The power of money or money bullies.

My father was a difficult man.

At times he was a good father if somewhat erratic. At other times he was a monster; a tyrant and a bully. He had few friends that I can recall. His sense of humour was invariably based on humiliation and always at the expense of another. He bullied his children because his children were the witnesses he could not get rid of. ironically his children had no idea at the time of what they were witness to... We were witnesses to his bullying for a start!

I think he was an unhappy man and a troubled man. He developed a system of transferrance to deal with his monsters; he beat me up and he beat others up (but I'm writing this so I'll stick to me. The others can fend for themselves). I could furnish a small house with the list of cudgels he used for walloping but a shoe was preferred. I learned to accept this and until I could get away I allowed it to happen. It was his THERAPY, at cubs I should have won the 'junior psychtherapists' badge with ease if only it existed. I suppose it helped form me; I'm happy enough with myself and what I am so must be grateful to him for that. at least I didn't conform and turn into a replica of the man as my brother did.

When I started writing this I made notes; I noted down 'thoughtless acts', I was going to write that he committed many thoughtless acts but that would be wrong. A great deal of thought went into those supposed thoughtless acts.

In 69 or 70 he bought a ridiculous car. It was a gold Mercedes Benz 280SE 3.5 convertible. In Banbury it stuck out like a sore thumb. I hated it; I hated sitting in it, roof down, open to the gaze of the local population, open to the scorn and jealousy of other kids (I was spat at once by a skinhead. Middle England was full of skinheads at that time). I was no longer the child who could take simple joy from sitting in one of his exotic cars. The car was an embarrasment and I was sitting smack in the middle of it and on top of that the embarrasment could be ostentatiously driven about town.

One afternoon driving through Banbury in that ghastly car, heading north on the Oxford road approaching the Cross (remember that fine lady upon a cock horse) he slowed then pulled over. He took a twenty pound note from his pocket and handing it to me said: 'Run accross the road and get me a box of matches'... There is a cigarette lighter in the car, why does he want a box of matches?

I crossed the road, entered the tabacconist's shop that stood there 40 years ago and asked for a box of matches. a box of matches which would have cost 1p at the time. I handed over the note. The shopkeeper gave me the matches, looked at the note, groaned perhaps, certainly scowled, looked at me, looked out across the road at the old man in his golden charriot. The shopkeeper handed me the twenty pound note back saying take the matches they are a gift.

I returned to the car, handed him the matches and the twenty pound note, recounting what had taken place.

He looked at me as the car accelerated away and said: 'You see Tristan. The power of money. If you only had had pennies in your pocket you would have paid for those matches'.

But power wasn't the right word was it because a bully really has no power... Just weakness and a big stick.

Oh. If I could live that moment over again I would tell the shopkeeper to keep the change.

A self-combusting father.

One has not lived until one has seen ones father self combust.

My own particular rite of passage of this variety occured in a Newmarket toyshop when I was 11 years old. My father and I often frequented toyshops then but then again they were more than simple toyshops; we were model aircraft enthusiasts, we were not after toys but the makings of our machines and these shops were the source of our balsa wood, our glow-plug fuel, our tissue and dope that smelled of pear drops, our balsa adhesive (which my father also used to staunch the blood on his often lacerated hands, I still use glue to this day to seal small cuts on my hands) which had its own addictive smell... strange my memory of childhood hobbies is a series of smells more than anything else.

We were browsing as only men (separated from the womanfolk) can browse. There is nothing frivolous about model shop browsing, it is imbued with earnest endeavour and a purpose not extant in any other kind of shop (unless you a a car nut in which case Halfords might inspire similarly). To aid my fathers browsing he sucked upon his pipe. His pipe that could be relied upon to do one thing; that one thing was to go out often, caused perhaps by the greasy black shag he incinerated within it. He relit his pipe frequently (like all fires, pipes are most enjoyed during the lighting process, the arsonist becomes passive thereafter while the fire goes on ahead without assistance. He relit his pipe often with a Swan Vesta from a yellow box decorated in green and red  with not only the name but also a fine looking swan emblazened on it (although I never did understand what a swan had to do with starting fires, perhaps it was biblical; I didn't listen in R.E). Being a tidy man my father would return the used matches to the box and the box to his pocket.

On that illumminating day (did I also discover the pun at that moment?) My father lit his pipe, then, distracted by the cornucopia of model making paraphenalia about us, he returned the match to the box before it was properly extinguished. He returned the box to his cavalry twill trouser pocket, sucked hard on the briar with a contented gurgle as the contents of the match box in his pocket exploded.

He was sensible enough not to try to put his hand in to retrieve the incendiary device so was reduced to dancing around that toy shop flapping at his smoking groin with glue spattered hands much to the delight of his son and the disapproval of  an assembled audience of hobbyists and shopkeeper. If I were an overly imaginitive boy back then I would have said that the glue on his hands caught fire... But it didn't.

He eventually put out the fire, removed the match box, slid it open to show me the serried ranks of now welded together matches, blackened and acridly smoking (another smell to add to my collection).I cannot remember if the subject was ever raised again, I'm fairly sure I recounted the drama to my mother and siblings on returning home. I cannot remember if my father laughed. I hope he did, I really hope he laughed. From that day on he used only safety matches and always ensured that his used matches were placed sardine-like back in the box, the hot ends safely away from the unlit ones.

Elizabeth Taylor. RIP.

There will be enough written about the passing of Liz Taylor without me adding to it except to say I cannot remember the world without her until today. This photograph sums her up well. It also has the benefit of Burton AND that diamond.

Advice to the broken hearted.

My old friend Rusty McGlint dropped by today for a cup of tea and by the look on his face, to share some misery and no doubt some tale of a picaresque nature.

'What's up rusty'? I asked. Rusty then told me.

                                 Rusty McGlint


'It's like this. It turns out that Lula Mae has been lying all along and then some. she has been selling me snake oil from the day we met and I have been buying it. I got a cupboard full of snake oil but I ain't got it in me to sell it on so I guess I'm stuck with it.  On top of that she is a bigamist; got a husband in every state and three in Alaska (on account of the cold nights she tells me), and our marriage is as illegal as the next man's and a damn sight uglier. On top of that she has turned into her mother and her mother is a woman I never could take a liking to (even after twenty ounces of bourbon on a stormy night). When I pointed out to Lula Mae that she was caught out with her lying and all she took against me in a most vicious way.'

Rusty oh Rusty! Rule one: Never confront a lying woman with the evidence of her lies, it is fatal and the cause of more domestic strife and murder than the rest put together.

Rule two: All women become their mothers, Oscar Wilde pointed out that this was their tragedy. The best plan when you find a woman you get a hankering to afford some permanence in you life is to seek out the mother and marry her... At least you are Getting the reality from the get go. You ain't never going to get disappointment creeping in and spoiling Shangri la.

Rusty seemed pretty happy with that and poured himself another cup of tea.

The inanimate muse.

from now on I shall stick to the inanimate muse.

The other kind, the living kind are far too egocentric and predictably unpredictable. The other kind sees the artists canvas or the poets paper purely as a looking glass and a servant to her self perceived beauty. The poet must describe her with words of glowing colour, the artist must lay on strokes of lyrical brushwork. Both pandering to her vanity.

from now on I shall stick to the inanimate muse.

I shall be the one moving for a change and write truthfully about an object rooted to the spot as apposed to trying to make some sense and some poetry from a flighty creature darting about my room demanding insincere flattery dressed up as honesty.

From now on I shall stick to the inanimate muse.

I shall be the one to pack my bags when the moment suits and take my art elsewhere (to places where suffering only exists in the paintings on the walls or in old dusty books describing Circe or Calypso). Free from suffering for my art I shall luxuriate in the suffering of others at the hands of the animate muse.

Incredibly good video especially for cat lovers.

Spambeg and Spambegging. Or is that Spamburg?

Until told otherwise I  shall consider myself the inventer of these words.

Here is my favourite example:

Good day sir/madam

I am sorry to burg you,my name is Mr.John Galvani, I have a very urgent business
proposal worth(£15,500,000.00 Pounds Sterlings) from my new private offshore
bank (first trust bank). Please email me at(johngalvani@w.cn)for details

Best Regards,
Mr. John Galvani




I feel somewhat burged by this but will not be galvanised into action.

Become a successful writer overnight and lie your way to self delusion.

You are going to kick yourself for not doing this long ago... It is so easy.

Step one:  Log into www.peopleperhour.com, register, then post a fantastic profile of yourself remembering to include all of the characteristics you fantasize about having. Do not be shy; big yourself up.

Step two: Create email accounts in a number of  false names; two or three will do but if you ain't got anything better to do with your time then why not a dozen. Make sure there is some ethnic diversity in the names chosen (a couple of Jewish ones helps) and invent a short profile for each. Make sure that they are all in publishing or journalism. You can also mention these fabrications in your blog and your 'real' world for added authentication. A facebook account helps too. You can then message yourself regularly; birthday and Christmas greetings add a human touch and make you look genuine and popular.

You are writing fiction already. A great start.

Step three: Log onto www.peopleperhour.com then, using each of your invented characters, write yourself glowing testimonials. Try not to write them all on the same day though as that looks a little suspicious.

Here is an example: " brought her years of expertise in writing and natural flair and passion to this project to create a valuable sales and marketing tool for my company. Highly sought after freelancer, would recommend thoroughly and she made a daunting task seem easy and handled a tight remit and deadline with grace. "


Or how about this:  " is a tru pro, loves what she does and delivers excellent content, always on time."


Ok. you are done. Now go out there, cut and paste from anything that takes your fancy and pass it off as your own. When applying for jobs just refer people to your peopleperhour.com page and away you go.


You are now a successful writer.

The Idler Academy launch party and a Cow on good form.

Thursday evening saw the launch of the Idler Academy in Westbourne Park Road, W11.

Such was the size of the crowd attending the party that is was impossible to swing a cat, even in an idle manner. Characters not seen for many moons turned out to wish the venture success; I am not going to name-drop though (that would be far too uncouth). Absinthe flowed freely throughout the evening... Sensibly I avoided the stuff.

The Academy, a combination of bookshop, cafe and venue for edifying lectures is a welcome arrival in this little corner of West London which is a haven of calm midst the madness of  Portobello/Notting Hill.

Drinks were taken afterwards at the Cow next door (which stands exactly half way between my garret and the Academy) where, by happy chance, a good number of the local crowd had gathered to frighten off the tourists. Just like the old days.

Poly Styrene diagnosed with cancer.

X-ray Spex provided part of the soundtrack to my life in London in the late 70's.

Polly; a genuine eccentric has now been diagnosed with cancer... Let's pray that she can beat it.

Meanwhile:



Update. April 26th 2011.  Sadly Poly has lost her battle with cancer. She will be missed.

Cornish Pasties under threat from Alien imports.

A new Armada threatens the British despite EU protection.

I am hearing disturbing reports from my contacts in Cornwall of Spanish pastie bakery ships, masquerading as trawlers, massing off the coast. Apparently they have found a loophole in the EU law protecting the Cornish Pasty and are able to freely and legally call their products'Cornish Pasties' as they are manufactured within British territorial waters. These ' Cadiz Pasties' are being snuck ashore at night (using ages old smugglers tunnels) and transported to bakeries and shops throughout Britain.

If this were not bad enough I am reliably informed that these Spanish monstrosities not only contain shards of carrot but are crimped along the top.

Enough is enough! The theft of our pilchards by those Spanish blighters for the illegal Stargazey pie industry should have been a warning to us all.

time to fight back... Time to flood Andalucia with Paella made with basmati rice and Arbroath smokies.

A new theatre in Notting Hill.

I'm losing my edge. Or just not noticing what's going on any more!

A new small theatre has opened on Hereford Road W2 in an old print works; giving rise to the name the print room. I noticed it on my way back from Westbourne Grove, poked my head in the door and was greeted warmly and invited in to have a look round.

It is neither a conventional theatre nor large (seating 80) but it is just what we need; Notting Hill, for all its bohemian strutting, is criminally short of venues such as this. It has the feel of a place that has passionate people behind it; again something that the area is short of.

Currently 'Snake in the grass' by Alan Ayckbourn is playing.

Good news indeed... Let's go!

www.the-print-room.org

Original Grayson Perry doodle.

There is a Grayson Perry doodle for sale on ebay: http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/Original-artwork-Grayson-Perry-Artist-Turner-Prize-/290533005630?pt=UK_art_drawings_GL&hash=item43a51dd93e#ht_723wt_1139