Tristan and Isolde, Guinness and oysters.

A very strange incident on Friday night:

I was having a beer with Tristan at the Cow; listening to one of his monologues when he suddenly stopped mid story, approached a young woman who had just passed us and demanded 'Who are you?'

She replied. 'Isolde'

'Amazing'. Said Tristan. 'I've been waiting 55 years for this.

'Why? Who are you?' She asked

'Tristan'.

'Oh fuck off' She replied. walking off.

I guess she hears that all the time I said to Tristan in order to mollify the situation.

Tristan celebrates 55 years of picking at the loose threads of life's tapestry and remedial embroidery tomorrow...

We shall celebrate with Guinness and oysters.

How it is.

I said: Tristan, that is how it is!

You hope for too much.

They hope for just enough.

But it is never enough really

And too much becomes too much.

I guess he can wait a little bit longer...

Beer, women and loss.

I met a friend yesterday. I say a friend but she is really a friend of an ex and therefore an ex friend.

She was on her bike in Portobello road but circled back to say hello and chat for a moment and she glowed and I said you look wonderful and she said yes I am falling in love then she wheeled off again in front of a police car she was glowing more than the lights on that car and her siren sound was more pressing. And she, on the whole was far more arresting. Aint love wonderful.

I went to have a beer to think about that...

I loved that beer while I missed the woman... We miss them when they are gone.

Fucked if I know whether they ever miss us.

Probably.

Hopscotch, bunny boilers and Mondrian.

Easter leads me to think of bunny boilers.

I thought that frightening until tonight when a friend showed me the easter eggs lovingly ( and suspiciously) perfectly made by his girl friend; they had messages on them (exquisitely written in melted while chocolate; as good as if Mondrian had marked out your hopscotch squares on the pavement) which kind of spooked me.

The messages read(subliminally): Die you bastard!

But he is a chocoholic. I know he will ignore my warnings and fall in love.

One day he will fill the cracks in the pavement with alcohol.

The pitfalls of bearded snogging and Lucky 7.

I know I've been lazy. It has been easter and all that that entails; there has been no one on the streets and no observations to make. I did however have a fantastic lunch on Monday cooked by the woman who wears the trousers in Notting Hill. Fantastic for many reasons(as well as the food being brilliant) including the fact that no-one needed to introduce cocaine into the equation. Met some new friends there... Good.

I'm also trying to organise the next event; venues are tricky people to deal with, they think that they are the stars. I'm the promoter. I'm the fucking star; oi no brown m and n's babydoll.

I have however been considering the pitfalls of gay snogging among bearded men; specifically the velcroic nature of beards... What on earth do you tell your wife when you arrive home in the early hours of the morning (after a drunken snog in the alley behind Lucky 7) with a bearded scotsman stuck to your face?

Does a bucket of cold water work?

In my case I would say: Darling, I was snogging this Scotsman behind Lucky 7 and his beard got stuck to mine... Working on the assumption that none of my wives have ever believed a single word I say, they would dismiss this as poppycock and look for a thoroughly red blooded and heterosexual explanation involving booze, football, rock n roll and Russian tarts.

Lucky 7. Westbourne Park Road. London W2.

Hope I get a free portion of fries for this plug.

Somehow I doubt it.

The muse is dead.

Long live the muse.

Something to talk about.

With converse you always have something to talk about.

Let's talk about Vans

Great American literature.

I've given up on Bukowski and given up on Kerouac too.

Gone back to Cormack McCarthy. Reading 'Child of god' and blown away by the way McCarthy's lyricism can convince me to feel compassion for the most despicable of human beings.

This man is the greatest living writer in America.

Sad things can be funny and funny things can be sad.

the other day I watched a blind man try to walk down the street with a disobedient guide dog. That dog was exploring every tangent, every smell, every piss smeared tree and every food stain on the pavement.

The blind guy was dragging at and cadjoling his seeing eye dog. And getting very pissed off in the process.

Is it fair to see humour in this.

Tonight I asked a very beautiful young woman what she would like to drink. she said she would like a pint of piss coloured beer.

I'd like you to think that I'm making this up... But I'm not.

There is a point to life and when you find it it is wonderful.

Notting Hill bull shit.

I have truly had enough of the bullshit that surrounds me.

OK. I live in Notting Hill. That does not mean that I have to put up with the shit thrown my way.

Went to the Pelican tonight to hear some music. I'm sure the guys involved were well intentioned but it was crap.

I voiced my opinion, which I think is fair enough.

Then I got shit for being honest. One should never be honest at friends gigs, because if a mate is playing you tell the world it is good.

Hey like friends like being lied to. I don't think so.

It was appalling.

I enjoy immensely being told the truth... By people I respect.

Especially if they are buying the beer.

Happy Easter. I wish I had gone to see 'Tony' instead. Fuck I've plugged it again.

Milliners crossing

Gerard, who is a film maker; made a film called Tony (oh fuck, I've just plugged it again) said to me this evening that I should put the following on the blog:

You know that film called Millers crossing, It's got hats in every scene. If you CGI'd everything out of it save the hats and the dialogue you'd have a really cool film.

milliners crossing.

You bet we were drinking.

Canned bums.

Tristan calls.

He says to my answering machine: 'Hey Jannie, that film featuring my bum is going to be shown at Cannes. I've been invited to go over there. Never thought my bum would make it in the movies.

Nurse Caz (who had a role in the film) said my bum was too thin and scrawny but I reckon it will appeal to the effete French sensibilities.

I need a holiday, haven't had one for years. It is also an opportunity to meet up with some people I've yet to meet. Talk soon.'

Bukowski, ice hockey and nobility.

He said:

Your aspirations are noble but irrelevant.

that shut me up.

For a while at least

Then I realised he'd been watching ice hockey all night

sucking on beers the way Bukowski liked to talk

noble but irrelevant

I felt good.

Noble even.