Parkway

I don't mean to bang on about this - and don't worry. I'll soon get back on track and get back to the important things. Talking of which, it's 10.55. The woman on the loudspeakers just announced that we're half an hour from Bristol.
"Our time of arrival will be just after 11.30" she said. Suit your self. Made me laugh. Got to get your humour where you can these days.

We've just reached Tiverton Parkway. What is it with this part of the country and Parkways? There's Bristol Parkway. Now there's Tiverton Parkway. There's no Brighton Parkway. What is it? Is Parkway a derivation of some old Wessex word meaning station? You see? A mind like a razor, a bloody razor. Mid-life crisis, mid-life schmisis. What do these people know?

This is beautiful. There's a vast expanse of water, river estuary or something, down by Exmouth and there all these wading birds flocking around, having a bit of a nibble, a bit of a swim. In the middle, well not right in the middle, but a fair way out, there's a sandbank. Not big, it's just gently jutting out of the water and there's a bloke standing there, fishing. The sun is reflecting off the water and glistens. How perfect. Newton Abbott. Maybe we'll come and live in Newton Abbott. We could write The Juicy Guide To Newton Abbott (sounds like my kind of job) and after lunch when that was finished, we could stand on a sandbank and catch fish. Maybe build a barbecue on the sandbank. Cook the fish. Invite a few sandbills over. Maybe an oyster-catcher if they're around. What's the monthly mortgage repayments on sandbank? Can't be much, can it? Still, it's a bit of a relief not having to write about Busta Rhymes and pretend I know what the story is and talk about the interesting use of samples. The interesting use of samples? I hate the whole sample culture. It's such bollocks. Write your own bastard song instead of stealing snatches of other people's music. If I did that, if I tried to, say, write a book by using 'samples' of other peoples books, I'd get hammered. Sampling? Bloody plagiarism. Bitter? Not at all. No, it's a challenge, this mid-life crisis. And anyway, I was reading that thin children are this season's must-have accessory.

It's a lovely part of the country, down here. If only it wasn't so far. Plymouth. When I used to pay attention to the football results and all those place names came upon the teleprinter, these places and names I'd never heard of and certainly had no idea where they were or anything,I never figured Plymouth to be the sort of place I'd say was nice. Plymouth? What is it? The River Ply? I don't know. Suddenly Plymouth's turned into Coronation Street, all back to backs and terraced roofs. Liskard is the next stop. Maybe that'll be better. Liskard? Is that real? How come there isn't a Liskard Athletic languishing at the bottom of the Third Division? Because I never heard Len Martin say "Leyton Orient 2,Liskard Athletic 0" does that mean its not a legitimate place?

There's a sweet - sweetish - irony going off to lecture on the joys of journalism the week after I got the sac... cutbacked. Once you get past the obvious gag, I can't quite work out whether it's a good thing. After all, there's the old "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach" line. And I guess that most of the students - well, the sussed ones - will assume that I haven't got a job anyway. I'm teaching therefore I haven't got a job. Fuck it. They're only students. It's a 4.30 class. Odds on, I'll be the only one to turn up.

Day Two of the mid-life crisis and it's going well. I've come up with a few ideas but nothing's stuck: Cranial osteopath was too last century. Counsellor? Too last week.
Here's an idea. I could try and do the journalism thing again but under a pseudonym - how fucking bastard post-modern funny would that be, huh? But... it's too much potential grief. If my new persona (young female, of course) wasn't a roaring success, well that would be double confirmation of the same thing. The writing's just the writing and... But what if she was a roaring success? What if... Well, what would that say about the previous incarnation? No, that's too much to think about.

It happens. Now then, you might not know this but I'm not what you could justifiably call a religious man. Well, being Jewish, i don't suppose I have to be. Chosen, innit. Maybe last time out I was indeed a particularly religious man, maybe a priest or something. Some mad shamanic geezer with a big hat and flowing robes and mad eyes and a strangely devoted young female acolytes hanging on my every word who broke away from the orthodoxy of his church and founded a new radical branch - a new religion! Strangling chickens and hurling fresh blood over my congregation, I don't know. Whatever it was, it was good because, like I say, I came back chosen. Or should that be Chosen?
Like I say, I'm not a religious man when you lose your job and you find that the last two records you've got to write about are the new albums by the Appleton sisters and Mel C, well you've got to wonder whether it isn't Our Lord saying to you "Jedski, it is time to knock it on the head. And while you're there here's a couple of records to make sure you don't look back on it with any fondness".
I think I'm going to give the Appleton sisters album 5 stars. Call it a triumph. How dull would it be if I got all bitter and laid into it, tried to score cheap gags. No, much better to be magnanimous. Maybe that’s what I’ll do.