Good grief a goal... Live from the Tabernacle

The Slovenian secret weapon

England have scored in the world cup. Whatever next?

Depression.

Depression.

In the news right now due to some stupid remarks made by the ghastly Janet Street Porter in the equally ghastly Daily Mail.

Depression: Described as a modern illness, described as a trendy illness, some times described as not an illness at all.

Depression is real, it is both an illness piggy-backing on the sickness that is present day life (Sloppy analogy here: Modern society is a very unhygienic and badly run hospital, depression is a virulent secondary infection that haunts the wards and operating theatres) and its own symptom.

The sun is shining, things are seemingly going well, I have much to do yet I am stopped in my tracks by an invisible barrier.

Time for drastic action: Depression is a bully; fight back.

Tristan is performing a few new things at the Island, London W10 on Wednesday night... It is an open mic thing, no one will know him there, and he is petrified.

Thereafter he is doing various smaller shows prior to Port Eliot. All leading up to the Event in September.

Depression may seem an immoveable object but there are ways around it...

I hope.

The farmer's wife.

She keeps bantams

has no faith in god

no faith in art

no faith in science

put all her faith in one man

all her eggs in his basket

The tired ploughman.

I've been ploughing this furrow for too long. Each time I look up from my toil the end of the field is still not in sight save an oak tree on the horizon; when I set out that tree was a mere sapling.

The seagulls that dog my wake have given up on fat worms ever being exposed and now eye my soft parts greedily. they swoop in ever closer.

Time to release the old horse from her traces (smack her on the rump and watch her trot back to her pasture) leave the plough mid furrow mid field (already rusting it will soon enough blend in visually and then soon enough decompose and vanish).

If I walk quickly I will make it to that tree under which sits a little old lady who has many stories to tell me.

I have forgotten what I was going to sow in this field any-way.

Hot chestnuts maybe.

Sunset.

Sebastian Horsley is dead.RIP.

What is going on in Soho?

Too many people are dying.

There has been a fantastic amount of interest in Sebastian since he died; some of it negative but the majority positive... I did not know him well; I met him once or twice in Soho, but I do know that he was for all the criticism, an original! He will be missed.

Portobello Rocks online.

The Portobello Rocks website is now up... Check it out:

http://www.portobellorocks.com/

Don't go breaking my heart Kiki Dee.

You know what. I kissed Kiki Dee tonight.

she said; Where have you been all my life?

Ask Tilly. She heard it.

Kiki Dee. Her hair was the colour of hair dye.

I don't think she really wanted to know where I had been for the previous ten minutes let alone all her life.

That's show business.

I wanted to say to Tilly: I know where I want you to be for the rest of my life!

But I didn't.

Ode to a departed tooth.

Tristan has been having dental problems... Ouch!

My teeth are out in sympathy.

He sent me the following which I suspect may refer to something other than a molar:

Your absence has left a void

which I have filled with pain

The exquisite agony

taunts me with your parting

Although I realise that when the pain goes

I shall remember you for what you really were

It hurts too much to miss you right now.

Girls I have teased.

Duck noodles.

How do they get the duck sauce into the pot noodles?

Hands and feet.

Last years notes.

When I am gone

first drain the blood and set aside

Burn me

Mix ashes and blood with cement

Cast bricks.

with which to build a folly.

Build it in the meadow where we were happy.

According to last years notes.