Good Morning!

Look out for an extra letter this month when my new single comes out on March 15th……..

Meanwhile here’s a little extract from something. I assure you the songwriting process bears no resemblance to my own……..

It was a busy time of year at The Studio. Going on the double premise that a band only needs one good song and a song only needs one good hook, the team were churning out catchphrases faster than anyone could catch them.

That morning one of the new bloods, This Boy, was in for a session. Dylan was a co-writer on the session, but it was really Matt's gig. The marketing strategists on the project needed the first release to break at around No.25. The chart topper would come next, in July. They needed something solid, which would establish This Boy's identity, but could then be topped. They wanted expectation and promise worked into the lyrics, but nothing too fast or fantastic. This one could be a love song, they said, the next one had to be the heartbreaker.

This Boy was nodding eagerly, up for anything. Dylan couldn't help but like him, cuddling his new Martin like an ugly duckling who’s turning into a swan and can't believe his luck. With him on the leather sofa sat his manager, Charlie, constantly referring to his iPad as though the song was already in there, he just had to find it. There was not much to like about Charlie. On the opposite side of the coffee table sat Bess and Kate from marketing, insisting that they didn't want to interfere in the creative process, interrupting every few minutes to keep the team focused on the song requirements. Matt and Dylan had pulled up chairs and another two guitars. It looked like a Kumbaya sing-a-long on Casual Friday.

Matt was teaching This Boy the chord structure he’d come up with, to check he was comfortable with it. This Boy was comfortable with everything. The others had more opinions. Bess and Kate asked if it couldn't be a little faster – not fast – but just a little faster. Yes, it would be faster, Matt assured them, this was just the rough shape. The tempo could be decided later, Dylan pitched in, nothing was fixed. Once that was settled, to everyone's great surprise, Charlie announced that he was eager for them to hear some lyrics This Boy had come up with himself. This Boy took out his phone enthusiastically and said he could try singing them over Matt’s chords. Dylan's eyebrows arched in alarm.

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Life was a rough ride 
Down on the tough side 
'Til I met you girl

You got me out
You saved my heart 
Now you're my girl

(Then there's a chorus, it's not quite finished)

Girl, I only want to thank you
Girl, I only want to... (something)
You're my saviour in this crazy world
You're my lover
I'll be your survivor
We'll – (I’m not sure how to finish this line yet)

Life was a black hole
It was so hard for me to score a goal 
'Til I met you girl

You showed me the way 
I will never go away 
Now you're my girl

(Then there would be another chorus obviously)

They all clapped. The receptionist brought over some smoothies and told This Boy he had a really lovely voice. He did, Dylan agreed, have a very good voice. And he hadn't done a bad job of improvising a melody either. They'd heard worse. Charlie was knocking his knees together, eager for feedback. Kate and Bess were concerned by the word lover. It was a little grown up for the target audience. This Boy said he could change lover, no problem. Charlie pointed out that would mean he’d have to change survivor too. This Boy said that was cool, he could change survivor. Matt tried to get a grip on the situation and suggested they should start by making the chorus really strong and then go back to the verses. Dylan asked This Boy to ping him over the lyrics, wondering how on earth he could help Matt get out of this one.

A complex dynamic of financial concern was at play, with Charlie knowing full well that if any lyrics hold their ground, his manager's 20% would also include his artist’s publishing royalties. The Studio rarely shared writing credits with the talent, certainly not with unknowns. They were allowed creative tweaks or “interpretations” to keep them happy, but never full lines or melodies which could lead to any claims. Having said that, this was a big job and they had to keep the client happy. On top of which, Dylan considered, there wasn't much fun to be had in trashing the sincere work of poor little This Boy. They had to tread carefully.

Three gruelling hours later the chorus had arguably little resemblance to its original draft. Hopefully not enough to leave Charlie with any legal leverage. Bess and Kate seemed delighted with the transformation, as did This Boy, who sang it to them rather touchingly, to a melody line that was also miraculously starting to come together.

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There's this thing I want to say, girl 
Soon I'm gonna find a way, girl
Give me time and I will find the words

And I hope that when I do, girl
You might dare to say it too, girl
Then you and I can beat this crazy world

There was another round of applause. Dylan was quite pleased with the rehashed clichés, minus the last line which would obviously be reworked at some point. He was particularly happy with his own changing of the word want to dare. He felt it captured the mood of the song and really helped drive home that exciting tension in the early stages of a relationship.

He calculated to himself that between that little word-change and a minor 7th he'd added to the second D chord, he'd justified his being there in the session. He hated thinking about it in this way, but he had his review coming up.

Brilliant start, Kate concluded. Full of future hope, perfect for the early/mid teens, not too striking a statement, yet an easy springboard for something with a little more pizzazz in the next round. Everyone happy?

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I signed up to Threads like everyone else. I open it occasionally. I’m just not really sure what I’m looking at. Or who I’m looking at. Or why. It’s simultaneously over and under whelming.

writes about it far more eloquently than I ever could: How the Internet Went to Threads. So does , if you want to laugh out loud at the same time: Well of course I joined Threads because.

My own digital dismay seems to pour out in rhyme.

The 2nd verse from the 1st song on my 1st album goes something like this:

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The internet is something I don’t get
Typing overseas like sillouettes
Wake up and download a string quartet
The internet is something I don’t get

The winning line comes towards the end:

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wwwwwwwwwwwwww dot 

Hear it to believe it. The song is called Over My Head. The year was 2011. I’d actually completely forgotten, before Googling it last night, that it was once covered by the one and only Ginger Rogers. See it to believe it.

Ginger Rogers sings Lail Arad

Fast forward 10 years. I may be a better lyricist, pulling off entire ballads in monorhyme, but cyberspace continues to elude me!

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My inbox said it was too full
My upgrade failed to install
And I fell down a rabbit hole
Of baby clothes and denial
I tried to remain cynical
Not be so damn susceptible
But the chambers echoed when I called
And the click bait beckoned when I stalled
This will be your great downfall!
The internet has thee in thrall!
Still the writing on my Facebook wall said:
Hashtag: NotWorriedAtAll

I first shared a video of this post-natal showstopper right here on Substack:

Not Worried At All!

COMMERCIAL BREAK!!

Last week I sent my paid subscribers a demo of a song which you can only hear if you’re a paid subscriber so please become a paid subscriber in order to hear it because it’s a very sad song:

The Saddest Silence

Back to the future. Sometime in between www. and the monorhyme I wrote a short story. No rhymes. The following extract feels somewhat pertinent.

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-Dad. I'm going to sell an idea to YouTube. It's a fucking winner. Ready?

Occasionally, when she had a stroke of inspiration or was pre-menstrual, Smith would arrive downstairs on fast forward, barely time to sip her caffeine between sentences.

-SplitScreen. It's going be an instant hit. Get this: Four simultaneous videos playing at once, two above, two below. The audio can be flicked between or played in overlap. Launched under the proviso of a mashup tool for VJs – you know what that is right? I give it ten days before it's seized by the mob. Dad. It's going to give people an insultingly user-friendly platform to do exactly what they're already doing – catching up on music videos, cute animal virals, cooking tutorials and conspiracy porn, all at the same fucking time. Well? A haven for ads. And the creatives will get their fix from the deluge of curated content – identical political speeches; identical red carpet outfits; string quartets, one instrument per screen... the possibilities are endless. Meanwhile the grand majority of people will choose to watch their videos on “Fruit Machine” – not sure about the name yet – enjoying whichever headache of combinations the feature's algorithm throws at them. It's gonna be fucking mind-boggling and vile and genius.

Her father’s phone lit up with two loud beeps. A young female voice interrupted them on loudspeaker: You need to be here in twenty, I couldn't move the call. And you have to let me know how many extra nights you want in Tokyo. Lunch with Anthony is happening. It cut off.

-See! This is exactly why SplitScreen is going to sell. The Attention Deficit Generation! Can she always interrupt you like that without warning? Can she see you're eating Special K? Does it even have an off button? 
-Sorry sweetie, I'm listening.
-I don't care! It's perfect. Online is our permanent disposition.
-It's interesting, your video idea.
-We're slaves to the beep! There's no need to check the post anymore, the post announces itself! And it always beeps twice.
-Ok very good...
-Information bombs, dropping without warning. Beep Beep: Good news. Beep Beep: Bad news. No sense of timing or respect for situation. You can't switch off, you can only keep up. Delete, reply, reply all, flag. Oh, and forward! How could I forget forward – got to keep moving forward. Keep in contact, keep up with the latest, don't be left behind, no rest for the wicked. Better watch a three year old conduct the Vienna Philharmonic while I quickly catch up on the The Voice.
-How does this relate?
-Don’t you see? Our fingers are like spiders, constantly crawling towards our phones. We might look relaxed but our fingers are on a tight schedule. What's the time? Better check the time! Flick the screen out of sleep and glance at the time. Ears on the conversation, fingers on the pulse. And oh look, whilst I’m here, Scrabble alert! Dad played ‘Focus’ for 26 points. Good move Dad, poignant.
-You're still winning.

Smith finished her coffee and eyed the bananas in the bowl. She wasn't big on breakfast.

-I’m telling you, Split-screen. It's just the next logical step. Think about buying a record when you were however old, whoever it was you liked, Bowie or someone. You walked all the way to the record store, spent your hard earned cash, brought it home like a prize, scoured the liner notes, whatever that even means, invited your groovy friends to sit around and listen in awe. And then they'd go home and you'd listen to it all over again, alone, over and over... How did you have the patience? You don't now!
-It was a romantic time.
-i.e. You had nothing better to do. Lucky for me, then came Walkman, Discman, Minidisc, iPod. Napster, Myspace, Deezer, Soundcloud. iTunes, Apple Music, Spotify and whatever the hell is coming next. Anywhere, anytime, on demand, as you go. Immediate, immaculate and interrupted. No commitment, no romance. Music for the multi-tasking masses. The Attention Deficit Generation. A recommended radio show? I'll listen back later. Release date? I already streamed it. The 10 O’clock News? I just watched CNN. Goodbye allocated-time, you led a special life. Did you know a music video on YouTube is now switched off after an average of twenty-two seconds? People's brains are ready for the next level.
-You make your point well. Now monetise it. I'm late.
-I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date! Beep Beep: There's a problem. Beep Beep: There's a party. Beep Beep: I love you. Beep Beep: You lost. Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep, is it WhatsApp or Instagram? Facebook or FaceTime? Mine or yours? Business or pleasure? I can see you in real-time, UK to US! Beirut to Bombay! Oh the wonders of the world! But wait – can't hear you – hello pixels – bad connection – losing you – on the train – going under – in the bath – going under – email me – we should really catch up.
-I've always said you should do stand up.

Smith was pretending to drown on the floor, scrambling up for air as her father zipped up a North Face jacket over his light blue shirt and swept his appliances into his briefcase. She pulled herself up on a stool, dramatically gasping for air.

-And that, is why, in this sorry state of affairs, the public is now deranged enough to watch four unrelated videos at the very same time. And I, Daddy, will win the fruit machine jackpot while they sit cross-eyed in their sublets.

She had considered Theatre Studies when she was eighteen, before attending an open day and wanting to kill the student representative singing at her about the course, the freedom of its structure and the social life of the societies. Now she practiced her dramatics on her parents. They were a good crowd, when she got their attention.

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This is probably the moment to mention Substack Notes — the slower, kinder, ad-free alternative to Twitter. I don’t use it enough, but when I do take a peak I think it might be the place to hang out. Like a coffee shop with home-made cupcakes rather than a gym lobby with energy drinks. See you there?

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Ok, here goes!

She was better at asking questions than answering them. He would have to wait to hear the rest. Her tragicomedy. Her East Village escapades. The gigs and the comedowns. The ridiculous rules by which Tobias lived and how she’d bought into every one of them. Do Not Entertain! Down with Virtuosos! Sex Appeal Sucks! Strict views were verbalised. He had his manifesto spray-painted on his guitar and clung to it like a shield against any voices of dissent. Exploit your vulnerability! Extol your imperfections! Expose your soul! Ruby fell right into his dominant Manhattan speech patterns, screeching her way through tough crowds and 120 dB. She was a converted comrade. She lost her voice and her vote. Looking back now she couldn't believe how long it took her to get the hell out of there.

-What the fuck Ruby. What the fuck. I let you live in my apartment and now you want to own me? It's just a fucking song like all the other songs. But hey you know what? It's not just a fucking song. It's all fucking true. And that's why you're freaking out like it's not okay. Like this is some sort of exclusive bourgeois shit, like we're sleeping in the same bed so all I'm going to do is write pretty lame-ass love songs about you. And you know what?

He allowed himself an extended pause to take the two lines he'd been meticulously cutting on the bread board.

-You know what? Fuck songs. Why should I expose my most intimate experiences for the sake of whoever's even listening? Like they really give a shit about me. Why should I turn my personal failures, my beautiful failures, into universal four-line choruses in hope that someone relates and laughs – if not with me, then at least at me. Go on! Laugh at me, you fucking strangers! Fuck honesty. And then on top of that I get you analysing the fuck out of my shit and accusing me of screwing some other chick WHICH I DON'T EVEN DENY, CAUSE YOU DON'T OWN ME. What do you want me to do, hide everything like you? Like you think you're so cool cause you're wearing my Pavement t-shirt and pretending it covers up your thin little body? Like you don't hope some fly A&R dude will pick you up at a show and promise to make you famous with your Mariah Carey voice? You don't know shit about what it means to give everything of yourself. What, are you crying now?

She really tried. It toughened her up before it broke her down. Somehow, so in thrall of her literate lover, she managed to attribute his darker outbursts to the drugs and the depression. She convinced herself these were justifiable excuses which could be worked on and eventually overcome. She did not run. She hung around, loyal to her musical master, glossing over the groupies. There were good times, whole days when they wouldn't leave the bed, ordering take-out and watching The Wire. Other times, when Tobias would disappear, she spent the lonely hours learning the back catalogue of rock'n'roll on his high-maintenance turntable, which stopped working every time someone sneezed. Hank Williams, Lou Reed and Marianne Faithful kept her company. On a few particularly long nights she sought solace in the Whitney Houston Greatest Hits LP that had somehow snuck its way into the collection. Probably an ironic Christmas present from a one-time, Doc Marten-wearing lover.

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*Turns out the clocks changed last night so 5pm may in fact be menacingly dark. I should probably plug my old song Winter at this point: They moved the clocks back with no warning at all / You know that means now we’re in for the long haul. It has a very short seasonal window but has been keeping people warm from late October to early November for over a decade. I’m thinking of rewriting the opening lines: I put the heating on for the first time this year / I guess that means winter is really near But turned it back off ‘cause my gas bill I fear…

Winter by Lail Arad:

I swear Halloween didn’t exist in London when I was growing up. I only really became aware of it when it was an excuse for fancy-dress house parties i.e. awkward teen attempts at sexy. Sadly we seem to be catching up with our jack-o’-lantern cousins across the pond. I use cousins as a catch-all phrase, though I do actually have American cousins, and their toddlers sport enviable costumes each year. To their credit (my cousins, or perhaps Americans in general), they seem unburdened by eerie obligations. Last I heard they were arguing over who would be George and who would be Ringo. So yes, ok, I admit, if spooky isn’t compulsory the idea of dressing our little half-Canadian in a cute little costume is a little appealing…

He actually had a (particularly) big fall recently (the perils of toddling) and if this were last week we’d have only had to draw whiskers on either side of his very red nose. Thankfully the scab has now fallen off so the kitty-potential has passed. Instead, thanks to some spectacularly green hand-me-downs from aforementioned American cousins and a coincidentally yet perfectly matching tuque (that’s Canadian for beanie), our baby will make his Halloween debut as a… grape/pea/frog/insert your suitably green suggestions here. He’ll be so cute all the ghosts and ghouls will be be green with envy. I may share photographic evidence next Sunday.

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Thanks for your messages on the little excerpt I shared last week! I wasn’t going to introduce any other characters just yet, but couldn’t resist this swinging costume-party scene…

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They were in a queue of samurais and mermaids. It was mid-August and pouring with rain. Smith was wearing her long blue Mackintosh, zipped right up, hood on. Pearl was dressed in what could have been taken as a Summer of Love costume by anyone who wasn’t familiar with her everyday wardrobe. She was holding a white photographer's umbrella to keep dry. A two-legged pirate jumped out at them, shaking his plastic hook menacingly. Arrrgh! Shiver me Timbers! It was unclear whether he was trying to flirt or skip the queue. Either way he scurried off before Smith could roll her eyes.

-God help me Pearl, I'm out on a Friday night. There's a Friday night grin smeared across everyone's face.
-Don't be so judgemental.
-Their pre-ordained moment to let go has descended upon them and they've paid good money so they better have a fucking good time.
-Not everyone's a self-employed slacker who can't tell the difference between a Tuesday and a Saturday.

For once Pearl had called the shots: they were going out. Smith had been so taken aback that Pearl would choose to socialise with her outside of office hours that she momentarily lost her better judgement. She knew it was a mistake as soon as she heard herself agreeing to the outing. She didn't do fancy dress and couldn't believe she was queuing in the rain for the pleasure.

-Remind me why we have to be here?
-We’re having a girls night out.
-For what reason?
-Just think of it as research Smith, and loosen up.
-It's not my demographic. It's irrelevant on top of idiotic.
-Who knows, maybe you’ll even meet someone...
-Morons aren’t my type.

After fifteen minutes they finally reached the front of the line, where they were frisked by a highly unamused tank of a woman who searched every pocket of Smith's blue raincoat. I'm dressed as a Leonard Cohen song, get it? She didn't. Are you dressed as a bouncer? Pearl pulled Smith away before she was refused entry, probably her plan. The building was an old derelict theatre, trying hard to hang on to its former glory despite the peeling paint and crumbling cornices. They approached the golden window frame of the box office. A shivering boy in swimming trunks and armbands stared at them through his goggles, probably waiting for their booking reference. He removed his snorkel to speak.

-Did you buy online? Otherwise it's Ten. Fifteen if you're not in fancy dress.
-We're on Jack's guest list.
-Oh right.
-He's playing in the band that's playing right now.
-Your friend still could have made an effort.

Smith glared at him from under her hood as he branded her wrist in black ink.

-Are you meant to be Paddington Bear?
-Is this meant to be fun?
-It’s fun if you dress up. I’m wearing flippers, you can’t see them down here.
-Good to know. Now you can go dive in the shallow end.

The main space was already heaving at the uncool hour of 9.30pm. The theatre seats had been gutted out, only the gentle slope of the stalls remained, slowly pulling everyone towards the stage. An electro-swing band was huddled together centre-stage, giving it their all. Pearl's some-time lover Jack was on upright bass. He appeared to have grown a misjudged goatee and topped it off with an ill-advised flat cap.

-Aw look at Jack, he seems to be really enjoying it!
-Yeah, who knew his ideal crowd would consist of soggy Tarzans and Teletubbies.
-Next time Smith, you can dress up as The Grouch and hide in a trash can.

A yellow Care Bear bounded up to them, helping herself to a group hug. She smelt of the perpetual damp in Victorian ground floor flats. Smith held her breath until she waved them goodbye.

-I'm telling myself that it's good to come to these things once a year, remember I'm not missing out.
-Jeez Smith, it's Friday night, get a drink and lighten up.
-The only thing worse than this would be a Halloween Special.

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Without an exact destination in mind Dylan walked to Southwark station and took the Jubilee Line up to Bond Street. It was unbearably hot and stuffy under ground. The announcements were reminding people to carry a bottle of water on their journey; London was not designed for these temperatures. He didn’t have much contact with rush hour these days and tried to take the crush stoically – a bonding experience with his fellow Londoners. His fellow Londoners did not, judging by their elbows, take it the same way.

When he finally came up for air it took a moment for Dylan to get his bearings. He walked aimlessly, guided by some inner instinct, until there it was: Selfridges Food Hall. This was not a day for normal budgeting. He ordered his salt beef sandwich at the counter, almost in a trance, too hungry to think. It must have been just a few minutes later, already high on English mustard in one of the fake leather booths, when a tiny pink pensioner set her tray down right beside his. He wondered whether in his daze he hadn't accidentally stared straight at her – she certainly behaved as though he'd invited her to join him. Was it possible he'd waved her over? Either way, he had a date now. A chatty one.

I come in every Wednesday night, love. You'll have seen me in here. Sometimes I'm late cause I've got my bits and bobs to do in the afternoon, takes me a bit longer these days, but then I'll come in. Best salt-beef in town. Unless you want to go up Brick Lane, they'll do you a bagel. Nice day for it. I'm too old for that now. Long walk from the station, nowhere to sit. Tall stools. Not for me. You're a young one, trim, you go. Two strong legs. If you like a good bagel, famous they are. Not for me, I like it here. Sometimes I stay a long while, you get a good crowd in here, lots to watch while you eat. And you're hard pushed to find a place they don't blare music down on you these days. Hurts my ears all that racket. Must be getting old, I tell you love. Eighty-four I am now. Used to like a good song and dance. Back in the 1950s. Either it's me or the radio, one of us has gone bad. Here's alright. You can hear yourself chew. Don’t know why they did the face lift, the food still tastes the same. I come in every Wednesday night. You'll have seen me in here. Price keeps rising but it's got to stop sometime. I mean really, how much can they charge for salt-beef on rye?

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There was only one moment when he thought he might truly be in love with her. Might always be in love with her. It was a few months after they first met. They were in his room. It was mid-week. He’d come home from work. She’d come over. They didn't feel like going out. They felt like staying in. They drank wine from the bottle. He put on some records. He played her Talking Heads. She took off her skirt and danced on the bed in her tights. He played her Cesária Évora. She lay on her back and hugged her knees. He played her Nick Drake. She said to let it play. To come lie down. She showed him a threatening hole in her tights, just below the knee. He said it didn't look too serious. She told him he didn't know tights; it was the beginning of the end. He admitted he wasn't very familiar with nylon. She asked if he had any black nail varnish. He said he didn't have any colour nail varnish, but he could sew. She laughed and said he could try, but that tights have a very short lifespan, like butterflies, and would he try to sew up a butterfly? She explained that even nail varnish was just a temporary fix. That tights were basically a short-term investment. He ripped the hole to make it larger and kissed the skin he found beneath. A run unravelled down her leg. He trailed it down towards her ankle with his finger. He ripped another hole and followed it back up her thigh. She asked if they could stay in his room for at least a week. They discussed how many days they could go without food. He pulled the cover over them and she wrapped around him tight. He traced imaginary train tracks all over her body, noticing for the first time how her limbs join up. He travelled along her collar bone and let her shoulder guide him down her arm, changing direction at the elbow until he reached her hand. Veins, knuckles, fingers, nails, one two three four five. Side 1 came to an end. He didn't jump up to flip the record over. Her breathing changed and he knew she’d fallen asleep. He listened to the needle skim over the spinning vinyl, hardly audible. He listened to her breathe. In, out. Their hearts were beating in sync, slowly slowing down.

You can listen to The Onion on Spotify…

You can buy it digitally on Bandcamp…

You can even get The Vinyl…

Here are two pieces I wrote around the release:

My Life In Records

Confessions Of A Vinyl Virgin

See you next Sunday!

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p.s. If you enjoyed this reading you’ll enjoy the motherhood event on March 3rd with Tahmima Anam and Sophie Heawood even more. Book your tickets now, in person or online!

TICKETS + INFO

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Dylan worked office hours at The Studio in Old Street. Every morning at 10am his colleagues would gather round the ping-pong table, takeaway coffees in hand. Dylan didn't drink coffee but he'd join them with his orange juice for a little banter over the morning headlines, a little chit-chat about last night’s Later With Jools Holland. Soon enough they'd settle down to work, at a piano or computer, in pairs or groups, knocking out potential hits to pitch to chart-toppers and their people. They got sandwiches delivered for lunch and went for drinks on Fridays. It took Dylan a couple of days to take on that he'd landed in a real work place, with a boss, a receptionist, a gender imbalance and a smoothie blender.

A song should take two to three days to lock down with a rough demo sketched out. That was the information given in his induction, along with the door code and recycling policy. Some of the guys had over ten Top 10 hits to their name. Dylan just had his one. The first is a fluke, they teased him, let’s see you strike again. It was only on his third day, whilst losing to Matt at lunch-break ping-pong, that he dared air his concerns. Matt was a little older, a little fatter, somewhat out of breath and a whole lot better at the game.

-You know Matt, my best songs often come to me in like, half an hour. Including the one that got me here.

-Just imagine where another day's work on it might have got you then. Your serve.

-I guess.

-If you really think a song is finished, pass it on to someone else, they'll have other ideas. 8-4.

-And then what, they can just change it?

-You don't have to agree, obviously, but you will. Co-written tracks have a far better track record. Nice shot, 8-5. Give it a week or two, we'll knock the precious out of you.

-I've just never written with anyone else. I mean, the music, yeah, with my band, but they never touched my lyrics.

-Unlucky! 9-5. Don't forget you're not writing for yourself here. You're not passing on your diaries for a re-edit.

-Right.

-We all had to make the shift. We all used to play in bands and write songs about our crushes. You'll be alright. In the end there's not much time to think about it. We need to churn out ten to fifteen tunes a week between us. 10-5, my serve.

-What if a song gets stuck though, you can't force it, can you?

-If it's not moving by lunchtime, throw it in the shared folder for someone else to pick up. That's what I'd do. You can also dig in there for starting points by the way. Everything's automatically tagged with whoever edits, so splits are easy to work out. Though honestly, if it's just a line or two, the guys are usually pretty generous. As long as The Studio's doing well, so are they. 11-5, my game.

-Aren’t we playing to 21?

-No time mate. Gotta go nail a middle eight.

The pressures and rewards of the job were placed in context on Friday afternoon when the boss came in for an end-of-week listening session. The boss was a shiny, bald man who swaggered like Mick Jagger and dressed like an estate agent who thought it risqué to leave his top three shirt buttons open. Dylan was introduced as the young new recruit, survived the bone-crushing handshake and found an arm rest from which to observe proceedings. He noted definite airs in the air. Affectionate insults and play punches were flying about. Fake laughs fluttered and accents morphed. Emma, the only woman on the writing team, had let her hair down. Beers were opened, seats were taken, volumes turned up and opinions turned down.

Dylan tried to keep smiling as songs were discarded with the flick of a finger, including his own first attempts. Three songs he considered truly awful were declared ready for pitching, at which more beers were opened and backs aggressively patted. A few tunes were sent back for a rework with clear instructions: Try it in the present tense; Might work as a ballad; Your verses with his chorus, now there’s an idea. Dylan was astounded by the lack of debate. At one point the receptionist was called over to provide an average ear – a role to which she took no offence. Right here in the intro honey, would you keep listening, or zap to the next station? (Honestly? I'd zap…)

Once the show-and-tell section of the afternoon was over, the boss’s pep talk began. It was so long and superfluous that Dylan was sure it was orated in honour of his arrival. An opportunity to reiterate the rules. A real performance.

-We all know how to bake a cake – the recipe works, the dough rises – now we just need the icing. Gimme some vanilla essence, gimme chocolate chips. Bring on the food colouring.

He spoke slowly, over-articulating, milking the moment.

-The anthem already exists. The building is earthquake-proof. All I’m asking for is some interior bloomin' decoration.

It was only the following Friday, when Dylan started to notice the repeated phrases, the chains of favourite analogies, that he understood the event was a weekly affair, which would forever continue, with or without him.

-I'm looking, fellas, for the most memorable melody to drive down middle-of-the-road. That's right – the most fluorescent picture you can paint with pastel colours.

The boss would end each session by flagging up a couple of the week’s quirkier efforts, shaming them back to reality.

There's no need to reinvent the wheel now, is there? I don't need the next bloomin' Bjork album. I need the song that'll stick in people's heads for the longest time possible without landing them in therapy. You know how it works. Sprinkle in the coke, a little nicotine, make 'em want more.

A few Fridays in, when Dylan was about to make the grade for the first time, he could already detect the verdict on the boss's face as he listened. He saw his lips twitching, trying to suppress a broad grin and preparing to utter his favourite line of all:

-Well well well, I do believe we have an earworm.

It was only with this first vote of Friday confidence that Dylan experienced a bout of the doubts. So his song was finally going to be pitched. Hooray, he did it. It was a pretty lame song though, if he was honest. He wouldn't have chosen it. About turning twenty-one in Vegas. He'd never even been to Vegas.

Thanks for reading! Your feedback, as ever, is most welcome. Perhaps Damon and Taylor will voice their opinions. Heck, even Neil or Joni might leave a comment. It’s been quite a week for songwriters…

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In an attempt to up my game as this virtual audience grows in count and calibre, I’ll read a short extract from something I’m writing. It’s called Wet Paint.

You don’t need to know much: It’s a warm evening in London, pre-2020. People have been queuing for a long time and are finally entering.

Feel free to send feedback, demand more, tell me to stick to what I’m good at…

Happy Sunday!

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