Last week I found myself in a songwriting cliché. It wasn’t the summer of 1969, it wasn’t my first real 6-string guitar, but I did play it until my fingers bled. It sounds like a badge of honour, but all it really means is that I’d been on holiday and let my fingers get soft. It didn’t impress anybody, it spoiled the rehearsal, and for several days it was too painful for me to play any guitar, or wash up, or lift a hot cup of tea.
Richard “Barry quit Jamie got married, should've known that we'd never get far” B
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