"You're a crap guitarist!" Yelled the young lady next door through the wall. Yeah? Really? You mean I am a guitarist? At last! After countless years of practice, sore fingers, grinning salesmen and a rapidly emptying wallet, I have finally achieved the heady status of guitarist! Not bad for a drummer.

So am I shocked, dismayed, discouraged by her overt and unexpected critique of my guitar playing? What does she know? I mean, she's only a next door neighbour. It's not as if she's paying to hear me play, and for that matter, I'm practising rather than performing. Not quite the same thing. It's like watching an athlete do push-ups and complaining that he's not winning races.

One could, if one were mean, nasty, and prone to drumming loudly enough to get banned from venues up and down the country, point out that her expertise as a music critic might be called into question by virtue of the lack of guitar playing I hear from her side of the brick wall. Let me guess. She can't play a note. Everyone's a critic.

Time and again I've stumbled into a bar in some place or other and stumbled across a guitar player who really can play. I've worked with one or two talented players and without exception, they are incredibly difficult people to work with. Not necessarily arogant, just unreliable and mecurial. That worries me a bit because if I'm turning into an unreliable mecurial personality, my claims advisor won't like it. Somehow I doubt they'll be swayed by the revelation that I've become a guitar player. I think they may have heard that excuse before.

Well that's enough practice for tonight. I wouldn't want to upset the neighbours.

Everyones A Critic

I left the library the other day after my daily dose of internetting, and began to trudge home along the busy road junction outside. Ahead of me was a towering bulk of a man, shaven haired, spotless black shirt and trousers, clutching enough cigarette smoking apparatus to cause cancer at five hundred paces.

Sometimes you just know that the other person is looking for trouble. This off-duty nazi was moody and within a comment or two of violence. His overt masculinity might appeal to some people, but in all honesty I found him an uncomfortable fellow to share a pavement with, and despite his attempt to warn me off, my complete lack of homosexuality meant that his arse was actually a lot safer than he imagined.

But of course that was all an excuse. He was suffering that kind of slightly sozzled frustration that leads some men to throw punches for fun. I'll leave him to it. Everyone else is too. In any case, he doesn't come across as a particularly great guy. I do hope he finds a friend one day. Another like minded individual for whom life is all about beating chests and innocent passers by. Perhaps though his lonelieness is heightened by the fact that the law frowns on that form of social interaction.

He tried to attract my attention as I crossed the lanes of traffic. Maybe he needed help to cross the road, being a little unsteady on his feet? Maybe he just wanted an audience, to practice his taunts and insults, or satisfy his inner drive to ascend the pecking order of Swindon streets? Or maybe he's just jealous of my guitar playing? It might be an idea if he took up a more productive hobby, like guitar playing for instance. I mean, seeing as he's likely to smash his instrument to pieces at the first hint of rage, one would have to say he's very mercurial and therefore the best potential guitar player in the world. Since this is not a likely scenario, it means there's one less talented guitarist to compete with.