Raining Bankers

For the past few days I've had my binoculars trained on Canary Wharf, trying to spot the newly unemployed billionaire bankers jumping from the top floors. Alas, none of them seem capable of doing the decent thing - so until it is literally raining bankers I refuse to believe this recession is as bad as they say. When I say 'they', obviously I mean journalists, for whom nothing is as exciting as total disaster. "Economy follows same predictable pattern as before" isn't really an exciting headline is it? Never mind, tighten the purse strings, send back the helicopter, and concrete over the pool, and I'm sure we'll all survive - just in time for the next disaster. Meanwhile, elsewhere in the world hurricanes kill people, floods, famine and disease still decimate populations,and wars rage. But fuck them. Where's my fuel rebate?

Having put down the binoculars and climbed off my soapbox, I head off to the studio to master a collection of live tracks recorded over the last year on the European tour. This official bootleg collection (as I'm temporarily calling it) is like a little time machine that has been transporting me back to some of my favourite moments in recent years. Playing with Oli and Olli is always a privilege, and it's nice to hear back some of those live moments (complete with audience participation) without being covered in sweat, worried about my hair, and trying to remember the words. When it's done I'll see if there's anyway of releasing it, depending on demand. He said coyly.

Right, I have to go and decide how and where to hang the Damien Hirst that has just come into my possession. I'm thinking by the neck, with piano wire, from my front porch - as a warning to all other talentless charlatans.

P.S I don't have a porch. Paunch maybe. Not porch.