Well, nobody wants to buy the house, but that doesn't mean I can't get it in order. I've raided the loft and put a Teasmade,a sewing machine and a King Kurt t-shirt on Ebay. I have cleaned it and preened it, and gardened the little bit outside the front door, wielding the shears like a superbeing, after being shamed by the sight of a tiny neat old lady down the road sculpting her hedge with a power-device.
It all looks spick and span.
I have masses of comics to sell, obscure titles like Neil the Horse, but that involves lots of taking photos and I'm still rolling through 108 songs. I listened to 54 yesterday and might do more today but I feel I need an Ears Rest.
The clothes and books go to the charity shops; all I have to learn now is not to exit with as much as I enter with!
There's a song writing thing down at the South Bank tomorrow but it looks a bit rapper-ish and I'm tired of all that male arrogance and bravado. There seems no subtlety and I find it sinister that morals and attitudes are being controlled so much by lyrics. I have talked to some teenage girls about it and they seem to have that attitude that it's other girls that are the slags and sluts and bitches and hos referred to in the songs. Well, girls, you may feel like that but the guy's don't and they are the ones in control!
Humph.
Grumph.
Mike called yesterday full of plans, plans, plans and it was nice to talk to him. He has a new night starting on Tuesday next week at the Prince Albert in Brixton that sounds worth a shot.
Meanwhile, Carl, if you read this, please get in touch as it is time we sorted this Chefs compilation out for once and for all. Let's get on with it, it won't take long and we can release it in September.
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