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

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!...

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 2^nd 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

Harp in Royal Festival Hall.

Harp at Henry Wood Hall.

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.

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.

Harp in Moscow

Moscow tonight.

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!

LOCO is back!

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.

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.”

Anti-Theft lunch bags.

What a good idea. don't know where they come from though.

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? 

John Keats

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.

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

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!'

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….

Elephant meat being sold on Portobello Road.

Proof that 'bush meat' is being openly sold in Britain today!

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

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

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.

Seeing out the old.

Haunted by the ghosts of children
as they pre-decease
taunted by returning conscience
ageing ain't a piece of cake.

Death…

Release.

Road trip No. 2. Naked Road Dog.

13.50. M4. As two and a half litres of volvo thunders beneath my thighs the steering twitches as we stray onto the cats eyes…. and a small boy asks: Are we still in London, and we can't say no because the minute we do we know the next question will be: Are we at the bridge?

Are we at the bridge yet?

Knock it down a cog, give it some throttle, catch me white van man if you've got the bottle.

Are we at the bridge yet?

And tramps like us... Baby we were born to motor down to cardiff in a Volvo estate at a sensible speed due to having children on board.

Road Runner Road Runner doing sensible miles an hour.

Are we at the bridge yet?

And I drift into a maserati drop top two lane black top full head of hair kind of reverie.

Are we at the bridge yet?

Then we ARE at the bridge and I realise the purpose of the high fences either side… They are to stop parents (Crying. 'Yes we are fucking at the bridge') from flinging seven year olds from cars as they cross.

Are we still in London?

I promise you that this is a genuine question asked by a seven year old as he crosses the severn Bridge.

I mentally dock his pocket money £6.20 to pay for the troll reminding him that in fairy tales they just ate you as you crossed, they didn't fleece you beforehand.

You wanna see a road dog naked?.. Just stand downwind of the Severn bridge.

TBC

Road Trip. For road Dogs everywhere, empathy man!

11.00 am West 10. Head on down to Sainsbury's Ladbroke Grove to gas up. They only have City Diesel but we are heading off piste, will city diesel work in the sticks?  We are road dogs and will chance it. The air machine ain't working; gonna have to wing the rubber then.  Shit! No boiled sweets at the checkout… Don't they know that road dogs don't do fudge or jellybabies!

12.00 Midday. Car loaded with 3 kids and their toys, little room for essentials apart from 6 bottles of Evian. In light of the oncoming storms I have packed 5 chocolate chip cookies and tobacco; cigarettes is the only way to deal with the cries of freezing children. it would be criminal to share my smokes with them so at least I have something to rely on… I may be a road dog but I care for my children's welfare as they freeze in the snow bound wastes of the M4.

We are off.

12.10. Hammersmith. London. ten minutes into the trip boy number two vomits copiously, refusing offer of gumboot or window as target chooses to vomit liberally throughout passenger compartment. We are road dogs…

12.12. A4. Garage stop to hose down boy number two. Boy number two seems pleased with the attention gained. Good news though, garage has boiled sweets. Bad news: Baby wipes left on car roof. Good news for someone else: Free pack of baby wipes found on A4.

12.27. A4. After a smooth transition to gear 5 we are Westbound.

Me. I'm the king of the road in my vomit scented chariot, wondering how many times I can put up with a seven year old asking if we are there yet.

I feel like telling him that he is closer to hell than to Cardiff.

And then the baby cries and I know it can only get worse.

But we are road dogs.

TBC

A Christmas tale.

Dear Mummy, I hope you can read this, it is really hard to write because it is hard to hold a pencil with a webbed hand.

It isn't really my fault. I want to blame you for trying to maintain in me a belief in Father Christmas. but it isn't your fault either.

I blame the jelly beans.

I awoke at four this morning and found a stocking at the foot of my bed, it was full of stuff that I don't really need but which makes you feel like a good mum but you don't need to do anything more than just be to be a good mum. Jelly beans are good though and if you find a box of jelly beans at four in the morning you are going to eat them and as one in ten jelly beans taste like poo you are going to eat them ten at a time to hide the taste of the poo one.

Sometimes when you eat ten jelly beans at once one escapes and that is what happened this morning. I hoped it wasn't a poo flavoured one that escaped otherwise if you found it you'd think I had poo'd in my bed. I couldn't find the escaped bean and then I fell asleep.

I woke up a bit later, I don't know what time because the watch you gave me last Christmas is broken and I haven't yet got the new one I am no doubt going to get this year.

Anyway.

I woke up to find a jellybean stalk growing out of my bed and then out of the window. I know enough about fairy tales to know that I had to climb it and would be rewarded by stuff like harps and gold once I had defeated a giant.

I started climbing but it didn't go up. It went horizontally out of my window and down the gardens at the back of the house but I climbed it anyway. I climbed it all the way down to 37 Oxford gardens where it disappeared into a window. I sat outside and looked in.

There was a really fat woman sitting in a kitchen, there was nothing on the table except an empty white bowl, there was a goose walking around and the really fat woman was crying but if I were really fat I would cry a lot too, either because I was fat or because I was hungry. Or both.

I climbed in through the window and asked her why she was crying and she said she was crying because she was a vegetarian and the goose had eaten all her sprouts and sprouts was all she had had for Christmas.

I did some really quick thinking and said don't worry, my mum has some sprouts at home, I'm sure she can spare some, I'll go and get them. I climbed back across the beanstalk to our place and got the sprouts. I also picked up a bag of carrots which were in the fridge. I climbed back to the fat ladies house.

When I gave her the sprouts she was pleased and her wails turned to sniffs. When I gave her the carrots she beamed, there was a loud crash and a flash and she turned into a beautiful thin woman with red lipstick.

She said 'Thank you so much because I was put under a spell by a wicked witch and could only be changed back to a kitchen goddess by an innocent boy giving me a carrot'.

She also said that she was no longer a vegetarian and she eyed the goose in a lascivious way.

I liked the goose. I grabbed the goose and ran.

I was used to the beanstalk by now and could move pretty quick but I knew that the kitchen goddess was hot on my tail. I made it back to my room then cut the beanstalk with my Alladin sword I got for my birthday. Jellybean stalks are cool because the minute you cut them they turn to jelly and I heard the kitchen goddess falling into the ornamental pond at number 16 causing the frog who lived there to croak a bit.

I was left here with a goose and I didn't know how I was going to explain a goose in my room but that was the least of my problems because the goose turned to me and thanked me before kissing me on the forehead and then flying out the window before I had time to explain that I had been turned into a small boy by a kind witch and the only way to turn me back into a frog was by being KISSED BY A GOOSE.


So mummy, It's me.

Not a frog.

You could try kissing me. It might work.

Ikea Allen Key and the role of 'flat pack' in the nativity.

In Sweden the giving and receiving of flat pack furniture (especially cribs) at christmas symbolises both the role of Joseph in the Nativity and the role of the father in general at this time of the year… Sitting in a corner half pissed, fully enraged, wielding a cranked allen key, surrounded by MDF and with a crucifixion already on his mind!

It is important also to remember that January brings with it 50 million discarded, unwanted Allen keys.

An Allen key is for life, not just Christmas!

And sentences can't start with 'And'. And the dinosaurs ate all the pens.

And I was informed today that sentences cannot start with 'And'. And I've just done that very thing so obviously sentences can start with and.

And another thing, punctuation was invented by printers not by writers, who in the early days were just recording the spoken word.

And the spoken word pre-dated everything.

Because the dinosaurs ate all the pens.

There is something wrong about Christmas. Ask the trees!

150,000,000 trees will be cut down for christmas in Europe alone. god knows how many in the USA and the rest of the world. These trees will then spend two weeks dying in living rooms in order to honour a victorian fad which has absolutely nothing to do with the fanciful notion of the virgin birth of the son of a non existent god. (The truth is more likely to be that Mary was shagging a neighbour while Jo was away, got knocked up and decided the best explanation was that she was visited by a randy god. People were more gullible back then... Did Jo then go out buy a tree, smother it in tinsel and lights in order to advertise his wife's infidelity? I don't think so).

At the same time we in the West scream blue murder over the evisceration of the rain forests elsewhere on the planet. Ironically the eradication of these forests  is necessary in order to feed our endless need for burger meat and palm oil here in the West.

It should be an absolute law that for each conifer (most of them non native) cut down and sold, the purchaser should either plant or pay to have planted a deciduous tree native to their country.

The idea that christmas trees are a sustainable resource is nonsense. Of course the suppliers will grow more for future years but they make little contribution to the well being of the planet.

Plantations of non native conifers on Welsh and scottish mountainsides have long been an unnecessary eye sore.

You want green stuff in your house for Christmas? Do what the ancients (who knew far better than us) did and pick some holly, ivy and mistletoe!

Westway Development Trust to open 'refuge for junkies and alcoholics under the west way'?

A guest blog from Jan Nieupjur.

My mole under the Westway has been hinting at a new radical proposal by the Westway Development Trust. The rumour is, that, after the success of last years initiative to turn Portobello Green over to the junkies, winos and vicious dog troupe, the new year will see the opening of a designated doss space beneath the flyover in the bay which presently houses the pop up cinema.

Facilities will allegedly include some tatty soft furnishing gleaned from the local pavements, a brazier, a designated fighting space and a corner to piss in. A booth will be open 24 hours a day offering crack, spliff and cheap alcohol, either for cash or in return for stolen phones and computers. I am told that W D T are pissed off that they cannot 'earn' from the street people and that this is a way of making some sort of income from them and which will provide additional funds for their holiday homes abroad.

There will be an on-site retail outlet for the sale of stolen technology, manned by unpaid assistants provided by the job-centre. It is hoped that the 'receiving stolen goods' experience will be a big hit with the tourists especially as a 12 months 'immunity from prosecution' guarantee will be provided.

There will be a curtained off 'mugging area' so that street criminals may avoid the stigma of being seen at their work and provide a more comprehensive 'mugging experience' for the tourist and local alike.

The doss space is also designed to cater for the increasing number of 'care in the community' victims who are at present under catered for in the neighbourhood. It is hoped that, by putting them all together they might actually start getting some care… From each other.

Dog owners will be obliged to let their animals bite children and shit everywhere.

It is hinted that, if the scheme is a success, a licensed brothel will open in the neighbouring bay, operated by a bunch of Eastern European human traffickers and staffed by friendly girls brought in for the purpose from around the planet. I'm told that although this may sound odd, even though they are illegal immigrants and victims of crime at least they have a roof over their heads and a source of income which can be taxed. It will also bring this kind of activity into the open where it can be monitored more easily.

In the summer months it is hoped that a kasbah styled bedouin brothel tent can be operated on the Portobello green itself for  frisky, al fresco fornication fun!

good to see that W D T is working for the community.

A Christmas poem.

Friendless sheeting december rain
falling on autumns unraked leaves and memories
and last years christmas cards
promising unblemished snow and peace on Earth.

The loan shark calls
the only friendly face among
the retailers of misery and the uncalled for.
A loan the only necessary thing this christmas.

A child's voice cries out "give"
three billion not so wise men
oblige with tat at the cost of starvation.

Three billion not so wise men
horrified at the desecration of the rain forrest
for our burgers and fuel
destroy forests of conifers
in celebration of a Victorian fad.

The Green Man cringes
amid the holly and the ivy
as the world gorges on its own intestines
in the name of legalised inhumanity.

Humanity and ethics died
with Mickey Mouse
on that cross.

& the friendless sheeting December rain
nothing less than the anguished despairing tears of the one and only god….

Earth.

Westway Trust Ice skating scam on Portobello Green. Notting Hill.

Bollocks and criminal. It is not an ice rink!

There is a criminal offence in gaining pecuniary advantage by deception, it is the act by which con-men are prosecuted. The Westway Development Trust, in calling their scam on Portobello Green an ice rink and charging people to use it as an ice rink, fall into this bracket. It is a plastic area whithout a sign of ice, except the icy glare of the hooded con men running it, described as an ice rink  and costing kids £3.00 a pop to be seriously disappointed by fuckwit grown-ups making a buck out of deceiving kids. No wonder kids don't trust adults and rebel.

Westway development Trust, you are not only a joke but a bunch of criminals conning anyone who comes your way. It is not an ice rink, it is a bit of lino. Kids would have more fun sliding around their kitchens in their socks.

It is yet another example of self important inadequates deceiving innocents in order to flatter themselves and then bringing in a bunch of thugs to help out.

We want our money back and an apology Westway Development Trust. Shame on you, you are stealing from and letting down the community you claim to be helping! If there were a Santa Claus he would be coming down your chimneys with an axe.

Harp in isolation.. Abbey Road Studios.

Don't be depressed about being bitten by a Gila Monster.

A guest blog from Rusty McGlint.

Hi y'all. you know when you are out in the desert getting bit by a critter can piss you off some… Getting bit by a Gila Monster shouldn't depress you though. Research shows that there is Seratonin in its venom, so it may hurt like fuck for a week but you'll hurt laughing.

Also they have found stuff in the saliva that helps Alzheimers and memory loss so if you get lost in the desert get yourself bit by a gila Monster and you'll soon remember the way home.

Oh and merry Christmas from Lizard Bend. Idaho.

Were Damian Hirst paintings taken from Notting Hill Gallery stolen to order? Or was it 'The Swallow'?

Art Correspondent Jan Nieupjur writes:

One of the stolen paintings which were taken off in the back of a car. The police curiously say that they are surprised that the paintings were not spotted in the car… How did the spots disappeared is perhaps more of a mystery than the disappearance of the paintings themselves as the perpetrator was caught on CCTV.



Two Damian Hirst paintings have been nicked from the Exhibitionist Gallery in Blenheim Crescent. W11.

As an artist myself I do understand the need to generate a bit of publicity when one's name has been absent from the press for a few days. there are a number of ways one can go about this: Drunken loutishness in public; Marriage to an unsuitably young girl; open drug use in a palace lavatory; having ones work stolen from a gallery or 'bidding up' ones own work at auction.

One could of course produce some noteworthy original work but I fear that where Hirst is concerned it is impossible to imagine him ever producing something original.

So did Hirst order the theft for publicity purposes?

I have however been sent a photograph of notorious local art thief known only as 'The Swallow' seemingly rolling around on one of the paintings in question.

'The Swallow'


Answers are needed:

Who is The Swallow?
Why did he not use his normal MO; creeping through cat flaps?
What unscrupulous tattoo parlour did the tattoo?
Is Damian Hirst that desperate for publicity?
Who cares?

Rice cake.

Nelson Mandela… Free at last!

Photo: Nicky Newman.

The Ace of Spades. an homage to Lemmy.

Harp in Bedford.

Sarm Studios, Basing Street. W11. Gentrification awaits.

It was bound to happen. The gentrification of Notting Hill/Ladbroke Grove continues apace and another landmark is turned into fat cat housing. I love the use of the term 'Duplex', a ghastly Americanism meaning 'Maisonette'.  

Harp in Huddersfield.

Black harp in a dark shed, Regents Park.

I like this harp, it is black and without embellishment or adornment. It is a harp that doesn't harp on about itself.

It is a Lyon and Healy number 30. Simple and elegant.

Kris Wilkinson Hughes at the Driftwood Sessions.

Wow

Maybe it is my age, maybe it is the autumn weather, maybe it was pure chance.

I've often said that the Elgin on Ladbroke Grove is the best music pub in West London which of course it is. On monthly wednesday nights Tom Moriarty runs his 'Driftwood Sessions'. Tonight I put the baby in the sink for safe keeping, kissed the muse then wandered down.

Kris wilkinson Hughes was playing… Yeah neither had I.  I have now!

It is pure joy to witness such virtuoso song writing and the performance of said songs by… Well by… People doing it as right as you can get. Kris Wilkinson and Joe Hughes, without any pomp or circumstance, without any flash young bling thing, just did it, made my day.

I don't understand music and for that reason do not go into intricate reviews. I do however understand emotion and tonight dear reader I wept. Kris and joe did a song called: No More I Love You's'. A cover of an Annie Lennox song I hear you say. Far from it, Joe wrote it and the two of them tonight imparted something that Ms Lennox never did.

A truly enchanting chance encounter… but not really.

Tom puts on a well worth attending night with his Driftwood thing.

The band that followed was called Farrago. I had time to listen to the first two numbers wondering whether this was jazz or blues or what. The band leader has a voice that makes you want to think about it. I wish I had more time.  I'm going to listen more to their stuff.

I had to leave early to ensure that the baby was not thrown out with the bath water but bumped into Joseph Dean Osgood on my way out. Joseph is at the Chelsea potter tomorrow night. Check him out.





Oh! The Elgin is free, the beer is reasonably priced and it is very civilised.

Russel Brand demonstrates that he really is Jesus in Parliament Square. Bonfire of his own vanity.

Showbiz correspondent Jan Nieupjur writes:

Russel Brand staged a demonstration in Parliament Square last night in order to vent his anger at the thousands of people who are refusing to pay to see his 'I am Jesus' show.

Brand stated: 'If all these people can afford to pay their heating bills I can see no reason why they cannot come to my show and see how brilliant I am'. He went on to state that:  'I've just bought a new house in Los Angeles and really need the money.'

Brand then went on to flatly refuse to hide behind a mask of anonymity preferring to be well and truly in the limelight.

Or was the light from the bonfire of his own vanity?

Operation Yewtree police guilty of gross hypocrisy?

Jan Nieupjur writes:

Having lived through the sixties and seventies and seen the way people behaved back then in the pre-aids let's get laid years I'm pretty disappointed to see that the coppers seem to have forgotten that they were accepting a quick fuck from underage girls in return for not nicking them for trumped up charges.

In the sixties none of my female contemporaries wanted a boyfriend of their own age... They wanted to get shagged by a DJ from the Radio 1 Roadshow and would duly bunk off school, dress like a tart, lie about their age and then hit on whichever DJ was there.

A lot of us knew that Saville was a pervert, a lot of us knew that Gary Glitter was weird (I know because I had some very weird conversations with Paul Gadd in the Stag near Banbury) a lot of us knew that underage girls took advantage of men... All of us knew that the police were corrupt and regularly abused their powers.

The guys I knew back then who joined the police force would regularly be seen at parties (in uniform) doing pills and spliff before going off to nick kids for the same and steal their gear.

In terms of corruption the police were and are far worse than those they police. Operation Yewtree seems like a way for elderly coppers to assuage their guilt about the underage girls they regularly sexually abused in return for leniency.

When are the police going to investigate the sexual abuse that exists within their system?