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Twenty-Two Daydreams (Or Wood, Talc & Mr. J, My Social Media Ramblings Thereof)

Twenty-Two Daydreams (Or Wood, Talc & Mr. J, My Social Media Ramblings Thereof)

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Twenty-Two Daydreams (Or Wood, Talc & Mr. J, My Social Media Ramblings Thereof)

196 pagine
2 ore
Jan 29, 2018


A journey, yes, of sorts.

With purpose, yes, that too. An author from another time, endeavouring to unearth space in today’s cyber world – and hopefully be less ambiguous with his planetarian/galactic metaphors. And to generally find his way around in the attempt; all with the lofty dream of becoming a known author; an author of merit and for the right reasons: to bring literature back down to earth... to a place like, say, where fangs are still utilized for ripping into more traditional foods.

With success, too... umm. Maybe that one is down to you, the reader.

What you’ll find here are 22 of his favourite posts carefully chosen from his own website, and from a writer who never claims to own the answers to his queries and observations, but who simply articulates them as they, seemingly, seek to trip him over – he’s adept enough at tripping over his own laces. Sometimes he’s amused; sometimes he’s bemused. And sometimes, well, he’s completely flummoxed...

So come along for the ride. Who knows, he may even persuade you to purchase his debut novel, Wood Talc & Mr. J: We never had it so good..., set in 1970s northern England, to which each of these posts refers, by way of comparing its numerous themes with how we might view them today...

Jan 29, 2018

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Anteprima del libro

Twenty-Two Daydreams (Or Wood, Talc & Mr. J, My Social Media Ramblings Thereof) - Chris Rose


sweet perfumes of the past (the way we were, the way we wore, the way we stank...)

tweeters or twits – (anti) social media, a love-hate relationship?

are we ready for Christmas, then? (after all, the kids are ‘back to school’ next week…)

does the pope pray? do birds fly? do ducks duck?... does it rain in Manchester? (answers on a postcard, you’d think…)

"Northern Soul… is all about emotional truth, and what life should be like" – Paul Mason. The Culture Show, 2013/14, episode 11, a review…

"You’re a geek! she said. (Why, thank you!" he replied…)

'put that book down, you may just learn something' (or 'academic versus street education'...)

I was talking to Liam last night... or was it Noel? and I gave my long-dead-and-gone grandparents an up-to-the-minute calculator (I'm Only Dreaming - Lennon/McCartney)

"she was once a true love of mine" (… until I learned she was a bit of a shit). a song for childhood heroes

the king, the princess and the jester (... and a professional. or the death of family… deaths?)

writers are ghost-hunters (the ambivalence of the muse)

writers are ghost-hunters (the ambivalence of the muse)

Age of Enlightenment; hail the platitude! tweeters or twits, part 2

colourful characters, black and white world... (where did you go?)

Tell us that one again, Dad! (a song for childhood heroes, part 4; where did you go?, part 2)

Lear winds, bucolic lusts, Falstaff lamentations and social media zombies... inside or out?

Lear winds, bucolic lusts, Falstaff lamentations and social media zombies... inside or out?

when third-person narrative just won't do; a first interview with one of my many literary – character – heroes...

the truth hurts; or it might if I knew what it was – Wood, Talc and Mr. J, a 2nd-person perspective...

thanks for your literary critique, he smiles, all very constructive; translated: he hates the ground you walk on – there, I told you I was a translator...

the Brontë sisters & the forces of Nature (the battle continues...)

shimmering Sheffield-nights & dating on speed – do you take down all my particulars?

writers are ghost-hunters (the ambivalence of the muse) – part 2

I’m not a plagiarist, exactly, but my pen is – influences, conscious or subconscious…

Meet the author:

More titles by the author


I’ve recently watched an interview with Paul Weller, on YouTube. For my American readers who may not have heard of Paul, one of my long-serving heroes, let me just say that he’s a very British singer/songwriter with enduring appeal; a poet and artist who, since setting out in the late 1970s, not only still manages to keep abreast of the times, but eternally one step ahead.

I mention this particular interview – one in support of his album 22 dreams, I believe – because, at some point, he articulately expresses his loathing for the concept of social media, of Information Technology in general. Furthermore, at some point – of what can hardly be labelled a rant – he states that, when he was young, a person was defined both by his/her choice of football team and taste in music. And that was it.

How well I recall those times. Or rather those streets, when all of us seemed to live outdoors. They’re the very times and streets I’ve written about in Wood, Talc & Mr. J: We never had it so good..., my debut novel.

Like with Paul’s interview, the last thing I wanted to do with Wood, Talc & Mr. J: We never had it so good....was look back nostalgically, but, via my literary creation, Phillip Rowlings, depict how things were, by maybe laughing, in order to ward off the tears.

Starting out on my social media journey, a good year ago now, to promote said novel, well, it’s meant bringing Paul’s streets along with me, the then and now; as well as me endeavouring to redefine myself on twitter, facebook and god-knows-where-else! And not forgetting my very own, eponymously-named website – but who’s Mr. J? I hear you ask.

All of the above has since inspired me to publish this book, 22 of my favourite blog posts, in which I work to align the old with the new; to assimilate Paul’s and Phillip’s streets with these of today. And a book in which I certainly don’t claim to have any answers; via my own writing, I myself am looking for clues.

It only remains for me to say, then, that I hope you enjoy my journey so far, by coming along for the ride, a journey you’ll be able to take in nice, neat chunks, at your own pace. I’m almost excited for you. Go pour that bedtime drink.

Who knows, it may even inspire you to buy Wood, Talc & Mr. J: We never had it so good...

Happy reading.


Your literary, soulful friend.

September, 2014


sweet perfumes of the past (the way we were, the way we wore, the way we stank...)

3rd August 2013

(author’s note: I need only go a day without taking a shower and I’m soon reminded of this post.)

A friend of mine told me I wasn’t doing myself justice by having the second chapter of my debut novel, Wood, Talc & Mr. J: We never had it so good... hidden away in ‘extracts’. He also thought this post ought to be about the second chapter. I half agreed, in that I'm more inclined to relate a recent experience to finished work, which is what I've done here.

Here's what I came up with.

It all started in ‘The Range’ – it’s a chain; one of their selling lines is "If we don’t have it, you don’t need it!". A debatable point, but it’s not a bad shop, and most of our picture-frames have come from there, along with the odd lamp and flat-pack wardrobe. Anyhow, a couple of days ago, me, my girlfriend, and our little girl, were in there looking for a few odds and ends. Ten minutes in and I was already at the checkout – I don’t mind shopping if it’s quick. I had another couple of large picture-frames under an arm and was wrestling to pull my wallet from my jeans-pocket with my other hand, when, ouff, I was hit by what felt like a large rubber hammer… or rather a large, smelly rubber hammer…

I looked about me. There was no-one around, barring the good looking lady plonking her bits down at the checkout, just in front of me, and another equally attractive lady scanning those bits once plonked; that was it: the two ladies and me. I must emphasise here that neither of them looked like they were capable of smelling like a whorehouse a low tide – they were slim, casually smart.

Yet one of them did smell; and my nostrils hadn’t experienced body odour of that magnitude since … – I won’t make jokes about my having lived in France for a number of years – … since… I’ll keep thinking.

In the meantime, I had a crisis: With an educated guess, only one of the ladies was in dire need of a shower. What, then, if the other thinks it’s me? Me, rotting at the checkout? Let’s face it, men, without labouring on such sexism, out of ten people, how many would vote against the stinker being a man? And the only thing this particular stink wasn’t was visible! It all got me thinking about that second chapter – indeed, stinky people is one of many sub-themes in the novel; I guess it would come under the more general theme of personal hygiene.

After all, it’s 1978. A northern industrial town. Nothing’s mentioned directly in the second chapter, but any reader with a little imagination – especially someone from a similar time and place; a bloody depressing time and place in many aspects – doesn’t need to try too hard for those kinds of wafts to ooze from the pages, along with such culinary perfumes as hash and pancakes, perfected by the very capable hands of mum, inside the steamy confines of a six by six kitchen on a winter’s evening.

Phillip, the novel’s hero, actually refers to his hygiene problem at the end of Chapter 3: he’s permitted the one bath per week, on a Friday, and if he misses it, tough.

He doesn’t get changed before having his tea, either, and this is after a nine/ten hour day spent up to his eyes in grime – you could think of it as being after three nine/ten hour days spent up to his eyes in grime, remembering that it’s now a Wednesday evening, and that he has another two days to go before he can wallow in that precious soap and water; same goes for the clothes.

And when he finally does get his kit off, on this Wednesday evening, in Chapter 5, the nearest he comes to soap and water is via his best friend’s fetish for…

No, I’m not telling you. You’ll have to read the book.

The way we were… Could it be that it was all so simple then? Like hell, Barbara! You got soul but I’m not so sure it was all that simple... then. We stank and there’s no getting away from it (although I can't imagine it having been the same for Babs and Bob, somehow...). Of course, we were rescued from the idea by the fact that, well, we were all in the same boat, as it were. Or same shithole, to not beat about the bush.

The way we were… Certain authors, wits, have commented on such halcyon days and beyond as being more about ‘The Way We Wore’. I don’t normally go for those kinds of books; I don't like someone telling me how and what I wore. Still, even with a cursory eye, I've never read anyone comment on the way we stank. The nearest for me was back in those very days: I happened to read somewhere what being ‘Mod’ meant to The Who’s ex-manager, Pete Meaden, in an interview around the late 60s. He said that: Modism, Mod living, is an aphorism for clean living under difficult circumstances.

I liked that, it sounded great – he used a word with four syllables for a start. And so I tried it on a member of the opposite sex. I just wasn’t counting on her asking me what an aphorism was.

The thing, though, was that I couldn’t otherwise relate to the line. Because it felt to me like there existed no such war. Clean was impossible; it was more about dirty living under difficult circumstances – next stop the plague! But what we have to remind ourselves is that Pete Meaden's idea of clean living was from a 1960s perspective.

And this is what my little post’s about, I think: how times have changed vastly, within, say, the last thirty years, and on so many levels, regarding the homes in which we live.

Only a few years on from the days in which the second chapter is set, as with the rest of the novel, I took up badminton. We never talked about our evident enthusiasm for the game, my friend and me, whom I played and also worked with, in the same factory, or cesspit. There was a relatively new sports centre in the city –

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