The Wellcome Collection and welcome recollection.

Why do they allow people to walk around galleries touting back-packs? The Wellcome Collection is not the foothills of the Himalayas or the Brecon Beacons even; It is a fucking gallery.

DIRT The Filthy Reality of Everyday Life (Unnecessarily clumsily laid out within their self described 'Versatile Space'. Nothing more than a laboratory maze of an exhibition, quite fitting I suppose in light of Wellcomes origins) is a celebration of dirt.

Educational I suppose for the young but to me a depressing deviation from the interesting; promulgating the myth that education must always centre on shit. To me just a deviation from the good stuff. I have no interest in poking about in stools.

The cafe was busy.

It was a chilly, rainy afternoon and a curious venue for a meeting with a woman I had not seen for 40 years. An on-line question of identity had lead to this event.

As I waited for her (would I recognise her?) My head screamed: Run, never go back, never revisit the past: That forgotten dusty cupboard on some long lost landing.

But the cafe was busy.

That she is small and blonde is all I had to go on; there will be no school uniform now, no green bowler hat to tip me off. she will have to make herself known to me.

As it was I saw her first.

What fun.

Pear cider, Yuri Gagarin and flouting the law.

To celebrate Yuri Gagarin bursting my birthday balloon all those years ago I am drinking a bottle of Magners pear cider. It is very fizzy.

In my youth this stuff was called Babycham and came in tiny nip sized bottles. I can remember bringing home as 'carry-outs' from my under-age sorties to the village pub a bottle of Babycham for my mother and a bottle of barley-wine for the old man.

It was considered infra dig (for a teenager in those days) not to flout the drinking laws in rural England. It was OK though because the pub landlord was also the village bobby and would monitor proceedings.

It was a good system, as systems go, and as good systems go... It went*. Now kids have to make do with buying bottles of Diamond White to skulkily consume on the street.

* Apologies to 'Saki' H. H. Munro.

First Orbit

Yuri Gagarin stole the limelight.

April 12th 1961 was my 6th birthday. Yuri Gagarin orbited the World for the first time ever that day. I remember it well; he stole the show.

 I also remember seeing this photograph later in the year and thinking he didn't look much like a spaceman.

Yuri Gagarin posing with his wife Valentina and daughter Jelena on the beach in Glasma, June 1960.Photo: AFP/Getty Image

At just after 0700BST, 12 April 1961, Russian, Major Yuri Alexeyevich Gagarin was fired from the Baikonur launch pad in Kazakhstan, in the space craft Vostok (East), to become the first man in space.

Major Gagarin orbited the Earth for 108 minutes travelling at more than 17,000 miles per hour (27,000 kilometres per hour) before landing at an undisclosed location.

Gagarin Died in 1968 when his MIG 15 crashed in bad weather... If only he had flown closer to the sun that day.

Magnolias.

She came to visit

after twenty years of not a word

but was passing

was just passing

and as passing stopped

bringing with her the rusty key

to that locked and dusty room

called memory.

filling our heads

with the contents of that room

we then took a walk

in the spring sun

I led her to the April street

lined with magnolias

where for just one week

romance blossoms

alas too late

the blowsy meaty petals blown

smearing the pavement

with disappointment

'we are too late' I said

turning back

'we should have come here earlier'

and she asked when?

'Oh twenty years ago'.

(She came to visit

after all thse years of not a word

but was passing

was just passing

and as passing stopped

for long enough

to bear witness

to a seasonal disappointment).

Jooiijkaa!

The Idler Academy. The school for me.

we appear to be blogging live from the Idler Academy in Westbourne Park road W11. It must be Ok, I had to pass the Cow to get here. I'm meeting a serious fellow blogger and this seemed the place to do it. I am sitting in the garden, armed with wifi, a cup of coffee and a labrador for company. If I run out of ideas there is a wall of books to peruse. Incidentally, for local readers Books can be ordered at the Idler for following day delivery; use this place, it is a refreshing change from the usual vanity bikini shops that occupy this parade of shops.

Murray Lachlan Young is delivering a lecture here next week and they have a whole bunch of other stuff lined up... Check out the website: http://idler.co.uk/academy/about-the-idler-academy/

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.