Clarification.

Throwing real sheep would be novel. Telling me you've thrown a sheep at me, when clearly you haven't, is just naff.

Open letter to Brian Cowan

I sometimes wonder how much people want to read here, and how much i want to say. On the one hand, it's not like too many people read it, as opposed to my facebook page, which gets many thousands of visits a week from my bestest random new friends who feel a short message - accompanying a small animated photo - telling me that they have thrown a sheep at me is the funniest, and funnest thing imaginable. All this in spite of the fact that I have never put anything of any consequence on there, and that most people who read it still haven't twigged that my status updates aren't real.

On the other hand, does anybody really care?

Music is your what?!

There are songs that drive the rain from my memories. There are others that bring me back to times and places I was never in. I have never had my father drive me home by way of the N17, and I was too young to understand why anyone would want to know if it was raining in Paris tonight. I am cheating by identifying with songs written for a different time, a different world, different people. Am I? An emmigrant/immigrant by choice, I have little - if indeed anything - to back up any feeling of disaffection. Will i ever again feel like somewhere is home?