So.

So, here it is.

The blank page doesn’t scare me, it dares me: go on, do your best if you think you’ve got it in you. Come on I dare you. Come on if you think you are hard enough. Write something interesting. Perhaps profound. But not boring. Please not boring. I’ve had enough of that. Do I have it in me? Who knows? It’s been a funny old week. Wednesday night, I went to a bit of a do that depressed and scared me in equal measure.

The kind of event with a talk. Some tedious historical, pseudo-intellectual trivia from someone who’s written more books than me, has a better job than me, and had the crowd pretending to listen to every so-called gem of wisdom. OK, I was late, the wine had run out—had one glass—and yes, I was fucking jealous. So, I’m being overly harsh on the speakers. Then again, maybe I’m not—you had to be there—or perhaps not.

At times like this, I always remember this (just nipping to the kitchen for some cans of Kronenbourg. Felt it was appropriate in the circumstances). So, where was I? Ah, yes, fame. Or rather, the lack of it. After he left PIL, Jah Wobble had a bit of a meltdown on the tube. Not like me, in a carriage feeling sorry for myself on the way home.

No, Wobble was working for London Transport, and while announcing at Tower Hill, over the Tannoy, he simply said, “I used to be someone, I repeat, I used to be someone.” I know how he fucking feels. God I miss being at the top, but at least I enjoyed the view for a while. And then the world changed, the foundations were shook and I fell like Icarus to the floor. Never to get another set of wings.

Christ, have you tried opening the new Kronenbourg packs? The ones that seem superglued together and need to be parted in a special sequence? An enigma wrapped in a puzzle in a can. Like the Krypton Factor. The Kronenbourg factor. You need the strength of Atlas just to get a drink. Now that would have been fun watching the contestants trying to solve the maze after a six pack.

Did you see what I did there? A classic distraction technique, I moved on to the beer to cloud the issue. And who likes cloudy beer. So, the lager issue obscured the larger issue. The issue is that my career—the one with so much promise, the one where I was once somebody—has gone down the toilet. I feel like I’m too old to reach around the bottom of the bowl and retrieve it before the chain is flushed. It’s not that my reactions are shot, but as far as jobs go, I’m as welcome as a turd.

We live in a new world order—age and wisdom? No, thank you. Let’s just make the same mistakes with a cheaper workforce. Cheaper—I’m already on the breadline. But you can’t argue with Applicant Tracking Systems (ATS). Nor can you get past these digital doormen. I suppose I should admire them—in a world where it seems to be a crime to say no, and where every problem is just a solution opportunity in waiting, at least they have the conviction to say nein.

I fear it’s due to a lack of plumbers (oh god, I’ve been at the cheese again). You see, if you find gold behind the U-bend, you’re a plumber, not an alchemist. The trouble is, everyone thinks they’re fucking alchemists, the world is awash with them. And? And old farts like me, I remind them of that.

So.

So, there it was.

Did you see it? That was my career rushing past.

Did anyone see my fucking wings.