Born somewhere in the last century, and dressed in a groovy crushed velvet suit in a vibrant deep purple until the age of sixteen, the objectives of fashion can seem bewildering. This lustrous attire was indeed so tight by this stage, that it needed to be surgically removed by a physician of consummate skill. Unfortunately this was in the middle of the disco era and a cheap white suit was stitched into its place instead. This was fine for a few months until the Sex Pistols spewed forth anarchy, and from the smallest of villages every small town bully boy reckoned the wearing of such as suit was simply asking for some trouble. Which was fait enough. Timing is everything in life and the author is always a tad overdue.

Eminently unemployable, the author has done most jobs in a bid to find the dreams of the shallow, that insubstantial objective of the insincere and living: money.

Whilst the author wastes valuable time writing, a succession of eclectic occupations has filled other time, from the ubiquitous paper-round when a mere youngling, to baling straw at airports (yes really, more planes crash through hitting cows than any other cause, no, honestly, it's true.), a constructor of various buildings, rooms, halls, dwellings, and machines (some successful), to numerous jobs with tired, overused and dull words in the title such as 'engineer', 'system', consultant', 'IT', in various random combinations in that most exciting and creative of industries, the dynamic world of information.

There are hopes to make at least enough for one meal from the writing, but as such profits as are made would duly wasted in the pub celebrating, there is little point.

As with all wastrels that think they have talent when it is obvious to everyone else that there is none to be found, the author also aspires to an ability with music, claiming a talent for playing the guitar. No doubt there is some necessary story of misspent youth playing music whilst learning to read & write, to try and claim some credibility back after the IT revelation. Such stories should be taken with a large pinch of finest salted herring.

There is no claim to musical fame as there is of successful writing. It is imaginary, as is this web site. There is no book. There is no web site. You are not here. You are dreaming. You may wake up now . . .

They Must Be Stopped #1:
"If God gave Rock 'n Roll to us and Satan loves Metal, who is responsible for all these dreary, bloody hymns?"

The Reverend V. C. Pennyweather
(Overhead during Evensong)
Little Bottomsburgh Parish
Greater Badger
Surrey

They Must Be Stopped #2:
"I ask you, what sort of sick person would break into a small parish church in the middle of the night just to deliberately puncture the church organ bellows?"

Miss Ethel Sprogget
Little Bottomsburgh Church Organist
Greater Badger
Surrey