The Beatles got it right... Cant buy me love.

You cannot sell love

love has no monetary value

You cannot buy love

there is not enough money on the planet.

Love is like brownie points

you can earn it but cannot spend it

However

Some of us have an eye on a profit

some of us have an eye for a bargain

some of us trade in forgeries

some of us happily buy fakes.

Love has no wheels to grease

no hands to ring

no feet to Manolo

no wings to feather

no pockets to line

It is the immoveable object

and the unstoppable force

The immoveable that stops the unstoppable

the unstoppable that moves the immoveable.

When money changes hands

it all grinds to a halt.

The whore's fake orgasm is the sound of that grinding.

Marriage.

Whores d'ouvres.

A dull grey morning spent attempting to write a torch song.

Bob Dylan's 'you're going to make me lonesome when you go' doesn't help much.

Then a 'chanteuse' in Soho posed the question: "Are we all prostitutes"?

There's a start!

The impact of airfreight on the poet.

Once, long ago

it would be enough to say

that we ate strawberries

she and I and you would know

That she was beautiful in her summer frock

eyes the colour of cornflowers

Hair of course

ripe wheat

The summer heat sang

swallows flew low

smell of new mown grass

rosemary

lavender

and a jamjar to trap the wasps in.

Now

thanks to airfreight

if I were to tell you

that we ate strawberries

she and I

you would have no fucking clue

as to the season or our whereabouts

We could be in the Ikea cafe

in December

for all you know

Thanks to airfreight.

This poet will

if longevity allows

scream with joy

on hearing the news

that the last drop of oil

has been sucked

from

beneath his summer lawn.

And it will

once again be enough

to say:

We ate strawberries

she and I and you would know.

Port Elliot Festival.

Spent the morning writing a 'biog' for Tristan.

He is performing at Port Elliot in July. Naturally I shall be going along to support him.

http://www.porteliotfestival.com/

Dinner with a man eater.

Dinner tonight at the Cow with a delightful new muse Tilly whom I had been warned about by mutual friends; she's a man eater Jan. They said.

All I saw her eat was fish soup.

Oh, and prawns.

Meanwhile the council have decided to dig up the road outside my garret in the middle of the night.

Don't they know who I am!

I am thinking of ringing Tilly and getting her down here to eat the men in the road.

Closing the windows is a safer option.

mary cigarettes/fish go deep- hard times lately

Tree

Clubbing.

Clubbing at my age should be a criminal offence. While it is legal however I'm going to carry on.

I'm supposed to be reviewing a book but I'll have to do that tomorrow.

It is a nice looking book if that is any help.

Tonight early drinks at the Tabernacle with the enthusiastic new management... Things bode well. Then on to 'Whippet' at Supper Club under the westway... I recognised some of the tunes which isn't a bad thing.

I was tempted to sing along which is definitely a bad thing.

I met a wonderful young bluestocking at the tabernacle who tested me in a delightful way... I wish I had had an education. Imagine what I would be now. Probably a waste of time.

Feminism

Spent the evening in the pub talking about feminism and I didn't get bored once.

Her eyes glazed over once or twice but I revived her with obsequience and cider.

Memories of Moll the bag lady.

What a weird few days.

Spontaneous pole dancing to the London Gypsy Orchestra in a church on Ladbroke Grove followed by a spontaneous party at my favourite Dutch girl's house.

My favourite dutch girl has a dog that fits into a bicycle basket and a record collection to die for... She makes good coffee and talks sense.

I also learnt this weekend that a smiling woman is not necessarily an honest woman. Frequently a smiling woman is just a woman trying too hard to disguise the fact that nothing has gone to plan... the brighter the smile the greater the sadness.

Dysfunctional women have no time for happy, content men... There is nothing to manipulate and from the man's point of view, after a few shags, there is nothing there apart from a future consisting of fault, blame, psycho-sexual counselling, transferrence of doubt and the realisation that we are to blame for the ageing process, loss of looks, lack of orgasm, stretch marks, dead children, lack of children, unhappiness, family feuds, the price of cosmetics and the depth of wrinkles. Oh, and getting FAT.

For fuck's sake let's all take responsibility for ourselves.

Fortunately for dysfunctional women there are plenty of men out here who will buy the bullshit or ignore the bullshit just for a casual shag.

Imagine going through ones entire life presenting oneself as a sex object (and lying compulsively) in order to feel wanted.

I saw Moll the bag lady trawling through the rubbish bin of humanity the other day... Looking for an admirer.

Sadly she would not recognise an admirer even if he saved her life... she is too busy looking for trash.

She'll find it.

Last will and testament.

I really do not care what happens to any of my stuff. It is just the kind of stuff you find in a dead persons house when you go to clear it out prior to selling it.

Depending on when I die there might be some booze in the refrigerator, the first person to find that can have it.

Any poems, stories, songs belong to themselves, fight over them if you like but it ain't worth it.

My blue French jacket with zipped pockets I leave to Hattie Gallagher on condition that she names one pig after me

But not an ugly pig.

Advice to young men considering falling in love.

Lose yourself in her

but do not

lose yourself to her

Enjoy the moment

but do not

assume it will last

Spend all you have on her

but do not

borrow to impress

Invest in the truth

but do not

expect dividends

Live for the moment

but do not

live only for the moment

Care for her

but do not

think that you own her

Tell her you love her

but do not

tell her too often

Tolerate stuff

but do not

let her take the piss.

But most off all

do not take sharp things

into the bubble of bliss

Then she might fall in love with you as well.

Early childhood.

I was taken back to my early childhood today.

An accidental journey brought about by getting shampoo in my eye; I was immediately transported back to my 2 year old self having his hair washed by his mother; shampoo always got in my eyes back then (there was no baby shampoo either) and as far as I was concerned it was attempted murder. Boy did I wail.

'Don't be a baby'. She'd scold.

'But I am a fucking baby!'

And if I knew then what I know now I would have stayed a baby.

Oh, and love.

Imagine falling in love while your child dies

How far will the elastic band stretch?

I have watched a junkie mother

Leave a dying child

In order to find a fix

Beautiful world

We didn't make it

We just have to find a way to live in it.

Sometimes that takes death and drugs. Oh, and love.

Heads do know best!

Angel: Jimmy Hendrix

I cannot remember where I nicked the Image from... I'd love to give a credit.

Swings and roundabouts.

A long day. what should have been a splendid day spent doing mundane things well and reaping the benefits of that. Followed by exciting news from Tristan which must be put on hold because it was followed by news of a friend suddenly in intensive care in Cannes.

The joy of ageing and all it's benefits is tempered by the regular signs of ageing, not so much in myself (I am so old I have given up looking or worrying) but in my friends and peers.

I wish I had a group portrait of everyone I know in my attic.

Royal wedding, Filmstars, Art and Landrovers.

A long day...

Lunch with a very reliable source of Royal stuff who assures me that there will not be a wedding this year.

drinks this evening with an exciting young film actress; Jaala Pickering. who has just finished shooting in India and will eventually be gracing our screens in 'Dam 999'. I'll review it when it is released.

Then on to the Apart Gallery 10th anniversary show... All the usual Notting Hill faces... Like being in the pub but with paintings on the wall. If I see another 'artwork' painted on an old car bonnet (hood for my American readers) I will go mad. What the fuck is wrong with canvas?

Finally a nightcap at the Cow and the delightful surprise of bumping in to a Land Rover driver from heaven.

Not all angels have wings and not all winged things are angels.

Thoughts for a friend on a very cruel event.

.I feel firmly put in place tonight.

Joking aside I take the piss out of mankind, Notting Hill, tourists and myself but sometimes I have to stop and wonder.

I do not believe in god and am now left to puzzle over who could possibly do such a cruel thing.

I will write about it.

You bet.

Holiday romance

Sorry about the lousy sound quality.

Welding and confessions.

The paparazzi are becoming more cunning. I was unable to spot one of them last night although I know they are there. No doubt the photographs are doing the rounds as we speak.

I was mistaken for a priest at one point, before the error was corrected a number of young ladies had lined up to give me their confessions. I confess that I was tempted to hear them.

I also met a charming young welder (I have not met a female welder before) Which allowed me to enjoy a conversation that would have been unimaginable before.

Often

Often it is the closest people who fall out.

Celebrity and its pitfalls.

Once again I find a crowd outside my front door, the third time this has happened this week.

They are all armed with cameras and snap away as I emerge. there appeared to be a ringleader so I approached and asked him what it was all about.

He said it was the Notting Hill celebrity tour.

http://www.thecelebrityplanet.com/london/the-celebrity-walking-tour-of-notting-hill.html

A Japanese tourist asked if I would go back in then answer the door wearing nothing but underpants.

No. I don't think so.

John Fothergill

Short stories about tall women.

There are few meaningful occupations that can be successfully pursued in a bar unless you work in one.

Mine I think is an exception; I can sit at a table with a ginger beer and a notebook. When I'm not writing I'm probably thinking about writing, or watching.

Quite a lot of material comes that way, walks right up to my table and sits down:

'What do you write'?

I'd looked up from my notebook, she was sitting opposite me. I said: 'Short stories about tall women'.

'Are you going to write about me?'

She had good hands, long slender fingers; the hands of a tall woman. 'Bits of you'.

'Which bits'?

'So far your hands'. I looked at her eyes then. She held my gaze, imprisoned it.

She said: 'You'll write about my eyes too. Can I read it when it is done'.

'Certainly'. I replied, where will I find you'?

'Oh, I'll wait here until you've finished'.

'I may take many years to complete it. I may never complete it'.

'That's ok... I'll wait'.

Joy.

Sometimes when in a dark place someone will come along and light a match. Every once in a while that match will be used to light a candle. Very occasionally that candle will be used to find the switch...

To turn on the sun.

It is dazzling.

Dodi and my girl.

An ex girlfriend once told me she used to be Dodi Al Fayed's lover.

but it is all right, he was such a coke head he couldn't get it up and I never had an orgasm.

Have you ever had an orgasm? I asked.

I don't think so. She replied.

But it doesn't matter because he was always out of it and wouldn't know and I made out like he pleased me for the money.

I asked: Did he know he was your lover?

No! She said... He was always out of it.

and

Now he is dead I can say what I want... What's an orgasm?

Freedom of speech.

I am so tempted.

Dead puppies and the law.

An exhausting day spent with my legal team. I had initially been accused of shooting Bambi's mother but I had an alibi for that one.

Now they have come at me again with the charge of shooting a puppy.
I'm denying it of course although that in itself is hazardous as I WAS present at the shooting of said puppy but did not pull the trigger. I remember blogging about the incident months ago.

My only real defence is to point the finger at someone else but that may lead to accusations of another variety.

Gosh the law is complicated.

An unexpected memory.

An unexpected request from the ex Mrs Nieupjur arrived today. A short text message asking: Do you have a copy of the marriage certificate?

I immediately went to my box of cherished items and there it was, evidence of a memory like a wine stained menu card from a fondly remembered meal.

Surely her request can only mean one thing.

She was a good wife, as wives go. And as good wives go, she went. (apologies to Saki)

A chance encounter with Art.

I happened to walk past the Lisson Gallery this afternoon. Before I had realised where I was I had looked down into the gallery space and assumed that what I was looking at was a Kindergarten that had yet to be tidied up at the end of playtime.

I didn't bother going in.

I'm sure it was very interesting though.

http://www.lissongallery.com/

Criticism and creativity.

Curious how we like to use the internet to find what we want; be it pornography, self aggrandisement, a date, casual sex, old friends, flattery, our own name in print, a photograph of ourself we particularly like.

The last thing we expect or want to find is criticism yet criticism is the best thing we can find.

Criticism sharpens the pencil, cleans the mirror, asks questions and demands an answer.

I quite often find that the criticism defines the critic rather than his target. The critic really wants to talk about himself, but there isn't really anything worth talking about so ' let's criticise everything around me and try to make out that I am better'. There are very few creative critics, there are many creative objects of their criticism.

Criticism breeds creativity in order to feed off it.

Creativity just gets on with it's stuff and doesn't give a fuck.

Legal advice from Mr Bounce.

An interesting chat with Mr Bounce the barrister today regarding what does or does not constitute harassment.

The law states that if the act is intended to expose a crime or prevent a crime it cannot be considered harassment.

Therefore I have every right to expose Tristan's crimes against literature and art.

(You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party)

French letter.

I have recently received a letter containing some advice on courtesy.

Nothing wrong with that except that it came from a Frenchman who tucks his sweater into leather (lace -up fly) trousers.

Ouch!

Hacker

Someone has hacked into this blog this morning... I have an ominous feeling about this.

St George: Whatever happened to chivalry?

Long, long ago a knight, while riding through a forest, came upon a familiar scene:

Roped to a tree was a white gowned damsel. A damsel most certainly in distress. Leering over her was a dragon. there was the usual smoke from the nostrils and stench of rotting flesh.

The knight dismounted, approached the dragon while unsheathing his sword.

'Stop!' Cried the damsel and dragon in unison. 'If you kill the dragon you will kill us both for we are two halves of the same beast'.

'But if I do not kill the dragon it will surely kill you'. The knight said to the damsel.

'No it won't'. She replied. 'This is just a game we play to entertain ourselves'.

The knight sheathed his sword, mounted his horse and rode away to the sound of jeering from the damsel and dragon.

The last words he heard were: Whatever happened to chivalry.

Haircut and love.

To Tristan's place this evening. He had asked me round to cut his hair... Sure, no problem, glad to.

As a barber I had expected to talk of holidays and something for the weekend and did you see that film called Tony ( fuck I've plugged it again) you know the one with the serial killer with the bonkers haircut and if you don't tip me proper I'll give you one of those.

But no. He wanted to talk about poetry and love and the best kind of . As if I would know.

Shit. I'm only the barber mate. what do I know.

'Jan.' He said. 'I hope you know not to run at me with those scissors'.

Ok. I said. I'll walk. That way I can be more accurate.

Anything for the weekend?

S & M

Self flagellation used to be the preserve of the religious fanatic.

Not so any longer... I knew a man who has been beating himself up since his father stopped.

The same guy had a girlfriend who was doing the same thing for the same reason. They met on common ground.

They split up when she realised that he was never going to beat her and he realised that all she wanted to do was beat him up rather than herself because she didn't want to damage her looks.

Time and memory are beating them up now.

Time is merciless.

As is god of course, if you believe that shit.

What goes around comes around... With a whip.

Postcards from Rusty No: 46

Rusty sends this, it is an image of Evelyn Beatrice Hall.On it he writes: I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.

Ethics and property rights

Another conversation with Tristan on the subject of ethics.

Warning: This could be boring.

'Was I unethical in writing that letter?'

'No. In so much that it was the truth. But it could be seen as unethical for me to publish it'.

'Why is that?'

'Because it is acceptable to have a thought but totally uncool to express it. Even if it is the truth. Society today is based on everyone telling each other lies (what they want to hear) and living in comfortable denial. The truth is an uncomfortable intrusion. The truth forces one to look at oneself and this can be an ugly, uncomfortable experience'.

'So I should have bitten the bullet, allowed myself to be slandered and libelled, responded with love (as Spinoza would have me do),. I should have lied to protect the lies already in place in order that the status quo may be maintained and no other reputation tarnished (other than my own). That doesn't seem very fair'.

'Since when has man concerned himself with fairness? Look around you'.

'But Spinoza said'...

'Bugger Spinoza. His ethics demand an absolute belief in god... Remove God (or references to God) from his book and what are you left with. NOTHING. Or at best a twee little pamphlet about property rights.

And that is what modern ethics boil down to: Property rights.

So you are perfectly within your rights to express your thoughts but be prepared to be hated for it, even though it is the truth'.

Alarm

A curious sight this morning: I had been woken by strange sounds coming from the roof. I climbed the ladder and peered out. Feathers everywhere; a cat had somehow managed to get among the pigeons.

EVERYBODY WANTS TO RULE THE WORLD - Patti Smith (Tears for Fears)

Respect.

We are more relaxed with people we do not respect.

We just do not make any effort.

Unless it is a psychopath with a knife...

Then we sit up, pay attention and wonder how we got into this in the first place.

Suddenly the pub seems welcoming if only for the relaxed atmosphere advertised on the A board.

Holy communion, cocaine and showbiz.

Tristan called in late this evening. He'd had a long day, we opened beers,opened mouths and opened hearts.

The letter to Cynthia is still a fresh bruise.

Tristan had spent the afternoon as an extra on a shoot with Marc Henri, a Belgian friend. He spent three hours being fed the body of Christ by Charles Dance in a local church. Thank god the body of Christ ain't fattening; there would be no Catholic supermodels... All those outrageous confessions lost forever.

Marc Henri asked Tristan to look more serious. He tried but when Charles intoned: 'The body of Christ and if you believe that you will believe any thing' Tristan lost it somewhat...

Oh the wacky world of showbiz eh!

Tristan had then gone on to a party in the west end, in a private members club. He said it was all too well scrubbed. There were speeches however; the restaurateur mentioned his restaurants and the BBC guy mentioned his producer.

One overheard conversation of note though:

Her: 'Do you want a line of cocaine?'

Him: 'You know, I can't be bothered'.

Suggests the drugs ain't working so well.

This reminded Tristan of something he overheard outside the Cow the other night: Three eurotrash guys were discussing where to go next. One said: 'Let's go to the Electric and see if there are some cock teasers around'. Obviously a sign that they are doing too much virtual sex. In my day you avoided cock teasers.

You do not need to make it up around here.

Oh and by the way. God couldn't get Tristan into a church but the movies could.

The film is called Fatherly love and I will naturally review it when it is released.

Election nonsense.

Hugh Grant was in the pub tonight. a friend tapped him on the shoulder then went off and voted Conservative. This sadly set the tone for the rest of the evening.

Whatever happened to the Nick Clegg X factor?

I cannot be bothered to sit up for any more anticlimax. I shall no doubt awake to a hung parliament scenario which in turn will lead to another election soon enough.

The TV coverage is farcical. Especially the BBC CGI obsession.

The cock ups at polling stations smack of third world elections.

Britain... Good grief.

Xenia.

At last the Muse. http://tristanssecretsofmagic.blogspot.com/

The window sill above my desk.

Passport

Wristwatch; gift from Mel, reminder of happy times

19th Century penknife

Pebble with a hole in it

Large red die

Piece of obsidian; touchstone and muse, Apache tear, Lapis Obsidianis.

Silver ash tray

Rose tinted glasses

12 bore shotgun cartridge

A silver sixpence

Pair of Victorian dolls eyes

Silver spoon

Heart shaped padlock

Ruby cuff links

Mother of pearl collar studs

All the essentials

Man stuff.

Ha ha.

Sitting in the Cow tonight, just chillin with the cool guy and shooting the breeze when my eye was caught by some Japanese packaging.

Oval ice moulds for whiskey drinkers.

So we got to talking, the cool guy, the owners of the oval ice cube makers and me and I drew these conclusions:

What broke the ice? the ice maker. Coldly ironic.

I want my woman to be unblemished by my behaviour. I am the pencil with eraser at the end.

How a man maintains his mystery is in itself a mystery.

Of course I shit on my own doorstep every morning... Where else would I do it?

What colour eyes do i have? I don't know. I'm scared to look.

and are there ice makers on ice-breakers or do they go out to chip off lumps of ice from the passing floes to slip in to their vodka's?

And then get the Japanese to shape the shards into ovals.

when they are not killing whales... for science.

Boy the Japanese know how to work this planet well.

But they make a mean oval ice cube maker. And then wrap it up in unnecessary packaging which we will send back to China to be turned into hoodies... What goes around comes around.

Kad Achouri-Mi Negra

Ethics and dialysis

When we separated she decided to keep a number of my possessions. I asked her for them but she said NO!

I told her that it was theft but she said:

When a man comes to live with me in this flat he moves in under my terms and he renounces all property rights.

Where there are no property rights there can be no theft.

She then went on to say that If I loved her as I said I did then it stood to reason that I would want her to keep those things as they improved the quality of her life and therefore increased her happiness.

I guess I can live without my dialysis machine.

Led Zeppelin Since I've Been Loving You 1973

Tristan sends me this link. he says: I was a teenager then, cool times. Ginette, a farmers daughter used to ride over to meet me half way in a wheat field. She'd hitch her horse to a hedge and we'd make crop circles.

Small ones but crop circles all the same.

Which leads me to believe that all those big crop circles are just evidence of Massive alien teenagers fucking in our fields.

One eyed Marxist Eurotrash.

A wet cold bank holiday Sunday... Just the thing to keep the Eurotrash away from the Westbourne.

Time for a beer over there then.

It's cool. You get Marxist doctrine wrapped up in a hip cool bar staff kind of way as if this generation of youngsters were the only ones. I was young once, I was like that, boy was I cool too.

Under the outside heaters that are killing the planet for your children ( but fuck it, who cares, you ain't got children yet) a one eyed woman mesmerised us as perhaps a cobra in profile might mesmerise.

It is hard to take a one eyed cobra seriously. Even Buddha knew that.

Kit said: She is gorgeous and look she has an eye patch and it has sequins on and everything and she is gorgeous and she moves as if everything is as it should be and she moves like a thoroughbred racehorse she moves like a supermodel.

Later, much later, I asked her about the loss of her eye; didn't it ruin her chances as a model?

She said: 'On the contrary. when I first approached the agency they told me that there were plenty of perfect models out there, we were ten a penny, common as anything. they said what you need is a fault, a defect, a flaw... I did not have the courage to cut my leg off so I compromised and wore this eye patch. I have not looked back since. Not on the left side anyway.'

Can you see your way to coming back to my place. I said.

No. she said.

Not on either side.

http://thewestbourne.com/

Notting Hill, nostalgia and bollocks.

An obsession with nostalgia is not a healthy thing.

Notting Hill, and especially the Portobello Road area seems obsessed with nostalgia and all things 'retro'. Forward thinking is frowned upon unless it involves the creation of some kind of twee 'heritage experience'. This will result in the area becoming a ghastly tourist ghetto filled with souvenir tat and crap fast food which will have no relevance to the lives of the local population and will kill the real market. Look what happened to Camden.

Instead of creating a crass shrine to the social kitsch we should be weaving strands of our history into something new and forward looking.

The punk thing appears to be the be all and end all right now but this infatuation will be as ephemeral as punk itself. Fads come and fads go and this my friends is just a passing phase which will be replaced soon enough.

It is also sad to see grown men salivating over memories of a short period of rebelliousness in their pasts, this sort of nostalgia should be safely locked away in the attic (next to the dressing up box) only to be brought out on Fathers Day.

The nasty habit of protecting street art with plexiglass is in itself nothing more than the enshrinement of society's self loathing; where is the next generation of disenfranchised youth going to express it's discontent when all the available wall space is dedicated to Banksy's (the Bono of street art) self congratulatory commercialism.

What is wrong with going forward? Only drunks and lunatics walk backwards.

Never mind the bollocks eh!

Insomnia.

How wonderful insomnia is for the happy. Or those in love or on a creative jag.

Those nights when sleep retires graciously allowing cherished 'extra time' for good behaviour and laughter, loving or just thinking.

Wearilessly.

Architectural weather.

Torrential rain hammering on the flat roof above my head.

A wall of sound. Or is it a roof of sound.

Architectural rain whichever way you look at it.

Makes me think of that house that Frank Lloyd Wright built; Falling water I think it was called.

It was so damp that the owners referred to it as rising water.

Moist architecture.

Voting confusion, Simon Cowell and the dumbing down of Britian.

I imagine, come polling day, millions of confused voters.

They will have discovered that their voting slips do not carry the names Cameron, Brown or the other one (you know the LIb Dem chap) and they will have no idea who to vote for.

I can imagine in future elections the ballot papers being standardized for all constituencies; They will contain no names or parties, just photographs of the party leaders.

Under the heading: 'Simon Cowell presents'