Peaks and troughs.

Playing music, doing it live, is my bread and butter. I wouldn't like to guess how many gigs I've played, but I've been doing it since I was sixteen. Barely a week has gone by without a single gig since then, so I'm guessing it's a lot. Certainly hundreds, perhaps thousands, feels like millions. Not all of them are memorable, fuck, not all of them are even fun. But there's something to learn from all of them.

When it's good, it's great. Some nights it's the most beautiful experience imaginable, when all the stars align and everything is wonderful. Some nights it's just farcical enough to be hilarious. Some nights it's work. Hard, sweaty, unrewarding work. I know this: playing the night of an England football match is a surefire way to get the latter. On Wednesday I was subjected to a new heckle, or a new one on me at least. "Play some Neil Diamond you ginger cunt". I've heard plenty of memorable ones, but that's a new favourite. I can't imagine what it was about my act that made him think I would, but I'm sure there was logic in his brain.

But mostly, it's a great thing. Touching people without actually touching them, opening their eyes to something new, a song they've never heard, maybe even a sound they've never heard...it's a hard way to get rich, but I wouldn't trade it.

Viva La Songs,

Tom.

Local Heroes

Another of my obsessions. The local loonies, that add colour to a town. You know the type. The ones that walk around mumbling, or shouting, or never saying anything.

There's one in particular round here who's a favourite of mine. Ivor. He's an old guy now, and I think he's always been old. He's been around for as long as I can remember. Always walking through the town centre, several yards behind his tiny wife, shuffling at a snails pace. Big long coat whatever the weather. Black fingers and mad hair. But his main selling point? Shouting the news at strangers, as only he can.

During the post strike a few years ago, he shouted at me "Postman Pat's getting a promotion".

"What to, Ivor?" I replied.

"Senior Postman, of course" was his genius reply.

He's come out with some beauties over the years. "Jesus Christ comes from Cornwall" is inspired, in my humble opinion. I once tried to start a campaign to get him made town crier - give him a robe and a bell and people will come from miles around to see him. I often wonder what he does when he's at home. What music does he listen to? Chas and Dave? Napalm Death? Lee Scratch Perry? Chopin? Does he watch TV? Films? Who knows?

Still, he's an old man now. What used to look like amusing senility has become something sadder. I don't want to say pathetic, but it's close. There's occasionally suspicious stains down the back of his trousers, and he's shaving less. It's sad to see, and it'll be a sad day when the inevitable happens. The town won't seem quite the same without some shouting "She's a very naughty girl, that Paris Hilton".

Any characters round your way? Tell me about them. Go on.

Tom.