plane) is the number of gardens in London with swimming pools. On the way back it’ll be the number of gardens in Glasgow with trampolines.

But Missie K I’ll be watching out for your conservatory. BBC Al, the blog’s bad taste pal stopped me doing my own extension gag.

So what I have done? Well I’ve seen the rainforestriverman’s back shop. Apparently my Alexisonfire CD’s in the post as is my cheque to him. And, of course dear listener, I fell in love (not with him – good looking but spoke for) but with two good looking women. One who assists him personally, and the other is Sian, the Fudge Maker of Windsor, but then my sister emerged from the shop and pulled me away. Maybe, a good job…..just in case. And we did a lot of good Lebanese that afternoon, rainforestriverman and I. Good food, Lebanese.

And I’ll be duly careful, L frae Troon. What news, prithee?

And then yesterday, the reason for my trip….my visit to the House of Lords. We used Black Rod’s Garden Entrance…..round the rear. He didn’t seem to mind. I’ll explain the reason for the visit another time but I met an amazing woman. I mentioned that I was a freelance journo to the elderly woman (late seventies) sitting next to me. She replied that she had been one as well. ‘Oh, whereabouts?’ said I. ‘Central Africa late fifties, early sixties.’ Flipping Homes!!!!!!!!

Anne Riddoch makes Orla Guerin sound like a real pussy cat as opposed to a tiger; the stories she told about the wars between the tribes that she covered for the Guardian and the Times. I felt so small (temporary). Please feel free to Google the Mau Mau. (Not a band but a dangerous tribe who raped, killed and pillaged their way through the Congo) 

And get this. Long b4 my gd frnd Clr taught me the joy of txt, Anne was doing it by telegraph and telex from war-torn Nyasaland (Wiki it, dear listener). You were only allowed so many words. Sound familiar? A seriously brilliant lady. Seriously.

And so I emerge here in Bristol, home of Casualty and I have seen the flyover where the ambulances crash into the fire engines and the oil tankers at the end of every series, but Charlie always survives. Where would we be without Charlie?

And I found a dear ol’ Fopp shop, and the Banksy Exhibition which is pure dead good, but I didn’t see The Killers in Hyde Park, London, but Jaymi did (mmmm…….neither of us in ASDA at the same time…….mmmmmm) but I did promise reference to one of her fave bands  and I am hoping to go and see Black Velveteens in Box at the top of the town next week, but I’ve forgotten when it is. Emma J, remind me please. Thanks.

Y’see, this is courtesy of the fact that I am now on Facebook, and if I’ve not been in touch, it’s nothing personal. It’s entirely random at the moment. And I’m a wee bit unsure of the etiquette. I mean if the BBC can get into trouble for sending flowers to Jonathan Ross, then what chance have I……….of ever meeting the Fudge Maker of Windsor again? Ah, the joy of words.

But Cathcart minor, thanks for getting in touch just before the taxi arrived. Is your mum on Facebook? Just asking. And I can’t find the final Ellis & Clark episode but no doubt it’s out there, facebookly, somewhere.

Incidentally, can I go a wee bit more arty farty here and say the book I read on the way down was Kneller’s Happy Campers by Edgar Keret, a very funny story about people who commit suicide and where they end up, albeit unwittingly?

And can I take issue with top guitarists Jimmy Page and Jack White saying ‘it’s sad’ that guitar heroes are discovering their instrument through the vid game? I think it’s brilliant. I live in hope that people will want to prove they’re better writers than me, maybe just trying blogging.

And of course, there’s at least one former student out there with whom I worked (for all of three days) who gets a regular byline. Step forward, Lyndsay C, the Record’s Top Teen Angst Queen, who says ‘Strange but true – you don’t have to drink alcohol to have fun’. How many Scots words for steaming did we teach the German students?

And so with days to go before my latest forty-second birthday, I begin to slow down and think ahead to the night’s entertainment beginning with the Cottage Inn (as opposed to anything else). It’s time to publish.

The homing pigeon is primed, the smoke signals are under the bedclothes (it’s a Jimmy Saville reference) and the satellite dish is pointed north.

Oh, and the story as to why I chose sandblasting as opposed to getting the surgeon’s knife? Those of you who remember it, will be pleased to know it was the talk of the House of Lords Terrace yesterday, overlooking the Thames; that and the amazing Anne Riddoch. We just sat quietly and chatted, oblivious, as u do, as u do.


Johnt850, and if a tree falls in the forest and no-one tweets about it, did it really happen? Yes. I passed through Camden.

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