Oooooff Malibu

So, Peter, west midland wanderer (that's not him above, that's John Shuttleworth), has returned to warm confines of I Taught Myself How to Grow Old. We almost withered away without him, as I sat, shivering through the Chilean winter, staring at my earthquake rattled (and cracked walls), listening only to Barney songs with my 2 year old. Peter had clearly transfered from the Ford Fiesta (and the alphabetised listening schedule) to the regional railways as his Facebook updates told of tense exchanges with railway employees on wind-blown platforms. Welcome back Peter, with a Smiths bashing ode.

My listening habits have been listless, dull and uninspiring through the winter. Old favourites failed to warm my bones. The ipod has been filled with spoken word for the commute lately, or, more often than not, episodes of The Shuttleworths BBC Radio 4 program. Ken Worthington's misadventures, Plonker's baby and Joan Chitty have entertained me more than most other things, and of course John's musical creations are deserving of high praise indeed. With these words ringing in your ears, witness the man himself. I wonder if his insights carry into other cultures. I fear that the ex sweet factory security operative (Rotheram area), also known as John Le Shuttle, has not broken international markets quite yet.