Portobello Road.

I have no idea what was going on here but they look happy.

Hooray, high fashion and tarted up bars.

OK sorted.

Having picked up the new computer courtesy of good friends we adjourned to the Portobello Star; a recently refurbished Portobello Road boozer. Normally I am anti the stylification of local boozers but the Star as it was was un-enterable to all but the most hardened of drinkers and it's new incarnation is welcome.

We discussed the impossible nature of 'haut-couture' shoes of the Lady Gaga variety currently filling the glossies.

I would like to say that I am left cold by it all...

Strangely I find myself hot and bothered by the alien footwear.

But not as hot and bothered as Lady Gaga's feet.

I took myself home for a steak pie and a large vodka.

Disaster

Beer all over my computer.

Funny that!  I was celebrating.

I will be quiet for a day or two until I resolve this.

I've seen the future.

i have this idea for a futuristic movie thats why i'm using lower case and bad punctuation because its the future and the world has gone to pot

anyway it is about the last englishman to have a job

he becomes very famous for being the last englishman to have a job

he becomes so famous that he is in constant demand for interviews and public appearances

so much so that he is sacked for absenteeism

he is replaced by an ironic imigrant

A fine photograph.

Poetry in an unsatupon chair.

I once came to the conclusion that a chair, when not sat upon is a meaningless object; a non item in search of something to do.

It dawned on me that, if I wrote something meaningful on the chair it would create a purpose for the unsatupon chair. I wrote a schmaltzy, cheesy poem (about loss of a woman) on strips of paper then pasted them onto the piece of furniture.

It worked. When sat upon the chair was a chair, when not sat upon the thing was a poem.

The problem was that each time I read the poem(which was often) I would burst into tears. The memory of the lost love was too much.

I eventually chopped the chair up and fuelled the fire with it; another use for an unsatupon chair.

I wish I had said that.

We seek the teeth to match our wounds.

Ken Tynan.

All gong and no dinner.

There are many ways to skin a cat.

But why? What's the point, there are no uses for a skinned cat that I know of. You cannot even eat them.

And then it dawned on me: It is the skin that is important. the packaging is the desirable thing, the contents are just packing material and worthless.

Retreat and jelly sandwiches.

Rusty telephoned this morning from Cerne Abbas where he is in retreat.

Retreat from what? I asked him.

From the truth. He replied.

He went on to tell me about a pub in Brinkworth that did a great peanut butter and jelly sandwich (he had had one for lunch on his way down there). I never could understand the concept of that particular Americanism. I told him.

That's rich coming from a native of the land of marmite, he said.

'But i'm a Dutchman rusty.'

Silver sofa surfer.Work in progress.

A bird of passage, wandering albatross

sleeping on the wing

or perched precariously

on the cliff face of others hospitality

changing the face of hippychick philosophy.

Years ago in Paris I did a great deal of drinking and talking with a guy called Antoine. He was a good looking man, an aviator, philosopher and writer.

He showed me the rough draft for a book he was working on, provisionally called the little prince. He asked me to read it and give him my opinion.

I found the book a little twee and the philosophy simplistic.

when we next met I told him this ( I am a straight talking man ) and went on to suggest a few modifications.

I remember suggesting that the little prince, when lost in the desert, uses his remaining bullet to shoot down Jonathan Livingstone seagull. Later, after eating the bird, the prince dies of food poisoning, putting a generation of hippychick thinkers boyfriends out of their misery.

Antoine did not like that idea to much.

I did not tamper with his aeroplane whatever anyone says.

Abomination and Art

A friend asks me: 'Have you been to Westfield yet?'

I'm a bloody poet, what on earth would I want to go to that place for.