There is a lot to do, even when you are pretending to be half-asleep.
A lot of my life is like a film. The Director can control the sound but this is something I can do inside my own head. Realising this now, I know where a lot of my pictures come from. Walking through the unSupermarket I can train my ears just to hear my feet on the floor and the babies screaming. It’s like acid (which I thoroughly recommend) but I can do it now just with my own head.

All that you have to do is watch, look, listen and learn. It really isn’t difficult. At the very least it means that you don’t get back home with your shoes all covered with dogshit and, at best, you get home knowing more than you did before.

Try to live past 27. This is the age when many people disappear for ever. I’ve been watching Ian Curtis and looking at Cobain. What on Earth is it with 27? Joplin, Hendrix, Jones? 27? What’s that all about?

Watching is important. It teaches you what people buy and, probably, why they do. Watching teaches you about how people live and about how to paint.

Art painting is more than a mirror. It is an often bitter look at life and watching gives you everything that you need. Why those shoes? Why that ice-cream or pizza? Why that car? Why that sex in it (my next work) with knicker marks up against the gearstick?

Why the bloody anything why?

The only way to find out is by watching.

You know that Dutch bloke I was telling you about, the one that couldn’t find his arse with both hands and certainly couldn’t drive an artic.?
Well, Mani came round and invited me for Sunday lunch. It cost me 20 Marlboro and a bottle of Fleurie. Seeing as how he is my European Art Dealer and that I have stopped cooking I could hardly refuse.

We had a fag outside.

Inside I had another look at one of my works, ‘The End Of The Earth’, which he has, quite rightly in my opinion, refused to have framed. I took some photos of it in situ and I think it looks well. Central on a blank magnolia wall. He has visitors and they ask him what the frying pan is that all about? He asks them what they think.

I still have to finish ‘The Smoker’, which I promised to him ages ago. It still needs finishing and varnishing. These things can’t be hurried and he’ll get it when he gets it. I’ve already SOLD more paintings than Vincent and if I feel like giving things away then I bloody well will.

In everything, well, nearly, I’ve done I can see mistakes but they are not obvious to eyes other than mine. ‘The End Of The Earth’ will not be going to Europe yet but it’s signed and has a letter. It can go anywhere as far as I am concerned but Mani likes it. His other friends like it and it intrigues them so I just get famousererer and he tells people ‘Look, I know this ARTIST’…’ When he told me that it nearly blew my socks off. I’m an artist. How weird is that?

Oh, before I forget, that Dutch bloke that can’t drive a lorry, well according to Mani he was WELSH! My bloody ancestors, generations of them , were married in Bangor Cathedral and then this twat turns up, lets down the nation, and hasn’t even got the decency to be Dutch.

It’s no wonder that my paintings never get finished. Time to cry.

Hello, Henry Meldrew here.
You would not bloody believe what happened yesterday. The good thing was that the neighbourhood society that I have spent years trying to build actually started to work. The bad thing was the Dutch lorry driver.

Those unlucky enough to have spent time at Thirst Hall will know that all the car-dumping areas are used by commuters who whizz up to Londinium having not passed their parking tests. I’m quite used to this and enjoy looking out of the window as they slag each other off. The special treat is whan a lorry does what’s called a ‘bridge strike’ but, more often, they get to the bridge (never rely on Tom-Tom) and realise that they will have to turn round.

Because I am so posh I live in a private road and I have plans from the County Council to prove it. No one can get up here without my say-so and therefore they must rely on my goodwill. Brrrrm brrrrm brrrrm. What the frying-pan is that? Oh, a massive lorry trying to turn round because the driver can’t read road-signs. Out of the window shot my head and I advised the Dutch driver to reverse. Then there began a three hour comedy of errors.

I phoned the police.

There was no way that a fire-engine or an ambulance could have got in. A punch-up could have started at any time. A proper policeman and a Happy-Shopper-Copper turned up and did nothing. Meanwhile there wasn’t a square inch that this Dutch twat hadn’t explored while all the neighbours shouted “No!” and “Stop!” at him. He took off some wall and tried to knock down a garage. Then the police helicopter turned up and, eventually, the traffic division (Black Rats) and they all stood there for hours, scratching their heads, and wondering what to do. My idea was to leave it there until Tuesday but, as per usual, no one listens to me.

We all agreed that we should have a sort of street party, like in the War, and then got back to watching the mess. The policemen thought he could back down onto the lawn
behind the houses. “No!” said I, “You don’t know what’s under there. this is all National Grid and there are massive cables with oil-cooled wrappers under there, it’s not just a lawn for nothing you know". I know that they run power to Guildford from here (not under the garden but the thought of a 250K bill shitted them up a bit).

Even the Black Rats didn’t want to have a go at moving this thing, although they are quite qualified so to do, but they did find a car with no tax disc so they were happy.

So now some neighbours know each other and we might have a little party on our back lawn with a barby and sarnies and swig. Mark from number 8 didn’t have to go to see Sex in the Shitty 2, featuring her, the bloke who looks like a horse, so he was happy.

I’m such a lazy bugger. Maybe I should organise a little party. Notes through doors; that kind of thing.

I wish I’d filmed that lorry - 200 squillion hits on BoobToob in one hour, guaranteed.

Happy holiday weekend.

H.

Out in the wilds, slowly goes the wind.
At the corner throw the sack and climb aboard where you can’t be seen.

The wood smells of cedar and musk. There is no one else here.
Five apples.

On the wall, graffiti.
‘Vietnam. I always hated you.’

The grinding wakes.
Grab the sack, prepare to go, this could be it.

At the corner jump and roll.
Three apples.

Hills and, maybe , water.
The empty car.

The clack and groan as the train passes.
Never to be seen again.

Always the same.
Two apples.

Under the trees as the rain falls.
Tarp from the sack and sleep.

Oregon.
Tomorrow another train.

One apple.
Riding blind.

One apple.

If you were me you would hate yourself.
I can’t even read the books you’ve read.

There’s a stream down here that boils and spoils but I don’t care. Carry on, carry on.

There is a pitch that you might hit. I doubt it, in the midnight hours. There is a picture that you might paint but it is most unlikely. There is a snowscape you might see but after all is said and done it will never happen.

All of these things that I have done, all of these these things, they are mine and not yours. All of these things are in my collection and they are mine, not yours.

The horses shake their heads. The cruel spite of the puff-adder hiss.

You know what you did. You know. And so do I.

Goodbye.

CAUTION:

Do not proceed unless you understand the title of this blog. Do not proceed if you are of a nervous disposition. Certiflicate 18+. Not suitable for work, skool or parental harmony. In fact, don’t read it as it is for edjermacational porpoises only.

Now, where to begin?

Ahem. There are certain medicaments that contain op**m. These can, and do, have an effect on what us doctors call the ‘bum zone’. The ‘bottom’ may seize up leading to a desire to do what we may call a ‘poo’. Now I’m no proctologist but I know when a ‘poo’ is imminent. Have a sit down and read the freebie local rag. Nothing happens. Walk about thirty feet and then sit down again. Nothing happens.

CAUTION:

Next you will need the following ingredients and assistance.

KY Jelly.
Bog roll.
Lavatory pan.
Midwife.
Sou’ Wester.
Gin.
Bible.
Letter to Coroner and Next of Kin.
Warm water and soap.

INSTRUCTIONS:

Lubricate nimble finger and poke up arse.
Locate fist-sized lump of clay/plasticene.
Remove what is possible and retire.

After 30/60 seconds repeat the above.

The midwife may then recommend a mixture of gas and air or, possibly, an epidural injection.

Make face like suicide Japanese Mitsubishi Zero pilot about to hit enemy aircraft carrier.

Ensure that 20cm dilation is in ‘go’ position.

Go.

AND THERE WE HAVE IT:

Have bath.

Call plumber and notify local water authority.

(CAVEAT: The author suggests that you seek advice from your G.P. before following any of the lunatic advice suggested above.)

And where, exactly, have you been, my blue-eyed son?

I’ve been around a bit and landed up where I want to be; in the woods and the water of Surrey. This is a magical place and it’s no Berlin or Brighton.

This morning I wasted some time watching tree-surgeons taking down two massive oaks. I knew that they were oaks from the bark and my my time wasn’t wasted because I learned a lot from what they were doing. Oh for a wheelbarrow and my log grenade.

Here’s a tip for you… Always speak to people. They will tell you EVERYTHING because they just have to. Find a buyer and make sure that you are the seller.

In the meantime, life is as about as hard as you want it to be. Stand up straight and be trustworthy. Then try to get through the eye of a needle.

Nighty night,
H.

Scene: Hosp. int. bedside.

Quack: “Well you are fit and able”
Me: “No, I’m not”

(Quacks are called quacks because of 17th C. plague beaks - a haunting image)

Quack: “Yes you are”
Me: “No, I’m not”

How you can tell someone in hospital that they are fit and well beats me. I scared him away. Mebbe I should have been in the lending library or the the tyre-fitters.

Today I thought I should have a go at having my scrip fixed so, instead of driving myself mental on the phone I walked to the surgery. I would have had to have gone there anyway so I just walked there.

She: “I might be able to fit you in for this evening”
Me: ” That’s okay, I’ll wait”

Suits me. I’ve got nothing else to do. I have newspapers.

Ninety minutes later I got myself a cup of cold water and and asked if there was no one in the entire practice with two minutes to spare.

Apparently not. Funny how they knew my name without me giving it. My fame must precede me.

Two minutes later: ” Mr Henry Ex”
Me: “I don’t want a consultation but I’ve just come out of hospital so I need to swap that for that and that for that and I’ll have have some diazepam - Fank Oo, Goodbye”

Then I found a cheap caff where I might invite my brother to join me one day when the blue-arse has stopped flying.

At the chemist I picked up my new stylee scrip and headed for the station. I was nice to everyone that I met. A smile costs nothing.

On the platform was a boy with one of those phones that plays rap music to the delight of everyone within a km radius.

I’ve lost four stone but, if anything, it makes me look more deadly than I did before.

Me: “Haven’t you got a pair of earphones to pump that drivel right into your head?”
I said this right into his personal space.
Him: Not a single word. He wouldn’t look at me.

I no longer care. I’m nice to nice people and I know loads of them. I’ve been called ‘manipulative ‘ before and I suppose that I must be. I have got out of a load of scrapes by being the size that I am and having an air of confidence.

Having nothing left to leave to my children I wish them this talent and hope that they use it wisely.

Brute force - but never the ignorance that so often goes with it.

The reason that I wound up in hospital was that I got captured by the wily pharmacist at Pestco when I asked him for an anti-emetic. He lured me into his consulting room and locked the door.

A wise move; can’t be too careful with all controlled drurgs lying about.

He said, “I can’t give you an anti-emetic but I’ve called an ambulance for you".

My blood/sugars were a mere 6 times what they should be and I had a whopping chest infection. A few days later and I was allowed to go home. With different insulin. And with antibiotic capsules the size of mini-subs. And a new style testing machine.

I’ll tell you where I have been. I’ve spent the last four days in hospital.

But I feel a lot better now.

Yup. Awake nearly all night AGAIN. I’m getting right fed up with this, I can tell you.

Disturbed sleep patterns are a CLASSIC symptom of depression and it classically cheeses one right off. An hour here and there isn’t good enough and getting out of bed to go for a wee and having stout for breakfast isn’t very funny.

I’m tired all time and, although I was ‘up’ for a few days, I can feel the dark walls closing in on me. It’s all happening AGAIN and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t draw or paint or go out and about. The fucking Social Services are fucking useless and if they can’t see the ship going down it’s not my fault.

I DO try and I’m quite a convincing pretender. I can talk quite cheerfully on the ‘phone and am always polite to the staff of Pestco’s. I’m on nodding and waving terms with the Polish car-washers but I don’t even go near the cut anymore. I don’t do anything. My children won’t talk to me and they ain’t the only ones. Sometimes I think it would be easier to do an Ian Curtis but that won’t happen just yet. I’ll just get back into bed and read Private Eye and, if I ever get to sleep, hope that I don’t wake up. There is no one to talk to any more. There is no one and nothing - a bleak prospect for a man in his 50s.

Fuck it. This will pass (again and again) and I’m sorry to sound such a loser but sometimes you get so stretched that it’s near snapping point. I’m so tired and I live in a tip. No longer being what you might call attractive and, thanks to diabetes, having lost the bonk I know that I will never have a relationship again.

It could all have been so different.

What is it now? One of the clock in the morn. that’s what. But I made myself laugh so I thought I should share it about.

I have to have the wireless on ALL the time or I can’t sleep. I don’t really listen to it but, as any laydees who have been lucky enough to share my four-poster will confirm, I just have to have it on in an OCD stylee. I went to bed, drug-free, at ten of the clock last night. I was having a nice dream about:

Well, you know them sort of clamp hangers that you should use to to rack your trousis up? I was dreaming about using a set of them with a green baize lining to get the petrol cap on a lawnmower off. Now I don’t know why because I hang my clothes up on the floor and Thirst Hall, being a flat, doesn’t have a lawn let alone a lawnmower. But I was having this nice dream and I got woken up by this silly old bag banging on about there being no women in parliament worth buying an ice-cream for. Yeah? Well I’ll tell you why’ IT’S BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T GOT A ‘Y’ CHROMOSOME schtyoopid.

In case she hadn’t noticed, Harriet Harperson is in charge of the shot-to-bits Labour Party so she should go round her house and have a nice cup of coffee, talk about how dreadful men are, and paint each others toenails with all glitter and that and yak about tampons and lipstick.

I’ll have to have some medication to get back to sleep now.

Honestly. It’s bad enough that every 28 days you have to put your tin hat on and retire to the Anderson Shelter to do some fretwork, smoke some fags, drink some sherry and listen to Black Sabbath records until the ‘All Clear’ sounds unless you want to put a head-shaped dent in the bottom of a frying pan.

I did think about phoning up the radio station to make my position quite clear but I didn’t think that they would have me on. Why they can’t have an embargo on women called ‘River’ banging on about the Rigor Mortis inducing election is well beyond me. I was dead of boredom before it even started but they will insist on going on and on about it. Listen to this, dearie, if you lack a Y chromosome then you go ahead and vote for the party that got us into two illegal wars and was responsible for, or complicit in, the deaths of hundreds of thousands of women and children and spent billions getting hundreds of our troops blown up. Or ask a nice man to help you tick the right box.

Where’s my Diaz*pam? I need to get back to kip and get the top off this lawnmower.

There is a problem with DVDVDVDs and that is how to get into the bastards. I shall now explain:

Firstly you must remove your usual blunt choppers because they will be no good. Then you have to get the railings out of your dog, Nipper’s, gob and wind them up to ‘extra sharp’ on a grinding wheel.

Then, you have to put them in place with a dental fixative or some superglue.

After all that you have to chew the packaging for about 15 minutes until you have made a hole in it and then spend a leisurely 10 getting the blasted cellophane off. You could use a thermic lance but that might make the picture wobble.

Recently, when I have not been knocking out cobblers to the unwary, I have watched ‘Human Traffic’ what has got that John Simm in and a blasting soundtrack and ‘The very best of One Foot In The Grave’ what has got Annette Crosbie and Hannah Gordon in. I fancy both of them like mad.

Written all on his lonesome by David Renwick it is the story of Everyman. I think he must have been reading my diary. Everything that Meldrew does is completely acceptable to me. He is right normal and watching the story of the put-upon rings bells all over the place. Renwick is a genius.

Does Margaret kill the killer at the end? We don’t really know but I suspect that she does.

Due to an intake of food my weight has shot up to 85 kgs which I am not at all happy about. I can still remove my trousis without undoing them but I still have a few boxes of lard to shift. Nah well.

I must get around to finishing ‘The Smoker’ and I have another half-done landscape to finish which I have a few ideas about. A lot of my pictures feature a guest appearance by the Sun which is a bit odd. Happy or what?

Off to market they must go, Eee I Eee I Oh.

I’ll crack this, sure I will, and it will be easier than opening a DVDVDVD.

Another painting gone away.
It will wind up in Europe, somewhere, where I have a strong following.
I would like to crack Germany but most of it seems to be winding up on the Med.

I suppose I could pull my finger out and start bashing away but I can’t just turn stuff out like pseudo-Meissen pots. Thanks to OCD everything has to be just so. The bloody thing only got varnished this morning and then handed over to my dealer to whom I owe a bundle. He supported me and fed me through the bad times and the picture that he really wanted, The Smoker’, still isn’t finished yet. I don’t want to fuck it all up because I can see the greatness in it. Neo-Brutalist you see and you have to be in the right mood to paint it.

Still, he likes what he got and it will go well with his decor. That’s a laugh; one of mine going with the magnolia. I could finish ‘The Smoker’ right now except I’m not on piece-work and the time has to be right. As soon as it is done it will be whisked away to Europeland and will make me even more famous than what I am already.

It’s such an odd feeling to be successful at something for once. I am an artist and people will pay for the things that I produce. Everything I do is down to me. I can lie in bed until tea-time if I want. I have no Guv to suck up to and, I suppose, I can charge what I like. Art art is not like graphic art. I have no patron to nod to and I can do what I please. I have sold a few but mostly I give stuff away to friends and family and people that I owe. Maybe this is all part of a plan and when my stuff starts to hit the market there may be some monetary value to it all. “Is that a real ‘Henry’?” - I often stick a letter in the frame for the sake of provenance and then wish it well and kiss it goodbye. When these things start to get about… Well…

I will never paint to order and you can think yourself lucky if you ever get your hands on one. I paint by sight and it all comes out of my own head. People beating a path to my door, flattering though it may be, doesn’t interest me because I am not interested in money. I am popular in Europeland and Canadaland and that’s pretty good. I think I shall stop putting copies on the net because I’m too thick to do it and so much of it got blagged off. I don’t mind the blagging but scarcity and rarity are important virtues.

No one else can do what I do. No one in the whole wide world. That’s quite a thing.

Gawd love yer,
H.

Something very odd has happened to my sleep-pattern. Perhaps I’m an owl or a badger because I sort of nod-out here and there while the sun is up and then really wake up at midnight and that’s that, wide-awake with nothing to do, until the mercy of dawn and I can go to sleep again.

I was having a look at one of my ‘unfinished’ masterworks and I thought to myself, ‘that’s not too bad really - less is more’ so I hung it on the wall. Thanks to me being thick, I can’t show you a picture of it but it’s really funny. Funny peculiar. It’s sort of a cross between an abstract and a landscape and the more I look at it, the more I like it. So this just goes to show that even if you can’t paint or draw a ‘thing’ it doesn’t mean that you can’t paint. Chimpanzees can do it - I saw one on Animal Magic when I was little and Johnny Morris was doing the narrating on behalf of the monkey. He (or she) was doing this painting and Johhny Morris said that it was called ‘Man Don’t Care’ in a kind of hippy way. A very interesting man, that Morris. He had an arboretum and he reckoned that it was the work of his life and how pleased he was with it. I wish he could come back to life and see it now.

You know, the more I look at that painting the more I like it. It’s rather pale, like a ghost.

What’s that you say? ‘Shut up about your daubing and tell us about your latest earworm’? You’ll never guess but luckily here it comes again; just about NOW!

To many people, the works of Damien Hirst are incomprehensible and, therefore, up for a bit of a snurk. But I disagree. I shall never get my hands on one of his pieces because I don’t get enough pocket-money. However, I like to think that I know what he’s getting at.

Many is the time when I have heard people say “I could do that", or words to that effect. Trouble is that they didn’t but he did.

I loved his dots and his Pharmacy works. You either get it or you don’t, I suppose.

So what is this ‘art’ that we tremble at the foot of? Is it The Nightwatch or a Bernini sculpture? Is it poppies and cornflowers? Is it soup tins or the minute works of Dadd? Goya? Black paintings? or maybe Banksy and his murals? Is it the ‘Shake and Vac ad.? Is it the pot of pansies from the day-centre?

Is it something that is supposed to ‘look like something’ or is it something other, something to look at, something that turns your head right round?

I’ll tell you what I think it is. ‘Art’ is something that exists in the mind of the creator and, like a hand reaching out from under the rubble, if it touches then the connexion is made.

Make something. Even if your hand touches nothing at least you are still waving.

In the hallway is my bicycle. It has only been ridden about 100 metres because I fell off it and nearly gave myself two Colles fractures but I was successful in giving myself an inguinal hernia. And in the hallway it remains as the tyres slowly deflate. But my bicycle anchor IS a work of art. 30 kilos of skill and serendipity. I made it and there it shall remain - maybe I should sign it.

I’ve already sold more pictures than van Gogh ever did and a lot of them are in Europe, mostly Portugal for some reason, and a lot of them have been blagged off the net which is good too. I don’t care about money; the originals are in good homes or under my bed or on my walls. One, which is under my bed and out of daylight, is the infamous ‘Glittercock’ which I was thinking about in the early hours as I stumbled about and moaning all the while.

The reason I was thinking about this work (I did send a copy to Vivienne Westwood - she has yet to reply) is because of my busted arm. This was the only work that I had to do right-handed and this was while I was going to art-therapy at the hospital. I knew what I was going to do. I went to the Pound Shop in Addlestone and bought a perfect glitter kit. Now, I suppose I should post the image again but enough people have seen it already and I can’t remember the image number but that doesn’t really matter. The point being that the art therapist, who is supposed to be a psychiatrist, failed to pick up at all where this had come from still confounds me.

So, at about 6 of the morn I started to pick things apart and work it out for myself. The picture, if you haven’t already seen it, is of a spunking cock but it’s corrupted with glitter. The cock is multi-coloured and the cum is all spangly silver. Mmmm, nice. Actually the image is quite devastating. The first person to see it was the art therapist and I might just as well have punched her really hard in the face. She should have asked me where this had come from but she didn’t just like when I completed my ‘Drowned Man’ in 20 minutes of trance and she asked me if I had been practicing.

I only worked all this out in an hour or so this morning. I had to ‘paint’ Glittercock’ (which has caused a monumental family rift) with my right hand to put a degree of separation in between. The original inspiration was on a wall in a public bog in Muswell Hill which I saw when I was about 9 or so. Joe Orton had probably been cottaging in there. The artist must have been right-handed ( I know this because I am so left-handed that I can tell from manuscript and I always spot lefties in films and things) so, subconsciously, I had to do my work right-handed. I went over my pencil drawing with PVA glue and sprinkled on the glitter.

This piece of work is SO disturbing that it has to stay under my bed and away from sunlight (it’s on black paper) and it might even upset Emin to see it.

I love my art and it has no boundaries. Next I might do some upsetting cross-stitch until my arm gets well better.

The little door that I made to go in a tree on the towpath was a very good one. It didn’t last all that long but I did notice that some little fingers had pulled off the door handle (a brass paper-fastener) trying to get in.

Maybe I should make another. I felt like Father Christmas putting that one in.

Go on, have a go. You can do it if you just do it.

Love and kisses and a Happy Holiday to Trouty who is probably holding tight to her brolly,
H.

How come so many of my fave songs feature the use of the capo?
‘The capo?’, you ask.
Yes, the fucking capo, deaf-aid. Here’s a simple explanation coming up right about now.

Maybe they should make shorter guitars because LOADS of my faves are played on capo.

I did like the warning to players of the 12-string guitar not to notch it up a crank or two. P’doing - Oh shit, man. Now my axe is like, um, firewood.

Luckily for me this is an ‘up’ day and so I can make myself laugh. And I just did.

‘Yeah, hey you guys. I just said my axe is like firewood and it cost me three hundred.

Well. Wood you put it on the fire then please.

Listen you dumb-ass creeps, that was my 12 string!

Bet you don’t start crying when you bust your cherry.

As I walked under the tunnel at Worst Byfleet I decided that I should bore everyone else in the world as much as I bore myself.

Today, I have accomplished quite a lot, for me, because I have got up and dressed and cleaned my teeth and went to the station and had a laugh with Ken who thought it was Monday when even I know that it’s Tuesday. He’s no Bernard Cribbens with a turnip watch. I had a double espresso (always ask for a double) and went to see the doctor. Went to chemist and the bank and the Fartrose shop. Collected prescription, went home, phoned council, sorted rent, phoned landlord and wrote him a kite, paid council tax, spoke to Ma, and all this before 12:30.

Now, this is where I start to get REALLY boring. Because I’m so OCD that I sometimes wonder if I’m autistic I get obsessions and at the moment the lucky winner is Ian Anderson.

I’ve got a link to the appallingly misspelled lyrics of the album, ‘Aqualung’. I think I’ll put it here.

Now this is modern poetry and, combined with his musicianship and stagecraft, earns him a place on my wall of inspiration. The other day I made mention of the track ‘Wond’ring Aloud’ which is off the Aqualung album. I think it’s a beautiful love song. “My hands in her hair” are just five words but they let off fireworks for me.

You can see a fairly early live version of this song here.

One of the many things that I love about Ian Anderson is the way the he tore up the rule book. He will often leave the last word in a line about half a beat too long and then drop it in. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Or, maybe, he will just drop in a “Yeah” in what I believe is a contrapunctual manner and it makes the song seem like a conversation in a windswept cafe on a Sunday morning autumn beach.

God bless the boy. He’s our Dylan.