On Followers

The other day, I’d just: ‘posted my blog’ when I thought I’d have a little troll around the Blogger.com ‘interface’. (Hey! Dig the lingo – not bad for a doddering old technophobe like me.)

Anyway, my joy was unconfined on noticing that I had a whole host of ‘followers’. The list is approaching double figures. How splendid to have followers. Our Lord Jesus had followers, but they called them ‘disciples’ in his time. I’m not for one moment, you understand, equating my new followers with disciples, but it’s rather reassuring for someone who calls himself a writer to know that he is not working in a total vacuum.

My wife doesn’t understand me. She cross-questioned me the other evening, wondering whether blogging wasn’t just another displacement activity. She has, of course, a point. But she doesn’t quite understand how important it is for someone who labels himself a writer to have an audience. Even if a single-figured one.

Without one, it’s rather like calling yourself a beautician and spending your life peeling potatoes. People might start to question your authenticity or your sin-zerradee (to quote a song that I’ve forgotten). I could spend the rest of my days diligently writing my journal, as I do now, but there comes a time when you need to get out there and reach an audience.

And writing’s not like painting. I’ve said it before at the Blackpool Conference, and I’ll say it again, at least a painter creates something tangible that he or she can hold up and show people. A writer relies on someone’s volition, patience and concentration. Given the infinitesimal attention span synonymous with the modern era, it’s ‘a big ask’.

Not that a painter doesn’t suffer the same crises of confidence as a writer does. I have a new Anglo-Polish friend (or should it be Polo-Anglish?) who’s a blocked artist. He hasn’t painted anything for several years because he’s deep in a creative slough of despond. He sent me a ‘jay-peg’ (more lingo) of his last piece of work: a portrait of his father, dashed off with a style and verve that made me think at once of Walter Sickert. It was instantly clear that the man has a talent the size of K2, and yet…

Anyway… I thought I’d send a message to each of the mysterious followers whom I didn’t know personally or didn’t recognise by their ‘handles’ or their thumbnail silhouettes. Just to say ‘thank you for reading my blog; I would be delighted to reciprocate’. Embarrassingly, though, I got in such a two-and-eight with the interface that I ended up adding myself to the list of followers. Now people will think that I’m both ungracious and narcissistic. 

Oh well. If any follower is reading this, please accept my heartfelt thanks and please don’t think that my thumbnail photograph in the ‘Followers’ space indicates an ego of Noel Coward proportions.

I am, though, a follower myself. I follow sporting teams – like the Green Bay Packers, and – to please my old dad in his dotage – Arsenal. I follow the careers of sporting stars, musicians, comedians and other public figures. And now I shall follow my Polo-Anglish artist friend in the hope that he achieves a reputation commensurate with his talent.

The Humblembums, painted
by Gerry's mate, playwright
John 'Patrick' Byrne
(of Tutti Frutti fame) 

I can’t say I ever really followed Gerry Rafferty’s career, but I was saddened to read of his death today – at the insignificant age of 63. Problems with alcoholism apparently. Mind you, he was Scottish. Everyone knows ‘Baker Street’, of course, even my daughter, and some know ‘Stuck in the Middle’, from his days with Stealers Wheel, but few know that he was one half of The Humblebums with Billy Connolly, in the years before the bearded comedian became a national treasure.

I used to have a couple of records by The Humblebums and it was a bit of a pain, as I had to lift the arm to skip all the BC tracks, which were useless, for those by Gerry Rafferty. People will argue the point, but It’s my humble belief that, as a British pop-tunesmith, Gerry Rafferty was second only to Sir Macca. Go ponder.

‘All the best people do it, there ain’t nothing to it/Just keep turning every little thing into a lie…’ (R.I.P. Gerry Rafferty)

Hold the front page!!

While writing this whatever-you-want-to-call-it, I received a message from an old friend, whom I haven’t seen for 38 (count ‘em) years. He reads my blog, for heaven’s sake. Let us all praise the wonders of modern technology. All hail Stan the Man, ex-Methodist College Belfast and stout-hearted follower!