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John Morrish

Writer and editor

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Contact John Morrish

This site is really an online business card so people can contact me. I am a journalist by trade. I live in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, UK. You can contact me by emailing mail@johnmorrish.com or telephoning +77 8851 5387. I work from home. This is where I live: 2 Priory Mews, Sidney Street, Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, GL52 6DJ,…

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Women’s Football before there was money in it

To mark the Women’s Final, here’s a piece I wrote about Arsenal Ladies, in 1996, for the Telegraph Magazine. I went to see them play a match at Highbury. They were never really welcome there, but it was United Nations’ Day. Politicians love football. I’ve included the little bit of correspondence with my then commissioning…

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Consequences: the launch

I am pleased to say I have now recovered from Covid and will be launching my novel, Consequences, at Glenfall House on the outskirts of Cheltenham. Everyone is welcome, but please let me know you are coming. Here are the details: Join us at Glenfall House, near Cheltenham, to launch  Consequences Friday 2 September, 2022…

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A Little Dose of CIFF

Welcome to anyone who has come here because they are interested in the Cheltenham International Film Festival. This site is a rag-bag of bits and pieces I have ‘spaffed against the wall’ of the internet in the hope that either: They will stick Or The wall will fall down. Anyone who would like to reach…

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Through a Glass, Darkly

I saw that it was Philip Glass’s birthday recently and was trying to remember when I interviewed him and for whom. No idea. I just remember that he was a lovely guy, possibly my favourite interviewee. It was a sort of turning point in my life. I felt, for once, he was interested in me…

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Yesterday

I really am going to write some more about the film Yesterday. But for now, here’s one of my little treasures. In the mid-80s, I had a part-time freelance gig working on a putative pop music history series. It was going to be presented by the Beatles’ producer George Martin, whose company was co-funding it,…

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Can We Go Home Now?

I’m listening to The Roches, singing the title track of their 1995 album Can We Go Home Now. It has just popped up on my iPhone, which is playing a selection of things from my Apple Music library that it thinks I will like, based on algorithmic logic. The Roches were three sisters from New…

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Virus

It’s hard to think of a good word for something that has the potential to ruin the lives of millions of people as it multiplies and spreads around the planet. Fortunately we already have a good word: it’s “virus”.  “Virus” is good, because it has a shared meaning. There is no need to define our…

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The Leaving of Facebook

Why would anyone delete their Facebook account? That’s a question some people have asked me since I jumped out of the shark-tank, some months ago. More people, though, have told me they’d like to, or they’ve thought about it, but they can’t. They need it. There is no alternative. Leaving it will make them feel…

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On the Bridge

The mood on the bridge of the Starship Poseidon was grim. Commander Freeman, a square-jawed man in early middle age, turned away from the giant view-screen to address his crew. 

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Lord Thomas and Lady Mary

‘Come in’ Lady Mary composed herself on her wooden chair in her bedchamber, working on her needlework. 

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Starfucker

On Friday night after work, Dad came in through the door, wrestling with a five-foot Nordman Fir wrapped in plastic mesh.  It slid out of his arms and he dropped it in the hallway. 

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Have you been drinking, Sir?

Is there any sound more upsetting than the cry of a small baby? I’m not referring to the full-scale shrieking of an angry or tired or hungry infant, rather the pathetic mewling of a baby that is alone and neglected. 

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California Saga

When we look back, does pain leave more of a mark, or does joy? It is easy to say pain, but in time that slips away.

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On Reflection

It was their happy ending. Stephen and Sarah signed into the hotel in Venice as Mr & Mrs Russell, and it was the first time they had ever done that, and they smiled. They marvelled at the splendour of the place they had chosen from the brochure in the travel agent’s. They brought their bags…

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High Windows

Within months of moving to Zurich, it became clear to Nick and Samantha that they had made a mistake. Nick had taken a senior management position in a Swiss bank, and it was supposed to have been the adventure of a lifetime; but it proved a struggle. 

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The Club Would Like to Apologise

Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you today, or sit, to explain a difficult decision the club has had to make. We have had to dismiss one of our biggest stars, a veritable superstar in fact, up there with Messi, Ronaldo and Madonna. 

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No Raymond Chandler

I sat at my desk, flicking through the Times and wondering how I was going to make the rent. Taking in washing suggested itself. Then Doris buzzed in a couple of potential clients. The tall one was wringing his cap in his hands like a washcloth after a shower. The other, shiny faced and fat, fixed me with…

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A Change of Career

The writing had been on the wall. Eleanor Stephens knew that people were not going into the High Street, they were not booking holidays, and when they did it was on the internet, not by going into an old-fashioned travel agent. 

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A Car Ride

Do you want to know what happened at the beginning? Well, I woke up yesterday and Mummy and Daddy were arguing in the kitchen. I don’t know what about. They are always arguing. 

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25 Things To Do During Self-Isolation

Alphabetise your tins. Weep over your sock-drawer. Marie Kondo your address book. Finish your novel, or start it.

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Haruspex

Jessica was a fortune-teller. She did not have a gaudy striped tent in a travelling circus. She did not wear a turban or favour large hooped earrings. She did not read palms and no-one crossed her palms with silver. 

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Recent articles

  • Women’s Football before there was money in it
  • Consequences: the launch
  • A Little Dose of CIFF
  • Through a Glass, Darkly
  • Yesterday

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  • Is queuing on its way out?
  • The Grey Area

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