Cyranny wrote some stuff about difficult love and dangerous relationships and it was really good …. but I have the attention span of a flea and suddenly, once again, I was off on a tangent and regressing back into my youth when, for just a few moments, I considered myself to be a rock and roll sex god, who wrote lyrics that were thankfully drowned out by loud music and unhealthy pharmaceuticals.

God, how I miss my own immaturity.


You’re infectious baby

I’ve got the disease

I’m burning up

Thirty eight degrees

Sweetheart keep your distance

Please don’t touch

I can take some rejection

But I can’t take much


I’m lovesick, lovesick, I’m not feeling so great

Lovesick baby. It’s not something that I ate

But I have to bring it up. The condition won’t abate

Lovesick baby. Let’s regurgitate

I’ve got this burning love

It feels so pure

But it’s a hot infestation

And there ain’t no cure

I tried some meditation

With the doctor of love

And I promised dedication

To the Lord above


I’m lovesick, lovesick, I’m not feeling so great

Lovesick baby. It’s not something that I ate

But I have to bring it up. The condition won’t abate

Lovesick baby. Let’s regurgitate

But the Lord said nothing

‘Cause he couldn’t understand

He was far too busy

And he wouldn’t lend a hand

So I took to medication

Ignored the hymns and the psalms

If this is going to kill me

Let me die in your arms.


Girls. Who cares where they come from?

Here’s another one. This time from Rory, who confesses a love for country girls. I find my own feelings to be slightly less specific.


She was a country girl, of course

A country girl upon a horse

Then laying by a mountain stream

A country girl within a dream

But then there was the city chick

Exciting nights. When hearts go quick

City lights. The city beat

Love found us on the city street

Girls from North, East, South and West

I don’t know which I like the best

I answer when I hear the call

Girls. I guess I like them all.


It Rains in November

Today’s stolen idea comes, again, from Stella, for whom November has a special significance. Though it is not really my place to elaborate on that.


When it rains in November

I imagine you here

It’s on cold windy days

That I feel you near

There’s too much to remember

So why can’t I forget?

In November it’s raining

My world’s getting wet

When it rains in November

I crave for your touch

You won’t kiss me again

Though I miss you so much

There’ll be no pretender

There’ll be no one more

In November it’s raining

How I wish it would pour


A couple of final words.

Continuing my (relatively new) tradition of stealing ideas I couldn’t resist providing a few addition thoughts to Kate who’s own thoughts seem to be focussed on the final journey a bit lately.

The truth is that I haven’t (yet) received any bad news from the doctor, but it pays to have a few words prepared. These things can happen very quickly sometimes.


It’s time to bid you all farewell
I’m off to heaven. Could be hell
I’ve had my moment. Done my time
I’m old and battered. Past my prime
I’ll for the last time raise a smile
I’ll raise my glass and leave in style
I’ll for the last time kiss my wife
I’m done with living.

Loving. Life.

There’s no tomorrow . Nothing planned
I must be going. Shake my hand
Nought to do and nought to say
Adios. I’m on my way
Sayonara. Toodle-oo
I’m already missing you
But au revoir. I’ve heard the call.
Auf weidersehen.

I loved you all


The phone is ringing. To you I am singing.

I was accused recently by Goldie of suddenly going all romantic. In truth I have always considered myself to be a romantic at heart and, if occasionally, my expressed thoughts turn to lust or to sarcasm or to cynicism this is only to hide the nervous, gentle little teenage boy who took carefully concealed glimpses at the girls on the school bus so teasingly hidden within their short school dresses and within all their mystery. He is still there within me.

But in matters of the heart honestly can be an illusive entity – and I know the form that it’s opposite takes in men. Women, of course, I trust implicitly.

I think that Cyranny may have been hinting at that recently so, once again, I take the idea from her. And I hope that Goldie might be more comfortable with my lack of romanticism in this instance.


A phone call from a lover

A little tale to cover

Every hidden part

Of his meaning

And of his heart

Just the start

Of his scheming

To keep the ball in play

But never to say

Who will win or lose

But to choose

In his head

To hold possession

With no aggression

And no eyes

But instead

With carefully crafted lies

That will not say. Or betray

What has been rehearsed

And so sweetly conversed

He has thrown you a rope

But it is your choice to be naïve

And to believe

What you would hope

To be true

And conceive

Of something new


To a dream


Of your joy

For this boy

All alone

On the phone

Only a call

You don’t see him at all

Pretending he would ever really care

Pretending he was ever really there



Her I go again. Whoops. I mean here I go again. The Freudian slip has been left in in the spirit of artistic honesty.

Because, once again, it is Cyranny who has put ideas into my head (and, indirectly, Fandango) and this is what came out.


Nothing planned?Take my hand
The sand
Between our toes
Where the sea meets the land
We will join
What no other ever

Touch my palm. Take my arm
The calm
Beneath this sun
Where the wind and the waves
To each other
Are slaves
So you and I will be


It’s time I went back to writing songs

I used to write (very bad) songs long ago. I used to sing them too. I have no intention of singing again (a commitment for which the world should be thankful) but it occurred to me that maybe writing again might not be such a bad idea. I’m talking about the lyrics, please understand, and not the music. I cannot write a note.

This idea came to me whilst I was sitting in the doctor’s surgery today, with all the other geriatrics, each of us waiting for updated information regarding our impending death. The table in front of me had a neatly arranged pile of magazines which one would read only if the other alternative was to slit one’s own wrists. The radio was deliberately tuned to a station which was calculated to cause the least possible offence to the most possible people. Which meant, of course, that it was a little bit offensive to almost all of us. Given the choice of the magazines and the radio, however, I chose the radio. I listened instead of read. I briefly considered slitting my own wrists.

A tune was playing from my youth (why on earth are they still playing them? Most of us are deaf) and I remembered it fairly well. It was from a band called ‘The Doobie Brothers’. I was immediately embarrassed to think that I had ever had any interest in a band with such a completely dumb-arse name, but honesty compels me to admit that I might have, at some point in the past, thought that they were, sort of, ok.

The tune in question was ‘Jesus is Just Alright’. I doubt that there is any implied sarcasm in the title, though I would like to think so. I think they meant every word. Not that there are many words. But they are repeated a lot.

Here they are …


Jesus is just alright with me, Jesus is just alright, oh yeah
Jesus is just alright with me, Jesus is just alright 
I don’t care what they may say
I don’t care what they may do
I don’t care what they may say
Jesus is just alright, oh yeah
Jesus is just alright 
Jesus is just alright with me, Jesus is just alright, oh yeah
Jesus is just alright with me, Jesus is just alright 
I don’t care what they may know
I don’t care where they may go
I don’t care what they may know
Jesus is just alright, oh yeah 
Jesus, he’s my friend; Jesus, he’s my friend
He took me by the hand; Led me far from this land
Jesus, he’s my friend 
Jesus is just alright with me, Jesus is just alright, oh yeah
Jesus is just alright with me, Jesus is just alright 
I don’t care what they may say, I don’t care what they may do
I don’t care what they may say, Jesus is just alright, oh yeah


Oh yeah! Far out man!

Admittedly these marvellous lyrics lack some substance in terms of a convincing theistic argument. And, admittedly, they appear to have been written by (or for?) a pre-schooler. But they made millions of bucks. So why do we persist with prose and poetry????

You see, the trouble with writing prose and poetry is that one runs the risk of somebody else actually reading it. And laughing uproariously at all the wrong moments. No such risk exists with songs. Because whilst people might listen they are unlikely to actually hear. Not the lyrics, anyway. There are many other examples of this (successful songs with utterly meaningless lyrics) ‘Stairway to Heaven’ (to continue the religious theme) springs famously to mind …. though I think that Led Zeppelin may have had a sense of humour about it.

So … with what little time I still have left on the planet I think I should reignite my passion for writing lyrics. Here is a quick start.


Oh, Baby, Baby

I know it ain’t cool

But I ain’t breakin’

No golden rule

I done been converted

I done seen the light

I be sleepin’

With Jesus tonight.


Oh yeah!