You search every pocket

For a tissue.

Something to wipe away your tears with.

And you find one.

In your back pocket.

Full of snot.



‘A Smile Besides’

Are you alright?

Everybody happy?

Well you won’t be by the time I’ve finished with you.

It doesn’t get any better than this you know. Not me shouting nonsense at you; life. That great big bag of bollocks we all limp through day after day after day. Year in year out scout snowt. Deliciously deadly deft to dream as today is near perfect. Bell ringer nails chewed. Staying rude and shadowing and huge. Bigger than your Head, you whisper as the charge is read. 

Guilt doesn’t count. It gives way to strangers you already know. It picks at scabs and adds a shine to the full dull nothing to do. It causes arguments that end in tears as years of fears catch up on you. You; with nothing left for anyone to still do for you. Cast aside your assumptions they’ve been bitter long enough. Bitter and blue Bertie Magoo lost in Salford whilst slightly bemused by the sheer size of it all. Not a cow but life.

A story told is a story shared. No point reading nothing of which you don’t care. The fares fair if you sit at the back. Making shapes in the shadows as your eyesight declines. Sorting the chaffed from the bits and keeping it clean til it finds a smile besides.

You don’t see tomorrow til today’s spent itself in a sportsock. Wiped a morning away and yawned. Forgot to take it’s pots down stairs for nearly a week. 

You don’t see pain in the eyes of the ones you love until you’ve hurt them. And they’ve hurt you back.

You don’t know how to help until you feel helpless yourself. Shitty and curled up like a month old barmcake (Northern)

I will point out your mistakes and as I do, i will be happy if you accept them. It’s not my place to blame all the same. Yet you are simply part of life’s rich tapestry. A stitch in mine. Devine.


We had a game in our house. When we were growing up. Just before payday, we’d have a rummage through all of our coat pockets for some shrapnel. 10 Bob’s, 20 p’s, pound coins. Scrabbling about for owt with Lizzies head on it. Back of the sofa or down the arms was another one. Didn’t bother with the penny jar cos it was rinsed for that 2 quid in 20ps that you launched in their last week. The ones you couldn’t be arsed rattling round with. The ones you didn’t want to put in the ticket machine cos there would be a queue and you hate people tutting behind you when it takes you a week to buy a return to Piccadilly. Finding a folded up sky diver or better still, a score, always made our day. The difference between smoking dimps or having a vinegar butty, or 20 Sovereign and a chip barm.

We play a similar game now. Now we’re grown up. We still search the coats and couches and the pockets of car doors. Usually finding only dust and a Greggs paper bag, and a chewed pencil from Ikea. We know where the Holland’s meat pies are a pound a piece from a multipack. We get cheap cigs through the post from Pink friends. We find there is far too much month for the money. Too much out than in. Wafer thin grin and sleep fitful from falling apart. Yet we hold each other together. We manage and we darnce. Often out of step but never out of tune. And we’re never thirsty.

And you know what? That’s what we are and so we are what we do. We keep searching for loose change, even in the shittiest corners of our days, lying to at least ourselves about being perfect. And when we find the 20 quid, we spend the fucker. Blown out blow out twist and shout flash of joy.

Be you. Be all you can do. You. No one else’s responsibility to do you but remember not to take offence when you become someone else.

‘It’s Not As Dangerous As Being Shot’

No need to make your bed if you never get up. Lay down lying in it half cocked half cut.

Hand out hand me down excuse this clown. Backward pedalling slight of hand. Understand how underwhelmed you appear my dear.

No point making stories up. We find you nasty and sodden and bubbling as it is.

Hand out hand me down excuse this clown. Stood up straight you’re still upside down. Understand you’re still unplanned.

No desire to listen to you scream anymore about a life unsure.

Dear God there are some self important tit brushes about today. Behind hand cross eyed whispering tit combs. Grow some or fuck right off.

You know the plan Stan.

You know the riff Cliff.

You’re not that brave Dave.

If you get it in your head that someone is having a go at you, think for a minute why. Think for a second.

How does it feel to be bottom of the bill? I bet you think your winning? Happy in your own swill with a broken branch. Can’t even stay upright long enough to dance.

Cowboy hat twat. That. Broken biscuit bellend, don’t pretend you’ll ever mend because you’ve been broken all your life. Little lost prat, twat. No magic in you. Never has been. Cheap and cheerful live on your name shame. Like a lot of your kind. Blind deaf and thick unless it’s sucking your wit and even then you end up smashing that to bits.

And peaceful. Never had any have you? Whatever you have lost you deserved it. All of it. You give nothing, you get nothing back. That. Twat. Don’t make me beat you with words you couldn’t dream of spelling correctly.

I couldn’t be any prouder right now. Of those around me and me myself. I have what I need.

You’ll get what you deserve. And I hope it’s less dangerous than being shot…

‘Hand Held’

fb_img_1472334129549.jpgIt’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone….

Nothing prepares us for this. We attempt to ‘batten down the hatches’ and cover our ears. We still see. We still hear. We still feel. We still miss the one thing that made us. Literally. Step back and sit still. You are still loved within the memory. No one can ever take that away. And we shall raise a glarse to you. You. Without her, you wouldn’t be you.

The constant hum of loss provokes a melody. A beautifully crafted cacophony of each and every song you have heard. You hear the rhythm before you have chance to hear the words. And those words can only be your own. Made up of all and everytime you heard that voice. Nurtured and nudged and covered in love, you may miss the warmth of hand held, but the memory provides the melody for the darnce.

If all we are is all we know, then I am happy to be part of you.

I’ve held the hand that held yours. Smiled at tears dropping as today remembered yesterday. Three times long gone yet viciously fresh. All cockle sheds and budgie perched celebration. We know where you are. Not only why but wherefore. Loved beyond love. Tickled bottle drunk over heated hand held self. Today we raise a glarse and think. Today we do no more than shimmy. Cotton wool twist and turn. Star of the sea. Start of you that made me. From Evans above, this is love.x


We are our age. Always. We are every day of our age everyday. For a split second we are the youngest we’ll ever be. We see the future swallowing the now. The tip toed yawning of a thousand million seconds we’ve left behind, gagging for the next lot of piss and giggles, tears and tantrums, a bright gust of life.

Never been one for feeling my age. I look at people and think ‘fuck off, you’re not 46?’ They actually are 46. Looking like 60. I hate being asked ‘Guess how old I am?’. I can never guess ages. Tried once somewhere and nearly got glassed by an irate 35 year old. He was 24. I don’t think saying ‘you must have had a massive paper round’ helped either. I simply say ‘about my age’ if applicable or the more succinct ‘Don’t ask me to guess your age because I will proper insult you’.

Alongside age trots beauty. Sometimes struggling to keep up. Although in finite terms we all droop away in age, our beauty is still there. A layer or three down but still there. Like the detritus that makes up sand on a beach, little worn away wrinkles and brittle snowy bristles, a Testament to tenacity. Beauty is bone deep. Skin protects that lovey luscious light in shadows rife with warmth. All sneezy promises and backward glances. Take time to taste the tears and savour their depth.

What would you do if nothing happened? Nothing at all. Would you worry you were wrong? Or accept that if you stop it stops. Time does indeed March on. Trampling the days down and whisking sanity away. Steeping the twilight in a misty hue of you. Still you. Always you.

Age. Comes to us all. Imagine that every single second of your life was a photograph. Not just some boz eyed dad taking the same frame over and over again, but every thing you do or say as a photograph. That’s what age does and is; A convenient vessel in which to store your memories. Keep making them. Age will never get full.