There’s actual content below this first message, I promise. Please read on. I’m moving house and this is a capitalistic necessity:
First things first! I am selling an exclusive Terry Pratchett book from my website for just £7. It contains five stories Terry wrote between 1965 and 1978 for three different newspapers, and includes his long-thought-lost 1968 interview with Roald Dahl, the very earliest published version of the opening to The Carpet People and several brilliant comic pieces where you can really see his voice develop. There’s also a 1973 interview with a modern witch, which I think gave him a lot of ideas. This is published with the full permission of the Pratchett estate, and I’ve annotated and footnoted the stories. It’s a paperback book size. BUT THERE’S A TWIST. Due to a printing error it is back-to-front. You need to read it from the back cover to the front cover, like Manga or the Quran. I’m calling it THE KNURD EDITION (if you know, you know) and once it’s gone, it’s gone. Here’s the link.
Hello there.
In a few days I’m moving home, to live with my partner, the delightful author and historian Melanie de Clegane. We’ve found a lovely house in the Bristol area, and I’m very excited about the whole thing. It does, however, come with a catch. Bristol is not, fairly obviously, a borough of London. And there was a time when, for me, living anywhere else was unthinkable.
I moved to London in 2007, fresh from a sort of prolonged student existence that had lasted several years. After graduating, more or less, I’d blagged a job booking bands and Djing at the student union that serviced my alma mater of Loughborough University, and had managed to stretch the chaos of an extended adolescence well into my twenties. London was supposed to be my step into the real, adult world, which I had delayed deliberately for as long as I could. I was twenty-six, and ready to be a grown up. A hopelessly optimistic idea for the under 35s, I now realise.
London seemed the obvious place to be. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to do comedy and music. I wanted to be in the middle of everything. London felt like the centre of the universe back then – we were in the middle of a boom of incredible live music. Comedy was, once again, the new Rock N’Roll (thanks, Mighty Boosh). I wanted to be part of it. My friend Patrick and I found a basement flat near Kilburn (Patrick always insisted it was Maida Vale. It wasn’t.) £650 per month, each. Considering I’d found a job working as the admin assistant at a comedy agency on £15K that was profoundly optimistic. In fact it was impossible, but that’s another story.
I sewed London into my identity, from Shoreditch to Soho to Peckham to Paddington to Kilburn to Kensington and onward, round the Circle line (with a frustrating change at Edgware Road). Old romantic that I am, I fell for the city completely. London carries its own mythology, and after more than a thousand years it’s one so vast that you can pick and choose the part of it with which you most closely identify. For me it was the stained remnants of rock n’ roll royalty around Denmark Street, Covent Garden, Greek Street, Dean Street and Leicester Square. It was the rancid skid marks of punk still visible in Camden and Holloway if you knew where to look. And it was the Victorian grime of the city's great 19th century expansion, evident in the dragon-infested City, the warehouses beneath London Bridge and the wide, khaki waters of the Thames, corseted all of those years ago by the Embankment. London was Dickens and The Beatles and Bowie and Bazelgette and Wilde and Rotten. It was the Ripper murders and Rik and Ade at the Comedy Store; it was Britpop and mudlarking. It was the stark changes in the streets where newer buildings interrupted a row of terraces, unknowing memorials to horrors of the Blitz. It was my mum’s family in Croydon, and Emma’s in Catford and Andrew in Tufnell Park, Andy in Manor House and Jez on Holloway Road. It was going to band practice through Brunel’s tunnel at Rotherhithe. It was the London Stone in its weird little shrine, bolted into the foundations of a bank somewhere near Cannon Street. It was all of it.
Which is, of course, all romantic nonsense. London is capitalism in concrete and glass. It’s astonishing poverty alongside revolting wealth. It festers as much as it glows, and it warps the country, skewering money and culture to the South-East, often to the detriment of the Midlands, the North, the South West, Scotland and Wales. I wasn’t blind to that.
But my god, London suited me. I wore that city. For almost seventeen years. I was proud to live there, and I soaked myself into it. I left my own traces. Back in 2020, at the end of the first lockdown, having mostly avoided the busier parts of the city for months, I took myself on a little cycling tour and found I was overwhelmed by the memories I’d made on almost every street. There was the club I’d done my first stand up gig in the city. There was the Costa that used to be the pub where we did that gig that time with the band. I was once sick behind that street sign, and as for what I once did under that canal bridge? Get me drunk and I’ll tell you. There was The Guardian where I’d worked for six years, there was the Piccadilly offices of Twitter where I’d worked for seven. There’s Koko – how many bands have I seen there? The Manics, Smashing Pumpkins, a gorgeous Lightspeed Champion performance, Prince. There was Kentish Town Forum (Billy Corgan, Ash, Jinks Monsoon and Ben de la Creme, the Foo Fighters, that time we opened for Fields of the Nephilim), Hammersmith Apollo (Kate Bush, Frank Skinner, the Manics, the first date with the person I’d marry, watching the Ziggy Stardust movie), The 100 Club (The Lovely Eggs, The Fall, John Cooper Clarke, when we played World Zombie Day, the day I met Catherine for the first time and we went to a surprise Manics gig), Rough Trade East (I saw BLUR there!) the Borderline, now gone (sticky floored indie nights, Blood Red Shoes, Martin Rossiter, the first time we played a gig where it felt like something was really happening). The Comedy Store (I’ve never played the comedy store. Damn). The Bloomsbury (my biggest show ever). Buckingham Palace, where I never thought I’d make any memories because it felt removed from who I was, but where it turns out I made arguably the most important one of all, one summer afternoon. Cabaret, Wicked, La Cage Aux Falle. My gods, the memories. I’d left my own impression on the city. Possibly I’m the only one who will notice it, but it’s there. Just as the city has left its impression on me. It has spoiled me for other cities.
And now I’m leaving. I never thought I would. Even a year ago, when everyone was fleeing, and with my marriage finished it felt like a good time for a clean break. But I couldn't. I didn’t want to. I didn’t think I could be me without the city under my feet.
And I don’t know what changed. Maybe it’s the person I’m moving in with; someone who shines brightly enough to make the city I’m leaving murky and dull. Maybe it’s that everyone else I know has left. Maybe it’s because I’m a grown up and it’s practical and this will be cheaper and easier, and we can have a larger, nicer home. It was all of those things, but that wasn’t the whole story. The whole story is one I don’t yet understand. Suddenly, it felt like London had let me go. I can’t describe it better than that. It was time.
The city will always be here, of course. London endures. That’s largely what London is for. It is England’s memory and heart. I can always come back. But somehow, I feel this is it for my time as a resident. I will visit often, but I don’t think I’ll stay. I’ve had my time. I bequeath it to the next skinny dreamer, so they can come here and find themselves and grow, and they can leave their own impressions. Maybe they’ll come across mine.
It’s been a journey, albeit one that’s taken place between Uxbridge and Bromley. No regrets. None at all.
Marc
Upcoming live shows and tour dates
NOVEMBER
3rd-5th - ArmadaCon - Plymouth TICKETS & INFO
8th - Sparks: A night of inclusive poetry and spoken word for Stonewall housing, Queer Comedy Club, Archway LONDON TICKETS & INFO
2024 TOUR
More dates to be announced
14 JAN The Black Box (Cathedral Quarter Arts Festival) BELFAST TICKETS
1 FEB Hanger Farm Arts Centre TOTTON TICKETS
2 FEB Tacchi Morris Arts Centre TAUNTON (tickets tba)
8 FEB Mill Arts Centre BANBURY TICKETS
10 FEB The Stables MILTON KEYNES (tickets tba)
15 FEB Arts Centre SWINDON TICKETS
17 FEB Royal & Derngate Studio NORTHAMPTON (MATINEE) TICKETS
17 FEB Royal & Derngate Studio NORTHAMPTON TICKETS
18 FEB Glee BIRMINGHAM TICKETS
20 FEB Arts Centre COLCHESTER TICKETS
29 FEB Komedia, BRIGHTON TICKETS
3 MARCH The Stand NEWCASTLE (tickets tba)
14 MARCH The Theatre CHIPPING NORTON (tickets tba)
15 MARCH ANDOVER The Lights (tickets tba)
22 MARCH Trinity Theatre TUNBRIDGE WELLS TICKETS
20 APRIL The Stand EDINBURGH (tickets tba)
21 APRIL The Stand GLASGOW (tickets tba)
31 MAY UK Games Expo BIRMINGHAM
1 JUNE UK Games Expo BIRMINGHAM
2-5 AUG International Discworld Convention BIRMINGHAM
Want to put the show on? Email Corrie Maguire Management.
LEICESTER COMEDY FESTIVAL
23 FEB Phoenix LEICESTER - performing hour of stand-up (not Terry Pratchett related) TICKETS
Stuff I’ve written this month
FILM REVIEW: Poor Things (HeyUGuys)
FILM REVIEW: Anita AKA Catching Fire (HeyUGuys)
FILM REVIEW: Molli & Max In The Future (HeyUGuys)
'Sir Terry Pratchett's magical work is as relevant as ever - eight years after his death' (Daily Mirror)
Recommendations
I think like most people I was unsure about “The New Beatles Song” when it was announced. There was the faint suspicion that it was barrel scraping, that George Harrison had been massively disinterested in it, that McCartney, legend that he is, can sometimes need people to tamper down his worst excesses. I really shouldn’t have worried though. ‘Now & Then’ is gorgeous. It took me a few spins to get it, but when it clicked it clicked straight into my heart. I love how seventies it is. There’s almost something of the Carpenters about it. Lennon’s heartfelt, elegant writing has always been my favourite version of him, and it’s all here. The enhancements are serving the song, not overwhelming it, which is as it should be. Genuinely, I love it.
My friend Joanna Hagan (of The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret podcast) has started a substack, and every week she is attempting to d the Great British Bake Off technical challenge, with no recipe, to time. Those emails, which are funny, stupid and clever all at the same time, have quickly become a highlight of my week. Subscribe here.
A little like The Beatles, I was very skeptical when the new series of Frasier was announced. Do you know what? I really like it. I think we’ve slightly canonised the original show. And of course it had years to find its feet. This is a new story. A new cast. A new team. I have high hopes. There’s something very comforting about it. Also, despite the fact we all thought it wad weird and hilarious when his casting was announced, Nicholas Lyndhurst is absolutely perfect in this. I like it.
WORK IN PROGRESS SNIPPET - A TOUCH SENSITIVE
As I said in the last newsletter, I’ve started working on a novel. Which seems inevitable really. It’s one of those times when I can’t stop the story twitching under my skin and the characters talking to me. This is a first draft, work in progress, it may never be completed, it may be totally rewritten, it may be awful. I don’t know. Oh, also I’ve had to asterisk out the swearing to stop this going straight to spam folders!
At the start of the book the bass player and drummer of a cult indie band, The Creaper Reepers, walk out on their colleagues; an erratic 40-something frontman by the name of Johnny James and his girlfriend, a much younger, posh guitarist, Kaz who herself only joined the band a few years ago. The group recruit two local fans, Gareth and Kris, to replace them. This chapter is written from Kaz’s POV. It’s the new line-up’s first rehearsal.
Gareth, our new bass player, was skinnier and taller than his friend and he seemed somehow younger. Kris had this knowing little flicker in him that suggested some joke he got that you didn’t. I think that’s why John liked him. That and the well-timed hero worship at the exact point it was needed. That and the bank account. Kris didn’t know much, but he acted like he did. Gareth didn’t know much either, and he acted like he knew even less. Those are very different energies. I thought his eyes, a rich dark brown in an open face, were kind. Great cheekbones too. Hair, that sort of none-colour that wasn’t brown and wasn’t blonde. Clean, but not very well cut or styled. A fringe to hide behind. John has told me many times that there are no such thing as “kind eyes”. I told him that his were sly. “Too right, babe. Too f*cking right.” Gareth was wearing an Autobahns shirt; I think to impress the great Johnny James. A little route-one for the East Midlands’ greatest living encyclopaedia of German art rock, but he’d probably appreciate it.
I was sitting on the low, square chair, like the ones you used to get in the school sixth form common room, or a therapists’ waiting room, only with the foam haemorrhaging out the side. My legs tucked under me, reading, when Future Phil led the two boys in. I greeted Kris warmly, kissed him dearly on the cheek and extended a hand to our newcomer.
“And you must be the famous Gareth. I’ve heard so much about you.” He clasped my hand, and I put my other over his, cupping it in both. “Welcome to our little vagabond circle”. There was the tiniest of tremors in that hand. Not much. Just a little. Poor dear.
Kris looked around at the room, the gear. His eyes lingered on John’s grotesque mural and he looked, very briefly, a little haunted; but he rallied quickly.
“Johnny not here?” he said, clearly trying to hide his disappointment.
“Pub,” piped up Phil, sitting at the desk and booting up the computer. The live room and control room were separated by a plasterboard wall, two sheets of board sandwiching loft installation, with a door and a double-glazed window showing the room beyond. Endless, baffling patch cables. Phil and the Taff brothers had spent years setting it up, scrounging and piecing it together so we could rehearse, write and demo here. We called it Reeperville. In front of the window was Phil’s desk and his apparently cursed Apple Mac, at which he would swear and yell until it did … whatever it was it was supposed to do to record us. It was very much not my area.
“He’ll be along in a bit,” continued Phil. “He wanted you two rough diamonds and the Princess here,” – here he nodded at me; ridiculous nickname, but he said it with a twinkle so I never really minded – “to get a bit of a warm up first”.
Gareth sat quietly tuning his bass, running little riffs up the fretboard. Watching his fingers I could see he was tracing ‘Index Finger Factory’. He’d been doing his homework.
“So if you three bright young things could make your way to the room where the magic should, allegedly, happen, we can, and should, get started.”
The three of us ran through ‘Index Finger’ and it was awkward, straight away. I was so used to that monstrous, huge sound that Boz and Jim used to make. I felt like I could play anything over that. Back in the US, in the aftermath of New York and the Vortex, it had been different. We were in make-do-and-mend mode. But this was a Reepers rehearsal. This was home. This is what we did, and the boys were definitely playing it … correctly. In theory. I could tell they’d been practising. I could see them making eye contact and nodding each other through the parts. But compared to how it had sounded before, it was timid.
“Oh f*ck,” said Phil on the mic from the control room. He liked to voice-of-god over the rehearsal PA. “Oh f*ck. I didnt realise we had the school f*cking disco ensemble. Sh*t. All the right notes in the necessarily right order, but without the even-f*cking-more necessary b*llocks. Right, eunuch brothers. Again”.
It was better this time. The two could play, that was true. And there were obviously nerves. Still. Phil was right. We were painting by numbers. And they dragged me down too. I’d never realised how free I’d felt, crawling over that rhythm section and spinning around John’s melodies. I knew fans and press thought the “engine room” was our not-so-secret weapon, but it turns out I hadn’t fully appreciated it.
“Boys,” said Future Phil. “It’s going to be a long night. From the top please. Princess, these two are wet behind the b*llocks but I don’t know what your excuse is?” Oh, that hurt. That really hurt. And he knew it would. I liked Phil, on most days. He was fun, he was smart. His backstory was utterly ridiculous. You couldn’t help but like Phil. But he could also be an utter pr*ck.
Two hours went by, and we stumbled through the setlist with varying degrees of success. I could see both boys improving, and there were times when it locked in rather well. And others, of course, where it didn’t. In those moments my fingers felt stiff. Like they were someone else's. It was maddening. I was better than this. And there were places that were, well … a mess. The odder ones, the ones that Boz and Jim were so proud of. The ones that always made me feel like I was being tested or pushed, but against which I was always happy to push back: those songs were awful. We were worse than a tribute band. There was a point there, in the meandering middle section of ‘New Disease Denial’ where I could see actual tears in poor Gareth’s eyes. He wanted, so badly, for this to work. “It’s only the first rehearsal” I told him “don’t worry. Breathe, darling. Just breathe.” I wish I felt as confident and understanding as I hopefully sounded.
And then the lights went out. The sound cut as the speakers and amps went dead. Kris’s drums were all we could hear, just for a few beats before his momentum evaporated. There were no windows in the studio. The darkness was absolutely complete. I heard Phil open the studio door and spark his lighter up, etching some of the pitch away from the corners and curves of our faces and instruments with the mild little flicker. “Always the f*cking theatrics,” he said. “Can never just walk in.” A series of hums and whirs across the room indicated that the power to the instruments, if not the lights, was back on. Phil retreated into the control room. Through the window I could see his face, now lit by the screen of his computer. It floated, glowing blue in the monitor light in the darkness of the window, like a ghostly head in a fish tank. There was a tick-a-tick-a-tick of interference through the amps and my phone buzzed with a text. John.
“Play a new riff”.
Oh lord. One of those rehearsals.
I knew better than to argue. And there was something I’d been working on. A spidery, wiry thing. Quite brittle. It sounded good in my room. Amid the darkness and hum I played the riff. We were lit only by the blue glow of the screen reflected back off Phil’s disembodied head in the window and the displays on our pedals and the power lights of the amps. I looked down and hit my delay pedal, the riff took on a watery quality. But I hadn’t found it yet. It was still just unmixed pigment. I hit the fuzz pedal as well and there it was. I circled the piece, returning to the start and this time Gareth joined in, playing a gentle line that stopped and started, moving through and around the notes I’d found. Kris threw in tom-toms; jungle drums. The three of us were locked to one another. Circling the part. Feeling our way. I felt the air move in the room as the door opened. The corridor beyond was dark too. A cold dark outside. A warm dark inside. Between the two was a deeper texture. Not quite a silhouette. The promise of a shape. Accented here and there by the dimmest of dim gleams from our various pieces of tech. I sensed, rather than saw, the black ghost shape of John move to the microphone as the riff circled back to the start of the pattern and Kris threw in a careful roll across his kit.
“And I never wondered why they came, they came, they came from the sky”. John’s voice rolled across the PA and I felt the song uncurl in my head, where it had been waiting all along. Where I’d been shaping it, carefully chiselling it out in some protected part of my mind, and the two boys, the two new kids, locked into the dark magic and in the almost-velvet black of Reeperville I hit an uncharacteristically bright major chord and in perfect sync the lights came on, and the four of us, the Creaper Reepers, found the chorus and I knew the harmony part to sing over John’s bitter, horse scream and it worked. When we found the end to the song – exactly where we expected to – John spoke into the mic. “Phillip you cockney c*nt, tell me you got that …”
©Marc Burrows, 2023