Bringing Home The Bacon: September

That would be grand

And I wanted to be a writer. Almost everybody was a writer. Not everybody thought they could be a dentist or an automobile mechanic but everybody knew they could be a writer. Of those fifty guys in the room, probably fifteen of them thought they were writers. Almost everybody used words and could write them down, i.e., almost everybody could be a writer. But most men, fortunately, aren't writers, or even cab drivers, and some men—many men-unfortunately aren't anything.¹

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Hello reader.

If you like my words, send me money. Why? Because I need a modest sum to survive in this godforsaken world and writing is my only honest work. How much? Well, I’m asking for a writer’s wage of £1,000 a month.

Current coffers:

Monthly income: £132
(From 24 paying subscribers)

When you send money you’re saying something like this:

By Jove! ² I like the cut of this man’s jib.³ I don’t always agree with the blighter, and he can be damned impudent, not to mention outright offensive, but god knows we’d all be the poorer without his wordsmithery. Smithers, I say Smithers, take this silver coin and cross his palm. Then tell him to bugger off.

There are two ways to cross my palm with silver:

Become a paid subscriber (from £5 a month).

Or make a one-off donation (any amount).

To those of you who already send money, many thanks, here’s a little something extra: a historical story about Scottish fisherman putting dogs to good use over a hundred years ago.

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The Dogs Are Fair Dancing Today

When I slide the van door open a cinematic view of the coastal landscape is revealed: the last hundred-yard stretch of Scottish Highlands comes to a dramatic halt before plunging over the rock face into the sea.