This week’s music papers round up in No Rock and Roll Fun (they read the NME so you don’t have to, thank god) contains the following quote:

Martin Trimble, 22-20s singe [sic], thinks the blues are dead. (Presumably they just didn’t wake up one morning.)

Aside from being bloody typical of a comment from a Clueless Young Person Of Today who probably thinks that Robbie Williams is a jazz singer, it made me laugh.

Brilliant evening with our bass player last night. We started on the perils of a freelance bass player’s existence and should he go into teaching to earn a crust instead of relying on heavily declining wine bar jazz gigs. Then over dinner we moved on to Jamie Cullum and Norah Jones – why?; the literary merit of Harry Potter, gossip about old friends, a potted history of Irish nationalism, and an explanation/demonstration of why Mr P and I prefer not to discuss Irish politics (he’s a Jaff, I’m not); and then the musicians neatly sequed into a review session of Mr P’s latest compositions and I was left to watch The Office in peace.

Meanwhile the streets of Peckham resounded to the bangs, booms and crashes of a million private firework displays.

Wonder if we should tell BP that he is forming part of the source material for our latest daft story idea. A daft detective novel set in the pubs and blues clubs of south London, with a central character based on my dead cat and BP.

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