Good morning, you Wu Tang Keyens.

We start today's podcast with a poem that was submitted to us by singer-songwriter

Mick Hocknell from the band Simply Red.

Remember them?

Not Radiant Hope will assure my far-larned gullet, dragged by the coughs of my curls across

the shop floor tiles.

Goff and Lint and the arse of my Ben Sharman shirt, 50 quid for the tennis racket,

that's taken the piss.

It wasn't shoplifting, it was protest.

Thank you very much for that Mick Hocknell.

So how are you getting on?

What is the crack?

Have you been enjoying yourselves?

There's a lovely lick of cold in the evenings and that accurate, pungent promise of

turf smoke in the air that disappears slightly every year.

When I think it disappears because all people, elderly people die, they're the only ones

left burning turf in the fireplace.

I've just had a ferociously busy few days there, the past five nights.

I was just doing a string of fucking live podcasts.

I did two in Vicarstries and one in Ulster Hall and my guests were Devon McWilliams, the

economist, Burner Devin, the revolutionary and Rady Dyle, the author and there were three

fucking amazing nights and thank you everybody for coming out.

...