What a story… Interesting to note Elvis Costello had a hand in production. Lyrics published by Bungle Songs Ltd.

Labelled with Love by Squeeze (Difford/Tilbrook)

She unscrews the top of a new whiskey bottle
And shuffles about in her candle lit hovel
Like some kind of witch with blue fingers in mittens
She smells like the cat and the neighbours she sickens
The black and white tv has long seen a picture
The cross on the wall is a permanent fixture
The postman delivers the final reminders
She sells off her silver and poodles and china

Drinks to remember, I, me and myself
And winds up the clock
And knocks dust from the shelf
Home is a love that I miss very much
So the past has been bottled and labelled with love

During the war time an american pilot
Made every air raid a time of excitement
She moved to his prairie and married the Texan
She learnt from a distance how love was a lesson
He became drinker and she became mother
She knew that one day she’d be one or the other
He ate himself older, drunk himself dizzy
Proud of her features, she kept herself pretty

Drinks to remember, I, me and myself
And winds up the clock
And knocks dust from the shelf
Home is a love that I miss very much
So the past has been bottled and labelled with love

He like a cowboy died drunk in his slumber
Out on the porch in the middle of summer
She crossed the ocean back home to her family
But they had retired to roads that were sandy
She moved home alone without friends or relations
Lived in a world full of age reservation
On moth-eaten armchairs she’d say that she’d sought all
The friends who had left her to drink from the bottle

Drinks to remember, I, me and myself
And winds up the clock
And knocks dust from the shelf
Home is a love that I miss very much
So the past has been bottled and labelled with love

people often talk about being scared of change
but for me I’m more afraid of things staying the same
cos the game is never won by standing in any one place for too long

Jesus of the Moon ~ Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

20 years ago he came to me in New Street station when I was using a public phone. Remember the circle of aluminium booths that were in the station back then? Before the advent of mobiles? One of those.

He wasn’t very old. 20-something? He asked if I could spare some money. I said no, sorry. Firm but polite. “Oh, please, mate, I’m starvin’“.

Yeah, right, I probably thought. You’ll just use it on fags or booze. Such was my upbringing. But there was something in his eyes. A genuine desperation. I could see that.

Yet I turned away and dialled the number. When I looked back he had gone.

I sometimes wonder about him. More often than I’d like. I can see his face. That look in his eyes. I’ll always wish I’d bought him some food. Anything.

What became of you, homeless man? Where are you now?

She gave a little flirt, gave herself a little cuddle
but there’s no place here for the mini-skirt waddle
capital punishment, she’s last year’s model
they call her Natasha when she looks like Elsie
I don’t want to go to Chelsea

- I Don’t Want to go to Chelsea – Elvis Costello and the Attractions

The Conflict anthology, edited by Ian Whates, will be launched by Newcon Press on Friday 2 April at the 2010 Eastercon at Heathrow. As well as my own contribution – Songbirds – Conflicts includes the following stories:

Psi.Copath – Andy Remic
The Maker’s Mark – Michael Cobley
Sussed – Keith Brooke
The Cuisinart Effect – Neal Asher
Harmony in My Head – Rosanne Rabinowitz
Our Land – Chris Beckett
Fallout – Gareth L. Powell
Proper Little Soldier – Martin McGrath
War Without End – Una McCormack
Dissimulation Procedure – Eric Brown
In the Long Run – David L. Clements
Last Orders – Jim Mortimore

Newcon Press’s recent Celebration anthology includes my story Deciduous Trees.

As well as the publication of Conflict, editor Ian Whates is also celebrating news that his novel The Noise Within will be published by Solaris in the UK and US, also in May 2010.

Newcon Press website
The Newcon Press Celebration page
Solaris website

I have Scrivener open on my laptop.
It shows the novel I’m working on.
Someone’s standing next to me, looking at it.
An editor.
He says it’s good, would like to read it.
I point out that I’ve only finished re-writing a third of it
He looks at me as if I’ve let him down, as if I’m just another time-wasting wannabe who doesn’t understand what’s involved.
I say somewhat sheepishly that I’d better take it home and do it tonight.
He says nothing.

I’ve played a few gigs with PJ Harvey in the UK.
It was fun. I did well.
She asks me to go on tour with her in America.
We walk along a meandering light brown path alongside a river.
There are broad areas of dry grass on either side. A few trees.
People rush past us on bicycles as we walk.
I want to go, but think about my wife and kids.

bad men. gangsters or something. they wear black suits.
they take people somewhere.
a derelict building. large. middle of a field. deserted.
inside they torture people then set them on fire.
one day I see this.
then another day I’m there with someone else.
they threaten us. lots of them.
we try to hide but they catch us.
the floor inside the building is on a slight slope.
a group of them surrounds my friend.
they have guns.
my friend’s lying on the ground.
they gather round him and all shoot. his body jerks with the bullets.
bullets hit me too; I can feel them passing through me but they don’t hurt.
they stop firing.
quiet now.
my friend’s moaning, still alive.
one walks up and shoots him in the head with a shotgun.
he’s still moaning, still alive.
another one has a bottle of something.
shows me the label.
I don’t know what it is, but he points out the words “highly inflammable”.
he douses my friend in it, set him alight.
he screams as he burns.
then it’s my turn.
they pour the liquid on to me.

The Guardian recently published an article in which the majority of respondents to a “survey” claimed they would leave the midlands if widespread broadband Internet access enabled them to work from home. Here is the letter I sent in reponse. A link to the original article can be found beneath.

Dear Sir or Madam,

I write in relation to your front-page article of 26/08/09 headed – Home is where the heart is – unless it’s in the Midlands

A few years ago my wife and I considered moving our family to the South West of England as my internet-based job would allow this. We subscribed to a local newspaper in our preferred area. Looked at houses. Jobs for my wife. Schools for the kids. However, after much deliberation we decided against the move.

Property prices made an idyllic country cottage or house overlooking the harbour impossible. Transport infrastructure, journey times and the pressures of everyday life would likely make evening strolls on the beach the exception rather than the rule.

In Birmingham we have front-door to city centre in 20 minutes by local rail service. The city has a considerable cultural heritage, with art galleries, libraries, theatres, and a thriving local music scene, and there are a huge range of activities and attractions elseshwere in the region.

While it may not initially seem the most desirable of locations, as our children grow up Birmingham – and the midlands in general – offers a wealth of opportunities, and in truth no less exposure to drugs and crime than their counterparts in the South West.

The dream of a better life enabled by the internet is undoubtedly an appealing one, but the reality is unlikely to result in a genuine change of lifestyle for all but the most affluent.

“>Original article

I’ve just taken delivery of The Death of Bunny Munro – the new novel from Nick Cave. I met the publisher last August, at the filming of Do You Love me Like I Love You? for the remastered Cave albums currently in the process of being re-issued.

I’m looking forward to reading this book, which is a beautifully presented hardback featuring a pink ribbon bookmark. Cave’s last novel – And the Ass saw the Angel – was often breathtaking, but also sometimes suffered from Cave’s heroin addiction at the time of writing (I understand he actually lost the manuscript half-way through its writing in Paris). I’m intrigued to see what the clean Cave’s produced.