Homeless tales from RBKC. No:1. MARK.

This is Mark.

He was outside Tesco a short while ago. As I went in I asked if I could get him anything. He politely said: 'Thank you. No'. Once back out of the shop I sat and had a chat about his circumstances which are miserable.
He is seemingly neither a boozer or drug user and was happy to talk.

The only thing I could do was give him the money for an hotel room and the fare to get him there. As my only source of income is my sickness benefit this is no small amount. I am meeting him tomorrow to see how we can get him into some kind of home.

I am sick and tired of doing the things that RBKC are supposedly here for. Happy Xmas.

Some good news for me is that I have been reembursed by a local initiative that I am part of which asks tourists and instagrammers to make a donation to help local homeless. RBKC are happy to endorse this initiative in their recently made video:

You can also read about this on the RBKC website HERE

In essence RBKC are promoting an initiative which exists purely to perform a service that the local authority is failing in.  Is this irony?

I shall try to add to this on a regular basis.

RBKC giving the gift of enlightenment this Christmas.

RBKC are giving their temporary housing tennants the gift of enlightenment this year.

Political correspondent Jan Nieupjur reports that Housing officers in the borough feel that occupants of temporary housing do not know how lucky they are. To that end they are evicting them and thus giving the gift of homelessness in order that they may understand better how much worse it can get.

Once homeless they can be given the additional gift of removal from the borough allowing the place to become a much nicer place for the social elite and Russian money launderers who often complain about poor people in their line of sight.

Editors note: This is satire and should not be confused with fake news.

RBKC social cleansing at Christmas.

How about this for a shitty Christmas tale: I had a Christmas morning chat with my neighbour, a delightful young woman with a young daughter. She informed me that Their Christmas has been somewhat dampened by the fact that the local authority had served an eviction notice two days earlier because as she is in temporary accomodation, and has been for years, and refused to move to Essex as demanded by them she has made themselves intentionally homeless and must go. She also told me that she cannot have family visit her from overseas at Christmas because one of the conditions of this boroughs temporary housing agreements is that she is not allowed visitors, even close family, to stay overnight. God bless you RBKC, the richest borough in the land, at this time of peace and good will to all.

there is much much more to this sordid tale which I will add in due course.

The fraudulent muse at christmas.

Christmas is a wonderful time
for the fraudulent muxe

She has got away with it again
for another year

She thinks.

Her tree decorated with sparkling lies,
dull looks, paranoia, debt, delusions of granduer,
mind snails, decay, theft, smells and
obsessive fears of honesty.

Christmas is a wonderful time
for the fraudulent muse

And as usual and again
for another year

She demands love but inspires nothing

But pity.

And no one needs a pityful muse.

Love measures itself.

Eternity is a curious concept. It ends with the death of the person measuring it.

You know...  Whatever you say will last forever will last until you die and no longer.

Unless it is love which lasts until you change your mind because you didn't really know what love was and when you said I will love you forever you realy meant I will love you until something better comes along, something that explains love and explains why love will last as long as it does and then die.

Because love measures itself.

And in some shape or form lasts forever.

Unlke eternity.

Duncan, Blue, smoothies. Guilty as charged.

 

Innocent smoothies shooting an ad today... some bloke called Duncan from Blue. Nice people and a very cold but lovely actress.

Happy to post this as Innocent smoothies are a fundamental ingredient, along with vodka,  of my 'lost weekend smoothie'. 

A slogan for which could be: All your 5 a day and drunk before breakfast. Back to bed!

Wrong about the muse. Dora Maar.

A couple of nights ago, having dinner with an artist friend, we got to talk about the muse. I made a couple of crass statements about the gender of the muse based on my automatic assumptions as a male of the species.

Had my friend been less polite she would have pointed out that I was talking utter bollocks. As it was she left me to realise, as  later, I thought about that evening, that I was as far from right as is possible.

I've often written about the muse but to date always with the assumption that the muse was female. I guess I can try to justify that by saying that I am a man and like most men am driven by women and assume that only a woman could assume the role of the muse. Also there is the homophobic thing.

Often the muse turns out to be the more talented one who has been bullied.

There is an exhibition of work by Dora Maar (Picasso's muse) at Tate Modern. I sense that she will convince me of that. I'll go and see then report back.

https://www.tate.org.uk/whats-on/tate-modern/exhibition/dora-maar

The cooker hood as muse.

After a pint at the Cow
and a pleasant unexpected meeting
I took my self home
to lay out some rugs
lent by a friend and
to concentrate a chicken stock

The extractor fan on the hood
was not working
I took apart the cooker hood
grease greeted me like an unwelcome friend asking for money

I removed the filter
remeniscent of the airfilter
on the Lancia Fulvia rally sprint
That I bought in the 80's

I remembered how good
the front wheel drive
worked so well
in the snow and ice
in north oxfordshire
and I remembered Julia
who sat beside me then
and Victoria who in her first year
lay in the carrycot on the back seat

I remembered how well I loved
unconditionally
back then before it fell apart
and we all moved on.

It took a cooker hood
to remind me
to cherish memories
and not dwell on bitterness.

I stopped Prince Andrew from shagging.

At last I can tell my Prince Andrew story:

 When he was at Dartmouth Naval College his tutors would scour the town for 'pretty girls' to have dinner ( a euphomism for shag) with him (yeah pimping). My girlfriend (soon to be my wife, dont ask) was chosen for one such night. He played 'this little piggy' with feet under the table with another of the girls present and chose to come back to our place afterwards no doubt in the hope of an easy conquest. I was at home getting verry drunk with a friend just back from a stint on a North sea oil rig armed with much whiskey. Andrews security guys came into the house to check it out, took one look at us and decided that the prince was not getting laid that night.

On other occasions Andrew's goon squad would clear out local pubs in order that the Prince could have an undisturbed drink with his midshipman mates. Girls were never asked to leave.

He was not liked in Dartmouth.

Iceland's banned Christmas ad.

I'm informed that the following ad has been banned for being too political. 

The advertising clearance body, Clearcast, who screen broadcast adverts, deemed that the film breaks rules banning political advertising laid down by the 2003 Communications Act.

Iceland's founder Malcolm Walker said: "This was a film that Greenpeace made with a voice over by Emma Thompson.
"We got permission to use it and take off the Greenpeace logo and use it as the Iceland Christmas ad. It would have blown the John Lewis ad out of the window. It was so emotional."
The watchdog said in a statement: "Clearcast and the broadcasters have to date been unable to clear this Iceland ad because we concerned that it doesn’t comply with the political rules of the BCAP code.
"The creative submitted to us is linked to another organisation who have not yet been able to demonstrate compliance in this area."
More than 890,000 people have since signed a petition calling for the advert to be shown on TV.


The destruction of the rain forests is not a political issue, it is far bigger than that. I am astonished that this should be banned: 

Austerity at work.

The new bird feeder is working a treat.

I managed to lure three of these suckers on to the balcony today. I think they are albatrosses of some sort.

I decided to make good use of this windfall.

The breasts are going into a terrine, along with some minced pork, anchovies, nutmeg, port and pepper. The legs make an excellent stock when combined with onions, field mushrooms and port, the corn in the gullets I shall dry and grind into flour with which to make artisanal  bread to sell to the hipsters and foodies.

The terrine is in the oven now as I write this.

As I await the outcome I plan dishes made from parakeets and finches and celebrate austerity.

Fuck off Boris.

UPDATE:

And you thought this was fake news.

Johnathan Swift and I will be tucking into this, with a healthy dollop of piccalilli and a pint of bitter, once it has cooled.

Black and white bathroom.

Of all the things I have done this has to be one of the most satisfying.

Please feel free to contact me regarding commisions.

Found lost cat was not lost.

Cats are never lost, they know exactly where they are. It is their 'owners' who are lost having formed an un-natural dependency upon the most independent creature on the planet.

Vitreous perception.

The optimist sees the glass half full
the pessimist sees it half empty
the opportunist quickly drinks it
the surrealist sees a pipe
the illusionist sees it now he doesn't
the scientist sees a miniscus
the narcissist sees a mirror
the French royalist sees Marie antoinette's breast
the permanently pissed top it up with gin
an shee two glashes full
the existentialist sees what he will
the biologist sees bacteria
the capitalist decants it into a smaller glass
then sells it at full price
the depressionist cannot see the point.

I see your reflection in the glass

it is full.

The Grenfell "One Love" Piano needs help.

There is a piano under the Westway, close to the site of the tragedy and there for anyone to use. It is a valuable community asset but it needs help.

There is a Gofundme appeal started by Marionio Pionio. Please click on the link and donate if you possibly can then come down to the piano and have a tinkle. You'll feel much happier I know.

Link HERE

Murray Lachlan Young, The Mystery of the Raddlesham Mumps at Wiltons. Review.

I took Mr Pounce to this show as a belated birthday present along with a friend. 

The idea of a gothic tale told entirely in iambic pentameter might perhaps not seem a crowd pulling idea. Hold your horses though.

Wiltons Music Hall in all its decayed splendour is the ideal venue for this show. The theatre itself seems to involve itself in the whole thing; it is Raddlesham Mumps, a decaying stately pile riddled with steam punk gothic seediness, the set bleeds into the theatre and the theatre revels in the gore. Essentially this is site specific performance poetry without pretention.

The show is an hour of what Murray does best, narrative verse liberally larded with wit, humour and imagination, delivered in slightly bumbling manner (all part of the whole) designed to, seemingly, encourage the audience into viewing him as one might a well loved avuncular roue. with a score that adds to the proceedings subtly, a healthy dose of physical theatre and a touch of silliness.

the bardic tradition lives on.

It is important to emphasize that this is not a one man show. Joe Allen mutely provides sub titles throughout to wonderful effect and is the glue that binds it together. Both actors milk the proceedings with gusto.

I'm not here to tell you the plot, I'll leave that to Murray and Joe, other than to say it is, as advertised, a gothic tale of multiple early deaths ( a recurring theme in Murrays work, vide The 9 Dead Williams) .

I was slightly unneved to see children in the audience, expecting the bored chatter and itchy bummed fidgeting that normally chaperones little ones at such times. Not a chance, they were entranced from what I couls see and were, as children are, at ease expressing mirth when occasioned and encouraging the adults to do likewise.

Go and see this with the kids, it is a wonderful introduction to the wonders of theatre. You can spend the cash saved on babysitters in the bar.

There is only one more performance at Wiltons (tonight) but can be caught on tour soon. Check out venues and dates on Murrays website HERE


 After a post performance beer in the bar we moved on to Vout-O-Reenee's round the corner.... A story for another time.
 

Parakeet alley. London.

I've moved. A mile down the road and back over the border into North Kensingtom. Full circle.



Close again to the book stall under the tent on Portobello Green and the raggedy joys of the north end of Portobello. The lights atop Grenfell tower can be seen from one window and Trellik tower from another. It feels like home.



A dawn coffee on the balcony allows me to watch the foxes, as they arrogantly quarter the street, and listen to the whoosh of the Westway.

A parakeet calls raucously from the london plane tree  and moments later rises to join a flock, lately risen from its roosts. as it swoops low over the rooftops heading south-west, accross Portobello, no doubt towards a day begging from the tourists in central London, a colourful addition to the thousands of pigeons who are no doubt pissed off at the arrival of these gaudy immigrants.



Some say Jimi Hendrix let the first on free, others say that they escaped from the set of 'The African Queen', who knows. They are here, an avian reminder of global warming and open borders.

Insomnia, Ibuprofen, selotape, blood and misaligned perforations.

I've had a cold recently which means the emergency drugs come out, lung disease does not enjoy colds so it's out with the antibiotics and steroids on top of the usual daily cocktail. The result is sleepless nights infested by weird, exotic, physiological and psychological sensations. I do not need recreational drugs: my prescribed stuff when combined correctly is a narco-experimentalists dream.

At 4.00 am I decide in my heightened state of confusion/enlightenment to put together a small plastic bottle of Ibuprofen for a friend, she had been complaining earlier about the annoying blister packs such pain killers normally arrive in. At 4.00 am it seemed like a good idea to make her future life easier come headache time.

I found a small plastic bottle which had contained some of my meds and a couple of boxes of ibuprofen which I decanted into the bottle. I then decided to make a label so cut out a piece of the packaging for the pain killers and then looked for selotape....

You know that roll of selotape that you have had for years that you can never find the end to, eventually giving up in despair and chucking it back in a drawer time and time again because you cannot bear to throw it away, you know the nice kind of selotape, not shiny and never yellows but hides it's starting point well.

I only had that roll of selotape. I tried to find the end of the tape. 30 minutes later I decided that the only course of action was to find a stanley knife blade and cut a bloody deep slice through the tape in the hope that when I peeled it off, somehow miraculously, the tape would start behaving.

I succeeded in ramming the point of the stanley knife blade hard into the end of my thumb.

Thumbs bleed handsomely under such conditions and this one bled enthusiastically all over the selotape.

I went into the bathroom for some loo paper whith which to staunch the flow and snapped off a  few sheets then wrapped them about my thumb.

It was then that I noted that the loo paper was out of sync, you know, when 2 ply tissue becomes somehow unwound unequally and you are left with misaligned perforations.

I spent a considerable amount of time trying to get that loo paper in order by tearing off segments without getting it quite right whereupon I formed the opinion that perhaps it was a rogue roll with a lack of synchronicity to the core... I unrolled the roll to explore this possibility.

I eventually discarded the lot in the bin with an unconclusive conclusion to the enquiery and found a new, untampered with roll to put in the holder thing which as a left hander I have always felt was positioned on the wrong side of the loo.

Failing to find the tools to move the loo roll holder and noting that the loo paper on my thumb kept falling off, I thought: Ah, what I need is some selotape to hold it on with. I now had TWO pressing reasons why I should get the selotape to behave.

Half an hour later I succeeded in cleaning off the blood and peeling off sufficient tape (my stanley knife blade plan eventually succeeding) to bandage my thumb and to put a label on the pill bottle.

I looked at the clock... 6.00 am. Might as well stay awake and watch the rugby with a bracing morning cap of vodka & Berocca with a chocolate eclair chaser.

 

All in all a couple of hours of sleeplessness well spent and writers block a distant memory.

London's humpback whale joins Extinction Rebellion and superglues itself to Westminster bridge.

This may well be fake news.

A whale has been spotted swimming in the River Thames, following on from the visit of "Benny the beluga" a year ago.

The mammal was first spotted over the weekend, with sightings of it either side of the Dartford Crossing.
British Divers Marine Life Rescue (BDMLR), who saw it surfacing off Greenhithe on Sunday, said it was "definitely a humpback" and did not appear to be in any distress.
Ships have been advised to proceed with caution through the area.
"Benny the beluga" spent about three months in the busy waterway at the end of last year, although the new whale is not the same species as it is dark coloured and has a dorsal fin.

Julia Cable, the BDMLR's national coordinator, said a group of volunteers had observed the mammal surfacing repeatedly over a three hour period.
She told the BBC that it "seems to be fine" and was likely to have arrived for the Extinction Rebellion demonstrations taking place.
"It really shouldn't be there but hopefully it'll find its way out," she said.

Boris Johnson described it as a 'commie, nose ringed, pot addled crustie' that should be in school. (Chortle). 

The Port of London Authority (PLA) said "numerous sightings" had been made from passing boats either side the Dartford Crossing, while there have also been reports of it off Rainham and Erith Pier.
A spokesman said people who had seen it had estimated it was five or 10 metres in length.
He added that its behaviour would be monitored by experts while it remained in the river and ships had been told to "proceed cautiously" when travelling through the area.
"Essentially it is a natural animal in a natural environment and we wouldn't intervene with that at this stage," he said.

Murray Lachlan Young, The Raddlesham Mumps at Wiltons Music Hall.

Next week.

It should be good
It should be fun
Who is going?
I for one.

My sad obsessive internet stalker. An open letter.

Hi there,

I know who you are, I know where you are, I know what computer you are using, I know your IP address, I know who is your internet provider, I know how many times you monitor my blog, I know what time you monitor my blog, I know what you read. I know how many hundreds of times you have monitored my blog over the past 2 years.

Why do you bother?

As you appear to be monitoring me during work hours why don't you spend that time doing the job you are paid to do.  There is nothing for you here.

Alternatively you could meet me for a coffee and explain your motives. I'm moving shortly but will still be local so we could meet in Tavistock Square.

Let me know.

Boris Johnson prorogues Thomas Cook.

It can be revealed that the British Prime Minister has today prorogued the holiday company in order to strand 150,000 remain voters in Europe prior to a further referendum on Brexit.

A Downing Street spokesperson stated that: If they love Europe so much they can bloody well stay there with their calamaris and sangria.

Led Zeppelin fan kills May Queen in hunting accident.

A 67 year old Led Zeppelin fan Jan Nieupjur accidentally shot and killed the May Queen while out hunting  in Surrey.

He later told the police that he had heard a bustle in the hedgerow and, alarmed, he had shot instinctively. forgetting that it was probably just a spring clean for the May Queen. He added that there were two paths he could have gone by but it was now too late to change the road he was on.

A police spokesman stated that: Ooh it makes me wonder'.

The victim in happier times.

Unoccupied Social housing in Notting Hill/Ladbroke Grove.

This part of West London has a serious housing problem. There is not, according to RBKC housing department, enough social housing to meet the needs of the massive waiting list.

Why is it then that there are many, many empty, untennanted properties in the area?

I've noticed a lot of long term empty homes in the neighbourhood and assumed that they were privately owned, but having checked out the social housing database I find that a large number of the places are Council or Housing Association owned.  During a short walk down one road in W11 I identified 3 definitely empty Council owned flats flats. Spotting the empty basements is simple, the weed covered entrances are a giveaway. I have no idea how many of the upper flats are empty.

I would be very interested to know the actual number of unlet Council and Housing Association flats here. It looks like RBKC don't really want to house the people on the waiting list after all.  I wonder why?

Below are photographs of some of the properties I identified:

Three bedroom flat in Westbourne Park Road. Empty for 3 years. Managed by Notting Hill Housing.

 

Basement flat, obviously unoccupied. The path is covered in untrodden weeds.                                    

Another basement flat with overgrown path and doorway.

I'll be adding to this list in due course and speaking to RBKC about the matter.

If you want to check your street the database is HERE

Tigers eye.

Whilst enjoying a lazy al fresco jalfrezi
In the shade of the old Taj Mahal
my tiger Domingo leant out of a window
and dropped his glass eye in the daal
I could not see the reasoning behind this additional seasoning
perhaps it was a practical joke
but blind Gunga Dan scooped it up in his naan
it is a miracle that he didn't choke.

We won't labour upon it in order to fit in a sonnet
but it all became clear late that night
as he checked out his poo (as some people do)
it winked back and he near died of fright
for in his confusion at this optical illusion
he thought he'd passed Blake's tiger tiger burning bright.

Grenfell Street unveiled

https://www.mylondon.news/news/first-grenfell-street-sign-been-16860819

Books at the end of the road

I'm starting to dismantle this blog. A book will be published this autumn containing some of it plus other stuff. Another book is planned for the spring.

It has all become unweildy and infathomable and other tales cannot be told here. I'll post details of the books in due course.

Carnival souvenir.

Carnival 2019

A beautiful dawn.

6.00 am. The streets are quiet save the guys setting up sound systems and stalls and the the high vizzed police already patrolling the streets. There seems to be more of them than previous years but maybe that is my imagination.

 

Screening arches

 

Considerate grafitti. 

Guardians of the urinal.

Chillin'

Mangrove steel band rehearsal All Saints Road. Carnival 2019

Setting up for tomorrow night in All Saints Road. For me and many others the best part of carnival. A pre-party party.

Defying medical science with a trombone.

Ten years ago, when I first became ill with lung disease, I lay on a hospital bed irrigated and oxidised by tubes, fussy nurses drawing blood and being fed miserable things.
A doctor sat, tears in his eyes, at the foot of the bed and informed me that I would never play the trombone again.

I am not one to take this kind of thing lying down and within weeks I started the process of proving him wrong and now, ten years later I am able to share this photograph with you:


I am about to go on stage to perform John Cage's 4'33.




How wrong was that doctor.

The Bishop admits to his domestic habits.

Once the subject of egg quality had been exhausted.

Bishop: I enjoy nothing more of an evening than mulling over my sermons whilst washing the dishes but often find that the maid has beaten me to it.

William Spooner: Your wishes dashed so to speak.

Bishop: I often imagine that one day there will be a machine invented for wish dashing. One would just fill it up then sit back in dissapointment. Of course I would still have the fine crystal and Wedgewood.

Spooner: Ah yes, Wedgewood, there are no two ways about that.

With apologies to Gerald Du Maurier.

Graveside phantosmia

 

Imagined scents, 
spring magnolia walks
missed birthdays
vanilla
wet dog after rainy walks
pine needles and orange of lost christmasses
bicycle oil
antiseptic cream
playdo, paint and glue
summer gardens
caged tigers
autumn woods

that a child, dancing, scattering confetti on her mothers grave
makes real.

The elastic in my ironic pants.

The elastic in my ironic pants is broken
I call them my ironic pants
because they are my favourite pants
but were given to me
by the person I dislike most on this planet
the pants are dark blue with pink spots
and fitted well when new
I cannot say that they are lucky pants
for I have had not much luck of late
pants on or otherwise
save her departing from my life

Walking home this evening
the elastic broke
they do not fit at all well now

I have thrown them in the bin

Closure

Zion filming the video for 'Lay you down'.

A poke in the eye for Britains Celts.

 Taken from QUORA.

 

 

Are the Celts of the British Isles familiar and comfortable with the theory that the original Celts come from Central Europe, like Bohemia and Austria?

Eamon O'Kelly, History enthusiast

Answered Jun 27, 2019 · Author has 1.6k answers and 2.5m answer views

Your question is based on a mistaken assumption. There are no Celts in the British Isles. Celtic culture flourished in continental Europe from about 800 BC until the beginning of the Common Era, by which time most of the Celts had been Romanized to varying degrees. In other words, the Celts have been dead and gone for about two thousand years.

More

The Nero complex.*

It seems that everyone is now on the fiddle
politicians are fiddling the facts
Catholics priests fiddling with choirboys
most of us fiddling our tax
Boris is fiddling with everything
including other men's wives
while the cuckolds at home in their kitchens
are fiddling with very sharp knives
the orchestra's are all on the fiddle
including those without violins
unlike poor maligned Nero
(fiddling was not one of his sins)
brexiteers are fiddling with figures
remainers playing with sums
all of them fiddling with cushions
beneath uncomfortable bums
violinists are legitimately fiddling
as are children with all of their food
unlike poor maligned Nero*
(who was frankly not in the mood).

As society now burns with resentment
as are the genuinely revolting youth
The rest of them just fiddle on fiddle on
to avoid stating the horrible truth.



* Nero did not fiddle while Rome burned. violins did not arrive until 1500 years later. If he was playing an instrument it would have been a harp, he was known for his virtuosity on the instrument.

Source: Gyles, Mary Francis. "Nero fiddled while Rome burned."­ The Classical Journal. January 1947.

Muse know thyself.

Work in progress


All evil has, within itself, the seed of that which will destroy it.
I will not hate you, evil feeds on hate.
I will pity you, pity nourishes the seed.
The seed of doubt that germinates within you
feeds off your flesh
leaving nothing but a hollow skin
as that discarded by a snake
pock marked, scabbed, livid.

Sad. 

Fraudulent beauty.

all colour and no scent
the bloom of a suicides freshly cut wrist
look at me
but don't look too closely

email archaology.

sherds of broken promises
shadows of dreams
shattered tesserae of hope and joy

the meadow where we were once happy
now scarred and unrecognisable
hides shared archaology beneath

Impossible to delete

THE BOX. A six year olds tale.

Murder in Notting Hill.

Murder in Notting Hill – A book by Mark Olden

Police and council workmen search a drain for the murder weapon.
Copyright: Mirrorpix.

"For anyone interested in justice in modern Britain this is an important book." Brian Cathcart, author The Case of Stephen Lawrence

At around midnight on May 17, 1959, a white gang ambushed Antiguan carpenter Kelso Cochrane on the corner of a Notting Hill slum street. One of them plunged a knife into his heart. He was never caught. Murder in Notting Hill is a tale of crumbling tenements transformed into a millionaires’ playground, of the district’s fading white working class, and of a veil finally being lifted on the past.
Mark Olden is a London-based print and broadcast journalist. He has worked for Channel 4 and the BBC and written for publications including The Guardian, The Observer, The Independent, The New Statesman and The Sunday Times.
Click to buy: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Notting-Hill-Mark-Olden/dp/1846945364

BBC news website airs fake video of multiple lightning strike.

Naughty BBC or gullible BBC?

Click on the link and watch the video of supposed multiple lightning strikes on the same spot. Look closely and you will see that it is the same strike repeated a number of times.

Sloppy BBC.


https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/world-us-canada-48235462/lightning-strikes-twice-and-again-and-again

An ormolu stool for the new Royal baby.

From the archive.

A nation rejoices
a nation is happy
for a baby from 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.

Lines written on failing to become poet laureate.

Passed over for the laureateship again
god knows I've tried

written poems about royal weddings and babies
odes to wildlife, urns and joy
tedious blank verse self indulgencies
doggerel
mentioned Amy Winehouse
declared my black moods mixed race
allowed my inner child a voice
played fast and loose with convention
written stuff that rhymes
churned it out by the metre
and the foot:  iamb, trochee, dactyl, anapest, spondee, and pyrrhic

all to no avail 

Dart morning.

Fat lazy salty whore
Rolls brassily into the river’s maw.

Under a counterpane of mist
A blanket of oaks cloak the valley
Down to limpet pocked rocks
Teased by the lardy tarts petticoats.

On, in, swell diminishes to lap.
Fox and otter quarter the shore
The rising tide and sun
dressing the mud in sequins.

Working boats steam seaward
Gulls dogging ploughed wakes.
Sip and plat of my oars
As they turn the meaty water like spaded sods.

Rare Sumatran pygmy elephant discovered trapped in Notting hill basement.

A very rare pygmy elephant has been discovered 'trapped' in a Notting Hill basement. the animal is unharmed and seemingly quite relaxed about the situation.

Due to the rarity of the creature and the fact that no such animal is registered in any UK zoo it is assumed that the elephant has escaped from one of the many illegal sub-basement menageries that are suspected to exist in the affluent west London area. This would also explain the animal's laid back attitude to its current situation. It is assumed that the owner will not come forward to claim the illegally imported beast.

Sumatran pygmy elephants are only found in Sumatra and on the island of Mauritius where they have been kept for centuries as an ornament to the famed bonsai Baobab gardens, where they stand motionless for much of the time, that are unique to the Indian ocean island.

The owner of the house where the elephant was found and who prefers to remain annonymous stated that she would prefer it if passers by would refrain from feeding the animal buns as the crumbs were difficult to clean up.

Although the creature, now named Elaphant n daroum by local schoolchildren, seems happy enough a rescue attempt will be made in the next few days.

I became your mirror.

I remembered your conversations

about a child losing innocence

as we walked on the heath that day

long after he had gone

I instinctively picked up a stick

pointed it at you

shouted bang

and killed the woman who chased him away

you snapped then

snapped the stick, snapped at me

you would not blame yourself of course not

that day I did not lose my innocence

YOU gave me guilt.

and I became your mirror.

Selfie dance.

Discerning mice give thumbs up to local bakery.

This made me chuckle, found on the MyLondon site:


"A Ladbroke Grove bakery was given the worst possible hygiene rating after an inspector found "one of the heaviest and mouse extensive mouse infestations" they had ever seen.
After an inspection on February 21, St Helen's Bakery was given a 0 out of 5 food hygiene rating by Kensington and Chelseacouncil, meaning that urgent improvement is required.

There is more HERE

I imagine that the mice gave it a very high rating.

The Portobello Gold has had a facelift.

A few weeks ago I was asked to sign a petition to RBKC regarding the facade of the gold which is currently undergoing refurbishment. I was happy  to sign the petition, the building is an unattractive piece of 20th century utilitarian architecture totally out of place on Portobello road. I was also surprised to recieve an email of thanks from the new owner.

I assumed from looking at the proposal that the brick facade was to be painted with a fragmented looking mural, nothing remarkable but an improvement all the same.

I walked up  to take a look at the progress today and was very pleasantly surprised, far from painted bricks the entire face has been rendered and painted then the render nibbled away to form the image. I imagine a port fed stitlon attacked by a bunch of artistic mice might look similar.

Well worth stopping to have a look. Now we must wait to see what incarnation a well liked local pub returns as. It opens soon I understand.

Meaningful Vote 3: The legal implications of separating the Withdrawal Agreement and the Political Declaration

Found this on the interweb on the Public law for everyone blog by Professor Mark Elliot:

 'The Government has confirmed that tomorrow, Friday 29 March, it will lay a motion before the House of Commons seeking its approval of the Withdrawal Agreement — but not of the Political Declaration concerning the UK’s future relationship with the EU. It has further indicated that if the Withdrawal Agreement is approved, it will introduce into Parliament the long-awaited ‘Implementation Bill’, which would be needed in order to give effect in domestic law to the Withdrawal Agreement. As far as the legal implications of this proposed course of action are concerned, three issues are worth mentioning."

More HERE

Brexistential angst.

"Brexistential angst", sometimes called existential dread, anxiety, or anguish, is a term that is common to manybrexistentialist thinkers. It is generally held to be a negative feeling arising from the experience of human freedom and responsibility. The archetypical example is the experience one has when standing on a cliff where one not only fears falling off it, but also dreads the possibility of throwing oneself off. In this experience that "nothing is holding me back", one senses the lack of anything that predetermines one to either throw oneself off or to stand still, and one experiences one's own freedom. Angst, according to the modern existentialist, Adam Fong, is the sudden realization of a lack of meaning, often while one completes a task that initially seems to have intrinsic meaning.
It can also be seen in relation to the previous point how angst is before nothing, and this is what sets it apart from fear that has an object. While in the case of fear, one can take definitive measures to remove the object of fear, in the case of angst, no such "constructive" measures are possible. The use of the word "nothing" in this context relates both to the inherent insecurity about the consequences of one's actions, and to the fact that, in experiencing freedom as angst, one also realizes that one is fully responsible for these consequences. There is nothing in people (genetically, for instance) that acts in their stead—that they can blame if something goes wrong. Therefore, not every choice is perceived as having dreadful possible consequences (and, it can be claimed, human lives would be unbearable if every choice facilitated dread). However, this doesn't change the fact that freedom remains a condition of every action.

The greatest poet the world has ever seen.

For Jan Nieupjur. RIP.


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

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

The forlorn hopes of the brides parents.

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

Pendulum

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

A tale of two West London pubs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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