Walking The Dog

I first moved to London...oooh...a long time ago now.  I came because, first of all, I had always loved it here and compared with Jedburgh, there was a lot happening.  I also came for the music.  I was lucky, my boyfriend, back in the day, had some uncles.  One had already been in a successful band in the 60's and went on to write an iconic song with his 80's band that is now starring in a very wet looking car advert, and was covered by one of the most recognisable 80's female singers.

His other uncle had a successful publishing company, started in Australia, but soon set for world domination.  Another two uncles were in yet another band.  Nobody could have foretold how huge they would get!  His brother, a hugely talented musician in his own right, was a member of a legendary Birmingham band, and no, not Black Sabbath, though I have had occasion to bump into them too (*inserts a bwahaha).  I wanted what my, by now ex boyfriend, but closest friend, had.  So, I decided to go it alone.

When I first moved down here, I lived in Queen's Club Gardens in Tim Hinkley's flat.  Tim was a session musician and writer, working with such luminaries as Elkie Brookes and Roger Chapman.  Great guy, though I think I still owe him a month's rent.  Tim, if you want to give me a nudge, I'll happily pay up.  It was NOT my idea to do the mad Chiswick run.  I worked at George Wimpey PLC so that I could pay the bills, but my office days would soon be over.  Unless, it was a record company office!

One of the things I loved most about that time was our local pub, The Golden Lion on Fulham Broadway.  This was before North London and the Funny Farm, that's another story.  On the first Tuesday of every month a rather special band would play there.  The line up changed depending on who was in town, who was in a recording studio, who was on tour and who was drunk.  It included Boz Burrell, an old and sadly missed friend, on bass, Simon Kirke on drums, Tim Hinkley or Polly Palmer on keyboards and on vocals, could be Roger Chapman or Paul Rodgers.  Other musicians popped up here and there in the Golden Lion residency.

One thing never ever changed though.  Every single time they appeared there, they played Walking The Dog. And every single time, the pub erupted and they would have to do it again.  It was a long hot summer, there were riots in Brixton, but in a pub in Fulham, we were still Walking The Dog.

See, it's all gone to crap!!

Well, looks like I was right.  I now appear to have two Blogger pages.  Each has one item.  How on earth do I get it all to go together?  I don't want two pages..that will be twice as much effort to get someone to read me.

Help shall be paid for in stale cream eggs.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Well, that time of the week again.  I don't like Sunday much.  It is far too close to Monday and I always manage to waste the day, up until about 11 p.m. when I often post Mark Lanegan's Wedding Dress on Facebook. And, yes Debbie, he SHOULD pay me.

Now, today I had planned to write. Obviously, I am doing just that.  However, and this is a biggie, does anybody else find Blogger a pain in the arse to use?  I went to my last blog, thinking I could just kind of, you know, follow on.  I think what I have done instead is created a whole new Blogger persona. While I may be able to write fairly coherently, I do not get anything associated with website's that is not ultra easy.  I don't just mean 'For Dummies', I mean for those, who like me are practically illiterate when it comes to pressing simple..(hahaha, yeah right) buttons.

So, any suggestions, I'll give it a go.

Right, Sunday Bloody Sunday.  Let me tell you all about my upstairs neighbour and the strong feeling that I have deep inside that I could easily commit murder.  As an aspiring crime writer, this may in fact be a very good way to get some first hand experience and contribute to a much more realistic story for my readers. (* I don't actually have any readers, I am just VERY optimistic).

My upstairs neighbour bought a guitar.  Or at least I think he did, since I can not envisage anyone in their right mind giving him one because he is musically inclined.    Almost every Sunday, and today is no exception, out comes the guitar.  He can't play.  He definitely can't sing.  The design of this building makes it feel as if he is in my bedroom with me.  I hate him with a vengeance so pure that I have been known to yell out the windows 'Shut the fuck up you talentless, moronic, half wit!'  I apologise to normal half wits everywhere.  Sadly, he seems to think that this is hilarious and he carries on.  He only sings four words.  'Do you love me?' over and over again.  I have not counted the question mark.  No! You fuckwit, I loathe you.

So, this Sunday, I am ready.  At the moment, he is quiet. I am going to get out of my jammies and into my jeans.  That's a big event for a Sunday.  Then, I shall be ready for him when he starts up again.  And he will.
I have a very large, but slightly blunt, knife, and an extremely short temper.

I am ready for you son.  Do your worst.  I'll show you Sunday Bloody Sunday.


*Dianemc would like to state, for the record, that she is categorically NOT a U2 fan.  In fact, she dislikes them almost as much as him upstairs, but not as much as she dislikes the Beatles and Coldplay.  That's another story for another day though.