Category: Julian Writes…. signals from a waving not drowning Marketing Executive

The Private Diary of Julian Pilkington-Sterne

Julian writes: Kevin Coyne. Are We Dreaming?

It’s 10pm in the NOP Office and Paul has vey kindly stayed back to help me craft the perfect song to woo the perfect woman.

“Rule one,” he asserts. He can be quite assertive when he puts his mind to it, can Paul I thought. “Kevin Coyne never sang pretty. He growled, he cracked, he groaned. His songs were the sound of a man trying to wring meaning out of a damp Tuesday in Derby.”

“I can groan!” I’m cheered up already.

“Not theatrically!” he’s now insistent. “Authentically.”

“And the difference is…?” I’m already feeling out of my depth.

“One is pain. The other is you. Rule two: Coyne wrote about people, not abstractions. No metaphors about “brand ecosystems” or “emotional synergy.”

“Right. No synergy. No ecosystems.” I cross them out of my notebook discreetly.

“And rule three: Deep down, Kevin Coyne was tender. A bruised tenderness.
Not your usual “Federer of Feelings” theatrics.

I nod solemnly. “I can bruise tenderly if I have to.”

“God help us.” Paul starts pacing the floor, looking this way and that, on the search for something, I’m not quite sure what.

“Cigar?” I proffer. He looks at me in a strangulated kind of way and looks to the ceiling.

Want to know why Maja is so struck by the work of Kevin Coyne? Just take a look here!

Julian writes: Kevin Coyne. My Saviour.

It’s the NOP Office, late Monday afternoon. Paul is sketching brooding human forms as per. Somewhere, the kettle moos. I feel I have no other option than to strike a conversation with Paul, who may inadvertently provide me with the key to Maja’s heart.

“Paul? Paul? Have you got a moment? It’s a matter of… emotional urgency.” I begin, not wishing to impose myself too much.

Paul doesn’t look up but mutters,”Nothing good ever begins with those words.”

I plough on regardless.

“You know Kevin Coyne, right? Derby College of Art? Emotional rawness? Husky transcendence? Singing like a man wrestling poetry out of the working class Midlands?

Paul looked up slowly.

“Julian… I knew Kevin Coyne. I didn’t just know the music — I knew the man.
We once drew the same life model and both of us cried afterwards.”

“Exactly! That’s the energy I need.” I think I’m winning him around.

Paul puts pencil his down.

“Why?”

“Because Maja has taken a liking to him. And I,” I place my hand on my chest, perhaps overly dramatically but I thought it was worth a go. “I must meet her where she musically lives.”

“So you want to write a Kevin Coyne song? You? Julian… Kevin wrote about pain. About brokenness. About people who’ve stared too long at the cigarette end of life. You go home and steam your face with eucalyptus.

“But I can channel pain!” I protested. “I’ve known heartbreak… I’m knowing heartbreak right now! Just last week Maja ignored my Spotify playlist suggestions.”

“That’s not heartbreak. That’s mercy.”

“But you must help me, Paul, please! You went to art college with him! You understand the soul of Kevin Coyne! Teach me to sound rugged and emotionally unavailable!”

He sighed.

“Julian… you are neither rugged nor emotionally unavailable. You are…a labrador in a polo shirt.

“But a labrador… with a guitar?”

He sighed reluctantly.

“Fine. If it’ll stop you hovering like a narrative mosquito… I’ll help.

Success! At last! With Kevin by my side – albeit in the shape of a proxy Paul – where could I go wrong?

Want to know why Maja is so struck by the work of Kevin Coyne? Just take a look here!

Julian writes… it’s a lorra, lorra laughs. Not.

A change of atmosphere. Maja now sits at Alex’s desk “for training purposes,” though I detect a whiff of Eleanor’s interference. She avoids my gaze but that, I think, is a symptom of denial. These things happen when passion is inconvenient. I’ve begun drafting “Love and Other Marginal Notes: A Memoir from the Publishing Floor.” Working title. I spent the afternoon revising our intern induction materials, inserting a new paragraph on “Cross-Cultural Communication in a Creative Environment.” Eleanor deleted it. Petty. I’m listening to Cilla Black on the office radiogram for some reason. It occurs to me that she was very underrated as a chanteuse. Alex keeps on switching her off though which is very inconsiderate of him.

The Courting Lives of an Ageing Tennis Player

The Courting Lives of an Ageing Tennis Player

“Tennis belongs to the individualistic past – a hero, or at most a pair of friends or lovers, against the world.” (Jacques Barzun)

What happens after you believe you’ve won Wimbledon, conquered your local tennis club, and crowned yourself a sporting legend — when none of it was quite true?

The Courting Lives of an Ageing Tennis Player picks up where Confessions left off: with Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch rescued from a burning raft of tennis rackets, arrested, and facing the small inconvenience of reality. Undeterred, our gloriously unreliable narrator sets his sights on an even greater prize — the Australian Open — while simultaneously navigating the far more dangerous terrain of love, obsession, correspondence, and self-delusion.

Told through a wildly inventive mix of match reports, fan mail, court transcripts, newspaper cuttings, ornithological “sightings,” and illustrated interludes, this is a novel that treats tennis as theatre, romance as combat, and ageing as an extreme sport. Along the way, real-world tennis mythology collides with fantasy, bureaucracy, and pataphysical logic, as Andy encounters rival “GOATs,” prison systems, phantom coaches, and women who may — or may not — be in love with him.

By turns absurd, tender, infuriating, and unexpectedly moving, The Courting Lives of an Ageing Tennis Player is a comic novel about the stories we tell ourselves to survive the fine line between confidence and delusion masculinity, ageing, and desire under pressure and the strange ways love refuses to follow the rules

Illustrated throughout by Paul Warren, this sequel deepens the world of Confessions while standing confidently on its own as a bold, original, laugh-out-loud meditation on ambition, attachment, and the enduring hope that the next match — or the next letter — might finally change everything.

Next stop: Melbourne. Love all.

 

£19.99
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Julian writes…From Beeston to Belgrade and back again!

A revelation: Maja eats lunch alone in the stairwell. I found her there (purely by chance) and tried to engage her with tales of my early marketing campaigns – the Helvetica Incident, the Wimbledon Bookstall Disaster, all sprung to mind.

She nodded once, then said, “You talk too much.” Directness! Refreshing honesty, though I suspect English is her second language and nuance gets lost. Still, her eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary when I mentioned Novak. I’ve begun to imagine us collaborating on a cross-European marketing strategy: “From Belgrade to Beeston — Publishing Without Borders.” Must write that down.

Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player

Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player

“I don’t like your attitude!” snaps “Serena Williams” as we square up over the club’s dubious grass courts. But I am “Andy Murray”, the greatest tennis GOAT ever, no really I am and you “Serena” are blocking me from my ultimate goal: chairman of our local club.

‘Confessions’ is about a man of a certain age – Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch – who lived out his tennis fantasies when he was young and never quite moved on as he grew up.

The first of a series, “Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player” is the must-go-to illustrated comic guidebook about our dreams and our disappointments, our failures and our triumphs.

£12.99
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Julian Writes… Maya and the Drop Shot!

She wears headphones. All day. I’m certain she’s listening to Serbian poetry or perhaps meditative tennis podcasts. I asked what music inspires her but she just shrugged, “It’s white noise.” This may be metaphorical. I think she’s protecting herself from the chaos of the publishing world. Later, she briefly smiled when I offered her a stapler. Progress.

I try later that morning and ask what she’s listening to. ‘Hawking Teds,’ she said, deadpan. I pretended to know.  I think she meant Hawkwind. Fascinating! A woman who misnames her band and owns it. There’s art in that. Like hitting a drop shot when everyone expects a drive. I’m certain she listens to ‘Once in a Lifetime’ and thinks of me.

The Courting Lives of an Ageing Tennis Player

The Courting Lives of an Ageing Tennis Player

“Tennis belongs to the individualistic past – a hero, or at most a pair of friends or lovers, against the world.” (Jacques Barzun)

What happens after you believe you’ve won Wimbledon, conquered your local tennis club, and crowned yourself a sporting legend — when none of it was quite true?

The Courting Lives of an Ageing Tennis Player picks up where Confessions left off: with Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch rescued from a burning raft of tennis rackets, arrested, and facing the small inconvenience of reality. Undeterred, our gloriously unreliable narrator sets his sights on an even greater prize — the Australian Open — while simultaneously navigating the far more dangerous terrain of love, obsession, correspondence, and self-delusion.

Told through a wildly inventive mix of match reports, fan mail, court transcripts, newspaper cuttings, ornithological “sightings,” and illustrated interludes, this is a novel that treats tennis as theatre, romance as combat, and ageing as an extreme sport. Along the way, real-world tennis mythology collides with fantasy, bureaucracy, and pataphysical logic, as Andy encounters rival “GOATs,” prison systems, phantom coaches, and women who may — or may not — be in love with him.

By turns absurd, tender, infuriating, and unexpectedly moving, The Courting Lives of an Ageing Tennis Player is a comic novel about the stories we tell ourselves to survive the fine line between confidence and delusion masculinity, ageing, and desire under pressure and the strange ways love refuses to follow the rules

Illustrated throughout by Paul Warren, this sequel deepens the world of Confessions while standing confidently on its own as a bold, original, laugh-out-loud meditation on ambition, attachment, and the enduring hope that the next match — or the next letter — might finally change everything.

Next stop: Melbourne. Love all.

 

£19.99
Shop now