Writer’s Block.

You know, I’m not too sure about this thing called ‘writer’s block’, personally I have never experienced it, so I can only surmise that it has something to do with an inability to write anything.

Anything at all.

Now this I presume, could have something to do with the fact that the author simply can’t think of anything worthwhile to say, well nothing unusual about this.Most of us talk a load of clap-trap on a daily basis so what’s new? I mean when was the last time you debated the mythical mathematical genius of Credit Default Swaps and Collateralised Debt Obligations, with their fundamental propensity for Friedman’s melt- down?

You get my point. So, what is all this ‘blocking’ about?

Some novelists I believe, get around this literary inconvenience by just immersing themselves in what is known as ‘formula’ writing ie same basic plot, just re-name the characters and change the locations.

Now I confess, this wouldn’t be for me, albeit that it appears to work admirably well for a great many readers, so as far as the formula writing novelist is concerned mission accomplished, and nothing wrong with that.If the novel brings some enjoyment, then who the hell cares how it is written?

So, why wouldn’t this style of writing be for me and why haven’t I been blocked? Actually I’m being a bit presumptuous here, why on earth would any of you be the least bit interested in either one, I may well ask?

Please indulge me, I’m on a roll here.

The answer to the first question is simple enough – I would get bored to tears, writing the same sort of thing, and surely this would mean that my so-called creativity and passion for words had been exhausted. And as for being blocked, well this could only mean that my life had become so bland and uneventful, that I no longer had anything to write about.

To conclude then, I sincerely hope that if I ever reach the point of experiencing either, then I will know that it is finally time to stop writing once and for all and find another job – thinking about it scratch the job idea, I’m unemployable and too damned old!



Lyrical Lyrics (well not quite) and Mariella Frostrop!

Well now, the last five posts have been verging on the literary, not good, as no-one will understand what the hell I’ve written and quite right too.

That’s the thing about ‘the literary’, it’s never really read but still ends up on the bookshelves, if only to show visitors how ‘serious’ a reader one is, oh and clever.

I confess, I have one or two Rushdie’s myself so say no more.

Now, I can’t  actually see my scribblings ever receiving the sexy approval of Radio 4’s Mariella but who knows, one fine afternoon she may decide to hoi-polloi it and treat me to lunch at the same time.

The Savoy Grill would do nicely, it did go down hill a wee bit, but I gather a few bob has now been spent on the place, so it should be worth a visit, if only to see if it has redeemed itself. I wonder if that damned silly bear is still there?

You know I’ve just realised something here. I’m fantasising about the bookish Mariella Frostrop (some name you have admit)! Jesus, all this writing really is turning me inside out. All the young buxom celebrities out there and who do I fancy?

Mariella and her books!

Bloody hell!


PS Actually she ain’t bad looking for a MILF, so perhaps I’m not so potty after all. And that voice of hers…..well…….

Boats That No Longer Bob.

Not far from my front door is an empty beach.

A wasted boat sprawls across some sticky lumps of ugly mud, like some hard up painted tart, waiting for a few quid from some roughed-up hand, while creased-up  men with baseball caps and ladies trying to keep their rosy cheeks at bay, sometimes appear in the distance.

Well, it wouldn’t be the same if they were nearby would it?

Like the boat and hard up tart I suppose.

Anyway, I walk along the shore-line like some love-sick teenager bitten by a holiday romance, and thank my lucky stars that I was born in the 1950’s.

I really wouldn’t like to be born again you know, everything has become far too squeaky, far too clean.

I wonder if the hard up tart would feel the same way?



The sturdy hotel, hanging green parasols and comforting wisps of cigarette smoke, prodded my memory for the second time this week.

Hello I thought, another sandy Goweronian  scene, to tempt my creative juices.

Not so.

All I could do was remember a two-week caravan jaunt in Horton, with a Roedean whippersnapper of magnificent proportions and an appetite for the impossible.

We were both young and untried, it was the 70’s with everything to play for. It rained and rained but the touch was always the same, the kisses always certain and the love bespoke one minute and ready-made the next.

Half a pint of bitter, a Woodbine, a smile or two and roughing it, suddenly meant everything.

Girls were different then. They knew less, but knew all things too. They knew how to charm, they knew how to chase,  they knew how to seduce.

But more than anything else, they knew how to be female.



What a silly name!

A little place peppered with little streets and little shops hiding behind dusty postcards and pink fishing nets, waiting for a childish tug and a few pennies more.

Grey seas rattle outside tea and coffee cups,  while Joe looks on and tries to decide what creamy concoction to come up with next. Knickerbockers are ‘so yesterday’, so old hat and don’t have mobile phones as a two for one.

Mumbles ice cream, Joe’s ice cream, must never die but what can we do next? Time has taken over, Mumbles has turned a new 4×4 leaf, a new crammed in wealth, sick to death of all the rest. It is the only place to be you know, Sweyn’s Eye can groan and grumble, but the nobs and nobness of silly Mumbles rule the waves.

So sit tight and enjoy the ride!


PS For those unfamiliar with Swansea, Mumbles appears on the cover of ‘An Equal Judge’.

Middle Age.

Have you noticed how hitting fifty brings certain obligations? Obligations that hitherto could only be imagined in some sci-fi novel.

I refer of course to the mandatory Aspirin and Statin. Both are apparently in league with one another, and both are dependant on a symbiotic synthesis of mutual co-operation.

Otherwise we die.

At least this is the current medical wisdom so who am I, a humble scribbler, to argue.

My point is this – do we really want to live forever, dribbling away in some nursing home while filling our pants with carefree abandon, or do we want to help the next generation by saying ‘Bugger life, I’m off! Just make sure there’s plenty of fags and whisky in the coffin to help me on my way to nowhere’ – actually better make that Flora and boiled fish, better for you I’m told.

You decide.


Green Huts and Wrinkled Up Memories.

What a mixture! Some Lunch Club members, the odd pair of female lips bent with cheeky nostalgia, a Classic car or two and a row of green beach huts full of Viagra free memory.

I had been taken back to a place I had once known intimately, a place of youth, pretty girls and endless nights of hopeful young love and brash Valentine’s Day cards.

The bright red Gilbern sports car, with its squeaky suspension and lingering aroma of Welsh car making greatness (and failure), had brought four of us to Langland Bay for a once and for all blast of times gone by – and hadn’t they just!

Echoes of ‘Amanda’s’ laughter at what could have been, reminded us of slippery kisses and iron clad bra-straps that just wouldn’t let go, even when the time was right. Barbecue fires and browned up flagons of Strongbow still burned and glistened, in memories untainted by ‘apps’, mobile emotion and computerised calamity.

The girls had been real then, their kisses neat and tidy…… and Langland Bay?

Well it was still there, but it just wasn’t the same.



My wife enjoys entertaining, I enjoy good conversation. Nine cases out of ten the two go rather well together.

Anyway, it was Saturday night at the Rucks – supper-time. As usual the missus did her thing with the grub, while I looked on and admired.

I’ve always found admiration to be the most admirable of qualities where hanging around a kitchen is concerned; anything else strikes me as far too demanding. Some things really are best left to the female of the species – thought I’d get that in just to annoy all those haute cuisine feminists out there.

The guests were of a distinctly eclectic hue – I’m trying to get bloody clever with my vocabulary now, ignore it – one English, one Scot (no doubt peeling an orange in his pocket with a boxing glove on, you know what they’re like, oh and he will probably tuck his own bottle of Mateus Rosé at the back of the booze tray and hope to God that it will remain untouched, so that he can take it home with him to be used at another supper-time, the mean bastard), one American and one……well I’m not too sure about his provenance, he was English, of the Surrey variety, but has been a native of the Eastern seaboard of America for some 35 years, so maybe he’s a cross between a Pilgrim Father and an itinerant immigrant, you figure it out.

The pure English and American varieties were female and I have to say thoroughly charming, although I think the English lady had been a recent victim of hairdresser insanity – her multi coloured hairdo was as striped as a badgers bum but we won’t go onto that.

So there we all were, as usual bobbing up and down in the kitchen (why bother having sitting-rooms one may well ask), picking away at some sushi (take that for Lidl’s smoked salmon European left overs) and hitting the booze like there was no tomorrow.

Now as far as I am concerned, a successful supper-time relies entirely on the state of one’s guests at around 1.00 am. If they can’t move or speak, job done as they say.If one of the guests suggests some wife swapping, then most definitely job done, although this of course depends on the state of his wife – he could be seeking a happy release, I mean have you seen the state of some of these middle-aged wives? Orange County they certainly are not! Although to be fair, who would want a woman with a rubber bosom, a voice that could stop a gay chat show host in his tracks and a face that would stretch the fat arse of a Sumo wrestler, you tell me.

Well, the night progressed in its own inimitable way. The men disappeared for some air, a cigar (it still happens you know, although on this occasion I was the only smoker) and a few bottles of port while the ladies stayed in the kitchen and put the world to rights.

You know, I’ve always believed that if women ruled the world it would be a more peaceful place…..providing they didn’t rule on period days that is!

By 2.00 am, one couple had fallen asleep on a settee, another couple had been unable to get passed the front door and my dear wife and I?………..well, we just went to bed thinking ‘another successful supper-time, middle-agers still know how to enjoy themselves and maybe the young and celebrities don’t rule the world after all’.


Arty Farty.

You know I can’t help it, but I’m not so sure about this lump of slate that’s piled up in this new Welsh ‘Art Gallery’.Contemporary art or is it Conceptual art? Damned if I know.

Nevermind, takes all sorts I suppose, actually believe it or not I’ve been thinking of submitting one of my used up toilet rolls for the next Turner Prize – it will be exhibited as ‘The End of Hope’.