Today, I did something that I had not done since I was a child. I’ll be honest with you, it was quite an odd thing, and it all happened totally involuntarily. In fact, it really surprised me that such a thing was still sitting on the dusty shelf of my childhood mind, waiting to leap out when poked. I will explain further.

There is a company that deals in cement called ‘Blue Circle’. It probably comes as no great surprise to learn that the logo for this company is, well, a blue circle. All very straightforward so far, innit? Well, for some reason that I cannot fathom, I decided, as a child, that every time I saw the Blue Circle logo I would start to go a little mental. By mental, I mean that I would growl the words, ‘blue circle’, in a variety of different voices and pitches. Sometimes, I would just keep repeating the ‘blue, blue, blue,’ bit. Other times, I’d throw in the word ‘circle’ for good measure. I’d always say this mix of words quietly at first, but then, I would up the pace, and the growling would get louder and louder. Along with the growling, I would also make a fine effort to shake my body and flail my arms around. It was my own strange little game, and I was very proud of it.

But, there was another rule to the game. This voluntary Blue Circle mental fit would have to continue, getting more animated and louder, until I saw something that was red. If I didn’t see anything red, I would just have to go into complete overdrive and have a fit overload. The moment I saw something red though, I would stop the fit immediately and return to utter normality. I do hope you’re following this.

I have no idea why I used to do this, but I do remember doing it rather a lot as a child. But, then again, as I child I started up the Anti Co-op Society, and once decided to show my tiny white circumcised penis to Mary Ware in an art lesson. So, nothing really makes much sense. I guess it just all fits in with my general state of being during those innocent days of the mid-70s.

But that was childhood. And I’ve come a long way since then. I’ve put on a lot more weight for a start, and I no longer insist on Kit Kats for breakfast. I also now enjoy olives and the news. I really am all grown up. And it is because I am all grown up, that today was such a surprise.

I was sitting on a wall, smoking a cigarette and just thinking about stuff. I can’t remember exactly what stuff I was thinking about, but it was probably something like aerials or bread. I like sitting on walls. I do it quite a lot. You can really have a proper rest and a think on a wall. It’s so nice to be sat on bricks, watching the world go by. I’ve always thought there’s something a bit ‘Enid Blyton’ about sitting on a wall that you just can’t get from a park bench.

Anyway, I’m digressing. When I was on this wall, guess what happened? A big ‘Blue Circle’ lorry drove past me. And then, completely without any forethought, I started to growl the words, ‘blue circle’ to myself slowly and quietly. It was the first time I had done such a thing in over 25 years. It wasn’t long until the words started to get a little louder and I felt my arms begin to move, like the days of yonder. I’ll be honest, I started to get a little worried, because there I was, sitting on a wall, in full view of the not-so-great British public. Any Tom, Rick or Larry could have caught sight of me and returned a strange look, or worse, called the emergency services. Now, I don’t mind strangers thinking almost anything of me, but I’d prefer not to be carted away in an ambulance and known as The 38-year-old Blue Circle Flailing Freak.

I really needn’t have worried though, because it was not long after the start of my blue circle fit that I saw a bus-stop. And we all know that bus-stops are red. Immediately, my self-induced fit stopped and the flailing arms and demented growls were just a memory.

And that was it really. It came, it went, and no great harm was done. But, how odd, that after so long, this strange little game came into my head without me even thinking about it. The mind really does do funny things sometimes.

One day I’ll tell you about another game I used to play called ‘Duvet Mountain Range’.

Dear Friends,

I thought I’d send a little message to give you some info about what’s coming up in the very near future. It’s been all go here at Lucas Towers.

September 15th sees the release of the follow-up to ‘Poems From the Seashore’. The new book is called ‘The Silence of the Suburbs, The Call of the Sea’ (yes, another seashore theme). It’s a small offering of 32 poems from the same publisher as before, Palores Publications, and is very similar in layout and style to the first book. When it’s out it will be available online at Amazon or through bookshops. However, if you want a copy a before it becomes widely available, you can send a cheque for £3.95 directly to the publisher, and a nice chap called Les will pop one in a brown envelope and send it out to you, postage free. The first 50 will be signed (which may increase its value on ebay by about 7p). The address to send your old-skool cheques to is:

Palores Publications
12 Melrose Avenue
Twickenham
TW2 7JE

The other bit of exciting news (at least for me) is that my first novel, ‘Seaside Tales From Asper St. Jasper’ (yes, the seaside theme yet again) will be coming out at the end of September. For those that may be interested, here is the blurb that will be on the back cover of the book.

–
About 94 miles away from where you live sits the weird and wonderful little seaside town of Asper St. Jasper. Here, in this modest book, are a wealth of magnificently strange tales about the town’s oddball residents and their curious antics. Why does Shanklin Roquefort keep throwing fruit at pensioners and putting signs up everywhere? Will Chunky Fido, with his expertly-honed guerrilla tactics, ever succeed in eliminating soft-scoop ice creams from the town? And what possible reason could there be for a nose to jump off a fisherman’s face and go looking for cake? As you can see, there’s a lot happening in town!

Don’t be fooled into thinking these tales are for children, though. The abundant cultural and nostalgic TV references that burst out from nearly every page, put pay to that. As does the single use of the phrase, ‘brutal serial killer’, in one of the footnotes. You have been warned.
–

I’ll give more info out to those who are interested the nearer the book gets to release. What I can tell you is that it will cost £8.99 and is just over 400 pages long (don’t worry, it’s quite a big font). Oh, and it’s got a lovely looking ice cream on the cover. I am quite disappointed that we were unable to accommodate the picture of me with a garden gnome on the back cover, but sometimes life can be cruel. It’s a real shame, because it was a far better photo than the one that is going on my new poetry book. In that one, I look like I’ve got a very long face and a tiny head. I look a bit like an alien.

The final bit of news is that I now have a mailing list operating. Mailing lists are a really nice way to keep people who want to know about stuff up-to-date. I like it because I don’t have to bother or annoy people who couldn’t care less about me and my silly adventures.

Anyway, this mailing list. It’s just a way that you can keep up to date with all the bits and bobs that are happening with my books, poetry readings, events etc. If that sounds like your bag, then you’re very welcome to join by going to this bit of my website.

http://www.phillucas.com/contact.php

I do give you this cast-iron super water-tight promise. I will not send your email address on to any person or any dodgy company, and I’ll only ever contact you with things that I think may be nice to share.

So, that’s about the short of it. Thanks for taking the time to read this little message. I hope everybody is keeping well, and I wish only the very best for you all. Do always feel free to drop me message about anything at all. It’s always lovely to hear from you.

With many happy wishes,

Phil x

–

Today, I gave in and did something that until that moment I had flatly refused to do. It wasn’t a great thing; it won’t change the world, sort out the problems in Pakistan, or solve the funding issues within the NHS, but in my own small way it was a big change. I shall explain.

Like many people, I don’t function at all well in the morning unless I’ve had a lovely steaming mug of crow-black coffee. But coffee to me is not just about functioning. Oh no. I’d go as far to say as I Love coffee (note the capital L). From the magical concoctions of the baristas through to the cheap flavour of the last chocolate in the box, I’m there to savour it all. So, it’ll probably come as no great surprise for you to learn that I spend a lot of time in coffee shops. As a writer, coffee shops are my spiritual home. They are the retreat from which I power up my ideas and muse on complex things like lightbulbs or simple things like Bono. They are also a wonderful source of inspiration, for it is from coffee shops that I sit idly in comfort most days watching the odd folk of this world going about their business and leisure. Oh yes, I’ve spent many productive and wasted hours in coffee shops. In fact, I’ll wager that if you can think of a type of coffee shop, then I’ve sat in it. I’ve sat in the big American ones, the American ones that pretend they’re Italian, the Italian ones, The British ones, the French ones, the independent ones, and a fair few others that effort dictates I will not name. Coffee shops and myself are trusted friends. Soul brothers of sorts.

So I think that I speak from experience when I say that there is one thing about coffee shops the world over that is the same. And that is this. All coffee shops give ridiculous names to the various concoctions they offer. Now, I’m a simple man. I don’t wish for a Frappucino Pendalino Super Soft Skinny Mocca Latte with marshmallows and a sprinkling of star shaped chocolate. I’m not under the illusion that I’m consuming a bit of luxury in my otherwise pointless life. No. I just wish for a black coffee. Simple. But, and here’s the rub, I’m not allowed to ask for a black coffee, because it’s not up there on the menu in black, white or multi-coloured letters. What I have to ask for is an Americano. This greatly annoys me, not least because I have to add an ’o’ to the word American. It also annoys me because by asking for an Americano it adds an extra unnecessary layer of conversation with my server. Not that I mind a bit of idle chit-chat you understand, but clarifying whether I would like my Americano with or without milk is not what I have in mind. Granted, I could just ask for a black Americano and avoid the fuss, but I figure that if I asked for a black coffee in the first place I’d be saving myself 3 syllables.

The short of all this is that I have refused for many years to be sucked into this Guardian reading over complication of coffee products. I have always made it my personal duty to only ask for a black coffee, no matter what silly name it goes under in the coffee shop. Sometimes, this works fine and the staff just get me my order, with, I like to think, a little knowing nod, to show that beyond their branded polo shirt, the wily member of staff actually agrees with me and my deviant request. Sometimes however, I am faced with a blank expression.

In the olden days the blank expression was usually from those employees who were not best up to date with their minds. More recently however, the blank looks are from Polish girls on the minimum wage. And this is why today, for the first time ever, I stopped asking for a black coffee, gritted my teeth and muttered the dirty word Americano.

The specifics are this. The poor Polish girl at the coffee shop I currently frequent is a relatively new arrival. I have noted that the management started her off on simple table cleaning duties and then slowly, ever so slowly, introduced her to the labyrinthine coffee machine. It was only today however that she was let loose on the customers. Now, this dear young girl does not have a wide grasp of the English language (although her English is probably considerably better than our Polish) so she is at a moderate disadvantage to start with. Couple that with her having to learn the menu of the coffee shop quickly, and you have the recipe for potential disaster. Given these factors, it’s hardly surprising that when I asked for a black coffee she faltered somewhat. But God love her, she did her best.

What she did was look at me blankly, scratch her head and then give me a big lovely smile. It was a smile that said, “I don’t understand a word you’re saying, but here, have my best smile and let’s start again.” Of course, under such circumstances, how could I possibly ask for a black coffee a second time? You’re right, I couldn’t. So I weighed up the situation, reverted to the big black menu board above her and then brought to the fore my deeply engrained sense of British good manners. I then took a deep breath, grimaced somewhat, and from my mouth out popped the word Americano. She, to her credit, understood me perfectly, asked if I wanted it black or white, verbally passed the order to a Chinese teenager with a mullet and gave me another one of her winning smiles.

So there you have it. I have broken one of my cardinal rules. But, now that I have explained myself, I think you’ll agree, that on the odd occasion, I must toe this new-fangled, PC, up-its-own-arse line. I’ve got the EU to thank for that. I blame Leon Brittan.

I am well aware, that for some odd reason, people in this country think Madonna is a bit of an icon (I know this, because folk seem to annoyingly keep referring to her Madge, as if she’s some loved treasure like Dame Judy Dench) but my overall feeling every time I see her is, “you really shouldn’t be doing that at your age love. Now, put it away.”

What follows is a genuine ‘About Me’ profile from a chap on Myspace. I can assure you that there is no comedy intended with this, as I have also read a great number of his other musings over the past year; so I think I’ve got the measure of him. The guy is simply genius, just not in a good way.

Do enjoy this.

–

About me:
ok…embarrasing bit out first, due to stupid house prices, i am still in the parental abode!there now the cats out of the bag.i am a happy go lucky person who i think has a gsoh.i like to meet and make new friends but when i am out, speaking to the oppo sex is something i aint all that good at but thanks to msn/yahoo if i do get to know a lass then we can use that to build upto a meet and hopefully another meet and the worlds our oyster.i am a lover of the mature woman, that being from 30+ upto say(off the top of my head)50ish.i love photography and at the moment i have a camera that i got from the tesco in goole for £87.i currently work in a crappy chicken factory on the minimum wage but one day i will get out.my msn n yahoo i will give to anybody that i see fit to have it

Who I’d like to meet:
a female with a good sense of humour, colour unimportant as i aint prejudiced, age well anything between late 20’s til very late 40’s(love the mature woman), i do have this lust/love for the mature sexy and nice looking lass.enjoys all aspects of getting to know each other, espesh the sex/lovemaking part, wether it be in the bedroom or wherever, all in the confines of a r/ship.loves music,film,comedy and outdoor pursuits-walking and seeing the sights(espesh the coast when the weather is superb),cosy nights in as well as out.hopefully will like photos,tho not essential at all.the main thing is that there is communication as without it, the whole thing is doomed before it starts.id love to meet the sexy actress LIZ WHITE, who was in LIFE ON MARS, she played wpc annie cartwright…..she has the phwoarrr factor

Sir Alan Sugar. Good morning Sir Alan, yes Sir Alan, I agree Sir Alan, thank you Sir Alan, goodbye Sir Alan.

I tell you what. When watching The Apprentice, you can’t bloody forget he’s ‘Sir’ Alan Sugar can you?

Each to their own, what floats one boat doesn’t float another etc. etc, but the simple fact of the matter is that I just can’t get excited by the Olympics. And I don’t mean the Olympics that people who are happy to wear cheap imported clothes keep moaning about. I mean the one that’s happening right here, in the good old City of London come the year of our Lord, 2012. And, I think that my lack of excitement boils down to the fact that I’m bothered by something.

Now, I’m not particularly bothered about the cost. The moment the unknown fat man in the suit announced we’d won the games, it was obvious to anyone with a degree of nonce that the final price of hosting the games will be about 20 times the initial published figure. I’m also not bothered by the fact, that despite wonderful predictions about regeneration, what we’ll be left with (apart from some useful transport links) is a load of odd shaped buildings that hardly anyone will use. These, incidentally, will all be locked up by 2014 and left to rust (much to the chagrin of people on radio phone-ins). I’m not even bothered about the obvious legacy of debt, or the fact that some folk are misguided enough to believe that a load of athletes coming to London and doing a bit of running for two weeks will increase the price of their homes.

No, none of the above bothers me. What bothers me is that I have a creeping feeling that the Olympics just don’t really matter anymore. In short, we’re outgrowing the Olympics in the same way that we’ve already outgrown the circus with its scary clowns and wearisome acrobats. The Olympics, seem to me, a spectacle where its component parts just don’t hold wonder and awe for us the way they did in the good old days of history. Gone, I fear, are the times when we would all gather around our rented TVs to marvel at bald Duncan Goodhew swimming quite fast, or swoon as Eddie the Eagle Edwards showed us how rubbish he was at jumping off a ramp with some sticks attached to his feet. Hell, we don’t even need a new Torvil and Dean anymore; not when we’ve got the real ones huffing and puffing through short routines on a makeshift studio ice rink and giving out useful skating tips to minor celebrities.

Be honest with yourself. What do you watch when the Olympics are on TV? The 100 metres final? Beach volleyball? Some obscure event that gets exciting only when it looks like Britain has a chance of winning a medal? The honest truth is that things have moved on. We live in a world where sport is defined through the artistry of multi-million pound footballers and their lifestyles, a world where any answer or need is instantly available online, a world, in short, which offers its inhabitants billions of multi-coloured pleasures for the taking, right here and right now. Put all that up against watching Paula Radcliffe wheezing along a road wetting herself, and you have to admit, I have a point.

There will be many who disagree with the above, and the arguments they counter are valid. Yes, the Olympics are a visual symbol for uniting a turbulent and divided world; yes the Olympics are the premier showcase for the world’s greatest athletes, and yes, the Olympics show us all what can be achieved with determination, focus and belief. But ask yourself these questions. Do you really care? And, come 2012, will you be tuning in to the TV more than occasionally? Probably not I reckon.

This morning, whilst having my first cup of lovely dark toasty black coffee, I had a few moments of free time to ponder things. The things I pondered were the question of whether an orchestra could function perfectly well without a conductor, and the fact that northern people are, by nature, cooler than southern people. After I had thought about both of these things for a while, I still had some free time left. So what I did was read the Metro, a newspaper that all Londoners know, is distributed free on every train seat each morning. It wasn’t the daily news that interested me though. I instead turned the pages eagerly until I came upon the job vacancies. Now, I’m not remotely interested in a job, but I do get regular amusement by looking at the adverts and seeing how employers try to make their dreadfully dull and pointless vacancies sound interesting and rewarding.

So, it was with glee that I came across an advert from a train operating company who were looking for people to stand at the end of station platforms and check tickets. Any rail traveller will know that this is a depressing job in the extreme. Apart from the unsociable hours and ridiculous uniform, this job requires the poor worker to continually field irksome questions from irate punters and be the butt of commuter’s frustrations. It truly is an awful role, and it really takes a special type of person to do it. A desperate one.

Knowing all this, I thought it was almost poetic that the job advert stated:

“A career with us is all about variety. Every day our employees all go home with new stories to tell.”

Yes, they do. Stories about how they nearly got stabbed by some ticket dodging hoodie, how they rowed with some pretentious office worker, and how they had to stand in the cold and rain wearing a silly hat for 8 hours a day.

The advert continued:

“Can you anticipate and deal proactively with problems, as well as working effectively under pressure?”

Now there are two words here that ring alarm bells with me. They are ‘problems’ and ‘pressure’. Why on earth would anybody want to deal with problems and pressure? Especially problems and pressure that are not of your own making? I guarantee you that I have no truck with either word. You won’t get me going within a mile of problems and pressure. I steer well away from such things, and I don’t understand why every other person doesn’t do the same. Besides, who on God’s earth would apply for a job where the employer is blatantly saying, “it’s gonna be pretty crap working for us?”

This muse on two words led me to a further observation. I have noticed how certain words and phrases keep occurring in job adverts. The one I see most regularly is ‘challenging’. Employers are falling over themselves to offer potential employers a ‘challenging’ role. I just don’t get it. What’s the point of going to work to be challenged? I can challenge myself quite happily outside of work; I don’t need some fretless goon of a boss challenging me when I’m at work. Surely the point of work is to do as little as possible and take the money at the end of the month. I really do think people who are looking for challenging work are secretly admitting to themselves that they need the structure of an organisation or company to motivate them, as they don’t have enough get up and go within themselves to do something off their own backs.

Another word I see a lot is ‘busy’. Adverts refer to a ‘busy role’ or ‘busy office environment’. Again I turn my nose up. The last thing I want at work is to be busy. I want time to dream, time to write, time to ponder. Being busy at work is just about the worst thing that could happen.

‘Driven’ is another word I noted. I’m driven all right. Driven not bust my gut for some faceless corporation, driven to spend as much time in life doing the things I want to do, driven to write, driven to sleep at odd times of the day, driven to see all the wonderful bands out there, be in awe of art and read all the books I possibly can.

I could go on, but I won’t. I think you get the idea anyway. I may return to this subject the next time I amuse myself with newspaper job adverts. You should have a look at a few yourself if you get a spare moment. Some of them really are comedy gold. And by the way, I’m sure lots of you will disagree with me. If you do, I respect your opinion, but you’re wrong.

I’d love to have some of what the ITV executives were smoking when they came up the idea of re-launching News at Ten. Everyone knows that ITV is rubbish, and attempting to compete with the BBC Ten 0’Clock News is doomed to failure. Wheeling out Lord Trevor McDonald OBE isn’t going to make any difference either. ITV should just accept that the BBC do news better and come up with a different strategy. I suggest keeping the 10.30pm slot and focussing on an alternative news service. By alternative, I mean things like Israeli skateboarding ducks and Dutch talking dogs. Now that I would watch.

Today in the bookshop I came upon the saddest title of any book I have ever seen. It was a title so poetic, so beyond melancholy and yet so genius in its creation, that when my eyes first laid themselves upon it, I was quite taken aback. I was then taken into a dream world where I imagined the tragic story behind the title.

But there was no tragic story in printed form behind the title. Why? Because the book I had discovered was no more than a cheap, simple, small, paperback cookbook. And the title? ‘Microwave Cooking For One’.

Dear Friends,

I think ‘Happy New Year’ is what I’m supposed to say, so consider that done. Whilst I’m on the topic of being generous in my concern for you, I do hope you all had a really lovely Christmas. If however, you had a really lovely Christmas and then leapt out of bed on Boxing Day to go shopping, then big shame on you. Can’t you go one day without buying some tawdry item for yourself? It won’t make you any happier you know, and when the mortgage company comes round to repossess your house because you haven’t paid your bills, then you’ll only have yourself to blame. Besides, if you buy stuff, then the shops win, and no one wants that, do they?

I had a lovely Christmas. I ate a lot of turkey, chocolate and nuts. I think that apart from watching wrinkly actors in ‘To The Manner Born’, Christmas is all about a lot of turkey, chocolate and nuts. I got some presents too, which some misguided folk seem to think is the point of Christmas, but I’m not going to bang on about those. After all, you wouldn’t really be excited by my new book on the history of the South Bank, or a strange little Buddha character that doubles in size when you place him in water.

One very exciting piece of news, at least for me, is that my poetry book ‘Poems From the Seashore’ is now the top-selling poetry tome ever in the bookshop where I waste 20 hours a week. I grant you that the impressive sales patter of my colleagues and pride of place positioning around the store have contributed greatly to this feat; but the fact of the matter is that I’ve sold more copies of my scribble than Wordsworth and Keats put together. And it is this fact that I shall hold close to my bosom and cherish. If it is the only thing I ever achieve, then at least my tombstone will read, “Here, face down and naked lies Phil. He sold more poetry books in a depressing suburban bookshop near Heathrow than any other poet. God rest his soul.”

Something else I’m rather excited about is that my next poetry book is now really coming together, and it won’t be long until it is finished. I had originally hoped to have it in publication for March, but I think I may have been a little over zealous when I came up with that nugget of misinformation. I know this is true because each day of toil in the various coffee shops of grey suburbia makes me realise that there is always a little word to change here, or a new sentence to be sorted out there. It really is a never-ending process, I don’t mind telling you. But the end is in sight, and you, my dear reader, can rest assured that you will be the first to know when all the T’s are dotted, the I’s are crossed and the whole effort goes off to the publishers for them to do the grown up things that they need to do.

Completely unrelated to the above, I think I should mention that I’ve cut down on the amount of meat I’m eating. And I want to make it clear that it’s not a new years resolution, because I started it on the 30th November. I think that apart from the health benefits, it is a good move morally, for I like animals, I really do. The cute ones are…well, cute, and the ugly ones…..well, they’re just sad because they are not beautiful like the peacock. I did make an exception for this years Christmas turkey though. This is for two very good reasons. Firstly, mother had already bought it from Waitrose, and secondly, I’m a hypocrite.

So there it is. Poetry is being written, books are being sold and meat (by and large) is not being eaten. All is good.

Turrrah.

Friends English and Otherwise,

For too long I have been away from you, and for that I apologise without hesitation. Now that you have hopefully accepted my apology, I shall go some way to letting you know what I have been doing since I last typed words for you.

Those of you good people who read my last ramble will, no doubt, remember that it was with great resentment that I set about looking for some form of proper work. Not that what I do is not proper you understand, but small poetry books and their attendant duties do not always come up trumps as far as the tiny figures that make up my bank balance are concerned.

Well, I’m pleased to report that I have found work. And what’s more it’s quite ok. There are three good things about it. The first is that I only work 20 hours a week. The second is that I can wear what I like for those 20 hours. The third is that I spend those 20 hours wearing what I like in a bookshop. This is ideal for me as it means I get to take lots of books off shelves and read them whilst I’m in my jeans. Alas, there are also two downsides. One is that I have to wear a name badge with ‘Happy to Help’ emblazoned on it. I can assure you that at 6.00pm on a Saturday evening I am far from happy to help. The other downside is that I have to regularly suffer the indignity of selling the sort of books that should be top fodder for a Nazi style book burning. A book burning I would be happy to organise, by the way. The sort of toilet paper I mean, are (in no particular order)

Richard Hammond’s autobiography (a book that would have never been written had he been a good driver).

Lewis Hamilton’s biography (a book that would have never been written had he been a bad driver).

Various books about upsetting and tough childhoods (they are classed as ‘misery memoirs’ on our database, which I rather like).

I have talked at some length with a friend about this upsetting aspect of my job, and I must say, he has a rather positive and refreshing attitude. He says that even though I sell many books that I would not personally choose, the fact that people are reading at all is the important thing to remember. He’s right of course, but then again he’s not spent a whole Saturday repeatedly handing out ‘Ross Kemp on Gangs’ to monosyllabic tracksuit wearing customers.

You can only imagine therefore, the glee I feel when someone pops up at the till and buys something that is actually quite good. In fact, if the book the customer is buying is actually quite good and I’ve also read it, then…….well, we’ll have a lovely chat and pass the time of day. Sometimes when they leave the shop I’ll also give them a cheery wave, just to show them that I respect their book choice.

Something else that is quite interesting about working in a bookshop is the variety of questions that the punters throw at you. Some of my favourites start with the customer looking into my eyes and saying, “I’m looking for a book.” The desire to reply with sheer shock often comes to the fore. Some of my other favourite questions are the ones where a rather stupid individual comes up to you and says something along the lines of, “I’m looking for a book with a green cover. I don’t know the title or the author, but it has a fat bloke who wears a jumper as the main character.” And then they expect me (on a mere £5.56 an hour) to solve the ridiculous question that they have been too stupid or idle to research on the internet.

But all questions are not stupid. Some are simply golden gems. Here are my three favourites that I have been asked since I started pressing buttons on a cash register.

1. What audiobook would you recommend for an 85 year old with short-term memory loss?
2. I want to read an autobiography, but it must only be sad in the middle. What do you suggest?
3. What board game would suit a couple of gay men?

So, you can see, I’m having enormous fun. And that in short is why I have not been writing much. Well, that’s not true. I’ve actually been writing a fair deal, especially as I have just returned from a rather sunny little island in the Atlantic, where I worked on my latest poetry book whilst smoking cheap cigarettes and watching whales play about in the ocean. But I digress into an area where I shall not go. Reading about other people’s holidays is, after all, a truly dull experience.

So, it is only left for me to say that I shall write soon, and I hope that you are all truly well.

Peace, love and wellbeing to all,

Phil

Lazy. It is the only word I can use to describe my website and Myspace activity recently. I did think about trying to flower up my exploits with a few big and choice words, but in the end, it all seemed to come back to lazy. L-A-Z-Y. Lazy does not mean lack of news though. Oh no. Things have happened. Allow me to tell you about them.

I suppose the easiest place to start is to tell you about what’s happening with my latest book. And the answer there is not a great deal. Well, that’s not strictly true. Every couple of days or so I get a very polite (and much duplicated) letter from some literary agent or other telling me that they have carefully considered my work, but on reflection have decided it is not something they feel confident in handling. I’m getting quite used to seeing my stamped addressed envelopes come back to their rightful home. I should be disappointed, but I have taken the Zen approach. Look at it not as an opportunity lost, but as another franked stamp to give to my mother for her cat charity collection fund.

This lack of a publishing deal, has however, made things on the money front rather tight. The life of a writer with a low readership is a largely pleasant one, but there are times when a small 36-page poetry book does not come up trumps keeping me in the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed. And what is that lifestyle? Well, it’s important that I have enough money for café coffee regularly (in fact, every day). It’s important that I have enough money to wander the streets, taking photos of 60s architecture and other concrete constructions that take my eye. Most importantly, it’s important that I have enough money to keep my big motorhome fed so I can pop to the seaside whenever I feel like it.

I am sad to say that at least two of the above are suffering because of financial shortcomings. But I’m not the sort of lad to sit on a sofa bemoaning this state of affairs. No. What I did was wait until the last possible moment before I sat on the sofa and bemoaned the state of affairs , and then I considered signing up with a temp agency. When that last possible moment had elapsed and I had barely enough money to buy a Kinder egg, I beamoaned the state of affairs from my sofa and then took the leap of actually signing up with a temp agency. And I don’t mind telling you, what a depressing experience that is. Firstly, I had to get a CV together. This I duly did, leaving out the bit about excessive drug use leading to complete mental breakdown and stint in rehab. Then I had to go and hand my CV in to some Daily Mirror reading young lady whose idea of crazy is, I should imagine, going out on a Saturday hen night wearing a pair of angel’s wings or devil’s horns. Then came the difficult bit. They ask you questions, the answers to which, I had not considered. There were challenging questions like, “how much money are you looking to earn?” and even more challenging ones like, “what sort of work are you looking for?”

Anyway, I won’t go into detail with my observations of the temp agency, except to say that I was rather worried with the big poster on the wall which stated “Work is not just about earning money. It’s about achievement.” ‘It bloody is about earning money, sod achievement,’ I thought to myself.

The short of it was that I was offered 3 roles. One was in a car dealership. NO!! One was for a telephone based sales role. NO!! One was answering the phone to unhappy people who had the misfortune to have suffered a burst pipe or a leaky roof in their house. I took this option. I’m pleased to say that I lasted a whole three hours before I told them I was going to lunch and never went back. The temp agency were not pleased. I felt like pointing out that work is not just about earning money, it’s about achievement, and I’d certainly achieved something that day by realising I was worth more than sitting at the end of a phone listening to some old buffer moaning. I didn’t point this out though.

So, the short of all this is that I am very short of money. And that is why I make a plea to you, dear reader. If you are in any position to offer a writer with a low readership some temporary work then here is my pitch:

“Outwardly scruffy but inwardly quite smart chap seeks mindless, repetitive work. Would like rarely populated second-hand bookshop, but will except envelope stuffing or simple data entry. Will always turn up on time, but insists on wearing jeans and preferably flip-flops too. Does not wish to answer telephones, but will take the odd call as a favour. Opportunity to read a book in the quiet moments would be seen as an advantage.”

If you can help to get me a job, I’d be dead grateful.

Thanks.

I am back from travelling around the England and Wales part of our great nation. And what have I learnt? I’ll tell you shortly. What I won’t do though is give you a detailed account of all that I have done for the past month; for much like when someone tells you about a dream they had, it could all get a rather boring. So, what have I learnt?

1. I have learnt that Wales really does have a phenomenal amount of sheep. They are absolutely everywhere. And more than this, I’ve learnt that there are loads of different kinds of sheep. There are white ones, black ones, ones with horns, ones with black heads, ones that are very scared and ones that are quite happy to sit in the road and stop you moving.

2. Wales is lovely. Merthyr Tydfil though is God’s unwashed armpit.

3. The Café on the Brecon Mountain Railway stinks of old chip fat. It really does make you heave. And don’t be fooled by this railway’s name. It is not a leisurely ride through the hills and mountains of the Brecon Beacons. It’s a twenty minute journey up one side of a reservoir, a stop for a nasty coffee, and then back to the stinky chip café again. It costs 9 quid for all this pleasure.

4. Don’t let anybody roll their eyes and say ‘good luck’ when you mention you’re going to Blackpool. It’s a genius place. Yes, it’s every bit as tacky as you are led to believe, but if you go there knowing that, you’ll have a whale of a time. Blackpool Tower is amazing, and the pleasure beach- well, it’s like a rollercoaster museum!! It’s simply ace. I’ve also learnt that old rollercoasters made of wood are far better than the modern ones. And that means that Blackpool Pleasure Beach is better than Alton Towers or Thorpe Park by a long way.

5. Bridlington, despite having a fish & chip shop recommended by Vic Reeves, is not somewhere one should spend much time in.

6. The west Coast of England is far better than the east coast.

7. Sellafield Visitor’s Centre is horrible and modern. It’s an ‘interactive experience’ nightmare. How I long for old museums that tell you things on noticeboards and have exhibits in glass cabinets that you can point at.

8. If you go to the Hackgreen secret nuclear bunker in Cheshire you will see the actual machine the Maggie Thatcher used in 1982 to send a message to a submarine to sink the Argentine battleship General Belgrano. 25 years after Maggie’s dainty hands were on this machine, I put mine on it.

9. Bolton Abbey is nowhere near Bolton.

10. There’s a place in the middle of England called Newcastle. It’s about 250 miles from the proper famous Newcastle. There’s also a New York, but I can’t remember where I saw that.

11. Glastonbury is a ‘challenging’ experience. I’ll say no more about it.

12. There really are an amazing amount of variations of ‘Baby on Board’ signs. I saw, princess on board, naughty person on board, tiny person on board, little terror on board, grandchild on board, newborn on board etc. etc. These signs really annoy me by the way.

Dear Friends,

At 6pm this evening I shall start my near month long jaunt of the UK. Thanks to the many kind suggestions from fellow Myspacers I shall enjoy the delights of a disused chemical factory, a fish & chip shop in Bridlington, a nuclear bunker in Cheshire and a museum of pencils in the Lake District. There will be other delights too I’m sure.

So just in case anybody sends me a Myspace message over the next three weeks and I don’t reply, I’m not being rude. I’ll probably be in a field pointing at something rusty or hazardous.

I shall be back on the 9th July.

Stay golden

Phil

Strange was the brief conversation I had with a pub landlord near the City of Lincoln at the weekend. This was it.

Me: Is there a cash-point in the Co-op down the road?
Landlord: No.
Me: Oh.
Landlord: But there is one in Brayley’s shop about half a mile the other way.
Me: Oh good. I’ll go there then.
Landlord: No point, it’s shut.

Being a true celebrity is not about hanging out with that chump from U2 or sucking up to Trev and Simon. It’s the about things I list below. Enjoy my A-list lifestyle.

1. I saw Rod Hull with Emu one month before he/they died. He wished me a happy new year. Ironic
2. I got Gary Glitter’s autograph when I was 15. I escaped intact.
3. I have an old album with Jonathan King’s signature on. Is there a theme here?
4. I was with my friend when he knocked David Cassidy over on his skateboard.
5. My friend posted some meatballs through David “the kid” Jenson’s Letterbox. His dog ate them immediately.
6. I got in a cab being driven by Geoffrey from Rainbow.
7. My girlfriend’s sister was found wandering lost at a fete and John Inman looked after her.
8. I saw Fulton Mackay at a fireworks show.
9. I once a kissed a girl who was the daughter of a 1970s ITV newsreader. He had died of alcoholism though long before this.
10. I talked to Mick Brown (From ‘Pat & Mick’ ) about the weather once at a railway station.
11. I saw Lenny Henry in a public toilet.
12. I’ve seen former Prime Minister Edward Heath’s penis. He was standing next to me in a urinal once, and I felt that I had to look down just so that I could say I’ve seen a world leader’s wanger.
13. I once performed a poem in front of a chap who was in ‘The Flying Pickets’.

This week I’ve spent a lot of time sitting on a wall thinking. Earlier today whilst on that very same wall I had a great idea. I figured that it would be beyond fantastic if you could go to a place just like a pub, but instead of being filled with strangers, the place would contain only your friends or friends of friends. Then I realised that this had been invented already and was called a party.

Unfortunately this happens to me quite a lot. I think I’ve invented something quite spectacular only to be grounded quickly in disappointment when I realise that some enterprising person has got there before me. If people had not got there before me I would have invented cash-point machines, net curtains and tennis.

I have just been to my local shop (a small affair tucked snuggly down a backstreet). There, whilst browsing the overpriced selection of sliced meats and low-grade cat-foods I came upon something I could not quite believe. That something was ‘Limited Edition’ dishwasher tablets. I’ll say it again because I’m sure you need to take in the concept. “Limited Edition’ dishwasher tablets.

What in the name of God can be limited edition about a dishwasher tablet? What can possibly be improved or made more desirable in a dishwasher tablet to warrant, not a product relaunch, but a limited edition release? Have we really reached an age where there are people out there, (people who probably hold down quite respectable jobs and are in charge of children) who want to ’spice it up a bit’ by choosing a limited edition dishwasher tablet?

So I researched some more, thinking I must have missed something. What I did was to take down a packet of the new wonder tablets from the shelf. Even this act made me feel grubby and seedy, (as if I had already debased myself). And do you know what it said on the packet about the product being limited edition? Nothing, nil, zilch. Apart from the printed words ‘limited edition’ there was nothing to differentiate those dishwasher tablets from any others available. So, if the concept of a limited edition dishwasher tablet were not ridiculous enough, it turns out there was no limited edition after all.

Sweet Lord if you do exist please rescue me from this madness.

Dear Friends,

I shall shortly be commencing a month long tour of England and Wales. There are many places I’m keen to visit, like nuclear bunkers, The Museum of Salt and the village of Penistone. But there must be so much more out there I just don’t know about.

If you’ve got a spare moment I’d be dead grateful if could you be so kind as to suggest any gems that you may know in your local area. I’m really quite open to visit anything, but I prefer things that are rusty, decaying, a waste of time and money, rubbish and odd. Concrete and p**s poor waxwork museums always welcome.

Many thanks for your help.

Phil