“I am returning from your palace to my house.” Queen Victoria, writing to the Duchess of Sutherland
I’ve written a novel on advertising that’s been rubbished by the best publishing houses in London.
I have a First Class Honours Language Degree, with a distinction for spoken Spanish. It’s been a while since I spoke it at length. Learning a language is not like learning to ride a bike.
I have an FA Coaching Badge – me, and thirty other sweaty blokes who played five-a-side, completed a multiple choice pub quiz, then celebrated the fleeting return of our youth over a jar or six. Some of them are now part of the England set-up.
I’ve recorded some songs on my Gretsch Pro Jet guitar and eight-track mixer. Me playing rhythm, bass and lead with a drum track behind. All in the key of A. All instrumental. No words. Yet.
I spent seven years in a car breaker’s yard, getting oil under my fingernails, removing starter motors and learning how to swear. I actually have two language degrees.
Around once a week, I sit like Canute before the incoming tides of web-techery. Armed with a pencil.
But you ought to see my internet radio.
I have a liking for Sarah Hughes. Her Dark Ruby mild, 6%, is brewed two miles from where I live. It’s almost black in colour with a red tinge and a coffee-coloured head. Some men buy it to soak the Sunday joint in before cooking. They are fools.
I fervently wish that in our state education system, levels of discipline, imagination and social interaction were as good at 16 as at 6.
I was born in 1965. Every day I want to be 18 in 1966. Riding my scooter.