Most of the time my head is on straight

WELL I guess it had to come…

I had been blogging for 35 days and published 29 posts when hit it me… why am I doing this?

I guess the answer is obvious, it is because I need to. I need to say so much which I have kept bottled up for far too long, and sometimes it becomes like a stream of consciousness explosion.

But as most bloggers – and indeed writers – know, it is feckin’ lonely at times. Like writing into a vacuum which steals words and sucks out the soul.

So last night I had my first crisis of confidence and was slipping back to that desolate spot I found myself in last June. I told my friends via email and Facebook that I would be pulling the plug on my blog and stopping the daily writing. I went to bed feeling exhausted, and aside from dreaming about the ghost girl in our kitchen, I slept like the dead.

I woke this morning at 6.40 to my wife Gill shaking me and telling me, with tears in her eyes: “You are not stopping your blog. Loads of people like it and read it. I read it and if you are writing it for me alone you must continue. Just look at the comments on Facebook.”

I hugged her close and with sleepy eyes started reading a raft of Facebook comments.

That is when I started to cry.

All the comments were from friends, family and work colleagues – past and present – telling me to carry on, as they actually enjoy reading my stuff! They are all amazing. I think the ones which touched me most were from fellow journalists whom I admire as writers and editors themselves.

Then I noticed four private messages on Facebook. Each said the same. One in particular really touched me, from someone I have not seen in two years. Part of it read: “Hi Nic, how very random of me sending u a pm! Just read your status and don’t feel eloquent or brave enough to comment on your post but want you to know that I got so engrossed one day reading one part of your blog my little girl managed to get in far more Peppa time than I would normally allow. I was truly moved by your writing. Don’t give up… I would love to read more if I get the chance!”

Then came emails and text messages.

One arrived just a minute ago as I write this piece. It is from a very dear friend, who I see far too rarely and who has endured life experiences similar to my own. Her text was unexpected, full of love and life affirming. She ended it with the words: “You have brought a lot of happiness into people’s lives and that is what defines you the most, my dear, dear friend.”

Yep, I cried again.

So now have the kick up the pants I needed and continue where I left off. Suddenly friends have made me feel good about myself and made me realise that the vacuum is all in my mind!

Thank you everyone for everything.

But I finish this posting with something else that inspired me in that first hour of the day. Beth Orton shared on Facebook a wonderful eulogy to Lou Reed, written by one of my other heroes, Patti Smith.

The music and words of Lou Reed have been with me since I was 16, but the genius and poetry of Patti came far too late. It was only when she returned to recording and gigging in the mid 1990s – after an eight year hiatus – that I really discovered her.

Patti knows what pain feels like.

In 1989, her best friend Robert Mapplethorpe died of an Aids-related illness. The American photographer shot the iconic image of Smith on the front cover of her seminal album Horses. In late 1994, her husband, Fred ‘Sonic’ Smith, once a guitarist with pre-punk rockers MC5, died of a heart attack, leaving her with two young children. Less than a month later, her brother Todd died suddenly. Small wonder her return album in 1996 was titled Gone Again.

Her words move like few others I have ever read or heard.

Patti’s eulogy to Lou can be found here: http://www.newyorker.com/talk/2013/11/11/131111ta_talk_smith

Read it if you get a chance.

Meantime I aim to dedicate my next few blog postings to writers I admire.

 

Brief Encounter #5

Cyril Smith MP

MY meeting with the obese child abusing MP for Rochdale was thankfully very brief.

It was the late summer of 1980 and I was standing outside Euston Station following an enjoyable day out in London.

Suddenly I heard a kerfuffle at the nearby taxi rank.

I apologise to anyone who may find the following offensive but it really was bizarre in the extreme.

I turned to witness the gargantuan Cyril Smith trying and failing to get into the back of a black cab.

The moment of dark humour was complete when a man – I presume to be his secretary or parliamentary aide – pushed him with both hands into the taxi.

Suddenly he was in!

It was like a dry cork popping from an over-full wine bottle. The aide looked exhausted!

I never did find out how Mr Smith exited the taxi or whether this was a daily exercise in fat cabs.

Cyril Smith died in 2010 aged 82.

In 2012, following allegations of child abuse, the Crown Prosecution Service formally admitted Smith should have been charged with the sexual abuse of boys during his lifetime.

Greater Manchester Police said the boys “were victims of physical and sexual abuse” by Smith.

In November 2012, GMP Assistant Chief Constable Steve Heywood said there was “overwhelming evidence” that young boys were sexually and physically abused by Smith.

Brief Encounter #3

Mel Smith

MY encounter with the portly and incredibly funny Mel Smith was brief and eternally memorable.

For those who don’t know me, one of my lifelong passions – indeed an obsession – is the music of a certain Robert Allen Zimmerman, known to the world as Bob Dylan.

I have followed Mr Dylan to gigs across the UK and Europe, and as age catches up with me and my hearing fades I truly believe the voice of the legend just gets better and better.

Anyway I digress.

It is February 1990 and I have tickets for three successive nights of a six night Bob Dylan residency at the Hammersmith Apollo in London.

On the first night at the Apollo I manage to brush shoulders with former England fast bowler Bob Willis and the late and great Dylanologist John Bauldie in the theatre bar. I also manage to get my car locked in a multi-storey car park and have to pay the attendant £10 to free it for me.

So when the second night arrives – and to save any repetition of the car park fiasco of the previous evening – I decide to beat the rush and leave during Bob’s second encore. On this evening that song is a delightful solo of Dark is a Dungeon.

I catch just the first two verses on the alleyway to the stairs before leaving quietly and quickly.

I arrive at the swing doors of the Apollo in an empty foyer and am set to leave into the cold winter night. I fumble in my leather jacket pocket for my car keys when suddenly I am almost knocked over by a bustling and puffing man also making a fast exit from the gig.

I look up to see the smiling and slightly red face of Mr Smith.

“Oops, sorry mate,” he says as he pushes through the doors.

He turns briefly and adds: “Sorry I am in a rush”, before disappearing into the night.

I guess there were two concert goers that night who missed the full beauty of Bob’s Dark is a Dungeon… Mel and me!