A rebel without a clue.

I got off the bus once the traffic slowed to a stand still. We had only come as far as Bardsey and I felt I would be here on the A58 for hours yet. I had to be at work for 2pm at Coors in Headingley for my evening shift. I called ahead to explain that I was going to be late. It was a pleasant afternoon at the end of August so I jumped off the bus and I walked all the way to the Oakwood Clock so as to catch a 12, 13 or 13A into town. It was the first time I had ever walked most of the route to Leeds. This was before Snoopy came along in the early noughties. I knew I had a short time back at Coors before I wouldn't return; I would leave Coors tearful as half of me was going to miss those I worked with. This was either 2003 or 2004 and I had started counselling with a lady called Jean Booth. I used to go to her house in Oakwood every week. It was useful to talk to her. I was referred to her through occupational health whom Coors had onsite. I would get breathless, I had trouble walkin...

The stones of the Town Hall groan under the pressure of age. I took the bus. Nothing could stop me disappearing today? As I waited and waited the time questioned my decisions. Some subconscious feed provoking my torturous ego. There I was barely coping and overwhelmed with overt thoughts of my insignificance. All the plans within me coming unravelled as the things I need fight against that I have become. As I look up at the blank faced yawning gape of the bus driver as the routine X98 pulls up to alight the pensioners Wetherby welcomes I am straining to vanish. For a number of years I have been numb to what happens around me. It happens; I hear it, but it leaves me emptied of life’s essential beat. Rat-Tat-Tat. Have I become so distanced from the reality of these conversational needs that the booming voiced chorus delivers in waves of banality. I repeat that I am a ghost. I can't imagine when this happened as I was unaware of my own death. This Thursday I am sat hear...

Born to two working class parents from Rawmarsh, Rotherham, South Yorkshire in Bishops Stortford on the second of February 1972. My father was a company chauffeur and my mother a housewife and dental technician. I remember nothing of my first two years in Saffron Walden. We moved to Easington, near Whitby where my father bought his own fish and chip shop and my mother had my sister. We had a dog called Sam. He got run over. I played behind the garage, pebble dashed prefab, and got ill. This might have been a first migraine or a fuller episode of the sensor and visual disturbance I used to have regularly. I remember being sick. I didn't eat any dirt, but I did dig deep. My father built a bed with planks, we had bunks in my room. Bright blue curtains. I used to put turquoise felt from a blanket up my nose. our toilet was near the front of the house on the ground floor.I used to think the rust on the screws holding the wooden seat was dried on excrement. I had a teddy bear that had a...

Glancing at the routes away from here and destinations I have trouble pronouncing. Dra gon ya Por to rož Po reč (this could be the Porridge I heard a couple mention in Piran) Krun či či Opcinà Limski kanal Eating out last night our host in Galeb - Salvo - reminds me of Enoch Powell ... but served lovely soup. It seems to me that Japanese tourists are stereotypical. We arrive at a shocking shocking bus station in Poreč and there is a reason to take a photo? Getaway! Maybe they are seeing something worthy of megabits and mega-pixels? On the campsite trail. I come upon my first naturist camp. 3km from Poreč. Rotel tours - www.rotel.de - arrived alongside me in Rovinj. With great advice I arrive at Porton Biondi How many days shall I stay here. I have to chill out tomorrow and stuff. Then perhaps move on by third night. It needs to be value for money. Maybe move the tent to a less bumpy plot or get a better under roll. Actually I feel better already. The facilities ar...

Don't believe the hype. For the past 5 years I have worked in a vast array of kitchens, from huge operations like the one at Royal Ascot to the ones seen in pubs and bars, but never once have I gone to work in a kitchen where I almost bolted instantly akin to a skittish mare, however today I saw something that I never though I would: a properly presented, 250 head bistro, in the centre of affluent York that was living very close to bone in terms of hygiene and creative passion; and never mind flair. Maybe this was just a bad day, but this was a Friday. There was a sense of urgency in the place which had created a huge mess: not enough time and/or people to create the correct environment to produce food to the highest standard; the first 2 chefs I met looked tired and unhappy, the 3 rd took it for granted that I knew where everything was in this huge and very disorganised kitchen. In my day I saw just 2 green boards for all food prep done on-the-fly(where is your mise-en-place ?...

These things happen Which are not too nice And blinking unnatural Politicans say and speak Blunt of commiserate Desperate for votes Desperate of a tragedy. Did so need Hain, Cameron and Miliband: Homing in are we Eyes like switches, On result in rattling Platitudes battling Windy spoken twitches These automatics drone On and on for votes we sue. So sorry: a neighbour cries Because this is worthy copy But I forgive him their loss Maybe in the great mine Up in the sky Look to the big coal dipper And the coaled graves there?

Aren't we all aware of the #1 satire of the 1960's: Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. Brown Shoes Don't Make It, etc. understood the dark mystery of suburban existence in the TV dinner generation of post war baby boomers. Didya get any onja? discusses the prewar tensions of harassment in Tchermany? the human discord and paranoia of questioning