JIM BOB aka J.B.MORRISON
 
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CARTER USM THANX
Monday, November 24 2014


It's Monday now. The ringing in my ears might be permanent. I feel a bit weird. Thereís a guitar strap burn mark on my neck. If I close my eyes I swear I can see strobes. My calves hurt. I think thatís more as a result of going up and down the stairs between the dressing rooms and the stage than anything else. Iím expecting the final comedown that we advertised to hit me any minute now. Iíll be like Phil Daniels going back to work after the bank holiday bag of pills, the court appearance with Sting and the you know what with Lesley Ash in the alleyway. Itís lucky that Iím self-employed or Iíd end up telling my boss to stuff the franking machine right up his arse.

There is so much to be proud of from the past 7 or 8 years (I canít count). This year was the same but more. There were the usual bar takings records but also a Ďmost applications to be in a live audience at Maida Valeí record. The 480 crowd surfers at Brixton. The sold out aftershow party at Jamm. The trending on Twitter. So much love on Facebook. Being in a position to put Mrs Jim Bob in a reserved seat next to Cillian Murphy.

Ordinarily Carter gigs pass relatively unnoticed by the outside world. There isnít the need for any advertising and we donít tend to do any interviews. This time though there were people in the forest when the tree fell (Iím an author, I can say things like that now)
The Maida Vale session and the two hours choosing songs with Tom Robinson, the bit in the Guardian and the Independent. The trending on Twitter. Enough stuff on Facebook to make the cats and the terrorists envious. Even a good luck message from Phillip Schofield. The BBC4 music documentary makers would have had to have been in a 28 Days Later style coma (as portrayed so brilliantly by the gorgeous Cillian Murphy) to have not noticed.

Regrets, I have a few. We never did get Chris Barrie to come onstage dressed as Rimmer to do a live introduction to Surfiní USM. Weíd agreed it with him two years in a row but something always prevented it from happening at the last minute and this year thirteen Jon Beasts seemed a more fitting introduction. And those white Doctor Martenís look a bit like clown shoes in photos. Thatís it. Not a few, but two regrets.

Me and Les have made a lot of friends as a result of being in this band. Many of them worked with us and were there this weekend, both backstage and front, Crazy Carter Crew past and present but always Crazy Carter Crew. Perhaps thatís true for the audience too. I honestly couldnít imagine a better audience than the Carter audience. The same life membership status goes for me and Les. Even though it will say on Wikipedia that weíre Ďformer members of Carterí, we will still always be Jim Bob and Fruitbat from Carter. Weíll just be doing other things.

I know it probably seems a bit daft to stop something that is so wonderful and so thrilling and fun and rewarding but itís also great to be able to stop while it still is all of those things. In spite of all the tears Ė seeing skinhead men crying is incredibly infectious Ė the weekend was I think truly joyous. Perhaps happy endings arenít just for fairy tales and massage parlours.

Jim Bob x

If you like you can relive the final gig in the comfort of your living room with the help of this handy DVD and CD

posted by jim in news
Last revised: 24/11/14


New Jim Bob novel June 2015
Saturday, November 22 2014


http://www.thebookseller.com/news/pan-mac-signs-j-b-morrison-sequel

posted by jim in news
Last revised: 22/11/14


Pop Star to Author
Saturday, September 27 2014


I wrote this for a book blog a while ago but it never appeared. With the first Carter rehearsal on Tuesday I thought I'd whack it up online while it's still relevant


I haven't touched my guitar since I dragged it across the stage at the end of a festival in Derbyshire in May. To be honest I'm not entirely sure where the guitar is now. I walked off the stage to the sound of feedback and the cheers of the audience and I presume that somebody will have put it in a case and a van but by that point I would have been too drunk on the unnecessarily huge rider to notice. A few days later when I'd sobered up and after I'd finished looking at Facebook photos and videos of myself from the festival Ė detagging all the fat ones Ė I went back to my day job.

My career switch from pop star to author hasnít required absolute change. Iíve still got the same fear of failure and of not being liked, and car insurance is just as astronomical for an author as it is for a pop star, although I canít drive so I donít know why I mentioned that. As an author there's no rider and readers don't shout Sequel! Sequel! when I finish a book or chant 'you fat bastard' at me every time I switch the computer on or open a Moleskine. I can't drag my computer across the floor after I complete the final chapter, even though I may have come fairly close to doing that a few times earlier on in 'the set'. The lightshow is rubbish. I've got one of those desk lamps that's supposed to recreate the effects of daylight and sometimes I'll light an Ikea fruit scented candle, but its hardly Pink Floyd's The Wall. There is feedback though.

I started writing my latest novel ĎThe Extra Ordinary Life of Frank Derrick, Age 81í on train journeys to see my mum in West Sussex. It was a trip I made once or sometimes twice a week. Occasionally it would be for an unscheduled emergency, something serious like when my mum had fallen over on the pavement and was taken to hospital in an ambulance with a face that sheíd described to me as being like the troll from the BBC series of Merlin. Or there was the time that her cooker exploded. More often though Iíd have to drop everything to take the train from East Croydon to Sussex to turn the batteries around the right way in her TV remote control, hang up the telephone in the bedroom or remove the plug from the bathroom sink and turn off the tap because there was water inexplicably cascading out of the overflow pipe on the wall outside. My mumís first floor flat and the village where it stood gave me the setting for the novel. I knew where the shops and the library were and how to get to the beach so that I could send Frank Derrick there. My mum was eighty-one when I began the book and I wanted to write about someone who was at that age when so much is presumed of you and taken for granted. Things that I knew from my mum were not always the case.

Back to my feedback analogy. People have said that after reading the novel theyíd telephoned their parents or their grandparents. I had no idea that the book would have such a simple and immediate altruistic effect. It seems to have touched people in a similar way to certain songs that Iíd written. Maybe things werenít so different for an author.

In November Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine play their final ever live shows. I'll have to locate my guitar and my ability to play it and drag it around on the floor again. After that Iíll be an author full time. I'll need to get up at five am to bake my own bread, grind fresh coffee beans, drop the kids off at school, walk the dog and go for a ten mile run before writing a thousand words just in time to collect the kids from school again. Iím going to need to get a dog I suppose. My daughter is twenty-seven, but she is a teacher, so I could still take her to school and collect her at the end of the day. Although it would be fairly pointless because, as you know, I can't drive, and I'd just be travelling to and from her work with her on the bus. My knees are knackered so I canít run ten yards let alone ten miles, and if I ever do get up at five in the morning all it means is that I end up watching the BBC Breakfast news roll around a few more times. And who really bakes their own bread?

posted by jim in news
Last revised: 27/09/14


Amazon charts
Sunday, July 6 2014


THANK YOU
The kindle of 'Frank Derrick' was at number 19 in the Kindle chart and number 2 in the Humour fiction chart. It has since been going up and down and as I type is at 22.

posted by jim in news
Last revised: 16/07/14


FATHERíS DAY Ė By J.B. Morrison (Jim Bob)
Saturday, June 14 2014


Despite what you may have heard, Iím not the worldís leading expert on Fatherís Day. My own father died seventeen years ago and I didnít see that much of him for a number of few years before then. I canít remember buying him socks or cigars every June, or making him a card from paper and pasta shells and bringing him breakfast in bed. Until I looked it up on the Internet I wasnít even sure where to put the apostrophe. Was it your fatherís day or everyoneís fathersí day? A day for just the one dad or all the dads? Itís Fatherís by the way, although when it was first founded at the start of the twentieth century Ė because there was already a Mother's Day and the men were no doubt feeling left out and moaning about it, probably Rick Wakeman or Jeremy Clarkson, one of those blokes, always complaining about how there isnít an International Menís Day or a White History Month, even though there is an International Menís Day and every month is White History Month Ė back then the apostrophe came after the s. Somebody moved it. Clarkson or Wakeman again I imagine. Or maybe Lynne Truss.

In parts of Germany Father's Day is called Ďmen's dayí (Mšnnertag) or Ďgentlemen's dayí (Herrentag), when groups of men go on hiking tours with hand pulled wagons full of wine and beer and they get drunk, leading to alcohol related traffic accidents trebling on Fatherís Day in Germany. Presumably from all the pissed up dads riding their empty carts back home. Maybe they go hiking to get away from all the films about the war that are on the television because itís Fatherís Day (Vatertag).

Iíve been a father myself for twenty-seven years Ė yes it is hard to believe I know, I moisturise Ė and I enjoy the sweets and chocolates and the fruit based shower gel that my daughter gets me. And obviously Fatherís Day is a day that Iím guaranteed to spend with my daughter. Which is great. In my book ĎThe Extra Ordinary Life of Frank Derrick, Age 81í, Frankís daughter lives five and a half thousand miles away from him in Los Angeles and so he doesnít get to see her on Fatherís Day. She usually sends him a card, or if she forgets sheíll ring or sheíll write him an email apologising for not having sent a card or ringing. Frank wouldnít admit that his daughter not being there with him in person bothers him at all but I know that he thinks that Fatherís Day without your children is fairly pointless. If my daughter ever moves thousands of miles away from me Iíll buy a hand pulled wagon, fill it up with booze and go hiking and get drunk until itís all over.



posted by jim in news
Last revised: 14/06/14






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