Simon Says

It turned out to be teak-look MDF.

Parker! I want answers!!!

John Pilger. Now there's somebody I wish I could say inspired me to become a journalist. You know, all left wing comment pieces, brave reporting in Iraq, that kind of thing.

But the time hass come for me to reveal the two men who inspired me to take up this trade.

John Jonah Jameson

Perry White

And yes they are the fictional editors of respectively, the Daily Bugle and the Daily Planet.

To put it another way, they are Spiderman and Superman's bosses.

I was young, I was impressionable. But let me clarify, I never liked the idea of line managing somebody of flew around in blue tights, there was something else I liked.

I liked the buzz of the (fictional) newsroom, the wisp of grey hair in each editor's hair, the top button undone and the tie pulled down as if to indicate the sweat and stress of the newsroom, the reporters running round with copy in hand, the cries of "get me that story", "stop the press", "get me the chief of police" and "hold my calls".

This was no boring office job, this was an adventure each and every day.

Most people become journalists because they want to crusade against oppression, because they are interested in the lives of lollypop ladies, or because they want to interview Take That. I wanted to be a journalist so I could wear a visor, a striped shirt and have a decanter of whisky next to the globe on my teak desk.

Obviously the reality is fairly distinct from the fantasy.

I've plied my trade on a variety of papers and I've only ever had to say something anything like "stop the press" once and I think it went something like:

"How much would it cost us if you binned those plates and chucked out the first few hundred papers while I re-stone the page? Two hundred quid? Ok do that then because this advert's worth six hundred. Cheers Bill."

Yes, in my 11 years as a journalist I can honestly say I've never wore a visor, never demanded to speak to the "Chief of Police" (although I once did a narcolepsy-inducing 60 Second Interview with a Chief Constable), and never shouted in earnest at reporters by their surnames (see Parker (Peter), Kent (Clarke), Lane (Lois).)

Tommorow could mark the realisation of a boyhood dream. I may not have the decanter of whisky, the shouty reputation nor the Superhero exclusives but, by God I'm getting a teak desk.

Yes, teak, a real man's desk.

My superior officer and I are are receiving (The Guardian's hand-me-down) desks made of a real wood. Not MDF. Not plastic. But teak.

I can see a whisp of grey hair appearing, a desire to wear a stripey shirt and I may even feel a bout of shoutyness coming on but I may have to direct it at the Deli staff who take 20 minutes making a toasty.

Stop the press(ed meat)

Is it possible to no longer appreciate music?

I never liked music as a child. This is probably because I grew up in the 1980s, a decade when Top of the Pops would play the unholiest trinity of Bananarama, Culture Club and UB40, bands I would be more inclined to identify with, if they were from recently-reclassified dwarf planet Pluto.

I had a slight soft spot for Queen, enjoyed the occasional Rolling Stones track (Paint It Black, since you asked) and even liked the Folk Music of the Spinners and the Dubliners (I was a strange eight-year-old) but by-and-large, I would rather have watched a Bruce Lee movie than listen to Bono wailing on about Pride (In the Name of Love).

Of course now, with a more refined musical palette I'd rather Bruce Lee Nunchaku me to "death by a thousand Chuks" than listen to Bono.

I just couldn't understand how people connected with music, how they had songs for when they were happy, songs for when they were sad, and songs for getting ready for a night on the lash.

To me music was in three categories:

1) Rubbish American rock by people with long bleached hair and leather singing words like "Baby, baby ahhhh lurve you yeaahhhhhhhhh".
- How could a Wigan lad whose interests included Ninjas (purely in a platonic sense) and the girls in the Kays catologue (purely in an onanistic sense) identify with that?

2) Really camp gay men dressed as girls. I refer you to my interests of Ninjas and underwear models.

3) Rubbish pop by people in denim. See above.

I went through my entire high school years thinking music (apart from Queen who obviously never fitted the category of really camp gay men dressed as girls) thinking music was all just cock rock, nancy boys and prissy poptarts.

Then there was the music my dad liked.

1) Eric Clapton. Old man with beard. Jacket sleeves rolled up, playing 167 minute guitar solos. Not good.

2) Actually, he only seemed to like Eric Clapton.

And then I discovered Oasis, though not as lucratively as Alan McGee discovered Oasis.

One listen and I feel in love with their music...

/I hate the books you read and all your friends
Your music's shite
it keeps me up all night/

/She's got a sister
And god only knows how I've missed her
On the palm of her hand is a blister
And I need more time/

/So I start a revolution from my bed
'Cause you said the brains I had went to my head
Step outside the summertime's in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out/

/I know a girl called Elsa
She's into Alka Seltzer
She sniffs it through a cane on a supersonic train
She done it with a doctor on a helicopter
She's sniffin in her tissue
Sellin' the Big Issue/

This was music that really spoke to me. Music from the Northwest of England, most of all music from the heart. Music about girlfriends having rubbish records, girls whose sisters you fancied, music about things I actually knew like Gin and the Big Issue, not things I could never experience in a million years like the things that occured on the back of a Harley in a Bon Jovi video.

This was music written by people like me for people like me (scruffy northerners who used words 'shite' and never called girls things like 'honey' or 'baybee'). And I liked it. And I wanted more.

I discovered Pulp, and lo-and-behold (as my mum would say) I found more songs I could identify with, like the one about the posh girl wanting to act all working class and stuff.

Finally I had sad songs, happy songs and even getting ready songs. At last I was a music fan, still some four years away from plucking up the courage to buy something as poncey and southern as the NME but a music fan nonetheless.

And then came the second era of my life as a music fan...

Once upon a time I had the pleasure of plying my trade alongside a nasty, hateful old mingebag who prided himself on his casual racism and comedy Northern-ness (capital N intended).

To wind him up I once ventured the opinion that his beloved milltown was, in many ways, and without prejudice, a shithole.

"I agree with you," he spat.

"And I'll tell you why........... Asians"

Actually he sort of said "Irrrrrrrshunnnnnnnnnnns", like a a 1930s Loneranger sidekick prouncing Indian as 'Injun'.

And, Asians were (along with The Polish obviously) solely responsible for the decline of said milltown.

If a mugging, rape or bottling cropped up in the news his response would be the same: "I bet it were an Irrrrrrshunnnnn".

One day I asked Old Mingebag what his long-suffering wife was making for his "tea".

"It's Friday," he said and reclined on his chair. "Mah favourite...."

"A Nice curry. Booodiful."

Irony. It's like ten thousand spoons, when all all you need is a knife.

Welcome to my blog. Although I don't work at the Daily Mail I do have empathy with the character in the Beatles song Paperback Writer.

For I have a steady job on a newspaper, but have come to realise that the gaping emptiness in my soul can be filled only by creative writing, aside from that which appears on my expense claim forms.

On the other hand the gaping emptiness in my soul could stem from the fact that I'm writing a blog, drinking whisky, watching Big Brother, waiting for my cat to come in while my wife is in bed reading the free paperback which came with this month's Glamour magazine (and next door are shagging REALLY LOUDLY)

But it's probably the writing thing.