Some quick notes on the U.K. release tour of Corb Lund and the Hurtin Albertans` "Hair in my Eyes Like a Highland Steer."













Brighton, by train to the Hanbury Ballroom, staying at the promoter's house. Four sleeping men then five: a dog snoring in the corner. The promoter, over a full English breakfast says: "At least he didn`t lick your face."

The M25 and 3 hours to Leighton Buzzard at the Wheat Sheaf with Roger Dean Young and Tin Cup. Driving back to Junior's house, Junior`s son is in scouts, fully decked-out and we are listening to Bob Harris on the BBC on the Television. Corby corners me in the corner then tells the crowd: "Listen up, you turkey-necked Motherfuckers!" and we party till three till the Barmaid kicks us out and Kerry, from Tin Cup, says come home with us and she doesn`t.

Glasgow, Ron arrives, rain, bloody rain but a thumping good night, last one with the smokers, and kicking, lots of kicking the floorboards.

Bad ass and Ron in the van to Aberdeen, no piss says Siemens, no piss but 35 miles to go so mints all round. I finally brush my teeth, wife texts 'I`m lonely and tired' and I`m getting chicken wings tonight, so Leeds tomorrow. Corby`s folks in Leicester and me getting away from the boys, taking the train from Leeds to London, Leytonstone, 70 quid all the way home.

Tour Pictures

Book Reviews: Liar, Waiting for Rapture.













Book Review

Photocopier? Meritimer in London








*...NOW HEAR...THIS

Address to the inmates at the weekly gathering at The Poet Pub, in London. (Observed by some visitors from Canada who were mortified at the amount of smoke)

Picture this: Me, boozy poet, with bad posture.

Saying: Employment... I`m scared of losing my job.... I get too excited. It's the gout.. What you want me to work for you? I can`t even shake your hand...

Okay, I know what you`re thinking. What next? Well, they say Canadians are boring. It`s true I miss my homeland. You ever seen a beaver swimming? Buck toothed and beautiful.
Here at least the telly is good.

In England you have the Great figures of History: Henry the Eighth. You know the story - when the grumpy ol humpty dumpy gets in a fight with his wife he doesn`t go and make her a cappucino. He cuts her head off. Again and again. In Italy, they call him Enrico. I like that. Respectful. Sexy. Macho. Enrico don`t sound like a fat, man with a high pitched voice, wearing a tent, does it?

So Canadians... how can we be nice when we have the same climate as the Russians?
Russians.
Lenin`s tomb, that poor bald bastard entombed. In Canada we have out own entombment. Maggie`s son man. Michel Trudeau. That poor bastard is buried under an avalanche of snow in a mountian in B.C.
B.C? Where`s that?

Canada you squids.

That is Switzerland for you Britz. Just minus the Germans.......

How many people on the subway?

by John Stiles

How many people on the subway
(Tube! Holiday! Fortnight!) pencil
in digits to Crosswords? or Sudoku?

And scratch phone numbers in borders
do they look ahead or down? Twitch?
Certainly they twitch.

You`re very kind indeed, to open the door
at the bank. Say Richards? An echo in a
corridor. A busker, in silence, counts his
change.

I`ve saved three pound (Quid! Dosh!) by not
buying The Times, though the Metro is not
desired by anyone. Am I lonely to work at work?

I`m lonley anyway. I would like to walk to
work. How is a half pint of white beer, lonely?
Especially one which is left for empty at The Stage Door.