SONGS AND SCRIPTS AND DUNKING BISCUITS

Every day tales of a winging-it creative

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about

I’ve written bits and pieces on BBC Radio 2, 4 and 5 comedy shows, worked in the script team for two series of Channel 4’s comedy-drama ‘Shameless’ and am currently working with The Royal Court Theatre in Liverpool as part of their script development programme. I am also a songwriter with songs on all major platforms.

  • AN OPTICIANS CHAIR AND SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION FROM THE BOSS

    Paul McGuiness was the legendary manager of rock band U2 from 1978 to 2013. He managed them from seeing them in an arts centre in Dublin when they were known as The Hype, to become the biggest rock band in the world.

    He negotiated record and publishing deals that would stagger the rest of the industry, and oversaw some of the biggest concerts in the history of rock music, including their inclusion at Live Aid in 1985 which propelled them into the world’s consciousness.

    PAUL McGUINNESS

    Even though the vast majority of the bands songs have been written by Bono (Paul Hewson) and The Edge (David Evans), he persuaded them to share co-writing credits so help prevent divisions within the band. The band have been together, without any real rumours of acrimony, for 46 years.

    But he also worked relentlessly and without compromise for the band to retain the rights to all of their music, not something that has ever been the norm in the industry. It represents an integrity to the band that has been part of the bedrock of their identity and image.

    McGuinness’s personal worth is thought to be over 100 million pounds.

    So, why am I telling you all this?

    I was astonished to learn a few months ago, that Paul McGuiness lives not in the leafy affluent area of Oxfordshire or Surrey, or in a fashionable part of LA, but less than two miles from me in north-west England, about ten miles from Liverpool. I pass the road where he lives, most days. In fact, he goes to the same small, independent optician as myself in my home town. Last time I had an eye test, McGuiness had sat in the same seat as me just weeks earlier.

    As a U2 fan in itself, this was mind-blowing to hear; that for all these years I have lived close by to the man who has been their guiding hand. In 1987 I travelled the highways and backroads of America while listening to the recently released Joshua Tree on my Walkman.

    As mentioned in my blog The Glorious Moment I shared in The Sun With Elvis I was in Sun Studios in Memphis just a couple of weeks before they recorded ‘Angel of Harlem’.

    I have seen them three times in concert, in Birmingham UK in 1987, Glasgow in 1993 and Dublin in 2006.

    However, and as anyone who knows me or has read my blog knows, I am an even bigger fan of Bruce Springsteen. I have seen him 23 times in concert in the UK, Ireland, Spain, France and New Jersey.

    Paul McGuiness is a friend of Springsteen. Bruce referred to his own manager, Jon Landau, as the American Paul McGuiness.

    PAUL McGUINNESS WITH BONO AND BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, 1981 (Photo by Urban Image)

    Given the theory that we are all no more than six social connections away from one another, and that McGuiness knows my optician, indeed sits in the same seat there as myself, I’m well within six degrees of separation from The Boss, right?

    It’s a nice thought, and my eye test was good enough to help me see through any such illusion. If I saw Paul McGuiness locally – and yes I will be looking out – I would probably respect his space and privacy. But then again, the thrill might take over and you never know, I could blag myself a backstage pass for the Boss on his next tour!

    And who knows, we might share the same chiropodist!

  • JOURNEYS WITH OLD MEN AND YOUNG HEARTS

    In his early 60’s my father, who had lived most of his adult life working as a lorry driver driving the length and breadth of Great Britain, discovered the blues.

    The blues of the deep south, people like Robert Johnson, John Lee Hooker (below), BB King and Muddy Waters.

    Having spent most of his life working shifts and keeping a house above our heads, particularly after being widowed the day after his 43rd birthday, his social life was somewhat limited to the odd works night-out, and once a week snooker club.

    The blues changed all of that.

    He would spend life late into his 70’s going to blues gigs in obscure parts of Liverpool, to festivals in Cumbria, Lancashire, the north-east of England, north Wales and much further south in Exeter in Devon, despite for many of those years suffering with rheumatoid arthritis.

    He made many friends through his love of the blues, and he would document them through another of his great passions, photography. I recall him speaking with gleeful enthusiasm about a then largely unknown Imelda May after seeing her perform at the Colne Rhythm and Blues Festival, and predicting a great future. Imelda has gone on to work with Bono, Jeff Beck, Jools Holland, Smokey Robinson, and Noel Gallagher whilst picking up numerous prestigious awards.

    His enthusiasm and passion were infectious, and ran alongside his first musical love, jazz. Although not drawn to jazz, I feel deeply grateful now that with Dad I saw live in concert true jazz legends like Dizzy Gillespie, Stephane Grappelli, Dave Brubeck and Oscar Peterson.

    When my father went to that great blues gig in the sky in 2018, many of the friends he picked along the way where there to see him off.

    It’s testament not only to the life-enhancing power of music, but also to the defiance to not give in and settle for armchairs and daytime TV. When passion still burns brightly for something that makes you feel alive, relevant and excited it can make the later years so rich and vibrant.

    I was reminded of this when I was travelling home from seeing my family in Cumbria on Christmas Day. A long journey was made easier and quicker and more downright enjoyable by being in the company of three men pushing 80 years old.

    Three Hackney Diamonds you will undoubtably recognise, who began their own long, long musical journey loving the blues, put a smile on my face that lasted for the length of their age-defying new album.

    Take preconceptions on how you should behave as the years advance and throw them to the wind. Do what makes you happy, what makes you excited, and don’t listen to any voice that tells you otherwise.    

  • THE DAILY DULLNESS AND DELIGHTS OF A DAY BY DAY DIARY

    With more excitement than is probably necessary, I have just placed an order for my 2024 Day by Day Diary. It will be arriving with great ceremony, tomorrow. Or more likely I’ll get a text telling me it’s been un-ceremonially left in the garage.

    Normally I prefer to choose my diary by buying it from a shop, where I can flick through the format on the daily pages and see if I feel comfortable with it’s layout. This is somewhat ridiculous when most of my entries will be filled with the mundane, but as they say, one man’s mundane is another man’s magnificence. Or madness.

    Though in truth the only person to have said either, is me. Probably in my diary.

    I have been keeping a day by day diary since 2010. At the time I was working part-time at my day job, while working the rest of the time as a shadow-writer for a hit television series called Shameless. It was a busy and somewhat bizarre period when I would spend Monday to Friday from 8 till 1 each day working on opening and closing of retail outlets, then drive out to the house of Paul Abbott, one of the best and most influential television writers of his generation, to join a small band of writers to help contribute story lines for the show. Each day could last till 6 or 8 in the evening.

    Either that or I’d drive out to the series film set in an urban area of Manchester to the hidden away set of the show and mix with actors I’d been watching on my TV set for several years. The contrasts within each day could be huge.

    In all of this I’d manage to keep a diary where I would list my hopes and self-doubts, chronicling how intimidated I could sometimes feel suddenly having to step-up amongst a set of accomplished writers looking to protect their own position within the show.

    I’d also include details of my life away from work and writing, such as my Dad’s bout of shingles, the success or otherwise of my football team, events I’d attended or daily hopes and fears.

    In retrospect it was an odd time to start a diary, given all the time I was spending on writing generally, yet in other ways it makes perfect sense. I needed an outlet to express my thoughts during this period to help me make sense of it all.

    And I’ve kept it up, year on year.

    Most of the entries are a list of what made up each day, which could be about going to the gym, what film I’d just seen or TV series I’d be watching, working on the garden, cleaning the house (yes, that exciting). I’ll mention phone conversations I’d had with my family that could leave me delighted or frustrated. I’d talk about trips I’d made, concerts I’d been to, seeing friends and how each of those things worked out, made me feel.       

    But also in there I’ve chronicled the start of the Arab Spring, and how hopes of greater self-expression for the people of Syria grew into a brutal war, the rise and demise of Donald Trump and Boris Johnson. I’ll mention natural disasters, or in the case of climate change, unnatural disasters and the impact it was having on the people affected.

    For the years I was my father’s carer it was a place to let things out on days when there was nowhere else to turn to. And it would also be a place to feel a little more normal when the everyday reality of the situation was anything but, and to mention the laughs we managed to have despite our difficulties. This is so important; it’s understandable to look back and view this time as unrelentingly dark, but in truth it could be rich and hugely rewarding.

    How much I learn generally by reading back can be highly illuminating. Often I’ve looked back on something and re-assessed how I felt, after reading how I actually saw things at the time. But hey, hindsight’s a wonderful thing, especially when it’s written down.

    I’ve been reminded at how family and friends supported me, always useful whenever I feel forgotten or aggrieved.

    I’m also reminded of things I’d seen and done that had been somewhat absorbed and lost in memory. Sometimes I feel proud of my tenacity, and other times disappointed by things I could have done a little differently. Even now, as I’ve began reading through the early part of this year, I’m planning how to apply myself better next year.

    I imagine most people don’t go into detail in their dairies, but I find it therapeutic. Who knows, you may feature in it next year – some of you already have but don’t worry, I’ve been very complimentary! Honestly…

    All the best for 2024, and if you keep a diary, I wish you plenty of happy entries!

  • 6 THINGS THAT ANNOY ME ABOUT MYSELF

    We all have aspects of ourselves that irritate, habits that we can’t break or approaches to things that annoy. And I’m not talking about irritating or annoying other people, but our own self. And yet these continue on, week after week, year on year.

    These may not necessarily be huge character flaws like kicking cats or spying on our neighbours with high-powered binoculars (normal binoculars work fine), but more the everyday rituals that drive us near-mad.

    So here are my top 6. Maybe you have more. Or maybe you are perfect, in which case you can scoff at my list in that superior, haughty fashion that surely must annoy you?

    THE PAPER MOUNTAINS

    So, this maybe something I receive in the post, or a magazine article I simply have to read sometime, or some paperwork that needs attending to but not straight away. These form a very small pile that I intend to get to, very soon. And so it carries on over days, but usually weeks, and forms into a larger pile.

    Then I’ll sift through and create an updated pile minus the things that should never have been kept in the first place. By then there are new things to bring the new pile up again. And so it goes on. 

    The ‘get to really soon’ pile

    I’m sure there’s some deep-rooted psychological reason for this, but more likely I just need to be more ruthless (less lazy). Or maybe I just love chasing the high from sorting out a pile of paper.

    THE TYPING HABIT OF UNNECESSARY CHANGE

    I’m not a quick typist. I’m not even a typist. I just pick my way through the keyboard if not in the one-finger style, then three or four at most.

    But my fingers won’t have it, my fingers think they belong to a 120-word-a-minute touch typist. And they have the maddening annoying habit of changing from lower case to upper case in the miDDle of A WORd. Yes, just liKE that! So I look up from my keyboard and all I see is a jumbled mess of lower case and upper case. It drives me insane, yet I do it continually.

    All I have to do…is slow down. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? Of cOUrse nOt.

    WANT TO GO. DON’T WANT TO GO. WANT TO GO..BUT NOT REALLY

    In late 2005 I saw that U2 were doing three dates in their home town Dublin in the following year, and that there were package deals for accommodation and tickets for the shows. Having recently rediscovered my enthusiasm for the band with the release of their album ‘How To Dismantle an Atom Bomb’ I excitedly booked a hotel and ticket, and subsequent flights. I could hardly wait.

    But then, as the seven or eight months to the gigs rumbled on, the less I wanted to go. And for no good reason. Any excuse I could find crept in to my thinking, till the whole trip became a dark cloud that hovered constantly over my head. In the end, I reluctantly went. And of course, it was great, loved the experience.

    And yet this continues on, in fact I wrote about it in my last blog Hello Yellow Brick Road, Goodbye Fear and Panic. I’ll see something I want to get involved with, and sign up for it, and generally I am an enthusiastic person. Then on the day, it becomes a chore, something I’d be happy to find a reason not to go to, would love instead to just go home and relax.

    And I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the whole stepping out of my comfort-zone thing but I’m good at that so it continues to be something I struggle to get my head around.

    The good news is that nearly every time, I go through with it, and nearly always am glad that I did. But why I have to put myself through this torment, I can only guess at.

    All I know is it that it can ruin the anticipation, and that truly is annoying.

    THE DRIFTING PHENOMENON

    This is when I start doing one thing, but think I should be doing something else. If I start writing, I think I should be tidying the house. If I’m tidying the house, I should be working on my finances. But I can’t do that, because the garden is starting to get overgrown, and garden’s don’t wait for anyone.

    Simply put, if I’m doing one thing, I always think I should be doing something else. And so I drift into that ‘something else’ and the result is that often I don’t do any one thing as thoroughly as I should.

    Another example – as I’m writing this blog, I think I really should be working on a script. And I’m probably right.

    THE SOCIAL MEDIA DISTRACTION

    I’m not a regular participant in social media and find most posts uninspiring or derivative. I mean, how many posts of pints of lagers do I need to see? I know what they look like! But when I’m struggling to write or come up with an idea I find myself clicking on Facebook and looking at friends beaming at yet another restaurant meal I can’t taste or watching someone’s nephew I don’t even know receive their swimming certificate.

    Lately I’ve been unplugging the Wi-Fi. If I can’t keep to that I’ll start wearing a blindfold. You never know, that may just improve my writing.

    THAT’S PERFECT. SO WHY NOT ADD A LITTLE MORE AND MESS IT UP?

    So, I’ve made a drink, usually tea. I’ve added the perfect amount of milk. No more to do. But, lets add a few drops more. Now it’s slightly less than perfect. Now what?

    Making porridge? Got the consistency just right? Good, so lets add a little more water. Woops, now it’s too much. Now I need to add a few more oats to firm up the consistency again. Would a little more milk help? Aaarggh!!

    Ran a bath. The heat is just right. Well, maybe add a little more cold. But is it now a little too cool? Add a little more hot. Ten minutes later it’s no longer a bath, it’s a small swimming pool.

    And so it goes on. And on. I simply have to add a few drops more. It’s infuriating. But I can’t stop myself. Somebody break my arm!

    Do you have a habit you hate but just can’t break? Does it blight your life? Or do you just feel it makes you quirky and interesting?

    Yes- quirky and interesting, I can go with that!

  • HELLO YELLOW BRICK ROAD, GOODBYE FEAR AND PANIC

    On Wednesday of this week, October 4th, the rail workers in the UK decided to have a ‘day of action’, an ironic term of phrase for a national strike. Pretty much all the trains in the country didn’t run at all.

    This post isn’t about the strike, although I do broadly support their issues to make the decision, but about the way it almost allowed my fears to prevent me from a decades long ambition to see a musical hero of mine, lyricist Bernie Taupin.

    Bernie, author of all those wonderful lyrics on pretty much every song in Elton John’s long glorious career, has just released his autobiography Scattershot, and to support the release of the book was having three nights in three different venues in the UK to talk about his career. One of those dates was at the Opera House in Manchester, about 25 miles from where I live.

    I eagerly snapped up a ticket as soon as I heard about it. Bernie was the biggest inspiration for me as a teenager as I started out writing lyrics. The album Captain Fantastic & The Brown Dirt Cowboy, an album chronicling in song the early struggling years of his and Elton’s career, completely transformed the way I wrote lyrics, from simplistic easy rhyming love songs to something with far more depth and imagination.

    Without this album, the following years of teaming up with a composer to write complete songs, the memories of meetings with publishers and record labels and working with musicians and in studios quite possibly wouldn’t have happened.

    Okay, we never did hit the heights our ambition reached for, but the memories and the recent revival of my own solo song-writing pursuits have been a huge source of satisfaction and enjoyment in my life.

    So, what does the train strike have to do with this?

    Originally I was catching the train into Manchester and from there a 15 minute straightforward walk to the Opera House. What the strike meant, was that I would have to drive into the city.

    I’ve long held a fear of driving into Manchester, many times I’ve taken wrong turnings and ended up the wrong part of the city or driving the wrong way down a one-way street. It does have a reputation for difficult driving for those unfamiliar with the city. So almost every time I go there, I take the train.

    But then, I had elevated my fear to ridiculous proportions. In truth, I have driven many times into this city, and despite many panicky moments, always got home safely. It’s just that I hadn’t done it for several years. They had in that time introduced a infamously controversial ‘smart-motorway’ system, the bane for even a regular Manchester bound driver.

    For the days leading up to the Taupin event, I was back and forth as to whether I would attend. Every hour seemed to bring a change of mind. At 4.30 am on the day of the talk I decided not to go.

    But then it was also nagging at me that if I didn’t go, this chance wouldn’t come back. What would my 17-year-old self think if I passed up this opportunity? Not just him, but what about my present self?

    So I broke down my concerns into small pieces. I checked the route -again – and looking at it, it wasn’t far from the end of the motorway. I found a parking site and pre-booked a place, so I knew I wouldn’t be driving round and round looking for somewhere to park. I wrote down in detail the streets to lead me to the venue and it all made sense. I decided then, to go.

    I felt much calmer, but this changed at the day wore on, affecting my mood and making me irritable. I knew how ridiculous this was, but that didn’t help. Finally, I had to block out my fears and just do it.

    And I did. Despite moments of trepidation and continually telling myself ‘it would be fine’, I drove to the parking site relatively easily, and in hardly any time at all I was parked in my designated spot. After some trial and error, and with the help of some friendly people, found the Opera House. Had a nice meal beforehand. And at 7.30 that evening, the man who had helped ignite my ambitions and was so influential in my creative life, walked out on stage a few yards in front of me. I was finally in the same room as Bernie Taupin.

    I didn’t enjoy the driving, I did take one wrong turn on the way home. I was tired, my hands were sweating, my tensions high. But the elation for having done it, with my pre-signed copy of the book in my hand as I walked back in the house, overrode everything.

    Do you ever feel your fears grow way out of proportion and stop you looking forward to something that should be pleasurable? I often do, but the thing I fear most, is the feeling of regret and defeat I will have when I let those concerns stop me.

    Thanks Bernie.

  • Still Walking Hand in Hand #Wordless Wednesday #Photography

  • THE GLORIOUS MOMENT I SHARED IN THE SUN WITH ELVIS

    On a mid-October day back in the mists of time, I stood alone in Sun Studios in Memphis.

    A few weeks earlier, back home in England, I had caught a documentary about this very room, a high temple of rock history. The documentary was about a how a young, unknown Elvis Presley and his fledging band had toiled here in one long night in 1954 with studio owner and producer Sam Phillips to cut a ballad, to no avail.

    Philips, frustrated and tired of the process, suggested a break. Elvis tried to loosen up, and began singing the Arthur Crudup song ‘That’s Alright’ a blues hit from 1947. The band joined in. They were just having fun.

    What they were doing, was creating a moment of unbridled magic. They were lighting a flame that would result in the world of rock and roll catching fire. Thankfully Sam, back in the cramped recording booth, recognised it for what it may be, and flicked the recording button. In those few moments, the cultural phenomenon that was Elvis Presley, was born.

    The documentary had inspired me to visit Graceland on my forthcoming, somewhat loosely planned trip across the US on Greyhound bus.

    I’d wandered around Graceland like a voyeur, its rooms frozen in time from the moment he had collapsed in the bathroom upstairs, a bloated vessel of wrongly prescribed drugs.

    Alone, I had strolled into the garden out back and in error, came upon his grave, next to his mother Gladys and brother Aaron, who died in childbirth. The eternal flame, that had stood above Elvis’s headstone, had been allowed to go out. This was my most defining memory from Graceland.

    Later, on the other side of Elvis Presley Boulevard, at a mini-mall that sold a depressingly large amount of Elvis souvenirs for the curious, the passionate, and the slightly baffled, I got chatting to a guy called Gary. Gary told me he had just purchased Sun Studios, and asked me if I’d like to visit.

    Would I ever.

    As Gary gave me a lift back into the city on a pick-up truck, pointing out to me where Stax Studios had once stood, he told me how Sun had been a hairdressing salon for many years, the studio itself used as a storage room for hairdressing equipment.

    I couldn’t help but think of The Cavern Club back in my home city of Liverpool, the very launchpad of The Beatles, that had been demolished by the short-sighted attitude of the local city council, only to be re-built years later yards from where it originally stood, when the cultural significance and potential tourist pull was finally recognised.

    As Gary and I pulled up outside Sun Studio’s, looking exactly like it should, no longer a centre for blue-rinses and blow dry conversations, it was hard not to feel overwhelmed by the moment. Not a particular Elvis plan, I was still fully aware of its immeasurable musical heritage, as I walked into the reception area where Presley had stood many times, begging to get some studio time.

    From the reception space we then stepped through a doorway into the studio itself. It was tiny. At one end was the recording booth where Philips used to sit, exactly as it was. The rest of the space was almost barren, save for a couple of retro guitars and an upright piano.

    On the wall to my right stood a picture of Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee-Lewis, named as the Million Dollar Quartet who held an impromptu session there in the first few days of December 1956.

    From the reception area the telephone rang. Gary excused himself, but before doing so flicked a tape machine.

    From speakers on the wall came the recording session for ‘That’s Alright,’ the very same spontaneous performance I’d been transfixed by on the documentary week’s earlier, the performance that had happened pretty much where I was now standing.

    Elvis’s young voice swirled around the room. His band members played along, partly in knowledge, partly on instinct. Sam Philips shouted out occasional encouragement or instruction. History was being created.

    But no-one was physically there. No-one except me, soaking it up, living the most surreal few moments of my life.

    And then those moments were gone. Elvis Presley had left the building.

    The very next month U2 went in there to record their hit ‘Angel of Harlem,’ and the accompanying video, which shows the tiny space packed with one of the biggest bands on the planet.

    By then I was home again. But every year, as the world commemorates the demise of the Rock ‘n Roll King, I recall the day we shared a few moments together at Sun Studios, Memphis, Tennessee.

  • BETTER TO EXPECT LESS FOR THE JOY OF RECEIVING MORE

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  • THE SHOW DOESN’T GO ON AS WRITERS STRIKE BACK

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  • THE SLOW REVEAL OF BIGOTED FRIENDS

    How can you be friends with someone for years, maybe even decades, and not realise uncomfortable aspects of their personalities? Their views on the world, their take on current world events based on their prejudices?

    From what I’ve discovered over recent years, it’s very easy. I know a handful of people I am friends with who have expressed opinions based on racial and cultural bigotry. People I have laughed with, shared warm experiences with, and have fond and happy memories with that go back to my youth.

    But now, thanks to that powder keg of self-expression called social media, I have been shocked in the last few years by comments from some friends that show a basic lack of compassion towards those fleeing persecution, and those with a different cultural heritage and skin colour.

    For clarification, I’m only talking about a very small number and none express any kind of violence or social uprising towards anyone. But when faced with statements made based on deep ignorance, it’s hard not to be affected.

    Recently someone told me that he has friends who are black, but due to a lack of sun living in the UK is simply not good for their skin, that they should be in a climate more suited to their pigmentation. When I called out this out as ridiculous and ultimately racist, he was aghast as to why – even though he added that they were friends who he “wouldn’t want living next door”.

    He was genuinely perplexed as to why he would be considered a racist, that he was just expressing ‘fact’, not hatred. I have been friends with this person, on and off, for nearly forty years without any indication he had such views.

    THE MIGRATION MINEFIELD

    The number of people seeking migration in other countries is a huge problem throughout the world, and its root causes such as poverty and oppression are deep, and it’s difficult to see any resolution. Opinion on how to deal with it, particularly when society is fundamentally affected by huge numbers of people seeking asylum, are varied and complex.

    However, when people I thought I knew well post statements that all migrants filling an overloaded dinghy to navigate a treacherous sea crossing are criminals, it is hard not to be taken aback.

    So how then, should I deal with this? The straightforward answer is these people should not have any place in my life. Why would I want to stay on friendly terms with people so intolerant and lacking in basic compassion?

    In the past I have entered into online arguments that been long and protracted and difficult, and ultimately unproductive as both sides have become more deeply entrenched in our views. Then I chose not to engage, not to credit such outlandish views worthy of debate. However turning away also however also felt like appeasement.

    So, I just have to ‘unfriend’ or disconnect with such people, right? Get rid of them out of my life.

    But I have struggled with this. If it was an acquaintance, or someone I had only met online, it would be simple. History with a person makes it more nuanced, more complicated. Is there another way?

    THE POWER OF SUGGESTION

    Lately I have ‘suggested’ a different view, rather than to confront. This has worked to an extent by taking one person away from being defensive and acknowledging my point.

    Whichever way nothing feels completely comfortable and if faced with deeper extremes I am confident I would shut off contact. In the meantime I continue to fudge the issue, hoping my experience of their better natures will ultimately outweigh the troubling parts of their character that occasionally rises to the surface.