As you know, not even in the beautiful sprezzatura-esque Italian way, I am a firm believer in doing nothing. I mean, I mean it. I do it. It's my practice. Oh, I really hate to see or hear the word mantra so I won’t use that here to describe my mantra. It’s political. Doing nothing. So many are gripped with the need to be seen to be doing, or even, actually doing. To what ends? To keep the pockets of the establishment lined. Figure it out for fucks sake. If your establishmantarian is seemingly doing nothing and you aren’t, and they are getting richer and you aren’t, how is that working out for you? I am not doing that.
Now could be your time to embrace a hugely healthy dose of nothing. Nothing-ness. Personally, it is always my intention to do nothing with intent. I am at it. I am about it. Nothing is a serious business. Nothing is beautiful. Nothing is Beautiful is also the name of the ill-fated blog a famous writer encouraged me to start a few years ago, in the hopes of being seen by other's to be doing something. A category error. That writer is so famous, that they don’t need a namecheck here? They actually don’t need a namecheck here, but maybe I need to not namecheck them, lest I be seen to not be doing nothing, by association. Successful writers possess determination and keep busy. Let me get back to you on that.
But I’m no blogger. I couldn’t do the Nothing is Beautiful blog, despite, I think we all agree, blogs being so very often, to all intents and purposes, about nothing. I have always hated the word, ‘blog’ probably invented and embraced by a certain class of pull the ladder up professionals to denigrate writers, less well known writers, as bloggers, it is so reductive.
I personally can’t see the point of rehabilitating a reputation, say, in a national newspaper, by celebrating writing about nothing. I couldn’t do that—coming up with nonsense from an empty space just to fill an empty space. Wait, I am still writing about the blog that barely existed, except for the title, but thank you very much, quite well known author. You are an inspiration still. 
I actually intended to write about my consternation when my shiplap shed just wouldn’t come down of its own volition. I’ve been sidetracked. So let’s talk Shed. End. It should have made one last gesture—gestures being the end of intent, to illustrate the dynamics of the backyard microeconomic microcosm that is family vs shed. The elements, and neglect versus shed. Intransigence toward infrastructure and societal need, vs. an at times loved for being, shed. Despite concerted efforts, the shed proved resistant to our attempts at allowing it to wholly dismantle itself. It refused to fall down. And so I had to do something about it.
Julien Temple could have staged a one-hander, a reimagining of his award winning 2013 film, "Requiem for Detroit" (Films of Record for BBC2) at the top of the garden, as nature reclaimed the shed where it stood—by attempting to twist the shabby structure to the whims of our desolate apple tree and the neighbours privet hedge.
By the end, this beautiful shape-shifting organism, held up only by its contents, drooping considerably along the roofline like a damp Disney Hall cardboard box thing from Gehry—sans stunning steel panels, when all that was in vogue, an eyesore for every neighbour to disdain from their bedroom windows, made a statement for the quiet, curvilinear shed design school. I wondered every time I entered whether the struggle to open the door would be enough to make the shed collapse on my head. A good story to be told to future generations of Champions. Not as great as my father-in-laws own tale of being rescued by the fire brigade from rescuing his burning garden shed. That made the local paper. That made so much mirth amongst his friends when he was described as an elderly man flailing against the flames, before the friendly fireman touched him on the shoulder, “We’ll take care of this, sir.”
If reusing before recycling is a thing, the old shed, reused as, what appears to be a playground for nascent and still useless graffiti artists, was then well, somewhat reused.
How do blog stories begin? Sometimes from a title? How do they proceed? A story of dismantling the shed then chopping it? I would have burnt it if my neighbours hadn’t had their baby clothes on their rotary dryer. I don’t want to turn them against line drying, my favourite of my watching paint-dry pastimes. Watching laundry dry beneath permanently damp Brum skies where I am marooned, takes way longer than it used to in some warmer places I have lived. Probably anywhere south of here . Maybe I should reconsider that blogging thing. But how do Blog entries begin? How do they stay on point? How do they end then? Like this? Maybe me, no blogger, should end with music.
Essential Information
Main Image: One day the upper part of the garden didn't look too bad, photo by Ancient Champion
Ancient Champion - the whole merry band, will appear at Coventry's LTB Showroom, their closing party... on December 28th with Jackdaw with Crowbar, Attrition, Leon Trimble and many more...
