Saddle up, Cowboy, we ain’t done yet…

What’s a guy to do?

Ya know, you spend twenty years on the road, playing anywhere from well meaning folks that’ll toss you a beer and a bite to eat, to huge places supporting legends that pay you less than your petrol money, and then suddenly, WHALLOP – you and your buddy have somehow got yourselves a funky little rock n roots bar, filled with vinyl records and whole heap of ‘next big thing’ being written about you. The world is opening up, Amigo.

Just in time for COVID to hit, and the world to shut down.

Lockdown was, in no uncertain terms, the single greatest six months of my life.

Head out cycling in the morning in glorious sunshine. Spend the early evening cooking and playing guitar. Write stuff. Read stuff. Seize control of your life once again.

I was in a pub, with a cellar full of beer and wine, in a bubble with two friends and our kids. We had a cinema screen with Netflix, Disney+ and Youtube connected to it. A metric fucktonne of vinyl records. And a million worlds to discover. And you know what? Rishi Sunak was paying all the bills.

But lockdown was, putting it charitably, a flaw in our plans for world domination. It was with heavy hearts though that we finally opened the doors again and got on with the process of earning our money.

And so, for the next few years, we set about researching and booking the kind of bands we wanted to see, finding the best beer we could in our local area, building a kitchen that would work in the tiny confines of the space we had…

…and we built something, with the help of the brilliant staff we’d hired, that we could be proud of. And though it occupies 90% of my time, I couldn’t be more glad of my little rock n roots bar. Turns out, now it’s at a point where – if I’ve done my job well – it can continue without my presence, here and there.

You see, a Wanderer’s boots are made for walking. Not just up and down cellar stairs. After five years away from the road, from being the new kid in town to the one that welcomes in happy nomads, those boots begin to itch. You hope that you’ve learned something, something viable, that’s worth taking away from your Friday night crowd, and off into the world.

This is my first blog post in seven years. I look back and scroll through the previous ones and realise that the characters in them are no longer with us. 

We lost Dave, our musical guru and outstanding photographer in June 2020, Jim “The Gaffer” two years later, and Moff(“Bob” from “Moving In Blues”) the year after that. The carnage continues as you get older, children.

Well, sometimes, your dreams and the roads you want to travel become distracted by other dreams and roads – and you’ve gotta follow them, too – but the ones you started on need completion, and they scream out to you, in the end.

For Jim, for Dave, for Moff, and for anyone you’ve lost, follow those dreams, see what’s out there.

See you somewhere up the road.

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Song For Her

Be my lozenge

My pollution

Be my problems

My solutions

Be my burden

Suspended by balloons

Be my taxi

That arrives too soon

Be my ocean

Always waving

B & Q

Crazy paving

Be my ache

My constant sorrow

My reason to lie in late tomorrow

Be the smile that lights this beaten face

Be my epitome of the whole human race

Be my losses, be my battles

Be my birthday, my death rattle

Be my absolutes

Be my maybes

Be my, be my

Baby, Baby

Be my bits, be my bobs

All those irksome little jobs

I’ve put off for another day

Oh, if only you would turn and say

Be mine, be MINE

If only you would turn and say

Be mine.

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Baby, I was born a ramblin’ man…

Once a year I throw a guitar and suitcase into the van and head for the glorious Somerset town of Glastonbury to take in the waters, recharge my batteries, and hang out with some of the most wonderful (and downright bonkers) people on Earth. 


This is the view from Wearyall Hill, overlooking the town. You can see the Abbey to the left and the Tor to the right. The brightly coloured object is the Glastonbury Thorn, draped in pagan ribbons (amongst others). Legend has it that much of this was underwater 2,000 years ago when Joseph Of Arimethea, Uncle of Jesus and a renowned trader in Tin, stepped from his boat and placed down his staff, which immediately burst into flower. He then took this as a sign, went down from the hill and founded what would become Glastonbury Abbey, the first Christian Church in England.

You can probably spot the flaw in this story, but hey, I’m a romantic, and much prefer a good legend to drab reality. Incidentally, the tree was vandalised in 2010, when some idiot chopped the top off. Some people have no sense of respect or history, eh? Here’s hoping that the restoration project’s successful and it’ll one day grow back.

Here’s some of the remains of the Abbey itself, and if you zoom in you can make out the marker of one of History’s greatest controversies. A couple of years after a fire burned most of the Abbey down, the monks dug down and allegedly found the graves of King Arthur and his Queen Guinevere, under a marked cross. A bit convenient, eh? The Abbey was sacked under Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries in 1541 and pretty much became what it is now. Hell, you can even go and stay in the room that Henry’s alleged to have sat in as he watched the Abbey burn, in the George and Pilgrim hotel across the road. I heartily recommend the steak.

Incidentally, I always wear a version of the Glastonbury cross around my neck to keep me grounded and remind me that The Romantic ideal’s always worth pursuing. When in doubt, chase the legend, etc…

Here’s a glorious summer sunset as seen from Glastonbury Tor. One name for it is Ynys Wydryn, or the Isle Of Glass, which makes sense if you think of the surrounding countryside being underwater and gives rise to the Tor’s reputation as the Isle of Avalon. Home to Gwyn App Nudd, Lord of The Underworld, it’s associated with being an entrance to the land of Faerie, and you can’t deny the spiritual power of the place, especially if you spend a night there (take a WARM sleeping bag). As Dawn breaks and the mists of Avalon recede to reveal a rolling landscape, the power and potential of the new day is undeniable, an incredibly positive form of energy.


At the foot of the Tor you’ll find the Chalice Well, though out of respect for this sacred place I’ve chosen not to include pictures here. Another legend regarding Joseph of Arimethea is that he hid the Holy Grail (the cup used at The Last Supper in which he caught the blood of Christ as he bled on The Cross), somewhere in the Earth below the Tor. There’s some deliciously tranquil gardens set around the well, excellent for meditation (or just chilling away your hangover), well worth the piffling entrance fee. I find the gardens to be the most relaxing place in Glastonbury, others may disagree.

On the other side of the wall though, the water flows for free. If you’re a hopeful traveller like me, fill up your water bottle here. There are two springs across from one another, one male, one female. The male spring is the Chalice Well spring, which does leave a trace of red (you know the legend mantra by now) thanks to the iron traces in it. The female spring runs white, thanks to its level of calcium, and has its own sacred shrine in the shadow of the Tor. Both stand on a Ley Line, and show a little respect when you drink or fill your bottle. I like to take a mix of both.


Finally, here’s a view looking back towards Glastonbury from just along from Pomparles Bridge, on the way to the next town over, Street. Legend has it that King Arthur, suffering mortal wounds after the battle of Camlann, gave the sword to his trusted lieutenant (either Bedivere or Griflet, depending on the version you’re reading), who took it down to Pomparles Bridge and, after a couple of attempts, cast it into the River Brue.

The bridge itself today appears as nothing more than a road bridge across a fairly wide stream, even with a Pelican Crossing. You can lean on the fence though, fire up something medicinal, and let your mind wander to fiery skies, galloping hooves, and ancient coracles bearing away the King to Avalon, from where one day he’ll return, his wounds healed.

….and that’s a little of the magic of Glastonbury. A week of glorious sunshine, wandering hill and dale, reconnecting with nature and your fellow man. Few things can compare with lounging on Wearyall Hill on a blissfully hot day, the bustle of the town far below, birdsong and animal calls your only company.

Treasures abound in the local shops, and if you like your beer, music, and some great people you don’t know yet, I heartily recommend The Riflemans Arms, The Hawthorns, and The King Arthur. The town, like everywhere else right now seems to be feeling the effects of austerity, which makes it all the more important to keep these places alive. Go see ’em.

Oh yeah, and just up the road is Camelot, but we’ll talk about that some other time…

Till then may your Gods smile upon you and peace out.

Sean

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Moving In Blues

The couple in the flat above were going at it like a Viking blacksmith.Bob tossed a can of lager in my direction, I caught it with one hand and settled back onto his couch. It foamed as I opened it. He’d been here two months, I’d just made the 200 mile journey over with the rest of his gear.

“So have you met your neighbours, then?”

He‘d found a flat in one those big city townhouses, you know the type. Goes back forever from the road, several flats up a couple of flights of stairs.

“Oh yeah. Well, you’ve seen the front of the house? How all these terraced houses all look the same”?

“Uh –huh”.

He took a swig from his can, flicked some ash from his cigarette into a tin foil ashtray that may once have lined a cherry bakewell.

“Well I moved in that first morning, dumped my bag and set off for work. Did a long shift, finished around five in the morning, you know….”

“Finished with a thirst”.

“Aye. So I’m pottering around the city, trying to remember which road I live on, looking through all the windows, thinking there’s got to be a place, with the doors locked and the ashtrays on the tables…”

“Still serving at that time.”

“Yeah. It’s a city, after all”.

“D’you find one”?

“I did, down in the Caribbean quarter up the road. Knocked on the window, showing willing…”

“They let you in?”

“Well, after looking me up and down a few times, yeah. So I go in, get a beer, settle in the corner, light a fag, and this fuckin’ BOOMING voice goes ‘OI! YOU CAN’T LIGHT THAT THING IN HERE!”

“But they had the ashtrays out?”

Thudsqueech thudsqueech thudsqueech went the bed springs upstairs.

“They did. This big geezer comes wandering over, says ‘you can’t light that in here, it’s nothing but TOBACCO’. So I dock it out and before I can process what’s happening I’ve got a joint in my hand that’s bigger than my left arm. Anyway, next thing I know, it’s 7.30 in the morning and I’m staggering home.”

“Welcome to Cardiff”.

“Bloody right. Anyway, I lurch up to the front door, whip my key out, and think ‘that’s funny’, key doesn’t fit.”

“Oh?”

“So I potter about a bit, trying to stay on my feet, try the other key, and in I go.”

“Fair enough”.

“So I go up the stairs, up to flat 3, put my key in the lock and it happens again. Key won’t turn. So I try the other one, and that fits, but won’t turn”.

“Odd…”

“Yeah. Anyway, I try the handle, and it’s open. Well, now I’m thinking, ‘I’m SURE I locked this on my way out’. So I step into the hall, and I’m thinking, ‘something’s not right’”.

“Hairs on your neck standing up?”

“And my bollocks. So I open my door to my room, look around, and I’m thinking ‘something’s DEFINITELY NOT RIGHT. I don’t remember having this much stuff. I don’t remember leaving that kettle on the side, or that cushion on the couch, or those two girls in the bed’”.

I spat out some beer through my nose.

“SHIT!”

As if in agreement, the couple upstairs gave a series of enthusiastic grunts, growing in intensity. Something crashed to the floor and we both shot our gazes to the ceiling. Bob could have been an expert at poker.

“Well, that’s what I thought. Anyway, they both sit bolt upright, covers up to their chins, you know – ‘what the hell are you doing here?’ and I say ‘what are YOU doing here’?”

“And?”

“And I say, ‘I fuckin’ LIVE HERE!’ And they say, ‘you FUCKIN’ DON’T!’ And I say, ‘hang on’, open up the door, check the number and tell ‘em ‘I do! This is Flat 3!’ And they say ‘We know! We live in flat 3!’”

“So what did you do”?

“Well now I’m thinking that the landlord’s pulled a fast one you know, took six months rent then let it out to someone else”.

“It happens”.

“It does, and it’s not much fun at half seven in the morning when you’re full of weed. So I’m getting on my high horse, ‘I’ve just moved in today’ and all that, when one of ‘em says ‘are you sure you’ve got the right house?’ and I look out of the window and realize I live next door.”

I folded up.

“So what happened?”

“Went home. All these houses look the bloody same round on this street”.

“Have you seen them since”?

“Oddly enough, no. But at least I know where there’s a spare key if I ever lock myself out”.

The hammering from upstairs grew more pronounced, swifter, and increased in volume, accompanied by a great deal of shouts of affirmation by both male and female. Someone was getting close. We looked at one another. I headed it off at the pass.

“Something similar happened to me once”.

“As bad as that?”

“Worse, I think. There was this girl – Jane, her name was –“

“There’s always a girl.”

“Well, yeah, and in this case, Jane. I don’t know what it was about her. She was about four feet tall, never washed her hair, and she spoke like Nancy Spungen, but…”

“But there was something about her”.

“Yeah. For some reason, I found her fascinating every time I met her when I was pissed. And this one night, we’d all been kicked out of a club in Warrington…”

“What had you done?”

“Eh?”

“To get kicked out of the club?”

“Nothing, it was closing time. Anyway, somehow, there she is, amongst the throng of bodies all gathered around outside the club, not ready to go home yet – “

“And you zeroed in on her”.

“Yeah, and she gave out in THAT voice, the one that sounded like a fork scratching on a plate, ‘oh Jim! You’re SUCH a BASTARD!’”

“Big fan of yours, then”.

“Well, of course, I was pissed, but I didn’t know what I’d done, so of course I HAD to find out. Or maybe my young ego just couldn’t understand that a woman didn’t like me”.

“Dodgy ground, here”.

“You haven’t heard the half of it. Anyway, somehow I manage to convince her into letting me walk her some of the way home, so we can talk, and I can indulge my strange fascination, and we’re right on the other side of town from where I live, but I’ve just gotta keep talking to her. So when we get about half way up Wilderspool Causeway – which is this fucking enormous seven mile long straight road, she stands on her tip toes, gives me a quick peck on the cheek, says goodnight and disappears off into the night.”

“This doesn’t end there, though”.

“No, sir. Because I’m drunk, full of spunk, and vaguely enamoured. So I go to the all night garage for some fags, and somehow, by the time I’ve stepped out, I’ve decided that I MUST tell her how I feel about her, even if I don’t quite know what that is”.

“Nothing bad can come from this…”

“That’s what I thought. But where did she go? I hadn’t been paying attention. So I come up with a plan which you, my friend, are bound to approve of”.

“I’m intrigued”.

“I march right down to where the road begins – terraced houses on both sides all the way up for seven miles – and begin banging on the first door”.

“At two in the morning”.

“Four. Eventually a light comes on, there’s the sound of heavy feet clattering down the stairs, the door opens, and I say ‘Is Jane there?’ ‘FUCK OFF’ booms a loud male voice, and the door slams in my face. So I step across the path to the next house, and start knocking on that door”.

“It’s a fucking great plan”.

“I thought you’d like it. Anyway, much the same response there, too. So after about seven or eight more doors, all with similar occupants, I realise as I stare up the road at the rows of houses snaking off into the distance that I’m going to have to refine my search or I’ll be there all night”.

“Reasonable”.

“And that’s when I see it! I walk up the road, wondering what to do next when I spot a door that’s been left slightly open”.

“Ohhhh dear…”

“…and I think, ‘well this clearly must be her house. She’s gone in and left the door open, expecting me to come in behind her. So I quietly open it up…”

“I’m not sure I want to hear this…”

“I tiptoe in, and have a look around. I look up the stairs and see that there’s a plain white door next to the landing that’s firmly shut. ‘Best not to invade a lady in her bedroom’, I think – “

“Thank fuck for that”.

“So, I head into the front room, sprawl myself out on the couch, boots still on my feet, and settle in for a night’s sleep. ‘By the morning’ I think, ‘I’ll have worked out what I’m gonna tell her anyway, and she’ll be thrilled and drag me up the stairs and miracles will happen”.

“I can’t possibly see anything going wrong with this”.

“Well, anyway, next thing I know it’s daylight, and I’ve been woken up by the sound of feet walking around in the room directly above me. And I’ve still got my contact lenses in, so everything’s blurry, but…”

“But what?”

“But without even moving my head from the position it’s been sleeping in, as I open my eyes, I can see on top of the tv, a wedding picture. And in it are two people I don’t recognize. And next to that are a couple of pictures of some kids, also unfamiliar”.

“SHIT!”

“So all of a sudden newspaper headlines start appearing in my head, you know – ‘Handsome Guitarist Jailed For Burglary’ and such like. And then I hear some footsteps coming down the stairs…”

“Bloody hell!”

“I went from nought to sixty in less than a second, straight from my sleeping position to out of the front door. I must have covered that entire causeway in under a minute. And ironically enough, I left my fags on the coffee table. Someone must have thought that the Cigarette Fairy had visited during the night”.

Bob tipped the ash from his fag into the top of his beercan. Upstairs, a lady REALLY appreciated whatever was happening, and kept yelling in the positive.

“And you know what? I never did see Jane again. Funny, innit?”

I drained the last of my beer, scrunched the can against my forehead, and tossed it into the bin without getting up. He decked out the remains of his cigarette. A buzzing sound had joined in the cacophony above, and a female voice REALLY appreciated it.

“Shall we go for a pint, then?” He asked, almost yelling above the din.

I whipped a fag from my inside pocket.

“Why not. Where’s that Caribbean pub you went to?”

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Too Dark.

“It’s too dark”, he offered, throwing the manuscript down onto the desk to land with a satisfying ooomph.

“Too dark? How can it be TOO dark? It’s just what happened, no more, no less”.

Jerry rose from the desk, moved over to the window and opened it before half perching on the sill and lighting a Marlboro, tapping the ash out of the window as he exhaled. The office walls were cream, the perfect colour to mask cigarette stains, and it looked out, three floors up, over a busy Manchester thoroughfare. The dull hubbub and occasional horn drifted up from the walls of the concrete canyon, softened slightly by the February afternoon drizzle.

I was trying to smoke only when drinking, so helped myself to a generous shot of Jamesons from a decanter on the side and assisted it along with a cigarette from his packet. He cleared his throat dramatically and I made another pass of the sideboard and came up with another glass, magically full, that I passed over, joining him at the window.

“Dark’s not selling. Plus, what you’ve got there is a noir“.

The Jamesons warmed my dry lips like a straw – lined jacuzzi.

“That was kind the point. What the hell’s wrong with a noir, anyway”?

Jerry took a sip and smacked his lips together, exhaling his smoke out across the rooftops of the city.

“Noir’s not selling, either”.

I’m a small – town boy, always have been, and the sights and sounds of any big city are things that I find overwhelming to this day. I spend most of my time in such places just looking UP. On this occasion I half expected Spiderman to come swinging by.

” So what IS selling right now?”

He took back a hefty slug of whiskey, followed it down with a determined pull on his cigarette, and fought back a coughing fit. You can take the man out of Salford….

“Ping pong balls”, Jerry concluded, and returned to taking in the view.

“Ping pong balls?” I ventured, hoping there’d be more.

He grunted. “Ping pong balls. There’s a reservoir in LA full of ’em, over three million”.

Whether it was the Jameson’s or just the twist that the conversation had begun to follow, my head began to swim.

“Three million ping pong balls”.

“Got it. And at forty cents a pop, that’s, well…”

He screwed his face up, eyes to heaven. I did a brief recce back to the desk and tossed over a pocket calculator I discovered there.

“…over a million dollars. Well over. That’s where the money is, son. Ping pong balls”.

I drained the last of my glass and parked it next to the decanter with a bang before heading back to the window to flick away some ash. I fixed Jerry with the Beady Eye.

“Are you seriously suggesting that I stop writing and start buying up ping pong balls?”

He flicked his fag end out of the window then flung himself away from it before anybody it connected with could look up. Some men just wanna watch the world burn.

“Cover the entire surface of your reservoir with ping pong balls and it keeps the water clean. Keeps the sunlight out so the algae can’t get a good hold and start choking all the marine life. Everything that needs to can breathe, everyone’s happy.”

“Everyone except fans of noir fiction”.

“They’re not buying anyway. I’ve got a mate, he’s got a warehouse full of ’em, reckons he can get a load of ’em as a job lot, no questions asked, if you know what I mean. D’you want in?”

“I’ll pass. Cheers for having a look anyway, Jerry”.

The spit shower was turning to full on rain as I left Jerry`s building and made  my way along the street. Traffic was backed up down the road thanks to a soft bump between  a range Rover and a black cab, and the owners of both were sprawled across the  cab’s bonnet, gleefully exchanging insurance details. I cast my eyes to the pavement and shuffled along in the direction of the station, hoping that a carelessly tossed cigarette end from the third floor had played no role in anything.

The sky turned to knifeblade grey and the temperature grew as cold and threatening, indicating the coming presence of snow. I pulled my shirt collar tighter and watched the breath leave my mouth and drift upwards to mingle with the air, dissipating quickly in the light drizzle that glowing in the orange lamplight. There was a train every twenty minutes, and I diverted from my course at the station steps and headed into the Stationmasters Arms. I picked my way through the row of upright bodies that clustered around the door and through the stratus of cigarette smoke that they produced. One or two nodded at me, and bidded me “alright” in the time honoured manner.

I had £35 left in the world until something came in, and used over a fiver on a pint of amber bitter and a cheap whiskey. I raised it to my lips and the thin taste of peat burned my throat as it hit. All around were faceless people, some in groups, murmuring, chattering, and no coherent words could I discern, a faceless drinker unknown and invisible in a strange land. I looked from one face to another and beyond them all to the smokers surrounding the doorway outside.

Ping pong balls, swaying and swirling on the surface, masking the depths below.

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