Excuse me while I plug Electric Baby Grand again , the first Enormous album on Big Arena Records.
Sales are going very well, but you don’t have a copy, do you Johnny? And neither do you, do you Emma?
So, if you are bored with Britney Spears and have had it up to here with bloody Coldplay, please, for the good of the country, put your hands in your pockets and pop on over to bigarenarecords.com and grab a copy of the stunning debut album by the band of English rogues that Mojo call ‘potential nouveau powerpop colossi’.
Seriously, I would dearly love for you to hear the songs on there, but, more than that, I would really like some of your money.
This, from Mojo magazine, is one of my favourites:
‘Enormous are potential nouveau powerpop colossi.’
Couldn’t have put it better myself.
Audrey and I put Hamilton on the train to Manchester this morning. He spent more than an hour on the telephone to his agent after breakfast and has managed to borrow a modest flat in the city for a few months. He even has some voice-over work lined up.
He also dug deep and managed to find the energy to flatter the attractive girl in the ticket office on the frosty westbound platform of Alfreton station. ‘Darling, your beauty is so radiant that it brings unspeakable pain to an average man’s eyes,’ he told her.
She eyed him with feline detachment from behind the toughened glass of her tiny booth before replying, ‘That’s twenty-five pounds and seventy-nine pence, please.’
Then, rather unexpectedly, she looked at me and held my gaze for a few seconds. If I was more fanciful, I might have assumed that there was some romantic significance in her stare, but I fear it was merely my overactive thyroid playing up again. Either way, I cannot deny that Hamilton’s observation was not inaccurate: she did indeed have very beautiful grey eyes and otherwise exquisite features.
‘Your Uncle Nelson arrives tomorrow,’ I reminded Audrey as we made our way back to the house.
The dashing and debonair Mr. Galaxy will be here for two weeks to continue working on his début album and, it being Christmas and all, we shall probably have to venture out of an evening to hunt for sexy lady women girls. ‘Tis the season to polish my mojo.
Meanwhile, my little dog knows that later today she will be having her yuletide bath (I may even have one myself, come to think of it) and consequently, she is doing her best to hide from me. She is ensconced presently in a dark corner under the bed trying to look as tiny and inconspicuous as possible. She is being as quiet as a mouse, but if she were to say anything, it would probably be this: ‘Nobody here but us chickens!’
I treated myself to a restorative shopping trip to Nottingham yesterday. Amongst other things, I bought an expensive French Connection sweater and House of Meetings, the new Martin Amis novel.
For some reason, almost every pretty woman that I passed gave me a cute smile or even went so far as to nod at me by way of an informal salutation. One or two even uttered a quick ‘Hi!’. (This latter activity is something of a rarity on the streets of Nottingham.) I checked my flies several times and gave my reflection a quick once-over in the window of Debenhams in case there was something comically wrong with my appearance, but everything seemed in order. ‘Must be a full moon,’ I muttered under my breath.
I decided to take lunch in the Bell Inn on Slab Square. I ordered a pint of bitter and a chip cob. As I was rifling happily through my purchases, I couldn’t help noticing that a trio of handsome office-girls who were seated on stools at the bar were constantly glancing in my direction and giggling. At one point, one of them – an attractive brunette with dark eyes and long legs – gave me one of the most alluring smiles I have ever received. I re-checked my flies and in so doing knocked over my glass and hiccupped loudly. I’m sure I went bright red as well.
Of course, they could have been saying to each other something along the lines of: ‘Look at that creepy guy sitting on his own by the window who keeps staring at us. What a weirdo.’ But in the pleasant little reverie I was enjoying on the bus journey home, it was more along the lines of: ‘I wish he were mine.’
On returning to the house, I opened a tin of tuna by way of a modest celebration.