IN THE DUSK OF A COLD DECEMBER AIR WE WALKED AWAY FROM A STUDIO AND BOARDED A FLIGHT TO OSLO.
THE STUDIO HAD BEEN OUR HOLD UP WHERE WE HAD RECORDED ONE THOUSAND SONGS FOE AN ARABIAN PRINCE POSING AS WELSH MARCINARY.
WE HAD BEEN IN THERE FOR WHAT FELT LIKE A DECADE BUT WHAT EVENTUALY MATERIALISED AS TWO YEARS.
THE ONE THOUSAND SONGS NOW LAY BURIED IN DUBLIN BESIDE DEAD IRISH HEROS LIKE JAMES JOYCE AND BONO.
WHEN WE ARRIVED IN NORWAY WE HITCH HIKED TO A TOWN 18 MILES WEST OF OSLO.
ONCE THERE WE MET A FARMER WHO TOLD US OF VAST PLAINS WHERE THE LOCALS RACED HUNCH BACK MEN BAREBACK ACROSS THE NIGHT .
IT WAS A SCARY SIGHT IN THE WEAK LIGHT OF THE MOON.
I READ IN A NEWSPAPER THAT TWO YEARS IS A LONG TIME.
I ALSO READ OF A TRAVELING SALESMAN WHO TOOK OF HIS NECK TIE
SAYING IT WAS BETTER TO CHOKE THAN TO CONFORM BUT THEN
MARRIED HIS CHILDHOOD SWEETHEART AND THEN RAN OFF WITH A SIXTEEN YEAR OLD BRAZILIAN WAITRESS.