MISSED IT BUT HERE IT IS:

Yesterday in the studio with UW, writing, recording. The day that
started, suddenly finished. Awoke in the night with a memory of
forgetting.

Earworm in my head.

(K)

TRUE PORRIDGE:

Better now than never, delivering the news, the black & white
real fruit morning. The click of sharp heels, fast curves
burst in, hot stuff hits the spot as the post arrives.
Do you open it?

Turn your thinking off, the words you can’t control. Tooth missing
at the front, still smiling. Stern face at the wheel of something
expensive, reliable, grey & clean. Can you afford it?

Big Dog, big chain, takes an old t-shirted belly for a walk
in the morning sun. Are you up for it?

(K)

NORMAL SERVICE:

After the excitement of yesterday. After TV & the meets-n-greets
of happy smiling faces. After finally hooking up with Savages &
meeting the fabulous fellow Midlander Beverly Knight . After the
euphoria of everything & everything going to plan, and the rush
of two hits of adrenaline, one for the recorded show, one for live,
and taking time for photographs with new friends & old,
the relief on the faces of crew & team, the smiles on the faces
of family, the light in their eyes. After stepping out into the
night, under a sky of stars, the first hit of sweet nocturnal
oxygen, feeling like tiny giants, laughing together, parting with
hugs & elaborate cartoon waves. After that fleeting feeling of
good-to-the-bone, the hiss of calm-to-the-core, the temporary
quieting of the tinnitus, the living-in-the-moment, enjoying
the now, letting out a deep breath & allowing a smile to flicker
across the face. After all the lights & instruments & cameras
& stage clothes & travel bags have been packed away, hung up
or dumped in the wash bin the sun rises on another glorious
Essex morning & it’s Bin Day!

(K)

WHAT ARE YOU DOING TONIGHT HONEY?:

10pm (UK) LATER with JOOLES HOLLAND BBC2.
Put on your dancing shoes & dance away booze.

(K)

ANOTHER FAT DAWG SPECIAL COMES HOME TO ESSEX:

Driving south to Kent to soundcheck for Jools.
Pheasants dance ritual, high on the pull of Spring.
New life bursts from furrows (this year ‘beans’).
Bedroom windows creak, ajar, a slight breeze, cool morning.
Birdsong, sound clash, beaks bounce between branches.
Naked sticks erupt with this season’s green. The sky, a dome of
milk, curdles as the body comes back on line. Another two-day
hang-over, post tour, dodging handshakes of sniffers & coughers,
repeating the mantra,

“I’M NOT GETTING ILL, I’M NOT GETTING ILL, I’M NOT GETTING ILL”

(K)

SLEEP ON SLEEP ON SLEEP:

Sickle moon, peach, beneath the plough, slips out of the horizon.
A lone animal howls, mimicking car alarms, looping, wakes me.
Head out the window, breath, smell the fields, earth & green &
the silence of stars. No wind, nothing moving, perfect, 2am.

(K)

SLEEPLESS? SO WHAT?:

A bag of dust & water, heated & stirred. A teaspoon full of
Manuka honey. A bag of dried leaves dipped in boiling water.
Essex, dancing in the sunlight under an infinite blue sky.

(K)

MINE EYES HAVE SEEN THE GLORY OF THE M25:

Sun, rain, sleet, blue skies, break downs, traffic jams, road works,
everything is fabulous. Essex, resplendent in green, still wears it’s
blossom. A robin peers in through the kitchen window to make sure I
made it back safe. Shocked to discover I remembered to pack the house
keys three weeks ago. Kettle’s on, hot cross bun, click your heels
three times & repeat after me…

(K)

GOING HOME:

Sunlight send-off, the streets of San Francisco come alive with
happy waitresses, wave gleaming cleaning clothes from the doorways
of California diners. Pony-tailed waiters dance formation between
breakfast booths whistling Chim-Chimminie. Pipe aboard the last
mouthful of ‘Oatmeal’ before the glory of that first hit of sweet
island ‘Porridge’. The sky waits with open arms. America, thousands
of smiles & happy. The sweat of dance, the pump of the kick drum,
arms raised in the air. Hands shaken, photographs posed for, taken,
stories of lives touched by the groove of Essex. This has been the
best time.

(K)

DAY BEFORE THE SKY:

This is for the honeymooners, fresh in from Dublin who found me
sheltering in the rain. This is for David who called on a train
from Essex back to Brighton when I was sitting in Union Square.
This is for the Waiters, Waitresses & furious fingered cooks working
diner kitchens, feeding nations. The smiles & the “How are you’s?”,
the quiet booths in corners to focus scattered thoughts. This is for
internet radio connecting me to home, the DJ’s familiar voices, the
playlists & producers, transmitters & technicians, wires & cables,
and this hotel for giving me access to molecules of a signature sound.
This is for the faces of family that facetime before I sleep,
peering at me in the middle of the night when they forget I’m in bed.
The laughs we have laughed & the tears cried together – never alone
again. This is for the sun in the desert that dried my washing,
allowing me to reach home smelling clean. This is for the Oatmeal
that stood in for Porridge & the tea bags that delivered real tea!
This is for sleep that came too infrequent & dreams I’d rather not
remember. This is for the hands in the air, the lasers, lights &
cameras, the sound systems & crews of theatres & stages. This is for
the unsung, unseen, un-named who eased the longing for home by
welcoming us into their manor, never giving us grief or attitude &
always delivering. This is for the doormen, the security, the
follow spot operators, truck drivers, runners & the angels of
catering. This is for all the hotel windows that opened so I didn’t
have to mash my throat with aircon or suffocate with it off. This is
for the desert sun in the morning, the long drive with my brother
through the mountains, the time together saying little but enough.
This is for radio preachers & classic American Rock. This is for
the construction crew outside the hotel who took time to explain
the process of decorative concrete. This is for Fat Dawg & Subway
guitars & the nineteen year old who built the best telecaster I’ve
ever played. This is for the faces who crowded into an Essex church
when I was asleep to celebrate the life of a great man, the poems &
the eulogies. This is for the spontaneous applause they burst into
as his coffin left the building (bigger than Elvis), an act so ‘right’
I couldn’t hold back the tears.

(K)