I won’t mince my words; it’s been a rubbish summer. Much apart from the lousy weather, it’s seen the closure of my favourite record shop, cafe and local bookshop, and the death of my favourite author. There’s been little in the way of inspiring music or movies, and even Virgin Media has seen fit to cut away the only TV channel with shows worth watching from my cable package. (actually this one’s my fault. Ill-thought out budgets cuts at Casa De La Verdad Fea. Doesn’t mean I won’t gripe about it though.) I’ve been generally grumpy, out of sorts, and unable to concentrate on much creatively.
It’s poo, and it needs to stop.
I’m calling an end to the summer, and officially stating that this autumn will be the best one EVAR. We have an upcoming trip to sunny San Francisco, the London Film Festival and the best lineup of stuff at the Reading Town Hall Film Theatre, a new season of Battlestar Galactica and the new Springsteen album to look forward to as the nights draw in. Plus a little something I’ve been waiting for since January.
Screw summer. I’m all about the season of mellow fruitfulness.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 