No expectations

I don't really know what I'm doing. 

I mean, that's a fair accusation to throw at myself in general but, more specifically, I don't know what I'm doing here. 

What exactly do I hope to this be? A promise to myself to write more, really. To get back in the saddle so to speak. The last time I sat in front of a laptop and typed something up that wasn't for work or to apply for a job or to successfully name all of the countries of the world on Sporcle in fifteen minutes -- yeah, I'm that guy -- was during lockdown when I challenged myself to write a novel within a month. I achieved the feat but no-one will ever see the finished article. Many moons ago, when I was a fledgling student at University of [redacted], I remember hearing a talk from a writer who, upon telling us about his first 'proper novel', regaled us with the story of his first 'not-so-proper novel' which sat at the bottom of a drawer in a long forgotten writing desk gathering dust in his attic. I distinctly remember thinking two things upon hearing this. Firstly, well, you can't be very good at writing then, can you, mate. I was nineteen and smug. Weren't we all? No, okay. The second thought was: who has an attic to house a writing desk they no longer use? Upper class prick. Nah, not for me, chum. I'm all about writing for the people.

So, fifteen years later, here I am typing a load of bollocks into a platform I wouldn't have posted something I'd scrawled onto toilet paper with my own shit on. (Reading that sentence back is giving me a headache. All the best for you if I pursue with this. Bookies are accepting odds on highly unlikely). You, dear reader, are exactly the people I was thinking of on the aforementioned day, you lucky bastards.

More than likely, chatter about music will prevail. I do my best to keep up with recent releases and I love me a new music Friday so expect some stuff around that. If I was going to recommend you one record to listen to right now, released the Friday just gone, I'd have to plump for the Bethany Cosentino album, Natural Disaster. It's stupidly good and homely and right in my country/Americana wheelhouse -- and, despite what the P4K hatchet-job review will tell you, has really strong songwriting moments on it. 

I've just finished watching Mission Impossible 2, a film I could never get with when I was younger, but this time I loved it's dumb machismo video-game-as-a-film approach. I find, the older I get, the less I can be arsed with artsy interpretations. Give me a gun-toting individual rolling around like every surface they land on is molten lava and jumping across ravines Jonathan Edwards wouldn't make any day of the week. I'm a big fan of the Mission Impossible franchise in general and would've said this one would have been the weakest of the lot, but now I'm not so confident. Maybe I'll investigate the rest and report back. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll tell you about why Ethan Hunt is better than James Bond in every conceivable way. Maybe I won't. Bet you don't get jeopardy like this anywhere else on Blogger (or is Blogspot? Does anybody use this any more? Hello??? Hello?)

Reading wise, I'm currently working my way through The Gospel According to Jesus Christ by Jose Saramago. Mind you, it takes me ages to work my way through a book these days so maybe you won't be hearing about that as often as I and you may like. Although, I'll be lying on a beach somewhere next week so I'll see what I can squeeze in there. 

That's it, really. A higgledy-piggledy introduction to a no doubt higgledy-piggledy blog. No expectations here. No plans in the pipeline. No pending posts. RAWK, more or less is not a part of the Great Content Machine that oversees our current existence and probably never will be. So, as we say on the fringes of society where our lives aren't controlled by a daily upload to TikTok or whatever fucking app your thumb is currently RSI-ing its way through, see you when I can next be arsed.