Over my shoulder

My brief abscondment from blogging last year has rather unfortunately robbed me of the traditional look-back-on-the-year-gone post of which I have previously been so fond of boring my audience with. I’d look at the post I did last year for the year ahead, judge myself against it and write one for the next year, so I could end up in an endless feedback loop of recrimination. If blogging offers anything of value to the blogger beyond the knowledge of pestering multiple people at once, it is the accountability you can get by looking back and measuring yourself against that optimistic version of yourself. Last year I’d completely abandoned blogging and was about to walk away from writing online altogether, and so there is no post from this time last year going on about how much I was going to achieve this year for me to look at, get depressed and then write about how next year was going to be the year I’d actually get my life together.

Not that that’s going to stop me looking back anyway.

I seem to remember that at the turn of last year I actually took a conscious decision not to make any resolutions at all. I was determined not to mess about with dieting and all that nonsense (hence the additional stone or so that I’m now carrying), I was going to wrap up Demon Pigeon and make most of the people I know online cross with me for doing so (mission accomplished) and there was some kind of nebulous ‘I’ll do better with the writing thing’. That was about it.

So in the absence of any set goals, what kind of a year has it been? Well I started a new job and managed not to get fired from it, so that’s a good start. I seem to actually be quite good at it, so from that point of view it’s been pretty good. It has brought into my life a level of ‘work stress’ that I’ve managed to avoid for most of my work life to date, but I guess that’s what happens as you climb further up that greasy pole. It’s not unbearable and I’m a hell of a lot better off than a lot of other people, so I’m not about to start bitching about it.

On the health front the aforementioned stone or so (I daren’t look too closely at the numbers until next year, when I will actually do something about it) is testament to a year when I have at the very least enjoyed my food. And my wine. Mostly the latter.

As for the writing? Well I finished the second draft of Blood on the Motorway, my apocalyptic tale of murder and stale sandwiches, but more importantly I came to something approaching an epiphany about my writing, and what I need to do if I’m serious about wanting to make this anything more than a hobby. I sent the second draft out (or bits of it anyway) to some beta readers and seemed to get some fairly positive responses which have encouraged me that perhaps I’m not entirely barking up the wrong tree.

As for everything else, well it’s been a bit of a barnstormer of a year. My lovely family is pretty bloody brilliant. My little boy is currently at the period between three and four that guarantees peak cuteness and my daughter is growing up to be a brilliant, kind and sweet little girl with a tremendous curiosity about the world. My partner and I are nearly a year into planning a wedding and haven’t had to resort to murdering each other even once. She’s been amazingly supportive as I’ve taken on the new job and tried to determine my writing plan, and I can’t wait to stand up next to her next year and look slightly shambolic next to her radiance when we get married.

There’s been ups and downs, as there inevitably is, but as I sit astride December looking back on the year gone, I have to say that on balance it’s been a corker. I’m unbelievably excited about next year, even though it’s going to be one of the toughest of my life if I want to do everything I plan to achieve, but that’s for another post. Stop rolling your eyes, yes there’ll be more of this.

At this point all there is to do is splurge out a list of all the stuff I’ve liked this year, like a child shouting out his favourite Pokémon to a disinterested playground.


I almost never read stuff when it comes out, but the books I’ve enjoyed most this year are:

  • Write, Publish, Repeat by Sean Platt and Johnny B Truant, and Let’s Get Digital by David Gaughran. Two self-publishing guides that have completely revolutionised my thinking this year.
  • Old Gold, Runaway Town and Lost City by Jay Stringer. After a few years of meaning to get around to them I finally read these three books in quick succession, and they completely blew me away. All the brilliance of the American crime heavyweights like Pelicanos, but with a Wolverhampton accent.
  • I am Pilgrim by Terry Hayes. A bit of a fluff read, this was a thoroughly entertaining Bourne style political murder mystery.


I have children so rarely make it to the cinema any more, but The Raid: Berendal was astounding, and I really enjoyed Captain America: Winter Soldier and Edge of Tomorrow. I’m sure I would have loved Gone Girl, Interstellar and Guardians of the Galaxy too, but I haven’t seen any of them so I can’t comment. No, I’m not crying, you’re crying. *weeps*


Despite there not being any albums that completely blew me away this year, there’s been a lot that I’ve really enjoyed. Here’s my non ordered top 21 albums of the year because why the hell not:

  • Every Time I Die - From Parts Unknown
  • 65daysofstatic – Wild Light
  • Crippled Black Phoenix – White Light Generator
  • Mogwai – RAVE TAPES
  • Helms Alee – Sleepwalking Sailors
  • Conan – Blood Eagle
  • Dirge – Hyperion
  • Cult Leader – Nothing For Us Here
  • Lantlos – Melting Sun
  • Fu Manchu – Gigantoid
  • Electric Wizard – Time to Die
  • Trap Them – Blissfucker
  • Old Man Gloom – The Ape of God I
  • Beck – Morning Phase
  • Sun Kil Moon – Benji
  • Se Delan – The Fall
  • Goat – Commune
  • This Will Destroy You – Another Language
  • Emma Ruth Rundle – Some Heavy Ocean
  • Mark Lanegan Band – Phantom Radio
  • NehruvianDOOM – NehruvianDOOM

Of course, the new Colour Haze album comes out today and I’ve not heard it yet, so I fully expect that to make a late bid for Album of the Year.

So that’s it. 2014. All done and dusted save for the fun bit at the end. If you missed it the other day, I did a new post over at The Rolling Stone Challenge, so if you’ve not seen that, you should totally go and read it.


It has today been a full decade since I was last employed as a writer. For a brief period, I could legitimately claim that as a job description, without people being able to laugh straight in my stupid face for doing so, or giving me that look. You know, that one. When I first moved to York I was hired by a tiny charity-backed start up as a writer, and from there got hired as a features writer for an Asian lifestyle magazine, despite the obvious drawback of me being neither Asian nor in possession of much of a lifestyle. The boss at the time rather kindly overlooked this, mainly because he assumed that I’d be desperate enough for work that he could attempt to work me to death. He was absolutely right. After a few months of me writing articles he was basically too lazy to write himself about BMWs, he launched a newspaper for the same market. It was hugely ambitious, a free 50,000 word monthly paper distributed throughout the Asian community of West Yorkshire funded entirely by ads. He made me editor and sole writer, and proceeded to do the working-me-to-death thing.

After nine months of endless promises that he’d hire other writers soon, I started looking around for more journalism jobs, hoping that this experience of being utterly shafted on a regular basis, having to edit all my own words at three in the morning on deadline day and living off the worst chicken burgers known to man would stand me in good stead for whatever shafting the next job would have in store for me. The plan was to slowly work my way up the food chain until I was editor of The Guardian. Or Empire Magazine, or maybe Metal Hammer. I wasn’t fussy back then.

I was hired by another company, again as a journalist, this time with the promise of normal hours and vastly improved pay, which would have been splendid had I not turned up on my second day of work and found the company was being wound up by inland revenue for non-payment of VAT. Two weeks before Christmas.

I’d fairly spectacularly burnt my bridges on exiting the previous job (and spent the subsequent few months chasing my last payment) so, with little other option, I went back to my default twenties job, serving behind the bar at a rock pub and dying inside every time someone selected Chop Suey on the jukebox (approximately every seventeen minutes).

That dream crushing event was ten years ago today.

I know that, because it was the day after the Pantera guitarist Dimebag Darrell was shot and killed on stage in America by a deranged fan, along with another band member and some unfortunate crowd members. I spent the entire morning at my new office waiting for someone to tell me what I’d be doing, and in the absence of such instruction I scoured the metal news sites, being shocked by the events. Then an odious little man turned up and told us all to go home and I moved on from events in America. Now every year on the anniversary of his death I get this odd mix of sadness about the event (not that I’m a huge Pantera fan, but it was a pretty shocking end) and frustration at myself that I had to walk away from being paid to do the stuff that I now spend my free time doing.

Since then I’ve not really been able to claim ‘writer’ as anything other than an aspiration. Sure there was that time I gave up my job in a shop and tried to start a metal magazine, but that only lasted a few months and made me utterly financially destitute for a further year, so I don’t really count that, because that was humiliating and awful. A story for another time perhaps, perhaps for a blog post entitled ‘How to do a really stupid thing and end up not being able to pay your rent and come pretty close to being homeless.’

So there it is. A full decade since I thought my dream of writing had gone forever. I’m still writing though, and hopefully this time next year I’ll have an actual product on the market that people can buy from me, and when that happens I can again call myself a writer. A proper one, that gets paid for it and everything. Just try not to make that face at me until then. You know, that face.