Darren Poyzer, Singer / Songwriter

1st January 2007 - The Old Year in Retro
So there I was, early afternoon 30th Jan 2006 and faced with a choice of two BBC website headlines: Saddam Hussein executed by hanging, or Charlton v Aston Villa, latest score. The match, going nowhere at 0-0, kinda like Saddam. It's not over though is it; this is just another slice of flesh from the soul of mankind, another bloody page in the history of conflict that has cursed this planet. Yes people, blame man, blame gods, blame governments, blame yourself ... me, I no longer know who to blame ... maybe the ancients had it right when they looked to the sun and moon for answers ... maybe this is written, the forces of the universe tearing us apart and forcing us to clash and collide in hellfire and brimstone.

In amongst all that thought there is life ... and love. And children. And those of us who have matured into adults, doing what we can to teach those children and help them through their experiences and on into their own adulthood.

This year has been the year of the teacher: after having doubts at first, my own personal energies have ultimately found me teaching, both in college leading BTEC Music Students in Songwriting, Improvisation and Music Industry studies, and at a special school for younger children with various disabilities such as autism, and behavioural problems. I have found myself again, not through love or my own songs, but through the needs and creative spirit of those looking to find a clear path away from their problems and into the human mainstream.

I'd like to say a big thank you to those of you who visit the blog. I'd like to think you know a little more about me now, even though there's lots more 'in there' that has yet to come out. On a personal note, as maybe the 2006 blog will tell you, it's been a difficult year that has ended very well indeed. Whether I'll change anything or help nudge the earth for the better in 2007 remains to be seen, but as we go, one day at a time.

See you under the bright lights of the stage
and in the spirit of a rainbow,
Lotsofluvnstuff, Darren x

It's been a while ... guess I do this blog thing mostly when I'm a little restless, and therefore this last month of much activity has not allowed much blogging, even though there's been lots happening. For starters, I took a long weekend pilgrimage to Ireland, firstly to view the Rory Gallagher Exhibition in Cork, then to take Shannon the dog to see Shannon the river ... yes, that's true, I really did.

Then more recently I've been on the road with The Holmes Brothers, Alligator Records' blues and gospel legends from the US. Wow, what an experience, and what a great bunch of aged dudes - more zest than many a younger musician wannabe, I tell ya.

As if that's not enough, a good year's gigging was made more exciting with two late additions to the diary that found me doing shows with The Bluetones in Nottingham and The Wonderstuff in Stoke.

The My Space page is ticking along quite nicely - 4,000 page visits have brought over 7,500 song plays, which is almost 2 song plays per visit ... by my reckoning, that's quite good going. Thank you for your interest in the music, it makes me happy to know that the writing and recording of those songs was worthwhile.

As for hoovering the plants, well, I've got these quite large plants with these big leaves, and I don't know, what do you do about dusting these things? Being a guy, it seemed quite sensible to hover them ... Hmm, ok, lesson learnt ... suggestions please.

A Pilgrimage to Ireland in a Weekend

At a time of busy work schedules, I managed to squeak a quick weekend trip to Ireland into my schedule. A ‘Rory Gallagher’ visit to Cork gave me an opportunity to set off on a free spirited journey in search of life poetry … the result: a magical Rory moment in Cork and Shannon (the dog) meeting Shannon (the river).

Friday Nov 9th 2006
Presently my life is one constant working day, sleep is at a premium, and therefore it’s a good thing I am really happy with my work. Thursday night’s gig in Stockport was followed by a 2 hour drive down to Holyhead to catch a 2.40am ferry to Dublin. Two and a half hours sleep on board ship finds me back in the car and exiting Dublin at 6am for what turns out to be 6½ hours on the road to Cork, including more sleep in the car. Most necessary … I’m so glad that the heater works and the seat reclines in my very nifty and wonderful Vauxhall Astra.

Lack of turnaround time back home means that I have my dog Shannon with me for the journey, which is not a bad thing providing the weather holds out. The first inkling of biting cold, and I’ll be setting her in kennels for the nights, however at present with her sleeping blankets in the car, she’ll be comfortable enough for a mild weather weekend on the road.

The catalyst for this trip is that I have been invited to Cork to the Rory Gallagher ‘Homecoming’ exhibition, hosted by Triskel Gallery. One of my working roles at present is webmaster for www.rorygallagher.com and at the invitation of Rory’s brother Donal, I am attending the final day of the exhibition, and meeting a really top chap called Ben Cuddihy, one of the Triskel curators.

I could of course have saved myself many miles driving and a good few hours if I had took a plane, however this trip has a ‘pilgrimage’ feel about it. The chance to drive across Ireland with Rory on the car stereo and my dog for company is the kind of head space I am well into taking right now, and so off we go.

Saturday Nov 10th
The exhibition is swell and Cork is good for a night out listening to a 5 piece traditional band of young musicians in the bar next to my b&b. There is an option to go back and meet a person or two back at the gallery during de-installation today, however come the morning, the open country, rolling hills and freshwater streams are calling, so off I go.

Satellite navigation is useless here – those who set the maps for this little distraction I’ve recently purchased probably didn’t get past the Guinness in Dublin. And as I only have a road atlas with an English mainland bias, I have no clue as to the direction I am actually heading. In fact, I was at first heading South, but as it turns out when I get my bearings, I am North of Cork and heading further inland.

I have driven through a small community, there are blue and red chequered flags hanging out of windows and from signs. A political party of sorts? Hmmm ..

I have driven through a little village called Glenville. For some reason, the sign as you enter has been hit by a graffiti artiste with the word ‘shit-hole’ scribbled across it. In an area of such tranquillity I find this a little alarming, even moreso the thought that no-one apparently disagrees with that description strong enough to clean up the sign. This place looks real nice, but I guess if you’re young and living in a run down settlement, you’re going to get restless. This place run-down? Well, driving through Southern Ireland you do seem to get charmed pretty quickly by the scenery, the nicer houses that seem to be plenty in number out in the countryside, and the friendly welcome you get as a tourist. Maybe like every other tourist destination, 'round the back' is not so nice as the picture postcard.

In a neighbouring community called Watergrassville there’s a community play being staged tonight that centres around the life of a local priest, but alas I will not see it, even though this is the kind of thing that would really hit the spot for me right now. I am too far South too early in the day to consider stopping here, and the map is making me aware of an opportunity to take Shannon the dog to see Shannon the river somewhere around Limerick. This has sufficient poetry about it to enchant me in that direction.

A stop-off by a bridge that looks over a stream proves to be a nice break and a short walk for the dog and me. From over-looking the stream via the bridge, you do get a wonderful sense of outstanding peace and well-being, and yet when viewing the bridge from the side, it seems crazy to witness three bin bags full of food cartons and domestic waste that have been flung over the side of the bridge into the stream. I re-adjust my thought patterns therefore to assume that nothing on this planet is ever sacred; it is at best regular visited by cleaners and keepers of a faith.

This bridge with it’s running stream provides a quite unique setting for a chap with a laptop, typing us his blog. Modern man gets bleedin’ everywhere, I tell ya.

As I entered a small town called Abbeyfeale I have seen once again the chequered flags, yet this time they are blue and white and there are many many more throughout the town. In fact, this has the look of some very grand community occasion. Turns out the local football team is taking part in a final this weekend, and the community here is rallied and inspired.

For someone like me who likes to simply bimble off the beaten track, Ireland has plenty of charm and even on a grey grisly day, plenty of colour and natural beauty. And as patronising as it sounds (sorry!) the people here are ever so charming, that Irish accent combined with the simplicity of a genuine smile adding up to a very warm welcome virtually everywhere you go.

There is of course a great hypocrisy about all this. Here comes modern man, with his petrol fuelled car and laptop computer, crusading through natural landscapes and traditional settings, embracing them with a slight regret at the way all mod cons have crawled all over them. Bah! Yes, I’m a little uncomfortable with myself, and just for a moment it crosses my mind that I could do this trip on a bicycle with veggie sandwiches, fresh water, a tent, sleeping bag, pen and paper, a credit card and a mobile phone and a lot less guilt. I’d need a month off work though to do it justice though, for sure, and a new left knee.

Did I say mobile phone? Don’t quote me on that to the locals who are consistently fighting off the installation of phone masts. Modern man with a conscience is a troubled man indeed … of course I couldn’t do without a mobile phone, do you think I’m daft or summat?

I recently found out that I am of Irish decendency on my Grandma Poyzer’s side, she being a ‘Reddington’ before marriage. I kinda should feel something about this I guess, however I don’t, and at first I wonder why. Isn’t there a spiritual thing you’re supposed to feel when you visit a place like Ireland as a descendent? Obviously not in my case, however what I do feel is the knowledge that we are after all, kinda forced to accept allegiance as children to the nationality and religious stronghold where our parents choose to settle and feed us.

For me therefore, I have a forced allegiance with England, the Church Of England, the bulldog spirit, stiff upper lip, the empire, Queen and Country, The Sun newspaper, Posh and Becks, Coronation St, Bernard Manning, Oasis, Pie and Chips etc etc. Now not only am I totally alien to all that nationalistic and stereotype bullshit, I also feel totally ill at ease with the knowledge that historically speaking, I am therefore in some way alienated if not hated for my country of origin by quite a few of those indigenous to countries such as Ireland, where great suffering has taken place thanks to some bloody murderous English nonsense. Thankfully for all, we’ve got a pouring of European money coming into Ireland now, to help people here forget their troubled past. And maybe history was wrong, English nobles weren’t the aggressors at all. We just get bad press and it’s totally un-deserved. Yeah right ...

Nurturing tradition and cultural identity is one wonderful thing. Trying to absolve historical blood bathing is another. It seems to me that the more you feed one, the more you awaken the other. There are no easy answers …

The troubles of the world do seem to follow me around, however I personally am happy to say that at times like this, I appreciate and am truly thankful to whatever part of the laws of chaos gave me this life, my health, and the directions I take that bring me to places like this. Despite it’s troubles, mankind is not here to commit suicide, but to learn and evolve. How we ultimately evolve is something that we as mortals only see in retrospect, however we can speculate with confidence that the battle between good and evil has many more levels and eternities to go through before any single force can universally out-shine the other. And maybe neither is meant to ‘win’ … it just is.

Thanks to the roadside café for the plug socket to go with the coffee and chocolate. I can pack the laptop away once more - onwards …

My journey eventually takes me to rest up for Saturday night at the lovely coastal town of Ballybunion, situated on the west coast. It's a picturesque and pleasant surprise, even in quite miserable weather. As we arrived, Shannon and I found a beachy head with castle remains and a tremendous strong breeze blowing in from the sea. As it brought rain, the idea of playing ball on the beach itself had to be abandoned until tomorrow.

It looks a wonderful setting though and on the map, looked like nothing more than a quite unsubstantial dot on the coast. There’s a bit of a nightlife main street here adjoining the beech, and the coast line provides Ballybunion with it’s own inlet / bay area. Apparently this is a popular little holiday resort, and at this time of year it is not quite a ghost town, due to a lively local Saturday scene, but it does look capable of being quite a spot.

Driving inland North of here takes you along the River Shannon, and so this will be my trip homewards tomorrow, before taking a fast trail across country to Dublin. For the night I have found a very pleasant guest house called ‘Eagle Lodge ’. It probably has about 15-16 rooms, and yet I am the only guest.

There’s something very civilised about being served breakfast by someone who can’t do enough to make you feel welcome and at ‘home’. It’s something I am at ease with though, a fair transaction of 45 euros has paid my way to a little of this leisure time, and the landlady here at Eagle Lodge seems very pleased to have a guest at such a low point in the season.

As Shannon and I eventually took to the beach, the breeze and the choppy sea really were quite refreshing and an attraction well worthy of a short holiday. As usual we played ball chase on the beach, before eventually losing the ball on the way back to the car (my fault) and a smelly pile on a beech-side path (bleedin’ crap dog). We have a ‘swap shop’ thing with doggy balls; find one lose one, and so on, and Shannon’s bad habits, despite no shortage of beech and grassland, mean I have to carry supply of doggy bags wherever we go.

Out at sea about 200-300 yards riding the waves was a lone guy in a canoe. At first I thought that in such weather, he’s in trouble, but this is not so. A little crazy maybe? Well, if solitary pilgrimages are an ingredient sign of madness, yes I guess so. For a little while, I wondered why he was out there on his own. For love? Money? Training for fame and glory? To get over loss, fight heartbreak, escape from domestic confines, aspire to his father or peers, or merely to expend intense male testosterone and drive in an environment where no-one gets to see or feel the anguish? Maybe it’s a combination of all these things that has led him out there, to ride the waves alone, look the cold in the eye, be truly at one with the voices in his head.

It’s time to leave and head back to the car. I beckon to Shannon to take in one last view of the bay as it forms the mouth of the river, but she is a dog. She has no sense of the poignancy of this moment, and neither for the matter does the river. Neither will write poetry, each will do what each does: exist, consume, expend energy having fun along the trail, leave an impression and eventually expire and become engulfed by a much greater force.

Maybe it’s a bad psychology thing on my part, but a place tends to lose it’s magic once I put foot to the floor and head off home. That said, I found a little more before breaking the speed limit Dublin bound. A few stops alongside the River Shannon meant that the dog could piss and crap a little more, and I got a photo or two. Shannon (the dog) wasn’t up for much posing though - I guess what she was trying to say was that I have delusions of grandeur and I should get a life.

Limerick was sadly today a drive through, but it does look a city worthy of a visit at some point in the future. Of note, there’s the Limerick Poetry Festival … I wonder, would any of the poets be doing any limericks?

I particularly have loved food in Ireland on previous visits, and finding a sign saying ‘the best pub food in Ireland’ seemed like a dream come true. It was ok, a bit of a disapointment if I'm honest, so I am reminded therefore that the magic of Ireland is not necessarily to be found via grand signs. Indeed, if you are looking for signs around Ireland, keep an eye on those pointing the way to famine graveyards ... Ireland has a history beyond Guinness, twiddly tunes and Irish Ferries.

Two nights ago I went through without sleep ... combination of a late Film Four 3 hour movie and the concern about a job deadline ... film finished 5.20am, alarm clock kicked in at 6 ... that's life sometimes.

So, without imminent deadlines and half-term upon us, last night I went to bed at 6pm and endured 12 hours kip! Great stuff, loved it. And it meant that today I was refreshed and up for an early morning walk with Shannon the dog around one of my favourite locations, Bickerton Hill. The idea was to catch sunrise, however welcome to England post-Summertime ... a roof of grey enveloped the entire morning, and meant that with a gusty wind and a little rain in the air, it was time to take the big creamy coat out of the wardrobe.

A couple of years ago I came across this concept that there's no such thing as the cold. In essence, you are simply not wearing enough layers, or from another angle, not sharing enough love. That's when I went out to the market and purchased the coat, and it now stands me in good stead and takes me out to refreshing locations on Autumn and Winter days.

From one side of Bickerton Hill you get a wonderful panoramic 200° view of the Cheshire plains as they meet the start of the rolling Welsh hills, taking you on a clearer day into the mid-Wales mountains. It's a wonderful setting, and with the riverside developments of Ellesmere Port / Queensferry to the right, Liverpool and a splattering of industrial and other buildings in the distance, there's always something new to notice.

A strong breeze met me as I found the open 'window' ledge on the Welsh side of the hill. On such a day and with the grim reality of 3-4 months of similar grey days ahead of us, you can understand why some animals hibernate. Not that I know anything about nature and hibernating animals though - I'm a little in the dark about all that kind of thing - however it's got me thinking how in some ways, we hibernate in our approach to life at this time of year. It's certainly a time when I personally have fewer smiles and less illumination about me.

It was at this location that I came across a scene that has been etched in my mind since I first moved here into Cheshire. One fine day, I came upon two guys, not your most fashionable and up-standing characters, larger build and kinda like trainspotters if you don't mind the simile. They were flying model airplanes over the ledge, and looked for all the world's troubles like two men with absolute peace of mind.

It reminded me again of something Dave Rowley talked openly about at the recent mental health fund-raiser in Bolton - the space in your mind, and how it's so important. Walking up Bickerton Hill is always good for me as it creates a space for peace. I guess in a computer analogy sense, it's like quarantining the mind's virusses into a small place out of the way, and opening up a larger space for fresh air, reflections of beauty and smiles.

It's great to be able to report on another simply superb gig, this one being the Mental Health Independent Support Team benefit gig in Bolton, last night. The gig was sold out, 85 tickets at a fiver each as we were in a small 'studio' space, and this made a wonderful and intimate atmosphere.

Have to say BIG mention to Kevin Farrell - I never do mention KF as much as I should, see www.kevinf.tv - who tonight came off his flu sick bed to play another blinder on guitar, adding some magic to a set that comprised of one or two songs not played in a long while. In particular, 'Beautiful Addiction' had 'moments' tonight, beautiful indeed.

And special thanks to Dave Rowley was was awesome, playing with his band 'Black Country', who also organised the gig, as he works to support M.H.I.S.T. Check out Dave at www.rocknrowley.com.

It's nice to be on a wave of good gigs and great confidence again. I've been inspired by the Autumn, which here in England is quite simply the most wonderful time. Having said that, I returned home to a clear star laiden sky with just a hint of winter cold snapping at the skin.

The buzz is quite good right now. Probably partly due to the journey home, when the phone came good with a stream of lovely messages from people who enjoyed the gig. If you read the earlier blog entry Loneliness Of The Long Distance Songwriter you'll see why those are so important!

Thanks to everyone who made KF and I feel very much appreciated in Bolton - it was very special indeed.

Bloody pig headed religion puts children at risk, people against people, culture against culture. Why oh why, does anyone (whether they are Christian or Muslim or whatever) think that throwing their religious beliefs in someone else's face is a decent thing to do?

The veil -wearing teaching assistant who is the butt of media output at the moment really is the tip of the iceberg. When I was at school, we had a vicar who wore a white collar and taught out of an austeur building with a spire who was given 'holy' respect, for teaching us what exactly? I'll tell you what - a load of stuff that was intolerant of human beings and common bleeding sense. When 99% of the children at our school had seen the real world for what it is, we put it all into perspective and realised that if the Christian God of Fear does exist - and despite the years of brainwashing there's no proof 'He' does - then 'His' doctrine has got a good slice of this wrong.

The world as it really is, exists on a push for civilisation that comes only with multi-cultural tolerance and compromise. It's future rests in the hands of people who seek peace across nations. The brain-washing of inflexible religious doctrine only brings alienation, and ultimately fuels hatred, crusade, fatwa and the 'necessity' for tribes to maim and slaughter each other's children.

That's not an opinion - that's documented human history, and quite probably the recipe of the future. Bloody hell people, it's not rocket science!

I'm sick and tired of having those who claim religious moral high ground thinking they are better and have rights above the rest of us. People, you are not ... to be a decent civilised human being, you need to treat other human beings with respect, be aware of how your own actions and beliefs affect and concern the lives of others, and seek firstly to promote compromise and tolerance.

Now don't get me wrong - there are many who take religion and build a 'Church' to promote tolerance and humanity. We all have a sense of 'spirit' and if we find a way to identify this, then that's not a bad thing. In a tolerant world, everyone has a right to their beliefs and their culture, we all have a right to freedom of spirit, a voice, food, heat, shelter, educated fact based truth and whatever technological advancement the world posesses. Their is no reason on Earth why any religious belief, financial or racial status should come before the sharing of the world's open living spaces and resources.

The people with the problem are the ones who stand behind their religion and church at times when it's doctrines have clearly got it all wrong. Arab nations, listen up. Jehovah's Witnesses? Who in their right mind would happily leave their own sick child to suffer and die? Christianity? Dinosaurs ruled, ok. Pagan sacrifices? No thank you. Catholicism? Jesus Christ ... All are wearing the same veil and it's about time this whole hate fuelled religious and belief machinery was dismantled.

Day after day we are pummelled with hatred and alienation. Is a teaching assistant who thinks she should be allowed to were a black veil over her face whilst teaching children, the victim here or the aggressor? Well the story behind the veil and the reason for it's wearing is a story that children should hear, but it is not one that should be used against them. This woman could have used the veil as optional wear to teach children, not to alienate them.

Anything that promotes anxiety and fear, seperation and alienation is the catalyst for acts of violence that spread out of control. It can only take us further away from any kind of compromise issue that could have saved the bloodshed at the outset. And there was a compromise here - to teach you need to address children without bias or prejudice, and if you can't do that, you should do another job that you are capable of doing. Common sense. And there's no prejudice here for it should always the same for every teacher of every religion and belief.

And I include my own school vicar in this one ... I never did get round to asking him about vile homophobia, or why children aged 4 - 11 were forced to sing 'Onward Christian Soldiers' over and over again. Or the Crusades for that matter.

What does her veil teach children exactly? That men are not allowed to see her face because we are all rapists? What exactly does it say? That her religion comes before their education? That all teachers can wear whatever they want, because of their beliefs? Swastikas, football shirts, IRA balaclavers, hoodie tops, black power symbolism? Do we employ topless porn stars as teachers? No, of course not, there's a dress code.

It's bloody stupid, and the only outcomes here will be a) a good dose of legal 'payola' for this woman and her advisors, b) much mileage for those in the media who like to stir up trouble, and b) more of the kind of bloody-minded violence that rides the intolerant bloodline of an Enoch Powell speech.

Indeed, she will find much support and media coverage from racists and religious bigots. They are her supporters, her sponsors. The BNP will do quite nicely out of this. Legal aid will spin suits of fine cotton for the vermin that milk the courts. Religious extremists of all sides will gain favour for a call to arms. It's a vote winner that will have violent men and arms dealers alike rubbing their hands with glee at the thought of yet more continuation of racial war and bloodshed.

And oh yeah ... I wonder how the children on the other side of her veil feel about all this? This woman obviously cares not about these children, the rights of their parents and those of us who seek a peaceful multi-cultural society, and yet she openly takes the wages and the 'legal' payola, on it's own so far creaming over £1,000 for the discomfort she has 'suffered'.

This woman is an enemy of her own culture, and the women and children of her own culture who will have to take the beatings and reprisals on her behalf. She represents everything that is wrong with forced religion. Forced religion provokes fear that leads to violence and that's one lesson we could all do without learning the hard way.

As a teacher myself I am truly am hurt and deeply offended. So where's my thousand pounds? Swallowed up by the war machine, that's where. Where does the stupidity end and the common sense begin?

* As a footnote, here's a few words that portray The Daily Mail's opportunist take on this; makes scary reading:

"The Muslim teacher suspended for refusing to work without her veil is connected to a hard-line mosque where the ringleader of the July 7 bombers worshipped, a media report said on Saturday.

The family of teacher Aishah Azmi, 24, plays a key role at the fundamentalist Markazi mosque in Dewsbury, West Yorkshire, which was attended by suicide bomber Mohammed Sidique Khan, the report claimed.

Until recently, Azmi's father was joint headmaster of the secondary school attached to the building. Her husband is Indian-born Ahmed Khan. The family are known to worship at the mosque and may have encountered Khan before his terrorist act last year, Daily Mail claimed."

Really enjoyed the last two nights: kinda labelled the 'Yorkshire Tea Tour' (in my head only I should add), consecutive gigs in Sowerby Bridge (dp + kf for a full night out) and Holmfirth (with Wishbone Ash) have brought the voice and the spirit back into good working order.

Thanks to everyone who gave the love and sent text messages etc ... always always great to get warm and positive feedback after shows, especially for the long journey home.

Anything to stop me falling asleep at the wheel ... I'm getting that one a bit wrong these days!

Well, call me a miserable lover of the decent community spirit, but I gotta tell ya I so wanted to have a good thing to say about Midge Ure - as it is, I haven't.

Last night due to an unfortunate admin blip with our usually fantastic and awesome promoter friends at The Gig Cartel, we were double booked with another support act in Morecambe. It made sense to everyone except Mr Ure's tour manager for us to slot 2 x 20 minute slots and accomodate both acts, however the result was that they kept their little thing together with the people they'd brought with them, and froze us out after Kevin and myself made seperate 3 hour journeys through traffic to be there.

Maybe it's me, but I really always do look to accomodate people wherever and whenever I can, especially in such circumstances as this. Some people just don't see it though do they, and all they achieved from this piss poor negativity was what exactly?

So what I can do is say a massive 'THANK YOU' to the venue staff at The Platform in Morecambe who greeted us irrespective of circumstances, made us feel loved and wanted, and placed a good friend of mine who'd travelled a long way to see the show on the guest list. We return there with Wishbone Ash on Friday November 3rd, and to be honest I can't wait - that is going to be one pumped up beautiful performance, I promise.

And I guess I should add that there are many people well worth seeing and supporting for all good and great reasons including of course the awesome Nick Harper, currently on tour - saw his Liverpool gig the other night, he's simply the best!

The recent songwriters week at Monestevole in Italy, organised by Chris Difford, was absolutely stunning. I have a full diary to upload from the laptop and will endeavour to do so soon. Thing is, I had fever on the transit home, sick in Rome as it happens, and all this week has been yet another of poor health. It's been a naff year so far health wise, and there's the winter to come. Alas ...

Anyway, I returned to be greeted by Autumn and so far so good ... this morning an early walk to try and kick-start my fresh air lungs again was quite inspirational, the River Dee slightly swollen by mountain rain. Back to work again now I hope, though the Doc may have something to say about it tomorrow. Two workshops and two gigs to look forward to this week ... hmmm, here's hoping. Deep breath, a few vegetables, lots of water, don't forget the meds!

Well, it's a cliche being heard across the land: are you ready for the new term? I never thought I'd be involved like this, but suddenly this year the bulk of my 'day' work is now teaching. And what a challenge!

I won't go into too much detail, but I'm trippled up this Autumn, running workshops for children and adults in Warrington, teaching young people with a variety of life's unfair vulnerabilities at a special school in Vale Royal, and teaching BTEC students at West Cheshire College. And best of all, it's music work throughout.

After my first college term earlier this year, I must admit I had my doubts. Working for a mere part-time wage, I found that my concerns for students were constantly on my mind as I sought ways to challenge those for whom learning had become a dead loss, and further challenge those who had the hunger. This term promises to be even more intense, however I must try and learn myself that if teacher ain't got a grip, it's no good for no-one.

I found wonderful insights during my first term. For sure, having 20 years experience in the music industry counts for something, and young people setting out to play music as a career or simply for the buzz, love to get a slice or two of the knowledge you've acquired. However, whilst giving that freely and presenting it in an informative and encouraging way is a major part of teaching, there is a also an energy and enthusiasm that young people have that is priceless. It is this that has probably brought me back for more!

And so onwards. Tonight, although it's not my bag, I'm going to study *Fruity Loops and introduce one of my students to the joys of creative techno mixing. This is the unpaid bit, the research and lesson planning - the payback will come if this lad, who has his disabilities in life, finds a whole new reason for being in music through what is essentially a whizz piece of software. We'll see ...

* Thanks to Peter Butler for the Fruity Loops info!

Well, last night's gig at The Lowry Theatre with the awesome John Cooper Clarke was in essence, a stormer. It's a lovely modern theatre, not to everyone's liking as these things go, but you can't beat an attentive audience of about 350 people and signing a few cd's after the show.

I guess if you are an entertainer or person who takes a platform under the scrutiny of the public in any way, you'll relate to this. It's not the first time I'll tell ya, but despite the success of the gig, driving home last night was a very lonely experience.

Maybe it has something to do with the way we open ourselves to scrutiny when we're in the limelight - certainly if you are a solo performer or entertainer, and I am thinking that many comedians in particular feel this - there's a great deal of your own soul that you bear sometimes in order to please the audience before you. That in my case, with some of the more personal songs in the repertoire, is very relevent, and I find that if I need to talk through the insecurities I feel about my performance, if there's no-one there when I need assurance, it's a very daunting time.

Strange how it goes - I stopped off on the way home for a coffee and a break, just to get rid of that bug that was eating away at my head space. How I needed that moment. And yet as I say, it was a storming gig; there shouldn't be weaknesses in confidence or acute self-critiscism, not like I subjected myself to last night.

I have on occasions been asked if I have a different persona that I take when I am on stage. I thought about that last night, because for actors that is most true, and maybe, even some musicians; and any show is in essence, 'theatre'. However with me I'd say it's more like jumping into a suit of armour, a tough outer skin that protects you from the rollercoaster of emotions that a live performance brings.

Last night I think there was a chink in the armour. On the outside, the lights were shining bright and the show-ride sped on like the rollercoaster that it is, however on the inside I think I took a bit of a kicking. It's strange, from an audience point of view you probably wouldn't see it, and I guess only precious 'darlings' like me would ever discuss it, but it's very real, despite the plaudits and the warmth of the gig.

Coming home I thought about the early days of Acoustica songwriters nights, when the likes of Steve O'Donoghue, Colin Wakeford and myself amongst others, would jump in cars and go play gigs together. On the way home we'd share appreciations of the event, of each other's work, and the bare soul-searching of the songwriting art would be embraced and cherished. I know Steve in particular misses those times, and so do I, however times move on. These days, and it's a credit to us all, the three of us play longer sets on bigger stages, and so to share a car and a gig like that is a rare occurence now.

I oughta mention Kevin Farrell here: he's duetted with me on many outstanding occasions these last 12 months, and Kevin has wonderful and very honest views on the art of live performance. Without his friendship and musical partnership, the loneliness of the long distance songwriter would have been a more worrying concern for me I am sure.

And you know, I think there's a case that such insecurities are the basis of a person's strength anyway. You only feel pain if you hold a love and passion for something, so in some ways today I feel kinda good about it all again. Today the warmth of a brilliant gig is starting to shine through the cloud of uncertainty, and with a greater than ever determination to succeed, I can't wait for the next one.

Last night whilst driving home I got a lovely text message saying 'thank you for the show' from Annie Marsh ... you don't always fully appreciate little notes like that, but every so often such things make a world of difference. I guess from now on I'll be asking the audience to send me nice text messages for the long journey home ... now there's a good idea!

I have a confession to make, and maybe even two if you wanna get into politically correct condemnations - at present, one of my greatest pleasures is filling the car tank to the brim with petrol, enabling me to put the foot to the floor and do some serious speedage and mileage. Not a hideous crime I know, but at a time when we all should be conscientious about our road safety and the damage we do to the environment, it's difficult for me personally to take any kind of stand on these things when I have developed such a craving.

It's just a phase I know, although to my credit I think it's been brought on because I have actually deliberately cut-back on my car usage this year, and this is most likely a 'mechanical' response to that. Less time in the car is making those moments when I fill up and take to the high road more pleasurable and liberating.

As for video games, I'm currently quite distressed by a tv ad for one that depicts guys with heavy weapons (rocket launches / grenade launchers etc) in urban gangster mode, carrying out reckless street warfare. Now to a point, being an occasional 'gamer', I'm aware and supportive of the therapy values of gaming - I've let myself disappear into a video game on many occasions to escape the daily shit and hit out via the keyboard - however there's a line and a time when these things go to far and can only erode and ultimately destroy ethical and life values.

Indeed, take games depicting Operation 'Desert Storm' for instance, and all other manner of 'kill the terrorists' crusades; these things in a most pwerful way serve only to take the human beings out of real world conflict, leaving thousands of impressionable young people to believe that warfare as such does no damage to real people, as all against us are merely easy targets of evil intent that come along to irritate us between meals and a bit of decent tele.

Reminds me of the first maps of Iraq and Afghanistan that we were shown on the tv, before we off-loaded thousands of laser guided terrorist-only-killing cluster bombs across hundreds of communities and cities. No pictures of human beings, just radiation symbols and pictures of angry dirty foreigners carrying heavy weaponry.

And oh how we used to condemn Hitler for his clinically lethal and calculated use of propaganda.

After a neat little chill-out and wind-down during August, I've just had the pleasure of looking at the September diary: 6 gigs, 4 workshops, 7 days masterclass in Italy, and 4 days of music tutoring. It's not the workings of a rich man, but there's enough of a challenge there to maintain the human spirit. Thing is, after this month, we're in October ... would you believe it, that's a bloody autumn / winter month!

I'm starting to brace myself for the months of grey like a man on the edge. Things is, I need to look at the positives here: it looks like I'll have enough work to carry on living here in this countryside haven, and that's something I'm happy to keep hold of. Indeed, I had the sniff of a really decent piece of work up in Preston recently, and as tempting as working full-time and living around The Lakes is, I couldn't bear to think of losing the peace I've found here opn the edge of North Wales.

Musically, I still need to really get my soul into recording this new album ... it's essential because I feel like I'm losing a little ground at the moment ... nothing too drastic, but the longer I go without 'product' the more I am putting myself under pressure to deliver something substantial.

The two guitars are at the fixers at the moment, and one good thing has come of it; I've started to learn a few things on the piano at last! I'd just love to be able to play the piano ...

So, forthcoming gigs, John Cooper Clarke, Midge Ure, New Model Army, Wishbone Ash ... all good stuff. And then there's the forthcoming week at Monestevole in Italy. If I can just write one ace killer song that week, I'll be happy with the week's outing.

That's if Ryanair let me on their plane ... what is wrong with those people? Looks like I'm having to take them to Trading Standards for a little financial indiscretion that I'm none too happy with.

Thank the digitals for Film Four. I've found myself in a handful of quite decent films lately - Film Four's now free on Freeview - and it's been great. Even to the point that for the first time in ages last night, I drove out for Pizza.

Jack Nicholson, playing the creative loner in 'As Good As It Gets' and then Ford Coppola's 'The Godfather' have been the recent highlights, and both have had me thinking about family. What you might say, family values? Well no, because I'm not really sure what they are, other than a contradiction when practised on unsuspecting children, however I think the term 'family value' is closer to the thought trail.

Those of us who are fortunate to have family have something that is stable when times are hard, someone who will be there when the big shit really screws the fan. I can't imagine life without the knowing that if the bottom comes up and smacks me in the face, I'll have family there to help put my nose back on straight.

And it's good to know in your heart that family are the people you will never be too far away from, just in case they need you.

Family and forthcmoing shows - yep, see the gig guide people, the list is looking healthy again - I can once more be a happy go lucky chappy on the stage, and remind myself that I am a human being of worth. It's all looking good I guess ...

And by the way, on a personal note, I have to thank all those who travelled out to join me on my recent birthday. No-one really knows how good all that friendship felt on such an occasion.

I'm having a birthday very soon. I don't know about you but I've just hit a new phase with the way I think about birthdays now - I've started to treasure them again as celebrations; celebrating another year of life, as if it were a gift. To some I guess this is nothing new, but for me it's a nice change in thought pattern, as I've been cursing age for a little while now.

These days the blog has not been too active, as those of you who visit regularly will have noticed. I'm not sure if there's one particular reason for this, but I can hazard a guess at a few: for starters personal trauma recently kicked me numb again, Cath has taken Jasmine to Australia and to say it ended with a totally pointless kick in the teeth is an understatement. I really don't do anger and frustration, and yet I've drowned and suffocated on it. It's a fucking sickness, too much I tell ya, too much. I just hope Jazzy's happy, that's all that matters.

Then there's the bigger picture, and as fresh as the blood of a recently slaughtered corpse comes the trouble in the Middle East, and more sickening reminders that we live in, have always lived in, and always will live in, a world cursed by the horrors of hell and war. Again, I personally have just totally od'd on this, and have been studying tv documentaries on World War Two, which by the way is a great way to see and understand how the coccoon we live in has been built on the hopes of people who survived the mass slaughters the of last century, who in turn were children born of the hope that followed the brutality of the previous one, and the one before. I just can't see how and why there are people on this planet who think they have the right to keep the cycle of violence rolling. Hitler, Blair, Bush, Thatcher, Kithcener, Pinochet, Sharon, Saddam, Arafat ... they're all one and the same demon in my book.

On a personal note again, for me each day is another day of life living alone. Now that isn't as bad as it seems, for I think that without making too big an issue of it, I'm gaining some stable peace of mind, for the first time in a long long time. And it's only time that will tell ... my mental health is a rollercoaster, but it's no more a rollercoaster than anyone elses's. It's just that's it's my rollercoaster and I keep falling off the bastard. Subsequently, the songwriting seems to be all but dead in the water again, however I can happily say there's lots of stuff still unrecorded, so don't write me off yet, ok.

I am so pleased we're no longer having to suffer all that Rooney / Beckham / Wives And Girlfriends shit - newspaper fodder for the celebrity obsessed, clouding the fact that there are real issues we should be making ourselves aware of. And anyway, yet again the England pro-celebrity football team fails to justify the millions they and their sycophants take for themselves, and the fast food media just moves on like a sad pimp looking for easy prey, girls with their legs open and tits out for for a cheap laugh.

We build celebrities up and it's so poor, we don't even have to try to knock them down - some of them are so pitiful in their arrogance, it's like waiting for the pissy Manchester rain. And can we now please forget 1966 once and for all?

Then there's Zinedine Zidane ... what a story. An amazing and quite incredible end to the tournament that brought the world back down to the realities that exist for it's poorest people. Yes of course he could have walked away from the statement that he was "the son of a terrorist whore" (unofficial BBC translation), but why should he. I guess that given the choice of ignoring insults aimed at the immigrant roots of his childhood, in exchange for membership of the elite upper echelons of corporate world soccer, he would strike out to defend his family and people every time.

And good for him. For me Zinedine Zidane has helped to bring a little true passion and humanity back into a sport that is managed and controlled from within a coccoon littered with arrogant money whores. Yes it's difficult to let go of football, it's our game, and no way should we ever give it up, but as a footballer myself, albeit on an amateur level who fought for every ball, I too hope that with the world watching I would have sacrificed all that glitters for the dignity of my family.

His reaction in headbutting a rival player in the chest in the World Cup Final itself has been described as madness, and yet is it not the depravity of poverty and illness that riddles millions of poor families worldwide not the madness here? Is a reaction to an attack on those people, whether it's further economic terrorism or a verbal assault during a football match, really the problem? Or do we need to look deeper, as we do with the root causes of all violent reactions to injustice?

It seems so ridiculous that the football governing bodies should make such an anti-racism stand in public - this was a main focal point of the tournament - and then allow what appears to be a vicious verbal racist attack to go unpunished. At the time of writing, it has not been proved what exactly was said, but if the current lip-read evidence remains strongest, should the offending player not be stripped of his winning medal AT THE VERY LEAST? Of course he should, but you can bet that yet again we will see racism attacked as a media event, not as a point of action. I mean come on, can we honestly see the big men of World Football coming to aid the dignity of a few forgotten Algerians who've been scummed up in a lost corner of some untouchable city? No, not really. Better to shove this one under the carpet with the rest, make sure that the product remains strong and let's keep the desperate sweat shops in business.

Zinedine Zidane spent his childhood, the son of Algerian immigrants, in an impoverished high-rise block of infested cement with a desperate suicide rate, this being the last and only reasonable way out for too many of it's people. He saw that and felt that, this was the blood that became his life and soul and indeed, the making of his genius as a footballer. In defending this in this way, standing against the abuse of those people and making a great personal sacrifice, he has snapped us out of our star-struck trance at the most poignant of moments..

And yes he's a rich man through football, but like some who come through, he's shown that deep-down he is and always will be the angry child that has something to say, and an injustice to make a stand against. For that, we have a little something to look to and take comfort from.

Take the Ecuador team as probably a more worthy, yet less media friendly example ... earning a fraction of our own 'stars' they are worshipped at home, not for being arrogant pricks with ignorant girlfriends, re-cycling money for the high and shallow, but for the money they take back to feed and comfort their own impoverished communities.

May the World Cup of football always bring us those reminders, those people and stories, and may we yearn for and indeed recieve an English footballer not holding the World Cup aloft, but carrying some level of real courage and sense of humanity. That would be a victory well worth the front page of every newspaper, and a shirt for every child to wear with pride.

The internet, and in my case more recently My Space, has opened up a whole new beer cellar for me lately - friends from yesteryear are appearing in the inbox and that whole nostalgia thing is causing great moments of reflection for the poyzer headspace.

And I have to be honest ... the poyzer headspace is not a good place these days ... it needs poetry, so blessed be for this little adventure!

This weekend, it was the turn of one George Miburn. Old schoolie, band-mate, drinking and football mate? No ... actually, a guy whom I kinda hit a groove with musicially when I was first learning to play the guitar. We all need someone to show off our first 2 or 3 chords to, and I think George just happened to mention in a pub in Tintwistle one night many smiling moons ago that he had an acoustic guitar ... seemed like a good excuse for a jam, and so we jammed a bit.

Despite the fact that we jammed together maybe just 3 or 4 times, it was a song, a song that to me remains kinda special, that made meeting George again an important and meaningful occasion. That and the fact that he's a top chap of course! George is not a prolific writer, but he did pen this song called Black Magic Frog, and it was hearing him play this twisting, chameleon of a love song all those years ago that was for me, one of those special moments that convinced me I needed to write my own songs.

Since then we've both gone through relationship ups and downs, earned our living with sacrifices, George is divorced now and on the cusp of a new relationship, and I am on the verge of losing little Jasmine to a distance reaching over thousands of miles. So we arrived at a point where we met with honest discussion required, a few beers to accompany an outdoor gig followed by a little world cup footy and yes, we got round to jamming on the acoustic guitars once again. No Black Magic Frog alas ... George really needs to dig deep if he's ever going to find that one again I think, but nevertheless it was a soul-stirring day and half.

Sometimes you meet people from the past whom you shared lots of things with, and there's nothing there anymore. With music, it's strange but a simple song and vibe can hold so much meaning between musicians. I can't explain it, but I can say that I really was lifted by seeing George again. And yes George, you ARE a musician ...

"The word "time" is the most common noun in the English language, according to the latest Oxford dictionary."

Space. The space out there, the lack of space in our own heads. I have throughout my life enjoyed that stroll into open space and fresh air, in particular when I've had a river to follow. Thing with a river, it is ever changing, it's banks and levels of erosion like the path of life itself. The creatures with which you share it's journey are many, with whom you may think you are parallel, yet you do not swim as they do, breathe or die as one, feel equal amounts of pleasure or pain. You are unique. Truly.

There are so many poetic analogies to do with the river. For some the Moon, the Sun, some Goddess or mythical God or other are the overseers of life, yet for me it has always been a river. I always seem to draw life from it's ever changing, fresh, new, life and free spirited presence. There is no sadder sight than a polluted river, or one which is imprisoned by concrete and barriers, as it screams like the children our kind makes time to starve and massacre in this world.

Mankind has based his survival on the harnessing of the river. The first settlers will have been drawn to it, to meet the other animals and to jostle with them for a place by it's side. And the river would feed them all. The river has been touched to provide food and crops, steam and electricity, and now it seems great rivers are being diverted to bring desolation by act of economical and politcal war. Rivers are not mis-guided, and yet some of our people are ...

I've lived in cities, towns and countryside villages, and it's silly to think how often I have stayed within the space in my head, when there is a river and an open space to enjoy. I've never been too far away, and I always seem destined and drawn to return.

Is that which we call the universe a timeless chaos, a spillage of rocks thrown to spiral by some other force? Or are we the chaos, children collecting flowers in the silt on the bank as the river makes it's path to the sea, to evaporate and envelope all there is, play with that paradox of everything and nothing for the love of the light, then carry our lives safely through death. And then onwards towards life again ...

There is more to this, there is more to find along the river, there is more to the space in our own hearts and minds. Everything out there an illusion that has been drawn by the river. Our river, our time in this life ...

Seeking to find who I am, I will go down to the river. It is never the same river, although I like to think it is. I will name the river in accordance with the time of my life at which I have been captured by it's reflections. And then forget what time it is, as if time itself has been erased.

Sometimes I stop, stare and throw stones and try to disturb it's flow, and yet the river smiles and says "I knew you were going to do that, so I altered course accordingly". The river merely expands and implodes for the sheer joy of being. Maybe we shall meet again, my love. Same time, same place, different river.

Today I cried, my tears winding their way down my face, heading out to sea ... can you tell?

I never thought I'd be one of those people moaning when my technology goes down ... the wireless connection here has been playing havoc with my reliance on this stuff, and I've become a tech-addict without knowing. It's enough to make you scream ... ah, hold on, my attentions diverted, it's the footy World Cup!

Great, let's drop all our worries. We've got flags, car kit, mouse mat, Rooney mask ...

Thing is, if you take a look at the nations taking part, and the very roots of the communities that will be the most passionate, there's a good supply of the world's poorest people on the planet whose (mostly male) population is kicking a football about and hitting the drink and chant binge in anticipation of a few weeks of serious adrenalin rush. Angola, Brazil, Ecuador, Costa Rica ... even here, England. And I guess yet again, even though we greet this like the joy of birth itself, there's no doubt that those who fail and feel agrieved, will once more have excessive numbers of victims of violence, both in the bars and at home.

Yes people, this time around I've made a big effort to step outside the World Cup frenzy.

Now don't get me wrong - I have been a very passionate footballer in my time, and were it not for a dodgy knee I still would be. And I don't take the line that some do, saying that sport promotes tribal warfare and all that. I actually believe that as we are in the natural sense - a world of many cultures for whom identity and difference is essential - sport allows peaceful inter-cultural and international participation. In a more social and human sense, it also takes the hunger and adrenalin that fuels the most physical side of our nature and allows it to be expelled in a controlled setting. Boxing anyone? Same debate, more blood ...

Yes we can knock sport and the World Cup, and ridicule the idiots who spoil it with their nationalist hatred, violence, cheating etc. but let's look at how we might have evolved without civilised sport - we could still be throwing live people into an arena of lions for instance. This was the course of the most powerful empire on Earth not so long ago.

This World Cup like the last will divert the attention of millions away from the troubled world we live in. For some, that is everything to give poor rotten lives new meaning. For others, it's a reminder of how scary this place can be when nations and cultures stand up to one another as gladiators and haters.

For the winners? Booze, drugs, singing, dancing, all the usual with extra excess and a massive boost for the political systems of that nation, whether they be just or otherwise. Lots of money for the stars, glamour and a feeding frenzy fuelled by a small number of media moguls who don't care who wins, so long as it's one of the nations where they hold a controlling media interest.

For me? Well, this time around instead of going to the bars and adding to the testosterone, I'll be watching occasional games on a home tv, occasionally peeping out of the window skywards, looking to see if there's an increase in distant plane trails in the direction of some cold fascist torture cell. A place where all the refs are blind and there is no offside rule for some. I'll be peeping away from the big screens wondering if there's a dark corner witnessing yet another plan being drawn to cause havoc amongst peoples, and give fervour to some hideous religious or power-crazed cause. With my replica shirt sponsored by conspiracy and paranoia, I'll be thinking outside the box.

I'll be deliberately avoiding the purchase of any sponsoring products who fail to entertain me. I'll enjoy this for what it is: sport, football, a lad's game, a boy thing, a buzz, a rush, a joy, a step into a boxing ring and ultimately maybe a gut feeling of despondency as a killer blow bloodies the nation.

And I'll think back as I often do to one particular Sunday morning when I lay in bed with a beautiful girlfriend of mine: stunning and warm, sensuous and outstanding, pausing to soothe my every need with her slow burning feminine charm. I was looking into her eyes as a car horn startled and beeped outside, the lads were shouting up to me, beckoning me towards the footy pitch and a must win cup match.

I remember my feeling as I got up to leave ... our feelings ... it's strange how some moments in life stay with you forever. For me, love and football are eternal in their battle to control and wreak havoc with my soul.

The other night I wrote an angry blog, and I mentioned how a good friend of mine was suffering a relapse with Cancer, having come through what everyone thought was the worst of it. We even had a celebration meal at his house only a couple of weeks ago.

Well, I've removed that entry. Our friend Dave Marsh, who within a few days of re-admittance to hospital, passed away peacefully last night.

Dave is one of those really nice, wonderful, caring, loving, sensitive men ... the sort you rarely find, but when you do, your only regret in life is that you didn't find the time somewhere to have such a positive outlook and make such a positive impression, as he does on other people.

Married with children to Annie Marsh, who recently at retirement age launched herself into a poetry career, Dave is the man who inspired the song Men and Machines. It came from his own retirement, his love for Annie, his anger at the war-makers of the world, and his escape to a life away from man made machinery and systems.

Here are the words to the song, a link to the song for you to listen to and in the first, the words I have often used to describe the inspiration that brought me to write:

A song written in June 2003. It was inspired by two good friends of mine, now in their late 50’s, who have been together most of their lives and are now reaching the time when despite all the troubles in the world, their love for each other remains strong and more important than ever.

I'm seriously thinking of faking my death
And just living for the Summers we have left
Here in our lives
Wiping a tear of loss from my eyes

All I had were Men and Machines
Shaping my nightmares and dreams
Now your love has given me wings
I can glide on the breeze

I'm seriously thinking of just letting go
Of the charts and the maps that lead me from home
The things that divide us are fuel for the fire
A beacon of hope, a heart of desire
For all that it's worth
Protecting our children at birth

From the call of the men and machines
Experiments in whole new extremes
Consuming much more than they need
As they burn, on the breeze

History shows there's no light at the end of their day
Just the slaves and the graves of the millions who get in the way

As men and machines, fight with men and machines
As men and machines, steal from men and machines
So that men and machines
Can go about their business, whatever that means

I'm seriously thinking of faking my death
And just living for the Summers we have left
Here in our lives
Wiping a tear of loss from your eyes

All I had were Men and Machines
Shaping my nightmares and dreams
Now your love has given me wings
I can glide on the breeze

Dogging. Surely this means taking your dog for a walk and nothing more? Well, that's all that I was doing at the time ...

There's a little stop-off on the way home where I occasionally walk the dog ... it's just off-road via a car park, and has enough undergrowth for Shannon the dog to go and do what she does most often. So, there I was, out of the car, through the gap in the hedges, onto a path that leads towards more bushes and trees.

So, there's two guys stood about 20 yards away, looking sheepishly towards the trees. I think nothing of it at first, as another guy walks past me in their direction. He's got a rip in the rear of his jeans and it's of no importance at this point. Then there's another guy appears behind me, in a long white coat. Thing is, I'm already intrigued, and have started to walk the dog down towards the two guys ...

What is it? A dead body? A naked couple getting it on? Some startling graffiti? A dead animal maybe, someone having a trauma of sorts, or just nothing in particular?

As I get closer, it's only as I get to see exactly what is going on that I realise there are now about 8 men ambling around this scene. And the focal point of this scene is a man against a tree with his trousers down, and what appears to be another man's head at groin height, doing the oral bob-a-job.

Now at first I thought hey hey, there's a friendly girl, but then none of these guys were doing that macho thing and jumping in for a grab and all that. The atmosphere seemed quite relaxed. At least it did for a split second, until I lost sight of the dog, fearing she might want to go sniffing around, as I contemplated that fact that I was actually some 100 yards from the main road, in early evening twilight, alone in a nest of aroused gay gentlemen.

I'm not homphobic. Once back in my car I reflected on this as being a liberation for homosexuals who in this part of the country, have no 'gay village' or 'safe scene' I guess. I still had that fear of the unknown though, and it was this that led me to walk away swiftly rather than make polite conversation.

Forward to two weeks later ... I return for the first time to the location, mid-afternoon with dog for her usual canine crouch and relief. And I don't know whether it was coincidence or whether this is a regular spot and I've only just noticed it, but I am being watched by a man and then deliberately followed along the path by another who is wearing shorts. He points out to me rather regretfully that the bushes and trees here have all been cut down, the area cleared of undergrowth and hiding places.

I reply "that's farmers for you", and I swiftly return to the car. I am a little un-nerved. It's as if I've just had a conversation with the ghost of a fox, an animal hunted and slaughtered into deep hiding over centuries, who has come to greet the fresh air of liberation and hunt for himself.

I don't particularly want to be his prey, and yet I don't begrudge him his natural existence. I sense however that others do and will do so with unrelenting hatred, and I somehow doubt that he will be welcome on this plot of the land for much longer. The local farmers appear to have served him notice ...

14 April 2006 - What have Glenn Tilbrook, Chris Difford, The Levellers, Frank Zappa, Darren Poyzer and Killing Joke got in common? (with thanks to Nick Harper)

Buy the guy's albums and never look back ... he's still and always will be 'there' ... you know, 'there'.

Being a 'townie', whenever a river overflows I go rushing for sandbags and checking insurance policies. Out here in the country, when such an occurence comes along, it seems the done thing to sit back and relax, and allow the local rivers to spread themselves out across the land.

It doesn't take much for the River Dee in the Farndon area and upstream to burst it's countryside banks. I guess further downstream towards Chester, the banking and overflow systems are a little more controlled, however here the landscape changes with the rainfall, and what a sight it is for the uninitiated.

The River Dee has caught my intention on quite a few occasions recently, and each time I have gone venturing to find a alternative viewpoint where I can watch the river as it reaches across regular boundaries into unexplored territory, bringing with it all manner of debris and mood swings.

This last week I've strolled out to Farndon and upstream to Bangor-on-Dee, and on both occasions have enjoyed the life spirit the river brings with it. There's something about a river that I find refreshing, invigorating and exciting.

I never ever watch TV usually, but keep getting drawn to the damn thing at the moment ... actually, it's probably because I'm not too well right now, that's my excuse. So, did you see it, How To Have A Good Death? Thanks to the BBC for another classic piece of tele that makes you go 'whoah there boy, stop right now'.

In the build-up to this, I was thinking that this programme more than most, would be tainted in the the mould of it's host. I kinda thought for instance that Professor whathisface would have been the host, you know, the one with the babies who grow up and stuff, Professor Winston Moustache.

Secretly however, I really yearned for no-one else but Jeremy Clarkson; How To Have A Good Death with your host, Jeremy Clarkson. Scenes of him endlessly ramming cars into rushing trains at 160 mph, getting out, brushing himself off and saying "you ain't seen nothing yet, try this for size" as he flies a JCB off the edge of Dover Cliffs. Fucking amazing tele.

As it is, we got Esther 'bleeding heart' Rantzen. So it was pretty much welcome to Dullsville.There was one moment where she questioned an MP about assisted suicide, and it almost got interesting, but she's not exactly Paxman is she. A wasted opportunity to really get stuck into what is a very controversial subject.

I mean come on - how can you investigate the whole process of death, dying, hospitals etc without kicking off big style about the cash and resources bleeding of the NHS, and the expense of funerals and coffins. Next time Esther, kick off, just for once in your life ... we need questions and answers not weepy whimsies.

My Space. That devil of an internet fame thing, where's the catch? Dunno, the poyzer jury is out on this one. Let's all have lots of friends who aren't really friends, imaginary friends, computer generated friends, friends who will never let us down because they don't really exist do they. They are just names and pictures on a monitor screen. And all the while we sit at our keyboards looking to lure them into our space, we're missing out on life.

Then again, some of them are real, we now have CB Radio without the fashion police making your life hell, and it's a kick. Old friends you thought were dead coming back to say hello, new friends finding a way to say hello respectfully without having to worry about not being cool. Or their mobile phone bill.

It's addictive, that simple fix, that great opportunity to share each other's music, pictures, thoughts ... it's websites for all, and this time around all owned by Rupert Murdoch. In amongst this great liberation of social interplay, the adverts and the hidden messages come thick and fast. Are we the kids being cloned and set-up for some great big mindscrew fest? I dunno ... I've watched enough Hollywood movies to not have any genuine virgin opinions anymore, I've already been silently murdered by the thought police and I guess this can't be any worse.

Suggest you go and listen to the exclusive play of Julie Rainbow (solo demo version) and add me as a friend ... I promise not to share your life, provide any real warmth or have any expectations of our relationship. Just add me, go on, I need it, go on, please ... please. Fix me baby. I will approve of our friendship in the usual way, and you won't feel a thing.

You can't beat a truly beautiful gig ... tongiht, my 5th show with Wishbone Ash, and joined this time by Kevin Farrell on guitar ... really thought we played it so well, big stage, big crowd. lots of love and respect afterwards. I have doubted myself on so so many occasions, that success like we enjoyed tonight is still something that takes me by surprise.

And you know, it's kinda nice that way, even if the self-doubt really cripples me when it sets in.

Massive and big thanks to all the Wishbone Ash fans who've made me so very welcome, and on behalf of Kevin also ... it really is a privilege to play to so many really decent people.

1: Take phone call from promoter early afternoon asking that lovely question, "do you want a gig tonight" ... support to Wishbone Ash in Nottingham ... answer in the affirmative even though you have various important amounts of day work in other places.

3: Fill up with petrol and garage sandwiches at 6.05pm. Scan road map for best way to get to gig. You are in Warrington.

5: Call promoter at 7pm and tell him you're nearly there. You are stuck in roadworks outside Stoke.

7: Arrive in Nottingham at 7.45pm with internet map giving directions to everywhere but the venue.

8: Phone promoter, request one d.i. and mic, glass of water, and directions to this impossible to find venue.

9: Turn on a least three occasions into a no entry one way street. This is a tram line and your bowels are starting to twitch.

10: Notice the venue up a small alleyway. It's 8pm. Park car in alleyway, run into venue, mutter something about being on stage.

11: You''re in an adjoining bar. Ask for directions to stage. Someone says through that curtain. You choose to run through the one that covers a brick wall. Curse every single one of the bastards who chuckles loudly.

13: Remove coat, see sign saying stage time is 8.15pm, plug in, play like a man posessed.

15: Enjoy the after-show greeting of Andy Powell, regularly voted one of the world's top 20 guitarists, who appreciates your efforts as a one-man warm-up who gave a very professional performance.

16: Drink a pint of Guiness. Relax. Make note to self: never ever push it that close again.

Regular readers of the poyzer blog will know that I seldom watch tele ...however every now and then, I choose my newly acquired xmas pressie digibox as an alternative to the reality of the internet. I therefore get to watch The Sweeney in all it's original glory, way too much Fred Dibnah and the occasional TV gem.

Last night I came across one such gem: The Falklands Play. The line that suckered me said this tv dramatisation of the Ministerial events that led to The Falkands War in 1982, was commissioned in 1986, but was prevented rather controversially from being filmed for reasons un-known. Until last night that is.

I must admit I thought at first 'conspiracy'! Tory tentacles of bribery and corruption will have directed campaigns to prevent 'the truth' being documented on national TV, however this morning I've read a bit of blurb about the play, and find the opposite; apparently it was stopped within BBC circles because it favoured Thatcher's stance and the role of her Government.

I must admit, not knowing this beforehand made me watch the play with open eyes and mind, and to be honest I read up on this earlier today because it had left me troubled. In the dramatisation, Thatcher was shown as this caring, fragile woman, her Cabinet shown to be a rather weak and pathetic bunch of quite decent and likeable gents. The arguments and reasons for conflict were given grace and controlled affable discussion. And yet on this issue of 'sovereignty' they stood against the 'rest of the world', in particular the highest level of US and UN intervention, without so much as a backbone.

They stood for war, for bloodshed, for massacre, as a choice. They were backed by high finance press and media manipulation of a population that was too easily led; a population that went with this a hell of a lot easier than the concensus of idiots that gob-shited support for Blair's Iraq blood-fest.

Sure, there was the issue of someone somewhere needing to intervene with the murderous antics of certain South American governments, but that was a United Nations issue of absence from duty (as it is today), and not even a dramatisation that favoured Thatcher's arguments and chosen paths made me see it any other way. In fact, as I say, I was left even more troubled by this; the arguments just do not make sense. Unless of course you believe in the british empire and all that bullshit ... bullshit and empire that we, and future generations, will continue to be enlisted to defend, as it's eternal enemies ride against us.

I'm truly sick and tired of this argument that we need to fight terrorism with terrorism ... looking through history, it's hardly a new argument, and it's one that never serves anyone else but it's paymasters, hurters and executioners.

And oh yes, for those who don't know, the task force of 1982 included an 18 year old boy called Darren Poyzer, a catering accountant on the ship known as HMS Broadsword, fresh out of school, seeking a life away from the small town factory his careers advisor had chosen for him. We had no wars in those days, you joined up to experience drinking and girls, and get a career in something, just something a little more substantial that small town industry.