A Free Man In Preston

Now and then this week I’ve been thinking about Abby in New York, dreaming of a quiet nine to five in a nice little office somewhere with a modest income and dried up spider plants in the corner, her life on hold until she can finally wrestle her never ending dissertation to the ground, give it a good kicking, then move on.

We chatted on the phone - well, technically she ‘interviewed’ me, but I feel daft putting it like that - last Thursday, and very pleasant and flattering it was too.
Her dissertation is, or will be, about matters “work blog” related, with a sort of North West England theme tying it together.
One day it will be a highly revered paper, or even a book, or possibly a West End musical starring Nicole Kidman, with a score produced by the Pet Shop Boys. Who knows?
What’s certain is that in the not too distant future, Abby will have a brass plate outside her door pronouncing her a Doctor of Blogging, and she’ll have her own little flashing light and siren to avoid getting stuck in traffic jams, and she’ll be able to park wherever she pleases. And that’s cool.

Because she’s a proper academic, the very next day I received a transcript of our conversation. Sweet baby Jesus, I don’t half talk a load of ignorant bollocks after a bottle of wine.
I come across as somebody not entirely used to the concept of the spoken word, and it’ll take a lot of editing - hell, a complete re-write - before I can sign it off as an accurate record of what we discussed. But if it helps to get you off the student treadmill and makes me seem slightly, you know, I mean, you know, like, you know, less inarticulate, then I’ll be only too happy to do that for you, Abby. Good luck, best wishes, and all that.

The following evening I met up with friend of the people and fellow virtual parishioner, Backroads. He had a spare ticket to see Bob Mould and asked me along to join him. Which was nice. Although it wasn’t a date or anything.
We found a pleasant window seat in the Kro Bar, and sat bickering and sniping at each other like an old married couple -
“You might have ironed that T-shirt before coming out in it.”
“Oh fuck off.”
“And how many pints is that now? Don’t forget you’re driving.”
“Oh fuck off.”
- while we gazed at the beautiful people basking in the golden Manchester sunshine, thinking about what might have been and where it all went wrong for us.
We talked about what happens when bloggers go mad, and how Vancouverites re-act if you should say in the middle of a downpour, “Well, at least it’s not raining.”

The concert was good. I’m no Bob Mould expert, but I enjoyed his hollering for dear life delivery, his delusions before the gig that he could walk around the venue incognito simply by putting his hood up, and the spectacle of so many devoted and well lubricated fans making arses of themselves and having a great time. So thanks very much, and anytime you should find yourself round my neck of the woods, I’ll dedicate a stanza of “Dirty Ol’ Town” especially to you.

And the rest of the time, I’ve been crouched in a corner, rocking gently back and forth, and murmuring, “Oh Frank! Keep it down.”