We Ain’t Got No Money, Honey, But We Got Rain.

Thanks Buk…

So last week I signed the Bandstocks contract and made the move back to Cardiff. In some ways it is a backwards step but time was running out and it is great to be back in our house with all our shit and our little welsh cat, Chickpea. The move took two trips and I’ve still got to go back and get more stuff. I don’t know how we manage to accumulate so much crap, it’s like she’s made of velcro and I’m made of sticky tape.

It’s been one hell of a year though. In the last twelve months I’ve learned to drive, stopped smoking (except for a couple of wee blips), recorded an album, got pregnant (kind of) started a business, started working for a national newspaper, spent six months living in somebody else’s house, sold art from a market stall and grown a rather splendid fro. No wonder I can’t stop napping.

The bandstocks thing (and you must be tired of hearing about this now) is going to be hard, hard work. I need to do something drastic, such as doing an acoustic tour with a new born baby, if I’m going to spread the word. It would be worth it though, if it came off. No question about that at all.

The house was spotless when we got back which we were very grateful for, not just the fact that all we had to do was unpack and settle back in but for the fact that we put our trust into people we didn’t know that well and that trust proved to be well founded. It means we’ll trust again which makes the world, even if it’s just an infinitesimal degree, a better place.

We drove back to Liverpool over the weekend to see my mum and check out the huge La Machine spider that was already crawling through the city. I had been in London a couple of summers ago and have always regretted not seeing the Sultan’s Elephant and Giant Little Girl that wandered through it’s broad avenues.

Just before Birmingham we encountered the worst weather I’ve ever had to drive through. The traffic on the M5 slowed to about thirty mph and I couldn’t see a fucking thing. It was ace! We met up with my mum at Lime Street and headed off to look for the Spider. We didn’t have to search for long. Church Street was rammed and helicopters buzzed overhead, I squeezed my through the crowds while Mary and my mum watched from further up the street. It looked incredible and was a beautiful golden colour. There was a bloke in front of me with his brolly in everybody’s way even though, as I pointed out to him, it wasn’t raining and he had no hair. I HATE umberellas, when I am king etc

I didn’t see any movement from the spider which was disappointing but a policemen told me that it would be on the move a bit later on so we walked down to the docks and had a ridiculously overpriced drink in one of the bars down there. We chatted and watched the sun disappear behind the old warehouses. I took some pictures, it’s ages since I’ve been out with my camera, I need to get back into the habit.

Later we made our way back up Hanover Street for another look. I tried to remember where Planet X was, the place where we spent most of our days in the late eighties and supported bands like Primal Scream when they came through Liverpool, but everything has changed so much. I narrowed it down to a couple of doorways and shut my eyes and tried to recall the distant senses and foggy sounds of twenty years ago.

Back at the top of Church Street we stood near the place where we thought the spider would end up. There was a large enclosure with huge pipes around which a mass of people waited patiently, we were beyond that, near a cordon of coppers who were stopping people from getting any closer which was frustrating. We waited anyway, and waited, and waited.

An hour later I could see the giant legs winding up the street followed by a live band that were being transported in individual cranes, high above the crowd. It was just getting dark and the noise of the spider, the crowd and the music was gripping. It was genuinely exciting, it would have been even better if we had been closer.

It stopped within the enclosure and had a kind of water fight with the pipes that were shooting out flames, that bit didn’t look too impressive but then, just as I was getting a bit bored and started wondering how the hell we were going to get through this massive crowd, the security people started yelling at us to move back and the gates came down and the fucking thing started walking through us. It was unbelievable, the noise and the spectacle of this 50ft wooden/mechanical arachnid stalking over our heads followed by a horde of musicians banging away in the sky was thrilling as hardly anything ever is these days.

And then it was gone and everyone just stood there grinning and clapping and why isn’t there more magic in the world? If it doesn’t exist then let’s invent it. This was the least cynical, genuine piece of theatre I’ve seen for a long, long tome and it didn’t cost me a penny. And I think about the times we stumbled around those same streets, out of our heads on acid, imagine if we’d have seen a giant spider, a real one I mean. We’d never have gone home again.

We went up the hill towards the Philarmonic, past Roscoe Street where I once had a flat and had dinner in a fantastic French Restaurant. I’ve given up beer (yeah right, let’s see how long this lasts) and have decided to become a wino so my mum and I drank a bottle of Merlot while Mary gorged on, er, soda water. We put my mum in a cab and drove ourselves back to the house where my mum got the photo boxes out so that Mary could laugh at my baby pictures. Honestly, you’ve never seen a head like it. I drank a bottle of Rioja (I could get used to this) and fell into bed about half two.

The following morning we went for a walk in the Breck. It used to be the grounds of a large mansion but was dug out to build the nearby motorway. It’s now an overgrown spot with rocky outcrops and I spent much of my childhood down here.

My mum had never seen the place which I couldn’t believe. I wanted to climb Granny’s Rock which we used to do whenever we came down. I hadn’t set foot in the place for over twenty five years and it didn’t look any different except maybe it was a bit wilder. I didn’t get to the top of Granny’s Rock, I’m too fat and old and scared but I gave it a go, it’s not even that high. All the old handholds are there and my hands and feet knew where to go after all these years.

I have many dreams about this place, or rather this place is the venue for much of my dreaming. It was also completely deserted. Wallasey feels like a ghost town to me, there are thousands of houses, hundreds of shops but I don’t know where all the people are. I hated living here as a youth and don’t like to spend much time here even now but a trip to the old school was in order and we trudged up to Liscard to see if St Albans was still standing. Walking up one of the roads approaching the school with the water tower in the distance felt really weird, like nothing had happened inbetween.

I was here from 1976-1979, I don’t remember fighting the punk wars but we did have a legendary Jubilee party at which the whole school had the biggest food fight I’ve ever been a part of. We got away with it as well, what were they going to do? Cane us all? Come to think of it, we were punk as fuck.

They’ve had new windows put in and the entrance is a bit different and the playground has completely changed but I guess you should expect that. We also walked past the small fence outside the second hand car lot that I would spend half an hour each day jumping over as a seven year old with too much energy. I lasted three this time. Not minutes, times.

Then it was back home for some serious napping, lunch and telly. We kissed my mum goodbye and hit the motorway. This will be my mum’s first Grandchild and she is VERY EXCITED. We haven’t told her that she is bringing him up yet, we don’t want her going overboard with gratitude.

We stopped off in Stafford to see Boo who is married to Mary’s brother, Muffin (who also happens to be MY HERO!). She had a van full of baby clothes, car seats, blow up swimming things and all kinds of stuff that the baby will need; how ace is that? She had also, with the help of her two wee girls, Hannah Banana and Gracie Goggins (I’m not making this up) made us some lush cornflake and marshmallow cakes. Result.

The subsequent drive home was long and poor Marylou was uncomfortable throughout. Still, we listened to Chet Baker all the way and nothing is ever hard when Chet sings.

Nothing.

Tour; Two countries in TWO days. Dylan never did this.

August 11th 2008 - Clwb Ifor Bach, Womanby Street. Cardiff. Wales. 10pm

August 12th 2008 - The Social, Little Portland Street. London. England. 8pm

The London gig will be acoustic as I can’t afford to get the band up to London at this point. IT WILL STILL BE GREAT.

That is all.

Frantic scenes at the marketplace, beach head of the global economy..

Look at it. A face worse than death. That’s what rampant capitalism looks like, my friends. The pressure up there defies my somewhat limited descriptive powers so I’ll say only this; it will take you and yours down, like a malevolent gravity clocking in at four hundred thousand Newtons and rockin’ concrete kecks. Look closely though, my brain is working out percentages and share options at unimaginable speeds. My wires plugged hard into the matrix, my eyes seek out only what they can get and my hair is big. Be in no doubt brothers and sisters, my hair is huge.

Worse still, the war on poverty (mine) is being fought on two fronts. My hangover was shocking. The previous night Marylou and I had driven down to Brighton to watch The Morans (circus troupe, aka The Guys, collective noun = Cackle) perform in a play they had written themselves called ‘Love Tournament’which was very funny. So funny indeed that I heroically attempted to drink myself to death in the pub later. We didn’t arrive home until gone half four and I had to be up at eight to make beautiful things and put them into bags. Mary was shattered, at seven months pregnant a girl needs her sleep so she got her head down for a while on top of the bubble wrap under the stall table while I slept behind my sunglasses.

With only seven or eight weeks to go before the due date, we still haven’t found anywhere to live. We discovered a new development in Bow opposite the sprawling foetus that is the Olympic Village. That was one of the incentives to living there; to watch it grow and come to life and then crumble and become a ghost. A bit like a Victorian Novel only with Javelins. We managed to miss out on a couple of large spaces and were let down on another. The stuff we do at home is now verging on the light industrial and we need space. What estate agents refer to as ‘roomy’ and ‘massive’ and ‘large’ bears no relationship to reality whatsoever in London. We have found a place that is perfect for us but it involves loans and commercial leases and viaducts and the council and ‘premiums’ and surveyors. We need to settle soon and start concentrating on what’s going to happen in October. Marylou is fine and well and the baby is kicking seven bells out of her from the inside.

I’m still writing songs but I can’t see a time when I’ll ever finish them let alone record them. As for the current recordings, check out the ‘News’ section.