Nettles and depression.

London is wet cold and grey. Where has the summer gone? I feel lethargic and uncreative, but what to do?

Then I read the following:

Serotonin occurs in nettle, and is found to be of great benefit to many people who suffer from depression. Serotonin has a major role as a neuro-transmitter in the central nervous system. Research in Europe, on the antiinflammatory potential of nettle, showed that the herb has a very strong action to de-activate cytokines that perpetuate the inflammatory destruction of cartilage and bone. Therefore, nettle can help to inhibit joint and bone destruction, and slow the progression of the disease.

The answer was, I thought, obvious... I walked down to Hyde park this afternoon and having found the largest patch of stinging nettles, proceeded to remove most of my clothing and roll around in the things much to the amusement of passing joggers and nannies.

I am now even more depressed as a result of an excruciating rash.

It has not helped my arthritis either.

Pot noodle and love.

My insufferable employer Jan Nieupjur suddenly stopped mid way through dictation; his eyes glazed over and a wistful smile attempted to light up his miserable old face.

He rose to his feet declaring that we should try something called a 'pot noodle'.

Now I have of course heard of the aforementioned foodstuff but have made a point of avoiding it. I asked Jan to explain and a pretty sad story emerged:

'I have fallen in love Tristan. I have fallen in love with a 21 year old Peruvian girl who seems to live entirely on pot noodle and cider, I feel I must acquire an appetite for such things in order for the relationship to proceed!'

I told him not to be so ridiculous; he is over 100 years old, what on earth could a 21 year old see in him apart from a rapidly approaching funeral. I asked him how often he saw this girl. He replied that he had met her twice, briefly! But, he said, every time I see her my legs turn to jelly!

Jan, your legs are jelly!

Sandie Shaw - Long Live Love [totp]

Why I love where I live.

This evening:

At the Tabernacle for a few beers talking to first generation Trinidadian immigrants who arrived during the 50's and 60's... We could all learn a great deal about national pride (not nationalism) from these people as well as completely new stuff. I am not being patronising; I learnt more about where I live in the space of two hours than I can shake a stick at.... More another day.

Then I watched a steel band rehearse for a while. Bliss.

I called in at the Cow on my way home... Luti the bar manager got his citizenship stuff confirmed this week, good news. If you ever bitch about immigrants and their negative input you should come down to the Cow and watch the best, hardest working, fastest barman on the planet (he even smiles now and looks ten years younger). To my mind fast barmen are second only to fast women! Fast barmen never let you down though.

Then I got home to find that I had done the washing up earlier.

And there was beer in the fridge...

Who could not love where I live?

Answers on an e-postcard please.

Starbucks or Macdonalds at the Tabernacle?

I have heard a rumour that Starbucks and Macdonalds are in a bidding war for the concession at the Tabernacle in Notting Hill.

It is probably one of those urban myths that do the rounds...

But then I found the following in my mailbox from an anonymous reader. It claims to be the transcript of a pitch made to the Macdonalds board meeting earlier this year.

"Gentlemen, oh and Lady, John Lennon once said that the Beatles were better known than Jesus. My stats team have just informed me that Ronald Macdonald is better known than Jesus and the Beatles put together!

Conclusion... We need a church!

And I have found one. It is called the Tabernacle in Notting Hill, London; you know, the place where Hugh Grant lives with that guy in the underpants.

I hear Starbucks are interested in the place too, but Hell, we got more bucks than Starbucks got bucks and our bucks got god on our side... He told me in a vision!

I've seen a photograph of the place and the Golden Arches will fit neatly above the gate to the street. We'll need to remove the existing sign but that is not a problem as we can blame the local kids for the theft; that place is worse than Detroit.

We can dress the staff as choirboys and girls. The manager can wear a surplice and paper mitre on his head.

Breakfast will be called morning service... Oh, and you don't order your food; you confess your order.

Any-one ordering water will automatically receive wine. (applause and cheers)

The 'fillet o fish' shit will be renamed the 'sermon on the mount' burger; this will be a great little earner for us as the left overs will always exceed the initial serving and we can get our boffins to come up with a catchy name for 'left over fish burger' burger!"

I've met with a young guy in a black suit who tells me he can fix the deal. He is also offering to sell us Buckingham Palace and Tower bridge at a reasonable price.

Etc etc etc.

You get the drift... I for one do not like the sound of this!

BEAT at the Drop or Rude poets society.

I'm doing some stuff at BEAT next Tuesday. I'll let Andreas explain...

17 August at 20:00 - 18 August at 00:00
Location	The Drop 175 Stoke Newington High Street, N16 0LH London, United Kingdom
Created by:	BEAT
More info	It's good to be back. We have been gone. And when we are gone, we are really gone. Poetry is a Zoo where we go to visit Demons and Angels. There's no middle ground. There are a lot of poetry nights. There is just one BEAT BEAT means trouble. Sometimes the host passes out. Sometimes one of the performers casually drifts into the realms of the unknown. Sometimes we get banned from Soho for indecent exposure. Sometimes we get drunk. But we take our poetry very seriously. Life is poetry and if it's not, you must be doing something seriously wrong. And like all good poetry, life hurts. Luckily BEAT doesn't. It's free of cost, high on quality. Welcome to 2 nights of hard hitting no bars hold self decapitating poetry 2 nights at the Drop, under Three Crowns, corner of Stoke Newington High Street/Church Street, Tuesday 17th and 31st of August. Opening night 17th of August presents the BEAT All Stars: $Tristan Hazell - Nothing Hill haven't been more well read since Hugh Grant seduced Julia Roberts in an antiques book store. With the elegance of Dorian Gray and the voice of his portrait, poetry is seldom, as funky, as decadent and as stringent in one embodiment $Ben Graham - Brighton's answer to the call. One of the finest lyricist on the UK circuit. Wit, style but above all substance. $Tomas Adejumo - the voice of Barry White meets the mind of a scientist working full time to cure Cancer, when's he's not busy silver lining the every day clouds of London's ladies $Dougie Hastings- runner up best newcomer London 2009, the king of undercover wit. His interpretations of Jesus childhood makes you feel for the chap $Ant the Rant - legend on the UK poetry scene, the Ant is always fresh, never old, although his eternal hit on the post club generation, 50 years later: "Colostomy DelMar", might suggest otherwise. The Rant is always a pleasure, always a surprise Plus live music by: $Fabulous John-founding father of London legendary rockabilly post punk band, as seen on the festival circuit, Fabulous Penetrators, Fabulous John christens the BEAT stage with his virgin performance and some freshly written songs $And your ever present host, racounteur, debaucher, Mr Grant is there to make sure proceedings run according to plan: "there's no plan B, there's no plan A either, but definitely no plan B" More to be announced

Insomnia and Abstract depressionism.

I am frequently asked: 'What does insomnia look like?'

I made that up; I've never been asked that but never mind... artistic license and all that.

In my case insomnia looks like my ceiling. I'm pretty lucky in that outside my flat are some Belisha beacons and street lighting, when I leave my blinds open the various lights create interesting shapes on the ceiling.

At 3.30 this morning I decided, instead of just looking at it, to photograph it; the resulting images are shown below. I've played with the exposure of all three and the colour balance in the blue one but other than that they are a true representation of my ceiling which is what insomnia looks like to me!

The weird thing is though, that when you decide to photograph and write about your insomnia it ceases to be insomnia.

It becomes inspiration.

Jan Nieupjur discovered this paradox many years ago when formulating his principles of Abstract depressionism (blog passim), although all of his resulting images were black, black, black!

Insomnia No:1
Insomnia No:2
Insomnia No:3

Ruby slippers at Port Eliot.

Check out Fiona Campbell aka Ruby slippers' slideshow of Port Eliot photographs:

http://rubyslippersphoto.com/PE2010/index.html

Who took this photograph?

This photograph arrived on my facebook page. It was posted by a guy called Scotty Heath; he found it on the net but the original source is now unknown....

Who did take this photograph? And who is the guy on the right?

Not interested in the bigot.

Pirates, pirates, pirates. The world is full of bloody pirates.

I have had a long day attending to necessary social obligations in the neighbourhood; thankfully Tilly is back for long enough for a tea-time catch up. I attended a 'bright young things' party this evening then departed with exquisite timing and grace. One should always read these occasions carefully.

I thought I would put a link up to one of my childrens stories for the pirate lovers out there.

yo ho ho me hearties: http://storieswrittenwithanoisypen.blogspot.com/2009/02/one-eyed-jake.html

Mangrove rehearsals at the tabernacle.

I was lucky enough; right place, right time scenario, to be invited to sit in on a 'Mangrove' rehearsal last night.

For those who do not know Notting Hill, Mangrove is a steel band which is central to the Carnival and in many ways central to the community.

Initially the space was filled with individual musicians each practising their parts. this went on for some time but at some point the 'director' hit the floor then tapped a drum with a stick and the milling ant's nest of noise formed an orderly mass of pure joy.

A steel band in the street is pretty amazing, this steel band in an enclosed auditorium is something else. It blew me away; I heard church bells, strings, a horn section, a piano. All from a collection of oil drums. It was an aural wine tasting; full of hints and nuances that only come with maturity and loving care.

The director is a young Trinidadian from New York Named Andre White, he seems to hold the entire score for a very complicated piece of music in his head and was teaching the band bit by bit. It was a privilege to witness. At one point a small child entered the fray, was handed a pair of sticks and immediately started playing; watching her neighbour attentively she was learning by sight... the director looked on and smiled as the rehearsal carried on...Where else could that happen? Imagine the uproar if a child entered the rehearsal of the LSO and started joining in... Yet with Mangrove it was the most natural of events and I am sure that a lot of the musicians there had once, sometime past, walked in and picked up some sticks, got stuck in and stayed.

By the way, these are for the most part the young black kids that the majority of the white middle classes instinctively mistrust. What I saw was the kind of community activity that has long since vanished from most peoples lives.

Throughout the building, as the rehearsals went on, scores of people were putting the costumes together; in the dance studio vast skeletons of fantastic creatures awaited their plumage and in the gallery below this years musicians costumes were on show. And throughout the building enthusiasm shone.

Mangrove will be performing on the Friday evening before Carnival in All Saint's Road; an event that is a Carnival of it's own... Go and listen.

 

Bullied by a nurse.

Nurse Caz bullied me into this some time ago...

Till human voices wake us...

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

From 'The love song of J Alfred Prufrock' T.S.Elliot