Holiday Romance...

The holiday apartments we’re staying at are jolly nice and we’ve already made friends with some of our fellow holiday-makers. Two of our chums are a pair of sisters who have pretty much travelled everywhere in the world and we've also palled up with a very nice family from Portsmouth and their kids.

Everyone is very polite and very civilised and most of the people we’ve met seem to have been coming here for years. But there are two new arrivals, a pair of women who have piqued the Missus’ interest.

They’re both fiftysomething and are holidaying together. I think they’re either lovers or old friends but the villa complex owner has christened them the 'nice ladies’ and this seems quite fitting, although one of the 'nice ladies' has a face like a slapped arse and both steadfastly refuse to have anything to do with anybody else in any way, shape or form.

They are very much the sort of 'ladies who lunch' but the Missus has decided they’re lovers and has rechristened them ‘ladies who munch’. This is the sort of gag I would usually crack. I must be rubbing off on her…

PS. One of the 'ladies who munch' has come down with a stomach bug that's been doing the rounds. The Missus reported the news to me and I suggested it must have been something she ate. We smirked like children.

Quick on The Draw...

One of the little tasks I've set myself while on holiday is to come up with some ideas and storyline for a graphic novel I'll be writing with one of my oldest friends.

He came up up with the initial concept but, as per usual, I've shot off at several angles and come up with what I think is some pretty nifty stuff. In order to do this I've taken a notepad and started doing storyboards but the only problem with this is that I'm sub-nursery standard at art.

But I've persevered and done quite a bit of work on this, even though my artistic failings have somewhat hampered my progress. Anyway while on holiday me and the Missus have made friends with a lovely family with two young kids from the Portsmouth area.

So I was sitting down sketching storyboards and writing dialogue and the little boy, seven, comes to sit by me and asks what I'm doing. I explain myself and he decides he wants to do some drawing too and rushes off and gets his notepad and starts to draw. And he's better than me.

Then to add insult to injury his sister, four, sidles up and asks the same question. So I explain and she also deicdes she wants to draw too. And she's about my level.

Humbled by children. But I tell myself I'm a writer and not an artist. Well, a not-very-successful writer. Up till now...

Up The Gary...

Me and the Missus are on holiday on the Geek island of Lemnos and are sat down eating dinner.

I say dinner but I really mean tea but because I am now an adopted cockney and have picked up the vernacular of their posher members dinner is now the evening meal and lunch is what in the north is dinner as in dinner ladies and dinner money.

But I digress. The Missus is eating and becoming quite vexed about Gary Glitter, a man she has a passing knowledge of after briefly kissing him while working at a gig venue in her native town of Aylesbury one Christmas.
‘He’s out soon and I reckon the British press are going to hunt him for all he’s worth. I think they’ll drive him to commit suicide…’
‘And you think that’s a bad thing?’
‘No. He’s a kiddy-fiddler and he deserves whatever he’s got coming, especially when he had the chance to serve his time and start a new life but decided to piss that opportunity away in Vietnam.’
‘I actually think you’ve missed out a few steps in the Glitter-to-top-himself process…’
‘How?’
‘Well for a start I think you’ve underestimated the sick nature of the British press… I reckon one of the tabloids will do a big exclusive interview where he claims he’s seen the error of his ways and all he wants is the chance to rebuild his life. They’ll run this then when he next fucks up as he inevitably will they’ll round on him then and use that interview as ammunition against him because they’ll pretend they were suckered in by him and wanted to give him an extra chance but now he’s betrayed them they’ll slaughter him good and proper. Hence the suicide…’
‘You think they’re really that depraved?’
‘Absolutely, but there’s more… As a reaction against the press all the Glitter fans will demand a re-release of one of his hits and they’ll buy it as a backlash against the sanctimonious press and ensure it’s No.1.’

The Missus looks at me like I’m an idiot.
‘I’ll bet you money…’
‘How much?
‘£50?’
‘Done…’

When it happens you read it here first…

If The Cap Fits…

Me and the Missus are on holiday on a fabulous and pretty much untouched-by-tourism-and-Brits island called Lemnos.

The Boy had the choice to join us but instead stayed at home, officially relegating us from cool parents to the ‘olds’ he’d now rather not be seen out in public with.

So myself and the Missus are sat at breakfast and she is contemplating whether to stay by the pool or head to the beach.
‘I’d quite like to go the beach today but there’s nobody near the pool and it would be really quite and we’d pretty much have the placed to ourselves. Get rid of the hat. But on the other hand the beach is supposed to be pretty uncrowded in the morning…’

To be perfectly honest I am still a bit sleepy and half-listening to her and half-thinking about a comic I have recently started writing with a friend of mine. So I give my default response designed to prevent me from making a decision and therefore getting into trouble for making the wrong one.
‘Whatever you fancy, honey. I’m not fussed either way…’

Later in the day we are walking into the nearby town and the Missus is talking about the possibilities for daytrips but now I am slightly more with it.
‘There’s an evening boat trip to see dolphins which sounds like it could be quite nice as we’re still sailing as the sun sets and there’s also a day boat trip around the island which stops off at secret beaches and coves and the like. Get rid of the hat. I don’t think we should do the trip to the other island, though, because…’
‘Hang on. What about the hat?’
‘What hat?’
‘My hat. You said something about my hat…’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Yes you bloody did. You said “Get rid of the hat”’.
‘I was hoping you wouldn’t notice…’
‘Are you trying to get me to do what you want by subliminal suggestion?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you just ask me?’
‘Because I know you love that hat, even though it’s skanky and it doesn’t suit the shape of your head, and if I ask you get rid of it you’ll just dig your heels in because you’re a stubborn git.’
‘I love my hat…’
‘See…’
‘But subliminal suggestion. That’s a ridiculous idea…’
‘Yes. It is... Get rid of the hat.’

Pussy News...

The Missus continues to go crazy over the impending arrival of the new family kitten she's already christened Spike (as our other cat is named Buffy).

But she has now gone even more bonkers because our one new cat has suddenly grown to two (to be named Willow). They arrive when we get back from holiday, by which time our new kitten might well have grown into about 20 new cats.

There's a scene in Trainspotting where an elderly heroin addict is found dead in his flat surrounded by his cats after contracting toxin plasmosis because he couldn't clean up the cat excrement from all his cats any more. They simply over-ran the place as he lost the will to live.

I am seeing my future...

West Side Story...

I took the Missus to see West Side Story at Sadlers Wells at the weekend.

And, even though I am not the greatest fan of musicals the world has ever known, it was pretty bloody fabulous. The Bernstein score and Sondheim lyrics make it such a complete and coherent story and from a writing point of view the way the narrative motors along yet still makes total emotional sense never fails to impress me.

The musical ensemble number at the end of the opening act where Tony and Maria sing Tonight and the Jets and the Sharks sing their song about the rumble never fails to knock me on my arse as it all builds to a whacking crescendo, and the leads playing Tony, Maria and Anita were superb. The staging was also pretty inventive too.

I used to be a real community arts leftie then moved onto writing and directing in Fringe theatre but visiting Sadlers Wells and quaffing wine is rapidly becoming one of my fave things. And it's nice to see a story about race hatred involving gangs and stabbings to take your mind off life in contemporary London. Oh, hang on...

Family Planning...

I have finished tidying up after cooking tea for me and the Boy. I have also trained like a lunatic today so I am sprawled out on the sofa in the kitchen watching some halfwit get himself a new arsehole ripped after bringing some ludicrous idea to the ever-smug moguls on Dragon's Den.

The Missus is also in the kitchen making herself something with no calories after returning from her exercise class when the Boy comes back into the kitchen and opens the fridge.
'Where's the Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream?'
I decide to fess up.
'I finished it.'
'You finished it? All of it?'
'I was hungry...'
'But that's my favourite.'
'Well I paid for the cunt!'

The Missus interjects with a polite 'Excuse me...'
I realise my mistake.
'Correction... We paid for the cunt...'

I turn to the Missus seeking approval but there is only a look of disdain on her face. Chicks, eh?

The Ultimate Fighter...

In my ongoing, currently injury-prone quest to become a better fighter I decided to have a further delve into the world of mixed martial arts and treated myself to a DVD, which bore the macho title The Ultimate Fighter.

It's basically the first series of a reality show where 16 mixed martial artists all train together and compete against each other to win one of two professional contracts with the UFC. Think of The Apprentice meets Big Brother with full contact fighting and blood and lots of posturing and you're more or less there.

The 16 martials artists are split into two teams, one headed by 'UFC legend' Randy Couture and the other headed by 'UFC legend' Chuck Liddel. The two fighters who eventually win the contracts, one middleweight and one light-heavyweight, then get the chance to also become a 'UFC legend'.

As you may gather the show is not short on hyperbole but it's remarkably watchable, even though the episodes tend to focus on the dynamics of the housemates as they try to big themselves up in front of their rivals rather than on giving tips on how to perfect a rear naked choke.

The episodes then arrive at the money shot of the two fighters battling it out in the octagan at the end of each episode until eventually only the winners remain.

Apparently it's quite a hit show in the US where it's now up to series seven. And, god forgive me, after watching the first series I may even buy another one.

Or I just may remember I have a brain and finish reading Peter Aykrod's excellent book on the Thames instead. It's a close call...

Crimewatch...

Barry George is a comedy genius. Think about it...

He served eight years for a crime he didn't commit and now tells everybody: 'It couldn't have been me because... I was busy stalking somebody else at the time.'

I would loved to have been in the police interview room when he came out with that little gem. Somebody must have pissed themselves laughing, surely?

How Corrupt Is Your Government?

The story so far…

In 2007 the Blair Government halted a Serious Fraud Office Inquiry into a £43bn BAE Systems arms deal with Saudi Arabia, citing ‘national security’ as the reason for the inquiry to be cancelled.

But in April this year the Campaign Against the Arms Trade (CAAT) and the Cornerhouse won a High Court ruling which cited that the Government’s decision to cancel the inquiry was unlawful.

The Government immediately demanded the right to appeal and this week got this ruling over-turned.

The upshot of this, of course, is that the truth about the corrupt business practices of BAE and its links with the bribe-happy Saudis will never be fully uncovered, but apparently if you’re a multi-billion pound industry with friends in high places you are above inconvenient things like the law that the rest of us have to adhere to…

But that’s not the end of the story…

Because the Government has now introduced the Constitutional Renewal Bill, part of which would ensure that parliament or the courts can no longer question decisions based on ‘national security’.

So not only will we know never know just how corrupt this deal was but any future such arms deals will now be protected from scrutiny because all those involved have to do is cite ‘national security’ and, hey presto, any sensitive or potentially embarrassing information is magically off limits.

The fact that the elite protects itself is nothing new but the fact its mechanisms of protection grow ever stronger and are becoming more blatant is quite shocking. If this happened in some tinpot African dictatorship liberal England would shake its head in disgust.

But it’s happening here and I find that deeply sad for our democracy and a little frightening too…

Rejection...

I achieved a personal record for my latest play being rejected today.

It was rejected by one theatre company within a seven-day period – and that included time for the script to travel there and time for the rejection letter to travel back. It also included a weekend...

Today I've also had a quite damning report back from another theatre company I sent the play to.

I should be depressed. My confidence should be knocked. I should be humbled.

But I'm not. Fuck 'em. Their opinions are wrong and I remain right in my view that it's a strong and well-written play.

And the Missus thinks I don't take criticism well...

Alpha Male...

I had a discussion with the Missus last week and made a comment suggesting she'd landed on her feet to snag an alpha male like me for a husband.

Her reaction was to snort with derision and point out that the alphabet was not long enough to classify the type of male I actually was. But I chose to ignore her words and rise above it as that's what an alpha male would do.

So tonight we are watching a BBC1 TV show called John Barrowman: The Making of Me. In this Barrowman, a gay man so far out of the closet he would never find his way back from Narnia, did some research into what it was that made him gay. Was it genetic, was it environment, was it upbringing, etc?

It was a pretty good programme and Barrowman remains an eminently likeable TV personality, but at one point some science bodkin told him that an easy way to find out if you are more masculine than feminine is to find out whether your ring finger is longer than your index finger. If this is the case it suggests that there was a high level of testosterone in the womb when you were forming and so are very male. If it's the other way round, however, it suggests there was not as much testosterone so you will be more feminine.

The Missus tried this test first and her ring fingers were longer than her index fingers. I toyed with the idea of pointing out that this may explain her continual aggression and violence but thought it would not be politic to mention this. The Boy then tried this and he is also of a fervently masculine bent.

Finally I tried it and it's apparently astounding that I'm not wearing dresses. But I've always secretly thought I was a gay man trapped with the body and desires of a raging heterosexual. And so apparently has the Missus...

Fight Quest VI...

I went to a hapkido grading yesterday to see several friends be put through their paces and it was all pretty fab. I did, however, feel pretty left out as I couldn't be an opponent for anyone as I was still nursing an injury...

So when I got home I went in the back garden and trained on my own for about an hour to see how my injury was doing and it's sort of pretty good, so good in fact that I ventured to the boxing gym today to have a bit of a workout.

I'd been there about half an hour when a very pleasant chap asked me if I wanted to spar a few rounds and I declined, citing injury recovery as my reason. Then a few minutes later my boxing coach came over and encouraged me to give it a go with the words: 'You may be recovering from injury but this is your chance to hit a Tory MP...'

So I was soon gloved up doing some light sparring and it was good fun. He was about the same level as me as a boxer and he was also a very nice fella.

So it looks like I'm nearly back to full fitness and, even better, I can now say I've been gently banged around the ring by a Tory MP and I loved it.

Make your own gags...

Movie Madness…

Myself and the Boy ventured to the big Movie and Comic Book Convention at Earls Court this weekend.

We pride ourselves on being movie and comic fans but with the geek taken out, although if truth be told I am at the forefront of my own campaign to reclaim the word ‘geek’ and use it as a term of empowerment in the same way the gay community now uses the word ‘queer’.

There was quite healthy turnout for this event and myself and the Boy were fascinated to see that lots of people had dressed up for it. So we’re wandering around and we turn one corner and there’s a man dressed in a home-made Transformers costume, we turn another corner and there’s a very sweet lesbian couple walking round hand-in-hand (but one of them is dressed as a Jedi knight with light sabre hanging from her belt).

There was also a young girl dressed as Red Sonja who was getting quite a lot of attention, mainly because she was showing quite a lot of flesh and you get the impression not many attendees got the chance to get up that close to a near-naked woman. Add in a few dozen folk in Star Trek costumes, many bods dressed as comic characters and various people in horror and other sci-fi movie garb and you get the idea.

It was the sort of place where Tron Man would be king. In fact the only place where Tron Man would be king…

The Boy sported his Green Lantern t-shirt and I felt particularly under-dressed as I hadn’t even worn the obligatory comic character t-shirt showing allegiance to the tribe of geek. Then walking around one corner the Boy suddenly says something to me that sounds like ‘There’s no way he’ll fit into an X-man…’

So I look around trying to spot the X-man in question without success.
‘Where?’ I ask.
‘There!’ says the Boy pointing in front of us.
‘I can’t see any X-men…’
‘X-wing. I said he’d never fit in an X-wing.’

I look ahead and see a very portly chap dressed like an X-wing fighter pilot from Star Wars. And he was right. He never would fit into an X-wing. The Boy, however, remained still stunned I misunderstood him.
‘I said X-wing not X-man. I mean, how is anyone going to fit into an X-man?’
I pause.
‘He could try to shag him…’

The Boy looks at me in disgust.
‘You’re so wrong in the head…’

Apparently a portly man dressed as an X-wing pilot trying to anally rape another man dressed in an X-men costume is beyond the pale. Modern youth, eh?

Pussy News...

The Missus thinks I am a lunatic because I talk to our remaining cat Buffy, whose mother passed away last year.

The Boy also thinks this a tad odd and he will often come downstairs when the Missus is out and ask me who I was talking to. When I reply 'I was just talking to Buffy...' he looks at me as though I'm not not quite right in the head and wanders off muttering insults under his breath...

But the Missus has now decided she wants a new kitten in the house and has herself started having full-blown conversations with Buffy about how she'll feel about us getting a new kitten (which she has already christened Spike). The Boy is also making casual inquiries about the views of the cat on our impending kitten arrival.

But even worse the Missus is behaving in quite an affectionate way as she tries to convince me that this new addition to From Beer To Paternity Towers will be a good idea. Now I'm not used to marital affection as I've never had it and, to be quite honest, I find it slightly disturbing.

But I am also secretly enjoying the power that being the kitten deal-breaker gives me. I think I could get a new cue out of this if I play my cards right...

Fight Quest V...

A common complaint among most men is: 'My wife doesn't understand me...' But there is a much worse condition than that and it is the following: 'My wife understands me perfectly. In fact she understands me so perfectly that her understanding is almost telepathic.'

For example, when I was trying to find late Victorian pornography last year as part of research for a play I could happily explain this to my wife and she didn't bat an eyelid because she understood. Similarly when I found the grave of a famous Victorian prostitute last year I went visiting and my wife understood.

I fear, however, I now may have crossed a line and that line is watching Nuts TV.

For those who have yet to sample the delights of Nuts TV it's essentially pub sports, fighting and really badly produced soft porn masquerading as 'adult' entertainment shows. Like the magazine it is based on it's tawdry rubbish aimed at knuckleheads but last night I became one of those knuckleheads as flicking through the TV channels I spotted it had a show on cage fighting.

So I decided to watch this as, despite injury, I am still a wannabe UFC fighter and I thought it would be good research.

The show featured two cage fights from what looked like a leisure centre in Barking or Grimsby and it reminded me how little toe-to-toe battling is involved in cage fighting as the first fight ended up on the ground and stayed there for most of its two rounds, while the second ended in a knockout in about 10 seconds.

It was also hardly glamorous stuff and this is the sort of arena wannabe fighter have to start off in if they want to get anywhere. Frankly it's along way from the UFC...

So I may have to learn Brazilian ju-jitsu or some other ground-fighting art if my bid to be a proper fighter is ever to be realised. Or I could just be like the guy who got knocked out and be a journeyman punchbag.

Or I could just ensure I'm back in working order and stick to the hapkido and boxing training I do without the risk of serious injury by knocking this perhaps foolhardy idea on the head...

Injury News...

My shoulder is still not better so I bought a book on martial arts injuries so I can help heal the damaged area more quickly.

When it arrived I read it in about two days and it was pretty comprehensive, featuring advice on strapping, icing and physiotherapy. Unfortunately I put it on the floor of my office to take downstairs while I was on the internet and forgot it was there...

The Missus then shouted me downstairs so I came out of my office, tripped up over the book and fell and hurt my arm some more.

The book is obviously not that good at injury prevention and care...

Album...

I suddenly have a desire to load pictures on my Facebook page,
some panicked and pathetic bid
to leave
a footprint of something,
somewhere.

So I go home and uproot my office to see what’s where
and I find a photo of my father,
sat in his chair,
reaching for the telly
remote.

It was taken in 1989 and the simmering civil war
between him and my mother
had not yet broken out,
even though signs of hostilities were ever
present.

I find another shot of him lining up for Goole Town FC in 1964,
fresh-faced and smiling,
possessing the kind of surety that only
small-town celebrity can
bestow.

Dead now some 14 years he had many sayings,
some were utter rubbish but some
conferred a wisdom. Of sorts.
‘You can’t educate pork’ was my particular
favourite

but ‘Life’s no rehearsal’ was the one he favoured most.
Dead now some 14 years and me not there yet,
I’m slowly getting
where he was coming from
with that.

Meat...

Here's the opening scene of a play I'm just finishing rewrites on. It's called Meat and it's about sexual commodification and disease in 1880s London.

SCENE 1: INTERIOR. HOUSE OF ASSIGNATION. KENSINGTON.
Grams: Jerusalem.
Lights up. A spartan but clean bedroom in a Victorian house of assignation. Simms, a dwarf in his mid-thirties, stands up. Mrs Fenton, a fortysomething woman of polite breeding and refinement, stands too. She removes a veil. She is nervous.

SIMMS
I trust my carriage was to your satisfaction?

MRS FENTON
Your man was both punctual and courteous, Mr Simms. Is this to be the place for our ‘lesson’?

SIMMS
It is. It may lack in grandeur but the woman who owns the house is a long-time acquaintance and keeps it clean. More importantly the house is quiet and unassuming.

MRS FENTON
Five pounds is the agreed fee?

SIMMS
That is correct.

MRS FENTON
And I assume complete discretion is promised?

SIMMS
It is guaranteed. I also offer a refund to all ‘pupils’ if the ‘lesson’ is not carried out to their full satisfaction.

MRS FENTON
Good… May I inquire as to your ‘health’?

SIMMS
My ‘health’?

MRS FENTON
Yes. Your… (She gestures to Simms’ groin area) ‘health’.

SIMMS
(Understanding) My apologies. My ‘health’ is excellent. I only provide ‘lessons’ to ladies of status and virtue so I have never had ‘health’ issues of any description, be it ‘burning’, ‘French disease’ or any other similar malady. I have documentation confirming this from a reputable surgeon who specialises in such matters should you wish to see it.

MRS FENTON
No, no. That will not be necessary… But if you don’t mind me saying, Mr Simms… I mean, your advertisement in the newspaper did not mention… The description was… You do not strike me as…

SIMMS
Particularly tall?

MRS FENTON
Yes…

SIMMS
And you are concerned that my lack of vertical inches may equate with a lack of ‘manliness’ elsewhere?

MRS FENTON
I would never…

SIMMS
If I were at liberty to divulge my current client list, and if they were disposed to reveal what ‘entertainments’ they enjoyed while their husbands were away, you would have references from several leading lights of London society. And those ladies would affirm I have the inches of a man many times my height and the ‘manliness’ of 20 men of a Herculean build.

MRS FENTON
I see…

SIMMS
In fact if you will allow me to briefly lock the door I will allow a full examination of the aforementioned inches of Toby…

MRS FENTON
‘Toby?’

SIMMS
I find it helpful to give my attribute a name then should clients tire of over-vigorous exertions they can ask me to ‘Quell Toby’ while they rest, rather than employ the type of language used by dollymops or women of less gentle refinement.

MRS FENTON
A considerate approach, Mr Simms.

SIMMS
I was always schooled that good manners cost nothing.

MRS FENTON
I suppose it is only right and proper that I inspect the ‘chattels’ before committing to buy.

SIMMS
I am sure my lady would not send her maidservants to purchase the latest fashions without first checking their fit and this transaction is no different. Goods and services for money.

MRS FENTON
Yes. Quite right… Please proceed.

Simms goes to the door and locks it. He draws the curtains, turns down the lamp light and stands with his back to the audience. Simms unbuttons his trousers and pulls them down. His shirt flaps down. His back is still to the audience.

SIMMS
If I may take your hand?

She nervously offers her hand. He takes her hand and places it between his legs. We see her face.

MRS FENTON
(An intake of breath) My…

SIMMS
If I may take your other hand?

He takes her other hand and places it further between his legs.

MRS FENTON
(An intake of breath) Oh my…

SIMMS
My current girth in its flaccid state is three inches and its length six. Once aroused it is four and one half inches in girth and 10 inches in length. It can supply a vigorous pumping motion for one hour before any decline and it has performed for twice that time on occasions. The lady concerned, however, was French nobility and in my experience women of that nation and class are insatiable. With such females sapping their energies it is little wonder their menfolk are rarely victorious in warfare.

Silence.

SIMMS
You may remove your hands at any point.

MRS FENTON
(Remembering herself) Yes. Of course…

She collects herself. Simms pulls up and buttons his trousers, turns up the light on the lamp, undraws the curtains and unlocks the door. He returns to stand in front of her.

SIMMS
I trust everything is to your satisfaction?

MRS FENTON
I am sure it will be.

SIMMS
Good. I shall expect you next Tuesday at 2pm for three hours. My coachman will meet you at 1pm at the same place as today. After that he will arrange new points of collection and embarkation on a weekly basis. I look forward to our ‘lesson’.

Simms bows. Blackout. Cut to…

Utah Phillips: An Obituary...

Utah Phillips, a seminal figure in the US folk music scene, died on 23 May 2008.

I was a late convert to Utah Phillips and only got on the Phillips bandwagon when he recorded The Past Didn't Go Anywhere, the first of two albums with Ani Di Franco where she took his words and stories and mixed in her own background music. This album, along their second collaboration, Fellow Workers, were fantastic pieces of work in which Utah told stories about the various influential folk musicians and political activists he'd met while travelling the length and breath of the US.

These America-wide journeys of discovery mined a rich historical seam of neglected and sometimes repressed history featuring union organisers and workers battling for decent conditions and wages against much more powerful and often brutally armed opposition.

He was in part a folk historian whose key concern was that the rich history of union activism and working-class struggle should be kept alive in the present. His favourite idea was that of the 'long memory', an idea that insisted modern working people were part of a long, proud and still active history where rights and privileges had been fought for and should still be fought for.

Struggle for better working conditions and human rights, as Phillips often reminded anyone at his gigs, is not just historical memory but a living heritage we should all be involved in, whether it's signing petitions or taking a more active role.

As Phillips said: 'The path of least resistance is what makes the river run crooked.'

A wonderful man. Rest in peace.