back from the dead – the adverts

I was surprised to discover that two years had gone by since I last posted on this blog. Real life can ambush you sometimes, can’t it?
Enough people have commented on the celebrity deaths that smeared themselves over 2016 like a corpse in a Derek Raymond novel. Bowie’s being the worst, followed by Alan Vega’s. Hitting that age, when you’re outliving your record collection, isn’t for the faint-hearted.
And then there was Brexit – and President Baby Hands, proving to me that I’m not in fact the most nihilistic creature imaginable. Around half of the population seem hell-bent on mass extinction – while at the same time, no doubt dismissing my record collection as ‘depressing’. People ain’t no good. I’ve said it before, and it seems like we’re stuck with it.
Last year, we lost less celebrities, although the short-sighted imbeciles in positions of power were brutally honest with us about how little any of our lives matter.
Despicable May’s frivolous general election, followed by a great shaking of the magic money tree to bribe a tribe of homophobic throwbacks to keep her in what passes for ‘power’ nowadays. The insanity of leaving the EU, with no strategy at all for how we’ll survive when they close ranks once we’ve finished dislodging ourselves.
On the upside, the world itself had become so surreal and ridiculous by the death of 2017, that strong action had to be taken.
A holiday in Liverpool, spent with people who knew me ten years ago (and who remembered me as a cheery wee soul) climaxed with me resigning from a job I hated, which I probably should have done around the time Lemmy’s body gave out.
I’d been half-heartedly looking for something better, although working a fifty hour week, with three to four hours travelling time per day, didn’t leave me much time – or strength – to get this done.
Compounding that, my confidence was through the floor, due to spending fifty hours or so each week being told I was bad, crap and wrong by oxygen thieves.
I haven’t written any fiction since April of 2016. The lack of time, energy and confidence wrung out any possibility of being in my own head for long enough to imagine anything, anywhere else, let alone type these ideas up. That hurt.
The quotation marks around this period of dip were the deaths of David Bowie and Mark E Smith, two figures I never met, but whose work – and the interviews around that work, influenced my own worldview.
So, Bowie’s dead, The Fall have gone and I’m back to washing dishes for a living. And working in sound as opposed to text.
When I was in my twenties, I always maintained that I planned to outgrow music by about forty and write fiction instead. I had no idea that it was only going to be a temporary measure!
The technology that’s available and affordable these days is a far cry from the cassettes and cables of the 1980s. So the question that remains is, is my new stuff any good?

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