It was an object without peer. The Stuart Surridge cricket bat was right up there with a light saber in terms of sheer awesomeness. Indeed, had Luke Skywalker been clutching one of the Surridge family’s finest, he probably could have knocked Darth Vader off in half an hour rather than needing the best part of three whole films.
Author: Stuart McCullough
The Unbearable Lightness of Being a Dud
In 1989, I learned how to daydream. Before that time, my mind was a steel trap. Not a particularly fearsome steel trap, mind you; probably one of those mouse-denters that ordinarily retails for about eighty cents at your local hardware store, but a steel trap nevertheless. But in the year of my matriculation, my ability to concentrate was officially cut loose from its moorings, only to drift helplessly over the horizon.
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In Defence of the Power Ballad
Once upon a time, music was not something made by computers. In that not-so-distant age, it was so much more than a ringtone or the sound you heard when a program started up. As wonderful as technological advancement may be, it remains my view that pushing buttons does not, of itself, make you a musician. That’s because the melodies that inspire the human spirit are not to be found in a dos-based programming language or algorithm. They lie in the depths of the human heart. The problem with letting the IT Department write songs is that you get a very limited worldview as a result, as anyone who has recently listened to commercial radio may well attest. The language of music these days is so confined. It’s as if in a bid to reach to broadest selection of people, musicians have resorted to speaking in the musical equivalent of Esperanto when music should really be a whole Tower of Babel kind of experience.
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Journey to the Nightclub of my Soul
There are, according to Dante, nine circles of hell. In no particular order these are Limbo, Lust, Gluttony, Greedy, Dopey, Sleepy, Sporty, Baby and Ginger. But should the day ever arrive in which the dark lord of the underworld decides that it’s time for an extension, he could do worse than to have ‘nightclubs’ as the official tenth circle.
Greetings, Middle Age!
I am, officially speaking, old. I know this because I got an email telling me so. Exactly one week before my birthday, I received a message from the professional body to which I belong. The email was nice and unfailing polite, but beneath its veneer of courtesy beat a heart of dark savagery.
My Name is Snorky
I’m getting married. In many regards, this is no particular surprise as Kate and I have been together for some time. In preparation, I’ve been listening to Nick Lowe’s ‘I Knew the Bride When She Used to Rock and Roll’ pretty much on a loop but, in spite of this, there’s still a very steep learning curve. Originally, I thought if I wrote some music and took the tuxedo out a couple of notches in deference to something I’ll simply describe as ‘personal growth’, the whole event would pretty much take care of itself. I now know that I was wrong. Dead wrong.
A Master of My Craft
It’s often said that you can’t be good at everything. Frankly, I don’t see why not. As immature as it may sound, I have always longed to be a jack-of-all-trades and a master of every single one. It’s fallen out of fashion. Once, a person would indulge themselves with pursuits that were many as they were varied. In the event that you were able to achieve a reasonable level of proficiency in these various fields of endeavour, you might receive the ultimate badge of honour of being labelled a ‘Renaissance Man’.
The Mono King
As a child, I did not want to be a fireman or an astronaut. Occupations such as stuntman or cattle wrangler had no interest for me. Doctor, teacher or electrician: these meant nothing. All I wanted was to ride my bike better than anyone had ever ridden a bike before.
King of T-Pain
Buying a gift for a two year old should be easy. I’ve seen kids at that age entertained for hours by little more than a cardboard box or a wooden spoon. By that definition, a few bottle-tops and a roll of sticky tape should keep them occupied until well after Christmas. But where, I ask, is the fun in that?
It’s My Tea Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To
Some things cannot be allowed to remain unchallenged. They are such an affront to sense -common or otherwise – that reasonable human beings everywhere will feel compelled to storm their local shopping centre in search of a six-pack of gauntlets so that these may be thrown down to the floor with a vigour and passion usually reserved for warfare. I, for one, am presently writing with gauntlet clasped firmly in hand which, whilst seriously impeding my ability to type, will give you a fair indication of how hopelessly outraged I am. My only wish is that I will shortly catch the eye of my antagonist so that the gauntlet tossing may commence in earnest.
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