Truth be told I'm a liar....

...for I always had said I was winter's man.

An image of myself, I know now I no longer aspire to:

Sheepskin jackets and sturdy boots.
Card games at fireplaces.
Puddles at bus stops.
A carrot on the ground where a snowman use to be.

That jaunty stop-start run people do when they are either late or it has begun to rain. That jaunty stop-start run in which people drop their newspaper and have to decide whether they've read it through enough to let it go to the elements. I had mastered this decision making. Call it maths.

Yes reader, it was all sleight of hand and trickery. I was never this man at all and neither, I think, were you. I've come to one of my short lived conclusions that it is far too easy to play the part in winter.

The torrid weather that comes with such a season confuses the appearance of a good husband, a loving wife and dutiful children. It makes them appear unprotected and leads them in search of warmth when, at that time, even the miser had opened up their arms.

What am I getting at you ask?

Perceptively, I've noticed the weather has changed of late and it has got me to thinking about "the seasons". I've seen the car roof come down and heard a great deal of talk about sunglasses. It's made me feel pretty damn good I can tell you. It's made me feel....well....British.

What is it about spring that, in my mind, is so inexplicably linked to this fair isle?

Let me, for a moment, put my eggs in your basket.

Spring must be the season of change. I don't think this specifically applies to one's penchant for chocolate and, feeling an expanse around the midriff, a future lack thereof. In my mind's eye love seems to let go a little. What was a comfort at christmas has now, it seems, turned to claustrophobia. Summer daunts.

We throw our lot in to spring. Pasty white legs start to congregate at the vicarage gates. Children (and, in admission, myself included) start to run into oncoming traffic in order to avoid wasps. Friends and mothers and mother's friends, although the weather advises otherwise, start to get over elaborate with cake decoration. Collars get loosened. Drink get's drunk earlier. Flowers blossom. A stranger blow spits into your face thinking you'll be appreciative of the cool air. Someone who can't quite play Spanish guitar appears in your local park. Someone makes a joke about sandals to someone wearing sandals. Australians talk louder. Everyone wants to offer you Pimms. Everyone wants to offer you Pimms at a better price. Travel websites and images of caramel skinned Venetian grandmothers scuttling like cockroaches into dark corners of cobble stoned alleyways.


Yes, spring just has to be our season.
We are greedy on it and thankful for it because we can never be sure what the next season holds. Spring brings change.

Change and hope.

So don't please don't worry if you lose the boyfriend because now is the perfect time to buy that scooter you always wanted.


Here's to you and Sister Nancy,



Lots of love, magnolias, flight paths and portable fans,



NDK
xxx



PS.

In a graceful slur of words a friend once said to me:

"Sometimes, all a man needs is a new lick of paint."

....and now, I think, perhaps, a suntan in April too......

One,Two - Sister Nancy

A Mi Hermano Gemelo....

....you are the one in the grey jumper with the thinner face,
a scholars writing hand,
a jack of diamonds and a jellyfish sting stuck in the sand.


...you are the poetry corner past midnight,
a vitamin drink trick,
a much needed glass of Barolo when the words won't stick.


...you are Joyce's disciple and Nietzsche's long lost love,
everything I've mentioned,
none of the above.


...you are a fiend at the chessboard,
a frosted tip,
a baby blue suit on a Midlands bound trip.


...you are a strong arm when the swings fall, when the winds change, when the blues call.

...you are an orienteerer with an i-phone and a cry of "freedom!" when that girl went home.


...you are an expensive pair of football boots,
two home games,
known to some as Morris Gibb, "Che" by other names.


...you are a home nations lover,
a storyteller, a sketcher,
a seaside steward,
the conductor of a lecture.



...you are one in a million and a million different things in one,
you are my brothers brother,
you are my mothers son.


...you are perfect timing at the perfect place,
you are a unique running style in a cross country race,
you are the scholars writing hand, the top brass's briefcase,
you are the jack of diamonds, the king of hearts, the ace


and,

to save confusion,

you are the one with the grey jumper and the thinner face......



Yes babes,


Happy Birthday my dear brother,



Here's a song for you,


Lots of brotherly love, gift vouchers and liverpool road high jinks,



NDK
xxx

One Too Many Mornings - Johnny Cash

I don't know if anyone's told you....

...but I do all my own stunts.

An old Spanish teacher of mine once remarked:

"Hard work beats talent if talent doesn't work hard."

Yes sir. Es verdad (you can see how far I got) but only up to a point. This statement must have had some resonance with me, how else would I still remember it a decade on? However, unlike a bloodied, patriotic central midfielder I've never known a musician who'd appreciate being regarded as purely "a grafter".

Let me put it this way:

"I loved his last album. It's so....tireless".

For me, there's always been an allure in making it look easy or, at the least, making it look like it's not been too hard. I don't want to be told what it took the songwriter to get to the last chord, I just want to get there and figure it out for myself even if I'm wrong. And I'm certain I don't want to see where the last brushstroke was. She came, He saw, He painted.

We know now this is rarely the case. We can swim a mile in unreleased sessions, we can drown in re-take's and deleted scenes. We can see it took a great deal more than a suitcase and a train leaving a station and, at times, I don't think either of us are the better for it.

I once went to a show of a band who now sit pretty. Sometime during the set the singer announced:

"This next song is a love song I wrote about...(name). So if you could all be quiet as it means a lot to me".

No thanks. I'll cry elsewhere.

The best an idol can do is inspire whilst letting you know that you need to figure out the slog for yourself. It takes time for the strings to hurt your fingers and to know that not everyone is going to love your sound. Further still to know you might not have any talent. What's the point in aspirations otherwise?

This takes me back to school.

When, on the one occasion they ever did, the careers councillor came in to ask me what I wanted to be when I was older. I answered, with all the seriousness a Derbyshire youth could muster:

"A Stuntman".

I wasn't fooling around. I genuinely thought I had what it took. I'd taken a few fierce dives onto my twin brothers mattress and I had, however shakily, climbed my neighbours fence to recover a pathetically directed frisbee and I was sure that was solid enough for a entry level position. What more could they have asked for?

The careers councillor, as they often do, was there to advise me otherwise. In this instance, he recalled seeing Sly Stallone in the film Rambo and then looked upon me, a twiglet of a boy. On turning to his computer and discovering that it could not tell him the number of GSCE's required to get from one to the other, he suggested I look into Puppeteering. I suppose it was snazzy enough.

I have to concede that, at the time, I was distraught with the outcome of this encounter. My family, who to their great credit have supported me through even more ludicrous ambitions, gave me no solace. They were quick to remind me that, at age ten, on a trip to the local swimming baths I had wailed:

"My shorts are drowning me!"

A stuntman never admits he is tall enough to stand up in the shallow end.

Perhaps I wasn't cut out for it after all.

Looking back though, I think this taught me never to listen to anyone whose job it is to tell you where you are going wrong. As mentioned, I think it's better to do it badly and figure it out for yourself. Life's too short for an encore anyhow.

That's me preached out.

I leave you, fittingly, with a man who did it all with a flick of the wrist.

A 4 minute 18 second song written in 1 minute flat.

Lots of love, legwork, longevity or, else, lazybones,



NDK
xx



PS.

Fear not.

On asking a dear friend of mine what he told his careers councillor he wanted to be. He replied:

"Paul Gascoigne".

Bob Dylan - True Love Tends To Forget

Thank the lord our god and the holy spirit....

...they've finally opened the door up for Tom.




Best wishes,

Here's a reminder,

Lots of love, hats, jukejoints and drunk pianos,

NDK
xx

If Jacques Dutronc Stole My Girlfriend....

...I'd make no bones about it.

Unless.

It was Billie from Premier Model Management.

I find myself addicted to the mindless going off's and come on's of the The Model Agency on Channel 4. I watched it alone on wednesday night with pasta, pesto and balsamic vinegar. I watched it again, last night, on catch-up television. This time, thanks to my sister in law, I had a mushroom risotto and spinach salad.

What is it about the show that has me so engrossed? It's hard to say.

Is it the grinding enticement of high fashions endless treadmillers? Possibly.

Is it the feigned concern for a young girls education? Possibly.

Is it Carole's blatant disregard for this country's workplace smoking laws? Almost certainly.

Is it the legs? Hmmm.


Billy Collins, the American poet, once wrote of the blues refrain:

"Much of what is said here must be said twice,
 a reminder that no-one takes an immediate interest in the pain of others"

I urge you to watch this program twice. If you're anything like me, you'll be left with plenty of unanswered questions. Like:

Why does Sissy have a picture of her boyfriend as a screensaver when she sits opposite him every day?

How many illegally parked cars is it possible to fit outside one building without getting a ticket?

I understand. It's not life and death. It's not even life. But, it's my recent and understudied belief, for every Panorama we need a White Van Man. For every South Bank Show we need a/the Cube. As sure as my Sure deodorant has been the cause of 10,000 undeserving deaths in the land of the rising sun, there's a ruthless balance here.


I can see your face reader and I know I am stretching you here.
I've come on too fast haven't I?

Send your answers and polaroids on a postcard to The Runners Club, 1 Vanity Lane, Vapidville.

Thank you for listening, I'm off to rub myself over a photocopier,

But before I go,

Here's a little Jacques for you,

Tres bon,

Tres cool,

Lots of love, lust, cheekbones and fair skinned smiles,

NDK
xx


PS.

Tomorrow.
How many blowjobs does it take to get a record deal?

Jacques Dutronc - Et Moi, Et Moi, Et Moi

If I had a hammer...

....i'd try to keep the noise down.

 Like a thief that used a milk float as a getaway car. Time, for me, of late, has been obtrusively slow and undistinguished. It's hard to say just how far back I'll have to go without becoming laborious to the avid blogging community but let us start with a move I made 30 miles or so west from my beloved Berkshire to spend time in a big city once again.

 For the few months I was there I paid the taxman a few pounds, sent the rich around the world, whiled a few hours away in two public houses of note just a few yards down from Cleopatra's needle and before too long have found myself taking the short trip back down the M4. It's plenty peaceful here and that sits with me just fine. Birdsong doesn't have to fight with the emergency services and there's space enough to hear myself think (this is perhaps a concern).

 Nevertheless, the long and short of it is I have started writing again. Properly, that is. And I thought I'd say a few words about how it was coming along over the next few months until a song or two is pressed. Although I think it's perhaps fitting to start with a little reflection first.

 "Old Valentine" was released in October of the year 2009. I think it was right at the start but I can't quite recall. That being the case, I make it out as 539 days worth of melody grafting to produce a body of work worthwhile for your ears. Truth be told, we may have to shave off 500 or so of those. I assure you, this is for your benefit. I took far too many drugs and had I tried to release anything sooner you may have had to listen to a collection of sounds similar to that of a grande lady sobbing because her thighs are too fat for spandex and ankles too wide for rollerskates. We're better now, we're both on a diet of sorts.

 Listening back to that record (which I do incessantly) I think I may have held back a little. For every "lover" there was supposed to be a "liar", for every "woman" a "witch" and there's a running theme of self pity attached to it all that I am now striving to get away from. Mistakes, as ever, will be made but no-one's perfect. (Especially you.)

 I'll be writing about the stuff that pleases me. Like wearing one black and one red sock. They'll be an element of confusion in it. It'll make me happier when I look down. I hope this, in turn, rubs off on you. Setting timelines scares me (I don't want to be married by 35) but I hope to have this all done and dusted by the end of summer. Working with a few familiar faces and the new one's I've met looks like it's going to make this job a great deal easier. They're at their best at light speed.

 They'll be a handful of shows in the coming months and, if it can be got together, a trip across the channel. Italy, Germany. It'd be good to see some of you around, it's been a while.

 Here's to wishing you a happy new year (I think it's safe to say this at any time) and, unlike me, you've always looked good in swimwear.

 I leave you, for now, with The Bentley Boys (see below),

 Lots of love, music, sex and affairs,

 NDK

 xx

 PS.

 The fat lady and I have been out jogging of late. Hence the name change.

 From now on, look out for Runners Club.

 PPS.

 Mum, I got that job interview.

The Bentley Boys - Down On Penny's Farm