Making your way in the world today takes everything you’ve got.
Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot.
Wouldn’t you like to get away?
Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name,
and they’re always glad you came.
You wanna be where you can see,
our troubles are all the same
You wanna be where everybody knows
Your name.
You wanna go where people know,
people are all the same,
You wanna go where everybody knows
your name.
(The full Lyrics never actually aired):
Making your way in the world today
Takes everything you’ve got;
Taking a break from all your worries
Sure would help a lot.
Wouldn’t you like to get away?
All those nights when you’ve got no lights,
The check is in the mail;
And your little angel
Hung the cat up by it’s tail;
And your third fiance didn’t show;
Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name,
And they’re always glad you came;
You want to be where you can see,
Our troubles are all the same;
You want to be where everybody knows your name.
Roll out of bed, Mr. Coffee’s dead;
The morning’s looking bright;
And your shrink ran off to Europe,
And didn’t even write;
And your husband wants to be a girl;
Be glad there’s one place in the world
Where everybody knows your name,
And they’re always glad you came;
You want to go where people know,
People are all the same;
You want to go where everybody knows your name.
Where everybody knows your name,
And they’re always glad you came;
Where everybody knows your name,
And they’re always glad you came…
(C) Gary Potnoy and Judy Hart Angelo.
Reminds me of my old haunt – The Railway Tavern – on my old stomping ground – Bexley – and my old friends. Many of the latter have disowned me and the most recent girlfriend slung me out: I deserve most of the penance I’m paying but not all.
Since starting to dry out in Tonbridge and staying with my parents by the circumstances presented to me, I’ve made a few friends and one in particular is especially close to me.
My little friend is helping me out with the practical things, like finding a job and a home once I’ve gone through the rehab (don’t judge me: it’s an illness; recognised as such by the medical profession and that’s why I’m entitled to the help which my friend is assisting me with. I help her out when I can too). She does however refer to me as a whore on account of my natural charm and incurable romanticism. The latter is reserved; my good looks, intelligence and dress sense come with the other baggage (don’t we all? Or most of us? Most deserve another chance). So does my modesty.
I’m in an environment which although I’m grateful for, is not conducive to my recovery. I’ll be moving on and my dear friend is helping me with everything that involves (a lot of jumping through hoops).
I’m in mum and dad’s spare room: If I were to hang some new wallpaper and give it a fresh coat of paint, it would have some new wallpaper and a fresh coat of paint.
I’m not biting the hand which feeds me but the Mother Ship and I have spoken at length about how the current set up is not beneficial to me. I need to move on.
Talking of the Mother Ship, I often emerge from my cell upstairs and spend time with her in the living room watching TV. So far I’ve got her into Pointless and latterly Cheers: I’m working on The Walking Dead, which I’m downloading now that mum’s got an unlimited broadband account and has loaned me this laptop. Moving on will mean that I probably lose this but she’ll lose her in-house chef: everyone will be better off though (take that as you will).
I was reminded this week of how old I’m getting (the latter years a blur and a waste), when I heard the sad news that one of my old school masters had passed. A few of us old boys have been discussing how well people must be taught up there by past masters (and mistresses) at Tunbridge Wells Grammar School for Boys in the sky: sometimes I wish I could be there. To this day, we all address old masters as “Sir” and mistresses as “Miss”; even though we left school 25 years or so ago: respect never dies for those who deserve it: rest in peace Sir.
(When “The Barn” goes, we’ll need a bigger church, eh chaps?)
On a lighter note, another passing has been Peter O’Toole and I was reminded of an anecdote upon hearing the sad news:
Peter was sitting in the audience of a West End theatre with John Geilgud. O’Toole comments to Sir John, “Look! It’s good this bit: this is where I come on… Oh bollocks!”
He liked a drink apparently: cheers!
Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot.
Wouldn’t you like to get away?
Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name,
and they’re always glad you came.
You wanna be where you can see,
our troubles are all the same
You wanna be where everybody knows
Your name.
You wanna go where people know,
people are all the same,
You wanna go where everybody knows
your name.
(The full Lyrics never actually aired):
Making your way in the world today
Takes everything you’ve got;
Taking a break from all your worries
Sure would help a lot.
Wouldn’t you like to get away?
All those nights when you’ve got no lights,
The check is in the mail;
And your little angel
Hung the cat up by it’s tail;
And your third fiance didn’t show;
Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name,
And they’re always glad you came;
You want to be where you can see,
Our troubles are all the same;
You want to be where everybody knows your name.
Roll out of bed, Mr. Coffee’s dead;
The morning’s looking bright;
And your shrink ran off to Europe,
And didn’t even write;
And your husband wants to be a girl;
Be glad there’s one place in the world
Where everybody knows your name,
And they’re always glad you came;
You want to go where people know,
People are all the same;
You want to go where everybody knows your name.
Where everybody knows your name,
And they’re always glad you came;
Where everybody knows your name,
And they’re always glad you came…
(C) Gary Potnoy and Judy Hart Angelo.
Reminds me of my old haunt – The Railway Tavern – on my old stomping ground – Bexley – and my old friends. Many of the latter have disowned me and the most recent girlfriend slung me out: I deserve most of the penance I’m paying but not all.
Since starting to dry out in Tonbridge and staying with my parents by the circumstances presented to me, I’ve made a few friends and one in particular is especially close to me.
My little friend is helping me out with the practical things, like finding a job and a home once I’ve gone through the rehab (don’t judge me: it’s an illness; recognised as such by the medical profession and that’s why I’m entitled to the help which my friend is assisting me with. I help her out when I can too). She does however refer to me as a whore on account of my natural charm and incurable romanticism. The latter is reserved; my good looks, intelligence and dress sense come with the other baggage (don’t we all? Or most of us? Most deserve another chance). So does my modesty.
I’m in an environment which although I’m grateful for, is not conducive to my recovery. I’ll be moving on and my dear friend is helping me with everything that involves (a lot of jumping through hoops).
I’m in mum and dad’s spare room: If I were to hang some new wallpaper and give it a fresh coat of paint, it would have some new wallpaper and a fresh coat of paint.
I’m not biting the hand which feeds me but the Mother Ship and I have spoken at length about how the current set up is not beneficial to me. I need to move on.
Talking of the Mother Ship, I often emerge from my cell upstairs and spend time with her in the living room watching TV. So far I’ve got her into Pointless and latterly Cheers: I’m working on The Walking Dead, which I’m downloading now that mum’s got an unlimited broadband account and has loaned me this laptop. Moving on will mean that I probably lose this but she’ll lose her in-house chef: everyone will be better off though (take that as you will).
I was reminded this week of how old I’m getting (the latter years a blur and a waste), when I heard the sad news that one of my old school masters had passed. A few of us old boys have been discussing how well people must be taught up there by past masters (and mistresses) at Tunbridge Wells Grammar School for Boys in the sky: sometimes I wish I could be there. To this day, we all address old masters as “Sir” and mistresses as “Miss”; even though we left school 25 years or so ago: respect never dies for those who deserve it: rest in peace Sir.
(When “The Barn” goes, we’ll need a bigger church, eh chaps?)
On a lighter note, another passing has been Peter O’Toole and I was reminded of an anecdote upon hearing the sad news:
Peter was sitting in the audience of a West End theatre with John Geilgud. O’Toole comments to Sir John, “Look! It’s good this bit: this is where I come on… Oh bollocks!”
He liked a drink apparently: cheers!
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