I’ve lost count of the number of times someone has said to me, “You should do a blog about that.” I always wondered whether I would actually get round to it.
As someone who can waste time for Britain – especially having discovered Spotify and the fact that I can open four different internet browsers at once on my computer – it always seemed like I would never get around to it. I’ve spent so much of my working life writing or talking, or both. Blogging always seemed like the last thing on the list that I might actually do for fun.
Maybe it’s age creeping up on me. Maybe the urge never left me. It must have been buried somewhere, probably in the crates of CDs and LPs that I increasingly return to as I hurtle kicking and screaming into middle age.
But middle age is for old people. Not for me. I’m not ready to pack away my seven inchers and go quietly just yet. Just because I now spend my days arguing with people for a living while dressed like an 18th century vicar doesn’t mean that I’m ready to start ordering elastic waisted trousers and wide fitting shoes from the back pages of the Radio Times.
Will anyone actually want to read about my bonkers life? From teenage years as the small-town weirdo in the flat Lincolnshire fens, with John Peel in my earpiece under the bedclothes for company, to pitching up in London at age 18 with the pages of NME and Melody Maker as a guide, to ‘working’ at Paul Raymond’s girlie mag empire. From an insane decade trampling through grunge and hardcore via nu metal and emo in the pages of Kerrang! in my DMs, to an equally unbalanced rollercoaster existence at the criminal Bar. Would anyone actually give a shit what I did or what I think?
Probably just me then.
Don’t let the costume fool you. I never, ever expected to be someone who actually wore a suit to go to work. But the beauty of a suit is that no one can guess what’s hidden underneath. I may look the same as the people I’m up against in court, but they don’t know the half of it. They can’t guess the soundtrack that’s in my head. They can’t hear that, as I’m stalking the corridors of Woolwich or Snaresbrook or the Old Bailey or whatever other Palais de Justice I’ve been dispatched to, in my head I’m still kicking against the pricks.
Or, as per my current new ear worm track, I’m waging war on the palaces. (You can hear some blokes who also do that rather well here.) That’ll do me for now.