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John Morrish

Writer and editor

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Author: John Morrish

I am a writer and editor living in Cheltenham, England. Join my writing group: cheltenhamstories.com

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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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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