You can throw away all those letters, I don't care about what they say. All those sorrys, there's a million reasons why you can't mend me....

Leona....She goes fucking Mahoosive on her latest album.
It's quite brilliant.

She goes mahoosive:
Stop crying your heart out

And then she takes mahoosive and pisses all over it with this:
Broken

I don't know who she uses as song-writers, but they've done a fantastic job of growing Leona into a whole different level of play. It's an album worthy of any challenge to say; Mariah Carey, Alanis Morissette, Whitney, Evanescence, Avril Lavine, Rhianna, Christina, Britney and the likes.

The album's now over, but something is nagging at me. So, I think back. An earworm is forming already. Four more clicks on the mouse and I find it again....

The slow burning gem:
Can't breathe


Last night I bet my brother twenty quid over 'something'. And although last night I may have been over-brimming with confidence, today I can't even begin to think what the bloody bet was over?!
And this morning, I was late for work. That'll teach me to have a good time when it's slightly inconvenient to my life.

Lots more to say, just not right now. Not a good evening for me.
I should be in bed!


....don't even try.

Don't call it a comeback, we'll hold an event in here. This space is beautiful, I'll decide when it is over.

So, don't call it a comeback.

A message to the guy who invented woofers and tweaters.
"You have no idea how much you changed my life. Thank you!"

The best part about being at a gig? Feeling the air being pushed by sound alone. It's amazing. Deep, deep in the stomach amazing!

How about some:

Meck - Windmills (sundan remix)

or

John O'callaghan feat Sarah Howells - Find Yourself (original mix)

or maybe

Robbie Williams - Morning Sun

I'm going round my brother's tonight. We're having a kind of chilled out post birthday kinda thing. Staying over, work tomorrow and I'm almost certainly going to get very, very stoned. I'm planning on introducing him to 'Handbag House' and taking the piss out of him because he text me last night with a "LOL". How many times do I have to tell him; omfg I don't do internat chat shit ffs, roflmao.

Laters x

Water is my eye. Most faithful mirror. Fearless on my breath. Teardrop on the fire of a confession. Fearless on my breath.

It's absolute fucking genius.

The hook, the riff.

You really need to love this.

You shower me with lullabies, as you're walking away. Reminds me that it's killing time, on this fateful day.

The clue is in the song.

I've had two books, some Terry's Orange segments in a big tub, a bottle of Cava and lots of cards. It seems I've been tracked down again. I must up my roots sometime soon-ish.

Only one of my Manager's knew about today. And she kindly mouthed it to me at the beginning of the morning meeting. Sweet! The cakes and doughnuts might have given something away though, but I blamed another sales guy; who's birthday it was two days ago, saying he was on delayed timing. I think it might have worked.

I love my job, but I'm only earning enough money for my own bills and little else. This pisses me off big time. I have debts to pay back, dammit!
I want to earn enough money....to show them all.

My life has changed in such a huge way.
Maybe people change when it's their time to grow up?
Get eaten by the worms, and weird fishes.
Picked over by the worms, and weird fishes.

The keyboards are meandering....swaying....blurring and warping.
Then the piano comes in.
Up and down, up and down, up and down.
Then the voice.
His pitch perfect voice.
"Snot nosed little punk".
How could you not love it, or even just like it enough to give it a few more chances?

I have a sting in my tail, as far as the stars are concerned.
And that's all you need to remember.

And that I'm frustrated that I can't spread my wings on FaceFuck.

Brother of mine, don't run with those fuckers. When will my friend start singing again?

What sort of idiot wears a white top knowing that he's gonna be drinking red wine during the evening?!
Me.
C'est moi!

The chicken wasn't as nice as the duck, but then again, the dog was nowhere near as good as the pussy.
Meow!

You know....sometimes....sometimes a song just comes on, randomly, and it fits perfectly.

And as I listen to this, the plinky piano merges into cello and violin.

And suddenly, the smiles turn to tears.
Just like a loaded gun.

Today didn't end up how I expected....how I wanted.

*update*
I posted this 20 minutes ago, and I can't stop re-reading it and crying.
I
Feel
Pathetic.

Vulnerable.

What's so great about the great depression? Was it blast for you, cos’ it's blasphemy.

I'm not quite sure if Robbie has hit the nail on the head with that lyric, or if it's corny as fuck.
The jury....my jury is out.
But I do so love Robbie. I can't help it.

Still loving "Bodies".
Currently on my first listen of the album, but so far, it sounds really good. It's good to have the cheeky chap back, even though I loved Rudebox!

And I wonder....is "Blasphemy" about the Gallagher brothers?

And in other news; I think my Business Manager hates me, most of the Service team think I'm gay, the cleaner has, since the incident in the cupboard, been overly flirty with me, Cherry Bakewells are the best (except the cherry part, of course!), Tesco have a '2 bags of various filling doughnuts' for 99p!, a woman ahead of me in the queue at the tobacco kiosk in Tesco was giving us all a blow by blow account of when she won £450 on a scratch card, listening to Morrissey makes me feel good, my Nero burning program seems to have failed me tonight, there are dark chocolate Digestives that are calling my name and begging to be dunked in a coffee, I'm wondering about getting an iPhone and The Very Reverend has visited me tonight. Can you tell?

It's...The....Weekend.
It will be good.

This could be the saddest dusk I've ever seen. Turn to a miracle, high alive. My mind is racing, as it always will.

I have no idea where I'll be in five years' time.
Even in one years' time.
I just don't know.

But I do know that I wont be here anymore, living under my parent's roof, eating their Weetabix and sitting on their cushions.

I do look forward to the future, but I don't measure myself against what could or might be. The future is unknown, and in a way, the not knowing is the most exciting part about it. I guess that's why I've always found myself feeling more comfortable being bed-fellows with spontaneity than planning things out. And I know some people don't like that about me, but that's more their problem than mine.
I really, truly don't have a problem with myself.

I have three tattoos, my navel is pierced, I smoke grass occasionally, I live for music, my kids are my life, and....well, that's about it.
It doesn't matter at all where I live, what I do for a job, what car I drive, what my garden looks like, what state my bank account is in or how much sleep I get.
I think when you've experienced a certain amount of what life has to offer, you find yourself more at peace with yourself. And you can forgive your mistakes, misguidance's and stupid decisions.
Everything about life is a learning curve.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with being scared. You just have to grow beyond it.
Grow beyond it.

" My hands tired, my heart aches. I'm half a world away and go."

Would you tell me I was wrong? Would you help understand? Are you looking down upon me? Are you proud of who I am?

My childhood was shit.
A lot of my younger years were filled with beatings, angry voices and very strict discipline. This, in turn led to lots of feelings of guilt, inadequacy and disappointment on my behalf. And I always measured myself against my older brother, who even now shines in my parents eyes when compared to me.
But in no way do I hold anything against him. In fact, I admire him. Envy him, his wife, his life.
The two of us couldn't have lived anymore different lives. We came from the same parents, we share the same blood, we endured the same upbringing....but we have completely different lives.
I'm sat here now wondering if he loves his life as much as I love mine.

I can't remember anytime when either of my parents told me that they love me. It's not an issue. It's not something I dwell upon. It's just something I accept. My mum and dad are not the sort of people who openly express their feelings. They get more passionate about the latest episodes of Eastenders or Holby. It doesn't bother me.

The three people in my family that I feel closest to is my Nan (my Dad's mum), my Grandad (my Dad's dad) and my Aunt (my Dad's sister). My Nan and Grandad have passed on to a better life now. My Aunt is still....as Simple Minds once sang...."Alive and kicking". She's an absolute gem.
My Nan used to get pissed at Christmas times, dress in crazy clothes, play the piano like Les Dawson and make the most amazing Ready Brek in the world. My Grandad used to dress up in my Nan's clothes at Christmas times, do really crap magic tricks in the style of Tommy Cooper, chain smoke, play chess with me and make the most amazing pickled onions. He stood six foot four, was a damned handsome devil as a young 'un and told the most amazing stories about his childhood.
At my Grandad's funeral, I felt naked....alone....lost....abandoned....
I've never cried so much in my life.

I always felt like the 'favourite', if that's the appropriate way to say it, of their grandchildren, maybe because I was the youngest. I don't know. I just know I felt....special in their eyes.

I can't wait to see them again.

My aunt spoilt me rotten. I used to stay with her over the school summer holidays and she would teach me how to perfect cake baking. And let me eat what I wanted, instead of what was good for me. And let me watch anything I wanted. And let me build a sleeping den out of blankets thrown over the chairs and tables in the dining room. And let me go to bed at whatever time I wanted, especially because it was the school summer holidays. And go for walks with me and their dogs to interesting places.
And she makes a wicked chocolate cake too!

I'm closer to my Aunt than I am to my own Mother. How awful is that to admit?! But, it's true. And I felt closer to my beloved Grandad than my own Father. Again, how awful is that?!

My parents....My own Mum and Dad....I don't think we ever connected properly when I was younger. It's much, much better now. They have really helped me out through thick and thin over the last few years, when I've really needed it. And I've never had to run back to them with my tail between my legs to ask or beg for help, they've just offered it.
My relationship with them now is the best it's ever been.
But again....they don't open up about their feelings or emotional perspective on me and my life. They've just....been there.
I just hope that despite everything else....everything that's happened in my life....despite the fact that my brother gives the two of them the perfect Son's Life....that they feel even just a little proud of me.

We think you're a joke, shove your hope where it don't shine.

A brief moment of silence passed between us; the cleaning lady and I.
A split second later, my facial expression changed to one of disbelief and I actually blurted out a "What The Fuck?" to her, this lady who has sixty years or so of life worn into the wrinkles on her face. This lady who comes into our place of work every weekday at five thirty, on the dot. This completely lovable lady who reminds me so much of a character who's been edited out of a Catherine Tate sketch.

As lovely as she is; imagine the warmest and friendliest Grandmother who looks like she would never say "Boo" to a goose.
As thorough at her cleaning job she might be, (and trust me, she's bloody good), there's something very strange, slightly 'wrong' and worryingly sinister about being told by her that last night her son showed her a film clip on his mobile phone, showing a naked man 'bearing down' on a jam-jar. And if that's not enough information to make your jaw drop, she ended her 'blow-by-blow' description by telling us this guy then clenched his cheeks, resulting in the jar (and subsequent jam) making a rather big, and presumably painful mess.

So, yeah. There was a brief moment of silence.
Once I'd realized that she did just actually tell us that story; delivered in much the same manner and matter-of-fact way as if she were telling us that last night she'd had her hair 'done', made supper for her husband and fallen asleep in front of the tv, I had to break the silence....

bedshaped, "I'm not sure which is more worrying, (insert lovely cleaning lady's name here)....the fact that you've just told us about watching a movie clip of a naked guy inserting a jar of jam in his arse and making it 'explode' in such a matter of fact, yet descriptive way....or that your son actually wanted to show you such a thing on his mobile phone, and let's not forget that you agreed to watch it."

She shrugged her shoulders and carried on polishing the desk.

So, yeah.
That's our cleaning lady.
Lovely woman, she is.
Just be warned that asking, "what did you get up to last night then?" may result in something completely unexpected.
I'm not sure I can look her in the eye anymore. And I'm also not sure if it's giggling material or quite disturbing.
One thing's for sure, I won't be asking her that question again anytime soon.

As far as what 'activity' people get up to behind closed doors, each to their own, I say. Even though I fail to understand certain, let's say, sexual practices. How a guy can get any kind of enjoyment or thrill out of 'jam-jar exploding' is beyond me, but hey, doesn't harm anybody else, does it!

Boy, it's been so long since I held you, I nearly gave you up for dead. I nearly gave you up for dead.

For some reason, I feel like blogging again.

Let me get something straight right now....
I love my life.

Ok, so things might be a little up in the air with certain aspects, but I feel a certain calm. A certain....equal level. I feel like an equal level has been reached, somehow.
And if takes a little longer to feel like we're on the same level, then that's ok. Otis will guide me.

Just remember, there's nothing wrong with the definition of 'different'. It's just a word, and a state of mind. Move forward from that and you will be ok. You will be chilled out in the bath, with an abundance of bubbles, the scent of candles and some Bach, or maybe some Mendelssohn, or maybe, maybe even some Elbow....the choice is yours. But the hands rubbing your tension away are mine.

I can't even begin to describe, so don't ask me.

Call me a fake, Sir. You can call me a fraud. You can spit on my french knickers. You can call me a whore.

I ventured out last night for a meet up with work colleagues.
Initially, it began as an idea for a small and humble gathering and excuse for a drink together, specifically because one of the girls at work is leaving at the end of next week. Either she is far more popular than I ever realized, or somebody at our place ignited the 'piss up on Saturday' fuse because there were about forty people who came out.

It took me a while to get around, but I made sure that I circulated as much as I could, taking some time to speak to pretty much everybody there, because, well, I'm the 'new guy'. I wanted to make the effort to speak to people, put a face to a name and generally have a nice, relaxing evening speaking with other people who work for the same Company.

I came away having learnt two things from last night.
Firstly; everybody, bar a small minority said that it's a really good Company to work for. This made me feel pretty good.
Secondly; everybody who I spoke with last night fell into either the 'gorgeous', 'lovely', 'beautiful' or 'enviably handsome' category. This made me feel....unworthy....out of my league.

The lovely girl who spent most of the night on her mobile, texting and calling her 'boyfriend'. I felt like she was unhappy. The girl who slipped down onto the floor under the influence of drink, flashing her knickers at everyone....I felt she was....a little worse for wear. The guy who looked like he was coked out of his face, taking another girl's digital camera and trying to take pictures 'up girl's skirts' and being all huggy and kissy. The guy who wasn't drinking and offered to take the camera guy home so he didn't make a complete fool of himself. The girl who had changed her career and became a tennis coach, something she'd always wanted to do. The girl who spent twenty minutes or so telling me about her father's recent funeral. The guy who's married to the girl who seems like she's way, way, way out of his league, and yet, they are ultimately happy. The girl who normally comes into our place of work dressed in scruffy dungarees, hair pulled back and face full of paint marks who becomes....well....stunning looking. Like a scene from Flashdance. Trust me, the list goes on and on....
And....oh yes, there appears to be a lot of 'inter department' touchy-feely-how's yer father things going on. It all feels a little....incestous.

It's the second time in a couple of weeks that I've felt like certain people are out of my league. Almost like, it doesn't matter how much like 'me' I am, it's never going to be enough. Even if it were a fairytale situation, where I swept a girl off her feet, rescued her from despair, and then took her hand in mine and led her away from all the stresses of life, even just for a moment. Even kissing her lips, because it felt like the most natural thing in the world, swept her away....stopped the world spinning even just for a split second.
I still felt completely out of my league. And that's only scratching the surface.

I've been distracted with tonight's post by Damien Rice and thoughts of Hannah Montana pyjamas. Yes, it's a tough life sometimes. But when the hair is up, the glasses are on and the tiny t-shirt is worn....everything seems ok.