In June 2007 the first Apple mobile phone came into our lives, and out of our lives and over time we said goodbye to parents. Kids no longer needed to ask questions they became glued to the answers on their screens. Every arm is attached to a device these days the very font of all knowledge. Here we are it’s all at my fingertips one press and I’m hooked on ‘Ella Langley’ and music I have never heard of, it’s been an education in classical and jazz, I guess I would not have found so much music in the record bins of my local record shop. My first mobile phone was basic it was attached to my car and never worked very well, today it’s my nest where I lay my tiny eggs, thoughts and lyrics aside. The swiping generation fill moments of discovery ever more with an ever diminishing need for parents. If only phones could give birth then we would be all on cloud nine, we would be swimming knee deep in digital security because we would know it all. Some think they do.

Parents were once a team who would guide you, talk you into finding work talking you out of doing bad things, like being in a band, they would play music on the radiogram and get you to read a book in a quiet moment. Parents would guide us and although we never liked them we asked them questions by just being there, today the mobile phone generation scroll into infinity and beyond, and with Ai on our doorstep who needs a therapist let alone a parent. My world has sped up so much that I can’t keep tabs on where it might be heading, being on stage gives me the time to swim in the music of the journey which for the most part has been non digital. In dressing rooms bands often huddle around their phones instead of telling jokes like it used to be, the social media reaper is on the constant look out for self and self satisfaction its where some people thrive a home profile that says so much about life.

Walking into a small bookshop the other day called Bell End Books I looked around and thought why books, I have a phone, why not write a book on my phone and share it with everyone, I stood in the shadow of Shakespeare and Freud and thought I can do this all I need is a phone some fingers and a notepad on the screen, how ridiculous of me. My parents within will judge me and guide me from the vaults of my imagination where stories run deep.

The clinging child at the teat of the mother who offers everything on a digital plate knows that growing up is softened by the scrolling of another page. There is no need to find work, there is no need to know how money works, it will just appear on the screen, there is no need, because the phone has all the answers. I’m glad all I ever had as a teenager was a few chords a hard day’s work and a few quid in a pay packet to get me to this place where my book begins. I miss my parents, we never had books in our house, my parents only read the Newspaper that came through the front door, we had no books, we had no phone but we had each other and the warmth of family that could never be replaced by this digital age of temptation.

On the plus side there is Uber, I ordered up some Sushi it took two hours to arrive and looked inedible, a risk. I could have walked to the restaurant and shared my evening with hungry like minded people like me. The addiction of the phone is hard to manage but I do try to take it one scroll at a time, there are rehabs in Holland for the addiction to mobile phones they are filled with teenagers lost of parents. Bereft parents sit at home on Netflix while their poisoned child watches TV in bed with the phone glowing at the same time, emotions quenched by the truth of this world. The documenting of food on phones seems daft, not sure why a picture of a nice pudding might turn you on but each to their own.

90 seconds between each engagement with my phone reveals boredom in a dressing room, attached to the nothing of waiting I drift from the book back to mercury of knowledge where all my mates keep up with the latest finds. Since 2007 I think I must have had every new phone released, the QR code of my life would tell you that I have been there and done that and am about to write a book about it. Once I can find a pencil and some time away from the dressing room chair.

The Circus wagons circle the cast and crew gather to work out the routine and how high the bar, clowns engage with each other patting the face paint of melody upon each other’s fair skin. There is a certain camaraderie that comes with circus life as everyone mucks in to pitch the tent each day, each of us with a role to play each of us incredible entertaining. One minute it’s an empty field the next it’s all singing and dancing. Our wagons are our home, we travel for miles along the well-worn tracks of entertainment the days hopefully fly by and like every other journey into the fields of fortune time is the most valuable product of all.

Finding time to be on one’s own helps build the muscles you need to perform when the music plays and the walk out begins, the happy faces throw themselves at the night, in turn the walk swaggers and rolls. When I first joined the circus I had no place to put my feelings as I had no idea what they were, being stuck in a small wagon rolling from town to town hoping for a good night out and repeat. I learnt my chops in reflection rather than in the moment of that passing time. Looking back I survived just the rise and fall of each wicked day walking the rope taming the mood and being the one with no self-awareness. Our act one of chaos we would leap and stagger across America in search of a motel bed and a few beers, a circus of a very different kind built on the tradition of being lucky, and we were lucky.

Today it’s time to settle the nerves and venture into our first performance with all of the staging lights and sound, with nets to catch us should we fall, the backing tracks of wire, all of us with our very own parts to play. The constant sound of a generator becomes ever more familiar a sound that shelters a home on wheels, sleeping next to this sound takes some sleeping, as each night provides more broken sleep. I hover above the sound where sleep and waking isolate the fear of never enough. It’s a dream to be in a dream when that happens I qualify for guidance and hope. The music has a very different sound one of legacy and truth. This won’t be forever I know how many tents can you keep putting up as you get older and the hands and arms shake with age, but it is one day at a time one tent at a time. The routine of separation is the most important role to discover being away for many weeks can make a happy boy glum, missing the world of home is a complicated bridge to cross, I feel like a submariner gone to sea invisible from most for weeks at a time. It’s from the circus that life becomes the dissolved in who I am. Often complicated on the ladder to the high rope above the Orchestra where each twist and turn magnifies the honest truth.

The wagons are gathered people head to the showers or to the big seat, the ropes are being shackled to the ground the seating in place another early morning on some far away field. With the tent in its place it’s time to stare into thin air and do nothing but wait. Hours pass by and still thin air and then gradually the focus turns to performing, this is the part of the day that excites, its all about the stage the happy faces then the fear of falling with the wonder of it all. The ring master twisting his handlebar moustache while escorting manicured dogs onto a barrel, treats for all. The clowns having a laugh by the tea urn, the Lion tamer biting his nails, the trapeze artists adjusting their slinky costumes and the smell of elephants fill the air, the remains of a good feed. Two crabs in a biscuit tin trying to climb out, the sound of two drummers starting up the show from the pit of familiarity. Then there is me the human cannon ball on 50 quid a week with milage. All part of being in a circus, merrily we roll, and for now at least this is my life. I’m no Billy Smart or Billy no mates, I’m just a sill billy doing what he has always done dancing on the high wire of ambition.

Thank you for subscribing to this post there will be more in the coming days as I love to write while pitching up the tent with my mates, it’s a treat to find new friends and the generosity you show is beautiful. I wish I had time to reply to all the kind words I receive but my day is filled with backward flips and roll overs on the mat. Observations and musings keep me sane when the winds of touring can blow hot and cold, knowing you might enjoy my words is lifting me into a good place so thank you so much.

My first past the post Substack and I’m thrilled to be here, but what to say what to write. Tonight I’m at my table for one Mr sad with a Burrata on the go as a starter. People around me are full on, just talking. I’m hearing a young man talk about the design of elevator doors, the ups and downs of his life and a boat he can’t get in his garage, he’s young he’s chatting up the girls across the table so I get the boat story. I was asleep an hour ago feeling glum but then a train passed the hotel which took about 20 minutes to pass, it got me on my feet and I watched some tutorial Substack stuff, glazed over and here I am. Making mistakes is my life so any amount of video won’t get me on the perfect page. Pastis is a friendly restaurant where everyone seems happy the conversations are like orchestrations of words I can’t completely understand the American pitch is a tune of some volume. I try to follow the female notes within as they reach intensity, laughter replaces the seriousness of the chat up lines. I'm swollen with information and fresh bread.

My table is a nook I’m trapped between two loud voices but I’m happy to be here, wishing I’d been here before this week, Its been a week of collecting my spirit and my stillness in one of my favourite hotels Soho House, all this just before tour 75, or at least that’s what it feels like. My first post! I’m excited to be away from the IG scroll shopping by finger for shoes I don’t need. Away from politics and its vine of the withered grape. I hope this is all making sense not that’s it’s supposed to, it’s a place for observation reflection and muse, a lamppost to illuminate my journey here on tour 75. Having ploughed through my main, a healthy pasta, I’m on the hunt for a pudding to celebrate my post, and being here.

Meanwhile the boy with the boat reveals his recent break up, it’s a quiet moment while the girls on his table see a softer side. But out of the blue he asks if they should grab a bottle of wine and sit in his car. They want to see his apartment and not sit in his car, but I want to see his boat. They look hungry for a night out and I hope it goes well. My table seems calmer as they leave the room his stride to the door says it all. Pretty people all around my table look happy as they tuck into the Thursday night of Nashville dreams. Mr Sad but happy with a tour ahead of him with songs that are the wallpaper of his life, the legacy of a journey that begins every day when I wake up and I bless the Lord my mum and dad that it’s ok to just be me. Back in my room and no turndown service but a Roberts Radio playing Radio Three drifting my thoughts back to the place called reality, I wonder if the boy got a turn down service tonight or was it back to the drawing board and more elevator doors to design. It all makes for a nice way to say this is my first post and yes its ok to be me, not perfect not thin not glum or sanguine just Christopher aged almost 72 ,still learning how to survive in the upside down world of touring with only words as mates.

Thank you for subscribing to this post there will be more in the coming days as I love to write while touring, it’s a treat to find new friends and the generosity you show is beautiful. Observations and musings keep me sane when the winds of being on the road can blow hot and cold, knowing you might enjoy my words is uplifting, it brings me to a good place so thank you so much. Keep coming back.