I am reliably informed that my last message was Christmas 2007. I am also given to believe that the distance between Christmas 2007 and Christmas 2008 is 12 months or, as we in the music business refer to it, one year. This is quite frankly unforgivable and you'd be perfectly within your rights to have me thrown to the dogs or, at the very least, stripped naked, covered in golden syrup and thrown to Nigella Lawson. First of all, my sincere apologies to the inhabitants of the village of Little Bedingfield. Due to the onset of an unsightly rash, I am unable to fulfil my duties as the back end of the pantomime horse in the local Operatic Society's production of Jaws 2. Secondly, my humble gratitude to all the staff at ShortHouse Records. Their vision, sense of duty and ability to recite Byron and yodel at the same time have left me awestruck and ever so slightly queasy. Special thanks goes to Maureen in accounts. Her efforts in organizing the Christmas party did not go unnoticed. The stand out moment for me was her re-enactment of the Battle of Sebastopol using only her support stockings and a bucket of crème fraiche. Indeed, she will be receiving a hefty bonus once the buildings insurance has kicked in and she's out of hospital. Fourthly (thirdly was cancelled to lack of ticket sales) my very best wishes to all long suffering visitors to this site and my heartfelt thanks for your continued support. Your 50th birthday messages were all gratefully received. It has been my pleasure and privilege to have been able to perform for some of you this year and I hope to be seeing more of you on my travels in 2009. Seventhly (fifthly and sixthly have been removed on the advice of my lawyers) have a great Christmas. Big love Nik (and the lovely Sarah) xxxx

Have just finished applying a second coat of Danish oil to the floor of my garage conversion/potting shed/ recording studio. It doesn't sound like the most strenuous of tasks, I know, but I can't move my head to the left or walk upright and am currently unable to alight from my Lazy boy recliner without a loud, involuntary grunt. Those wandering, unprepared into earshot could be forgiven for thinking that Anna Kournikova had popped round for some Robertson's barley water and was in the process of executing a forehand smash.

So, of what possible interest could this mean to you? Well, quite possibly none whatsoever, but this does mean that soon I will be able to move my mountain of hugely expensive recording equipment into said garage conversion/potting shed/recording studio. I will then be faced with the task of connecting it all together with the 2 miles of cable currently piled in the spare room. Assuming all the sticky labels are still in place from when I last dismantled it and I'm able to employ the services of the local Sherpa community, this should take me no longer than a few weeks.

I'm lying, of course. If the truth be told, technology has advanced somewhat in recent years. Most of the recording process can be achieved using a laptop plugged into something the size of a box of fish fingers (haddock). On consulting the oracle (ebay) I discovered that my "mountain of hugely expensive recording equipment" had the market value roughly equivalent to that of a large sliced loaf (wholewheat) and so, with a heavy heart and a light wallet, 90% of it has already been dispatched to the nearest available skip. Anything saved was on the basis of how many flashing lights and dials it had.

For those few of you who haven't read the Iceland Review of 28th April 2007, you will not be aware of my recent trip to that magnificent country. My good friend Chesney (Hawkes) and his good friend Ginny organized a song writing retreat in a secluded hotel on the banks of an un-pronounceable Fjord very close to the middle of nowhere in the south west of the island.

On landing, as the plane emerged through the low cloud, you could've forgiven any one of us for believing we had arrived on another planet. The vast expanse of black volcanic rock, covered in light brown and pale green lichens was alien to anything I had ever seen.

Within an hour and a half of the plane touching down, we were all getting our kit off and jumping into a hot bath together. The bath in question was the Blue Lagoon (a natural lake fed by hot springs). This was a great way of getting to know each other, at least from the neck up!

Just a quickie to say THANKS for all the cards and greetings on the occasion of this, the first day of my 50th year (that means I'm 49, in case you haven't worked it out). I still feel like I did when I was 17...... KNACKERED!!!

ShortHouse Records HQ

Well, here we all are, loins girded. Assembled before me is a crack team of posters and packers, poised like Serengeti cheetahs waiting for the first stray Wildebeest to stick his head out from behind the water cooler.

All hands are on the ShortHouse deck. There's Maureen from accounts, Beryl the tea lady, Norman the doorman, Gina the cleaner and Edwin from personal grooming, all puckered up and ready for those first orders to come in.

Have just taken delivery of gazillions of copies of "You've got to laugh", all cellophane wrapped and shiny. You don't realize exactly what gazillions of Cds looks like until you're trying to climb over them to get to the toilet.

Laid end to end, they would stretch for quite a long way and back again; melted down and poured into a mould, they would form a full scale model of David Hasselhoff‘s ego; chopped, shredded and fried with a medium onion and a liberal sprinkling of coriander, there would be enough to feed a whole battalion of quantity surveyors . . . twice.

How the hell am I going to get rid of this lot?

01/09/2006

Lying on my front looking down at the Atlantic crashing against the rocks 150 feet below. Not a good place to drop my contact lens.

I love it over here, Ireland's a special place. I've been a frequent visitor ever since investing in a bit of property. You can drive for hours and not see a soul. You can also drive for hours and not see a road sign.

Following two unsuccessful attempts at reheating a stale kebab in the Corby Trouser Press, I collapse on the bed and contemplate the horrible truth . . . it's finished.

Have spent the day mastering the album. Well. . . To be exact, have spent the day thumbing through Subwoofer Monthly whilst a man, who can hear a flea blink at 400 paces, attempts to squeeze the last few drops of gold out of my precious recordings.
And here it is, in my hand: Four and a half years of blood, sweat and tears reduced to a few numbers burned onto a 5" plastic disc.
What's that all about?