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I like writing songs. And I’d like to think that I’m quite good at it. But that hasn’t always been the case.
I remember first being encouraged to write songs by a couple of leaders at church. I was 15, I played guitar and I led worship. The natural progression was to write my own stuff, right?
So, the British Summer appears to be upon us in all its half-hearted, muggy glory. Bumbling slowly along with all the grace of a short-sighted giant in stilettos carrying a heavy shopping basket full of insect repellant and sun cream.
Hay fever, in this repulsive train crash of an analogy, is the wart on that giant’s nose, the foul stench of dried sweat emanating from its pores, the head-lice in its sticky hair – an unwelcome parasitic stowaway gleefully making its obnoxious presence known.
My friend Alex Boxall is getting on my nerves.
It’s not because he has better facial hair than me. It’s not even because of his relentless determination to turn every single worship song into a country number.
It has taken me a long time to pluck up the courage to write this blog post. I think, until now, I have been unwilling to face the reality of my loss. Unwilling to admit that it really happened.
You see, it has been 4 months now since I last saw my beloved water bottle. My faithful friend, my constant companion, the source of my life. My confidant, my closest ally. My butler, and my bodyguard.
This post is dedicated to him.
Prepare to be shocked and amazed as I unpack the centuries-old secrets of the popular, yet controversial nursery rhyme, Little Miss Muffet. Caution advised.
My mind has, on occasion, been known to wander.
One such occasion was in a recent meeting when my eye, eager for some sort of distraction, was caught by an empty candleholder. Unremarkable in and of itself, its main attraction was the astonishingly detailed warning label found inside it.
My mind has, on occasion, been known to wander.
Only occasionally of course. Most of the time I remain as focused and as single-minded as a harassed shopper determined to avoid eye contact with a charity fundraiser.
As you are quite possibly aware, at the start of each New Year I embark on the perilous quest that is the annual cleaning of my trusty steed, the Mikeyra. (Trusty steed is a metaphor. The Mikeyra is a car, not a horse. And cleaning is a literal term, rather than a euphemism for some sort of equine colonic irrigation)
So you may not have heard, but I’ve just got a new job writing internet headlines.
It’s an under-appreciated art. Mark my words, in years to come all of the world’s most celebrated artists will be internet headline writers. Personal wealth will no longer be measured in pounds and dollars but in the number of clicks one’s links generate.
Recently, I performed the required yearly cleansing ritual on my car, in order that it may be presented without blemish upon the day of reckoning.
The following is a list of things I found inside its rusty innards whilst completing the rite: