My twenties had been less Four Seasons and more ten seasons of Men Behaving Badly.

Now I’m staying at the Buenos Aires arm of the decadent hotel chain, where every member of staff seems to know my surname.

“Good morning, Mr Walton.”

“Good afternoon, Mr Walton.”

“Welcome back, Mr Walton.”

Eventually, I tell one of them they can call me Tom.

Within hours, everyone calls me Tom.

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There must be some covert hotel network operating behind the walls because I only told one person. I briefly consider telling the next one my name is Gary, then another it’s Tony, just to see how far I can push the system before the whole thing internally combusts.

I don’t. But there’s time.

For all this terrifying competence, however, the boardroom is shit. It’s windowless, colourless and we could be in Barnsley rather than Buenos Aires.

We’re nearly three hours into what started as a pre-production casting discussion.

Now it’s an argument.

The remains of sandwiches and empty coffee cups litter the surface of the large table. Tired looks have spread throughout the team and the director is spitting feathers.

Then. BAM!

The producer, a good friend of mine, slams a crystal the size of a small rugby ball into the centre of the proceedings.

The group falls silent. So do the clients on the other end of the line.

Apparently, the rock has been charged in the morning sun, so whatever happens next, we’re in for a treat.

It’s actually fairly serious stuff, with a wedge of seven figure cash on the line, but it’s safe to say that I’m not the only one finding it funny that a team of nearly ten seasoned professionals are now at the behest of a piece of quartz.

At this point I’m just an observer. Sure, I wrote the script of the specific film we’re discussing, but my say on anything else has long since expired. I’m strapped in and watching it all unfold – the grown ups are talking.

But oddly enough, not long after the crystal hits the table, a deal is done.

The producer’s bag of rocks is a continuing source of amusement for some of the Swedish production crew we’ve working with, particularly when trying to get them through security in carry-on.

But when the days become long, the miles become further and the trip starts taking its toll, the crew are drawn not only to the crystal, but the rest of what lies in the magic bag.

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Eight days later…

Location: Hotel Llao Llao, Bariloche. January, 2018.

Patagonia is showing off.

Hotel Llao Llao sits between mountains and lakes near the Chilean border, a place for people who like their Patagonian adventure to involve eighteen holes and a reasonable lunch afterwards.

In January, the sun bounces between the lake and the hotel’s infinity pool while the mountains disappear into the distance. It’s a balmy 25 degrees, and when the temperature drops in the evening, there is never a shortage of fur blankets.

Inside, there are open fires, enormous sofas, antlers and enough Alpine paraphernalia to raise an eyebrow.

It is offensively beautiful.

Unfortunately, the place is obviously haunted, and it has all the warmth of The Overlook Hotel. When the corridors empty in the evening you’ve always got more than one eye out for a creepy pair of twins girls.

The crew can’t sleep here and the kid who is starring in one of the films we’re making has changed rooms because he’s convinced something else is sleeping in his.

There is only one thing that can save us: the crystal.

All of a sudden I notice it everywhere I go. It’s on the breakfast table. It’s the centrepoint of our meetings. The crew are taking turns having it in their room at night. They’re holding it on set to feel the energy.

And I shit you not, as I walk into the conservatory this evening there is a sage cleansing ritual going down that is sending the wait staff into a frenzy because they think we’re a bunch of stoners doing weed in a weird way, which is only half true.

The next day, I’m walking beside the lake, skimming stones and listening to the nothingness of Patagonia when I find two perfectly smooth pebbles.

I pick them up, they feel good in my hands. For some reason I feel calm. One goes into my pocket. The other I give to my friend for their collection.

I don’t believe in magic rocks and I believe in only one herb.

But I do believe people will find comfort wherever they can.

Lisbon, 2026.

To this day, the stone has lived in the right pocket of whichever pair of jeans I happen to be wearing.

I still don’t believe in magical rocks.

But I don’t go anywhere without mine.

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Chlöe & The Next 20th Century by Father John Misty

Format: 12” Vinyl

Acquired: Concerto, Amsterdam.

Official release: April 8, 2022.

Recorded: United Recording, Hollywood, CA.

“This may be the last time,” begins Goodbye Mr. Blue.

Six ordinary words.

When Josh Tillman wrote them for Chloë And The Next 20th Century, recorded alongside longtime collaborator Jonathan Wilson, I doubt he imagined the following series of coincidences would end up being so significant for a stranger on the other side of the world.

The record itself is lush, cinematic and beautifully arranged; strings, jazz flourishes and old Hollywood romanticism jiving with the Laurel Canyon folk that first made Father John Misty such a compelling character.

But this piece isn’t about Chloë And The Next 20th Century.

This tale is about three moments, three cities, one song, and one very good dog.

Lisbon. June, 2026.

I’m silently bawling my eyes out as Father John Misty begins the first verse of Goodbye Mr. Blue, the record’s second tune, the gig’s fifth.

Public displays of emotion have never come naturally. Come to think of it, neither have private ones. Music, however, has always found a way around the emotional security system I’ve spent years installing.

Tillman and his band are lighting up Lisbon’s Campo Pequeno Bullring. His voice is every bit as velvety as it is on record, effortlessly drifting over the tight Sunday afternoon shuffle from the LP.

The finger-picked acoustic guitar, understated slide and irresistible pipes have me in a vice-like grip and by the second verse Chado notices I’m falling apart.

She wants to laugh, to which she has every right. But she knows exactly where this song has taken me.

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Amsterdam. March, 2023.

We’re stood on the top balcony at Melkweg, my least favourite venue in Amsterdam.

Even when the gig begins the people in the locker room, which is openly connected to the music hall, just won’t shut up, and it takes a few extremely irate punters to silence them.

I’m leaning against the rear wall so I can keep out of the way and not block anyone’s view, while having a decent one for myself. Chado has wisely found a spot better suited to short-arses.

Four songs in, Tillman pauses before introducing Goodbye Mr. Blue. He explains he’d written it after losing his cat while making the record.

Before he begins, someone near the front catches his attention.

He kindly gives them the space and they explain their cat had died that week. He asks the cat’s name.

“Max.”

He dedicates the song to Max the cat as Chado turns to me from the short-arse section.

My jaw begins to clench as the first notes drift across the room.

A few days earlier, another Max left us.

Sheffield. December, 2022.

I wake with the weight of a dog resting against my right leg.

“This may be the last time, the last time I lay here with you.”

Max is lying across the bottom of the bed, exactly where he always sleeps whenever I come home.

When he first joined the family he was a gangly little border collie with blue eyes and soft grey fur. With age, the blue settled into a warm hazel, the same hazel that is currently fixed on me as I get up and begin to pack.

He knows the routine. He knows I’m leaving again, just not for how long.

“Love’s always going to leave you, no matter what they say. We only know what it is once it’s gone away.”

He’s creakier than ever and doesn’t trouble with the stairs often these days but he still waits outside the bathroom door while I shower, knows where the breakfast table bacon is coming from and shadows me to the front door.

As always, I chat to him like he's another bloke in the house. He never answers, but between the looks, the nudges and fourteen years of knowing each other, neither of us is ever left wondering what the other means.

I crouch down, ruffle his head how he likes it and tell him I’ll see him soon.

I don’t.

“When the last time was our last time, if only that I knew.
If the last time was our last time I would have told you that
the last time comes too soon.”

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Lisbon. June, 2026.

When we get home I fix my mascara and put the record on.

The needle lands on Goodbye Mr. Blue.

Again. And again.

“This may be the last time.”

Six ordinary words.

My current situation is a strange one to unpack. Right now I’m wandering through the maze and madness of Stone Town, Zanzibar, with a monkey on my shoulder and a deeply overcommitted and desperately unofficial tour guide on a mission to find me a guitar.

All I did was ask if there was a guitar shop on the island but since then the man has treated finding me one as if it is his primary objective in life. And I’m just kind of going along with it.

Stone Town folds in on itself like a fever dream. Tight, winding alleyways, meticulously carved mahogany and teak doors, often with treasure troves of art, brass trinkets, masks and jewellery hiding behind them.

The heat sits heavy on your shoulders and somewhere nearby the Indian Ocean is breathing salt into the streets while the old coral stone buildings sweat history through cracked walls.

My guide is moving fast, talking constantly in thick East African rhythms while I try to keep up beneath the weight of the sun.

As I follow, I’m trying to make sure the monkey is comfortable, offering him snacks from a bag the guy has given me containing what I think is mealworm.

Eventually he stops and asks if I’m thirsty.

I don’t get a chance to answer before he’s ordering sugarcane juice from a street vendor operating a machine that looks like it was salvaged from a steampunk submarine.

The cogs and gears spring to life as the bloke feeding cane through the rollers grabs two cups from a bucket of cloudy water that I don’t feel great about and fills them with frothing green juice.

I stare at mine. This is my Anthony Bourdain moment, and at this stage, refusing feels more dangerous than dysentery, so I drink it.

It’s surprisingly cool and refreshing but everything between my stomach and my anus has formed a coalition and they’re off to HR.

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Now we’re moving again, monkey still riding shotgun. He asks for a snack, I oblige.

Eventually we arrive at a beautiful old music academy tucked away behind heavy wooden doors.

The place feels airy and ancient, all high ceilings and drifting sound. Music leaks from room to room, strings and horns floating on the thick air.

“Now I ask if we can buy guitar,” my guide announces proudly.

Oh God. I suddenly become aware of how insane this entire situation looks, and become a little panicked.

A short, stout woman pokes her head around the doorway and studies us carefully, presumably trying to figure out who the hell we are.

Me, a six foot four tourist visibly sweaty and embarrassed, with a fucking monkey on my shoulder, and some local bloke who is now in the business of acquiring guitars.

She calls something back into the classroom and disappears for a moment. The monkey taps me.

Then she returns as I’m taking a monkey snack from my pocket. I feed him as a conversation [I don’t understand] begins to unfold and, unsurprisingly, no guitar is available. Thank God.

Back in the beating sun the hunt is resumed and it isn’t long before he’s got a lead.

Long story short, some shady bloke in a back alley tries to sell me a knock off Strat for about three hundred quid. Even the monkey knows it’s a load of bollocks.

My guide, the monkey and I retreat back to where we came from. We eventually bump into my brother and sister, who have also been navigating the souks.

I place the monkey on my brother’s shoulder, who promptly urinates on him in protest.

I tip my guide handsomely.

Stone Town, Zanzibar. 2008.

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Mule Variations by Tom Waits.

Format: CD and vinyl

Acquired: CD bought in unknown Geneva record shop. Vinyl gifted by brother.

Official release: April 16, 1999.

Recorded: Prairie Sun Recording Studios, California.

Back in 2005 Friday night at The Nottingham House in Broomhill meant open mic night. An evening where nobodies like us could howl over the low hum of half-finished conversations and pool balls being sunk.

I’d never heard a Tom Waits song in my life, much to the despair of my Canadian friend and colleague, Darryl. He then climbed onto the little stage, grabbed his resonator and started finger-picking Chocolate Jesus, and something beneath my feet shifted.

Darryl didn’t leave it there. As we crossed riffs and shifts together at the pub we worked in, he kept feeding me deeper cuts and stranger corners of the Waits back catalogue, sometimes jamming songs together after hours while Coen Brothers films flickered across the pub projector.

I was still at Tom Waits entry level — not a bad place to be — when I was poking through the CD racks in a Geneva record shop in 2006 and came across Mule Variations.

Chocolate Jesus and Come On Up To The House were familiar, but aside from that, this was a whole new adventure.

Maybe Mule Variations wasn’t the ideal entry point. Then again, maybe it was perfect. Waits spends the record wandering through old ghosts — Bone Machine, Closing Time, Small Change, Swordfishtrombones — like a man rattling around his own scrapyard, offering a different perspective on the sound of decades gone by.

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But Mule Variations is so wildly split in personality it could soundtrack a doomed arthouse romance and the next Saw trailer without blinking. My partner usually leaves the room when this record comes on. But in the following days my Spotify Friends sidebar tells me Hold On is playing from her account.

Half made up of junkyard folk rock that isn’t for the faint of heart with a second side that breaks your heart in two, while featuring Waits’ trademark post-70s percussion and postmodern Batman husk, it’s a record that stays with you one way or another.

Opening track Big In Japan sent shockwaves down my spine back in 2006, with Waits throwing percussive curveballs all over the place.

He later told Jody Denberg for Mule Conversations: “I was in a contest with myself in a hotel room. I wanted to see if I could sound like a band all by myself but without any instruments. So I just started banging on the chest of drawers and the wall, the headboard. Just trying to get that sound. The full band sound. And that’s what I wound up with. I hung onto it and looped it and sampled it.”

Fuzzed out guitars and the famous Waits croak join the rhythm de chambre to begin more or less where Bone Machine left off in 1992. But it’s Hold On that delivers the heaviest punch from the first three tracks.

A seminal moment not only for this album, but for his career. So gorgeous is the soundscape to this song, it feels like a blanket being thrown over you when the opening chords ring through. Waits’ vocal goes full 180, from downright creepy in Lowside Of The Road, to reassuring grandfather figure.

It’s in these moments when we see the softer side of the crooner that brings Mule Variations alive. Co-produced with long time collaborator, and wife, Kathleen Brennan, you can feel their bond through songs like Take It With Me: “Always for you, and forever yours. It felt like the old days, we fell asleep on Beaula’s porch. I’m gonna take it with me when I go.”

House Where Nobody Lives, Picture In A Frame and Georgia Lee sit in the same tender, late-night territory, but it’s Pony where Waits feels most introspective, even autobiographical, later telling Jody Denberg the inspiration behind one particular lyric:

“Evelyn’s kitchen, that’s my Aunt Evelyn, who passed away during the making of the record. Her and my uncle had ten kids. I guess when I’d been far away from home I’d think about her kitchen a lot, and a lot of people feel the same way when they’ve been far away from home. I dreamed about getting home to her kitchen so that’s why we put her in there, as a tribute to Evelyn.”

The darker heart of the album has that Waits percussive groove, with Get Behind The Mule, Cold Water and Filipino Box Spring Hog, unleashing his Hyde-side into the mix — Waits has angels on one shoulder and devils on the other.

And then there’s What’s He Building?, a piece of spoken-word paranoia so bizarre it could probably give children nightmares. But beneath the creeping dread and twitching curtains lies Waits’ dry humour at its best: observant, brutal and weirdly funny. And the more time you spend with it the funnier and more unsettling it becomes.

Mule Variations feels like a journey through every corner of Waits’ world — junkyards, kitchens, motel rooms, bad dreams and home sickness — delivered by an artist so strange and singular he still feels unmatched decades later. By the time Come On Up To The House finally rings out, I feel like I’ve survived some beautiful, strange night out.

And whenever Chocolate Jesus plays, I’m right back in The Notty again, watching Darryl do his growliest growl.

JAMES JONES

The leftover shepherd’s pie steamed up from the plate. Closing his eyes briefly, James Jones allowed the scent to rise up through his nostrils, his aching belly throbbing more with the anticipation of being fed.

It had been a very long day. Everything had gone against him — a domestic that had turned into an attempted murder case that could very well turn into a murder case if the woman who had been hit over the head with a vase didn’t pull through.

As a result, he had missed the dinner part of the party, and his girlfriend was gutted he had missed another one, especially at this time, on Christmas Eve. But he knew she understood. The shifts of a police officer were long and unpredictable. And for a newbie, they were thankless and all the more demanding.

The door had unexpectedly opened nine months ago, and James’s patience had paid off just at the right time. After being unceremoniously relieved of his previous job, the phone call had come less than twenty-four hours later. A further eighteen days after that, his girlfriend told him she was unexpectedly pregnant. April had been a strange month for James.

With one big, final inhalation, he opened his eyes, added a healthy dash of Worcestershire sauce to his dinner and picked up his knife and fork. He shovelled the cutlery deep into the food and raised it towards his mouth.

The phone next to his plate began to purr, and James paused. He looked down at the illuminated display. It was his partner, and he knew better than to ignore her just because he was in the company of a comforting shepherd’s pie.

Lowering the heaped fork, he took the phone and connected the call.

‘Hello, love,’ said James. ‘I’m just grabbing a bite to eat. I’ll be there in no time at all, I promise.’

‘She’s coming,’ said a laboured voice on the other end of the line.

‘But she’s not due for another two weeks,’ he replied.

‘Well, it appears she doesn’t have the same penchant for tardiness as her sodding father.’

‘Are, are you sure?’ James asked.

There was silence for a beat, and he sensed the danger in it.

‘Have you called an ambulance?’ he asked, quickly.

‘No, Deb is getting the towels. She’s driving me.’

‘Where to?’

‘Queen … Elizabeth,’ she said between arduous breaths, ‘the Second.’

‘I’m on my way,’ said James.

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The doors hissed shut and the engine groaned as they picked up momentum, bumping, swaying and squeaking across the wintery, festive streets of London. Marge shuffled over to the window seat and looked across the high street, the twinkling wall-mounted Christmas lights reflected in her glasses.

Christmas had long felt like an irrelevance to Marge. Though, in reality, it had only been three years since everything turned. The night her world crumbled inside the four walls of home. And now she was slowly beginning to get used to a lonely house on Christmas Day. Getting used to eating breakfast on her own and watching the Christmas specials on her own. Getting used to the one extra bedtime brandy on her own.

If possible, Marge always sat on the bottom deck, as close to the door as possible. Rain or shine, warm or cold, the door was her friend: the gateway to the final beep of the day. It wasn’t only the ride that Marge detested: it was the destination.

Home had long felt like an extension of the bus ride that took her there – void of any kind of joy, empty, with no one there to welcome her home and no one to welcome.

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‘No,’ said Doctor Simon Stroud as he looked at the ceiling of the modern office.

‘It’s not like that.’ He stared at the lights above — two modern cable pendants suspending Edison bulbs at different heights, a yellow candlelit glow filling the corner of the room. ‘It’s not the right thing to do. Not for me. Not right now.’

‘Hmm,’ said Dr McAuley, sitting in a grand desk chair, overlooking him. Despite her demeanour, there were still etches of youth across her kind face, and as she leaned back into the chair, it rocked to a forty-five-degree angle, and she too looked up at the ceiling. ‘And why exactly is that?’

Simon raised his head and he looked at her, his stubble-laced frown unyielding. ‘It’s not right that I do.’

‘Hmm,’ she said again, her eyes meeting his for the first time during their one-hour appointment. ‘Quite.’ She wasn’t remotely taken aback, merely adjusting her spectacles while choosing her next words carefully.

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Johnathan Walker was a man who didn’t leave anything to chance. No, sir. Johnathan was a businessman. And to be a good business man you have to be on top of your game.

He was never late, his hair and moustache were always perfectly trimmed, his suit freshly pressed, and his shoes had the finest shine in London.

Johnathan was an inherently careful fellow in every aspect of his life, from the execution of his business deals to the paying of his bills at home to the clipping of his toenails.

Everything was done on time and with the highest level of efficiency one could imagine. Johnathan didn’t care for the lazy, nonchalant people of this world, those who slept in past seven in the morning or those who believed it was okay to put off what could be done today until tomorrow.

This attitude took over every aspect of Johnathan’s life, and as he looked at himself in the full-length mirror of his bedroom, he couldn’t help but admire the reflection staring back: here was a man ready to take on the day.

The Windsor knot of his bottle-green tie was perfectly folded, and as he took the tweezers from his bedside table, as he did every single morning, Johnathan found the only rogue hair he could find protruding from his nostril and plucked it.

As his eyes winced he pulled the precision-folded handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed them before taking a final, self-satisfied glance of admiration at himself, thinking he looked good for a man in his mid-forties.

Today was an important day for Johnathan: he would attend the meeting he had been waiting on for some time. It was the final hurdle, the last lap, and if he made it to the finishing line, he would be partner in his company. ]

As a result, he would be given additional shares, an even larger salary and eternal job security. Today is the most important day of my life, he thought, as he opened the door to his East Dulwich townhouse, briefcase in hand, walking down onto the top step, the first of nine that would lead him to the street.

The June sunshine revealed itself to the capital from behind the clouds high in the sky as he leaned back through the front door, grabbing his bright yellow umbrella from the tall hat stand, tucking it under his briefcase-holding arm.

Despite the weather report claiming there would be fine skies throughout the day, the failsafe of a brolly was always worth carrying on his person. Even at the beginning of summer, he often found London’s skies were not to be trusted.

Hopped up on excitement, the prospect of becoming a partner had gripped Johnathan; he had plotted and planned his way to this moment since he first sat at a desk, obsessed with creating the perfect statement of a person, thus creating the perfect vision of his own future.

He thought of his vision for retirement: the red and orange hues of a sun setting over an ocean, or better yet, a mountainous vineyard with the perfect glass of French red and nothing to look forward to but the next wonderful day. The company of a friend or companion. Even a good book.

It was all going to happen.

His ruthlessly hard-working ways were going to pay off, he knew it. Johnathan hadn’t taken a holiday for as long as he could remember, which is how he came to her in the running for partner: a chance his co-worker, a family man more committed to school plays and fancy dress than their career, had given up for two weeks of sunshine in the Costa del Sol.

Now Johnathan had it all to himself, and the future was looking more and more clear.

The short tube ride was as unpleasant as he always found it, the smell becoming worse as the temperature rose, the dirty, tepid wind of the underground whipping through the nomadic crowds and stone walls.

As he ascended the escalator towards the surface, he pulled a small bottle of hand sanitiser from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and carefully covered every inch of his hands.

Exiting the station among a pack of fellow commuters, watchful of those with their attention hidden behind newspapers or phones, always vigilant to those who were going to slow his morning down.

Johnathan reached his destination, The Savoy hotel, with half an hour to spare, exactly as planned and just the way he liked it. The doorman, dressed in a penguin suit and top hat gave Johnathan a familiar nod (Johnathan was the kind of guy who visited such places regularly for business meetings) before he made the journey to the tea rooms.

Striding across the black and white tiles, he admired his favourite place in London — the high ceilings, the perfectly pressed napkins, the gleaming chandeliers, the impeccable service. No detail was left unturned, and it always made Johnathan smile.

The whole place was a statement, and today was all about making his own statement. It was his final chance to show the CEO there was no other man for the job, no man better to join him at the very top. And there was no finer man to join; Mr Derek Cox was known within the company as a shining light, the spirit that once pulled the company back from the brink many years ago, taking it striding innovatively forward.

He was a genius and his working philosophy was the very same they built the company on — a legend to all that worked in the industry.

Settling at the table, Johnathan ordered an Americano while pulling the appropriate papers from his briefcase. He knew them inside out and he smiled as he laid them on the table in front of him in the order he would need them.

Thanking the waiter when his coffee arrived, he dropped a single cube of brown sugar into the perfectly clean china, stirring the black liquid two steps clockwise before countering the movement — an every day ritual — and taking a sip.

Keeping an eye on the time, he waited patiently until the meeting was due to begin. Not five minutes before the clock had struck ten, he saw Derek Cox arrive, greeted by the same waiter as Johnathan.

He slid his chair back to stand and waited patiently as Derek Cox weaved through the tables with an outstretched hand.

“Good afternoon, Mr Cox,” said Johnathan, inclining his head at the impressive man, dressed in a suit as crisp as his own and with a haircut trimmed so tight not a single hair was out of place. Yes, Johnathan thought, this is a fellow I will get along with.

“Mr Walker, a great choice of venue,” replied Mr Cox. “I trust I haven’t kept you waiting too long?”

“Not at all. My day led me here early, I have only been waiting on myself, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear,” said Mr Cox. “Now, shall we?”

“Indeed,” said Johnathan, indicating for Mr Cox to join him.

The meeting went exactly had intended, and within two hours of sitting down with Mr Cox, Johnathan had said everything he’d needed to say; he had given his arguments, all backed up with detailed evidence of his career triumphs. All the years of hard work and little sleep had finally paid off, as he knew it would.

All those birthdays and festivities he had worked through were coming back in his favour, and in a few short years he could finally begin to enjoy the fruits of his labour. He smiled to himself as he took a sip of his water, before turning to Mr Cox expectantly.

“Now tell me, Johnathan,” said Mr Cox after finishing his last spoon of crème brûlée. “Would join me in a drink to celebrate you becoming partner at our prestigious firm?”

Johnathan couldn’t help but feel a little overwhelmed. He knew the moment was coming, but he was expecting to have to wait at least a little longer for confirmation. One thing he certainly hadn’t expected was to be left speechless in the tea room he knew so well.

“Don’t look so damn surprised, man,” chuckled Mr Cox. “This is a well-deserved moment of change for you. A defining moment in your life, no doubt.”

“Ah, my apologies,” Johnathan stuttered, finally offering his hand to Mr Cox. He took it firmly and looked Johnathan right in the eye.

“This is just what you deserve,” he said with a big smile. “Now what do you say to a bottle Château Tour Pibran to settle this?”

Johnathan paused for the first time, slightly uncomfortable with Mr Cox’s proposal, but aware of how rude it may be if he were to decline. Johnathan had a penchant for fine wine, and Bordeaux was his favourite: the most exquisite wine region on the planet as far as he was concerned.

But alcohol was a substance he largely avoided while in the company of colleagues. He might have the odd tipple at a Christmas party, if he even attended, but he always found alcohol clouded even the best minds.

“I’m afraid I must decline,” began Johnathan.

“Oh do come on, dear man,” said Mr Cox. This is an exciting day, an historic one, in fact. Join me. I had me eye on this wine since my last trip. I shan’t let it elude me again. It is simply magnificent from what I’ve read.”

“Of that I have no doubt, but I don’t want the day to move along without me. Please forgive me.”

“What rot!” exclaimed Mr Cox. “Enjoy yourself! You’ve worked tirelessly to get here.”

Glancing at his watch, Johnathan briefly debated whether he should stay for a drink with his new partner. “I really mustn’t,” he said. “It’s time to put the wheels in motion, and I have an important meeting to deal with back at the office. I wouldn’t want to start this new dawn on the wrong side of bed. There will, no doubt, be a time in the not-too-distant future when we can celebrate this momentous day.”

Mr Cox couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Very well. Frustrated I’ll stay, but I am glad to see your dedication despite the cause for cheer. I shall enjoy a glass to myself, but if you would permit me to offer some final words?”

Johnathan couldn’t help but smile to himself. “Of course,” he said, clipping the clasps to his briefcase.

Mr Cox paused before a smile spread across his face. “Have a good journey,” he said.

“Yes, thank you, sir,” said Johnathan. “And that I shall. This will change my life, maybe our lives, forever.”

“I’m sure it will.”

The two men shook hands for a final time before Johnathan rose from his chair and used the same route he had entered the building but in reverse, but this time there was a small spring in his step.

He walked back over the gleaming tiles of the lobby, nodded at the porter and exited along the pedestrian pavement leading to the main road with a huge grin on his face.

From there, he would find the nearest pedestrian crossing and make his way to Covent Garden tube station. He waited patiently until the green man showed. When it lit up, Johnathan strolled with his fellow Londoners before realising something was amiss — the yellow umbrella.

He hesitated, bodies bumping into him as he did, and glanced up at the now black skies above. He was halfway across: enough time to make it back if he hurried. Not a risk he would normally take, but he couldn’t stand being wet, especially in such a delightful suit.

There was no need for this fine day to suffer a dampener, and so he began to pace his way back to the pavement he came from. A few seconds later his heart rate rose, time was tight. Too tight. He might not make it. Surely, he thought, the motorists wouldn’t run him over if he was still on the crossing?

Seconds later and Johnathan was on the kerb, his heart rate slowing, the panic dissipating. Just a minor mishap. He tried to calm himself as he hurried back to the Savoy, the porter waiting for him at the door, brolly in hand.

“Always keeping an eye out for you, Mr Walker,” he said with a smile as he passed over the umbrella.

Johnathan nodded curtly before accepting it, rather embarrassed he had allowed himself to forget it. He was beginning to get flustered.

“Thank you,” he said. “What a silly mistake,” he muttered before turning from the entrance and rushing to the drive of the hotel, wanting more than anything to get to the office for his meeting. Back to business, and cruise on the crest of the wonderful news Mr Cox had given him, and he could forget about this brolly misfortune.

Looking right as he always when crossing, he saw it was clear and stepped into the road.

Mr Cox offered his hand and a delighted grin to the porter in the lobby, his cheeks flushed from the glass of devoured Bordeaux. Smiling broadly as he bounced through the revolving doors, he abruptly stopped in the pouring rain.

Blue lights of a police car were flashing and a crowd was gathering around a stationary taxi as the torrential downpour created rhythms against rooftops and concrete.

“What happened?” Mr Cox asked.

“Mr Walker. Forgot we drive on the right-hand side of the court,” said the porter as Mr Cox turned, the smile unmoved from his face. “They said he’s dying,” the porter added. “He was fairly regular here, Mr Walker. Always polite, always dressed in the same suit. always the same.”

Mr Cox glanced across the scene again and placed a reassuring hand on the porter’s shoulder.

“Don’t you worry, my dear man,” he said. “This is the first day of the rest of his life, an enlightened life.”

“Someone said he can’t move his legs,” said the porter.

Mr Cox smiled again. “No, no, you see —” he started before his phone interrupted him. Mr Cox answered: “Hello, my dear. To what do I owe the pleasure?” apparently content to put the conversation with the porter on hold.

“Indeed,” he continued. “The six o’clock? That lot are always tricky, but I’m sure we can find a way forward with this client.” There was a brief pause where Mr Cox just ummed and ahhed in agreement. “No, no, my love. It will be soon.” And with that he hung up the call and turned back to the porter.

“Sorry about that. Anyway, as I was saying, dear chap,” he continued. “Mr Walker will walk again, I can assure you of that.”

“How do you mean?” asked the porter. “Apparently he passed out in pain. Said he couldn’t feel his legs,” the porter repeated.

“What was the last thing Mr Walker down there said to you? How was he behaving?” he asked, nodding his head towards the bottom of the steps, ignoring the porter’s comments.

“He…he was embarrassed about forgetting his umbrella,” the porter said. “He said he was sorry.”

Mr Porter shot the porter a concerned look and glanced back over to Johnathan. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “And what a thing to be sorry for. It was my fault entirely. I should never have hidden it behind my chair,” he added quite matter-of-factly, before walking towards the growing crowd.

“But he won’t be worrying about that bloody umbrella again,” he called, before looking back and shooting the porter with another smile.

Mr Cox walked slowly through the rain, through all of the people craning their necks to get a better view of what was going on, desperate to know who had been knocked down and how serious it was was. A human condition.

But Mr Cox ignored them all and weaved his way to the police tape with which officers had busily sealed off the area to stop further encroachment. He ducked below the tape and walked towards Johnathan without being challenged.

His body was lifeless when he arrived, skewed at a strange angle, an unnatural position for the human body to rest. There had been no attempt to move him because of the fear of a broken neck or back. He was unconscious.

Kneeling over Johnathan’s body, he looked up at the rain and took an object from his pocket: an old lighter made from sterling silver, engraved with the word Libertas, tarnished from years of use. He tucked it into Johnathan’s jacket pocket before taking his hand. It still felt warm. Goosebumps erupted over Mr Cox’s body.

He shivered a little before smiling. “You’ll need it more than me. Enjoy your retirement, Johnathan.”

And with that, he stood up straight, opened the yellow brolly and walked for the Thames. He arrived at the water as the rain began to ease, stopping to watch the boats silently winding up the river.

It was only a couple of minutes before he heard the screams of shock, shortly followed by cheers.

“Welcome back, old chap,” he said to himself, taking a nearly full packet of cigarettes from his pocket and dropping them into a bin.

Turning from the scene, he began to hum a tune serenely before pulling out his phone to make a call.

Coming up…

The Day The Lights Went Out — 15/12/2025

Grumpy Woman On The Bus — 22/12/2025

What Goes Around Comes Around, Sometimes — 24/12/2025

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The train was always jam-packed at this time: a haunted vessel delivering souls from one place to the next. Backwards and forwards across miles of extensive tracks and underground networks; a necessity sucking in almost all of a city’s population.

A population currently keeping their faces hidden, some behind a smartphone or book, others favouring the free evening paper. The lucky ones with a window seat pivot towards the glass. They all counted down the stops one by one. But together they travel, connected by their commute as they thunder across the tracks of a handsome web beneath London’s vast urban sprawl.

Some called it purgatory; others called it rush hour on the London commute.

Yolande smiled to herself as she hummed a tune. While others dreaded it, this was her favourite time of day. Making herself comfortable between an elderly gentleman clutching a cane and a teenage girl absorbed in her phone, she nestled a giant handbag on her lap, rummaging through and pulling a pair of knitting needles from it.

Wearing a colourful dress, a cardigan fit for the start of spring, and a fine head of hair wrapped in an enormous bun, she beamed around the carriage before turning back to the bag, humming as she did.

As Yolande went about her business she ignored the eye of distaste from a man wearing red trousers sitting opposite and two seats down. She could feel it for nearly one minute, a slow tension rising in him before he returned to the paperback he was less than halfway through.

Gently sucking her lips through her teeth, Yolande began to methodically weave the wool together, the needles clicking this way and that. It was four decades since she mastered the art and it no longer required her eyes.

Instead, she gazed through the carriage, her senses on high alert for anything worth knowing, but it was one of her more ordinary rides — the same wobble of the carriage, a lingering disdain, glimpses of conversation and muffled beats from earphones punctuating the rattle and hum beneath their feet.

The once-white plastic walls were a dull shade of grey and the frayed upholstery of the closely knit seats had seen better days, the blue and red patterned velour marked with pen, gum and grime.

Yolande made this journey every weekday. There was no reason to take this specific ride, but she did anyway, always in the same carriage and always at the same time. And the ride rarely varied — the same routines, the same rhythm of the tracks, and a morale low enough to trip you up.

But to Yolande, she had found a space in time where anything was possible, a place where if she looked hard enough she could brighten up days in ways her fellow passengers wouldn’t even recognise.

She could help the discontent disappear, and she felt it strong today — it was as potent now as when she first made the journey two years ago — London Bridge to Dartford, the closest one to six in the evening that her schedule would allow — and she had seen many of the same commuters regularly as the rail tracks worked over the rat runs of south east London.

Columns of tall, mismatched buildings flashed through the window’s key-cut graffiti as they began to pick up speed again, the outside growing more ramshackle as they passed a red-brick building dubbed with the white words: THE WITCH IS DEAD BUT SPELL REMAINS, the white paint engrained and worn into the weathered wall.

So much hate. She could feel it as she continued humming happily to herself, the needles still clicking, the tangles of bangles jangling from her wrists, her elbows nudging her neighbours as she did.

The man in red trousers had paused his book again; Yolande could sense the glint in his eye without looking. His breathing had elevated and the vice-like grip on his book had scrunched several pages. That was when she decided that the man in red trousers needed her the most.

The scenes before her came and went like a time lapse as the needles continued to toil, speeding at a similar rate as the carriage keeping them safe and warm.

New souls replaced the departed as the scaffolding-framed Deptford came and went with a blur of concrete and brick, the buildings packed together like a wonky city jigsaw.

Greenwich arrived with balcony-clad towers blocks lined with windows waiting to be washed, the station basking the final seconds of evening light.

Journeys ended and commenced as the competitive hustle gripped those all around, each fighting for their place on the platform or carriage, always tapping the door’s buttons wounded soldier typing an SOS in Morse Code.

Lost in her thoughts, Yolande continued humming the tune, becoming louder as they left the station. Warmth spread to her belly as her hums became words and she realised Louis Armstrong was present, her deep, Jamaican voice starting quietly, almost to herself at first.

She smiled for every green field, colour of the rainbow and bluest blue of the sky, but as she opened her eyes she found a carriage unmoved, a look of fury from the man in red trousers burning into her, the same ticking of the tracks below.

A few shot warms smiles at her while others didn’t seem to have wanted or needed a soundtrack to their journey.

The man in red trousers continued to stare away, his jaw clamped tight, his shoe tapping and scraping across the linoleum.

Embracing the breath entering her lungs, the clicks between her fingers and the repugnance burning from the man in red trousers, Yolande opened her eyes and looked at him fully for the first time. She smiled. He was a handsome man, aside from the face like thunder. But there was something darker etched through his stubborn jawline and he had a forehead so tense she was surprised he wasn’t going cross-eyes.

But beneath that she saw something different; there was a sadness in the cold, blue eyes, a vacant stare beneath the fire and brimstone.

He continued to glare up at the LED sign, his attention momentarily twitching to the basic rail map up on the way. His stop was close. Sanctuary was near.

The buildings came to a greater level of focus as the public-address-system lady announced that they would momentarily be stopping in Charlton.

The sporadic graffiti of the walls were sharpening, swing sets of back gardens edging into view as the man in red trousers stood up, a final look of irritation on his face as Yolande began sucking through her teeth again.

As passengers prepared their exits, Yolande put the finishing touches to her short-term project and returned the needles to her bag, rustling around before fishing out a deteriorated old penny. She placed the oxidised copper into a beautiful red pouch and smiled to herself once more before she too rose from her seat, slowly meandering towards the door.

Yolande continued to grin as she passed through the carriage with the knowledge the man in red trousers was watching her every move through the reflection of the windows, almost certainly incensed by her good mood, aggravated by her incandescent conduct.

“Excuse me, sir,” her kind Jamaican voice said to the back of his head as she reached him.

“Ugh,” he sighed, his shoulders slouching, trying his best to ignore her as he stared fixedly at the window ahead, still eyeing her through the sharp reflection.

“It’s okay, man. I bite nothin.”

The man in red trousers reluctantly turned.

She took his left hand and looked him in the eye, her big-toothed smile spreading further. There was something there, a warm sensation, fuzzy. It began in his fingers and worked its way up his arm in a small wave. She knew he felt it.

The man in red trousers looked at his left hand in horror as Yolande slipped the new pouch into the right pocket of his coat.

“You goin’ be alright, man,” she said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” spat the man in red trousers in a tone almost warmer than Yolande expected as he pulled his left arm away.

“Tomorrow a new day, man. And your mood can’t be like them trousers every day.”

The train creaked to a stop, making everyone lean left, the doors hissing to life as the button was repeatedly pushed from either side.

The man in red trousers turned to the exit before looking back at Yolande.

“Whatever,” he said, glad to finally escape her as he stepped down onto the platform, speed-walking along the concrete towards an open gate and the plinky beeps of Oyster machines.

She smiled after him as the train doors began to close: “Tomorrow, man, you live again.”

The man in red trousers hustled from the station into the darkening streets as quickly as he could, and as he crossed the suspended footbridge, he began to feel the warmth of the new London spring as he went.

He looked up the main road, smiling for no particular reason; today wasn’t a day that warranted a smile, he just couldn’t help it for some reason.

Turning down the terrace-lined Delafield Road, the man in red trousers put his hands in his pockets. Something was unusual, something he didn’t recognise was in the right pocket.

He pulled it out and felt warmth in his hand as he paused next to an old Volvo and crossed the road. It was the same feeling he had when the mad lady touched him, the one he was doing his best to ignore.

It was a beautifully crafted pouch made from the same shade of red as his trousers. He inspected it with incredulity. She couldn’t have.

As his feet began taking him home, he looked inside and found a penny with blue speckles. He turned the tarnished coin in his fingers while he walked, trying to make out the barely visible head of Queen Elizabeth II as he thought of the mad lady’s smile.

The next day, the man in red trousers barely noticed himself grinning at the first person he passed on the train, humming a tune as he found a seat.

Coming up…

7/12/2025 — Mr Walker

14/12/2025 — The Day The Lights Went Out

21/12/2025 — Grumpy Woman On The Bus

24/12/2025 — What Goes Around Comes Around, Sometimes

Let’s get this show on the road. As the release of my debut novella, Tales of Goodwill, beckons, I’m here to share a little bit about the making of the book that has haunted me for seven years, and then some.

The book itself is a feel-good series of inter-connected tales taking place in London. Written in stages across four years in four different cities, it was something that came together like the perfect piece of barbecue meat — low and slow.

It started around 2014, when I was living in a place birthed directly from the Men Behaving Badly crypt, just three or four shades worse, with four decent but fairly messy fellas in Peckham, London.

I hadn’t been in the city long and after a month staying on my brother’s couch in Charlton, I was just getting my teeth into a Master’s degree in creative writing.

And, somewhere in the rabbit warren of London Metropolitan University I was tasked with a module called Writing the City.

The first assignment was a challenge to use place as a character, and as a reflection of my first regular London commute — I wrote the first version of The Man In Red Trousers, a manifestation of the regular train journey I took between London Bridge and Charlton.

There were many influences on this first story, especially as I was studying texts from Sam Selvon’s The Lonely Londoners to Alison Moore’s The Lighthouse.

The initial version of the short story leaned heavily into Selvon’s laconic dialogue while I also painted sparser, more haunting pictures of what London might normally look or feel like as Moore continued to tick in my back brain.

But the most clear influence, which is felt through the tone of the book, was Roald Dahl, as I devoured Tales of the Unexpected for the umpteenth time away from university duties.

As I continued to people-watch on my commutes throughout the assignment, the whole experiment sparked a wider idea — a series of connected stories from London’s famed commute, focussing on different aspects of travel.

The plan was to call the series Tales From The Commute. But the more I looked for stories, the more I saw beyond the rush hour stress, the six o’clock squeeze or the famed rudeness of London commuters.

I saw something different. I saw tenderness, people looking out for each other and giving fellow Londoners a helping hand, whether it be with bags, giving up a seat for someone in need or a friendly tap on the shoulder for a sleeping commuter.

So, what started as Tales From The Commute very quickly became Tales Of Goodwill.

The next two stories, Mr. Walker and The Day The Lights Went Out, wrote themselves. They were easy and came into my mind fully formed, as did the background characters that populated them. Maybe not perfect, but part of the overall plan for the book.

And then I stumbled. I spent nearly four years looking for story four. I couldn’t find the character, the situation or the conflict. I’d tried so hard that it all became forced as I poured over thought starters, rough character sketches or stories with beginnings but no middles or ends.

At this point I’d long-since left London so I decided to abandon the project, and it took an Instagram story to bring the whole thing back to life in 2018.

Friend and former colleague, Vasco Vicente, attended a life drawing class in Amsterdam, posting several beautiful sketches of several models. But there was one picture that stood out to me as I lay, unwell, on a hotel bed in Bariloche, Argentina.

There was something about the expression of the woman in the picture, it was as if my subconscious had met her before. I immediately pulled out my notepad and wrote a poem called Grumpy Woman On The Bus, and it was like I already knew the words before I wrote them.

It was just a silly little thing that I’d written for my own amusement more than anything but even after I wrote the last word and put the notepad down, I couldn’t shake the thought of this woman — she had sparked a new character in my mind, thanks Vasco.

And as I continued to think about this new character, a story formed, stitching together everything I had written back in London and latterly, Sheffield.

That character became Marge Clifford, my favourite character of the series, with her story taking on the same name as the poem I wrote on that hotel bed.

When I was convinced enough that I might have something worth working with I spoke with an editor and got the whole thing proofread and copy edited, because I wasn’t going to ignore the golden rule on this one — never edit yourself, kids.

But I wasn’t happy with the result. The edit had lost my style, and the sentences that returned were tiresome, and not etched in my name.

I re-drafted the book and went to another editor, who did a really good clean sweep of everything. Yet still, I wasn’t satisfied, getting back to minor story points and pratting about with things that didn’t need to be pratted about with.

And this is the ultimate reason I’ve been sitting on these words for seven years — never edit yourself, kids.

When it came to putting something physical together, that’s not my game, so I knew I needed professional help. Enter one of the best book designers in the business.

I was a lucky boy to have Dean Pauley as a friend so willing to help. But he did, and diligently spent his time crafting different covers before we decided on the final.

He came to meetings with printers when I was ever so slightly out of my depth, discussing paper weights, cover scenarios and everything down to the final detail, even the black foil for the copy on the cover and spine — check the way the words catch the light. It was like a convention for paper nerds at times.

But Dean and I put together a book that looks and feels absolutely fucking beautiful. The font is Trinite No. 2, and the lettering is large enough to make you feel like you’re a pro reader, skimming through the pages like you’ve been promised biscuits for doing so, a very deliberate design feature.

The paper weight is better than that of an average novel, it travels well and people notice when you’re reading it on the train or at the pub — top banana. The job Dean did was sensational, not only in the quality of the final product, but for the generosity of his time, for which I’ll always be thankful.

But what came back did bother me, purely because I’d created some, what felt to me as unforgivable mistakes, all due to the aforementioned pratting about.

A sentence-ending preposition here. A missed comma there. And while there were moments in the book I was happy with, there are also moments where I wished I’d taken an extra beat, breathed a little deeper and made the parts of the story more consistent, with a specific chapter feeling overly rushed to me as the writer.

Never self-edit, kids.

Meanwhile, because of a situation in my professional career, in which someone’s continued barrage of negativity towards me and my work was getting pretty demeaning, my confidence was on the wane, and the very idea of being told I was shit every day and putting a book out at the same time instilled a carnal fear that never really abated.

Their words and thoughts became my own.

But fast forward to October 2025, I pulled the book from the shelf for the first time since I noticed those seven mistakes (and counting) over the 151 pages and I’ve decided to let go of the fear.

Because while the mistakes will always play on my mind, there is enough to celebrate in these pages to actually share it with people, and without sounding like a total nob head, just set me free of the whole thing.

It’s full of Easter Eggs, from the first page to the last, connecting everything as it goes. It has loveable characters, a very slight fantastical undertone while based in total reality, and it’s not going to take up too much of your time.

It’s a book for both those who love reading and those who are reluctant to read.

The book for the anti-reader and bookworm alike.

As of December 1, 2025, you can visit www.thomaswalton.work to find out how you can buy it and I’ll begin releasing the stories here on Substack, starting with The Man in Red Trousers.

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Mr Walker will follow shortly after but the remaining three stories will sit behind a paywall (details coming soon).

All five stories will be published throughout December, with the final instalment arriving on Christmas Eve to bring the whole book full circle.

For the first time, a limited print edition will also be available. More information will be up on my website — www.thomaswalton.work — from December 1, 16.00 GMT.

Tales of Goodwill, for the season of goodwill.

See you tomorrow,

T.S.

You can visit the work of Dean and Vasco on the following sites:

www.deanpauley.co.uk
www.vvstudio.org

It’s been a while since I’ve dropped into your inbox, but it’s time to change that — and time to finally put something to rest that has been nagging at me since 2014.

I’ve finally stopped keeping my debut novella, Tales of Goodwill, tucked away. I’m ready nudge it in the right direction and hopefully bring a little more goodwill to this year’s season of… well, goodwill.

The first story was written in 2014, the final page printed in 2018, and ever since, I’ve struggled to summon the stones to give it a proper release.

On November 30, I’ll share a longer behind-the-scenes piece — where the book came from, and the darkness that delayed it.

Then, from December 1, I’ll begin releasing the stories here on Substack, starting with The Man in Red Trousers. Mr Walker will follow shortly after but the remaining three stories will sit behind a paywall (details coming soon).

Subscribe now

All five stories will be published throughout December, with the final instalment arriving on Christmas Eve to bring the whole book full circle.

For the first time, a limited print edition will also be available. More information will be up on my website — www.thomaswalton.work — from December 1.

This has been a long time coming, but I hope these five feel-good tales give you as much joy as I had writing them — and bringing them quietly to life over the years.

See you soon,

T.S.

Everything is going to be okay.

It’s been a while. Hope you’re reyt. Today I’m continuing the theme of all-time faves, but this time through a different lens.

We all have records that transport us to a place in time. Some do it so vividly you can smell the air, feel the damp or see the wallpaper.

Others arrive more like flickers — a feeling, a ghost of something long gone. You don’t plan for a song to become part of your life’s story. It just slips in. And when it reappears, it always takes you somewhere else.

For me, no record does that with the same clarity as Beautiful Freak by Eels.

Released in 1996, it was the first album Mark Oliver Everett — better known as E — put out under the Eels name. Coming off two solo records, it was a new beginning for E as he perfected his darkened power pop.

A record born in LA (Sunset Sound Factory) in the same kind of hallowed rooms that played host to Prince, The Doors and the ghosts of a hundred guitar solos but yet, to me, the record’s sound belongs to bogs, bracken, long walks in the rain, and the road trips that got us there.

Beautiful Freak ended up defining a patch of North Wales with more sheep than streetlights, more rain than phone signal, and more slate than rock n roll bands.

The question here really is, how did something made oceans away come to soundtrack our half-term escapes and muddy pilgrimages and why did it define the landscape so vividly?

To go back to the start, E was stacking the studio with the right names. Jon Brion (Elliot Smith, Kanye West, Frank Ocean) co-produced, bringing in his offbeat melodies and knack for making the strange feel intimate. Michael Simpson (Beck, Beastie Boys) brought in the dirt and dust — his fingerprints feel like they’re all over the record’s stranger arrangements.

At a time when grunge’s ashes were still warm and Britpop was swaggering through the UK, Beautiful Freak arrived like an uninvited guest — lofi melancholy that was quietly brilliant.

It gave us brittle beats, toy piano melodies, fuzzed-out guitars, and lyrics that drifted somewhere between defeated and divine. All delivered in E’s signature rasp — like he’s broadcasting from the bottom of a well on a broken radio. Or a sad clown humming Beach Boys tunes through a hangover.

My dad got a burned copy* from a mate at work. One of those old-school pirates — clear case, handwritten title, no sleeve. Me and Dad were connecting over music at this point by going to gigs together and comparing records.

But this one wasn’t just for the two of us, it ended up pulling the whole family in.

We were off on the usual family trip to the smudged, inky edges of Snowdonia — more precisely, the Mawddach estuary.

Even more precisely, ‘The Waleish House’ on Mawddach Crescent. A strange Victorian terrace overlooking the estuary, misnamed by my sister when trying to say ‘The Welsh House’, and the name stuck.

Originally meant to be an upscale resort, the dream never got beyond Mawddach Crescent. The surrounding land was all marsh and sand. Some houses became holiday lets. Others stayed lived-in. I remember one local clearly: a man the adults nicknamed Captain Birdseye. Whether it was the beard, the stare, or a fondness for fish-fingers, I never found out.

That trip, like so many, meant muddy trails, sideways rain, but it also meant Beautiful Freak spinning endlessly in the six-disc changer, always setting the mood.

It belonged to the land in ways I can’t fully explain, especially in the territory Mawddach Crescent fell within, Arthog. There was literally nothing there, not even a post office.

Close your eyes and think textbook Wales. That’s Arthog. Just sheep-speckled horizons, marshland, and big old hills. A world away from sunshine and studios, but somehow that slow burning sadness and quiet defiance fit perfectly. Especially the opener, Novocaine for the Soul.

In a now-archived interview titled PainstakingEel, from what must be assumed took place in 1996 or the surrounding years, E said: “Novocaine for the Soul sounds detached because it’s about detachment. That’s what I think is so great about that song, and on that level I think it’s almost genius. It’s detachment personified. I’m singing about numbness and I’m numb. It’s about having too much feeling.”

Looking back, those holidays were about detachment too. For our parents, it meant getting out of the city and the usual routines. Hitting reset. You don’t see that as a kid.

So, when we were trudging up Cregannan’s frog-like peak or edging our way around the Precipice Walk, maybe that was our parents walking in E’s shoes.

Maybe we all were.

Even in our detachment, the record was there, those plinky-plonky keys like a broken music box on the edge of sleep. And then — boom. That chorus.

Big. Lush. Full. The perfect complement to the stunning landscape.

One of my favourites back then was Rags to Rags. That creeping guitar and croaky vocal in between the tattered chorus: "Rags to rags and rust to rust. How do you stand when you've been crushed? So Rags to riches was a bust?"

It felt like shouting into the wind with no hope of being heard — but shouting anyway. If anywhere fits that description, it’s Fairbourne.

A town being swallowed by the sea, back then it had a Spar, a chippy, a curry house, a laundrette and a long beach lined with WWII tank traps. Not much to keep you there — and maybe that’s what made it so magnetic. Like the song, it was beautiful, broken, and fading fast.

And slowly, the whole record stopped being just music. It became geography. A photo album.

Each track mapped to a moment; Flower belonged to the hills: “It’s a pretty big world, God, and I am awful small...”

That hits different when you’re 14, halfway up a next-level incline in the pouring rain on a mountain bike (Novacaine For The Fucking Legs). Or when your hands are frozen around a fishing rod that hasn’t caught anything in hours.

Beautiful Freak — the title track — belonged to Barmouth Bridge. Or, as we called it, The Big Bridge. A railway and footbridge stretching across the estuary. It still takes tolls, but no longer takes trains, a sorry reflection of modern Britain.

It’s the one thing that doesn’t quite fit, and yet somehow defines the landscape.

The record’s outsider anthem paired perfectly with this unlikely landmark. Out of place, quietly iconic and secretly adored.

You can’t really explain Susan’s House. It’s too odd. Too brilliant. Too much its own thing. And yet, it goes down well with just about anyone.

And if you ever find yourself passing through Barmouth — that end-of-the-line, chips-and-charm seaside town — do yourself a favour and hit the coast road, wind down the window (in the rare event of no rain) and let it play. It makes sense there.

This is probably the track where Simpson’s influence shines through most. With its sampled piano lifted from Gladys Knight & the Pips’ Love Finds Its Own Way, the song taps into the same techniques that 90s hip-hop artists were using, but E did it differently.

And maybe it wasn’t just the place. Maybe it was E himself — that quiet, uninvited presence. Like he’d climbed into the back seat somewhere near Dolgellau and stayed silent the whole trip.

It’s a collection of songs that feels like one long sigh — stitched together with fuzz, ache, and quiet genius. There isn’t any filler or skips along this record, it’s immersive and swallows you whole.

Take the brilliance of Your Lucky Day In Hell — as menacing as a dark Welsh cloud when you’re only halfway back to the car, and too far gone to outrun it. It creeps in slow, brooding and inevitable. By the time the chorus hits, you're drenched — and secretly loving it.

Not Ready Yet, Guest List, Mental — all full of sharp turns, strange hooks, and lyrics that feel like late-night confessions. E and his band swing from big, ragged choruses to near-whispers in seconds, but it’s never out of place.

Like the hills, everything feels like it was meant to be.

The final track, Manchild, opens with a line so flat it almost falls off the record: “I’m not having any fun.” Followed by a timestamp — “Friday, five sixteen p.m.”

It’s not about metaphors or flourishes, it isn’t trying too hard to do anything, it’s just someone too numb to dress it up. Like my sister halfway up Cadair Idris, rethinking every life choice that led her to that cursed mountain in the rain.

The slow picking electric guitar paired with E’s fuzzed-out melancholy is a fitting finisher as it ends with background hum, distant chatter, and soft crackle — like the lights coming on in a café at the end of Fairbourne beach. Not goodbye. Just closing time.

Over the years Beautiful Freak has transformed into more than a record.

E’s grief, his wit, his weight — they’ve been dissected, praised, mythologised. But for me, it’s simpler than that.

Beautiful Freak helped shape a childhood, to colour in a place made of myth, mud, and memory. It became our beloved…

Hang on, did I mention Shrek?

All photos of Wales by Nick Walton

*Since acquiring the pirate copy of this record it has been purchased in multiple formats by multiple family members.

There are two parts to this thing: Escapades and Between the Spines.

Together, they form my memoirs.

I’ve spent the best part of two decades writing for newspapers, magazines, advertising agencies, creative directors, clients, editors and anyone else prepared to pay me to arrange words in a particular order.

Most of them had notes.

So I wanted somewhere I could write without having to answer to anyone, just to see where it took me.

It took me backwards.

I’m approaching forty, so it seems as good a time as any to work out how the hell that happened.

Escapades tells true stories exactly as I remember living them: football pitches, hotel rooms, bad gigs, good pubs, strange cities and the occasional decision that seemed perfectly reasonable at the time.

Between the Spines takes a different route, using the records I’ve collected along the way to highlight the memories and moments they came to soundtrack.

Between them, they tell the story of how I got here.

Or at least my version of it.