I saw a crazy man in the heart of the city cursing the people he passed, cursing the buildings, cursing someone long gone, cursing God for this Purgatory.

People reacted in different ways. Some froze and willed themselves to be invisible, some scurried away in the opposite direction, some watched in that detached zombie way people stand transfixed at car crash sites, fascinated by the sight of real disaster and yet non-reacting as though watching a movie play out.

So what does it take to make someone just crack one day? One huge life tragedy too much, or a series of small ones too close together that defy our idea of logic and fairness? Perhaps if we raise our voices above the rumbling wearing down drone sound of the busy city traffic, God will hear us?

Why does our Maker withdraw his grace and allow us to free fall through darkness and scorn so far from home? Or are we meant to always be alone in search of ourselves in others, a perilous journey not for the fainthearted. Or the dreamers.

Maybe the crazy man in the street had been chosen to heed his inner calling to join the wild throng and it is therefore in the madness that lies the ultimate truth?

Was Don Quixote mad because he chose to see the world as it should be? Or were the people who gathered to ridicule and laugh at his expense the mad ones?

John Lennon, during his time, was called mad by many, especially the press and the conservative establishment. But his brutal death at the hands of, ironically, a mad man has now elevated him to the status of martyr and messiah. Today, his human flaws have been sanitised to fit what is acceptable in the gospel of his life. The nobody mad man who shot him for a shot at immortality got a life sentence, while the famous mad man got death. And then in death, rose again.

When you look closely at it, most of our true heroes in history were called mad during their lifetimes because they attempted to do something different. To shine a light into the darkness that most of us are afraid to acknowledge. To take us where we would never have dared go if not for them. To make us think and, more importantly, to make us feel. In achieving this, a great many of them paid with their lives so that we may live.

So next time you see a mad man or woman in the street, spare a few seconds to ponder the forces that shaped them. And perhaps in those seconds we may awaken the humanity in ourselves.

(c) Frank Howson 2017



I cried when they took away all the things I had loved and lived for.

My voice became ravaged and ragged when my spirit was broken and the walls came down to reveal my soul was really 500 years old. It was God’s way of humbling me which is the only way to Him/Her.

I wandered the wastelands in search of a reason to find a way out. It took years to think of one. But I thought of you long before I met you.

I have no agenda other than to do my work and treat other humans with kindness and respect. I will be damned for this and smirked at by those with no backbone or chins.

I look around at all the lost souls who act in an arrogant way, telling you things that are not true in order to impress, swearing on bibles that simple songs are too complex to play, manipulating situations that are really of no importance, protecting their over-inflated egos at any cost, convincing themselves that guests arrive to see them and not the hosts and, still, I feel sorrow at their ignorant pathetic-ness. Wasting their lives and their opportunities for inner peace by waging a war to defend their hollow delusions which are, and always were, meaningless.

We live in a world where the banks own you now. They can afford to be arrogant and rude to their customers because they need no longer keep up the pretence of performing a service.

I hope in my time I live to see the public rise up against them. Yes, there will be blood, long time coming.

The plague will descend from ourselves and inhabit the dull-eyed crowds that linger in the shadows of that which cannot be spoken. Friends, whom we thought were friends, will try and entice us to visit them whilst they are contagious so that they can infect us and watch us weaken and die as they feast on our souls. Spiritual vampires pretending to be human will survive by repeating things they have overheard in order to make small talk and fade into the scenery undetected. No empathy. No conscience. They will devour anything, anyone that gets in their way. For the mere existence of real people will torture them until they have succeeded in extinguishing the flame.

I feel like I’m dying as a result of the most selfish man in the world who gives you guilt trips if you don’t risk your life paying homage to him by breathing in his environment – and his disease. Nothing you offer as a sacrifice is good enough because he has been denied attention for 40 years and his desert is calling.

“Thou shalt not worship false gods!” I scream as I destroy his overcrowded temple to his own ego.

His family call him their stalker as they continue to feed his insatiable hunger for attention and a limelight that no longer shines and in fact only ever did in his dreams.

Thank you for weakening my already troubled heart. Your play acting concern was less than convincing to the children present and has been noted in the Book of the Dead.

My last glimpse of this world will be of my best friends clammering to be photographed with the man who destroyed me. I see they are all smiling.

(C) Frank Howson 2017.


My birth was a bit messy from recollection and ever since I have been flaying around like a man drowning in gasoline. People have come and gone in my life, some leaving an impression, others facial scars, but still, I wouldn’t change it even if I could shoot them.

Life is funny isn’t it?

Sometimes you win and sometimes the cards are stacked against you. Still, it keeps us occupied doesn’t it? I mean, otherwise we may turn into animals and attack each other thinking there was no purpose to it all. But the good news is, there is. I can say this with all certainty now as only a few weeks ago I was stirring my pot of porridge when I saw God’s face on the surface. He said unto me, “Listen, go forth and tell all the fucking morons that I have spent a fortune on this human experiment and have nothing to show for it. Other than one lovely Jewish boy and he doesn’t count because he is related on his mother’s side. All I ask is that you scumbags make a little effort and be nice to each other. It’s not brain surgery y’know? Oh, and your porridge is ready.”

I have since taken to the streets spreading the good news that God is alive and still loves us. And that we need to be kind to each other. In return I have been beaten, spat upon, cursed, betrayed by friends, had my sex tapes made public by Billy Bush, been blacklisted by Hollywood, been lectured by Robert DeNiro on morality, and treated by the media worse than Donald Trump. It could’ve been less kind, though. I could’ve been treated like Joan of Arc and roasted like a chicken as a public entertainment. Thank God I wasn’t a woman.

These days I keep to myself and have stopped eating porridge lest I get any more messages from you know who. I mean, I myself, even, don’t know why God chose me to be the bearer of his good news although he does have a history of choosing flawed messengers. Life is complicated enough without all that.

Father, forgive us we know not what we do.

(c) Frank Howson 2017


A friend asked me to pick my 10 fave books of all time. The 10 best of anyting is a hard ask but here’s goes. I have chosen those 50 books that moved me the most and had the biggest influence.

1) THE GREAT GATSBY by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

2) GREAT EXPECTATIONS by Charles Dickens.

3) THE DISENCHANTED by Budd Schulberg.


5) NODDY IN TOYLAND by Enid Blyton

6) A LIFE by Elia Kazan.


8) CHRONICLES by Bob Dylan.

9) THIS IS ORSON WELLES by Orson Welles & Peter Bogdanovich.

10) A FAREWELL TO ARMS by Ernest Hemingway.

11) THE LITTLE PRINCE by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

12) IN COLD BLOOD by Truman Capote

13) A TALE OF TWO CITIES by Charles Dickens

14) HUCKLEBERRY FINN by Mark Twain


16) DEATH OF A SALESMAN by Arthur Miller


18) TENDER IS THE NIGHT by F. Scott Fitzgerald

19) POWER WITHOUT GLORY by Frank Hardy

20) PETER PAN by James M. Barrie

21) DIARY OF AN UNKNOWN by Jean Cocteau



24) SCOTT & ERNEST by Matthew Bruccoli

25) THE POWER OF MYTH by Joseph Campbell & Bill Moyers.

26) ERROL FLYNN – A MEMOIR by Earl Conrad

27) ON THE STREET WHERE I LIVE by Alan Jay Lerner

28) DON’T LET ME BE MISUNDERSTOOD by Eric Burdon with J. Marshall Craig

29) OLIVIER ON ACTING by Laurence Olivier

30) THE MUSIC GOES ROUND MY HEAD by David Johnston

31) FREE ASSOCIATION by Steven Berkoff


33) MARILYN by Norman Mailer


35) A MOVEABLE FEAST by Ernest Hemingway

36) JOURNAL OF A NOVEL by John Steinbeck

37) PICTURE by Lillian Ross

38) HOME BEFORE DARK by Ruth Park

39) TINSEL by William Goldman

40) PORTRAITS by Helmut Newton

41) THE NAKED CIVIL SERVANT by Quentin Crisp


43) TEN GREAT PLAYS by William Shakespeare

44) FINISHING THE HAT by Stephen Sondheim



49) IN HIS OWN WRITE by John Lennon

50) THE ENTERTAINER by John Osbourne


Love, when you think about it, should be the easiest thing.

You find someone you love, who loves you, you share, confide, trust, believe in, and respect. And it goes on and on.

But not in this day and age it seems. Well not for most of us. Why is that? Has the world changed so much that love is out of date? Or are we just out of step with it? Do we want too much? Or are we too flighty to settle for anything that smacks of comfort?

How many times have you thought you’ve found it only to have, after a few years, the bird fly? And why? Do they get scared that it may actually be the real thing and they’re unprepared for it? Or do they think something better may exist outside and so off they go only to realize months or years later that it did not and that they have actually killed the very thing they were craving. The very thing that may not come again.

Sex is easy. Any fool can do it.

Love is difficult. It requires trust in a suspicious world. It requires commitment in an undisciplined age. It requires effort from a lazy soul.

Paul McCartney was once asked why, out of all the women in the world that threw themselves at him, he settled for Linda. And he replied that it happened one day when they were walking down the street and she turned to him and said, “Y’know, I could make you a loving home.” To Paul, who had grown with a loving dad and mum (until her death at too young an age) it had been everything he had secretly craved. Linda had uttered the magic words and she did good on her promise and made his home one filled with family and love until she was tragically taken from him. But they had experienced one of the great loves.

Are we too spoiled to see a great love when it finally appears? Or do we just want to experience it for a night or two before moving on…to what? The nothingness we have grown comfortable with?

Perhaps we are really only comfortable with ourselves. Perhaps we are so scared of being hurt that we hurt ourselves by denying us the chance of something more.

Or does it run deeper?

I remember in the Sixties there was a quote people used to write on walls that said, “Is God Dead?” Well, perhaps love is dead. I mean, real love.

To give unconditional love means to actually love something more than your own ego. But then, as the Indian mystic Sai Baba once said, “Ego is the cause of all problems in the world. Take your ego out of the way and you see things as they really are. With clarity.”

They say you only find love when you’re not looking for it. I have to agree. Several times I have found it when I had given up and firmly closed the door. Lost interest. Lost belief. And was content to just watch and be amused by other people’s follies. And then it arrives. “Love walks in and takes you for a spin…”

We live in a cynical age. A fast age. We have the world at our fingertips. We can access any knowledge within seconds yet do we comprehend it? It is impossible to have a conversation in a restaurant anymore without the person you’re chatting with accessing their iphone to check messages, or even returning calls. And maybe that’s where the real truth lies. Perhaps we don’t have the concentration anymore to develop real relationships. Instead, we settle for convenient ones that don’t tax us too much.

Or do we have relationships whilst still keeping an eye on the door lest a better option enter the room? If that it what you’re doing, I’d suggest you’re not in love.

Who knows? And sadly, I’m beginning to wonder, who cares?

(c) Frank Howson 2014


How many times
Did a father write a son
And never get a line
On the things he might’ve done?
Where did we separate
On that road along the way?
And fall victims to the silence
Of all the things we couldn’t say?

It’s a long, long journey
That we try, try to forget
When we cut ourselves adrift
On the river of regret

These bitter tears
I’ve been crying over you
Won’t ever let me go
No matter what I do
That endless mardi gra
We lost ourselves upon
Had us wasting our lives searching
For what was already gone

It’s a long, long journey
That we try, try to forget
When we wake to find ourselves
On the river of regret

Curse the moon
Where the Springfield River parts
We got ourselves banished
To the Land of Broken Hearts

Why did you call my name
Like you really loved the word?
Was it just to confuse me with
Another lie I hadn’t heard?

It’s a long, long journey
That we try, try to forget
No one hears your call for help
On the river of regret

It’s a long, long journey
That we try, try to forget
When you steer the ship of fools
On the river of regret

On the river of regret….

Recorded by David Bornstein

(C) Frank Howson 2014


We used to feel so proud of ourselves
When slaves would kneel and bow
We used to know no shame in our pride
A different story now
We’ve turned our backs on the sun
There’s not a thing that we ain’t done

Killing ourselves
Little by little
Killing ourselves
Piece by piece
Your hero lover is losing some battles
Go walk the alley in your mad dog leash

We used to sign our names on the wind
To bless the Lord above
There were priests who drank from your shoe
When we were young and in love
We’re spoiled and there’s no way out
What were all our dreams about?

Killing ourselves
Little by little
Killing ourselves
Bit by bit
Out in the alley the losers are waiting
Standing in rubbish where lovers now sit

I’m tired of life and its lies
Deep inside an old man cries

Killing ourselves
Little by little
Killing ourselves
Chance by chance
Here in the alley Cole Porter is screaming
Ripping up music that made people dance

Recorded by Frank Howson & also by The Ferrets on Mushroom Records.

Renewed (c) Frank Howson 2014