Mick Hucknall was born 1 mile from where I was. In Denton. In Manchester. Liam Gallagher was born 6 miles away. In Burnage.
So, clearly, I am very nearly one the best singers in the world. I missed by a mile or six.
This confused, voyeuristic, sycophantic, swirling reasoning as to why I am not one of the best singers in the world is bonkers.
But this bonkersness was part of my internal dialogue as a younger man. My mediocrity, I told myself, was a quirk of fate. Not down to me being lazy, moany, jealous, drunk, asleep, unfocussed, uncommitted and undisciplined. And it was not down to me refusing to stare what I really wanted in the eye, before chasing it down with the focus and ferocity of a starving lion.
No. It was fate.
I’m different now. I know myself better. And as I approach 2024 my toes teeter nervously towards the change I want to see.
At least. At last. I’m moving.
Because I think I may have finally realised that the change I went to see, is the change that only I can make.
