Death has preoccupied my mind somewhat of late. My two friends were far too young to have suffered that way and to be taken. And the deeply emotional tasks the relatives face once such important people have gone, this has plagued me. It’s hard for those of us hurt by the loss. You want to help, but you’re not there, you’re not involved. You’re not family. You feel their terrible suffering and want to console them, but you’re not there. They must move in a sort of purgatory, a middle land where reality is blurred. I had a call today from a very good mate, but again one I go a year or more without actually seeing. No lunch. No dinner. No bottles and tales, nor late confessions. But we love each other as close friends do. And I know it, and hope he knows it. His call came soon after he’d read my on-line diary. There are those you should keep in touch with. Stop putting it off. Manana, manana.......today! Do it today, I am telling myself. You drift, but true friends know this happens and do not take it personally. But I don’t want to drift too far from the few really good, important friends I’ve made and kept. I determine to make more effort.

Johnny Walker is an old friend. We dined together and shared bottles and tales as far back as 1975. He calls me his friend on-air. Chatted with Johnny last week for his Sounds Of The Seventies, for Sunday, May 30th. Great joy. And Steve Wright. Went to school with Nigel, one of my younger brothers and came daily to our flat for tea with Nigel and my mum. I was there sometimes, and the memory is unforgettable, even if only because Steve keeps mentioning the connection on air! Fine by me. These are friends, people who care and are truthful, not hypocrites. Hypocrites abound in the music industry, rather as they do in politics. One dim-witted egotist who tore my persona to shreds, as well as my new music, in a music monthly magazine, actually worked for me for some months some years ago. He was happy to take the Harley shilling then, when he was a struggling publicist. If I’d known then what he thought of me, would he have got the job? Like hell. But he knew that. I gave up a career in journalism when I realised I didn’t actually enjoy hurting people. These guys must be totally devoid of a conscience. He called “This Old Man” dreary – has he got a dad? Does he love him? He’s got kids. Does he love them, or is he too self-important? I realise “Stranger Comes To Town” is not the easiest of collections to understand on first hearing. I wouldn’t want it to be. I believe it will reward those who look far enough, and long enough, into it. Hey, you can even dance to some tracks!

The Billy Sloan session for Radio Clyde was a gas. The freedom to talk, and the freedom to play make Billy’s show old-time radio; radio of the time when presenters picked the tracks, the interviews and let it roll. I tune in most Sunday nights on the internet to Clyde1 to hear Billy’s banter and news. Playing for him and his world-wide audience was, well, a gas.

And now the rehearsals loom. Death has preoccupied my mind somewhat of late. But I have a job to do. And a Chat room to prepare for. Next Sunday. Get in there. Ask. I am no politician. I will answer you. Straight.