It's My Birthday But Who Cares?

As I look back on my extraordinary career, I sometimes wonder if it's all been in vain. I mean, I'm not one to blow my own trumpet but if I could, I'd certainly be blowing it every day. It seems, however, that no one else feels confident enough in themselves to ask if they could blow my trumpet instead. I used to love the time I spent alone with my trumpet, polishing it with Brasso, cleaning it lovingly in the bath like a newborn baby, oiling its pistons, emptying the build-up of saliva from its valves. Blowing my trumpet just after it has been cleaned remains one of life's unique pleasures. I could blow all day. I used to play the theme tune from Dallas, then Rocky. Usually I tired of these tedious tunes pretty quickly but this was okay because it would give me a chance to move onto more exciting compositions, including a number I myself had come up with. Blowing notes through a big silver trumpet and then listening to the results using my finely-attuned ears remains one of life's strange and eerie pleasures. It's like I'm a bat. Or an elf. Do elves play trumpets, or do they just blow? I'd love an elf to blow my trumpet for me. I'd like to see an elf and a bat blowing trumpets all day long. I'd like to write a composition for two trumpets, played by two elves and three bats. The details escape me but the big concept remains one of life's tremendous build-ups of pleasure, the satisfaction of which only comes when I blow long and hard. Better still, I'd like to see an elf blowing a bat's flugel horn, lowingly and keen. Do cats blow? They certainly do. Just ask Andrew Lloyd Webber.

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Some More Home Truths

Thanks to Ladycracker for putting me on to this ...

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20 Things About Me (You Wanted It Part 2)

Seeing as I've been tagged by that talented flautist Richard Watts, I'd better get myself away from the synthesiser for a few moments and try to come up with something meaningful to share with my legionnaires of fans.

1) I was totally deaf for a year when I was four years old. I have spent the rest of my life terrified of going deaf again, because it would mean that I could no longer listen to music. Oh, and conversations and stuff.

2) One of the only sounds I could hear during that time was my own pulse and heartbeat. Since then I have always wanted to be a drummer but only if I am allowed to drum in heart time (not quite the same as hammer time but close).

3) I once kissed a girl who had braces and it was one of the most erotic experiences of my adolescence. I then decided I needed to get out more.

4) During my final year at school I listened to Enya's magnificently barmy debut album Watermark non-stop. It was one of the few things that got me through that painful time. I was misunderstood, clearly, and continue to be.

5) I also taped myself reading Emily Dickinson and William Blake, and then went to sleep each night with my Walkman (pre iClint) turned up full bore. I gunned English.

6) Penguins are my favourite animals because they look after each other, and stand in a huge circle in the cold, taking turns being on the outside. Plus, the males sit on the egg while the mum goes out looking for food. Apparently. They are so cute that I think my second album will be a penguin opera.

7) My first album is going to be called Never Go Ashtray.

8) I like to wear womens' clothing and have a penchant for make-up because my younger sisters often used me as a model for their experiments.

9) I find long lists hard to write because sometimes the strain on my writsts makes it hard to go back to the synthesiser, which is where I prefer to compose my music, most of the time.

10) Sometimes I wish I had an older brother and often seek the company of older males for this reason.

11) Most of all I wish I was able to rollerskate.

12) I can't stand the sound of someone else chewing food. Bubblegum seems to be okay though.

13) I enjoy mead.

14) I like girls who have the librarian look. I can't really explain it but it floors me every time. I do spend a lot of time in libraries. Perhaps too much time (see 3, above).

15) Some people think I'm crazy. I object.

16) I love how cats like to walk on top of doonas, even when there is someone under the doona, taking tiny steps that they think the person won't notice. I also love Cats.

17) If I ever became a father, how could I continue to live as an adult in the outside world?

18) I hate Chucky.

19) Michael J Fox.

20) Only half of the above is actually true.

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Getting My Nicks Fix

I am proud to say that Stevie Nicks has long been an influence on my recordings, hairstyles and genetic make-up. I was immensely happy when she finally left those bogans in Fleetwood Mac and embarked on her simply astonishing (not to mention moving) solo career. I was, however, gutted to learn that I will miss Stevie's concert in Australia during the Melbourne Cup. It is like someone has drilled a hole in my head and filled it with Clag glue.

My only consolation has been to pore endlessly over Stevie's superbly-designed and highly-evocative international web portal. Today I could bear the tension no longer. I submitted a question to Stevie's Ask Stevie forum. The question goes like this:

Dear Stevie,

My name is Clint Bo Dean, I am an Australian singer on tour in Asia - I have heard that you will be visiting Australia later this year but will be unable to attend your concert. Is there any chance that you will come back to Australia again? Also, how do you get your hair to look so good?

Best wishes,
Clint

I will of course let you know if and when (when!) I hear from Stevie. For the moment I must be satisfied with the following note, which Stevie wrote to some guy called "John". I actually prefer it to Enya's so-called "hand-written" note to her fans. It's not a patch, however, on my custom-designed signature, which you can view on this website any time you like.




Until I live to see the Seven Wonders - yours in dreams.

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iClint™

During a recent gruelling brainstorming session for the track listing on my debut album, I hit upon an incredible invention: the iClint™, a personal music system for the discerning music fan (click on the link above for a larger image). Composed of a cassette player that doubles as a mask to wear either to masquerade balls or to the opening night of any of Andrew Lloyd Webber's musicals, the iClint™ comes fully equipped with an authentic CBD wig, a microphone for extra interaction, a necklace, a pair of headphones courtesy of British Airways, a power source that doubles as a drink dispenser, two complimentary wristbands and an optional fake Pat Cash chequerboard headband as well.

I am currently negotiating the wordwide rights for this machine, which will only play my albums. I expect however that units should begin to hit the shelves sometime after the release of "Never Go Ashtray", now scheduled for 2008. By then, the hype over these so-called 'digital music players' should have calmed down and people will be ready to return to the good old days of fan loyalty. I mean, who wouldn't be into wearing an iClint™ out to the theatre? Please direct any enquiries either to myself or to Enya, via her international web portal. Also, please respect my copyright - I have slaved long and hard to produce this prototype, which is naturally in full working order.

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Etiquette for CATS Fans

It's about time someone spoke up about the appalling way in which CATS fans behave sometimes. I found the following advice on the wonderful Cats Musical website and I urge ALL fans of CATS to HEED it.

Because of the popularity of the video and so many new theatre fans that Cats attracts, a gentle reminder of how to behave at the show is needed. Some of these are pretty basic, but they need to be addressed. This is intended for Cats fans attending shows in the US, UK, and possibly Germany. The costuming sections doesn't apply to Budapest or Japanese venues as I don't know the customs there.

1) It is best if you do not sing along with the cast. It can throw cast members off and it is distracting to the people around you. Remember people sitting in the audience paid a lot of money to hear the cast sing -- not some fan. (NOTE: "Mouthing-along" the words to the songs is without a consensus. Some cast members find it distracting, some don't mind it and it may potentially lead to a "staring contest." If you sit away from the stage you may get away with it.)

2) Do not dance in the aisles. Do not make dancing motions in your seat. This is very distracting to the cast members onstage as well as to others around you.

3) Excessive talking, screaming, or squealing isn't proper and is distracting to the cast and audience members around you.

4) It's not considered proper theatre etiquette to got to a show dressed as members from the show -- [but] this is theatre etiquette for Cats fans and it is generally acceptable to go to the show in costume. However, there are some things to consider when attending the show in costume:

a) Be prepared to remove your wig to allow those behind you to see. You may want to ask those behind you if they want you to remove it. (Even if you are short or you wig is small--do this, it's a matter of courtesy.)

b) Do not sign autographs for members of the public who think you are in the cast. It is best to explain to them that you are not a member of the cast and that you are flattered by them mistaking you for one.

c) At one point in time on Broadway the dance captain instructed the cast not to interact with audience members in costume. This was because she felt costumers were distracting to others in the audience. (NOTE: The dance captain is now involved with many regional productions in the US.)

d) Sometimes Cast members do like costumers. I remember sitting next to a group of three costumers at one of the final tour shows in Michigan. They got a lot of attention from an appreciative Cast. Just remember that it's not always guaranteed or liked by everyone.

5) Cell phones, beepers, pagers,etc.. SHOULD ALL BE TURNED OFF. If you're a doctor (etc.) on call use the vibrate function. NEVER talk on the phone in the theatre once the show has begun.

6) Flash Photography is a matter of safety at the show -- the cast do back flips, jumps, and other dance feats -- it's not just a matter of copyright. It's a matter of safety.

7) If you do happen to be able to correspond via the internet with a cast member after a show it's best not to ask the performers if s/he remembers you. They see a full audience every night and it is assuming a bit too much on their parts to ask if they remember one person specifically from the stage door.

Bravo. We need more of this kind of advice in these troubled times.

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Never Go Ashtray

Today I began work on what will, I am sure, eventually come to be known as the greatest album I will ever record. Its prospective title is "Never Go Ashtray", a quite clever pun on "Never Go Astray", a mantra I repeat to my hair in the mirror each morning. The album is in fact a concept album about my hair. For those of my fans who are unfamiliar with my early work, I first began writing songs about my facial features (including my divine Starlight Express style makeup) as a response to Enya's classic album Watermark. Ever since its release back in the 1980s I have been engaged in a one-way dialogue with the gorgeous Ms Enya, a dialogue that has led me to the conclusion that one day we will collaborate on a record of mock-epic proportions. Indeed, I am so enamored of this talented songstress from Erin that I intend at least one of the songs on my album (perhaps an unlisted track at its conclusion) to be a tribute to her hair. Other ladies whose hair I wish was my own include Dame Judi Dench, Olivia Newton John and the girl in Run Lola Run. But enough about these divas of the stage and screen. My album will be a series of songs about every aspect of my hair: its Tina Turner style, its gorgeous concrete blonde colour and, most importantly, the difficulty I have keeping it all together. Enya, if only you knew how long it takes me to get my hair just right, you would perhaps respect me even more. As it is, I can't get through the day without listening to "Orinoco Flow" at least once, in the hope that it will inspire in me greater things. So far, however, I have only got as far as a track listing for my album, a necessary first step you would agree, Enya. Soon enough it will be time to record the songs, choose the album cover artwork (I already have a fair idea of the portrait of myself I wish to use) and, of course, the film clips. I want to go ten singles deep on this one. Everyone talks about difficult third albums. Well, all I've got to say is that you people should try a first album sometimes. It's not as easy as it looks, is it Enya? I of course admired your work in Clannad and that band did surely suffer from your decision to go solo. But I believe it was the right decision, Enya. Look at how your career has blossomed! I loved your song in The Lord of the Rings! My, my - I did have panda eyes after hearing that. Luckily for me I was in a darkened cinema and could use facial wipes to rid my complexion of my tear stains. I did, however, miss the rest of the movie in my attempt to recreate the look that had taken me so long to assemble that morning, as you know, Enya. Never mind, I told myself, I'll just concentrate on getting the album finished in time for Christmas. There has to be a Christmas song on the album, don't you think, Enya? Something about my hair, and about Christmas trees. I know: "I'm dreaming of a white bleach job, just like Tina Turner in Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome ..." Wow, that's a terrific start. I feel it coming together. People will see me and cry.

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You Wanted It - You Got It

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If rumours were true ...

I'd have grown a beard by now. As it is, my bum fluff couldn't polish a midget's toenail. I'd be rolled in dough, baked for fourty minutes then served sliced, with an assortment of sauces and marinades. As it is, I've got a migraine and my catarrh gives even some record producers curry. I'd be a millionaire, for a moment. As it is, I'm doomed to a lifetime of royalty checks that barely cover the cost of a local call in Laos. I'd be surrounded by girls, girls, girls. As it is, I'm often mistaken for a girl, and wherever I go I seem to attract monkeys and donkeys wearing jackets made of felt. I'd be laughing it up. As it is, floating upside down here in my custom=made koala-shaped jacuzzi, I can barely stop the drool from coming out of my mouth. I'd be famous, more famous even than the secretly famous. As it is, my notoriety precedes me like a drunk's gut. I'd be thin, tanned and buffed. As it is, I can barely touch my hair net. I'd be happy. As it is I'm not. I'd be churning out hits like jatz cracker biscuits. As it is, I'm on the floor, searching for the crumbs of my adolescent cassingle period. I'd be sociable. As it is, I can't be sociable. If rumours were true, you wouldn't be reading this - instead, you'd have it stencilled on your eyelids, like that college girl in Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark. As it is, you have no eyelids. Did you just blink?

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Some of my many secrets ...

I am bad. I can sing. My number is 83. Starlight Express. Mono recordings of my sleep patterns. Josie. The 'Sippi Hole. Spurt. Tab Cola. Mumps. Knee-high white sports socks. National Geographic World (kids' version). Maps of Mexico. Yucatan. A shiny red bicycle with a rear reflector the size of a saucepan. Nissan cars with brake lights like hot plates. She went out with me but we never spoke. I didn't kiss her at the Blue Light. I once overheard. Speedos. Behind the scenes at the Arcadia film clip. Money for Nothing headband. Seven Seas Stamps. Magic tricks. Sea Monkeys suck. Richie Rich comics. Caspar, where are you now. We need. I am Sting on the cover of Dream of the Blue Turtles. Dream of the Blue Pipe Cleaners. Compton's encyclopedia. Minus Volume A. Tubular Bells. Sky. Kate Ceberano. Young Boys Are Her Weakness. That's why.

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Josi!

Josi! You are luscious! I watch you every week on Chartbusting Eighties just because you are so luscious. You make me want to slur my words and say eighdies. I feel fat in my Tears For Fears outfits, especially this gigantic panda jumper but I don't care because I want to shout, pout and let other stuff out of my body at the same time. There is a beach I walk along each morning. In the top right hand corner of the inside of my mirrorshade Le Specs I've got a little pop-up window set to play continuous CB80s re-runs. I am too shy to participate in the CB80s audience. Did I mention the beach I walk along in my greatcoat and tight-fitting black boots. Josi, you are so rude to your audience members. That makes me excited. I refuse to communicate with you via email. The despicably ugly film clips from our deadbeat generation onyl serve to make you look attractive. Please tell the goons in the studio to desist with the smoke machine. It distracts my eye from its contemplation of you. Yes, I have only one eye. It is located in the middle of my forehead. I do not require an eyepatch, as I am blessed with several bandannas and a rather girlish quiff. Walking along the ebach in a greatcoat and boots can be hard, especially now that my Walkman is broken, and the elastic band holding my headphones together has also broken. Everybody wants to rule your world, Josi, except me. I want to rool with you. The two of us, together, in a film clip with no name. Exasperating the studio hacks with our cut-up trickery, our mirrorshades, our bike pant flower arrangements, our ineffable badness, weirdness. Let's write songs from the big chair of your lap, you on keyboards, me on bass, some NMIT music student on guitar, production by Bros. Hair by Brian. Let us buy a house in Reservoir, and coat the walls with L.P. covers, forge a path to the Hills Hoist out of vinyl 12" circles, leave complimentary head cleaners in the bathroom for our guests. I will draw George Michael stubble on my cheeks, bleach my teeth "Choose LIfe" white. I love raging and long walks on the beach. I love your teasing manner and your generous bust. I see you in the top left hand corner of my heart, standing still as the video recorder runs through its paces, taping over all my old sitcom flames, erasing the sevendies, the ninedies, the naughdies. Only eighdies remain. Chartbusting eighdies. Heartbusting eighdies. Pantbusting eighdies. Josi!

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Wimbled[t]on

The blisters on my feet have begun to weep. My soles, oh my soles, they're red and inflamed like my sunburnt knees. The zinc cream tastes like acid on my lips. I can't swallow, and my elbow's sick of tennis. History can be read in a forehand, a groundstroke. The only mystery is the spin on the ball. Little shards of green fibre explode from the racquet, whilst others remain caught there, in between the strings, like patterns for impossible socks. Mine have worn completely through, exposing my soles (oh my soles!) to the unsympathetic manipulations of my Volleys. From the serving line I can see a row of pink faces, turning left then right like so many clowns waiting to go down on a ping pong ball. Will your turn ever come? I clutch soft fluffy toys to my breast. The miniature koala's feet claw at my shirtsleeve like a pathetic comedian begging for one last gag. You don't make me laugh. You make me want to find a cure for idiots. My wristbands have begun to produce sweat more effectively than a resalination plant. I shudder at the thought of putting my Ivan Lendl designer track pants back on after the game. I hate the post-match coldness, the stiffness of limbs, the rubber-necked journalists. Fuck them. And fuck the organisers with their "only questions about the match, nothing else." Well, maybe I am concerned about global warming. Hell, if the drought continues, we won't be playing on grass courts anymore. I prefer clay courts anyway. If they were good enough for Evonne ... Well, maybe I am interested in discussing my private life. I'd like William Hurt to play me in the biopic of my life. With all the wizardry they've got these days, I could have Hurt for the close-ups and Jeremy Bettany for the action shots. The choreographed rallies would be endless, mesmerising, vertigo-inducing. Maybe I prefer to discuss other players' games, instead of my own. Maybe I want to read poetry at press conferences, or fart. But here's the dickhead organiser again, like all the rest of them, has-beens, consigned to holding the rubber during Davis Cup matches. Their hairstyles are abominable. Eras pierced. That's not irony, in fact it's a rather neat phrase. End of an ear. Mary Pierce has infected eras. I long for the days of matted hair and red-white-and-blue headbands. Swedish tennis fans arouse me but their face paint I can do without. White shorts on men should be banned but there is something magical in the way a woman's tennis skirt rides up over the ball shoved beneath her elasticised underpants. I will face three thousand projectiles fired by the Dalek-like ball machine. I have never liked kids whose caps are bigger than their heads. Death to Gatorade. I want to break ties for a living. I want to measure net heights for a living. I want to build a practice wall for every indigenous kid who wants to play tennis. The greatest game ever invented is called "Community".

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Party 2

You smell like that party we went to a couple of weeks ago. Remember? It was a Saturday night, well, afternoon really. We went down to the reservoir and parked the car so close to the water you could put your feet in without leaving the vehicle. We jacked up the two back tyres for some reason. It looked like the car was frozen in the act of plummetting into the water. The recent rains barely crossed my radar when they fell but that night, out by the reservoir, we watched the ripples slowly advance and fade. Half the picnic area was under water. Signs had been placed near the water's edge, flood warnings. We laughed at the improbability of it all, cracked a couple of Bacardi Breezers and proceeded to just sit there, as the sun went down, listening to Belinda Carlisle's Runaway Horses album, the one with "Summer Rain", "La Luna" and "Runaway Horses" on it. As that song's soaring Spanish-affected chorus swooned around me, I began to lose consciousness, and could only be roused when you ejected the tape and replaced it with the soundtrack from Footrot Flats. That was all the encouragement I needed. As Dave Dobbyn's voice began tio warm up the "da-da-da" for "Slice of Heaven", I leapt from the car, landing in the algae-tinged water and, to my surprise, not minding it one bit. You chucked me another Breezer and we spent the next ten minutes or so sipping quietly. Then a whole bunch of pig-shooters came along in their roo-spotting utes, all high beams and Chisel. The illusion, shattered, decided to come back some other time. We joined the boys for a quiet drink but our Breezers did cause the odd raised eyebrow. As did my gentle demurral when offered a VB. They couldn't understand what we were doing out there and, truth be told, neither could I. The party had been your idea, remember, though you seem not to care now. I left you there, chatting with the pig-shooters, and drove off into the sad night. All the way home the tape player, whose circuits had somehow jammed, looped "Slice of Heaven" over and over again, only it never got past that a capella introduction: "da da da ..."

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Party 1

Useless, absolutely fucking useless. I thought I could trust you. I thought we were on one wavelength. You said "Wear something glitzy, it's a Studio 64 party." Well, thanks. Thanks for pushing my excitement levels so high I had to inhale Ventolin. Thanks for prompting me to spend the next four hours in other peoples' wardrobes, dashing from look to look, outfit to drawing board, back and fifth. Thanks for inspiring me then to down a couple of vitamin pills with Red Bull, turning my complexion wan. Thanks for picking me up from Tribesco, so kind. It must have been fun to drive down the street shouting "Who wants a lift to Studio 64?" like we were in New York, and the whole city was our film set. You looked pretty fucking stupid yourself. It's not often you see Hall and Oates together in public, and yet that's exactly what we were - me, in my pink flamingo jumpsuit, all flanged sleeves and flaring pant-endings, obscurely antique gym shoes, obligatory jewelled bangle on my left wrist, diamond stud in my right. You, looking hot in a knitted singlet, Crystal Cylinder casual pant and Ciak shoes, bandanna curled like a pet snake round both your wrists at once, and also the steering wheel. Thanks for tuning the radio to the only station playing Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" at that very moment. Though I winced, when the seasgulls came in during the instrumental bridge, I could have been Michael J Fox in any of his movies. I began to wonder whether he ever went to Studio 64 in its heyday, and was he the same height then? The vitamins rushed through my pelvis. The Telstar TX5 Ghia hatchback with digital instrumentation roared over pedestrians, dogs and roadhumps, dispatching butterfiles from my stomach to my brain. Kit had the onboard navigation system booted, rammed and reloaded. You took a few calls on a phone welded to the dashboard. "Yeah, see you there!" "Cool!" "Ten minutes away, save some for me!" Etc. Thanks for tricking me into believing I'd be amongst friends. I thought I could trust you. Then again, I thought I could yodel.

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Hey Kids ...

Come ere, your uncle Clint wants to say something to ya. This is a heads up, okay, and I'm not gunna repeat anything so this is thinking time, right? Right. Shoulders back. Heads up, backs straight. Knees pressed together, shoelaces tied separately. Eyes open, mouth shut. Pencils down, balloons up. Please use graph paper for all notes. Clag has been dispensed. Today's tuckshop menu has been cancelled. Complimentary apricot delights will be administered prior to your polio injections. Girls, boys. Attention, please. This will only take a moment. Why are you not wearing your sports uniform? I'm not interested in whether you got dacked at the school assembly or not. It serves you right for wearing leopard print underpants to school in the first place. The silkworm experiment has been declared a complete failure. As an alternative, you will all be involved in the painting of a large-scale mural on the side of the Myer building. Most of our work will be done under cover of darkness. I'm sure you know why that is, so don't ask. That's called rhetoric. We don't have time to explore the many levels of irony today, children. Please turn to page (x) of whatever John Marsden book we're reading at the moment. Yes, that one will do. Right. It's time for a bit of U.S.S.R. Not a peep out of any of you for a good half-hour. All right, you can go to the bubblers. Walk, please. That's not good enough, you'll have to wait. I don't know. What? Yes, that's right, what he said. Books open please. Mouths shut. Where are you going? No, no, no. Detention is this afternoon. We'll be there for as long as it takes. I don't have anything better to do.

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Hey Gents ...

Does it matter if I ask the ladies so many questions? Do you ever wear lycra? Your make-up looks smudged, or is that a trail of mustard on your top lip? Do you like cream buns? What's the current temperature beneath your armpit? Why does lettuce go soggy anyway? Have you been to Uranus? Why won't you talk to me? Do you have problems expressing your emotions? Come on, admit it, you're in love with that guy from The Strokes and you secretly write fan fiction based on your imaginary encounters, don't you? Oh come on, are you telling me you don't know what I'm talking about? Are you alive? What makes you happy? Does Run Lola Run make you cry? Would it make a difference if I said it made me cry? Why do you persist with these vile rumours about us? Don't you know I have feelings too? Do you think germs have to spread? What's wrong with you anyway?

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Hey Ladies ...

I know you're curious about me. What makes me tick? How do I have my tea? Are my underpants red? Am I wearing underpants? How do I get my hair to stay that way? Do I like pets? Is my fridge running? How do I manage to write such emotionally retarded music? How much did I pay the engineer to record my songs? Did I really audition for "Cats"? Am I a true tabby? How do my socks fit? What's metal? Do we really die? How many jelly beans do I have in my pocket? What am I listening to right now? Has daylight savings started yet? How do they make belacan? Is my true name Roger? What's my starsign? Do I really enjoy champagne as much as the rumours suggest? Is my portfolio photograph airbrushed? Why do you cry? Does pain cause it? Isn't Paris elegant at this time of the year? Can I guess where you're calling from? Have I been to the Paris Hilton? Does playing a tennis racquet instead of a guitar make me an idiot? Do I enjoy spending time with llamas? Can we expect a similar set of questions addressed to "the men"?

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Why I love "Cats"

Well, it's another day in the life of Clint Bo Dean and I'm loving it. Pulled out my vinyl copy of "Cats: the Musical" today and boy, did it look good. The record was in pristine condition, basically never played. I just put it on top of the record player and watched it for a while. Then I jived to "Jellicle Cats" for a few minutes in my brain, experiencing the rare pleasure of esctasy as the tears flooded down my cheeks, disrupting my extensive make-up. They call me Panda-eyes but those of you who really know me know already that I am a tabby cat with a penchant for profiteroles, memories and two litre jugs of Baileys and Coke. I count Taylor Taylor, charlotte sometimes and the Artist formerly known as the third guy from Bros. as my friends. Andrew Lloyd Webber is a genius. I wonder, did he also invent the barbecue known as the Webber? Sometimes I suspect I too may be a genius. Some of the songs I have been writing lately simply blow me away. The two track recording equipment does give me curry sometimes, and is currently on the fritz but that's okay. I'm Macavity the Mystery Cat. I'm also an interpretative dancer, wearing three bandannas. Count them. Watch me dance.

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