THE DEEP POOL - JULY 2003

The long heat-battered days of late June have gone, and the strange rainy weeks start - for those of us in the UK this comes as no surprise because IT'S WIMBLEDON!

Yes it's that time when a whole country with no interest in tennis goes tennis crazy, learns all about the new players, and pretends that we've all always known this stuff - the new young Russian girls - so promising - will Justine Hennin - Hardenne repeat her French Open semi-final win over the Williams chick - the Williams's - such great players but so depressing to watch, and nobody really knows why - shame Pete Sampras isn't here this year, but he was boring too - strange how exciting Wimbledon is, yet is so often dominated by boring players - still at least this year John MacEnroe and Boris Becker are here for the BBC to explain what's really going on, when not taking cocaine or having a fuck in restaurant toilets - oh yes it's WIMBLEDON!

I like it myself, although that squeaky bitch Sharapova is messing up my mind - we have a cat called Mr Big - he caught a mouse the other day - it sounded like Sharapova serving for the match. I remember in the early days of televised Wimbledon (WIMBLEDON!) when i was maybe 13, coming in from cycling by the river looking for dead asylum seekers, i mean miners, and sitting with my mother to watch Wimbledon. According to the commentator, one of the guys in the final was very nervous and didn't know where to stand to receive serve. 'And look, he just DOESN'T know where to position himself' - shot of grey figure standing in shadow swaying hesitantly, waiting in fear. It had a bad effect on me, and made me try to position myself positively when standing waiting for the school bus. But no-one seemed to notice - that was lucky... Something good happened today - i wrote a very brilliant song: a huge relief - i've been writing well enough recently, but you need a song that comes barrelling over the net like a Goran Ivanisovic serve and says 'try listening to that and not blubbing, you dozy bastard' - or words to that effect.

Interesting gigs coming up - this weekend i'm on the Uncut stage at Guilfest in Guildford on Saturday, i think, at 6pm - after me it's Linda Lewis, Steve Hackett and Richard Thompson. On Sunday I have to pick my gooseberries which are ready much earlier this year. The crop is immense - if anyone knows they live near me and you want some gooseberries, get in touch - they are a variety called Rommel Dainty Feet. The birds seem to have a common signal that it's time to swoop and devour your crop, but that day has not arrived quite yet for the gooseberries - i'm going to net them tomorrow so the birds can't get them - they haven't eaten the blackberries either and they are VERY ripe...

On the 11th i'm at Midland Art Centre in Birmingham with Cara Dillon, coming back from recording at Bryn Derwen, then on to a Summer party at the house of Richard and Shelley Olivier in the deep Sussex countryside. Richard is an old friend of mine from the days of makiing 100 men cry for a week in the middle of nowhere with Robert Bly - staying sane AND friends after those times is an achievement. We did an event with Robert two years ago at Findhorn in Scotland where Mike Scott lives - Mike was there - we stood and had a laugh after fireworks by the Moray Firth with the great Scottish singer Iain MacDonald, who had a new haircut and beautiful new girlfriend. (Is this rubbishy enough for you? - i'm trying to be like a gossip column for a moment).

Then, 19th July, i'm at the famous Larmer Tree festival between Salisbury and Shaftesbury. This is a great small festival which always has excellent ciders with names like Diesel, Space Donkey and Porno Turnip. Oh, and good music too...

The jazz in my local bar was particularily good last night - a superb 70 year old woman singer with a voice like Carmen MacRae got up and sang some really dynamic stuff - i sat up the back drinking vodka and watching spaniels. It's a fun place - old jazz-loving farmers come in wearing the kind of shirts you can only buy in petrol stations, buy strong ale and sit quietly, enjoying the solos, as their harvest-coloured eyes move quietly around the bar, without analysis, but with plenty of soul-reflection................

jl