The Island Experiment and rock n roll poetry.

It would be incredibly naff to review an event in which I took part.  However,

The Island last night was great fun, Wade puts on a very good local showcase (rather than open mic) event but when I say local I don't mean parochial I mean it is in a 'Local' with a big loyal following which attracts acts from all over the place.

Last night's line up was consistently good with one or two demonstrating great talent. I'm not going to put a list here, there is a link to the Island Experiment fb page on the right.

On a personal level My poetry was kindly received and thanks to the presence of house bassist Patrick and Roger Pomphrey I was able to do my rock n roll poem with guitar solo. Always a high point for me when I find a willing collaborator.

If you are ever in NW10 on a Wednesday night You could do no better than get down to the Island.

My poem 'Poetry is the new Rock n Roll' will be getting another airing at Loco Cabaret @ the Grand Union W9 on Saturday night with Dan Antrobus providing the solo.

Rebecca Poole at the Cobden Club May 20th.

Catch Rebecca prior to her Ronnie Scott's Gig on 31st May and stardom. Don't just take my word for it: "Rebecca Poole is one of the brightest stars on the jazz soul circuit" According to Jazz Fm and she is at the Cobden Club W10 on the 20th 0f May. Her last single 'What Happened to Romance' was playlisted by Jazz FM and picked up by BBC Introducing. It is now available to download from Itunes. Rebecca is a farmers daughter from Oxforshire who fell in love with Nina Simone and Ella Fitzgerald. "I write songs that are a mix of vintage swing and modern day pop. I'm a true romantic so I think of old fashioned love and it's contrast with today and twist a bit of humour in".

Jake Emlyn. I Don't Rap.

Wade-aid: Orlando Seale at the Tabernacle W11. Plus lots more.

                                 Orlando Seale and the Swell


Wade Bayliss was back at the tabernacle last night for another of his Island Experiments and he has been tinkering with his formula since the last one.
The 'house band' being joined by guests set up has been replaced with a less chaotic running order of artists MC'd by Wade in his now familiar white jacket (a jacket which seems to get whiter as it gets older)


I missed IN XANADU and ANDY MITCHELL  but was in time to catch the indescribably cool  CUTHBERT 80 with JAMES SIMMINS & PATRICK LONG  and CHELSEA DIXON. 

HAYLEY TUCKER who gave us three songs with that belter of a voice of hers. 


Cool VALENTIN GERLIER arrived with a duet of vocal assistants providing the harmonies, replacing the advertised string quartet. He has some fine, well crafted and soulful songs.
  
I had not heard of JAKE EMLYN.

Why not? He has the appearance of the love child of Brian Jones and Marianne Faithful sitting elfin like behind a keyboard resplendent in red velvet and topper. his songs (he don't rap, he tells us. But he do) are joyfully observational, riddled with angst, insecurity, self assurance, Hilarity, naivety, wisdom and pathos, all delivered in a wonderfully camp manner. Deliciously funny and very very good. If Jake doesn't become a star there is something wrong with the world.


Wade and his band: PATRICK LONG, MARTIN SAVALE , JAYGUN, MATT WINN, MR TOM BONES + HENRY BLAKE played us through to the headline act of the evening:

ORLANDO SEALE AND THE SWELL. 


I've known Orlando for a couple of years, first saw him perform at the Troubadour and then he very kindly took part in one of my spoken word/music things in the Tabernacle bar in 2009. Things have moved on and Orlando arrived back at the Tabernacle with a 10 piece band (including strings, flute, clarinet and a number of drums) fresh from his BBC Live sessions success and blew the place away with a short but brilliant set. His band is very, very good and tight - orchestral training certainly brings discipline by the shed-load. Orlando's stage experience (he is a multi-talented man) shone through in his demeanour and commitment.
I am not going to attempt to describe what these people do save to say that it is Big in every sense , almost operatic in it's ambition. Orlando's lyrics are literary and lyrical, considered and there for a purpose. It's rock and roll for grown ups.
The set was far too short followed by the delightful scene of the man coming to the front of the stage for 10 minutes to chat with well wishers and new fans... By the way, Orlando is a babe magnet.


It was a consistently good night and testament to Wade's growing alchemy skills.The next experiment is in a couple of months.


Orlando Seale and the Swell are playing at the Union chapel London N1. on June 4th. It is a fantastic venue and it promises to be something special. 


I will be posting a separate blog-entry on Orlando and the Swell in the coming days.

La Belle Dame sans Merci 

JOHN KEATS

O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

       Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,

       And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

       So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

       And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,

       With anguish moist and fever-dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

       Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads

       Full beautiful—a faery’s child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

       And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,

       And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

       And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,

       And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

       A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

       And honey wild, and manna-dew,

And sure in language strange she said—

       ‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her elfin grot,

       And there she wept and sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

       With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,

       And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—

The latest dream I ever dreamt

       On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,

       Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

       Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

       With horrid warning gapèd wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

       On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

       Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

       And no birds sing.

For two voices.

He said:
I can't sleep
Are you awake
I can't sleep
Are you awake I can't sleep
I can't sleep
I can't sleep
Are you awake I can't sleep for thinking about you.

She said:
If you were thinking about me you would let me sleep
go to sleep.

The Royal Wedding.

I shall not be watching the thing and, beyond this statement, will not be commenting. To me Royal weddings are merely the precursor to the serious business of Royal infidelity followed by Royal divorce. All of which is fuelled by the press.

Leave the kids alone. Marriage is hard enough without the added pressure of being hounded 24 hours a day.

I shall not be writing a 'Wedding poem' either.

Poly Styrene. RIP. So sad.

This message came from Poly's team this morning:

Poly Styrene

We can confirm that the beautiful Poly Styrene, who has been a true fighter, won her battle on Monday evening to go to higher places. Love, the PS Team

Help save the Inn on the Green.

The Inn on the Green, Portobello. W11 is threatened with imminent closure:


Neleswa Mclean-Thorne writes:   "Well folks, our beloved Inn On The Green has come upon hard times. Their landlords are attempting to shut them down due to rent arrears; which The Inn have made every attempt to clear. However with the recession, followed by the local council/landlords cutting lobs and raising rents in the area, it has been a struggle. After many years of dedicated service to the community on Wednesday 13th April Inn On The Green were given 17days (until the 30th April) to "…clear the venue of all their belongings" A large group of patrons, promoters, artists and event organisers who have had the privilege of benefiting from the unique welcoming ethos of The Inn have come together. We plan to do everything in our power to delay closure by 6months so that we can have a chance to raise the money needed to save this invaluable community resource. What Can You Do? We have are having regular meetings in the venue at the moment all are welcome to attend and we will be posting them as they occur. We are also planning a protest outside of the Westway Development Trust Office (landlords), 1 Thorpe Close, London, W10 5XL - Wednesday 27th April - So far we are beginning to: - Involving Media, Print, Web, Radio - Contacting local MP's - Protest - Private Investors - Registering as a Charitable Organisation - Charitable Funding All in-put is welcome and appreciated so if you are able to make it down this evening please feel encouraged to do so, if not please do post any idea's you have... A Save IOTG Music Marathon event of music, poetry, comedy, performance art, exhibits (all of what the venue has encouraged throughout the years) is taking place from Saturday April 30th. In order to raise awareness, raise money in the short-term and boost moral. If you would like to be involved in the 24hr event please let us know. Details are posted on  Save the Inn On The Green. <3 to you all, thanks.





Ray Roughler Jones interviewing Mick Jones (no relation) at the Inn on the Green.

Loco Cabaret at the Grand Union.

Laid back.


That's the expression I was looking for. 


Loco Cabaret happens fortnightly at the Grand Union bar which is situated on the corner of Woodfield road in W9 (a two minute walk from Westbourne Park underground station) and overlooking the canal. Last night seemed like a good time to check it out. I know co-host James Simmins from past events at the Island and the Tabernacle and was curious as to what they were getting up to at this recently started residency.


I arrived early, bought a beer then sat in the garden watching the sunlight fade on the (let's be honest) turgid waters of the Grand Union canal. Flotilla's of ducks picking their way serenely through the water-borne detritus of city life added to the scene.


There was not a big crowd in the place (at one point early in the proceedings James was able to thank his audience personally and by name) but not surprising considering it was Easter Saturday during a heatwave and then suddenly beset by rain, fat meaty globs of rain which cleared the air but cleared the streets.


Laid back is what you get at Loco Cabaret, nothing pretentious or earnest, the sense that everyone involved was enjoying themselves was present and there was an interesting mix of acts:


Very good Jazz/blues guitar  from "Panama" Dave Parrett and Kalvin Zemzaris opened proceedings followed by Orson Deimel, Kosmic Troubador; who is quite frankly mad as a hatter and hilarious, Neil Anderson, the delightful Emma Lyndon-Stanford, Cuthbert 80 - rapper/singer extraordinaire and James himself with co-host Dan Antrubus. Dan along with Marty from Asian Dub foundation on bass gave us a refreshing take on 'Foxy Lady' (excellent). There was also Dave on djembe and Simon, & Christine on bass.



All in all rather akin to being at a party full of musicians and singers and the door onto the garden made smoking breaks a doddle.


The next one is on May 7th. I heartily recommend it. 


Downstairs @ The Grand Union Bar

W9 2BA - 45 Woodfield Rd

London, United Kingdom

Murray Lachlan Young's 'Burlesque' at the Drill Hall. Now called 'The Incomers'!

Update. April 2013: Burlesque has now become 'The Incomers' and is currently touring. Click on the photo (right) for details.

I witnessed something very wonderful tonight.

In a small black lined room beneath the Drill Hall in London a cast of four, directed by Paul Jepson,  performed a read through of Murray Lachlan Young's verse play 'Burlesque'.

'For fuck's sake a read through of a verse play.' I hear you groan. Well my biddies twas a polished piece of Cornish granite slapped onto the London clay.

The plot of course was truly bonkers and all the more real for that; Murray, in order to be a great humourist, is firstly a great and attentive observer of our times... Or perhaps his times. It involved the visit by a London cokehead, Porsche driving wideboy and his hot young squeeze to old friends in rural Cornwall. It was all about power and of course the power of sex and of course that power belonged to the hot young squeeze. It however (like shakespeare) never once looked to farce to save it's bacon. I'm saying no more than that.

A verse play of this ambition could have been an awful thing, could have been bum numbingly Art house, could have been perverse. Murray's play is a delight; Playfully funny stabbed by daggers of reality, relationship truths, lies and insecurities. This was Joe Orton, Dylan Thomas and the Angry young Men on coke. I wish Ken Tynan had been here to witness it.

The players: Rory Wilton, Mary Woodvine, Jerome Wright and Kirsty Osmon were impeccably cast and did their job with skill, enthusiasm and joy.

All in all seriously good.

The development of Burlesque has only been possible through financial support from the National Lottery through Arts Council England. It needs extra funding and support now and if you love good British theatre give it a boost. Check out www.murraylachlanyoung.co.uk to find out how.

Matthew Linley, the producer deserves a namecheck too: www.matthewlinley.wordpress.com

Viv Albertine's Debut Solo Album : Please Donate Now!

The Liar of Kowloon, Green tea, love and poetry.

My old friend So Su Mi, the fragrant oriental 'liar of Kowloon', dropped in today for a cup of green tea and a fish paste sandwich.

So Su Mi was the inspiration years ago for my poem 'Lying to me was the only honest thing she done'  and her habit of wearing plastic gardenias (sprayed with feminine deodorant 'to keep them fragrant') in her hair never ceased to amuse me. Whenever she visits she rifles through my notebooks for words to steal and I always count the silver when she's gone.

So Su Mi once stole my collection of dolls eyes.

So Su Mi is in love! This was the reason for her visit: 'I am in love'. She trilled as she entered the room. 'I am really in love. Really really in love'.

I gave her a chair before she had time to steal anything and poured the tea. 'Tell me about him'. I said.

She went on at length: 'He is amazing. He is not like any other man; he is handsome, he is intelligent, he does not smell, he is rich, he adores me, he is the only man I have ever felt was my equal, did I tell you he is rich....'

I allowed her to waffle on in this manner for a good half hour before interjecting with the question: 'And where did you meet him?'

'Oh we have only talked on facebook. He loves my poetry and is teaching me about the beauty of everything around me. I feel that I am on some special journey into an unknown land and he is handsome, rich, intelligent blah blah blah etc'.

'And what do you want from me So Su Mi'. I asked.

'I need some more poems to blind him with. I cannot fool him with my usual 'cut and pastes' from the Oxford book of Modern Verse. Give me some poetry'.

I handed her my Morocco bound, signed, first edition of the collected works of McGonagal having first 'bookmarked' 'The Tay Bridge Disaster'. Saying: 'Here. This should be perfect'.

She thrust the book into her faux Gucci handbag, smeared me with a sneering kiss and oozed oleogenously from my house.

She telephoned me twenty minutes ago. Telling me that it is all over: 'I hate him. He is a psycho after all. His profile picture  wasn't him and he isn't rich. He is a security guard at Tesco. I have called the police; his credit card was snatched back by the ATM when I tried to use it. He questioned my lies. He tried to make me pay for coffee and he is a liar'.

'What did he think of McGonegal'. I asked.

'Oh. I sold that shitty old book and bought some glitter'.

'Goodbye So Su Mi'. I lisped as I hung up.

The Handsome Family - Weightless Again.mov

The Handsome Family are coming to the Tabernacle in May... Yeeha!

The Wellcome Collection and welcome recollection.

Why do they allow people to walk around galleries touting back-packs? The Wellcome Collection is not the foothills of the Himalayas or the Brecon Beacons even; It is a fucking gallery.

DIRT The Filthy Reality of Everyday Life (Unnecessarily clumsily laid out within their self described 'Versatile Space'. Nothing more than a laboratory maze of an exhibition, quite fitting I suppose in light of Wellcomes origins) is a celebration of dirt.

Educational I suppose for the young but to me a depressing deviation from the interesting; promulgating the myth that education must always centre on shit. To me just a deviation from the good stuff. I have no interest in poking about in stools.

The cafe was busy.

It was a chilly, rainy afternoon and a curious venue for a meeting with a woman I had not seen for 40 years. An on-line question of identity had lead to this event.

As I waited for her (would I recognise her?) My head screamed: Run, never go back, never revisit the past: That forgotten dusty cupboard on some long lost landing.

But the cafe was busy.

That she is small and blonde is all I had to go on; there will be no school uniform now, no green bowler hat to tip me off. she will have to make herself known to me.

As it was I saw her first.

What fun.

Pear cider, Yuri Gagarin and flouting the law.

To celebrate Yuri Gagarin bursting my birthday balloon all those years ago I am drinking a bottle of Magners pear cider. It is very fizzy.

In my youth this stuff was called Babycham and came in tiny nip sized bottles. I can remember bringing home as 'carry-outs' from my under-age sorties to the village pub a bottle of Babycham for my mother and a bottle of barley-wine for the old man.

It was considered infra dig (for a teenager in those days) not to flout the drinking laws in rural England. It was OK though because the pub landlord was also the village bobby and would monitor proceedings.

It was a good system, as systems go, and as good systems go... It went*. Now kids have to make do with buying bottles of Diamond White to skulkily consume on the street.

* Apologies to 'Saki' H. H. Munro.

First Orbit

Yuri Gagarin stole the limelight.

April 12th 1961 was my 6th birthday. Yuri Gagarin orbited the World for the first time ever that day. I remember it well; he stole the show.

 I also remember seeing this photograph later in the year and thinking he didn't look much like a spaceman.

Yuri Gagarin posing with his wife Valentina and daughter Jelena on the beach in Glasma, June 1960.Photo: AFP/Getty Image

At just after 0700BST, 12 April 1961, Russian, Major Yuri Alexeyevich Gagarin was fired from the Baikonur launch pad in Kazakhstan, in the space craft Vostok (East), to become the first man in space.

Major Gagarin orbited the Earth for 108 minutes travelling at more than 17,000 miles per hour (27,000 kilometres per hour) before landing at an undisclosed location.

Gagarin Died in 1968 when his MIG 15 crashed in bad weather... If only he had flown closer to the sun that day.

Magnolias.

She came to visit

after twenty years of not a word

but was passing

was just passing

and as passing stopped

bringing with her the rusty key

to that locked and dusty room

called memory.

filling our heads

with the contents of that room

we then took a walk

in the spring sun

I led her to the April street

lined with magnolias

where for just one week

romance blossoms

alas too late

the blowsy meaty petals blown

smearing the pavement

with disappointment

'we are too late' I said

turning back

'we should have come here earlier'

and she asked when?

'Oh twenty years ago'.

(She came to visit

after all thse years of not a word

but was passing

was just passing

and as passing stopped

for long enough

to bear witness

to a seasonal disappointment).

Jooiijkaa!

The Idler Academy. The school for me.

we appear to be blogging live from the Idler Academy in Westbourne Park road W11. It must be Ok, I had to pass the Cow to get here. I'm meeting a serious fellow blogger and this seemed the place to do it. I am sitting in the garden, armed with wifi, a cup of coffee and a labrador for company. If I run out of ideas there is a wall of books to peruse. Incidentally, for local readers Books can be ordered at the Idler for following day delivery; use this place, it is a refreshing change from the usual vanity bikini shops that occupy this parade of shops.

Murray Lachlan Young is delivering a lecture here next week and they have a whole bunch of other stuff lined up... Check out the website: http://idler.co.uk/academy/about-the-idler-academy/

Will and Kate's Big Fat Gypsy Wedding

‘WILL AND KATE’S BIG FAT WEDDING © Alex and Rory Scarfe 2011, published by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd and available in all good book stores.’

Leslie Howard: The Man Who Gave a Damn.

At the Michael Horovitz thing last night I got talking to filmmaker Tom Hamilton about a Leslie Howard documentary he has been working on for some years. he pointed me in the direction of his web-site. It is a fascinating story and well worth reading.

He writes:

When film fans today refer to Leslie Howard, the most common memory is of the ineffectual Southerner Ashley Wilkes, which he played in “Gone with the Wind”

It’s ironic that he’s forever associated with a part he fought against in a movie that he never watched. It’s equally unfortunate that his somewhat colourless and disinterested acting in that film is often assumed to be typical of his career. For Leslie Howard captivated a generation of theatre and film-goers through the 20’s and 30’s with his beautiful voice, poetic appearance and low key acting style, and his performances on film are equally compelling and mysterious today.  READ MORE

Michael Horovitz picture poetry, cock and Bottle.

                                Michael Horovitz.

I didn't know it was happening until the last minute. Tracy invited me along (Tracy is about as rock n roll as it gets in this area) so I went.

we met in the pub that was once called the Chepstow but has now been completely ruined and renamed after a sofa.

Paintings by poets are a dangerous thing. After all (one thinks) if they were good artists we would be invited to hear poems by an artist; Daubing has more value than verse. As it was we were invited to 'picture poems, bop art paintings, Collages, jazz paintry, Prints and drawings' All on show in Pembridge Road W11.

It was fun and it was totally unpretentious. Michael was charming and disarming and his work struck a chord acting as a focal point for a birthday party. I went in two minds and came home in one.

Afterwards we grabbed a pint at the Cock and Bottle; the last proper pub in Notting Hill.

Sophie Barker at Ronnie Scott's, puppies and stiletto heels.

Last night was a good one and requires a bit of Back story:

12 weeks ago a friends Jack Russell gave birth to 2 pups. the music for the event was provided by Sophie Barker; the album 'Seagull' to be released in May: http://www.sophiebarker.com/music/seagull/ ).  I'd heard the name before from her Zero7 days but had not heard any of her solo stuff.

Last night I was lucky enough to get to go to Sophie's press/invite only gig at Ronnie Scott's. I went with the Jack Russells Mistress (the puppy stuff makes sense now doesn't it). I intentionally did not listen to any of her stuff beforehand; I much prefer to hear someone live the first time, free from bias or pre-conceptions. In the cab on the way there I learned something new about stiletto heels

The room upstairs is fine for small occasions (but it turned out to be no small occasion) with the band set up under a skylight (it was early evening and still light outside) providing an odd combination of Jazz Club and daylight. Ms Jack Russell knew enough people there to make it a friendly event from the outset. A good number of Sophie's friends appeared to be there too. There was also a slightly spooky coincidental 'small world' moment for me: Long story, won't bore you with it here.

Sophie is a talented lady with a great voice, she has (in 'Seagull') produce that rare thing: An album of consistently good songs most of which she performed beautifully last night, backed by a very tight and very competent set of musicians. All in all it was a delightful surprise to hear grown up music for a change. If you ever want a demonstration of how to showcase versatility in both song-writing and performance you could do no better than to get to one of her live shows. Early on in the proceedings Sophie was momentarily distracted by a pigeon flying overhead which caused her to produce a memorable smile and set the tone for evening. Her set was too short for my liking. I left happily clutching a promo copy of her album; it will be played regularly!

All in all a joyful event.

We tried to get a tri-shaw back to Notting Hill but made do with a cab. I'll tell you about the stiletto heels another day.

Michael Jackson Statue unveiled in Fulham.

GOOD GRIEF!

Personally I prefer this one...

Guest blog: An Anarchist writes.

I received the following in the mail this morning from someone calling himself 'Darryl X'. I publish it unedited. 


I am an Anarchist. Er, actually I am an anarchic situationist which sort of means that I like to create unrest where I want without the constraints of political or social conviction. Basically I just like trouble, breaking things, fights (but only with people smaller than me who I can hit with a stick safe in the knowledge that they won't fight back) and setting fire to rubbish bins in posh streets.  I blame my parents, more precisely my mum and my third stepdad who bought me a copy of 'Now that's what I call Anarchy Vol 1' (K-Tel records) back when I was a kid to shut me up when I was bunking off school and they were in the pub. I learnt all my political stuff from that record; the Sex Pistols, the Clash, Sham 69, Jilted John. They were my heros (except Jonny Rotten has gone a bit swervy selling butter on the telly; butter is a symbol of the subjugation of animals my girlfriend Debbie says. She says yoghurt is OK cos it was the food of heroes like Ghengis Kahn).

Now I'm growed up a bit I have found that there is an empty space in my brain for stuff like that again. I did a degree in Social studies and Banner semiotics at Cheam University until I was chucked out for not attending. Ducking college filled my time back then but now I have plenty of time for politics and stuff and I read loads about Bono and Nelson Mandela.

I am not associated with those UKuncut kids; I just latch onto their marches and stuff.

'What do I want?' I hear you ask.

Well as an anarchic situationist, I can't speak for the others they are laws unto themselves, I want the following:

1. An end to government; governments are bossy and worse than my 4th stepdad.
2. Much higher unemployment benefit for political students such as myself in order that we can eat better while planning an alternative to government (hard brain work).
3. Better NHS and designated ambulances for us victims of brutal Police attacks.
4. The Police must not be trained so well or wear body protection. It gives them an unfair advantage in a riot situation.
5. Death to all the government lackies of the press who criticise us just because thay are told to by Rupert Murdock.
6. Meat is murder. Debbie told me to put that in as she is dead against killing animals for food.
7. Free everything and an end to taxes except for all the fatcats earning over £22,000 a year. Free love.
8. Free prescriptions for my psychotic medication and ESA for all 7 of my other personalities.
9. The legalisation of skunk.

And obviously I want Anarchic situations at all times except at the benefit office in Lisson Grove W2.

POWER TO ME. THE PEOPLE CAN GO FUCK THEMSELVES!

Editors note: I just publish this stuff. don't shoot the messenger.

Fortnum & Mason Press release leak.

I have just been 'leaked' a draft copy of the Fortnum & Mason press release regarding Saturdays occupation by self styled anarchists and the Attention Seekers (actually the'New Attention Seekers'; formed when Judith Durham left the original band to go solo) which resulted in massive publicity for the store and world media coverage.

It reads as follows:

On Saturday 26th of March the 1st battallion of the Fortnum and Mason Advertising Regiment mounted a successful campaign to plant the London tea shoppe firmly in the minds of future tourists and revolutionaries around the planet and ensure that a visit to the noble retail outlet will be a 'MUST'.


The team was nobly assisted by the rebel Chaist group of radical tea drinkers led by 72 year old 'Wolfie' Smith (late of the Tooting Popular Front) a television dentist and Marxist 'SitComist'. Who will turn up without fail at the demonstration of envelope opening come rain or shine.


Saturdays action continues a long tradition of association between F&M and fighters for peoples rights; John Lennon wrote 'working Class Hero' in the Tea room, Bowie and Bolan penned their populist anthems 'Rebel Rebel' and 'Children of the Revolution' while working as broom boys in the gents barbershop within the store.
The Black Panthers were formed here and the Communist manifesto was thrashed out over F&M muffins and a pot of Earl Grey.


The Chaist group would like it known that they disassociate themselves completely from from the Ritz Anarchaist Three who at one point in the proceedings attempted to steal the show, upsetting a spirit burner on the F&M samovar in Jermyn Street causing serious photo-ops.


A son et lumiere tableaux of the 'riot'(sponsored by Legal & General insurance) will feature as the central motif of the F&M Christmas display this year.

The power of money or money bullies.

My father was a difficult man.

At times he was a good father if somewhat erratic. At other times he was a monster; a tyrant and a bully. He had few friends that I can recall. His sense of humour was invariably based on humiliation and always at the expense of another. He bullied his children because his children were the witnesses he could not get rid of. ironically his children had no idea at the time of what they were witness to... We were witnesses to his bullying for a start!

I think he was an unhappy man and a troubled man. He developed a system of transferrance to deal with his monsters; he beat me up and he beat others up (but I'm writing this so I'll stick to me. The others can fend for themselves). I could furnish a small house with the list of cudgels he used for walloping but a shoe was preferred. I learned to accept this and until I could get away I allowed it to happen. It was his THERAPY, at cubs I should have won the 'junior psychtherapists' badge with ease if only it existed. I suppose it helped form me; I'm happy enough with myself and what I am so must be grateful to him for that. at least I didn't conform and turn into a replica of the man as my brother did.

When I started writing this I made notes; I noted down 'thoughtless acts', I was going to write that he committed many thoughtless acts but that would be wrong. A great deal of thought went into those supposed thoughtless acts.

In 69 or 70 he bought a ridiculous car. It was a gold Mercedes Benz 280SE 3.5 convertible. In Banbury it stuck out like a sore thumb. I hated it; I hated sitting in it, roof down, open to the gaze of the local population, open to the scorn and jealousy of other kids (I was spat at once by a skinhead. Middle England was full of skinheads at that time). I was no longer the child who could take simple joy from sitting in one of his exotic cars. The car was an embarrasment and I was sitting smack in the middle of it and on top of that the embarrasment could be ostentatiously driven about town.

One afternoon driving through Banbury in that ghastly car, heading north on the Oxford road approaching the Cross (remember that fine lady upon a cock horse) he slowed then pulled over. He took a twenty pound note from his pocket and handing it to me said: 'Run accross the road and get me a box of matches'... There is a cigarette lighter in the car, why does he want a box of matches?

I crossed the road, entered the tabacconist's shop that stood there 40 years ago and asked for a box of matches. a box of matches which would have cost 1p at the time. I handed over the note. The shopkeeper gave me the matches, looked at the note, groaned perhaps, certainly scowled, looked at me, looked out across the road at the old man in his golden charriot. The shopkeeper handed me the twenty pound note back saying take the matches they are a gift.

I returned to the car, handed him the matches and the twenty pound note, recounting what had taken place.

He looked at me as the car accelerated away and said: 'You see Tristan. The power of money. If you only had had pennies in your pocket you would have paid for those matches'.

But power wasn't the right word was it because a bully really has no power... Just weakness and a big stick.

Oh. If I could live that moment over again I would tell the shopkeeper to keep the change.

A self-combusting father.

One has not lived until one has seen ones father self combust.

My own particular rite of passage of this variety occured in a Newmarket toyshop when I was 11 years old. My father and I often frequented toyshops then but then again they were more than simple toyshops; we were model aircraft enthusiasts, we were not after toys but the makings of our machines and these shops were the source of our balsa wood, our glow-plug fuel, our tissue and dope that smelled of pear drops, our balsa adhesive (which my father also used to staunch the blood on his often lacerated hands, I still use glue to this day to seal small cuts on my hands) which had its own addictive smell... strange my memory of childhood hobbies is a series of smells more than anything else.

We were browsing as only men (separated from the womanfolk) can browse. There is nothing frivolous about model shop browsing, it is imbued with earnest endeavour and a purpose not extant in any other kind of shop (unless you a a car nut in which case Halfords might inspire similarly). To aid my fathers browsing he sucked upon his pipe. His pipe that could be relied upon to do one thing; that one thing was to go out often, caused perhaps by the greasy black shag he incinerated within it. He relit his pipe frequently (like all fires, pipes are most enjoyed during the lighting process, the arsonist becomes passive thereafter while the fire goes on ahead without assistance. He relit his pipe often with a Swan Vesta from a yellow box decorated in green and red  with not only the name but also a fine looking swan emblazened on it (although I never did understand what a swan had to do with starting fires, perhaps it was biblical; I didn't listen in R.E). Being a tidy man my father would return the used matches to the box and the box to his pocket.

On that illumminating day (did I also discover the pun at that moment?) My father lit his pipe, then, distracted by the cornucopia of model making paraphenalia about us, he returned the match to the box before it was properly extinguished. He returned the box to his cavalry twill trouser pocket, sucked hard on the briar with a contented gurgle as the contents of the match box in his pocket exploded.

He was sensible enough not to try to put his hand in to retrieve the incendiary device so was reduced to dancing around that toy shop flapping at his smoking groin with glue spattered hands much to the delight of his son and the disapproval of  an assembled audience of hobbyists and shopkeeper. If I were an overly imaginitive boy back then I would have said that the glue on his hands caught fire... But it didn't.

He eventually put out the fire, removed the match box, slid it open to show me the serried ranks of now welded together matches, blackened and acridly smoking (another smell to add to my collection).I cannot remember if the subject was ever raised again, I'm fairly sure I recounted the drama to my mother and siblings on returning home. I cannot remember if my father laughed. I hope he did, I really hope he laughed. From that day on he used only safety matches and always ensured that his used matches were placed sardine-like back in the box, the hot ends safely away from the unlit ones.

Elizabeth Taylor. RIP.

There will be enough written about the passing of Liz Taylor without me adding to it except to say I cannot remember the world without her until today. This photograph sums her up well. It also has the benefit of Burton AND that diamond.

Advice to the broken hearted.

My old friend Rusty McGlint dropped by today for a cup of tea and by the look on his face, to share some misery and no doubt some tale of a picaresque nature.

'What's up rusty'? I asked. Rusty then told me.

                                 Rusty McGlint


'It's like this. It turns out that Lula Mae has been lying all along and then some. she has been selling me snake oil from the day we met and I have been buying it. I got a cupboard full of snake oil but I ain't got it in me to sell it on so I guess I'm stuck with it.  On top of that she is a bigamist; got a husband in every state and three in Alaska (on account of the cold nights she tells me), and our marriage is as illegal as the next man's and a damn sight uglier. On top of that she has turned into her mother and her mother is a woman I never could take a liking to (even after twenty ounces of bourbon on a stormy night). When I pointed out to Lula Mae that she was caught out with her lying and all she took against me in a most vicious way.'

Rusty oh Rusty! Rule one: Never confront a lying woman with the evidence of her lies, it is fatal and the cause of more domestic strife and murder than the rest put together.

Rule two: All women become their mothers, Oscar Wilde pointed out that this was their tragedy. The best plan when you find a woman you get a hankering to afford some permanence in you life is to seek out the mother and marry her... At least you are Getting the reality from the get go. You ain't never going to get disappointment creeping in and spoiling Shangri la.

Rusty seemed pretty happy with that and poured himself another cup of tea.

The inanimate muse.

from now on I shall stick to the inanimate muse.

The other kind, the living kind are far too egocentric and predictably unpredictable. The other kind sees the artists canvas or the poets paper purely as a looking glass and a servant to her self perceived beauty. The poet must describe her with words of glowing colour, the artist must lay on strokes of lyrical brushwork. Both pandering to her vanity.

from now on I shall stick to the inanimate muse.

I shall be the one moving for a change and write truthfully about an object rooted to the spot as apposed to trying to make some sense and some poetry from a flighty creature darting about my room demanding insincere flattery dressed up as honesty.

From now on I shall stick to the inanimate muse.

I shall be the one to pack my bags when the moment suits and take my art elsewhere (to places where suffering only exists in the paintings on the walls or in old dusty books describing Circe or Calypso). Free from suffering for my art I shall luxuriate in the suffering of others at the hands of the animate muse.

Incredibly good video especially for cat lovers.

Spambeg and Spambegging. Or is that Spamburg?

Until told otherwise I  shall consider myself the inventer of these words.

Here is my favourite example:

Good day sir/madam

I am sorry to burg you,my name is Mr.John Galvani, I have a very urgent business
proposal worth(£15,500,000.00 Pounds Sterlings) from my new private offshore
bank (first trust bank). Please email me at(johngalvani@w.cn)for details

Best Regards,
Mr. John Galvani




I feel somewhat burged by this but will not be galvanised into action.

Become a successful writer overnight and lie your way to self delusion.

You are going to kick yourself for not doing this long ago... It is so easy.

Step one:  Log into www.peopleperhour.com, register, then post a fantastic profile of yourself remembering to include all of the characteristics you fantasize about having. Do not be shy; big yourself up.

Step two: Create email accounts in a number of  false names; two or three will do but if you ain't got anything better to do with your time then why not a dozen. Make sure there is some ethnic diversity in the names chosen (a couple of Jewish ones helps) and invent a short profile for each. Make sure that they are all in publishing or journalism. You can also mention these fabrications in your blog and your 'real' world for added authentication. A facebook account helps too. You can then message yourself regularly; birthday and Christmas greetings add a human touch and make you look genuine and popular.

You are writing fiction already. A great start.

Step three: Log onto www.peopleperhour.com then, using each of your invented characters, write yourself glowing testimonials. Try not to write them all on the same day though as that looks a little suspicious.

Here is an example: " brought her years of expertise in writing and natural flair and passion to this project to create a valuable sales and marketing tool for my company. Highly sought after freelancer, would recommend thoroughly and she made a daunting task seem easy and handled a tight remit and deadline with grace. "


Or how about this:  " is a tru pro, loves what she does and delivers excellent content, always on time."


Ok. you are done. Now go out there, cut and paste from anything that takes your fancy and pass it off as your own. When applying for jobs just refer people to your peopleperhour.com page and away you go.


You are now a successful writer.

The Idler Academy launch party and a Cow on good form.

Thursday evening saw the launch of the Idler Academy in Westbourne Park Road, W11.

Such was the size of the crowd attending the party that is was impossible to swing a cat, even in an idle manner. Characters not seen for many moons turned out to wish the venture success; I am not going to name-drop though (that would be far too uncouth). Absinthe flowed freely throughout the evening... Sensibly I avoided the stuff.

The Academy, a combination of bookshop, cafe and venue for edifying lectures is a welcome arrival in this little corner of West London which is a haven of calm midst the madness of  Portobello/Notting Hill.

Drinks were taken afterwards at the Cow next door (which stands exactly half way between my garret and the Academy) where, by happy chance, a good number of the local crowd had gathered to frighten off the tourists. Just like the old days.

Poly Styrene diagnosed with cancer.

X-ray Spex provided part of the soundtrack to my life in London in the late 70's.

Polly; a genuine eccentric has now been diagnosed with cancer... Let's pray that she can beat it.

Meanwhile:



Update. April 26th 2011.  Sadly Poly has lost her battle with cancer. She will be missed.

Cornish Pasties under threat from Alien imports.

A new Armada threatens the British despite EU protection.

I am hearing disturbing reports from my contacts in Cornwall of Spanish pastie bakery ships, masquerading as trawlers, massing off the coast. Apparently they have found a loophole in the EU law protecting the Cornish Pasty and are able to freely and legally call their products'Cornish Pasties' as they are manufactured within British territorial waters. These ' Cadiz Pasties' are being snuck ashore at night (using ages old smugglers tunnels) and transported to bakeries and shops throughout Britain.

If this were not bad enough I am reliably informed that these Spanish monstrosities not only contain shards of carrot but are crimped along the top.

Enough is enough! The theft of our pilchards by those Spanish blighters for the illegal Stargazey pie industry should have been a warning to us all.

time to fight back... Time to flood Andalucia with Paella made with basmati rice and Arbroath smokies.

A new theatre in Notting Hill.

I'm losing my edge. Or just not noticing what's going on any more!

A new small theatre has opened on Hereford Road W2 in an old print works; giving rise to the name the print room. I noticed it on my way back from Westbourne Grove, poked my head in the door and was greeted warmly and invited in to have a look round.

It is neither a conventional theatre nor large (seating 80) but it is just what we need; Notting Hill, for all its bohemian strutting, is criminally short of venues such as this. It has the feel of a place that has passionate people behind it; again something that the area is short of.

Currently 'Snake in the grass' by Alan Ayckbourn is playing.

Good news indeed... Let's go!

www.the-print-room.org

Original Grayson Perry doodle.

There is a Grayson Perry doodle for sale on ebay: http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/Original-artwork-Grayson-Perry-Artist-Turner-Prize-/290533005630?pt=UK_art_drawings_GL&hash=item43a51dd93e#ht_723wt_1139

Royal Wedding sick bags.

I found this on the interweb at: http://www.lydialeith.com/

Available to buy at: http://lydialeith.bigcartel.com/

The Idler Academy coming to Westbourne Park Road.

The Idler is to open its academy http://idler.co.uk/academy/ on Westbourne Park Road on March 1st. Handy for me it is but a 30 second idle stroll from my front door.

Beckham, Mubarak and beer.

OK.  I waited well past 8.00 O Clock for Mubarak to speak... I was aiming for the Cow and a well earned beer but the Egyptian kept me waiting only to hear that he ain't going so I head to the pub...

Only to find David Beckham hogging the seat by the fire.

Surely both Beckham and Mubarak can afford their own fires and leave the Cow fire to the locals.

I like a chat at the bar with the locals normally but when I am confronted with dull stares over Egypt but animated enthusiasm over a past it footballers I worry.

I worry.

Annie McClue Childrens verse by Murray Lachlan Young

This is Fabulous. A demonstration that the kids get all the really good stuff.

Chrysler Eminem Super Bowl Commercial - Imported From Detroit

Gary Moore Dies.

He was only three years older than me for heavens sake.

I never really got into Thin Lizzy at the time. Maybe we should listen to some now!

Killjoy alert on the Portobello Road.

Ryan O'Reilly; prince of buskers and regular Saturday attraction sent me this message today:

Ryan O'Reilly 05 February at 14:03 Report

Hi Tristan, just thought you'd be interested for your blog that we got properly got moved on today. some guy in a suit came up and disturbed our crowd then forced the PCSO's to remove us (against their will as they kept saying) he lived all the way down the road and as you know we don't use amps. couldn't believe it, then he rather laughably said he'd bring a bat to sort us out next time. The PCSO's said that they'd missed a street robbery because of his constant complaining. Anyway, sorry for the rant but like I say if you wish to mention it in your blog then please feel free.
all the best.
Ryan

What the fuck is wrong with some people? 

Portobello has been here for a long long time. It is, on Fridays and Saturdays, a bustling noisy street. The buskers are part of the attraction for the thousands of tourists who visit each weekend. Why the fuck would 'man in suit' want to move here in the first place?

Maybe he enjoys the cachet of a W11 address. He is obviously suffering for his 'chicness' and should relocate to Pinner immediately and leave Portobello and the rest of us to go about our lives.

The White Stripes have split up...

From the White Stripes Website

The Ryan O'Reilly Band - Gypsy Tree