Something as simple as a roof.

An extraordinary sunrise this morning, and of course the batteries are dead in my camera.
The Morning Glory blooms open with the dawn; they will be dying by noon... But what aptly named things.
The tomatoes are heavy on the vine (green still through lack of sun) and the pink shamrocks are opening.
All of the above have self seeded in the pots on my roof ( along with a bonsai elder tree, nasturtium, solitary potato plant and a fire-weed (Rosebay Willowherb)); welcome immigrants all!
The Algerian mint (it's scent screams) came from Melanie as did the few remaining strawberry plants that survived.
The last remaining Bamboo is beginning to show signs of recovery...


Up on the roof.

Self Galvanising and urban foxes.

From time to time I find that, by working through into the early hours of the morning for a number of nights, my body clock gets somewhat messed up and drastic action is called for.


The instant remedy is of course a bottle of scotch which will induce instant sleep prior to a stinking hangover the following day. The safer bet is the 'up all night' followed by a day of semi stupor.


Tonight is an all nighter; I've just taken a 4.00 am walk to the nearest 24 hour shop for tobacco supplies - I'm trying to give up smoking but tonight ain't the night for abstinence - as usual I buy chocolate.  One of the great joys of London life is the 24 hour shop. Thank heaven for the Asian community who are willing to provide this service. One is obliged to run the gauntlet of addicts and the homeless who frequent the environs of these nocturnal establishments but this is ameliorated by the urban foxes out on the scavenge, always a welcome sight.

I am also always surprised at the number of people out and about at this time of the morning (today I met a woman sporting a splendid beehive hairdo, lugging a bright blue wheelie bag), we eye each other up cautiously; each thinking the other might be the psychopath!   I've been mugged twice in 25 years in London. Not bad statistics really.


Now I am at my desk with a cup of tea and a slab of chocolate cake; 4.00 am is the most depressing time of the night according to the experts and chocolate cake is an anti-depressant according to me (has anyone tried putting nettles in chocolate cake - just a thought); therefore essential.  Outside there is a dribble of traffic on the Westway - the vehicle lights cross my line of sight at eye level... The trains below have yet to start their day  and the buses (which I hear but do not see) are limited to the night service. All of these elements contribute to my natural environment now... I would miss them should I leave.


A short while ago the bulb in my lamp blew, it is an old 1950's anglepoise that I rescued from a skip at St Martins school of Art. In trying to replace the bulb and get the thing lit I managed to send 240 volts of current through my body (now I know why they threw it out).


Boy! That gets you perked up; the electricity avoided my brain (I think) and headed due south, my heart definitely got a jolt and my extremities tingle. I also now have a metallic taste in my mouth.


Self galvanising into action, Auto Voltaism even! Good old Luigi Galvani, where would we be without him. Is it Zinc I can taste?

Luigi Galvani

It didn't seem to work on poor old Earnest Hemingway ; maybe they overdid it.

May 2012 Update: I gather Brian May the guitarist is about to do a television programme on urban foxes. About time too Brian!

To the Whore Who Took My Poems ~ Charles Bukowski

Katerine - La banane (clip officiel)

Poetry is the new Rock n Roll: Part 3.

True story this:

I was in the Nashville (a music pub in West London. Now deceased) in the late 70's to see a couple of punk bands. I got talking to the female guitarist from one of the bands at the bar. She talked about music, I talked about poetry. I asked for her phone number.

She told me to fuck off!

Thirty something years later I was in the Inn on the Green (a music venue in West London) to see a couple of bands. I got talking to the female guitarist from one of the bands at the bar. We talked about her music and my poetry and stuff like that. She asked me for my phone number.

I took hers.

I didn't tell her to fuck off, even though it would have rounded off the story. I'm a poet not a punk!

I wish I had told her about our previous meeting.

never return to lighted fireworks.

The 'Angry man' picture (blog passim) seems to have stirred up some hot ashes.... Maybe the creature (scaling the gunwales) in the picture is, rather than the octopus of truth (it's tentacles able to explore even the tiniest chink in the woodwork), a squib. And not such a damp one as that!

Society in decay. No. 1: Classical music.

I met a 'classical' musician yesterday; nice enough guy, a bit overweight. At first I thought it was too much rich food but no; he was just full of himself!

We were talking about promoting events, funding and the like. He agreed that there was no money to be made from poetry or spoken word, nor was there any likelihood of corporate sponsorship as it was just not 'sexy' enough.

He then went on to suggest that I got a gimmick... Perhaps I should dress in a nappy in order to generate some kind of attention and therefore become commercial. Later I mentioned the steel band practice going on elsewhere to which he replied: 'Oh, that is of no interest to me...It is not high Art!

Which allows me to suppose that he thinks that what he does IS 'high art'. Bollocks; A load of over-sponsored middle class idiots scraping things with horse hair bows in front of a bunch of overpaid, overweight corporate free-loaders necking Roederer Crystal while groping their secretaries/mistresses whilst listening to Garry Glitter on their ipods to drown out the caterwauling is not high art.

Now don't get me wrong, I like a bit of fiddle music (especially at Balkan weddings and Irish lock ins) and the Classical 'composers' borrowed some very pleasant peasant tunes back in the old days or just plain stole them from costermongers and fishwives But music is music. Just because something costs the tax payer loads of money does not make it high art nor does it make it any more important... Let's not get our own self importance confused with the things that amuse us.

A noise is a noise is a noise is a noise.

I asked the fiddle player what he did for a day job. He told me he played on the backing tracks for something called the X factor.... HA! The air was suddenly filled with the sound of a hundred barrels being scraped (albeit with virgin Pomeranian stallion hair bows)... He also went on to cite LLoyd Webber as an exponent of Classical Music.

High Art my arse.

What is called 'Classical Music' is in fact the noise made to drown out the sounds of a society in decay; lying around on metaphorical chaise-longues eating third world grapes and buggering small boys.

Give me a steel band any day and save me from being surrounded by the braying whordes of social and cultural mountaineers.

Whordes by the way is intentional... the people who would sell their children's souls for the price of a ticket to see the LSO perform the Telly Tubbies theme.

vivienne Gillard. Ceramic sound artist.

What is it about the sound of water? And I'd never heard of a Udu Drum before. Check out this website: http://www.viviennegillard.com/index.html

Notting Hill Carnival looms.

It will not be the best of times. Lets hope it is not the worst of times.

The barricades are already going up outside.

like a lot of locals part of me wishes for a far, far better place to go to do far, far better things. But I like a lot of my neighbours do not have second homes in Tuscany or France as refuge.

Without wanting to sound like a killjoy Carnival is a real pain for some people who find themselves under house arrest for two days, unable to do anything other than suffer the aural abuse of every sound system on the planet churning out decibels. The steel bands do play a part but can be better appreciated at one of the pre carnival events; Mangrove in All Saints Road is not to be missed on the preceding Friday.

It is impossible to leave home without passport and I.D with an address and when you finally get to a shop all they want to sell you is beer at three times normal price... On your way home you must put up with half a million drunks attempting to piss in your garden or trying to steal your wallet, purse or life.

Yes, the barricades are going up... Not just the physical ones.

Not a good day really.

The only good thing to happen in the last couple of days has been a letter from a Nigerian princess offering her undying affection in return for helping her extract millions of dollars from Burkino Faso... I know it is a scam because she cannot spell proper... And we all know Nigerian Princesses go to English schools to learn proper English spelling so that their begging letters will be taken seriously!

On top of that it was Sebastian Horsleys inquest today; Sebastian's is the most 'hit' page in this blog! He was an original whatever you think!

I missed a gig tonight because of transport problems... London is too big for its antiquated transit solutions... Sorry Andreas.

Other than that life stinks...

Of roses.

And as Gertrude Stein tells us: A rose is a rose is a rose...

Shakespeare wrote: Should I compare thee to a summers day... You are cold dull and grey!

Hemingway: Cut out the adjectives, cut out the bullshit, get drunk and have a fight followed by a post fight bonding drink. Ah to be a man.

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]