Back in the gallery with my bullshit detector

I’ve never been quite sure about this 40 years of punk “celebration” that’s going on. All a bit too establishment for me. And I know some of the London stuff has been controversial.

I was in Bristol yesterday and it turned out they are doing a punk season at the Arnolfini arts centre. They say they are, anyway.

Brexit: it’s not my fault. But it might be yours.

It’s nearly a month since the Brexit referendum and it feels like a year. But I’m still angry.

Fingers in the sparkle jar: a rant or a review

I’ve been reading Fingers in the Sparkle Jar, Chris Packham’s remarkable memoir. It’s a hard book to review so maybe I won’t. But I will have a rant.

January is the cruellest month (Hymn for the Dudes)

When it’s New Year’s Eve, everyone says “Thank goodness that year is over”. I didn’t say that this time round, because 2015 was an OK year for me. But it’s gone downhill ever since.

I started January discovering I couldn’t afford to move house, and ended the month accidentally falling out with one of the people I love the most. That’s on top of the normal seasonal angst.

I have a note at the bottom of my Christmas card list. It says “You will be depressed on 27th December. Do something nice.”  I love Christmas, but when it’s over I start thinking too much, and reading articles like this one.

And then there was January 2016, and the Grim Reaper got the wrong list.

We could be heroes

A week ago, I’d have said I wasn’t a David Bowie fan. I loved a lot of his records, dismissed some of them, felt a bit proud about walking out of a Tin Machine gig.

Today, I just want to say “Fuck”. And be with people who understand. (Which means, going on Facebook.)