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.