Black harp in a dark shed, Regents Park.

I like this harp, it is black and without embellishment or adornment. It is a harp that doesn't harp on about itself.

It is a Lyon and Healy number 30. Simple and elegant.

Kris Wilkinson Hughes at the Driftwood Sessions.

Wow

Maybe it is my age, maybe it is the autumn weather, maybe it was pure chance.

I've often said that the Elgin on Ladbroke Grove is the best music pub in West London which of course it is. On monthly wednesday nights Tom Moriarty runs his 'Driftwood Sessions'. Tonight I put the baby in the sink for safe keeping, kissed the muse then wandered down.

Kris wilkinson Hughes was playing… Yeah neither had I.  I have now!

It is pure joy to witness such virtuoso song writing and the performance of said songs by… Well by… People doing it as right as you can get. Kris Wilkinson and Joe Hughes, without any pomp or circumstance, without any flash young bling thing, just did it, made my day.

I don't understand music and for that reason do not go into intricate reviews. I do however understand emotion and tonight dear reader I wept. Kris and joe did a song called: No More I Love You's'. A cover of an Annie Lennox song I hear you say. Far from it, Joe wrote it and the two of them tonight imparted something that Ms Lennox never did.

A truly enchanting chance encounter… but not really.

Tom puts on a well worth attending night with his Driftwood thing.

The band that followed was called Farrago. I had time to listen to the first two numbers wondering whether this was jazz or blues or what. The band leader has a voice that makes you want to think about it. I wish I had more time.  I'm going to listen more to their stuff.

I had to leave early to ensure that the baby was not thrown out with the bath water but bumped into Joseph Dean Osgood on my way out. Joseph is at the Chelsea potter tomorrow night. Check him out.





Oh! The Elgin is free, the beer is reasonably priced and it is very civilised.

Russel Brand demonstrates that he really is Jesus in Parliament Square. Bonfire of his own vanity.

Showbiz correspondent Jan Nieupjur writes:

Russel Brand staged a demonstration in Parliament Square last night in order to vent his anger at the thousands of people who are refusing to pay to see his 'I am Jesus' show.

Brand stated: 'If all these people can afford to pay their heating bills I can see no reason why they cannot come to my show and see how brilliant I am'. He went on to state that:  'I've just bought a new house in Los Angeles and really need the money.'

Brand then went on to flatly refuse to hide behind a mask of anonymity preferring to be well and truly in the limelight.

Or was the light from the bonfire of his own vanity?

Operation Yewtree police guilty of gross hypocrisy?

Jan Nieupjur writes:

Having lived through the sixties and seventies and seen the way people behaved back then in the pre-aids let's get laid years I'm pretty disappointed to see that the coppers seem to have forgotten that they were accepting a quick fuck from underage girls in return for not nicking them for trumped up charges.

In the sixties none of my female contemporaries wanted a boyfriend of their own age... They wanted to get shagged by a DJ from the Radio 1 Roadshow and would duly bunk off school, dress like a tart, lie about their age and then hit on whichever DJ was there.

A lot of us knew that Saville was a pervert, a lot of us knew that Gary Glitter was weird (I know because I had some very weird conversations with Paul Gadd in the Stag near Banbury) a lot of us knew that underage girls took advantage of men... All of us knew that the police were corrupt and regularly abused their powers.

The guys I knew back then who joined the police force would regularly be seen at parties (in uniform) doing pills and spliff before going off to nick kids for the same and steal their gear.

In terms of corruption the police were and are far worse than those they police. Operation Yewtree seems like a way for elderly coppers to assuage their guilt about the underage girls they regularly sexually abused in return for leniency.

When are the police going to investigate the sexual abuse that exists within their system?

Real London.

Pizza delivery chaos in storm lashed Notting Hill. The domino effect.

Photo: Christian Banfield. http://schmick.tv

The pizza lovers of Notting Hill today awoke to this awful scene and the prospect of cold turkey for lunch. A spokesperson for the pizza outlet in question was still in bed and unavailable to comment on the situation.

Tuppence Hay-Penny, Emeritus Professor of wind studies at Brunel University, on seeing the image, stated: 'The high wind resistance of the boxes combined with the domino effect was the cause'.

I pointed out that they were not Domino pizza bikes.

She replied: 'The domino effect is when a rival pizza delivery company pushes all your bikes over'.

I spotted further evidence of the phenomena later in the day:

Brian Nevill, Boom Baby, Book and Kitchen, All Saints Road and memory.

Book and Kitchen is a small, idiosyncratic independent shop on All Saints Road: one of the few places in London where you can buy a book over a cup of coffee or lunch in very friendly surroundings. I've been walking past for a while, looking in and wondering.

Brian Nevill launched his book 'BOOM BABY' there tonight. I went!

They say that if you remember the 60's you weren't there. Brian was there and does remember thanks to copious diaries (and drug induced flashbacks?). I for one (was I there? I can't remember) am having problems remembering what Brian looks like... Some pictures should help:

Brian Nevill reading!

I'll be reviewing the book soon - I feel it is best to read it first if I can remember where I put the thing- I'll keep you posted.

Brian had a check jacket on and white shoes which was kind of rock n roll and I met someone I had been looking forward to meeting for a long time.

Brian Nevill signing!

Check out Book and Kitchen. You can find them HERE

And check out McZine Publishing : http://www.mczine.com

Bess Cavendish at the Elgin.

The Elgin on Westbourne Grove is by far the best music pub in the Notting Hill area, its one drawback is that the music room is also a dining area and a room full of nattering diners is sometimes hard to hold for the performers.

Not tonight though!

Before I go any further I should add that although I know Bess and have seen her perform a number of times I am not about to write an hagiographic review for that reason.... If I don't like something I don't review it. It is not my job to schmooze.

I frequently attend pub gigs with the good intention of lasting a couple of numbers before sinking my beer and sneaking out (I'm getting too old for this malarky) but not tonight. I lasted the whole set and could have happily stayed for another one.

Bess is now working with a new band: A great drummer and an accompanist on guitar who to my mind is the reverse image of Brian Jones (female, black bobbed hair.... you know where I am going).
The result is very very good.

High points were a cover of Gimme Shelter which brought me great joy and a song called 'Shoot Shoot' which oozes wit and a Rock Steady beat and should be a massive hit. I would be interested to see the writing credits for that one. Her penultimate number was seriously rocking and good too!

All in all a delightful evening not 5 minutes away from my front door.

And I wore a groove and a smile all the way home.

Croydon harp.

The Purdey's saw blade and the muse.

The muse likes this stuff. What she doesn't like is the fact that she has cut her fingers twice in as many days while opening the bottles.

The third and vital finger of the muse ripped by a Purdey's bottle top.

The thumb of the muse after a similar encounter with a Purdey's bottle.

The muse is a musician, as you can imagine cut fingers are not a great asset to a musician.

The very stylish Purdey's bottle is made of glass and has a metal screw top the retaining ring of which, when opened, becomes a mini saw blade with 8 jagged teeth. It is these teeth that do the damage.

I can only assume that the bottle top, along with the stylish bottle have been decreed by some very expensive and stylish marketing people in Hoxton because whichever way you look at it Purdey's is a carbonated soft drink made by (or at least owned by) Britvic and Britvic successfully package many other soft drink products in bottles with hand friendly lids.

Please can someone at Britvic inform me why this soft drink must come with a saw blade as standard?

A reason to live.

It has been said that living to an old age is just dying very slowly and painfully.

Good health is of course in its own way a terminal illness.

A chronic condition is a sure cure for that terminal illness.

Complications can set in of course - Add a new born child late in a mans life to the mix and you suddenly add a will to live (beat the illness and its cure) well beyond life expectancy.

I used to think that when time came to pass I would be content to go having done those things I felt essential. Not any longer though... Witnessing my new daughter achieve adulthood has now become essential which complicates things somewhat.

With chronic lung disease in late middle age my new daughters spring coincides with my autumn and in real terms the looming winter becomes an obstacle course. Colds and flu kill thousands like me each year (my mother died this way earlier this year). I carry a rescue pack of steroids and antibiotics in case I should pick up a cold or flu. The steroids themselves bring a lowered immune system and acute depression. The withdrawal process at the end of the course brings its own special misery.

I am writing this while suffering my second cold in as many weeks - Bunged up with snot, steroids, antibiotics, inhaler to open my pipes, inhaler to get rid of mucus and another inhaler to introduce yet more steroids. My daily cocktail is topped up with regular pain killers.

But by far the most effective relief is provided by a four month old child.

At the moment I hardly have the strength to pick her up yet she weighs no more than a bag of potatoes. My coughing alarms her, not because she knows what it is but because it is loud and raucous.

Sleep is becoming more difficult. I am constantly being visited by images of unbearable sadness and attempt to counteract this by drinking far too much in the hope of facilitating immediate unconsciousness in bed rather than a nightly marathon of horror.

But how do I  explain to the people I love that every time I close my eyes I do not count sheep but count the number of steps to the top of a multi storey car park and then consider whether I would have the strength to climb the parapet.

Waking from my hard earned sleep is somehow worse; a painful regime of inhalers and then waiting for something to kick in. This is accompanied by an extreme, unprovoked, bad temper which I know is both unacceptable and offensive. I am sorry but suspect that sorry ain't going to be good enough in the long run.

I am not proud of any of this.

I am however determined to see my daughter into her adulthood.

A reason to live.

I killed Jimi Hendrix.

I was fifteen. I don't know how old Jimi was but you can look it up on wikipedia. It'll probably lie.

I'd heard about the festival on the Isle of Wight, packed a spare T shirt and a sleeping bag and headed south. Luckily I was picked up by a bunch of hippies in a camper van heading for the island too. They sort of took me under their collective wing and looked after me in their way.

There was room for me in one of their tents and I earned my keep by rolling joints and road testing the pills they didn't recognise. The Isle of wight for me that year was something of a blur but I came out of the fog of uncontrolled controlled substances to witness what was to be an epiphany.

He looked like god would have looked if there were no heaven. He played his guitar like there was no hell.

But.

At one point he squirted his guitar with lighter fuel then attempted to ignite it with a book of matches... If you see the film of the event now it looks like it was a pretty effortless thing; guitar, fuel, match, boom.

But it wasn't like that. It took him for ever to get that guitar alight and I remember standing there thinking this can't be right as match after match failed to spark or gutted out.

I thought to myself that this god deserved better than that. His guitar should  spontaneously combust or at least be lit by a gold Ronson.

I carried those thoughts all the way back to Banbury and they never really left me.

A year later Chris called from London, he had been invited to a party in Notting Hill that he knew Jimi was going to be going to, could I come down?  I packed a spare T shirt and stole the Gold plated Ronson from the old mans office, I hitch-hiked to london.

Chris met me in Shepherds Bush and we walked to a place called the Tabernacle in Notting Hill; a kind of squatted old church but Jimi had left, he'd gone on to a party on All Saints Road but by the time we got to that party Jimi had left there too, he'd gone home but one of the guys there gave me the address and I decided to go and give him the lighter so he didn't need to go through the earthly embarrassment of wet matches at future gigs.

The house wasn't very far away in a kind of crescent, Jimis flat was in the basement but I was too scared to knock on the door so I sat outside on the steps and decided to wait until he came out again and then give him the lighter and explain that it worked first time every click even in the rain and he never had to bother with soggy matches again.

Jimi never came out and I sat there a long time sitting on the step clicking the lighter then clicking it shut.

At some time a couple of guys came along and stood at the top of the steps down to Jimis flat. They didn't seem to see me or if they did I didn't matter. they were arguing. The big guy was saying to the other guy in the suit that he didn't want to do it, that it was wrong. The guy in the suit said come on if we don't do this we'll be broke watching a madman try to write symphonies for a hundred electric guitars. We got do do this.

He said have a cigarette it'll calm your nerves. You'll see.

He gave the big guy a cigarette then tried to light it with a book of matches that were too wet then saw me sitting on the step clicking that gold plated Ronson on and off and said hey kid give us a light. I stood up and went over and lit the big guys cigarette, he smoked a few drags then said ok and the two guys went down into Jimis flat.

They came out a while later and the small guy in the suit gave me a fiver and said thanks for the light kid, you saved a life tonight.

I sat there for a long time after that until an ambulance turned up and they carried a body out on a stretcher.

I knew it was Jimi.


And I knew I had killed him.

I was the guy who lit the cigarette which calmed the nerves and steeled the resolve of the man who killed Jimi Hendrix.

Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

Steve Dior Band - Some Kind Of Saint.

The POP TARTS

I'm forming a girl band to be called the POP TARTS...

Applications are welcome from vacuous, slutty bimbos. An ability to sing is not essential.

Venus in furs.

I bought the guitar for Anna.

Why I was in Hamburg I cannot remember now.

Or rather I bought the guitar to make myself more interesting to Anna.

Anna.

She dyed her hair black when all the other girls were dying their hair blonde.

She hung out with artists.

The guitar was cheap and broken but it was a guitar and I guessed that if I carried a guitar she would assume that I could play it.

I couldn't.

But I could carry it around as if I could.

And I could carry it around as if I could play it better than any-one else could... I was the Hendrix of guitar poseurs.

Anna wore a mink.

Guymond suggested the old man, Guymond could see that my posturing with a broken guitar was getting me no-where, the old man fixed instruments. Violins mostly..

He lived behind the Reeperbahn above a shop. He was a Jew and had lived there through the war but I didn't ask how and he didn't say why.

He just did.

He asked me did I play.

He asked me why then I needed the guitar.

I told him about Anna.

He said: Oh yes Venus in Furs.

He said he'd fix the guitar but that would fix nothing.

The old man was right.

'GREEK' at the Linbury Studio Theatre, Royal Opera House.

Greek was Mark-Anthony Turnage’s explosive first opera. His version of the Oedipus story, based on Steven Berkoff’s verse play, burst onto the stage in 1988. Music Theatre Wales brings Michael McCarthy’s blistering production to Covent Garden audiences. It was a triumphant success when it was first seen in 2011 and won the TMA Theatre Award for Outstanding Achievement in Opera.

I saw this production last year in Huddersfield and thoroughly enjoyed it. It is very very good contemporary (not modern bollocks) Opera based on the Oedipus story. It is on on the 21st - 26th of this Month... Highly recommended.

Penarth pier.

Steve McQueen. Frog at large.

We found this charming fellow earlier in the year. He was hiding in a pile of rotting leaves at the front of the house. The boys decided to keep him as a pet so he was put in a box from which he escaped three times in as many minutes... Steve McQueen seemed the obvious name choice.

Excremental verse.

She said write me a poem
anything will do
I don't care if it is doggerel

I said I can't I am stuck
and the baby's eaten my paper
she said: Just write the fucker 

on bog roll

I said it'll be crap
tissue can't hold a rhyme

She said its 

super 

soft 

absorbent 

quilted 

pockets 

are just the job for your shit

and I've always wanted to wipe my arse on a poem.

Best joke in the world 2013.

The winner of the best joke of 2013 is the following:

I accidentally put Tipex in my ears instead of Otex... All I can hear is white noise.

Diana and Jade Goody statuette.

This is obviously a spoof. a very good spoof but a spoof non the less:

Yet it seems that a large number of people are taking it at face value!

Hmmmm.

Harp in the Park Lane hotel.

Farmival 2013. Meanwhile Gardens.

9/11 re-enactment proposed for Seoul towers.

This has to be the most thoughtless proposal ever. Dutch Architects MVRDV have unveiled this shocker. what are they thinking? More HERE

Pointless information on education. Reading is good for our kids!

A guest blog from Jan Nieupjur. As usual his views are not necessarily my own.

Jan writes:

I read this on the BBC website:

'A new study by the Institute of Education shows that children who read for pleasure are not only better at English but are also better at maths.

The study's co-author Dr Alice Sullivan explained to the Today programme's Sarah Montague the possible reasons for the results.

"It absolutely makes sense that you would expect reading for pleasure to improve children's vocabularies," she said.

"But I think that that also does improve children's ability to take on new information and new concepts across the curriculum."

She added: "A child who has a narrow vocabulary may constantly be coming across things they don't understand."'

For fucks sake the parents of kids who can't read can't read either and will therefore not read the above and not encourage their kids to read and the only maths needed by kids who can't read is simple addition to work out how much they have stolen from Grans purse.

The best plan is to enforce simplistic pictograms on Macdonalds packaging encouraging the use of condoms.

 

Sainsbury's guilty of environmental crime... String em up! That's what I say.

Sainsbury shit... Perfectly acceptable.


The above eyesore has been sitting outside the house for the past week. It is a trolley belonging to Sainsbury's with an ever changing collection of rubbish within (no different from the stores then). It sits in exactly the same spot where I placed bags of garden waste awaiting collection by RBKC some months ago which occasioned me to be branded an environmental criminal. Story HERE

Garden waste awaiting collection... Environmental crime scene.



It occurs to me that the useless jobsworths of RBKC must be receiving backhanders from the above mentioned grocer in return for turning a blind eye to their criminal acts or they can't work out how to stick one of their notices to a shopping trolley.

come on RBKC. sort your shit out!

And before you blame whomever it was who took the trolley from the store do the maths... Sainsbury's are happy to endorse rip off taxi firms plying their trade at the stores. Surely even they can see the sense of using a trolley which costs only a pound and on top of that you don't have to listen to the inane bollocks of the driver.

Come on sainsbury's... Provide free local taxis for people spending most of their income in your Monopoly store.

Oh. and where is that 98 year old bloke that Sainsbury's is proud to employ on 5 pence per hour to collect the trolleys? can't he walk this far.

Update. 28th September:

It is still here although the contents change daily. How long will RBKC let the rubbish pile up in our streets?

Portobello Film festival 2013 and spencer Hudson's Circles.

The Pop up Cinema on Portobello road is a wonderful, slightly scuzzy little cinema underneath the Westway. It's not a flea pit (fleas cannot afford the area these days) but it ain't the Electric either. Best of all it is free!

Last night saw the screening of the films entered into the film competition (the prizes are bronze trellik towers) and the awards ceremony.

The films as ever were collectively something of a curates egg, some of them not new but there was enough of interest to brave the pissing rain and it was good to see some old faces. I'm not going to bang on about all the films, I'm sure someone else will do that elsewhere, but I will mention two of them: Spencer Hudson's film,'Circles', which won the Local Films category is a delightful, well made and, as often is not the case in such things, well edited short which is well worth a look. The link to the web site is HERE


There is more about spencer and the film at the Source Magazine


The second film of note won the comedy treelike: Voodoo Moustache again was very well made and full of nice touches. Very stylish indeed, beautifully designed and if nothing else should put its creators well on the road to pop videos! Made by students at the National Film and Television School I believe.

Electric Bently.

Here it is folks! The first sighting of Bently's new Electric Continental Coupe.

Either that or some idiot with a rather grandiose idea of their own self importance parking where the hell they please.

I nicked the photo from Facebook... Tom Moriarty is the photographer.

Gratuitous photograph of a sunflower.

The Greenpeace banners Shell and Bernie Ecclestone didn't like a lot.

After the poets convention.

Hey Susie remember me?
May I have my jacket back
you borrowed it last night
while sharing a cigarette outside
with the Tall hungarian poet.

I didn't see you again.

Had he been a better poet
he would have wrapped warm words about you.
removing the need for you to borrow my jacket.

Or for me to write these words.

Baby's first smokes.

Rusty writes from Lizard Bend. Idaho:

Hey Tristan, Kirsty from the gun shop knitted little Morgan a dandy little hunting suit complete with pocket for his smokes. He aint quite got the hang of sucking on a Marlboro yet so we blow the smoke in his face... He seems to like it anyhow.

Duane from the gas station wanted to try him on some pot but I reckon the little chap aint ready for that yet.

Carnival 2013. Met Police PR team and the international formation pissing team.

Photograph: Steve Mepstead.


There are many photographs of the brighter side of Carnival on the inter web but this image is my favourite this year. It sums up the other side!

As does this photograph, from Getty Images :

For the residents of Notting Hill the lasting legacy of Carnival is the lingering stench of urine that pervades the neighbourhood for some time afterwards.

Maida Vale roller skate palace and club.

Carnival helicopter.

Perhaps the most annoying aspect of Notting Hill carnival is the constant buzz of the police helicopters overhead.

Mangrove Steel Band in All Saints Road. Carnival 2013.

The Friday night before carnival was always the high point for many locals. Recently the powers that be had stopped Mangrove Steel Band from playing in the street; it was traditionally the last pre-carnival rehearsal and an opportunity to play for the community but thankfully this year they were back. Wonderful!

Brilliant director Andre White is back behind the baton, Matthew is there behind the drum kit and so many familiar locals are making life good.

I find carnival itself far too crowded and intimidating so to be able to see these very dedicated people perform in the street on this night is magical. It is also magical to bump into so many friends and neighbours sharing the joy.

thank you.

Strangefruit - Sea of Fog.

This came my way via Orlando Seal (check out his band Orlando Seal and the Swell) it is dramatic in more way than one.

Gareth Cooper. Dead with You.

This cropped up on Facebook, I love it!

Six harps in the Albert Hall. Bantock prom review.

Not something you will see every day.

Hear them HERE

Jan Nieupjur writes:

While the Bantock piece was all very nice what a shame the BBC or the Proms powers that be did not take advantage of having six harps on the platform and more importantly six of the best harpists in the land in the house and put on a decent programme that could have been memorable and in my memory certainly a first.

Had there been six first violins from various orchestras on stage together we would never hear the end of it and imagine the kerfuffle had there been six tenors!

Editors note: Jan nieupjur knows nothing about classical music and even less about reviewing it but I owe him money and am obliged to publish his views.

Six harps.

The Obsidian eye.

There’s a guy who drinks in my local, Old guy, in his 80’s I guess, small and wiry, looks honest and hard working and always dapper in his black suit, white shirt and black tie, as if always waiting for a funeral or just come back from one.

The only odd thing about him is his eyes; he has one piercing blue eye and one dark brown, almost black. The dark eye is glass and ill fitting.

Last week I plucked up some courage and bought him a pint, sat down at his table, looked into 
the good eye and asked about the other one.

He started to talk without hesitation and with great passion.

In 1947 he said In 1947 I was demobbed and me and 3 mates went to Butlins for a week down Southend, we shared a chalet, all them chalets look alike and on the second night I got so 
pissed I went back to the wrong one didn’t I. I crept in in the dark so as not to wake the others, undressed and climbed into the bottom bunk and fell asleep. I woke meself up with a coughing 
fit and in doing so startled the girl who was sleeping in the upper bunk.

She mumbled something like she had a mouth full of pebbles and a moment later demanded “who’s that?’

I didn’t know then but I know now that she had a glass eye and she kept it in her mouth at night when she slept so as not to lose it and to keep it moist. She had popped it back into the socket, wet with spit, before demanding who I was.

I was pretty surprised to hear a girls voice from the bunk where me mate was supposed to be so 
I leaned out and looked up, as I looked up she looked down and her glass eye fell from its socket.

Our eyes met!

Fuck I said you’ve poked me fucking eye out, well you should have caught mine she said and what the bleeding hell are you doing in my chalet?

She sat with me in the doctor’s office as he scooped out my busted eye with a spoon and replaced it with a marble as a temporary measure. Six weeks later I had a brand new glass eye and a beautiful new wife. We were together for 60 years Trish and me. I buried her six weeks ago.

Before the funeral. He went on. Before the funeral I went to see her one last time.


In her box she looked as beautiful as when I first set eyes on her. A mad idea came into me head and I gently eased her glass eye out with me thumb and replaced it with me own. I put her eye into me head before closing her eyelids. I wanted part of me to go with her you see and I wanted part of her to stay with me.

This brown un was hers, beautiful colour ain’t it. Obsidian the poets call it.

The funny thing is, he said with a chuckle, the funny thing is she was such a beautiful woman people used to say to me. Stan, ugly little runt like you, how the fuck did you catch her eye in the first place and I’d say back with a twinkle in me good un, it’s more of a case of how I didn’t catch her eye what did the trick.

Barrington for MTV

Isn't this great... Barrington de la Roche.

An ormolu stool for the new Royal baby.

A nation rejoices
a nation is happy
for Morgana of Wales
has filled up her nappy

no signs of austerity
in her posterior dexterity
yet for her no diamond
or other rare jewel

no silver
no pearls
but the perfectly formed whirls
of a
golden hued,
curlicued
ormolu stool.

We wrapped it in tissue
sent it off to the issue
of the issue
of our dear Queen's eldest son
With a brief covering word
to authenticate the turd
as a born and bred, dressed in red,
Welsh number one.

Suggesting that
when they unwrap it
they have Gilbert and George snap it
for in turd matters they
are certainly no fool
And will quickly identify
reasons aplenty why
(in the words of the hip)
it is undeniably cool...

To be blissfully happy
with the contents of a nappy:

A golden hued, curlicued, ormolu stool.

Granny had a heart attack.

Granny's had a heart attack
in the outside loo
she wouldn't use the inside one
it simply wouldn't do.

She went and had a heart attack
in the outside crapper
built by grandpa Charlie
who used to be a sapper;
he built them in the Army
built them for the Royal Marines
standard M O D design
(other ranks) latrines.

The walls were rough cut timber
the roof, corrugated tin
and like all Army crappers
the doorway opened in.

Granny had her heart attack
door wedged against her knees
in the khasi in the garden
amid the courgettes and the peas.

We couldn't get in through the door
not even skinny Hilda
we had to take the roof off
so called in Pete the builder
who climbed upon the dunny roof
and peeled off all the tin

but

By the time he got to Granny
rigor mortis had set in.

He couldn't get her out of there
without cutting off her legs
and how Pete cussed that afternoon
about Army Khazi building regs.

You'll have to hoist her out of there
a local wag observed
not an elegant way to go...
And less than Gran deserved

for

Granny was a Christian soul
worshipped every Sunday
but granny had her heart attack
upon a secular monday.

So Mummy called the Fire Brigade
they came round with a crane
not an easy thing to do within
the confines of Pottery Lane.

They hoisted granny up and out
and over number seven...
It was not god but the Fire Brigade
who took Granny up to heaven.

Dark Night of the Soul ●▬๑۩۩๑▬● Featuring marycigarettes

Baby's first tattoo.

Rusty McGlint writes from Lizard Bend, Idaho:

Hey tristan.  Babs got liquored up last week with Fangio the pool guy and ended up in the tattoo parlour. she decided to get little Morgan his first tattoo!

I reckin that by the time he is done growing up that sucker will be the size of an eagle.

Cool huh!

By the way the changing mat is from the Damian Hirst babycare range in the Sears catalogue.

Tracey Bovington - Croisette. The unsung heroine of the royal birth.

From our Royal birth correspondent Rusty McGlint. As usual his views are his own and I certainly do not endorse all of them.

There is one name that will not be mentioned during all this royal baby hullaballoo and that is 'Tracey Bovington - Croisette'.

Tracey is the 'Queens screamer '; present at all royal births in order to give voice to the proceedings when things come to the shove. Obviously royal personages are above cussing and screaming, indeed, they have neither the temperament nor the vocabulary.

When I spoke to Tracey she informed me that it had been a fairly easy delivery requiring no more than a dozen or so F words and a rudimentary grunt or two. "A piece of piss". Tracey said. "Not like some I could mention had I not signed an NDA, but not the easiest neither - that was Fergie, who insisted on doing her own screaming and bloody good she was too!

When asked to describe the royal fruit of the womb Tracey said: "They all look like monkeys don't they".

A poem for the new prince... Husband to be of Morgana princess of Wales!

A poem written during a thunderstorm to celebrate the arrival of the husband to be of Morgana princess of Wales:

Rotund booming thunder
echoing the obesity of cloud

the light is flashy
but the darkness is enlightening

we lit a candle
there was no wind

until

Morgana farted.

Peter Hitchens... A religious experience at the Tabernacle.

Peter Hutchence... Religious fanatic.

Matthew Stadlen very kindly invited me to attend his 'head to head' with Peter Hitchens this evening at the Tanernacle W11.

It looked like a good idea!

I haven't been back to the Tabernacle since manager Chris Scholey left earlier this year and was curious to see how things fared... the courtyard is fabulous and the best lunchtime or evening spot by a country mile. The planting (for which we must thank Chris) is reaching puberty and softening the architecture splendidly.

I received a lovely welcome from the staff and JJ's new hairstyle behind the bar cheered the place up no end.

In the auditorium the air conditioning worked well.

I can see why Matthew Stadlen does what he does, he's good at his job and with another interviewee I would be happy to stay for the duration and would recommend it to anyone as a refreshing addition to what's happening in the area....

...But sadly I have no time for attention seeking religious bigots like Mr Hutchence (I can only assume that he is still reeling from the death of Paula Wilcox) who like the sound of their own self importance above all else, so I left to buy washing up liquid and soft brown sugar from Tesco.

Full marks to Matthew and the Tabernacle...

Matthew Stadlen head to head with Peter Hitchens at the Tabernacle.

I'm a bit late posting this. It's a new event at the Tabernacle tonight.

In a new series at The Tabernacle Matthew Stadlen interviews public figures before opening the interview up to the floor where the audience will be encouraged to ask questions themselves.

Stadlen is a journalist and documentary film-maker and has interviewed more than 200 guests for the BBC series Five Minutes With -

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/20066560. 

The well-known journalist and author Peter Hitchens will be the first guest to go Head2Head with Stadlen. Hitchens is a columnist for The Mail On Sunday, a frequent contributor to news programmes on TV and has written six books including The Abolition of Britain. He describes himself as a Burkean Conservative.

Details HERE