Diary
The Duke of Grassendale
Drinking half-price damaged label St Emillion, eating Lidl velvet crabs and Aldi quail, I've told you before I may be poor but I live like a Duke. Tonight Bleak House smells of linseed oil and turpentine, my mind idles in neutral gear as I paint an abstracted foggy moonlit loch on a vast canvas. The wine is subtle and beautiful and has taken all the nasty sharp edges off the day. I've had flu and have done nothing for a week but eat, drink and lay upon a wolfskin throw watching old films. Roman Holiday is on as I write, I adore Gregory Peck but I can't be doing with Audrey Hepburn, I used to like her but now her watery and winsome goo goo face makes me want to slap her upside the head and shout WAKE UP! I like women who choose to EXIST for God's sake, the ones that make things happen, those haunted sexy types who take life by the scruff of the neck and decide to LIVE. Christmas was OK, not great, not awful just OK. New year's eve was a wash out, I was ill and asleep by ten p.m.. I was awoken at midnight by the barrage of fireworks and ship's hooters from the Mersey but soon fell back to sleep. Ricky Mayme, Richard Turvey and myself are back in the recording studio again on the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of next week putting the finishing touches to the album. With 23 new songs in the can its a nice position to be in. Obviously we are not going to release a double album but it does give us some options for a companion album. I love it all so its not going to be easy culling it down to the perfect length. Ged Quinn is dreaming up some beautiful darkness for the cover and I'm polishing the words before committing to tape. I'm still on a bit of a nautical jag after December's gig and have taken to wearing submarine jumpers and Danish thermal underwear full time. I'll miss the Christmas tree and green foliage when it comes down on 12th night, I do like this pagan ritual. I had a great end of year night out with my PA/manager Mitch Poole, Les Pattinson, newest Swan Richard T, journalist friend Angie Sammons and Henry Priestman recently, we started the evening in a Libyan restaurant and ended it in The Little Grapes pub drinking endless Hendrick's G@T's. The evening was a blur but I do vaguely remember some motivational speeches from Mitch and Henry and I encountering a woman who we agreed was just 'too beautiful to talk to'. Thankfully I don't suffer from hangovers these days as I have built up a formidable tolerance.