Satire. Any resemblance to you is entirely down to your sense of self importance.

Sunday, March 3, 2019

The greatest poet the world has ever seen.

For Jan Nieupjur. RIP.

Dressed in ermine he ransacked wardrobes for rags,
combed hedgehogs for fleas.
Eviscerated boots for spores of poets foot
and got down with the homeless and the poor.
He shaved Schrodingers cat with Occams razor
then taught it Braille
in order to better understand his acne
acne that did not respond to Keats or Byron or any of the other guitarless lyricists
but responded to his doggerel
as he slavered on the ointment labelled 'keep away from children, they grow into critics'
and watched as the pustules subsided.

How many other poets, he mused, can cure acne with verse
I must be
The greatest poet the world has ever seen.

Wednesday, February 27, 2019

The forlorn hopes of the brides parents.

The forlorn hopes of the brides parents were crushed when the groom arrived with a chop saw and they realised that they were giving their daughter to the man they had spent a lifetime warning her about.

Saturday, February 23, 2019


She asked me: 'What do you do?'
I said I am a pendulum.
She said: 'So am I'.
We held hands full of hope....

Thursday, January 10, 2019

A tale of two West London pubs.

I used to live next door but one to the Cow on Westbourne Park Road. It was my local for12 years and I still pop in from time to time.

I pop in because it is, for many reasons, the best pub in West London.

I pop in because Petro or Luti will always be pleased, or pretend to be pleased, to see me, Petro especially knows what I want before I do. Mid week there will always be people I know from years back who have the same liking for the place and the food is the best in any pub that I know of; it is not 'gastro bollocks' it is good food.

Tom, who owns the place has a very good idea of what is what and what should be. He has made it a destination rather than just a local. This can be annoying at weekends when the place is rammed, but I guess that is the price you pay for a bloody good pub down the road.

I called in tonight, walked in after a long absence to see that all was as is should be and on top of that Ian has grown facial hair, Janek looks even younger, Colette has cut her hair but it is still the colour of new pennies and Jake looks the same as ever and the place was full and vibrant.

Later, after a trip to Tesco I popped into the Italian Job on All Saints Road, just off Portobello Road, surely a 'cool' place for a pub but without any soul. Of course it is a 'chain' pub.

I'm going to let a picture tell a thousand words:

Saturday, January 5, 2019

There is a dog

Got up, dressed to kill and someone to kill but Someone whispered 'NO'.

I knew none of this until I took another look at this photograph. There is a dog.

There is a dog. And the dog whispered : ''No Tristan no, I know the woman you want to kill  deserves to die but she should not die by your hand.

There is a dog

Sent from my iPhone

Thursday, December 20, 2018

White pebbles.


I watched you being led into that dark place
led by a creature forged from lies and hate
In time you will find the first of many
white pebbles
that will lead you into the light.

Wednesday, December 19, 2018

Brexit to cause shortage of contract killers in UK.

According to a goverment source Britain will experience a dire shortage of skilled assassins as a result of our departure from europe.

Since the 1990's both MI5 and the Army have stopped training programmes for hit men preferring to use freelancers, the majority of whom are from Eastern Europe. The idea of a tuxedo clad old Etonian armed with an automatic, a martini and a smooth line of patter is pure fantasy.

Such is the concern within government circles that plans are well advanced for producing home grown killers.

My source told me:

'Department of education and DWP heads have been approached and asked to come up with a viable scheme for fast tracking competent killers within the next few years. It is hoped that more women can be trained up. 'After all'. He said. 'Women have innate skills that make them first class Assassins''

The government recently commissioned the BBC to produce the Series 'Killing Eve' complete with female killer Villanelle in order to make the occupation more attractive to women.

I understand that applicants with personality disorders will be extremely welcome.

Interested individuals should contact their nearest Job Centre.

Monday, November 26, 2018

A bag for life... After death.

It will not be the cough
that carries me off
nor will I go down
in a coffin
But a bag for life
... After death
that I shall finally
go off in.    

Friday, November 16, 2018

Portobello Panto 2018 at the Tabernacle.


Yes it is that time of the year again.

Early Bird tickets for this year's Portobello Panto Presents: "Snow White and the Seven Runaways" are now available to purchase via this link:
Grab them while they're hot!

Wednesday, September 12, 2018

The brainwashing of children.

From an article on the BBC website today:

"When parents separate, where the children live, how much time they spend with Mum or Dad, can be hard to agree.
Sometimes a child starts refusing to see their other parent.
This autumn, social workers who look after a child's interests in the family courts are being given new guidelines to help with these cases.
For the first time this will consider the possibility a child has been deliberately turned against one parent, by the other
 Parental alienation, as it's called, will be just one of the options a social worker might consider.
It's a controversial concept which the courts have been trying to grapple with for years in cases where the parents are locked into entrenched legal action over contact.
There is no consensus and not a great deal of research, so how might it be considered by courts here?
The intensity or frequency of behaviour might be one of the ways this is set apart from the disagreements that are often part of separation.
"Think of a child experiencing a separation, the mother or father bad mouthing, or withholding warmth and affection unless they agree with an argument," says Sarah Parsons of the Children and Families Court Advisory Service.
"If it's repeated it can have an invasive, intrusive effect on wellbeing. A child can think the only way to stay safe is to side with one parent and reject the other."

See more HERE

Monday, June 4, 2018

Andrew O'Hagan: Grenfell Tower. Piss poor journalism.

The publication of this thing does no one any favours except RBKC councilors, Pagett Brown and Fielding Mellen in particular and  of course O'Hagans bank account.

What is wrong with it:

The timing of this publication, before any inquiry has been concluded and before any results are published demonstrates an arrogance of monumental proportions on the part of O'Hagan.

It is biased conjecture at best.

It fails to acknowledge absolute facts regarding the cladding of the building in favour of defending the councilors who. for whatever reasons, allowed the work to be carried out. The argument that RBKC's use of dangerous cladding was ok because everyone else was doing it is laughable.

It casually lays blame on the Fire Service for the number of deaths. It does not point out that, but for the cladding mistakes, the Fire Service, having put out the fire on the fourth floor would have gone home. Job Done.

O'Hagan is so keen to defend and praise Pagett Brown and Fielding Mellen and others that he has completely missed the big story. I would point him in the direction of Companies House records.

I could go on and on but I won't beyond saying that the entire thing is so flawed and biased that it even casts doubt on the facts that it gets right.

It is a monumental piece of 'up my own arse, look how clever I am, journalism' with no concern for truth or justice and a very keen enthusiasm for Town Hall brown nosing.

For the record, I lived in the shadow of Grenfell at the time of the fire. I watched it from the start. I experienced first hand the horrors and I experienced first hand the inadequacy of RBKC in its response.

Wednesday, May 30, 2018

BA announces 25 hour non stop flight.

British Airways has today announced that they will introduce a 25 hour non-stop flight from London Heathrow to Luton international in august.

The service will comprise of a flight simulator being towed between the two airports by a Morris minor while 15 thousand gallons of aviation fuel are torched for the sake of it. A BA spokesperson stated that: 'Of course it is a waste of resources but it is important that we are at the forefront of innovation in wasting said resources'.

Passengers will recieve a 'pretentious wanker' badge on completion of the trip.

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Tesco to remove dates from stores.

Tesco is to stop stocking dates in its stores.

A spokesperson said that this would stop uneaten dates being thrown away by consumers.

etc etc etc

The many faces of tax and benefits fraud.

It is easy to assume that benefit fraud is perpetrated by 'pond life and scum'.
This is not the case.

I've spent the past 12 months looking into the abuse of benefits in this area and find that the benefit cheat is more likely to be someone in work, who, rather than being on the breadline feels that they deserve more than they earn and to that end fiddles council tax or single parent childcare benefits.

Benefit frauds and council tax frauds are frequently carried out by individuals who think that they are above suspicion and therefore free from detection.  They are 'nice' educated folk whose nasty habits (they hope) will never come to light.

The chances are that someone standing next to you at the school gates, sitting accross the table at a dinner party, living two doors away or up the street is abusing the system. Even that nice police officer next door.

It is easy to do.

Thanks to the internet and Open Source information it is now getting easier to detect.

more later....

Thursday, May 17, 2018

Fleur Dumal, the muse from hell.

 Illustration for Les Fleurs du mal by Charles Baudelaire. Odilon Redon 1890.

Jan Nieupjur paid a rare visit yesterday. We sat in the sun, shared a few beers and a few memories but it wasn't long before he turned our thoughts to the muse:

"I've met a new muse ." He informed me.

"Her name is Fleur Dumal, she is the most selfish human being I have ever met; lies constantly, would sell her mother for a glass of wine and is totally untrustworthy... In essence the perfect muse.

She is an artist without a shred of creativity or talent but has a phenomenal delusional self belief in her greatness."

Hmmmm. Sounds familiar

"She wants to write Tristan and to that end could she perhaps pen an occasional post for the blog. Would you indulge her, it might be fun."

I of course, in the interests of equality, agreed and will be posting her occasional thread entitled: 'Life in the pits'.

Should be interesting.

Sunday, April 15, 2018

Love only bicycle.

It is without doubt the most photographed bicycle in London: parked outside the pink mews house that served as Kiera Knightly's home in 'Love actually' it has featured in thousands of photographs and selfies by tourists from around the planet.

Sent from my iPhone

Monday, February 19, 2018

Corbyn supplied Meldonium to disgraced Russian curler.

From our Olympic correspondent Jared Kushner.

That old bolshie Corbyn has been at it again: my man at the Sun reliably informs me that the entire OAR team at the winter Olympics are as high as a kite 24/7 thanks to Jeremy 'Ice Man' Corbyn and his Orient Express drug supply operation.  It has also been confirmed that Corbyn has been manufacturing Meldonium in his allotment shed from surplus rhubarb and flogging it to the ruskies by the barrowload..

Meldonium was originally developed as an embarrasment substitute, designed to make toes curl. It was recently discovered that it also caused a similar reaction in the Ailsa Craig granite that curling stones are made from.

Here is a photograph of corbyn wearing a red tie... Proof that he is a drug dealing commie.

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Fly fishing for hare in Kensington Gardens.

A guest blog by Jan Nieupjur.

Country pursuits are few and far between in London so you can imagine my delight on being invited to an evening's fly fishing in Kensington Gardens by my old pal Buffy.

Imagining trout rising in the Serpentine I packed my rod and favourite flies and headed west to his mews pied a terre in Notting Hill. Buffy answered the door with tears streaming down his cheeks.
"My god Buffy, what on earth is the matter". I exclaimed.
"Just cutting bait, old chap". Was his reply and he went on to explain that far from stalking trout in the Serpentine we would be after the Husk of hares that had colonized Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. Apparently Princess Diana had released a breeding pair from Kensington Palace in order to piss off Charles, they were his favourite pets and she felt received more affection than she, shortly after their marriage.

The hares bred like rabbits and today there are more than 2,000 of the critters living in the meadows. Early on the Hares developed nocturnal habits and are rarely seen during daylight hours. An annual cull takes place in February, carried out by the Coldstream Guards armed with high powered air rifles fitted with night sights, as the local communities blithely sleep on unaware of the ongoing carnage nearby.

Buffy has set up the Kensington hare fishing club in order to take advantage of this bounty. fishing is of course banned in the Serpentine but there is no such constraint to fishing in the grass. Twilight was the optimum time for catching the hares which came out to gambol as the park quietened for the night.

The cause of Buffy's tears was laid out on the butchers block in his well equipped kitchen.


Preparing bait.

 "Horse radish". Buffy exclaimed with relish. Apparently, through much trial and error, this was the best bait for the job. A 'tail' of horse radish was wound into the fly and proved to be irresistible to the animals. Buffy went on to tell me that he had previously used asparagus but found that it often disintegrated on casting. The fibrous horse radish however, grown on his roof, not only had the required stringiness to stay on the hook but also the whiteness of its flesh made it easy for the hares to spot in the gloaming.

After preparing a dozen flies, more lure than a fly to my mind, we filled our hip flasks with cherry brandy and set out.

Kensington gardens at dusk is a magical place, lit by the amber metropolitan glow and swathed in a faint winter mist, silent but for the cough of foxes, grunts of alfresco lovers and the rustle of rough sleepers bedding. we arrived at Buffy's chosen spot, close to the Diana memorial ditch on the southern bank of the serpentine.

"They seem to congregate here, probably where the first pair were released". Said buffy.

I remember, long ago stocking the memorial with a dozen rainbow trout for a spot of sport many years ago after I had been arrested for fishing in the Serpentine. I was arrested for that too.

Illegally fishing the Serpentine.

We set up our rigs and, with some scepticism on my part,  cast our lures. to my astonishment and joy the hares rose to our bait as cast after cast we snagged them. Once hooked the animals fought hard, cutting zigzag courses through the meadow, one or two were lost when the line snagged on a tree. I was using a 10lb mono filament line and made a mental note to upgrade to a 20lb braided line next time.

By 10.00 pm we had a decent bag of 17 animals, no specimens but all of a good size, and as the last of the cherry brandy slid down our gullets decided to call it a night.

"Just time to catch the Cow before last orders'. Exclaimed Buffy.

Later, back at Buffy's house we hung the beasts on olive trees for the night ready for butchering the following day. We sat late into the night, celebrating our success with a bottle or two, listening the urban foxes as they congregated beneath the hung hares, salivating frustration.

Hare in an olive tree.

Line caught Kensington hare.
"Je weet nooit hoe een koe een haas vangt". I muttered in my drunkenness.
Well I Know now!

Sunday, January 14, 2018

The lies that bind us.

I love you, she told me
I know, I replied
we held each other closely
each knowing we lied....

Sunday, December 24, 2017

A Christmas tragedy.

Regents Park Christmas, not a mouse stirred
the fondue burned on the hob
setting alight the zoological caff
the meerkats were not doing their job...

No alarm was raised by any a beast
not gecko lion llama nor gnu
they all slept on contentedly
as an aardvark died in the zoo.

Yes an aardvark died in the zoo
an aardvark died in the zoo
while the keepers were listening to Flanders and Swann
an aardvark died in the zoo.

By the time the fire brigade got there
by an extremely circuitous route
the aardvark had met an untimely end
perfectly roasted en croute.

Now it's hungry work putting fires out
as any a fire crew will attest
so they fell upon that poor aardvark
in a mob of high visibility vests.

Yes an aardvark died in the zoo
an aardvark died in the zoo
it was not consumed by the ravaging fire
but by the ravenous Camden fire crew.

At the end of the meal, the aardvark all ate
they belatedly decided to thank it
so toasts were drunk and cheers went up
for that perfect pig in fire blanket.

Apologies to McGonagall.

Thursday, November 23, 2017

The muse with a Borderline Personality Disorder.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote: “All human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret.”

For the muse her secret life makes a mockery of both her public and private lives which are nothing more than a facade created in order to conceal the real person.

What follows is a sad tale of how mental health problems can cause profound misery to all who come into contact with one individual who is probably unaware of her illness.

Sunday, November 19, 2017

Divorcing parents could lose children if they try to turn them against partner

Interesting article in the Guardian:
Divorcing parents could be denied contact with their children if they try to turn them against their former partner, under a “groundbreaking” process being trialled by the Children and Family Court Advisory and Support Service (Cafcass).
The phenomenon where one parent poisons their child against the other is known as parental alienation, the ultimate aim of which is to persuade the child to permanently exclude that parent from their life.
Cafcass said it had recently realised parental alienation occured in significant numbers of the 125,000 cases it dealt with each year. 
Sarah Parsons, the assistant director of Cafcass, said: “We are increasingly recognising that parental alienation is a feature in many of our cases and have realised that it’s absolutely vital that we take the initiative. Our new approach is groundbreaking.”
The new approach will initially give parents the chance to change their behaviour with the help of intense therapy. Alienating parents who do not respond will not be allowed to have their children live with them. 
In addition, contact between the parent and child could be restricted or refused for a number of months. In the most extreme cases, the alienating parent will be permanently banned from any contact with their child.
Read on HERE

Thursday, November 16, 2017

Amanda Palmer - Mother.

I've taken the following from Amanda Palmers Facebook. Worth a read:

i've need to share a thread that i just wrote on twitter. listen.
first of all, i’ve never seen a more overwhelmingly emotional & respectful high-five reaction & from my community for *anything* i’ve made. so thank you. but something is really freaking me out:
in my entire career, i’ve never heard such silence from the press. a few of my personal allies covered this video (thanks to Xeni Jardin at boing boing and Holly Cara Price at huffington post) but despite doing my usualpress-release to the US and UK the day this video came out, the non-response has been deafening. not one single major press outlet will cover it.
i’m like: is it me? am i old and irrelevant? is it the video too hard for people? are there really *no journalists* anymore, like some of my writer friends have been telling me? is it really possible to make a project so massive and not even get a mention from a single music blog? it’s so WEIRD.
and i find myself thinking: what if i didn’t have the patreon? i would be SO FUCKED. i have never believed more than NOW that my community is becoming the Media Itself and that i have to turn my fragile-ego-self away from the idea that the press is going to validate my hard work.
and how ironic, given my vide & all of trump’s hatred of the Fake News Media. but maybe it’s like the death of anything dear. maybe we have to collectively grieve the death of Old Media and celebrate whatever is taking its place, and make that thing work.
in closing: this platform you are reading right now is strangling my reach, the media won’t alert you, i’m not on a record label. so if you want to support me, there is only one channel left to assure i can still work and connect and survive, and it’s the patreon. please, join. the end.
it looks like i'm going to need you more than i thought.
and fuck it.
we can do this ourselves, it's always better that way anyway.
i'm pro-webcasting tonight from a super-sold-out show at london's union chapel, start time is 7:15 and i'll post here. come join me and the rest of the weirdos.

Friday, October 27, 2017

Obese children to be banned from 'Trick or treating' on Halloween.

It was announced today that obese children will be barred from the annual begging and gorging festival.

Extra police officers will be on duty on Saturday evening checking the BMI's of all suspect kids. Those who are seen to be overweight will be sent home with a stern warning to their parents.

It has been suggested by health experts that appetite suppressants such as cigarettes or amphetamines should be provided as an alternative to sweets.

Many parents are furious, especially those who have spent a fortune on 'Fat Donald Trump' costumes for their thin children. They fear that their children will be wrongly penalised and may turn to donuts as a means of relieving stress.

Boris Johnson failed to comment.

Disappointment at Halloween.

Sunday, October 8, 2017


The bottom line is hope.

Without hope there is nothing; no ambition, no desire, nothing.

Hope is an horizon painted on a sheet of glass and seemingly forever out of reach; something to aim for, a goal...

Until you find yourself forced up against that sheet of glass.

There is nothing beyond it.

Saturday, September 30, 2017

Living with COPD

Photo: David Petch.

This should really be titled: Dying with COPD.  I'm desperately trying to find humour in this situation but there is none.

When I was a child I would, when in the bath, cover my face with a wet flannel. For some reason I got pleasure from this until breathing became difficult. I now spend 24 hours a day sucking air through that wet flannel and I cannot remove it. I cannot fill my lungs. All I can do is reminisce.

My GP has given up. The regime of drugs no longer brings much relief. I have been told that I must call an ambulance should things worsen. I'm pretty much house bound except for wheezing struggles to the local supermarket or an occasional pint at the nearest pub.  I spend my days wondering if it is now time to call that ambulance.

I've been considering the blogs and what I should, or should not, delete. I have decided to delete all save Pre-Pentimento and the poetry blog which may be of interest to a child in time. The rest is going including the video's on youtube apart from one, for the same reason. I shall be adding video diaries while I can.

I am collating letters, emails, statements and photographs relating to the past 5 years prior to publication. This is being done in order that I might have a say in explaining the shitty mess that the past couple of years have been.

More later...

Friday, September 1, 2017


There is an island, at least I think it is an island, it may well be a peninsula or a land locked continental state; I crossed no borders to get there, nor any sea that I can recall, one minute I was not there and then I was there and once there I thought of it as an island but one without any sea views or any boat to escape by not that I or any-one else on that island thought of escape for there was no-where to escape to that we knew of. We often inspected an unreliable bright place in the sky that constantly changed shape or position and sometimes vanished completely leaving us with little doubt that it offered no reliable refuge and what should happen if we arrived there on a day when it chose not to be there. How silly we would feel and how silly we should look to anyone who happened to be casually glancing that way at that time. And there was not a sea between us and that bright place upon which we could launch our hastily constructed balsa wood rafts necessary for an escape. And anyway none of us could swim and what should happen to us if some tsunami chanced our way and tossed us from our rafts and caused us to regret our foolish actions.
The island is a republic, or at least I imagine it is a republic for it has as absolute ruler a fraudulently elected despot of unimaginable cruelty and sublime poor taste. 
We live in crude dwellings while the Emperor lives in a palace constructed from the bones of our dead ancestors, the chandeliers that illuminate his grand rooms are formed from the delicate skeletons of stillborn children, we light our hovels with crude oil lamps that hardly light our hovels at all.
These oil lamps are each contained in a small pink cube manufactured from some strangely terrible material that reeks of fear and whimpers. Each cube, on one facet carries a cameo of the emperor in full regalia astride an unknown beast of his own design.
We have no beasts on this island, the emperors ate them long ago so we are resigned to imagining strange beasts, invariably forged in our nightmares.
We are each responsible for our own pink cube, we must tend the lamp and trim the wick. We must ensure the lamp never falls from it single strand of silk that rots in this tropical climate and must be replaced every hour on the hour, we have no clocks so must estimate the passing of each hour, we are natural comedians in that we have an innate sense of timing. We are not permitted to laugh under any circumstances. We take our comedy very seriously indeed!
The only law that we can rely on states that should one lamp go out or should one pink cube fall and smash on the packed earth floor below then the entire population of the island (save the Emperor) will be put to death. Put to death by whom we do not know but the threat alone is enough to keep us constantly tending our pink cubes (snatching cat-naps and meals (we have no sex lives to speak of) between re-stringing and wick-trimming) to ensure that they remain aloft and alight.

Fuck this for a game of soldiers. We are all going to die anyway, is it not better to die a free man and with dignity rather than tending the pink vanity of a bully and a tyrant.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Grenfell Tower one month on. Notes on a vigil.

Lost for words.

Despite living for a while in the shadow of the tower and having witnessed the unbelievable made horrifically real I felt like an intruder.

A community glued in grief came together in silence. A deafening silence. A numbing silence.

The emotional exhaustion is palpable, one senses that it is collective adrenaline alone that is holding things together. In a sense the local authorities inability to deal with the tragedy and the need for the community to take control meant that many were too busy to fall apart in the immediate aftermath of the fire.

RBKC demonstrated that it is not fit for purpose when it comes to 'Local Authority'. It has no authority here now. The only valid authority is in the collective hands of the community.

The fire insulted every sense:  Smell, touch, taste, sight, hearing and fear as well as those arcane, primeval, intangible senses that cannot even be named. As the fire died, an ember, a spark, ignited another sense: A sense that has been smouldering for centuries... A sense of injustice and enough IS enough.

At the vigil I sensed an almighty presence,  a collective ghost. Not here to haunt but to demand justice and change.

Shhhhhh.  Give it time to think and work out a plan.

Saturday, July 8, 2017

Lowkey, Grenfell Tower and Portobello Radio.

A rough cut of Lowkey's Grenfell thing first aired here on Portobello Radio. At 46.30 if you cannot be arsed to listen to the entire show. Gang of Four a little later.

Listen and weep and then rage.

Friday, July 7, 2017

Shit was the jackals last thought.

There once was a jackal, a lazy, greedy jackal who wandered the forest taking what he could find in
way of sustenance; small mammals, unwary birds and especially eggs stolen from unattended nests. It was a living but rather too much like hard work for his liking.

One afternoon the jackal came upon a peacock preening beside a pool, comparing himself favourably to Narcissus and Brad Pitt.

'Hello'. Said the jackal. 'Ding dong the dinner bell rings'.

'Hold your horses'. Said the peacock. 'I'm all feathers and sinew, all gong and no dinner, you'd find more meat on a petit four.'

'But I'm hungry'. Said the jackal. 'And I am partial to a canapé .

I have a plan said the peacock. and he explained: Let us enter the forest and while I mesmerise the beasts and the birds with my fabulous feathered fan you shall have free range of their nests and their burrows and eat to your fill.

And that is what they did, the peacock preened and recited Pam Ayers and Shelley whilst the jackal gorged.The jackal promised to look after the peacock in return.

That night the Jackal lay down with the peacock and they entertained each other with congratulations and fabulous tales of cowardice and treachery.

They carried on their symbiotic relationship for some months until one day the creatures of the forrest went to the peacock to complain about the thefts from their nests and burrows. Unbeknown to the peacock the jackal was listening from behind a bush as the peacock firmly laid the blame on the jackal.

That night the peacock lay down with the jackal. The jackal ate the peacock... Sure enough all gristle and pomp,  before choking to death on the wishbone.

'Shit'. Was the cock wielding felon's last thought.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

My 'post Grenfell' Utopian dream.

One result of the Grenfell disaster must be a complete change in attitude to social housing and the people living within it. Grenfell has opened a can of worms, the can is labelled Grenfell Tower but now opened we find the contents be, not the occupants but RBKC, successive governments and a privileged elite. For decades we have been miss sold the notion that poor people are the problem. It is time to turn that notion on its head.

A tower block is a village.

Villages traditionally grew organically in places that were not accidental or random but because of a natural resource or a social need: it may have been a river crossing, a water source, geological or agricultural resources, a major crossroad, a castle, a church, a need for a staging post for weary horses and travellers... The list is endless. As villages grew in size elements arrived to support the needs of the people...  The village pump or well, the pub, the baker, the village store, the village hall, the church, the village bobby. These services were provided by enterprising villagers or incomers who themselves became part of the community. Modern transport systems and the out of town superstore have put paid to much of the self sufficiency of small communities but much is still there, most importantly the village green which is sacred.

A tower block is a village.

Through careless planning, disregard for the inhabitants and thoughtlessness over the past 70 years or so these 'villages' have been erected throughout Britain. Villages intentionally created without the infrastructure that would allow soul or character to flourish. Multi story carcass parks.

My Utopian vision:

In my tower block there is:

A village green on the roof, planted with wild flowers, a children's garden, bee hives.

Within the building on a mid level floor that is open plan, a cafe and small kids play area by day then a peaceful meeting place in the evening, perhaps a gallery space too,  a place for  children birthday parties and the like. A social place, a village pump. This must not be stigmatised by the patronising title of 'community centre'. Multi purpose spaces can work, Westbank Gallery under the Westway is a good example.

A floor for teenagers with a pool table perhaps, a pinball machine, sounds,  a soundproofed practice room for the Joe Strummers of the future... Ask them what they want and, within reason, give it to them.

A shop or two.

A women only space, a refuge from men.This is not a modern concept, the W.I has existed for generations.

Four lifts, two stairwells, one built into a central concrete core to act as fire escape.

At ground level, a double height entrance lobby, lots of plate glass to break down the barrier that exists presently in such buildings with their steel doors and blank walls. A 24 hour concierge. A seating/meeting area (in an hotel this would be called the lobby lounge and would be considered essential).  Perhaps a small cafe  also catering for a seating area outside the building.  A lavatory/washroom.  I could go on.

My tower will not be clad. It will be painted on a 5 year cycle. The design/colour scheme will be decided by a competition open to all. It will be as dazzling as a honey coloured Cotswold village in its way.

The cost and practicalities. Where is the money going to come from?

Ring fence the council tax and rental income and plough it back into the building and its occupants. Put in place additional subsidies. Scrap Trident.

The services created within the building create jobs. Give those jobs to residents and provide them with training and support if needed.

Treat people with respect and they will invariable reciprocate. Treat people with respect and they will invariably respect their environment.

Regeneration should apply to the occupants as well as the real estate. This applies to all social housing schemes, not just high rise.

Trust me... I'm a dreamer.

Friday, June 30, 2017

Sick humour.

As I am now kept alive by a cocktail of drugs should I want to end it all I would simply underdose.

Boom boom.

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Stronger than the wood... Grenfell glue. Bravery and Post Traumatic Stress.

WARNING: Throughout the history of this blog I have endeavoured to speak my mind and as a result have alienated people. What follows is the contents of my mind right now. It will offend but it is not designed to offend. It is the contents of my mind.

I was informed today that I am displaying signs of post traumatic stress. I had already worked that out when I found myself walking in the middle of Ladbroke Grove defying the traffic to hit me.

I then thought of that definition of bravery: 'Grace under fire'.  

Hemingway used that definition.

Was that what he was thinking when he put the twelve bore to his head?

Grace under fire...

NO. He was thinking: 'I cannot cope'.

So I wrote this, but not to offend:

As a schoolboy in woodwork
melting unwanted bovine body parts in a crucible
to make glue
glue that bonded my shoddy magazine rack formed from raped-forest mahogany

Stronger than the wood that glue

In the crucible that was Grenfell
unwanted human body parts melted
to make glue
glue that now bonds a community

Stronger than the wood that glue.

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

What to do with Grenfell Tower now.


OPTION 1. Keep it standing, a blackened rotting tooth in this denticured gob called London... Once the horrendous task facing the counters has finished leave exactly as it is, leave the detritus, the ashes, the echoes of screams and the silhouettes of ghosts burned into the walls.

Keep it as it is save two things. Two entrances:

One marked 'The rich door' leading to an express lift to a viewing platform planted with wild flowers in memory of the dead on the roof, from where the whole of this 'fair city' and its injustices may be viewed save the tower itself. No one who is wealthy, greedy, bigoted or all three should be allowed access to this door.

The other, marked 'the poor door' leading to the single blackened stairwell that provided the only means of escape from the inferno and then into each flat, one by one and then finally to a vacant window hole on the 24th floor where there is one choice: either throw yourself from the window or throw your entire wealth save that you realistically need to live on to the good of the people. Only the wealthy, greedy and the bigoted will be granted access to this door and it will be compulsory to all.

Option 2. I lied about two options.

Justice for Grenfell. Official website.

I have cut and pasted this from Ishmahil Blagrove's Facebook post.

Thank you Mohammad Hamza for designing the Justice 4 Grenfell logo. A couple of other websites have appeared, however, the official website for the campaign is: please share and circulate this information so that people are aware of the official site:

Schrodinger's Nightmare. A post Grenfell Tower dream.

I don't sleep much these days... Haunted by a recurring dream:

I am standing beside a concrete structure, it is black and featureless, there are no doors or windows.  There are two tubes sprouting from it, one has a label 'IN' and the other 'OUT', a rubber bung hangs from a chain between them.

From this structure come the terrified screams of people in total distress,  I know who they are. It is unbearable to listen to but I am somehow rooted to the spot.

I have a choice, two options:

1. I can bung up the out tube in order to mute the screams from within. Condemning the occupants to eternal suffering in silence.

2: I can bung up the in tube in order to cut off the air supply. It will most certainly mean death to the occupants but it will put an end to their screams, their suffering, My suffering.

Thus far I have woken before a decision is made.

Awake now, 4.00 am, it occurs to me that I should toss a coin to determine my actions when next confronted by this nightmare and stick with that.

After all. I know that it is not real, no one will suffer. It is merely a subconscious philosophical exercise.

My inner child is shouting: 'Toss the coin'... His name is Kurtz and he is presently playing dominoes with Freud.

Monday, June 26, 2017

Scientology and Tragedy and other Grenfell Tower stories.

There was an extraordinary event yesterday under the Westway. I'll write about it later.

What I want to write about now is this:

As I walked to the event I spotted a bright yellow, high viz van parked adjacent to the flyover. The van informed me that it was the Church of Scientology.

Later as I sat in the garden of the Maxilla centre I noticed that same high viz yellow, this time on T shirts dotted among the crowds adorning those apparently part of the organisation.

The organisers of the event were wearing tags around their necks, one such man was also wearing a high viz yellow cap. I approached him, inspected his tag and asked if he was an organiser of the event. He replied to the positive. I then asked who was behind it all. He pointed to his companion's T shirt, you guessed it, high viz yellow emblazoned with the words: 'Scientology Volunteer Minister'.

I asked him to confirm that. He did.

I went back to my seat and my companion who was carrying a  professional video camera. We then sat and watched as the entire Scientology presence evaporated within seconds. They vanished.

I find this highly disturbing. The Church of Scientology is the last presence one needs in such a situation. They prey on victims, they prey on the marginalised, they prey on the weak, they prey on the confused and all they offer is the impossible. The implausibly sick impossible.

Why were they allowed anywhere near here?

To be continued