And so … I’m not going to post any more chapters from my failed soggy dishcloth of a novel ‘Paul King Stole My Haircut.’

While it has been fun to re-visit the inner most depths of my brain from a decade and a half ago I realise now, reading the rest of the chapters, that ultimately, my book is sh*t.

All those agents and publishers were correct … it isn’t worthy of re-cycled toilet paper and, to be honest, I don’t share the feelings and thoughts (or bad language) that I had at the turn of the century.

I was immature, bitter, tired and at the end of my tether with music, musicians, managers, promoters, sound engineers and anyone I’d come across in the music business. It had swallowed me up and spat me out and I was exhausted.

Today, I find solace in like-minded, friendly folk who are happy to listen to my songs and even play along sometimes.

The phrase ‘Paul King stle my haircut’ will always remain a memory from my times in a trash/pop band utterly out of its depth with a stoned producer who truly f*cked us up. But, as ABC sung, that was then and this is now …

I’m off to write the memoirs of Uncle George …


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