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   The special film on Rte that October Bank Holiday was The Golden Boys with Matthau and Burns . I scanned the golden cigarette box in trepidation. Would I have enough to do me? I have gone from almost having heart failure and knocking somebody down to get more if there was only 9 in the box, to being grateful that there is dust left in the tin. This was so long ago I actually smoked Benson & Hedges , having graduated from Rothmans , via Majo r   and would proceed to move onto Marlboro light , along with the rest of the planet. God be good to the days when there were as many proliferations and varieties of cigarette boxes on bar counters as there were face down drunks. Wake that lad up there somebody and send him home for the dinner. His wife has me heart scalded walking up and down the hall to the phone . Find his keys lads, good man, good man. Get up outta that.   If it wasn’t the wife of a missing drinker that was on the blower,  it was a gang

One of the  windows I shout at Men  from Once upon a time I lived in a duplex apartment in the very heart of town,  at the top of 4 flights of stairs.  It was all very Carrie Bradshaw -   leather sofas, angled lamps, beaded curtains, bamboo blinds. It had an open plan living room with 7 windows that afforded me spectacular views of the streets. It was colder than a witch’s tit on a Siberian ice floe. It may have been constructed entirely from plasterboard and spiders webs  and was icy enough on a mild day to inspire my Father   - A-    To refuse to remove his coat when he came for dinner B -  To send men from Joyces up the impossible   stairs with a Super Ser and a cylinder of gas. C-  To inform all and sundry that the place was perishin ’ and I would get the galloping consumption. I watched in disbelief as the car park across the road was turned into a building site, and then   immediately back into a car park, and then   immediately back into a

You GOT this! I CAN do it and me Da has a Bon Scott flat cap. Coming Down Aisy ___________________________________________ I blew in the door looking like I just woke up from a field circa 1974. My tangled hair is standing on end like I may have crawled through a hedge to get out of abovementioned field, as although I have been showering daily, I have not brushed it. It's my Patti Smith look, apparently. Also I am wearing enough eye make up to take to the stage in the West End as Cleopatra, which I re-apply with shaking hands at every, and all opportunities - mirrors of parked cars mirrors outside the gents tiny lip gloss contacts. Why am I so bothered about my eyes? What is with the layers of liner and lashes? "You're looking very windswept tonight" says Eddie as I slide my black coat off and onto a stool, in a seamless move I am no stranger to. In the preparation for Shellshock I was flat out batshit. I micro managed every last

Inging and   Sheeps   Thinging We didn’t have scented sacks in those days.   A hanky was kept up the sleeve of your jersey,   inspected post -blow and shoved back, while you rolled up the cuffs a thousand times.   The cuffs and neck would already be bagged out and flapping as the English cousins had sent the parcel of jumpers home, we would be rooting and bagsing to our hearts content.  Michelle front left with her eyes closed “Have you no hanky?” was a constant refrain as I sneezed around the gaff, being allergic to dust, pollen and cleaning in equal measure.   I was a solitary child, who although could perform at the drop of a hat, was content on the sidelines watching. It may have been the tininess of me but I was always placed in the front for photographs and could project, sing, dance and recite at will. It was always me who was picked to read something out, to stand up and relay her times tables and when the Cigire came calling,   to start the Comh