Numb and naked in the kitchen

You’re there popping your pills,

Mourning ritual habitual

Stem the overkills

You knock ‘em back like candy

I say you gone too far

You say «stop acting like you give a shit»

And you grab your pink guitar


So, You’re naked on the sofa

With your pink guitar,

Strumming out your dead bar blues,

(You got) Menopausal mourning

(An) Afterlife lament,

You sing «There’s nothing left,

And, nothing to lose.»


I’m just so tired of you now

And you’re sick of me to

We’ve gone from love to hate, to drifting through.

There was a once upon a time

We were partners in crime

What was ours, was yours, was mine


So I’m leaving this place

That we once called home,

(Oh) Where my heart don’t lie no more,

You gotta listen to your heart

‘Cos your heart never lies

That’s the, beatin’ truth for sure


And now I’m drifting

No fixed abode

Following my heart

Down this broken road,

This sure ain’t tripping

This ain’t no movie too

You’re road running in my head

Can’t run back to you


Now I’m sittin in a bar

In a town with no name

Or a name I can’t remember,

Been driving day an’ night

I can’t forget you right

Need a drink to forget you better.


And there’s a girl up on the stage

So full of hurt an’ rage

She’s strumming out on a pink guitar

Screaming her dead blues

Say’s she’s got nothing to lose

I hope she never gets that far.



The Morning After.

Not a peice for those of a delicate post party disposition


Oh to be young again, when the physical scars of a hard night’s partying seemed to heal miraculously in a few short hours.

Flatulence, belching, chronic indigestion, heartburn, gastric reflux, headache and vomiting; those probable unpleasant, pungent, painful and noisy side effects on the afternoon of the morning after the night before … or has it just been one long day that started somewhere in the hazy and undigested recall of the recent past?

Oh, the high price we pay for our brief epicurean episode. Oh, this strange idea of celebration and revelries; gorging ourselves to choking point or drowning in drink until once sensible beings become senseless incoherent idiots talking gibberish and seeing double.

The human body can only take so much, and, at some points, the warning lights will start flashing, the sirens start screaming and the “eject” system will switch into “auto” mode, unless of course you use manual mode and end up on your knees with two fingers down your confessing to the great white porcelain God.

It could have been so easy not to get that far. Everything in moderation. Just a little of what you fancy, but, this is a time for celebration and we go too far.

What is it all for? Welcoming the New Year or marking the demise of the old?

So, it has been a wonderful year and it is only fitting to mark its timely and pre destined demise with due epicurean reverence and revelries or, it has been a truly terrible year and therefore this is the time to exorcise our demons in a ritual ceremony of self destruction in the hope that the on the twelfth stroke of midnight, months of misadventures will mechanically melt away and everything will be better.

And it is in the grey dawn of a dazed and confused drink fuelled stupor that we awake. The post licentious limbo that is New Year’s Day – the fuzzy mourning that marks the first day.

As the day unwinds, so you rewind and then slowly replay the film of the night before. One long bad drunken B movie.

As the day unwinds you remember those you might have invited over for lunch, drinks, tea, dinner, at this time when you are having trouble keeping down your breakfast which was actually the last course of your all night dinner.

Time for booze free, green tea extreme vegan detox and this becomes your new best last resolution that you will keep for precisely two days.

What the hell! We all had a good time at the New Year’s party and we’ll all feel exactly the same at the same time next year.

Happy New Year Folks

Random Rubbish

Okay, this photo is rubbish BUT …



Well, yes this is to ally random rubbish. Were I to have placed the empty cigarettes packets and drinks containers in a random way, I would never have  come up with such a fine display as this. It is true sculpture that even Damien Hirst might be proud of. Were I to have scoured the streets of my town to find such worn out, crushed rubbish, I would have sen all day searching through dustbins – and yet here is this rubbish just begging to be photographed.

What does it say?

Three empty crushed cigarette packets and three soft drink containers – two sodas and one yoghurt drink – no alcohol – this is the last cigarette from the packet, early morning after a long night and before heading home. Sodas after a night of drinking – a yoghurt drink for the early breakfast. The last cigarette before throwing away the empty packet. Too much booze. Too many cigarettes and all thrown down by the drain because this is the place that the revealers had their last piss before climbing in the car and heading home. Every photo has a story.