Chris Hughes is a retired layabout, who passes the time by fiddling about with HTML and CSS, writing about himself as though he was someone else, and sighing quietly now and then.
An erstwhile member of the Royal Air Force Music Service (pretty much the archetypal round peg in the oh-so-square hole) he attained the exalted rank of Leading Aircraftsman, awarded for demonstrating that he could, on a good day and with a following wind, hold a clarinet the right way up. He went on to spend a couple of financially unrewarding decades as a wandering saxophonist, see "Music—and me" for a harrowing description of some of it. He adds bits from time to time when his memory clears sufficiently and something bobs to the surface.
He likes cats, dogs, cartoons by Giles, curries, ale, books by Sir Terry Pratchett and Robert Rankin and, somewhat to his own surprise, poetry by Philip Larkin, John Betjeman and Wendy Cope. He last went to a cinema in 1983, and has seen no reason to return since. He believes that nothing of any real interest has occurred in popular music since the arrival of the Bossa-Nova.
Atheist and a sceptic, he lives in quiet decrepitude bordering on desperation, and squalor, in a village on the Thames, near the towns of Staines and Windsor. He moved there in 1973 and thinks he's probably going to like it. The report on what the village thinks about it is not yet in ...
He firmly believes that he doesn't need exercise, because he's already tired...
His first wife drew an interesting comparison between sleeping with him and sharing a trampoline with a rhinoceros.