It feels like we have all been waiting for Daniel Craig’s last Bond film for a long time. There’s a reason for that. We have.
Tonight, I’m off to see No Time To Die, as MGM intended, by sneaking a meal deal and possibly a coffee into the cinema with me and propping my knees on the seat in front to rock back and forth and embrace what, apparently, some are calling the return to cinema.
Let’s forget about Tenet and Space Jam 2, because now is the age of Bond.
I’ll let you know what I think of it on the other side.

Yesterday, I spent some time with the cool older relatives of my partner. It reminded me of conversations I would have with my grandparents (god rest their souls). It left a slightly melancholy feeling with me that I wanted to explore a little by celebrating my grandparents.

My nan passed away when I was too young to really know her. She knew me as a dimple-cheeked kid with the boniest knees going but it’s not the same as being able to have a rational conversation with someone. She was great. Very kind and sweet, a terrible cook and a big fan of films. I remember my grandparents’ house having a lot of old VHS tapes that they would let us watch before playing in their garden after they’d put fertiliser down. The early nineties were a different age.
When she passed, it left my grandad on his own and he didn’t really know how to deal with it, and didn’t know how to be around us. Regardless of that, I only ever remember seeing him immaculately turned out (even if, towards the end, when the dementia got to him, he smelt slightly and his hair was unkempt). Each time he drove over (in his DeathMobile), he would present us with a bottle of sparkling alcohol-free wine drink called Moscato Fizz and would do circuits around the house so he could fart in peace. He taught me a lot about what I thought were Dutch cultural ways but were in fact just his eccentricities. For years I thought all dutch men ate sandwiches with a knife and fork. While he was around into my twenties, it was hard to connect to him. There are a few items of his that I have, his old typewriter and a hat.

My mum’s parents were always the life and soul, even if my grandpa wanted to be miserable. They had lived many lives by the time I came along and were full of stories. They insisted on talking over one another to tell those stories and it always filled me with excitement to watch them pingpong across like the old couples in When Harry Met Sally.
My grandpa’s favourite TV show was The Sopranos. I didn’t understand the relevance of this at the time but as I approach the end of Season Six, I recognise that it must have been all the cocaine, topless dancers and violence that really did it for him.
My grandma was possibly the best cook I have ever known. She was a tiny lady who only ever saw the good in us, even if we were absolute terrors. I could talk to her about my various relationships and she never judged.
It’s also worth noting that they were vegetarian, something unheard of at the time. I wish I could show them both what I’ve learnt to make, from their inspiration.

I guess what I am saying is that if you have family around, and you’re able to deal with them (because I know some people can’t) then please embrace it. I miss having people in my life who call me a genius unabashedly, when I am far from it. They were my biggest cheerleaders and I miss ’em.
My connection to the past and the root of who I am now.

Even before we had passed through the less-than-stringent security checks at the gate, I had a feeling our day out was not going to be as expected up until that moment. I don’t know if it was in the stumbling walks of those patrons ahead of us (at 2pm) or the general air that it could either rain or kick off at any second, but Musselburgh was a different beast.

Morally, I’m against horse racing. I’m against anything barbaric in that sense; capital punishment, bullfighting, the impact the Kardashian family have had on modern society.

That’s the thing about stag dos. It’s not about what you want to do. It’s unlikely it’s really about what anyone wants to do but you buy into this shared idea to get as fucked up as quickly as possible before standing around with your dicks in your hand until something incomprehensible happens.

We had been drinking since 8am so everything about the sorry sight of the track and the Year 11 Leavers assembly we were surrounded by had a sense of permanence. Finding the first bar we could, it became clear that the only beer on draught was Fosters, the only beer in cans, Heineken. Some were disturbed by this development but the fear would only grow.

I see no issue with drinking most lagers although as a teen, a homeless man told me that Carling makes your dick fall off. I’ve held that little conspiracy theory close to my heart since. That being said, I stuck to cider for much of the day.

The odd thing about the racetrack was the people we were surrounded by. You can choose any races in the world and a level of the experience will be the same. There are horses, forced to race, as the gout-ridden feet of bloated bankers laugh cigar smoke, waiting for their horse to not be the one to fall, not be the one made into lasagne. Beside them, a trophy wife, pissed already on something claiming to be champagne, or worse still, claiming to be prosecco. It’s a jolly old jaunt for all concerned. An experience of fois gras pomp, stuffed down throats to ironically make us poorer.

The difference with our choice of venue was that it seemed we were the unwilling substitute teachers at a particularly raucous school disco. Boys in Boohoo Man too-tight check trousers and matching waistcoats, buttons struggling as we struggled with the concept of their ensembles, sauntered around in their collective, completely unaware of how cloned they had become. They say that repeating the same steps and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity. There wasn’t a marble to be found in that god forsaken place.

 Girls with bronzer thicker than their dates struggled on the boggy ground in heels secreted in the bottom of a wardrobe for the last eighteen months, incredible fascinators and even more incredible capacities for booze making this the Ladies Day to end all Ladies Days.

The others placed bets. Some won. Most lost. I kept my eyes on the names, my theory from my days at Romford Dogs being that you bet on the name that holds a meaning to you. As if any name has any meanings, as if they aren’t simply a collection of letters strung together so you could get someone’s attention and ask if they wanted another pint.

I did not bet on a horse straight away but did have my green visor down low when it came to the vote for Queen of the Races, crunching numbers on an old fashioned calculator, cigarette holder bitten down between my crooked teeth.

For those who are unfamiliar, Queen of the Races is a competition with no winners, a best dressed contest. Worse still were the challengers for King of the Races. Four boys clad in plaid so tight it may have prevented further generations of kings ever being produced.

The kings are dead. Long live the kings.

What did this escalated process look like? How had these titans of ASOS industry, found their way onto the podium and my sartorial elegance had once again been overlooked? If it wasn’t for the notorious dick-swinging on stage then it would have been difficult to miss the jaw-swinging taking place across the scene. Boys doing ket in the portaloos. A drug that should have been reserved for the condemned horse in the 15:25.

In the converted car park where this event went down, I stood, amazed, Dark Fruits in hand, entranced by the vision of a woman repeatedly doing box splits onto the gravel until people noticed her, undoubtedly leaving a rash that she would be questioning the following morning.

By the time a winner was announced, all the stags had gathered, unable to turn from the scene. The equivalent of a television series rapidly going downhill but watched by a populace having already committed too much time to it.

Our king was a ‘90s curtained, King Krule in man-from-Del-Monte creme, not only taking the crown in good faith, but then playing the giant cheque he was awarded like a guitar, his three friends cheering him on. The losers, left to lick their wounds, if only they could get purchase on them through the confines of their costume.

Recognising that the scene was getting dangerous, we left the car park and found a quiet bar room where we should have been the entire day. From there, it was possible to watch the horses on a TV, my preferred distance from the likely tragedy.

Then, I spotted it.
My horse.
This One’s For Fred.
I thought of my grandfather, Friedrich Wilhelm Schiernecker.
Was this one for him?
At three to one odds, and the favourite, it seemed likely.

I put a tenner on it that I would never see again. Fred was beaten over the line by the horse that should have caught my eye, Smart Lass. I’ve always had a thing for a smart lass.

As booze-soaked arguments were separated by security, and more than one person was spotted collapsed in the stands, a run of sick from their lips to the seating like a pre-Raphaelite painting, it was time for us to make like a horse vet and shoot.

Rushing for the exit, everyone around us so “pished” it felt like the last orgy of Rome, I wondered if there would ever come a time when I could be as carefree and wonderful as them.

I’ve failed to post anything to my blog in over a month. There’s a very good reason for this. I’ve been obsessing over something else. Some writing. A bigger THING than anything I’ve done before. Depending on the edit, it’s between 134k and 136k.

For the longest time, I’ve had a goal in mind for my writing. There’s nothing definite at the moment but the work I have been doing is the best thing I’ve ever done and the interest that it has garnered is beyond my previous expectations and hopefully a good sign of things to come.
I’m going through it one final time before it goes back to someone but there have been other, further developments.
Whatever happens, what a fucking ride.

When I sat down to talk to Davey Hal about his new EP, the excitement in his eyes told me that this was a project beyond the work he had shared before. Only some of that was down to the contact he’d had with the Du Maurier estate. The rest is because Helford Honeymoon is his most ambitious work to date, casting watercolour excellence over the latest of his inspirations, the work of Daphne du Maurier.

From the opening title track, the influences are clear, with a haunting call and response led by Hal. Think Fleet Foxes on the estuary, his voice filling that void joined by Ali James and Darren Jones on backing vocals. As far as instrumentation goes, the EP is a bolder choice than the piano and guitar-backed efforts that precede it. As Davey told me himself, this is more of a soundscape. It could easily be placed as the score to the roaming and craggy cliffs in Cornwall, wind-beaten faces glaring at some distant point they are aiming for.

Pleasant Streams, Davey’s little hideaway during his times in Cornwall hits second. As an instrumental, it could only add to the very real sense that this music is due to urgently take you away. Paired with the opening horn of Mevagissey, there’s a naval quality. It’s the last post followed by a cool lounge jazz piano that could have been recorded at 3am in a smoky pub.

If Lanteglos could talk then it could summon up the town from which the song took its name. Filled with piano and cello, it drifts, storytelling in a way befitting the writer of whom Hal writes and talks about so fondly. Danvers’ Crimson Skyline feels more like a traditional Davey Hal song with a Villagers influence thrown in too. Images of swimming and burning suggest direct passages from du Maurier’s work, a sly nod from the Essex musician. Both the track and the EP end with The Bends-type journey off a cliff and into another realm, the acoustic battered beneath drums and reverent guitar falling over in waves.

What Davey Hal has done with Helford Honeymoon is create something that is uniquely his own while paying homage to a source. Such influence is a rare thing. There are only so many times when, as an adult, you find a bond so tight. The journey that Hal takes us on with this EP is not only a hopeful tease of what is to come but also a reminder that inspiration can come in so many forms.

Helford Honeymoon is available now on iTunes, Amazon Music and Spotify.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned the project I had been hard at work on.
I am pleased to announce that the latest draft of it is now done. What follows is a lengthy edit process. Taking each page at a time and reading through it until I am satisfied that every word is in the right place. I’m also highlighting the jokes per page to ensure that the tone (self deprecating and darkly comic) is consistent. More than anything, that’s what I want to keep this time around while the events of the book have jumped around thanks to some excellent recommendations.
It’s still some way off of being in any way ready for anyone else to read but it’s a milestone.
I took the time to stop and have a glass of whisky but it’s back to it. As much time as I can dedicate to it.

It goes without saying that this is the best thing I have ever written and every faith in my possession is rolling up behind this like the boulder bearing down on Indiana Jones.
I’ve watched The Shawshank Redemption, Ocean’s Eleven and Schindler’s List as part of the process. If that isn’t the most compelling companion pieces to a new novel then you need to get your head checked (by a jumbo jet).
It’s been such a pleasure to right with this pure desire and love for what I do.
Can’t wait to give a little more info on it.

Last week, a friend asked if I was still writing and where they could read more of what I’ve been doing. While I love that people are aware of my passion for writing and know that it’s what I want to be doing more than anything else in the world, I’m not currently in a position where I am sharing what I am working on, beyond the odd mysterious post on social media.

You should know that I am certainly writing. I am working on something exciting, that has set a fire in my belly and that I have real hopes will be the thing that sets the world on fire. It is, without a doubt, the best thing I have ever written and I think it’s healthy to say that about everything I put together. If you aren’t improving then what is the point.
So there’s the answer. I am working on something at the moment. I’m very much in it. I find myself drifting off in other situations and thinking about it, fitting together these intricate puzzle pieces in the hope that it will all come together in the way I am hoping and will become an HBO series and be taught in schools.
I am not afraid of manifesting but you’ve got to put the hard work in and that’s where I’m at now.

At the start of April, I was bragging about the work I was undertaking, intent on writing 90,000 words in a month. I updated my blog about it every day and then I went radio silent for three weeks.

I can’t completely cover the reasons for this. All I can say is that something else came up that needs my attention. This is the first time in maybe ten years that I haven’t completed the task I set out to do within a National Novel Writing Month event. I went from writing a book a year to writing three a year. The novel I was working on, Death By Chocolate, has now been removed from their server. I couldn’t have it staring me down.

Having moved house this year and given the amount of time that has taken up, as well as an increasing workload in my 9-5 and then the additional project that came to the fray in the middle of the month, I wasn’t able to dedicate to this properly. I thought about pushing on and meeting the 50,000 words that most people try for as part of NaNoWriMo but it was too late, I’d set the goal at 90k and couldn’t find a way to edit that down. I intend on returning to that story, but when the time is right and I’m not quite as fraught.
I’m not quitting on writing or on myself. I’ve just had to shift the focus to catch something that’s far more pressing. I hate being so speculative and opaque about anything I’m working on but for now it needs to sit with me and me alone.
Wish me luck with that.

In my usual way, I am being far too harsh on myself. Today I hit the 30k mark but I know I’m five thousand words behind where I expected to be. If I had kept the marker at 50,000, as is the goal for anyone else doing the National Novel Writing Month challenges then I would be well ahead of the curve, both for my target and for anyone else involved. I feel like I’ve lost a lot of traction and I’m going to struggle to make it back.
It’s funny to me that it’s the weekends, when you would think I have the most time, that I could get this writing done. That’s simply not what happens. My weekends are full of great things but it doesn’t leave enough time for me to disappear off and write for a couple of hours.
Let’s keep in mind that I’m doing it, I am looking after myself and that there is no obligation here except the one in my own head. Set it free.

I’ve recovered from the position I left myself in yesterday, which is an incredible personal achievement considering how busy I’ve been all day. I don’t know how much of Chapter Seven will remain because even as I was putting it together it felt like filler but it’s all working towards something. At the end of this month, I’ll have a first draft and can go from there. There are going to be some days when it feels like I’m squeezing words out of my brain just for the sake of it.
I’m at 24,015 words.
It’s time to kick back, watch Sonic and switch my brain off until the morning.