Society snot.

It seems that I have annoyed a few people by mentioning Kimberly Festival Norfolk, Notting Hill and Cocaine in the same blog.

Listen up! Cocaine is a fact of life in elitist Notting Hill (across the fault line north of where I am it may be crack or heroin). It is omnipresent at dinner parties, in clubs, restaurants, bars and pubs.

That statement is purely an observation. As I have written before I am not anti drugs (I smoke, I drink, I have tried every narcotic yet invented (with the exception of Heroin)). Nor do I have anything against the people who use drugs. I'm just bored to death with the arrogant, boorish, inane bullshit that issues from their mouths once a line or two has gone up their noses.

Also I am not just singling out Kimberley... It just happens that Kimberley is the festival of choice for the snottier elements of society and society snot is 75% pure Columbian!

There are very good arguments for legalising cocaine (the revenue generated alone could be put to good use ( but now is not the time to discuss it...)) After all it is the drug that gets the 'chattering classes' chattering!

I will leave the last word to Murray Lachlan Young...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-EZJUS72CWQ

Kimberley festival Norfolk, drugs and the Notting Hill promise.

It must be Kimberley weekend coming up: there isn't a drug dealer to be seen in Notting Hill and the Hillbillies are all dressing alike to be different.  It is of course the lead up to the time of the year when 30 and 40 somethings die in their sleep due to excess drug use but their wives/mistresses/family put down to work or depression or not being understood!

It is however the perfect occasion to shag someone  while their partner is off his/her face on horse pills and MDMA in a tent.

Shhhhhhh... Don't tell anyone. It's secret!



The jeweller to the stars.

They are waiting in the cafes
the restaurants and bars
or parked on unlit corners
in expensive cars
they are waiting for the snowman, the blow man, the let's go man
they are waiting, waiting, waiting
for the jeweller to the stars.

He is the closest thing to royalty
their business is all his
with his bags of herbert sherbert
(the silly rich mans whizz)
he makes them feel quite special
and just a
little
bit
show biz
they are guaranteed to talk the talk
walk the walk as well
he is the pied piper
the piper at the gates of hell.

White christmas is his ringtone
on his prepay mobile phone
his sole visible means of support
the long suffering wife at home
he is the king of the powder rooms
his shit it smells of roses
to the vacuous trustafarians
born
with
silver spoons up their noses.

He is known to each and every one
the jeweller to the stars
he hasn't got a friend on earth
and there ain't no life on mars.

Schmick.TV, Dreadzone - Gangster and the hood.

Directed by Christian Banfield and shot in West London.

Does stuff like this really get through to the kids? I have a nagging feeling that it does not; Kids have a way of filtering out what they don't want to see or hear and find their own sub-subliminal messages in order to justify their behaviour.

Oh. And the minute you start growing up and having second thoughts it is too late... You have become the enemy of Youth.

But it is good to see the views of the hood!

http://www.schmick.tv/

Postcard from Tecoman. Mexico

Posted by the delightful Viviana from Mexico. The beach is bio-luminescent; what am I doing in London?

Andy McKee - Guitar - Drifting - www.candyrat.com

Nontourage.

The nontourage are constantly reliable in their unfailing absence from events.

Neon

Killing pigeons in a strange land.

They say that the past is a different country; people do strange things there.

Back in the sixties my brothers and myself took a friend on a pigeon killing expedition; we lived on a fruit farm, pigeons were vermin. we were boys with knives and sharp sticks. Maybe I had just read 'Lord of the flies'. The memory has remained fixed in my head since then; I cringe even now.

I think we were probably showing off a little; our ability to take the lives of defenceless critters without remorse, A macho boy thing.

I had forgotten who our companion was on that day.

Until now.

This morning, during an on line 'chat' with a guy I haven't set eyes on since that summer, he reminded me of the incident... It remained in his head all these years too!

Sorry Hugo... As I said: Strange country the past.

Sam Fox, Rabies and parties.

At the Tabernacle all day today... Party type thing. If anyone turns up.

On the way here I saw the headline in the Sun: Samantha Fox is being treated for Rabies.

How did she contract the disease?

Bit herself shaving perhaps.

found objects

I found this in Westbourne Park Road today. I was on my way to a cabaret type thing.

I'm intrigued by the Afghanistan ribbon on it.

Rusty's old man.

Rusty called in for a coffee and brie sandwich today.

He said it was (or would have been) his pop's birthday.

He said that every year when asked what he wanted for his birthday his pop would reply: 'Peace of mind'.

He's got peace of mind now Rusty. I said.

On Haiku.

It is sad that it has come to this

that I must count syllables

when I would have counted

the ways that I loved you

the ways that I loved you

before you demanded a haiku

you said life was too short

for anything more than three lines.

Write a poem you said

write it in our autumn mists

I'm leaving you now.

Cheating death with black balls.

Many many years ago, not long after the squabble with Jackson Pollock (blog passim) and as a result of that squabble I entered into one of my periodic bouts of depression.

I was living in the apartment of my old friend Ingmar Bergman at the time and annoyed the man greatly by painting everything black including the balls on his pool table. The pool table was in his bedroom which I thought a curious thing. Ingmar told me he suffered from insomnia and pool helped him get through even the darkest nights.

Ingmar would have thrown me out for painting his balls black but for the raging fever that swept through my body that winter; for weeks I lay in that Swedes bed storm tossed in a sea of swelter navigating that fine meridial line between this world and the next.

One night, when I was in a momentary state of lucidity, a figure entered the room; Tall, gaunt, bony fingered, wearing a dark hooded cloak thing and carrying a scythe.

'who are you'? I enquired.

'You know perfectly well who I am and why I am here'. He replied.

Indeed I did know that it was Death himself arrived to carry me off. But I was in no mood to cross the Hudson let alone the Styx. I told the man (oh the arrogance of man to cast death in his own likeness)

that I was not prepared to go without a fight.

He suggested we play a game of chess to decide my fate.

I informed him that there was not a chess set in the house... 'But what about a game of pool'.

Death agreed to the game of pool but was taken aback by the sight of 15 black balls resting on the green baize.

We played that hellish game of pool for a month, day and night, without respite. The scores remained resolutely on 0 -0 as each of our 'breaks' resulted in a foul as we pocketed black ball after black ball.

On the 15th of December Death gave up. He threw down his cue in exasperation, picked up his scythe and swept out of the room hissing: 'You cheated me this time Jan Nieupjur but next time I will be ready for you'.

I then fell into a deep, peaceful slumber, awaking some days later to find my fever departed and the depression lifted.

A few days later I told this story to Ingmar over a game of chess - I had lied to Death, there was a chess set in the house - Ingmar (smiling for once) took notes in a little red book. I did not see him again, he departed for Sweden and a new film project.

Next time Death comes calling I shall challenge him to a game of 'happy families'.