I was in bed late and out of bed early.
That’s the way to live a long and healthy life…
I was ratty too this morning. I think the morning run, a lazy 5.5k in a still very muddy park should’ve kicked the crankiness into touch. It was like one long steeplechase in Athletics, except the water jumps seemed neverending.
I finished off a three-day cleaning blitz early this morning. The broken bedroom window came crashing down on my head early this morning as I tried to air the flat, then came crashing down a further two times. On the first occasion, it rocked the building. It was as if someone had slammed a door really hard. I thought, ‘I hope that’s not my window’.
Of course it was.
I then put some old clothes on the window sill in case the window came crashing down again. It did. The clothes absorbed the worst of the impact but it was still a hell of a noise. It’s the kind of issue that could easily bring me into conflict with the downstairs neighbours. I fired off an email to the building management, responsible for hiring the inept windows company (the windows are new) and the landlord. How am I meant to air this room in the spring and summer? Other residents are experiencing similar issues. The windows haven’t been weighted properly.
I’m now on my third decaf of the morning, bracing myself for Liverpool’s visit to City. I’m not one for predictions. At their best, Klopp’s Liverpool have been a thorn in Guardiola’s side, but this is a very erratic Liverpool team whose transition needed to come sooner. As for City, even though their best years were 2017 – 19, they are still a beast of a team.
In other news, I found some brilliant live Tears For Fears audio and videos from their peak ’89-90 era. I can’t overstate what a fine band they became following their 4-year sabbatical from the public eye as they worked on their brilliant 1989 album ‘Seeds of Love’ (a commercial flopp, inevitably) and the live band that emerged from that, 10-strong, were superb. The timbre of Roland Orzabal’s voice had changed, deeper as opposed to the more soulful voice from The Big Chair album which, yes, it was a good album, but it wasn’t a great one. It was a place holder, a hint of the great work to come.
I returned from the park, mentally better, covered in mud and bites, irked by some of the usual visuals. I don’t go in for the tribal park run 1kerr business. I’ve always been a lone wolf. I like the discipline of running alone.
Mud and insect bites in the communal hallway.
Saturdays are my least favourite days to run. The park is inevitably full of gentrifiers with their overpriced, Smurf-sized black-lidded takeaway coffees and giant buggies ferrying 2045’s LinkedIn Influencers to granny’s or to be around other toddlers in the toddler-heavy circles they move about in, revelling in walking through one of London’s ‘wonderful’ green spaces.
Here’s the thing though: Parks aren’t wonderful. They should be. But somehow we accept that it’s okay for these parks to be used by dogs. That so long as dog walkers are bagging up the muck, everything’s fine. It’s not. As the great, almost retired south London blogger Bill Hicks (Not that Bill Hicks) once wrote (paraphrasing here), ‘No one’s jet washing that bit of grass the dog’s just unloaded on.’ Our parks might look beautiful but the reality is they are filthy. We all know what lurks beneath the grass. We need human-specific parks. Dog walkers can have their own parks. I’m serious. If I was running for PM, this would be the only thing on my manifesto.
“Yeah, sorry, I can’t comment on the cost of living crisis, my specialism is dog muck in parks.”
I wouldn’t want some lab analysing this ‘mud’.
If you go camping, say, in the woods, it’s normal for the forest floor to show signs, let’s say, of animal life. The forests belong to everyone. But we have designed and created the parks, but the execution of that vision is seriously warped. They are an aberration. We have chosen to share our parks with dogs. How people are happy to picnic in our parks, or go to some festival, is beyond me.
As I’ve stated before, my first question on reaching the AFTERLIFE will be on dog muck in parks.
HOW DID THIS BECOME ACCEPTABLE?
BAGGING UP ISN’T THE SOLUTION.
And that’s me after a run.
Imagine the vitriol if I hadn’t gone for the run.
I’ll be out in the back-up café later today.
I have this Kent gig tomorrow, and I’ll be rehearsing for that tomorrow. The rest of today, it’s all about the slacking.
And let’s end on a positive note before we part ways today.
Here’s a picture of former Eastenders star Nick Berry’s 1985 mullet, one of the all-time great 80s barnets.
What I liked about his ‘Wicksy’ character was he wasn’t one of the original cast. Neither was Dot Cotton. But they came on board and quickly established themselves as great additions. As someone who’s often been the new guy in places (owing to my familiarity with the P45), I respected the way they went into a place and established themselves as pillars of that show. A show that, by the way, since about 1990, unless I’ve had the misfortune to be at my aunt’s in the evening, I haven’t watched.
Why?
Well, because, like all soaps, it’s rubbish.
Hey, you asked.
Have another Nick Berry.
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Still feel short changed by Tears for Fears brief set at Manchester Apollo in 1985.