I've made some minor adjustments to part two of Stanley's odyssey.

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Is Bill there? It’s Carola. No. She sounds agitated. I can’t get through on his mobile, can you tell him his father needs to speak to him? That’ll be nice. The white Renault pulls up. How are you? Like she cares. Fine. Gregor gets out, takes a long look at my window, walks into the block opposite. He’ll be moving in with you at this rate, two visits in a year. He hasn’t made two visits this year. The murders are on television. Did he tell you about the expansion? A picture of Andre Tissot. His father’s really pleased. Shiraz is making a statement. The other Russian leaves the block opposite, gets into the Renault. A picture of Adele. I saw your mother yesterday. That's bad luck. She was asking after you. She can fuck off. Gregor appears in a window. They’re watching me in shifts. She’d like to see you. A picture of Adele in the bodybag. I’ll give her a ring. Like fuck I will. Tell him to call his father as soon as he gets back will you? Some footage of Madame Benoit in The Broken Heart, a film she made thirty years ago. Her husband has been killed in the war, now she must bring up the family alone. She’s crying but can't let the children see. When they've grown up and moved on she will kill herself. He needs to be back by Friday. Gregor looks down, I follow his gaze. Shiraz is talking into a television camera, reporters crowd round, sightseers look at Shiraz then up at Madame Benoit’s window. He’s got to go to Moscow next week.

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Will Alex be able to get Stanley out of the box? Is Stanley really in the box? More murders before it's all over? Further stream of conciousness melodrama tonight on this channel. Peter Barnes from Gillingham thinks Mink is the murderer. This is unlikely as Mink is based on Gary Bache, a friend of mine. Gary is able to materialise out of nowhere but has never murdered anyone so it can't be him.

I spent last Friday with the estimable Mr Chas Cronk, working on some new Cry No More releases. Two new Cry No More CDs and a re-released Live At The Social Club in delightful new packaging is, I'm sure you'll agree, cause for considerable celebration. Pat from next door says she's chuffed to bits and she doesn't even like us. She thinks we're useless! Says she's never heard such rubbish.

Live in Germany as the title suggests finds us ... live in Germany. It was recorded when we were touring with Marillion, a rare opportunity to play for 5000 people rather than 50. Louisa is a collection of previously unreleased and rarely performed songs written before we became embroiled in the murky depths of EMI and big time management. Cynical? Moi? 

Sit down before you read the next sentence. Switzerland is nearly ready. I've just finished work on a track called The Poison Hole which now clocks in at over four minutes. That's virtually prog. Should you wish to hear the original, much shorter version it's on YouTube. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ELUOEguyRPE

Next week - Thursday 17 November - I'm in Warrington for a return show at The Big Ask, Lowton Labour Club. If it's as much fun as last year I'll need surgery to get the smile of my face. The night before I'll be at Anfield watching the currently rather less than mighty Reds playing Wigan. Come to think of it, if Liverpool lose I'll need surgery to get the smile on my face. What larks!

 

I've done a little essential editing on the murder mystery. Taken out some blunders, probably left a few in. C'est la vie, as they say in France. Here's the story so far, all in one piece. Might make things easier. Might not.

RUE MALHEREUSE.

I'm walking down a dimly lit street. Rue Malhereuse. Marseilles. November. The bars are closed. It's cold. Walking to my apartment. Just finished work. I'm the doorman at a strip club, Krazysex. I hear footsteps behind me, turn, someone disappears into an alleyway. I walk on. More footsteps. A shadow. Someone is following me. A bottle smashes. Quicken my step. Almost there. Tempted to run the last few yards. You make enemies at Krazysex, twisted fucking sleazeballs. The front door of my block. Shadow closer now. Fish keys from my pocket. Why don't they put more fucking lights in this street? The key won't go in. A wheezing cough. Fucking key won't go in. A hand on my shoulder. Pardon Monsieur. It's Andre Tissot, the owner of Bar Electrique, covered in blood. He's been stabbed. Stumbles forward. We fall to the pavement. He stares at me, dying, tries to speak but the words won't form. Somebody's watching us. The wheezing cough again. I'm covered in blood. He tries to tell me something but can only manage one whispered word. Lucienne.

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Coffee with Bill Parker in the St Georges. Bill and I grew up together in Little Davis. Playboy. He runs his dad’s sportswear company, plays a lot of golf, comes out to Marseilles once a year, sleeps on my sofabed. I think he likes slumming it. We’re talking about Andre Tissot. Do they know who did it? Two guys at the next table are arguing. Eastern Europeans. Russian maybe. One's called Gregor. No, they suspect I’m involved. The arguments getting heated. You? Bill laughs. Perfect teeth, big house, perfect wife. He thinks I’m joking but Shiraz has been to see me twice. Asked me the same questions both times. One of the Russians storms out, the one that isn't Gregor. Was Andre married? He was but his wife left him. Said he was obsessed with Lucienne. Smacked him over the head with a vodka bottle. How is Lucienne? That didn’t take long. She’s gone. Gregor's on his mobile. Speaks quietly, looks at me. Bill’s disappointed. I glance across the bar. It’s Shiraz. On his mobile. He looks at me, looks at his shoes. Small feet for a big man.

My neighbour, Madame Benoit sits at her usual table. Her poodle sits opposite. She feeds it bits of ham. Faded actress, four husbands, fur coat. Where? We nod. I don’t know, she just disappeared. Bill pretends he’s not bothered. The dog looks at her plate. I like Madame Benoit. I could live without the dog. Disappeared? Yeah. When? Bill's hooked too. The perfect wife is no match for Lucienne. Three months ago. Then it clicks. Shiraz is talking to Gregor.

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I drink too much. You get home from Krazysex, what else do you do? Friday night. Busy. Regulars. Tourists. Students. Where do fucking students get the money? Bill Parker called by, didn't stay long. After we closed up I had a few beers with Loppi. Loppi owns Krazysex. No surname, just Loppi. Apart from owning the club I know nothing about him and I don't ask. We talk about football, he supports Marseilles, somebody's got to. He gets all sentimental about Andre Tissot. Great guy. He never liked him before he was killed but I don't take issue. Then he talks about Lucienne, just for a change. If I ever find out who killed her, I rip his fucking guts out. I'll hang his fucking guts over the bar. That'll attract customers.
 
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I'm standing in front of the bathroom mirror. It's faulty. It's making me look like a fucked up burnt out piece of shit. I go to the window expecting Shiraz to be staring up at me. He isn't but there's someone sitting in a car and he was there when I got in. That was two hours ago. It's 6am. Maybe he's asleep. He's not asleep. He's on a mobile phone. I wonder if Shiraz is on the other end? Maybe he's having me watched. Maybe I'm paranoid. Maybe I'm drunk. Maybe I'm fucking paranoid and drunk. Where's Bill? I've been here two hours and I hadn't noticed he's not about. Maybe he found something to take his mind off Lucienne. Maybe he's gone back to the perfect wife. Fuck off then. Bill walks in. Morning. He's two years older than me, how come he looks ten years younger? Where you been? I'm not really interested. Here and there. Thanks for nothing. Jesus, I'm fucking irritable. I carry on looking out of the window. Madam Benoit walks out through the lobby door, poodle in tow. How come I didn't see Bill walk in?

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I'm talking to Mink. Mink Schoebe. Mink has a special gift, you don't know he's there until he's in front of you. He just appears. Mink knows everyone. Mink keeps his ear to the ground. He says Shiraz is on my tail. Says I'm being watched. What the fuck is going on? Andre Tissot appears out of nowhere, full of stab wounds, dies in my arms and I'm a suspect. Nice. We're talking outside Krazysex, Saturday night. Friday was a flash in the pan, it's like a morgue. Mink is resplendent in a red velvet suit, ruffled white shirt. He looks like a drug dealer. Quite apt. Mink is a drug dealer. A cunning ruse. Look so much like a drug dealer you couldn't possibly be one. Mink is a stickler for quality control, regularly samples the products to ensure customer satisfaction. He got the name Schoebe off the side of a lorry. I doubt he was christened Mink.

There's a fracas across the street. Some lowlife is screaming abuse at two guys in a parked car. A white Renault. The passenger door opens, it's the Russian that isn't Gregor. He hits the tramp once. Screaming over. Fuck me, says Mink, his choice of expresion, as ever, impeccable. It's the fastest punch I've ever seen. I'm impressed. Mink's evaporated, he can disappear out of nowhere too. The tramp may never get up again. Gregor's in the driver's seat on his mobile, unconcerned. His phone bill must be fucking enormous. Who are these guys? There are a lot of white Renaults in Marseilles but it was a white Renault parked outside my apartment this morning. Maybe I could go ask them. Are you following me? Are you working for Shiraz? Maybe I'd join the tramp on the gutter. Where's fucking Bill? He's supposed to be here. I arranged this meeting with Mink for him. Can you get me some grass? He's starting to bug me a bit. Come to think of it he always did. Then I hear it again, the cough.

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Monday. 8am. My day off. Four hours sleep, staring out of the window. No white Renault. Bill’s flat out on the sofabed, I’m thinking about Lucienne. Bill’s mobile rings. He sits up, stares around, reaches for the phone. Hello? Some guy walks into the apartment block opposite, some guy walks out of the apartment block opposite. Sounds like Bill’s talking to Carola, the perfect wife. Sounds like a problem. Wants him to go back. Darling, she’ll be fine. I’ll make some coffee. It’s probably just a cold. No fucking milk. I walk back and stare at Bill, he looks up. Hang on honey. I wave the empty milk carton at him, he grimaces. If it gets any worse I'll come home, I promise. Voices in the corridor. Madame Benoit’s dog's yapping. Of course I care. I head for the Quik Mart. There’s a commotion in apartment 14, door half open. I hear Shiraz, I hear a woman crying hysterically. Shiraz is trying to calm her down. It's not working.

Some fucking idiot driver nearly kills me. I buy milk. Madam Benoit is getting a newspaper, sees me, hurries over. Do you know there’s been a murder? The dog yaps in confirmation. Adele Guyot. Adele lives in apartment 14, lived in apartment 14. That's why Shiraz is there. We walk back together, Madame Benoit talks, I hear nothing. I haven't been near a murder in forty two years. Now, two in three days.

Sorry. Bill looks sheepish. I ignore him. Walk into the kitchen. You angry? The coffee’s ready. Bill takes croissants from under the grill. Yana's ill. Yana is Bill's daughter, a promising golfer, aged eight. Sounds like it's just a cold. Fucking Yana. Poor bastard, Carola wants me to go back. I know the answer to the question but I ask anyway. You going? Bill butters the croissants. They're taking Adele out in a bodybag. Shiraz looks up at my window.

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Dinner with Bill Parker at the Saint Georges. He's paying to make good the coffee incident. I'm on my second bottle of house white, he's drinking something red and expensive. I apologise for being scratchy. He says any murder suspect would be. All is well. No Shiraz. No Russians. Madame Benoit is talking to the chef, her dog is eating steak tartare. Bill's taking a trip down Memory Lane. The day his dad caught us smoking, the night I was so stoned I was attacked by sink taps, getting barred from Little Davis Conservative Club. Time for a jibe. We wouldn't have been in a Conservative Club if you weren't so fucking middle class. Bill laughs, familiar territory. You're as middle class as I am. Derisive snort. I work in a fucking strip club. This is more like it. You read books. Madame Benoit waves across at me. You think working class people can't read? I nod back at her. She's beautiful. You went to grammar school. The old ones are the best. I fucking hated grammar school. All I learned at grammar school was that someone can be called Theisa Bone-Horton and live to tell the tale. If I had a daughter I wouldn't call her fucking Yana. A low blow. That was Carola's idea. Case dismissed. I'm being watched. I'm being fucking watched. The white Renault is parked across the street. Cognac? What the fuck is going on? The dog goes hysterical. Madame Benoit looks across at me. Naughty boy. Me or the dog? Maybe she thinks I killed Adele. Maybe she thinks I killed Andre Tissot and Adele. That dog needs fucking shooting. Two large cognacs. If I had a dog I'd have a German Shepherd. Two more. No you wouldn't you'd have a fucking Afghan Hound. Some guy is talking into the window of the white Renault. It's the guy who came out of the apartment opposite. What the fuck is going on?
 
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I think of kissing Lucienne for hours at a time, I think of sinking into her. Slow, relentless fucking. Long, slow, deep fucking. Kissing and fucking and kissing and fucking and kissing and fucking. What you looking at? I'm screaming, howling, fucking, screaming, wailing, fucking, howling. Barking like an insane fucking eighty foot high feral, slavering German Shepherd. I am deep inside her. There is no world, there is only Lucienne. Slow, push, slow, kiss, slow, push. My head is coming off. My fucking head is coming off. Howling, screaming, howling, scraping inside her. Deep, long, slow, scraping inside her, writhing, twisting, warm, wet, deep. You're fucking drunk you wanker. It's going dark. I thought the working classes could hold their fucking drink. Madame Benoit has my head inside her mouth, her dog is licking my cock, slowly, carefully. The dog wants to be my friend. It's letting me know the only way it knows how, by licking my cock. Good dog. I push deeper. Good dog.

Lucienne say's she really likes me.

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I'm floating over Egypt in a cloudless sky, one mile an hour, the speed of light. Pale blue flourescent pyramids. Andre Tissot lies face down in the sand, dead. Adele lies face down in the sand, dead. They look like they're holding hands. Close up, their hands are nailed together. Shiraz is there, he's angry, he screams at the Russian who isn't Gregor. You fucking lunatic. You fucking stupid piece of shit. Don't you know anything? I ought to fucking kill you here and now, but he says it slower.

I  o u g h t  t o  f u c k i n g  k i l l  y o u  h e r e  a n d  n o w.

Gregor is trying to eat a live fish but it won't stay still. He crams the head into his mouth. Madame Benoit is trying to eat her dog. She's got it's head in her mouth but the dog won't keep still. It scratches frantic red gouges into her neck, struggles free with her tongue in it's mouth. In a dim light I spiral. If I ever find out who killed her, I rip his fucking guts out. I'll hang his fucking guts over the bar. Somebody's playing music. There may be trouble ahead ...

I  o u g h t  t o  f u c k i n g  k i l l  y o u  h e r e  a n d  n o w. 

A cold, dank warehouse. I step into a puddle, crash through a bottomless pit of icy water. I can't breathe. In a dim light I spiral. Music. There may be trouble ahead. Shit, piss, spew, tampons, bloody bandages, a severed arm, a severed leg, an eyeball. Andre Tissot. Dead, cartwheeling. Madame Benoit, eyes glazed open, the dog hanging on to her stretched tongue. There may be trouble ahead. Adele Guyot wants to dance. She's begging. Please dance with me. Please dance with me. The Russian that isn't Gregor tries to pull the fish from Gregor's mouth. He sweats and grunts, his foot in Gregor's stomach. The dog floats serenely by, Madame Benoit's tongue hanging from its mouth. I work in a strip club. I can't swim. I can't breathe. In a dim light I spiral. Shiraz is knocking on my door. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! Madame Benoit tries to tell me something but her torn mouth makes no sound. She's beautiful. I try to understand. I think she's saying, I am so old now. It seems like only yesterday I was picking wild flowers in an enchanted wood. Somebody's playing music. There may be trouble ahead but while there's moonlight and music and love and romance, let's face the music and dance. I know this song.

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We could stay here tonight. She has full lips. Book a room somewhere. Straight black Cleopatra hair, Liz Taylor's Cleopatra. Uh? Five foot eight, prim glasses. We could be Mr and Mrs Lucienne. She says everybody thought her brother was the pretty one. That means I'll be Lucienne Lucienne. People said she was ahandsome girl, not pretty. We could have sex. She's gorgeous. I might even let you go on top for a while. Utterly, wonderfully, breathtakingly gorgeous. Then of course, I will take over. She has her warm hand around my wrist. You can be Mr Lucienne. I am in love. When the Concierge says what is your first name? I can barely breathe. You can say you don't have one. She rubs her foot against my leg. He will think you are very mysterious. She takes my other wrist in her other warm hand, leans across the table and kisses me. I think I might die. When she stops kissing me, I can't open my eyes. Then I open my eyes. She smiles. I'm definitely dying. What do you think? I think I'm having a heart attack. That place looks nice. She points across the street. The Hotel Verlain. A large room. Long windows, muslin curtains, a verandah, black and white tiles in the bathroom. Sea view.

The cello. She says it sounds like a human voice. I think my trousers might burst. If I were a Krazysex punter I'd have drunk myself into bankruptcy. I hope it rains tonight. My face touches hers. Where would you most like to be now? Her lips brush mine. Here. Her hand brushes my cock. I hope it was deliberate. Please let it be deliberate. If we weren't here but you were with me? A dazzling smile. Venice. She takes off her shirt. What about you? I want her to leave her glasses on but we can get to that later. Lowestoft. I laugh so much I can't breathe. Lowestoft?

People are drowning. I can't breathe. I'm on creaking iron stairs. Above the flood, above the drowning. Second floor, above the fucking stinking, blood red, swirling, foaming, poisonous, cancerous, body-strewn, piss, spew and shit water. Screaming, howling, wailing. Fucking death everywhere. Fucking shit everywhere. Fucking, screaming, howling, crying, wailing death. In a dim light I spiral. They're trying to fucking recussitate Adele Guyot, taping up the bloody nail holes in her fucking hands. She's fucking dead. She's fucking dead you fucking idiots. She's been dead for fucking days. Billy the talking horse stands on top of the post office, pissing blood by the gallon, a dead baby in his mouth. Everybody thinks he's so fucking clever because he fucking talks. Well he's not fucking talking now.

I  S A I D  Y O U ' R E  N O T  F U C K I N G  T A L K I N G  N O W.

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Loppi’s apartment is surprisingly tasteful. Spare, minimal, nice furniture, nice paintings. A view over the harbour. Drink? There’s money in sex. Coffee would be great. He grimaces. I watch a container ship being unloaded. Brooding clouds, drizzle, November. Loppi walks to the kitchen. I hear Shiraz has been to see you. Yeah. My dad left in November. He thinks you’re a serial killer? Yeah. Left me a note. Looks that way. A container hangs in mid air. You want some time off? My mother went hysterical. No, I’m fine. Burnt the few belongings he left behind. He’s been to see me too, and Mink. Every photograph. Joint? Loppi makes himself comfortable. No thanks. The container sways. Loppi begins work on a formidable looking reefer.

Not for one second did she consider he might have left because she was a twisted fucking witch.

How well did you know Adele Guyot? Shiraz has a little bald patch. I didn’t. He opens a filing cabinet. But she lived in your block. Clutter everywhere. Lots of people live in my block. I lean back in the chair, hands on head, trying to look nonchalant. Madame Benoit? He closes the filing cabinet. Yeah, I knew Madame Benoit, she was my next door neighbour. I really liked her. How would you ever find anything in this dump? But you didn’t like her dog. I laugh. I’m not sure that’s a reason for killing someone. Shiraz turns. Then what was the reason?

My mother could turn you against women forever.
 
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I’m going to Paris tomorrow with Mink. Do you want to come? Loppi’s in reefer heaven. I can’t, I’ve got to see Shiraz. He shrugs. Fuck him. I finish the coffee. Another? The container sways in mid air. I better go. He picks up a newspaper. You seen this? He shows me the headline. POLICE HUNT FOR SERIAL KILLER. There’s a picture of Madame Benoit on the front, she’s holding her dog.

Rue Malhereuse, arm in arm with Lucienne. November. We stop to look in a shoe shop window. She huddles up to keep warm, points at a pair of high heels. You’d look nice in those. Andre Tissot walks out. Lucienne! Can't believe his luck. She smiles. He kisses her. You look cold.

How well did you know Andre Tissot? Shiraz sits at his desk. I hesitate. We weren't friends but I knew him, went into his bar occasionally. He takes a long look at me. Sighs.

Seagulls circle the harbour in slow motion. I hate this fucking place. My mother shouts from the window. Don't be too late. Fuck off. Mist, rain, my sixteenth birthday. Dead bodies everywhere. Headlights pierce the gloom. It's Bill Parker.

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If all the world was made of cheese and all the cheese was made of glue and all the glue was made of string. Lucienne is lying on the bed listening to some cello music on the radio. Bach, I think. I’m writing a poem, a working class poem. Room 12 at the Hotel Verlain. November. It’s raining. Will you take me to Lowestoft? She turns to face me. She’s naked. Why Lowestoft? She looks at me quizzically. Why not?

You were having a relationship with Lucienne Durand? Yes. Then she disappeared? Yes. Why would she do that? I’ve no idea. She gave no warning? No. You’ve heard nothing from her since? Nothing. Did you quarrel? No. How well did you know Andre Tissot? I’ve already told you. Tell me again. Not well. Did you know he was in love with Lucienne? Who wasn’t? Did that make you angry? No. Not a little bit? No. Maybe you were jealous? No. Did you know Andre’s wife left him because he was obsessed with her? Yes. It made you angry? No. Maybe you felt threatened? No. Maybe you thought you would bring this obsession to an end? No. By killing him? No. Maybe she was getting too friendly with him? Lucienne was friendly with everyone. Maybe you killed them both? No. Tell me about Adele Guyot. There’s nothing to tell. Maybe you thought you would make Lucienne jealous? No. These things happen. It didn’t. Madame Benoit? She was sixty five. Yes she was but still very beautiful. A little old for me. Some men prefer older women. So they say. The telephone rings. Gregor? Shiraz listens intently. I'll come right away. Thank you. He gets up. That’s all for now.

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The cello music ends. Lucienne turns off the radio. What shall we do? Still naked. I have an idea. She knows what the idea is. You haven’t finished your poem, she laughs. It can wait.

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My dad’s gardening. He spends a lot of time in the garden. He looks achingly lonely. Broken. I think he’ll leave soon. He’s staying for me but it won’t last forever. Sometimes I want to kill my mother. I walk over. You alright? He smiles and rubs my head. Fine. He isn’t.

Time flies eh? Seems like Monday was only yesterday. Actually Monday was only yesterday so that doesn't really work.

NEWS UPDATE: I've been putting together a video version of My Life in Showbiz, the first fruits of which are on the video page of this very site. I can see a few bits that need editing already so it probably won't be there very long. Most of the live clips are taken from last years's momentous world tour. 

ANTICIPATION UPDATE: I'm I'm tickled pink at the thought of Friday's Turks Head show. Did I mention it's only £5 to get in? £5!

RUE MALHEREUSE UPDATE. I've had a lot of feedback about Rue Malhereuse. Some people don't like it very much, some people absolutely hate it. I'm delighted to say it will return on Monday for a lengthy run.

PAT FROM NEXT DOOR UPDATE: Pat was rushed to hospital this morning with a stubbed toe. I'm sure you'll join me in wishing her a speedy recovery. 

I know you wouldn't forgive me if I didn't confirm those Turks Head details ...



 

What a filthy morning. Tipping it down. Stair rods. Bloody awful. Just the time to do a blog.

I got a bit carried away with Rue Malhereuse last week, ending most nights, bleary eyed, at the computer with a large vodka. Too large. Next morning I'd tidy up the expletive ridden results and wonder to myself, what does this mean? I guess I should have done the edits before posting it. Ah well, too late now but from now on I'll approach it in a more professional manner. Less vodka, no more rough drafts. Probably.  

Most of the days were spent compiling a promotional video for an agent. A video which, hopefully, won't scare him off completely.
A video ruthlessly shorn of the earthy language which until recently was my stock in trade. I might put the final version on YouTube. On the other hand, I might not. Bloody rain's geting worse.

Looking forward to the Turks Head show on Friday 13th November. Did I mention it's only £5 to get in? A bargain. My friend Gary is coming. He lives near Aldershot.

Later tonight. Rue Malhereuse Part 10. I bet you're thrilled.

I'm not sure I really understand blogging. Then again, surely a blog can be anything you want it to be. Sometimes I find myself using it as a sketchpad. These last few nights I've sat at the computer writing something called Rue Malhereuse, a murder mystery. The fun part is I have no idea what's going to happen next. Well, it's fun for me, perhaps not for you. Possibly quite the opposite. 'Bloody Rue Malhereuse again.' Pat from next door likes it but she is an alcoholic. Yesterday she was out in her garden singing Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner. She's from Bristol!

Anyway, a temporary return to normal service, which can only mean one thing, a reminder that I'm doing a show at the Turks Head, Twickenham on Friday November 13th and admission is a mind bogglingly low £5. A fiver! Really. I'm all heart. Also preparing some new videos from last year's world tour for YouTube. I bet you're thrilled. Oh dear, Pat's singing again.

Isn't it funny how names go in and out of fashion. For instance, you hardly meet anyone called Tonto these days. Nipper was all the rage when I was a boy. There were four Nippers in our street, all brothers. The Smorthwaites at number 41 even called their daughter Nipper. Which all brings me on very neatly indeed to the fact I'm playing at the Turks Head in Twickenham on Friday 13th November. Admission £5. A snip! Twickenham is a little fishing port in Middlesex, famous for its picturesque harbour and thought by many to be the birthplace of whistling. It also has a very good shoe shop.

Some of you may remember that back in the fading mists of long ago I wrote a musical version of The Fly. I'm sure you're familiar with the story, a scientist gets into a matter transfer machine without realising there's a fly in there and comes out half man, half fly. I've been thinking of doing a rewrite in which - to avoid accusations of plaigirism -  there is no fly but the scientist forgets he has a Twix in his back pocket and comes out half man, half Twix.

On the subject of alcoholic neighbours, Pat from next door has been arrested for strangling a little baby moorhen while claiming to be Denis Healey.