Saturday 19 July 2014

Kitten found safe and well in Gaza.



























The Russians may be shooting down airliners and the US backed Israeli's bombing women and children but the world can sit back and relax in the knowledge that a kitten has been found alive in the debris of a bombed out Gaza house.

The owner of the cat, who would not give his name, said: 'My entire family was wiped out in the blast but this little fellows safety makes it somehow worthwhile'.

An emergency UN meeting has been called in order to celebrate the safety of the kitten who has been name Jesus by the regimental rabbi of the 3rd Bethlehem Butchers who found the animal stating that the little fellow seems to be able to perform miracles.


Editors note: Sadly little jesus was killed in the stampede of journalists rushing to cover the story.


Israel targeting the Kingdom of Heaven ?





















I am getting reports that Israeli rockets are targeting areas of the kingdom of heaven in order to eradicate the Palestinian women and children it has sent there. Are they mad?

David, who sells falafels down the road and therefore knows as much about the situation as anyone tells me that Jesus promised them the kingdom of heaven but for reasons of disbelief they turned it down, however they now want it and will do what they like with it and there is certainly no space for Palestinians in the Kingdom of Heaven.

According to other sources American pro Zionists are funding a stairway to heaven as a means of moving the heavy artillery up there.

Jimmy Page declined to comment.

Saturday 21 June 2014

Jesus's 'Book of Miracles' found.
















A well preserved fragment of parchment unearthed in Palestine appears to be the journal of Jesus of Nazareth. From the parts that have now been deciphered it appears that Jesus kept a record of his daily activities including details of his 'miracles'.

One excerpt reads: Sermon on the mount.  good turnout at the rally today, 50 thousand at a guess, not too many hecklers. Got a bit hairy at lunch time though… Mary came to me and said there was going to be a riot if we didn't feed them all and all we have is a few fish and some bread. I said don't fret Mary, I know these people, they are all sitting on picnic baskets but don't want to bring them out in case they are asked to share with others. Once they see food going round they will all suddenly discover their own stashes and tuck in. I bet we have loads left over at the end.  I was proved right as usual and another 'miracle' was born.

Another: Turned water into wine today… Visited a local merchant who was expecting us,  I asked for wine for myself and the crew, the guy said: 'Sorry. Times is hard, all I have is water.'  I know my merchants well and suspected that he had filled his wine jar with water in anticipation of our request for refreshments and put the wine in the water jar.  So I says, quick as a flash, I'll turn your water into wine and before he could stop me I poured a glass from the water jar… Sure enough it was wine. Another 'miracle' done and dusted…


Wednesday 18 June 2014

The curious incident of the bread in the park.




















This is a pile of 'designer' bread dumped today in the corner of the little park on Tavistock Road. It raises a number of questions:-




Sunday 8 June 2014

Boo's reviews No.2. The Red Lemon.

An occasional guest review type thing. Written by a child who knows about stuff.



It is hard to find a pub to review within walking distance, I'm only one and can't walk that far and the elements seem to be conspiring against pubs these days, especially around here.

If the poet pushes me the first 200 Metres I can consider the Red Lemon to be within walking distance. I'll review that then.

I've been drinking in the Red Lemon all my life, I've been drinking in the Red Lemon since it opened. I like a drink… My tipple used to be milk but I've moved on to water now but I invariably take my own to the pub. The poet and the muse drink pub drinks and they say that the Lemon sells draught beers and stuff at very reasonable prices unlike other pretentious places in the neighbourhood.

The staff a friendly and invariably wave back when I wave, they sometimes pick me up which is comforting when you fall over in the pub. I fall over a lot right now but I'm getting steadier.

There are sometimes parrots in the Red Lemon.



I didn't know what a parrot was until I went there so I can honestly say that the place is educational.

The decor is stripped down Victorian, painted grey throughout but not austere. There is sufficient soft material in the place (banquettes and blinds) to stop the place being the echo chamber that so many trendy pubs become.It is my opinion that high ceilinged Victorian rooms demand big blowsy velvet drapes and stuff to absorb all the echoes from the punters therein. Pubs and breasts are very similar, they should be soft and warm and inviting. Ask any man or baby.

The food is good and sensibly priced according to the poet and the muse, they take me there for lunch sometimes. I invariably get a piece of bread which is both good to eat and good to throw. I have yet to be scolded for throwing bread so must surmise that bread throwing infants are welcome.

On saturday mornings when I drag the poet to the pub there are often other children there with their dads in tow. The place has newspapers for the grown ups to read while us kids are people watching, beguiling grumpy people into smiling, gummily pulping inappropriate stuff and things like that.

All in all the Red Lemon is a good, family friendly local pub with far better than average food and sensible prices. It is rarer than hens teeth in this part of London.

The Red Lemon is on the corner of All Saints Road and Tavistock road. W11.


Thursday 29 May 2014

Racism in the UK today.



Jan Nieupjur writes:


I read today that 25% of the population is openly racist. Add to that the 50% of the other 75% who weren't being honest that gives you a figure of 62.5% of the population as racist in some shape or form. Full marks to UKIP for tapping into this. My prognosis is that the Tories will move to the right to capture this voting mass, Labour will move back to the left in an an attempt to regain some honour, the Lib Dems will go back to buggery and shooting dogs (apologies to anyone who does not remember the glory days of the Liberals), UKIP will vanish and the Green party will remain a single issue party without a hope in hell. Shoot my dog If I'm wrong Jeremy Thorpe.

Wednesday 28 May 2014

Terry Gilliam's Cellini at the ENO and stage door security.




















This is a bit of a coup. It is a photograph of the set for Gilliam's production of Berlioz's opera 'Benvenuto Cellini'  for the ENO at the Coliseum which opens next week.

Stage door security was crap!

Details HERE 

Tuesday 27 May 2014

UKIP openly pissing in the swimming pool.



The United Kingdom is riddled with intolerance, bigotry, racism and prejudice. No one is without guilt and no one is more guilty than our political parties.

Let us consider the UK as a public swimming pool… Everyone is quietly pissing in it as they swim, we all know this and we all accept this. It just is!

Along come these UKIP chaps and instead of doing the normal thing of getting into the water to disguise the pissing they are openly standing on the edge pissing in on everyone else.

Everyone else is screaming 'foul play' while they continue to piss themselves.

But the truth is that the pool is full of piss and a little bit of honesty will actually cause discussion and hopefully, action.

Tuesday 13 May 2014

Death of yet another Portobello pub and bad news for dolphins.

























The Market bar (latterly Shannons) was once reason enough to come to Portobello Road, it was quirky and original until the health and safety jobsworths interfered. Now it is closed!

The basement is being dug out in readiness for a sushi restaurant and bar.

Sushi, to my mind, is the emperors new clothes of the food world. Over priced, pretentious and as useful as origami or feng shui. I cannot see it doing much business on that site, the tourists only want a slab of street food and the locals will not be able to afford it. The Bankers do not stray that far down Portobello, they get nose bleeds passing All Saints!

A new sushi place means more tuna being caught, more tuna fishing means more dolphins getting killed in the process… An origami butterfly flaps its wings in Portobello Road and a million dolphins die on the other side of the planet.



Thursday 1 May 2014

Boo's reviews No: 1. The Electric Diner, Portobello Road.

An occasional guest blog by Morgana, the Sultana of Boo. Her views are not necessarily my own.


One of the first truth's I have learnt in my short life is that it is far better to have just enough money rather than shedloads of the stuff. If you have too much money you forget what a treat is and ones life flattens out into a salt pan of excess. Just enough money means that one can have a real treat that doesn't involve flying to the Seychelles in a private jet.

It is the Muse's birthday today so I took her and the poet out for lunch, a late lunch, at the Electric diner which is attached to the cinema (which in my opinion should show more films like Bambi) which is part of the Soho house chain.


















Inside it is nice, because it is a long tunnel of a space it feels like a tunnel but with light at the end of it but without any trains. There is a long bar on one side and booths on the other. We had a booth and I got a clamp-on baby seat which meant I could stand up in it yet still be strapped in. This is important as I spend most of my time practising standing at the moment with a view to walking soon.

The staff were lovely and the service great, I made a point of smiling at all of them, my fur coat was much admired.

The Muse had chicken in a honey glaze thing and the poet had a burger and fries. I browsed from their plates.  It is Diner food but very up-market diner food and very good.

No one complained about the mess I made and when I threw in a scream (of joy) or two no one raised an eyebrow.

With two glasses of wine and a pint of beer the bill was very reasonable and no more expensive than a number of local 'gastro pubs'. They also do a good kids menu and if you have a cinema ticket the bill is halved which makes me think it would be a cool place for a birthday film/dinner type treat for a young lady… Especially if they were showing Bambi.

When we left the poet left his phone behind but the waitress came after us with it. that saved a lot of swearing I should think.

In all a treat for not much money in an interesting place with friendly staff and, unlike the Seychelles, no danger of being bitten by a crab.

Anyway. If you live in Portobello Road you don't need to be rich because your life already is.

NB. Only nylon animals were harmed in the making of my fur coat.







Sunday 27 April 2014

The influence of Brautigan on my poetry.


















When people ask me
who influenced you
in your poetry
was it Brautigan?

I say
no it wasn't.

Chez Lize, Bringing it on home.

This video came my way accidentally. I was curious about what the film maker did.

What the film maker did was to bring something home to me.

I'm lucky, I've got a home.

On top of that it started me thinking how in our wonderful society the mentally ill are the ONLY people blamed for their illness…. They are blamed for their illness because we don't know how to handle it.

The junkies, the alcoholics, the obese, they are allowed to blame an age, a society, a culture but the mentally ill must blame themselves because of course our age, our society, our culture is above imperfection.

The people in this film are beyond blame and beyond responsibility and something bankers should note before they dive out of the 34th floor is that they are (and should be) happy knowing they are cared for.

In the old days we looked after the needy. In this modern day we don't because they don't earn a buck.



Tuesday 22 April 2014

The KPH Ladbroke Grove: The worst pub in London and nothing more than a clip joint!

I'm fucking furious!

Vince Power took over the KPH a few months ago, spent a few quid giving it a lick of paint and now manages it himself. So far so good.

A very old friend has his birthday today, he chose to celebrate the day with a drink in the KPH; his local. I turn up, Chris (a teetotaller) offers to buy me a drink, of course I refuse and buy him one.

NOW GET THIS… One pint of Heineken and one soda water with a splash of blackcurrant cost me £9.00. That's right, NINE FUCKING POUNDS! The soda water cost four pounds.

You bet I'm fucking furious.

I told the barman that that was the last drink I will ever buy in that pub.
























A crowded KPH, customers 3 deep clamouring for the most expensive drink in London.




Vince Power has painted the inside of the pub green. No doubt to match the colour Vince Power thinks his customers are.

If you are in the neighbourhood of Ladbroke Grove please don't think the KPH is a local boozer, it is not. It is a clip joint pure and simple and Vince Power should be ashamed.

Now Vince Power is a man who should understand that the 'pub' is a working man's institution, posh people with posh pockets go to flash places with accordingly flash prices. By doing what he is doing Vince Power is insulting his own kind. He is taking the piss and then selling it on at four pounds a pint!

Avoid it like the plague.

Sunday 20 April 2014

What Easter is really about: Destruction of the rain forests.

Now, I think I have got this right:

A rabbit was crucified for impregnating the Roman Emperors pet chicken.

























When taken off the cross the rabbit was thrown into a briar patch. Unbeknown to everyone, the rabbit was not dead and scuttled down a hole into his warren to re-appear some days later and be heralded as the Messiah.

The hen laid a dark brown egg. The hen was equally revered.

We now buy 5 million tons of chocolate eggs in order to celebrate the union of the rabbit and the hen each Easter. To meet the demands for chocolate eggs the rain forests of the planet are being destroyed in order to make room for vast Palm oil farms  (hence Palm Sunday) to supply the oil which is now the main ingredient of cheap chocolate. The deforestation and the planting of non-sustainable plantations is having a major negative effect on the planet.

If we really cared about the planet and the cycle of life that Easter originally celebrated before the Christians got hold of it we would be planting a native deciduous tree each spring and boycotting the chocolate industry.

Happy Easter!

Friday 18 April 2014

Over milked Dylan

I doubt if any of the people at the BBC planning to make money out of the Dylan Thomas Centenary have even read or listened to Under Milk Wood.




Gideons bible red,
red as the Portobello sunset;
the eyes of the coke snotted producers schmoozing the Electric.

As

they plan

an




Over Milked Dylan.






Thursday 17 April 2014

Pink moon sighted in Portobello Road.


Tesco, rotten fruit and best before bollocks.




















Tesco sold us these yesterday. the label says 'best before the 17th April'. I'd say they were best a long time before that.

And it now seems that Tescos was better a long time before that orange overestimated its value by 25 percent.

Caged by harp.





















Bristol Banksy is not a Banksy. And why should we complain about graffiti in Cheltenham being defaced.
















This isn't a Banksy but a forgery perpetrated by that old scoundrel Jan Nieupjur who would do anything for a bit of publicity. I also know that Banksy was playing bingo in Pinner at the time it was put there.

Loves a bit of bingo does Banksy.

I read with interest that a lot of folks are complaining about Banksy's Cheltenham graffiti being defaced by, wait for it, graffiti.

For fucks sake graffiti is graffiti, it is all illegal, there is no hierarchy in graffiti. Graffiti exists because it is mildly anarchic. You cannot seriously expect to take this seriously when what it is really about is property owners wanting to capitalise on the defacement of their property and then getting pissed off when someone else comes along and defaces it.

Banksy is obviously sniggering over this one.




Tuesday 15 April 2014

Portobello Photography Gallery






































A welcome addition to Portobello Road and a pleasant change from the usual rubbish aimed at tourists the Portobello Photography Gallery is well worth a visit.






































"The Portobello Photography Gallery is devoted to offering hand-crafted photographs direct to the public at an affordable price.  
Created by London-based Photographer Paul Anthony and fellow enthusiast Matthew Cunningham, the Portobello Photography Gallery will exhibit an evocative range of vintage and contemporary photographs from original glass plate negatives to hand-printed x-rays.
All Black and White images will be crafted solely by Melvin Cambettie-Davies, a leading light in photographic toning and fine art printing. Owner of Master Mono, Melvin has over 46 years of experience in the photographic industry enhancing the images in his own inimitable way. 
All colour c-type photographs are professionally hand-crafted at Isis Laboratories in Clerkenwell, London."

The gallery website is HERE

Sunday 13 April 2014

Portobello Green: A shithole 'enhancing the lives of the community'.

These images were taken in Portobello Green this afternoon,  the little green oasis littered with the detritus of the drinkers and junkies that make the place unsafe for the community. The pond life cannot even use the bin situated next to the bench.
What is WDT thinking when they say that this 'Enhances the lives of the community'. It does not.






























The sign says: Alcohol free zone… Joke





















even bigger joke!...

Saturday 12 April 2014

Jaygun Crichlow. Die 4 u video

I've known Jaygun for a few years, our paths cross occasionally on Portobello Road or at local gigs. He does what he does very well.

Nice video too, filmed locally.



Roger Pomphrey. Noel Maclaughlin's Guardian obituary in full.

As is the norm the obituary that Noel wrote was not the one that appeared in the Guardian earlier this month. Here is the obituary in full:

Roger Pomphrey 
A tribute to the renowned and hugely loved filmmaker and guitarist who died aged 60


   


A late-night bar in West London, summer 2013 - The Paradise by way of Kensal Rise. My friend, film director and musician, Roger Pomphrey, is treating the packed room to his trademark soaring blues guitar, a weekly ritual he greatly enjoyed. On this occasion the renowned guitarist has realised that his makeshift band’s vocalist has vacated the stage leaving the microphone free while his fellow musicians swing into a slinky down-tempo groove. Undeterred, Roger takes up the lead vocal slot – not something he was in the habit of – as he preferred to let his guitar do the not-so-gentle weeping. He was to further surprise the enthusiastic throng, most of which were well-accustomed to his musical talents: instead of singing, he treated the audience to a wry and funny improvised rap, which detailed insightfully and succinctly, the social injustices wrought by the current coalition government; his expressive guitar licks creating angry, spiralling spider’s webs to accentuate and underscore each point. Much of the power in this performance arose from the incongruity. Roger didn’t possess a rapper’s vocal authority and timbre – his voice was more English in the mode of Ray Davies than Chuck D – but it was all the more affecting for it. He brought the house down. 
This potent mix of music, oppositional politics and caustic humour was a key aspect of his character. This was, after all, a man who had been an integral part of the infamous Warwick Castle Group, a loose agit-prop collective that included Joe Strummer and Keith Allen in its ranks, and named after the Portobello Road pub in which they met, planned and schemed, agitating against, among other things, the gentrification of that famous London street and the corporatisation of an area with a rich and healthy history of cultural, political, and of course, musical dissent. 
Indeed, while struggling with the liver cancer that eventually took his life in King’s College Hospital, Roger – or Dodge as he was known to his friends – was required to undertake an interview, a routine procedure for patients in his condition. One of the stock questions on this questionnaire (no doubt designed to assess the patient’s mental, as well as physical, welfare) was, ‘are you confused? ’ He nodded ruefully, all faux solemnity and Bambi-eyed. When asked to qualify his answer by the nurse, her pen poised in readiness, he responded in typical Dodge fashion with a twinkle in his eye: ‘Yeah, I’m confused... How come one per cent of people have all the wealth and the rest of us – the 99 - are left scrambling around in the dirt trying to make a living?’ And swapping politics for the surreal, he added … ‘And volcanoes, how deep do they go? How close can you get without being incinerated?’ He even managed to convince the nursing staff that a group of close musician friends were going to have a band practice in his room, replete with drum kit and amplifiers, but assured them that ‘we’ll keep the volume down and be sure to finish early’. This good, yet penetrating humour, along with his generosity towards others, stayed with him right up to the end. Exhausted as he undoubtedly was by his illness, Roger made sure each and every one of the many visitors who congregated around his hospital bed had nothing less than his full attention, charm and wit. 
Roger was born to Fred and Audrey in Fishponds, Bristol where his father had a heating engineering business. He was the middle of three brothers, Rick and Chris, with an older sister, Elaine. As a teenager he showed exceptional promise as a guitarist and, with his brothers, would experiment with elaborate, highly-improvised sound-systems in the family home and garden, much in the spirit of the sonic explorations of his beloved Jimi Hendrix, and a desire to push what was possible with the instrument.
Indeed, pushing boundaries, taking risks and restless experimentation were to mark his life and his work. He attended Alexandra Park Secondary Modern in the Fishponds area but left school without sitting any exams, determined to pursue artistic, rather than academic avenues; although he was in no sense anti-academic, and was an avid reader (WW2 military history being a particular favourite), had a fond appreciation of good cinema, and possessed of tremendous intellectual energy and curiosity. He quit a job as a lathe operator in his native Bristol and decamped to the US for a period in 1976 which reinforced his love of west coast rock: The Eagles, Santana, but especially Little Feat, whose song ‘Willin’ he performed particularly beautifully. 
Roger came to some kind of public prominence as a guitarist with Eurythmics, co-writing two songs on the band’s debut album, 1981’s In the Garden. This underrated record featured Kraftwerk producer, Conny Plank, and members of legendary German band Can - Holger Czukay and Jaki Liebezeit – and Blondie drummer, Clem Burke, and is musically noteworthy for its novel hybrid of English pop and Kraut Rock rhythms (although it performed relatively poorly in commercial terms). The album demonstrates that Roger’s considerable guitar-playing abilities extended beyond the blues paradigm into a more experimental, post-punk realm. But he departed the group before their breakthrough to enter the world of filmmaking, and it is a director that he is most widely known. 
He truly did personify the well-worn, if little lived, adage of ‘working your way up’ in the industry. He started out as transport captain on Mike Leigh’s feature film Meantime (1984), where he became firm friends with Tim Roth; to runner; to assistant director on Channel 4’s The Comic Strip Presents (1982- ) - an especially important period, as it was when he began his longstanding friendship with the Allen clan of Kevin, Keith and singer and goddaughter Lily – and on to directing.
Dodge directed the first video for friends, and fellow Bristolians, Massive Attack with 1990’s ‘Just a Matter of Time’ aka ‘Looking for Tricky’. This experimental short film, shot in grainy black and white, is redolent of David Lynch’s distinctive and noirish early work. It was to set an important aesthetic template for the pioneers of trip hop. ‘We are so sad to lose our friend, the great Roger Pomphrey’, Robert Del Naja of the seminal collective has said. ‘He was a lovely man and a brilliant filmmaker. He inspired us to treat each video opportunity as a movie-making experience and paved the way for collaborations with other great directors like Baillie Walsh, Jonathan Glazer and Walter Stern to name but a few. He will be greatly missed’. 
Other important works about music followed. Among his triumphs, he directed what many aficionados regard as the finest film about Jimi Hendrix, The Making of Electric Ladyland, for the renowned Classic Albums series (1997). He also directed The Alchemists of Sound (2003) a documentary history of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, a programme revered for its rich and innovative photographic style; one that conveys the very distinctive, and quirky, world of that cultish collective. Who the Hell is Pete Doherty? (2005), follows the controversial singer at the height of his fame, graphically relaying the chaos surrounding Doherty and his entourage. For Channel 4 he directed a film series set in the US, Beyond the Groove (1990), produced by friend and former band mate, Dave Stewart. This episodic and idiosyncratic six film series featured appearances from Tom Petty; Eurythmics; Dr John; the Neville Brothers; the Womack family and Harry Dean Stanton amongst others. 
While films about music formed the core of his work he was, by no means, reducible to this. Away from music, he directed the hugely popular, Three Men Go To Ireland (2009-10) with Dara O’Briain, Griff Rhys Jones and Rory McGrath, and Whine Gums (2003), a series about performance poetry for the BBC which included kinetic routines from new and established figures in that world: from Murray Lachlan Young to Benjamin Zephaniah. Moreover, Roger had a flair for directing comedy – perhaps borne of his own distinctive and avuncular sense of humour – and the fourth session of the Armstrong and Miller series demonstrates his skill in the form. This versatility doesn’t stop here, however, and Roger has directed programmes on a whole variety of topics, from cookery to social injustice, such as ‘On Pain of Death’ (2005) for the Dispatches series. 
The award-winning, Life, Death and Damien (2000), about Damien Hirst, is a particularly impressive part of Roger’s oeuvre in its innovative filming of the artist’s work, and is full of long, slow graceful tracking shots and painterly compositions which exemplify how music and rhythm informed his distinctive, and poetic, approach to visual style.
He was also a passionate and talented chef who enjoyed hosting elaborate feasts for friends and loved ones; even cooking each summer at a variety of music festivals (where he was known as ‘the camp chef’) for his close friend, the late Joe Strummer. The Six Nations rugby tournament was a particularly momentous occasion, as Roger, a fanatical rugby fan, would gather together a coterie of close mates around his large kitchen table. The ‘tradition’ on these occasions was to ‘eat the enemy’, and Dodge would cook up wonderful examples of the opposing nations’ cuisine. After food and sport he would DJ, cranking up his vintage Bang and Olufsen sound-system, selecting eclectically from his extensive record collection (all vinyl, of course). Roger especially loved playing guitar and strapping on his battered, yet cherished, Fender Stratocaster. In makeshift line-ups he was lucky enough throughout his life to have played alongside, and on occasion recorded with, some of the biggest names in rock and pop, including Mick Jagger, Joe Strummer, Bono and UB40. Or rather, I should say, they were lucky to have him. One such occasion he really loved, and where he could play with such key figures, was at the annual Gang Show at the Groucho Club in London’s Soho, where in many ways he was the house band. 
All in all, Roger leaves behind an impressive body of work: over 400 films, television programmes, music videos and concert films (George Harrison; UB40; U2; Dusty Springfield; Simple Minds; Pet Shop Boys; PiL and many others). He even co-wrote Terence Trent D’Arby’s hit single, ‘Wishing Well’ (although, alas, he remains un-credited). Despite this impressive creative résumé, he was in no sense smug or self-satisfied. Rather, he often felt he’d under-achieved and frequently expressed an ambition to direct feature films for the cinema; and it is such a shame, both for him and for audiences, that he never got to do so. In the same vein, and to return to his improvised rap at the beginning, on departing the stage he came bounding over looking for reassurance concerned he might have made a fool of himself (in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary), a sign that self-assurance sat alongside a healthy self-doubt, even self-deprecation. Roger was never an over-confident big ‘I am’. 
But perhaps more importantly, he was a respected, hugely loved and widely known figure in his home area of Notting Hill, where every year since the late 1990s, as a local community fixture, he directed the star-studded Notting Hill Pantomime, a charitable event his name became synonymous with. He also freely donated his considerable and energetic directorial skills to Mick Jones’ Rotting Hill TV, a local community project-cum-television series featuring a host of artists from Alabama 3 to Beth Orton, with The Rotting Hill Gang as the house band. He even managed to perform on the series, playing guitar, and arranging, a sublime version of a song, that for obvious reasons if you knew his hair, could have been an ironic anthem for him: Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s ‘Almost Cut My Hair’ (well, he did cut his own hair, but it was never anything shorter than about a foot long). It is an arresting interpretation of the famous hippy anthem, and much of its power is down to a wonderful lead vocal from his close friend, Rob Alder. The two good mates were used to playing together regularly and the performance exemplifies how voice and guitar can expressively combine and trade off one another beautifully. 
My regular Saturday stroll with him down Portobello Road was an enjoyable, if lengthy affair, as Roger – all cork-screw long greying hair, leather jacket (in various lurid colours), cowboy boots and boundless energy - stopped to swap stories with one and all (in fact, this stroll had a precursor: the young Dodge apparently used to be late home from school as his walk back took ages as he stopped off to visit, and talk to, numerous friends). 
He even had a name for everyone: the local fishmonger on Ladbroke Grove was George the Fish; a friend’s over-enthusiastic girlfriend was simply named, Lovesick. Close mate and erstwhile collaborator, the respected cinematographer John de Borman, was dubbed the Guzzler, due to his warm-natured enthusiasm for the good life; Pete Chambers was, for some obscure season, Pete the Watch. In a similar vein, his local pub, The Cow, was rarely referred to by its given name, and was alternatively christened HQ or Repetition Inn (if he felt it was being inhabited too frequently). 
Three close friends in the area, he formed into a little association/gang of sorts which he entitled, the Brethren of Numbskullian, even going so far as to have a crest and logo designed. The gang – which he sometimes simply referred to as ‘the boys’ - were drummer Kevin Petillo, who had the dubious honour of being ordained as Grandmaster of the makeshift lodge; Rob Alder was bequeathed the title of Good Doctor; and I, university lecturer and popular music historian, being lucky enough to be one of this ‘brotherhood of idiots’, was known as the Scribe - or less flatteringly, Scribbler. As academic titling played a part here, reciprocally, Roger, as alpha male and the most senior, was automatically, the Professor. How could he have been anything else? A title which we all felt was apt and earned. 
The Professor’s last work was directing 2nd unit on the visually arresting feature film, Circus, set in Wales and directed by Kevin Allen: He was a terrific, intuitive filmmaker with a great eye’, Kevin has said. ‘I couldn’t have completed the film without his fantastic contribution and companionship’. 
Roger’s electric personality, big-heartedness and good humour were hugely loved and it is an understatement to say that he will be greatly missed. His funeral service, so beautifully and appositely narrated by Kevin Allen, was packed to capacity with people from all aspects of his life and drawn from different places and periods – Massive Attack; Tim Roth; Rhys Ifans; Keith and Lily Allen; and punk ‘aristocracy’, such as Mick Jones, Patti Palladin and Eddie Tenpole Tudor, amongst many others. While Roger loved the company of so-called ‘names’, he was certainly no name-dropper and valued just as much those, as he had put it, ‘fortunate enough not to be famous’. Whichever way, all who attended were united in their grief and love for this wonderful, generous, talented and funny human being. And while he didn’t suffer fools gladly, he always endeavoured to make everyone he befriended feel special. 

Roger Peter Pomphrey, director and musician, born Bristol 11 January 1954. Died King’s College Hospital, London, 29 January 2014. Roger is survived by his former wife, Caroline Thomas; and son Tom; mother Audrey; sister Elaine and brothers, Rick and Chris. 


Noel McLaughlin


Saturday 5 April 2014

The Notting Hill Gnomes.

The bankers are down in their bunkers
the rest of the countries gone broke
the bankers are lining their pockets
and
lining their noses with coke.

Their staff are all paid
minimum wage
trophy wives are all of the rage
the kids are all spoiled
the wheels are well oiled
the hands are not soiled

And they are fucking the aupair to boot.

And daddy, nothing rhymes with fucking the aupair except alimony!



OR:

The bankers are down in their bunkers
hunkered over money and coke
the poor are UP in their attics
laughing while being quite broke
celebrating the freedom of poverty
and the opportunity to think
of things other than money
and how the working class stink.



A poem for a dead mother.

I'm supposed to write a poem about her now she is dead.

but I couldn't write about her when she was alive

so why expect anything different now.

Nothing rhymes with death… And

She died thankfully in my sleep.

And

And


I miss her.

Wednesday 2 April 2014

When a pelican becomes a lemon.

The Pelican pub on All Saints Road has always been a bit of a lemon. Tucked away behind Portobello Road it managed to avoid attracting too many customers. It has had a history punctuated by misfortune; if it wasn't burning down it was being subjected to drug raids or being thieved from. It closed down a few weeks ago after an attempt to turn it into some sort of ersatz country gastro pub type thing failed.









































The place has now reopened with a new name: 'THE RED LEMON'. Judging from the menu posted outside the place considers itself to be some kind gastro pub. We shall see.

This part of London has a strange relationship with its pubs, most of which have closed now. The public house was historically the refuge of what was once called the working class.  RBKC and the developers are systematically displacing the indigenous population in favour of wealthy incomers who will most certainly not be frequenting boozers, preferring the likes of the Electric or E&O which begs the question: Who is the Red Lemon aimed at?

Beer prices in pubs are now ridiculous, in the recently refurbished KPH on Ladbroke Grove, a pint is £5 making a trip to the pub a luxury for most ordinary people, leaving a small nucleus of dysfunctional barflies to prop up both the bars and the finances of what few pubs are left.



UPDATE: I wandered int the red lemon for a beer this evening at 7.45 and suddenly found myself in a local pub, you know, how pubs used to be, people talking to each other. How cool is that!

The beer is not overpriced, it is 80 pence cheaper than Vince Power at the KPH. The place has been painted out cooly in a way that has not been decided by the owners flowery wife and hooray, the emphasis is on it being a pub.

I haven't tried the food yet but will report on that when I have. It seems to be a great deal more inexpensive than the usual run of the mill places.


The new owner is a gutsy woman, Ali, who is determined to make it work and if she has the desire to stand behind the bar for a while and make it her own she may well succeed in giving the pelican wings… Or the lemon zest.




Saturday 22 March 2014

Cherished objects: Harp and tree.


Westway Development Trust getting into bed with Waitrose in order to promote the gentrification of Portobello.

Sickening news if true.

I learn today from a reliable source within RBKC that Westway Development Trust (WDT) have decided to let Waitrose open a store in the vacant bays adjacent to Portobello road currently occupied by the Pop up Cinema, the food market and the live music bar, collectively know as Acklam Village.





























Crass nomenclature aside, the present occupiers of the site suit Portobello very well and the Pop up Cinema is an asset to be cherished, it is unique. The Music bar is great too; laid back, child friendly, slightly hippy and unpretentious.

If Waitrose do go in there it demonstrates that neither WDT nor RBKC have any interest in the needs of the market nor the local community who they claim to serve but every interest in the needs of their own greed and the needs of a gentrified Portobello which appears to be RBKC's ultimate aim!

If Waitrose go in there the hordes of bankers wive's chelsea tractors parked and double parked on the nearby roads will only exacerbate the already chaotic situation.

RBKC and WDT listen up. The wealthy incomers contribute nothing to the community apart from mayhem from their basement bunker building, traffic nightmares from their idiot 'look at rich me' cars and mayhem on the pavements outside their snotty schools for their doomed kids.  The last thing they need is more encouragement to venture into the last unspoilt part of Portobello.

Sort your shit out guys!


Sunday 23 February 2014

Brown rice and Joy. A vegetarian fairy tale.

Joy lived with her mum on the edge of the village. Joy was 13 and had a faint memory of a father who disappeared years before leaving her and her mum with a little cottage and a field of pigs.

Joy's mum tried to make a living as a pig farmer but it was difficult, most of the other villagers were vegetarians and didn't like pork and whenever her mum tried growing vegetables in the field the pigs ate them. Times were hard.

One day Joy's mum gave her the last of their money and asked her to go to the market to buy vegetables so that they could invite some neighbours round for supper.

On her way to the market Joy met a man leading a cow. The man with the cow asked her where she was going and when she informed him of her errand he said: 'Look no further young lady, I have just the thing for you.'

Come off it said Joy. If you think I am going to buy a few beans from you you are mistaken! The man with the cow explained that he had just traded his last few magic beans for the cow with a young lad called Jack but that he had the answer to all her problems.

He pulled from a sack a cage, in the cage was a small brown mouse.

I could spend an age describing the haggling that took place but you've heard it all before… Joy walked home with the mouse who she decided to name Regret.

Joy's mum was, of course, mightily pissed off and sent the girl to bed without supper… No hardship to Joy who was fed up with her daily intake of pork products.

The following morning Joy rose early and went down to her chores. she was surprised to find that all the pig scraps lying around the kitchen had been cleared up and that there was a pile of brown rice on the table. She scooped the rice into a bowl before going out to feed the pigs. The mouse slept in his cage in the corner.

When Joys mum arose she showed her the rice and declared that there was enough for a proper banquet for all their vegetarian friends.

The banquet of course was a success, a mound of steaming brown rice infused with herbs from the hedgerows and vegetables borrowed from neighbouring gardens had all of the guests singing its praises. The brown rice had a flavour previously unknown to them. It was magnificent. It was heaven.

By the end of the evening each of the guests has put in an order for brown rice which Joy's mum accepted while secretly wondering where it was going to come from. She need not have worried for the following morning there was a mound of brown rice waiting on the table.

Over the following weeks Joy and her mum discovered that the more pork they left in the kitchen the more brown rice appeared on the table the following day.

They made a lot of money from selling that brown rice to the village vegetarians and lived happily ever after apart from one small glitch when the inspector from the ministry of food tested the rice and declared it 98 percent pork and 2 percent mouse spit but by then it was too late, the village rabbi had already koshered it as fit for vegetarians.

And the mouse… Joy changed it's name from Regret to Regretta who lived long, fondly watching over her burgeoning family shitting on the kitchen table as it grew fat on pork products.




Saturday 22 February 2014

The eyes of Jarvis Trench.


I called at the house to view the motor bike. It was a 1967 Triumph Tiger Cub. I had owned a similar bike in my teens and fancied that it would make a project for the winter.
I was early. Mrs Trench answered the door in a flustered state but ushered me inside and led me to the living room. “You will have to excuse me,” she said. “You are early and it is time for my therapy but it won’t take long. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
The filth that surrounded her encouraged me to decline the offer. “No thank you,” I said.

She offered me a chair. I sat and looked about the room. It was littered with orange coloured objects I first took for balloons. I soon realised they were football bladders. There were perhaps 20 of them; each one sported a number of puncture repair patches. The patches on each bladder occupied positions on the same latitude. If they had been globes I would have estimated that they were on a line occupied by Stockholm. The patches circled the bladders. There were a number of deflated footballs, the old fashioned ‘lace up’ variety, and two or three repair kits. A professional-looking pump stood beside the chair she sat down in.

“Won’t take long,” she repeated as she took up one of the footballs and a bladder. There was an image painted on the ball but I was unable to make it out. She slowly and carefully fed the bladder into the ball, took the nozzle of the pump and inserted it into the bladder. With her right hand she worked the pump while steadying the ball with her left and her knees. As the ball inflated I saw that the leather was painted with a likeness of a man. He had bright blue eyes. She looked at me as the ball became tight and said, “I used to do the lacing once but don’t feel the need anymore.”

Gripping the ball between her thighs she took up two long needles then carefully and simultaneously forced a spike into each pupil.

As the needles entered she intoned the words: What are you looking at now, Jarvis Trench?

She then removed the weapons and laid the sighing ball on the floor beside the chair.

“The motorbike,” she said as she rose and I followed suit. “It is in the shed, it is not locked. Why don’t you go and take a look? It ain’t been used much. My husband only rode it to and from his camera club and he ain’t done that since the day he left his darkroom unlocked.”

Thursday 13 February 2014

Wednesday 12 February 2014

Ode to a Nightingale.

Ode To A Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,---
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain---
To thy high requiem become a sod

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:---do I wake or sleep? 

Sunday 9 February 2014

Pouting lessons and Putin.

Rusty sent me an email from Lizard Bend. Idaho:

Hi y'all. Me and Babs have started little Morgan in a drama class, the first lesson was in pouting skills and nothing gets a little one pouting faster than sucking on a lemon.
























Babs says he looks like Napoleon but I rekkin he looks more like Putin considering the gay situation!

Either way it's the same but different.

Wednesday 29 January 2014

Roger Pomphrey. A celebration. Rest in peace.







































Sadly, director and musician Roger Pomphrey has died.  He was far too young.

Every community is a family and every community, like every family, has its pillars. Roger was one such human being.

Known by practically everyone in this neighbourhood, liked by just about everyone, loved by many, respected by far more, Roger was truly a local character of note.

He had no time for authority, rules or any of that shit… He had a great deal of time for people (except the fools he did not tolerate) all of whom will miss him.

Roger and his guitar will be missed in every pub, bar and club in the neighbourhood for his blistering blues which was always full of passion and volume. He was an inspiration to a lot of us and was always happy to strap on his guitar and join in with extreme gusto.

Roger spoke his mind and took no prisoners… I once made a stupid mistake in a review which he pointed out. It was then forgotten, but I didn't make that kind of mistake again.

When I, perhaps misguidedly, decided I needed a guitar solo in a poem, Roger happily stepped up and made me feel a whole lot happier about what was a very dodgy enterprise (excuse the pun). He must have enjoyed it because he repeated the process a number of times.

Everyone who speaks of Roger has their own special story and I think that pretty much sums Roger up… He had time!

Kevin allen posted the following today:

 Roger the Dodger was such a distinctive man; a generous, sensitive soul. He was a loving, doting father and will be dearly missed by Tom and Caroline, along with his Brizzle family, of which he was so proud. He was a terrific, intuitive filmmaker with a great eye, recently shooting 2nd unit on a film I couldn’t have completed without his fantastic contribution and companionship. He was also an outrageously good musician. He was a passionate cook and loved good wine, sometimes turning into a lesser freckled cowboy-booted curly crested cormorant, with a hint of Bristolian turrets syndrome after only a few glasses. He was a credit to his local and his wider locale, contributing so much in opposition to the greedy, systematic gentrification of the Portobello Rd we cherished. He will be remembered as a much-loved son of that community and he’ll be sorely missed in the Tabernacle at Christmas time. 

How sad it is that he didn't have as much time as we would all wish.

Roger will, indeed be sorely missed.

ROGER POMPHREY'S funeral will be held at 10.30 am - Friday 7th Feb - West London Crematorium - Kensal Green, Harrow Rd, London W10 4RA. 

Noel Maclaughlin's Full obituary, without the Guardian's hack job, can be found HERE




Monday 27 January 2014

Uncle Reg. He died for Valerie and golf.

Uncle Reg smoked 90 fags a day but they never killed him. Valerie did that!

Uncle Reg was in His Majesties Indian Army and took one for the regiment up the Khyber Pass. He liked to say that he took the bullet for King and country but wags in the mess often suggested merrily that, since he took it up the Khyber, he more than likely took it for queen and country.

Reg came back to England something of a hero and a few months later they gave him a medal and the medal had 'FOR VALOUR' engraved upon it.

Reg was an humble man and wanted no attention so he stuffed the medal in his kit-bag and forgot about it.

On being demobbed Reg went back to his dyslexic wife Sylvia in Streatham where he took up golf as a hobby.

The day that Sylvia cleared out his kit bag she confronted Reg in the kitchen as he was oiling his clubs.

"You've been carrying on with a woman called Valerie she insisted throwing the medal in his face before killing him with a single blow to the head with a sand wedge.

When asked by the Judge at her trial if she had any regrets, she replied: 'Yes! I now realise I should have used a number 3 wood rather than a sand wedge and that Dyslexia can be life threatening!'




Tuesday 14 January 2014

Avant Garde condunctor Jan Nieupjur to replace Gergiev at the LSO.



A tsunami of disbelief has rocked the classical music scene on hearing the rumour that Dutch Avant Garde composer and conductor Jan Nieupjur is tipped to replace Gergiev at the LSO.

                                Nieupjur being interviewed in Notting hill today.

Simon Rattle, who has also been rumoured to be up for the gig allegedly commented: 'Who the fuck is Jan Nieupjur?'

Nieupjur failed to respond to my enquiries on the grounds that he did not understand English. I tried to hum the question on the understanding that music was the international language but was met with silence….




Saturday 11 January 2014

Bankers trophies.


Clinking their crystal glasses
Lissom lipped social clowns
exhale brittle little small talk
in their chic designer gowns
while snickering petty gossips
and discarded petit fours
litter silken persian carpets
upon polished concrete floors









Saturday 4 January 2014

Jan Nieupjur's electronic book of the year: The Cherry Alignment. Annabel Schofield.



"The Cherry Alignment" follows the roller-coaster life of the witty, uninhibited and gorgeous Angelika Douglas; a legendary ‘80’s supermodel, actress and full-time bon vivant. Sybaritic, sensual and musically obsessed, Angelika has never met a psychedelic drug, a bottle of champagne or a handsome young man that she doesn’t like. A firm believer in sampling all the myriad sensations that life has to offer, Angelika imbibes, dances and samples the flesh of whatever takes her fancy, until one fateful day when tragedy forces her to face her own physical limitations, and to discover who her true friends really are. 

Buy it HERE




Thursday 2 January 2014

Forecasting severe U.S icy Weather and British storms with a baby's head.

From Science Editor Jan Nieupjur.

Meteorological experts in Tel Aviv have announced the startling news that they are able to accurately forecast global weather patterns using the head of a baby. The baby, as yet un-named and born in a stable to humble but well connected parents, has constantly shifting hair which predicts the weather conditions in the Northern hemisphere for the following 12 hours. Ridges of high and low pressure along with cyclonic activity are clearly visible.

A spokesperson stated they they are 'All scratching our heads over this phenomenon'.

The father of the child said: 'It is a miracle and once we get the continents tattooed on her head we should make a fortune from her'!

A spokesperson for the Vatican was 'unavailable for comment'.


Cyclonic gales in the Atlantic divided by a peak of high pressure seen last night on the baby's head. 

The scientists have also been able to predict the polar vortex freezing the USA at present by monitoring cold spots on the head. A plan is proposed to put a wooly hat on the baby's head, warm it up and therefore end the icy weather crippling the country.