Pomposity and Pompeii.

I started work on a short story this morning. I decided that the central character should be a plane spotter.

In order to get inside my plane spotters head I decided to go out to Heathrow to spot a few planes of my own.

I refuse to use the underground system in London ( it is Hot, smelly, overcrowded and prone to failure) and therefore walked to Paddington in order to catch the Heathrow express.

Sitting in my carriage opposite me were a young couple; a conservative MP I recognised from the tabloids and chat shows (I have no idea as to his political thinking) and his wife. As we passed through the graffiti strewn Royal Oak and Westbourne Park the MP made unpleasant noises about the vandalism of the artists responsible; I think he said 'string em all up'!

I pointed out that it was just a means of expression for a dissatisfied youth and wouldn't it be better to remove the cause of that dissatisfaction rather than the expression of it.

He said nothing.

A little later I asked where they were flying to.

Italy. He replied.

Ah, Chiantishire. I said.

No! He replied pompously. The bay of Naples and Pompeii actually!

Such wonderful grafitti. I observed.

His wife smiled beautifully.

Drums, paracetamol and the Tamil Tigers.

There is a primary school next to my house.

Over the years I have grown to tolerate the shrieks and yells of playtime and learned to avoid the shop next door between 3.30 and 4.00 pm.

however.

They (the pupils) have a drum band. They have a drum band that plays at Carnival. They have a drum band that practices on Tuesday mornings in preparation for Carnival. They have a drum band that practices loudly with the windows open in preparation for carnival.

I am not a fan of juvenile drumming.

The shopkeeper likes drums. He likes the fact that I spend a fortune on paracetamol.

He is a Sri Lankan, I know the profits go towards the Tamil Tigers' fight in Sri Lanka. The Tamil Tigers will be pleased to know that a little school in London is drumming up funds for them.

Serendipity.

A boat farm?

In the Languedoc region of France there is a village called Saint-Jean-Lasseille. The village does not appear to have a square or a fountain or anywhere to play boules. This I find strange enough to pick up my old copy of 'Clochemerle' to check that I got the description of a French village right.

On the North East edge of the village is a field filled with boats.

there is no lake, sea or river nearby, how did those boats get there and why?

I counted 30 of differing sizes.

Any ideas?

They were children.

Party type thing at the Tabernacle.

July 4th

tristan will be hosting a party at the Tabernacle W11 on Sunday the 4th of July. there is the usual BBQ thing going on in the courtyard in the afternoon followed by stuff happening in the bar from 7.oo onwards. Tristan will be telling tales and music will abound. Bring a guitar if you want and plug it in!

email me for more info: jannieupjur@gmail.com

The bag lady's mint.

A curious evening; cooked something for myself for the first time since January the 24th... What have I been living on?

while the cooking was doing it's doing I went up on the roof; unattended really since last summer, all that is there is a solitary bamboo and a self sown tomato plant in the compost box. Oh, and Moll the bag lady's mint is still hanging on. I took up the four remaining strawberry plants from the kitchen window sill and watered every thing liberally.

It is good to see the Trellick Tower to the north west. Why does it always feel such a privilege to live within view of an iconic structure?

I really must make an effort to sort the roof out it would be a good place to go and eat in the evening.

Even without the bag lady!

Cup-cakes...

What is this obsession with cup-cakes?

At a launch party last night I was offered savoury cup-cakes; red pepper and pesto.

Cup cakes are sweet for heavens sake.

This planet is doomed.

Tristan, rock n roll and mid life crises.

Tristan's performance at the Island last night was the weirdest thing I've seen for a long time.

He did 'Poetry is the new rock n roll' with a guitarist and bassist laying down a 'groove'; a highly dangerous experiment if you ask me. To make things more difficult for himself they did not rehearse the thing, what we got was the first run through ever.

To me it appeared to be the poet's equivalent of the mid life crisis Harley Davidson.

Isn't it good...

the carpenters tale.

(With apologies to Lennon and McCartney)

She sat opposite me and said:

You are seeing someone else

you don't love me any-more

you are never here

you are always distant now.

I sat opposite her and said:

Sometimes a piece of wood sings to me

I found a piece of singing wood six weeks ago

it sang of your beauty and grace

it sang of my love for you

it sang of our happiness.

Since then I have spent every waking hour

working with that wood

making you a table

I built into it your beauty, your grace

I built into it my love for you

I built into it our happiness.

That is why I have not been here

that is why I have appeared distant.

I then brought the table to her... There!

She said:

You do not love me any-more

You are seeing someone else.

That table is in the fucking Ikea catalogue... Sixty quid.

She left me then.

I lit a fire

Isn't it good. Norwegian wood.

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.