Memories

I'm playing my first full length solo show for thirty-odd years at
The Turks Head, Twickenham on Friday 17th October. Nervous?
Yes, very much so. I'm also close to completing a new album, Switzerland, a follow-up to the ill-fated Roy Hill released in 1978. Didn't take long eh? Seems funny to think that when I first started there were no supermarkets and only the very rich had teeth.

I draw inspiration from those to whom success came late in life, people like showjumper, Korky Von Trapp and the Welsh trumpeter Ann Formby.

I'm sure if I rummaged around I could think of others.

Dinner With Joan

Every year Joan gives a dinner party for her best friends, some of those best friends don’t always want to go but they do. Joan lives
in a place called The Middle of Nowhere, no neighbours, no family, just Joan.

Joan has seven best friends, three couples and Stuart, they have all upset Joan at some time, they don’t all know it but they have and now she’s taking her revenge. Joan pours champagne, Joan dies, poisoned. Surely she didn’t mean to kill herself, then again, if she didn’t, who did she mean to kill, or did someone kill her? They’re snowed in, the telephone’s down, and then, one by one, they all
start dying, shot, stabbed, strangled, butchered, until there’s only Stuart.

Joan loved Stuart, Stuart didn’t care, seven dead bodies, so who’s over there? Joan isn’t dead, Joan isn’t dead. Stuart’s in trouble. There’s a fight, there’s a chainsaw, Stuart kills Joan. Eight dead bodies, two of them Joan’s, Joan killed herself, Stuart killed Joan, she’s dead in the kitchen, she’s dead in the hall, but look behind
you Stuart, Joan isn’t dead, Joan isn’t dead.

Joan isn’t dead.

Ding Dong Bell

I've always been fascinated by nursery rhymes.
Macabre folk tales.
I've decided to update some for the 21st century.
Here's my reworking of Ding Dong Bell.

Ding dong bell
Pussy's in the well.
Who put him in?
Little Wayne Niblett.
Who pulled him out?
Wayne's cousin, Neville.

The Impossible Dream

So far this has been more a collection of random idiocies than a blog so I guess it's time to shape up. My name is Roy Hill, I'm a singer, songwriter, performer, occasional writer of small stories, scripts and whatever else comes to mind. I've been at it for thirty-odd years with an almost inspirational lack of success. Things got off to a flying start in the late 1970s but since then, not so good. I'm fifty seven now and because I don't like odd numbers this year is largely one of preparation but in August I'll be fifty eight and it's all systems go.
I'm compiling a number of CDs - four completed - and my aim is to sell 5,000 of these little beauties before I'm 59, more than I've sold in total so far. A forlorn hope? An impossible dream? Almost certainly, but I like a challenge. Currently I've sold 34 which will be included in the final count. Check out the horror story which is my life in showbiz via the MySpace link, marvel at the herculean task ahead, tune in for regular updates ... and more random idiocies.

A Perfect Rage

A perfect rage is what you need
in time
in tune
in perpetuity
don’t act your age
don’t place too much store by dignity
dignity is great on some
not everybody
don’t give in to the powers of humdrum
never give in to those powers
don’t ever get hit by someone twice your own size
and if you do
and you’re still living
run before they hit you again
get revenge by quietly calling them a patronising name
then set their house on fire
never accept the teachings of hippies
for they are the devil’s work
rage against the devil
and people whose surnames are animals
anyone called Ron Otter
don’t accept something that looks like a hat
insist on a hat
rage against people who try to pass things off as hats
rage against people who say
it’s really great to meet you at last
I’ve heard so much about you
when a simple hello would do
rage against airbeds
feed your rage
sponge it
take it to work
take it shopping
send it flowers
give it a name
call it Ricky Rage
send it to public school
so it becomes a merchant banker
who likes to dress as a nurse
call your rage matron
I’ve got the sniffles matron,
can you give me some sticky medicine?
ooh that’s horrid
but I’m sure it will make me better
if at first you don’t succeed
a perfect rage is what you need

Ouch!

I’m always in terrible trouble if the telephone rings when I’m in the kitchen because I keep the dining room strewn with upturned drawing pins and insist on being barefoot indoors. I pick my way through gingerly, avoiding the thickest clumps, but it’s a slow and painful business, so slow that people usually assume I’m out.

Last Night On Television

A question I’m always asked is ‘What did you watch on television
last night?’ I always give the same reply. I say, 'I watched Anne of Needlepoint Hall which I very much enjoyed, particularly the bit where Anne said ‘Burn me Jeffrey, brand me with your family seal if you must, but you will never take my virginity again’, The Fantastic Pipe, The Feelgood Factor with Peter Feelgood, Salt and Vinegar with feuding undercover cops, Ian Salt and Leslie Vinegar, Bright and Breezy with feuding paramedics Ted Bright and Sarah Jane Breezy, Please Go And Get A Broom Fred with Fred Pleasego and Sheila Getabroomfred, a play about two Yorkshire midwives who find a nun’s body in a ditch and eat it and a French film about a disappearing railway station called Ou Est La Gare?'