Like all indie label owners I am a failed musician.

I gave out an autograph once. To a girl From france, in Dublin. She was drunk and I think taking the piss. But i digress.

Everynow and then, when the only programmes on TV are News 24 and the Learning zone, and the hush decends on my street (i.e even the joyriders have gone to bed) I dream once again of the glory. The glory of playing Lavery's Bunker or Auntie Annies. A handful of people coming into the venue and fewer giving a shit. Good times.

So, in my first baby steps back to musical performace I bought a Xylophone (i'd actually already bought a four track thing but seeing me use it is like handing a monkey a jigsaw). I figure this, if it's good enough for primary 3 musical classes, i can't get it that wrong. And it sounds ncie. And it's indie. And you can take out the notes you don't need making it easier to play. Zing.

So, ebay it is. I pick, I pay, I wait. *bang bang bang* out of bed, jeans on run down stairs. Fucker has gone. It took me literally 10 seconds to get from my room to the front door. In this time Linford Christie has written the note, ran back down my path, got in his van, put the keys in the ignition, started the van and drove off...out of fucking site!! Postman Pat never moved this fast. Jess would have been pasted against the back window.

I stand on the note left by speedy and go back to bed. I'll get it tomorrow.

Work, Beer, Bins Out, Bed.

I wake up to the sound of the binmen making their way down the street. Get up, showered, dressed and pick up the note left from the postman, check the details and it says.

.

.

.

.

"your parcel is in the brown bin, thanks'

Cunt. So, worms, I hope you fucking choke on my xylophone.

I could have been the new George Michael.