"By Jesus said Paddy"

"By Jesus said Paddy I sing it so well
I think I'll get up and I'll sing it again
Over and over and over again."

I hear voices as I lay. Kentucky Fried Chicken brain, throat like sandpaper. I turn to my right as the sun pushes through the thin curtains highlighting the portrait - from The Face - of the beautiful black girl on my wall.

For a second I place my hand to the left of the bed to see if anybody is there. There isn't. I am home alone. Alone with the voices of Jesus and Paddy. But thanfully no apparition, no ghostly apparition, no Highgate vampire.

Not today, not last night and hopefully not today.

I shower and I'm fine. Lazy Sunday afternoon in my stately bedsit. Or maybe a stroll across the heath. Or down to Camden to see how the punks, freaks, rockabillies and soul boys are doing. Or maybe I should just walk.

Why not? I set off: Through Highgate Woods, up through the village, by the cemetery, down Swain's Lane and onto the heath. Not glancing back. Not looking. Not stopping at those gothic gates.

On the heath I am lost in my own world. This is not my place. I look different to the people on here. There is no reek of money off me. These are the folks with children called Jemima and Piers. Their dogs are pedigree and their friends are chums. They dogs not bum like where I am from. Nannies. Mary Poppins "80s stylee". Swedish au pairs. So cold and so concise. Like the heath itself.

I wander rapidly from the crowd. Bubble jacket to keep ot the cold. Ducks on the pond and duck down in my coat. Keeping me warm. Keeping me fine.

Sony Walkman screams: "Geno Geno".

I am that young soul rebel as I walk faster until I reach Hampstead village. I put my head in Meenys and check their preppie attire as the girls from the JFS take their coffees and shake their tousled hair. Flirting with the boys from Highgate School. Across religions but not across the classes.

I drop in the Flask for a pint and a peruse of the Sunday broadsheets. It is not my place but they do not bother me. In their grandfather's clothes with their arranged brides. And their sons in their hand-me-downs down - or is it up - from Cambridge. But they go their way and I go mine.

From Hampstead to Belsize to Primrose to Camden. A quick walk around the market and some Mexican food. From pudding and chips to Pollo Picado. From punk to post-punk in a couple of years. And now there are people in make-up and dresses thinking they are original.

Have they never heard of The Sweet?

And then I'm heading north. Through Kentish Town and Tufnell Park. Archway, Highgate and home.

Walking for England. Walking to clear the head and clear the nightmares of vampires and how these streets are not paved with gold.

The cowboys in America call it hotwalking; as they walk the bucking broncos around the ring to calm those pesky mavericks down. I walk to cool myself down. I am a hotwalker....

SHIT FASHION LABEL OF THE MONTH - FEBRUARY

AND STEP FORWARD HENLEY’S – ON A WANKER’S BODY VERY NEAR YOU NOW!!!

A DIFFERENT KIND OF SHOE

The small Finnish company is taking advantage of its sportswear legacy by reintroducing classic designs under the Karhu Originals banner.
As we try and get away from the endless adidas reissues we like the these stripped down Karhu Originals Olympic trainers. These low trainers are available in leather or suede and in a range of colours. They're so named because they were part of the Olympic uniform for the Finnish team in 1972 - but as they looked so good, the company decided to mass produce them.

They retail for around £70 - the Karhu site has a list of places where you can buy them.

http://www.karhuoriginals.com/

21 REASONS WHY PREMIERSHIP FOOTBALL IS DEAD

and that is before this 39th Step or whatever it is...

1. MOTD - It was always Match of the Day and Sam Leitch was the presenter

2. The chase for 4th spot

3. Cheerleaders - If want to see half-naked 13-year-olds I'll give Gary Glitter a bell for his contacts book

4. MOTD 2 and the despicable Adrian Chiles

5. £48 a ticket at Chelsea

6. No edge in the air around the ground/streets

7. SKY Sports and all who sail in that abomination of a TV station

8. Games at dinner and tea times

9. New kits (normally 3) each season

10. People going to the game dressed up and thinking they are in Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.

11. Programmes resembling magazines, costing a fiver and having nothng but shite in them

12. Irish and Scandanavians asking if you've "any spares"

13. Sixteen teams trying to finish in 17th place

14. SKY Super Sundays

15. Facist Stewards and Police. Don't stand up, don't shout, don't have a beer before you go the game

16. Football as product

17. Bling culture amongst the players. Let me run this by you: Putting a diamond stud in your ear does not make you a great footballer

18. And big black cars that cost more than a 3-bedroom house impress nobody other than that scouse slut Sheringham was rattling

19. Opta Stats, Pro zone, etc etc - You're trying to kick a ball into a net at one end and stop it going in the net at the other...

20. Starting elevens wth not one Englishman in them

21. Because we lose every week

I'm a Muswell Hillbilly Boy

“Well I said goodbye to Rosie Rooke this morning,
I'm gonna miss her bloodshot alcoholic eyes,
She wore her Sunday hat so she'd impress me,
I'm gonna carry her memory 'til the day I die.

Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

I’m in the pavement looking up at the stars. Except there aren’t any stars as it’s still sunny. My shoes are sticking to the tarmac and I’m smiling and I’m singing.

Soho never looks better than when you’re wasted on the pavement. And I’m singing and I’m laughing and out of the corner of my eye I see Guzzling spark out. The Salford national anthem is playing and the pigs will be here in a minute.

Out my right eye I see the trashed ice cream van and remember that Guzzling has only gone and tipped it over. He kept asking for a flake for his Guinness and then there was a crash and a bang and a wallop and I fell over. Marty ran. I tried to run but just kept singing and sticking to the tarmac and Guzzling collapsed.

The filth is here – never when you want one, eh?

The landlord of the French House - who is actually French - has identified Guzzling as the culprit and they are currently trying to pick him up in all senses of the word.

Shocked into action I check my pocket and roll the bottle of poppers under the ice cream van. Whizzed up and popped Guzzling is for it.

I somehow raise my feet from the ground and haul myself up. I walk in a circle and stumble into a table and chair but I manage to compose myself somehow. Guzzling appears comatose and I walk past him and start to make my way to the Cambridge singing quietly:

“Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

“Oh move along you fucking pissed-up wanker else you’ll be joining this waster here”, says PC Cunt

“Sure sir.”

And then I hear it.

Guzzling, quietly at first and then louder and then full blast.

“Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

Oh no!

“Oh yes”, says PC Cunt as I feel the steel on my wrists and they tighten the cuffs just that bit too tight and then comes the dig in the ribs. Always the ribs, and always the same response from me:

“Is that the best you can do?” and it is, as the second never hurts as much.

“I’ve got your number hit me in the face.”

But they never do.

It seems an age before Guzzling joins me in the back of the van.

“Vine Street it is then, Guzzling.”

Vine Street it is then, Rich.”

And we laugh and then we start singing softly:

"They'll move me up to Muswell Hill tomorrow,
Photographs and souvenirs are all I've got,
They're gonna try and make me change my way of living,
But they'll never make me something that I'm not.
Cos I'm a Muswell Hillbilly boy,
But my heart lies in old West Virginia,
Never seen New Orleans, Oklahoma, Tennessee,
Still I dream of the Black Hills that I ain't never seen.”

From a work in progress; SKIN AND BONE

Lyrics: R.D.Davies

"They shoot Old Skinheads, don't they"

If they do then they really should have shot this one this week. I've had everything from mild pneumonia to severe depression stopping off en-route at coughs, cold, cramp, more coughs, breathlessness, insomnia and lack of appetite. But you can't stop me bouncing back on my air-wear soles.



It's the weekend and I'm looking forward to:

A full English

Georgie Fame's 'Somebody stole my thunder'

The beginning of the 6 Nations

West Ham at home

Later 200 with Jools Holland

Sleeping

Chan Marshall's 'Jukebox'

Wondering at how magnificent The Felice Brothers are

Reading the Sunday papers while watching the rugby

Not having to bother about stupid transfer windows

Writing my book

Reading Henning Mankell

And learning shorthand

And wondering ... WHY?