Will and Kate's Big Fat Gypsy Wedding

‘WILL AND KATE’S BIG FAT WEDDING © Alex and Rory Scarfe 2011, published by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd and available in all good book stores.’

Leslie Howard: The Man Who Gave a Damn.

At the Michael Horovitz thing last night I got talking to filmmaker Tom Hamilton about a Leslie Howard documentary he has been working on for some years. he pointed me in the direction of his web-site. It is a fascinating story and well worth reading.

He writes:

When film fans today refer to Leslie Howard, the most common memory is of the ineffectual Southerner Ashley Wilkes, which he played in “Gone with the Wind”

It’s ironic that he’s forever associated with a part he fought against in a movie that he never watched. It’s equally unfortunate that his somewhat colourless and disinterested acting in that film is often assumed to be typical of his career. For Leslie Howard captivated a generation of theatre and film-goers through the 20’s and 30’s with his beautiful voice, poetic appearance and low key acting style, and his performances on film are equally compelling and mysterious today.  READ MORE

Michael Horovitz picture poetry, cock and Bottle.

                                Michael Horovitz.

I didn't know it was happening until the last minute. Tracy invited me along (Tracy is about as rock n roll as it gets in this area) so I went.

we met in the pub that was once called the Chepstow but has now been completely ruined and renamed after a sofa.

Paintings by poets are a dangerous thing. After all (one thinks) if they were good artists we would be invited to hear poems by an artist; Daubing has more value than verse. As it was we were invited to 'picture poems, bop art paintings, Collages, jazz paintry, Prints and drawings' All on show in Pembridge Road W11.

It was fun and it was totally unpretentious. Michael was charming and disarming and his work struck a chord acting as a focal point for a birthday party. I went in two minds and came home in one.

Afterwards we grabbed a pint at the Cock and Bottle; the last proper pub in Notting Hill.

Sophie Barker at Ronnie Scott's, puppies and stiletto heels.

Last night was a good one and requires a bit of Back story:

12 weeks ago a friends Jack Russell gave birth to 2 pups. the music for the event was provided by Sophie Barker; the album 'Seagull' to be released in May: http://www.sophiebarker.com/music/seagull/ ).  I'd heard the name before from her Zero7 days but had not heard any of her solo stuff.

Last night I was lucky enough to get to go to Sophie's press/invite only gig at Ronnie Scott's. I went with the Jack Russells Mistress (the puppy stuff makes sense now doesn't it). I intentionally did not listen to any of her stuff beforehand; I much prefer to hear someone live the first time, free from bias or pre-conceptions. In the cab on the way there I learned something new about stiletto heels

The room upstairs is fine for small occasions (but it turned out to be no small occasion) with the band set up under a skylight (it was early evening and still light outside) providing an odd combination of Jazz Club and daylight. Ms Jack Russell knew enough people there to make it a friendly event from the outset. A good number of Sophie's friends appeared to be there too. There was also a slightly spooky coincidental 'small world' moment for me: Long story, won't bore you with it here.

Sophie is a talented lady with a great voice, she has (in 'Seagull') produce that rare thing: An album of consistently good songs most of which she performed beautifully last night, backed by a very tight and very competent set of musicians. All in all it was a delightful surprise to hear grown up music for a change. If you ever want a demonstration of how to showcase versatility in both song-writing and performance you could do no better than to get to one of her live shows. Early on in the proceedings Sophie was momentarily distracted by a pigeon flying overhead which caused her to produce a memorable smile and set the tone for evening. Her set was too short for my liking. I left happily clutching a promo copy of her album; it will be played regularly!

All in all a joyful event.

We tried to get a tri-shaw back to Notting Hill but made do with a cab. I'll tell you about the stiletto heels another day.

Michael Jackson Statue unveiled in Fulham.

GOOD GRIEF!

Personally I prefer this one...

Guest blog: An Anarchist writes.

I received the following in the mail this morning from someone calling himself 'Darryl X'. I publish it unedited. 


I am an Anarchist. Er, actually I am an anarchic situationist which sort of means that I like to create unrest where I want without the constraints of political or social conviction. Basically I just like trouble, breaking things, fights (but only with people smaller than me who I can hit with a stick safe in the knowledge that they won't fight back) and setting fire to rubbish bins in posh streets.  I blame my parents, more precisely my mum and my third stepdad who bought me a copy of 'Now that's what I call Anarchy Vol 1' (K-Tel records) back when I was a kid to shut me up when I was bunking off school and they were in the pub. I learnt all my political stuff from that record; the Sex Pistols, the Clash, Sham 69, Jilted John. They were my heros (except Jonny Rotten has gone a bit swervy selling butter on the telly; butter is a symbol of the subjugation of animals my girlfriend Debbie says. She says yoghurt is OK cos it was the food of heroes like Ghengis Kahn).

Now I'm growed up a bit I have found that there is an empty space in my brain for stuff like that again. I did a degree in Social studies and Banner semiotics at Cheam University until I was chucked out for not attending. Ducking college filled my time back then but now I have plenty of time for politics and stuff and I read loads about Bono and Nelson Mandela.

I am not associated with those UKuncut kids; I just latch onto their marches and stuff.

'What do I want?' I hear you ask.

Well as an anarchic situationist, I can't speak for the others they are laws unto themselves, I want the following:

1. An end to government; governments are bossy and worse than my 4th stepdad.
2. Much higher unemployment benefit for political students such as myself in order that we can eat better while planning an alternative to government (hard brain work).
3. Better NHS and designated ambulances for us victims of brutal Police attacks.
4. The Police must not be trained so well or wear body protection. It gives them an unfair advantage in a riot situation.
5. Death to all the government lackies of the press who criticise us just because thay are told to by Rupert Murdock.
6. Meat is murder. Debbie told me to put that in as she is dead against killing animals for food.
7. Free everything and an end to taxes except for all the fatcats earning over £22,000 a year. Free love.
8. Free prescriptions for my psychotic medication and ESA for all 7 of my other personalities.
9. The legalisation of skunk.

And obviously I want Anarchic situations at all times except at the benefit office in Lisson Grove W2.

POWER TO ME. THE PEOPLE CAN GO FUCK THEMSELVES!

Editors note: I just publish this stuff. don't shoot the messenger.

Fortnum & Mason Press release leak.

I have just been 'leaked' a draft copy of the Fortnum & Mason press release regarding Saturdays occupation by self styled anarchists and the Attention Seekers (actually the'New Attention Seekers'; formed when Judith Durham left the original band to go solo) which resulted in massive publicity for the store and world media coverage.

It reads as follows:

On Saturday 26th of March the 1st battallion of the Fortnum and Mason Advertising Regiment mounted a successful campaign to plant the London tea shoppe firmly in the minds of future tourists and revolutionaries around the planet and ensure that a visit to the noble retail outlet will be a 'MUST'.


The team was nobly assisted by the rebel Chaist group of radical tea drinkers led by 72 year old 'Wolfie' Smith (late of the Tooting Popular Front) a television dentist and Marxist 'SitComist'. Who will turn up without fail at the demonstration of envelope opening come rain or shine.


Saturdays action continues a long tradition of association between F&M and fighters for peoples rights; John Lennon wrote 'working Class Hero' in the Tea room, Bowie and Bolan penned their populist anthems 'Rebel Rebel' and 'Children of the Revolution' while working as broom boys in the gents barbershop within the store.
The Black Panthers were formed here and the Communist manifesto was thrashed out over F&M muffins and a pot of Earl Grey.


The Chaist group would like it known that they disassociate themselves completely from from the Ritz Anarchaist Three who at one point in the proceedings attempted to steal the show, upsetting a spirit burner on the F&M samovar in Jermyn Street causing serious photo-ops.


A son et lumiere tableaux of the 'riot'(sponsored by Legal & General insurance) will feature as the central motif of the F&M Christmas display this year.

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.