What a good idea. don't know where they come from though.
Thursday, 13 February 2014
Wednesday, 12 February 2014
Ode to a Nightingale.
Ode To A Nightingale
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,---
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain---
To thy high requiem become a sod
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:---do I wake or sleep?
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,---
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain---
To thy high requiem become a sod
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:---do I wake or sleep?
John Keats
Sunday, 9 February 2014
Pouting lessons and Putin.
Hi y'all. Me and Babs have started little Morgan in a drama class, the first lesson was in pouting skills and nothing gets a little one pouting faster than sucking on a lemon.
Babs says he looks like Napoleon but I rekkin he looks more like Putin considering the gay situation!
Either way it's the same but different.
Wednesday, 29 January 2014
Roger Pomphrey. A celebration. Rest in peace.
Sadly, director and musician Roger Pomphrey has died. He was far too young.
Every community is a family and every community, like every family, has its pillars. Roger was one such human being.
Known by practically everyone in this neighbourhood, liked by just about everyone, loved by many, respected by far more, Roger was truly a local character of note.
He had no time for authority, rules or any of that shit… He had a great deal of time for people (except the fools he did not tolerate) all of whom will miss him.
Roger and his guitar will be missed in every pub, bar and club in the neighbourhood for his blistering blues which was always full of passion and volume. He was an inspiration to a lot of us and was always happy to strap on his guitar and join in with extreme gusto.
Roger spoke his mind and took no prisoners… I once made a stupid mistake in a review which he pointed out. It was then forgotten, but I didn't make that kind of mistake again.
When I, perhaps misguidedly, decided I needed a guitar solo in a poem, Roger happily stepped up and made me feel a whole lot happier about what was a very dodgy enterprise (excuse the pun). He must have enjoyed it because he repeated the process a number of times.
Everyone who speaks of Roger has their own special story and I think that pretty much sums Roger up… He had time!
Kevin allen posted the following today:
Roger the Dodger was such a distinctive man; a generous, sensitive soul. He was a loving, doting father and will be dearly missed by Tom and Caroline, along with his Brizzle family, of which he was so proud. He was a terrific, intuitive filmmaker with a great eye, recently shooting 2nd unit on a film I couldn’t have completed without his fantastic contribution and companionship. He was also an outrageously good musician. He was a passionate cook and loved good wine, sometimes turning into a lesser freckled cowboy-booted curly crested cormorant, with a hint of Bristolian turrets syndrome after only a few glasses. He was a credit to his local and his wider locale, contributing so much in opposition to the greedy, systematic gentrification of the Portobello Rd we cherished. He will be remembered as a much-loved son of that community and he’ll be sorely missed in the Tabernacle at Christmas time.
How sad it is that he didn't have as much time as we would all wish.
Roger will, indeed be sorely missed.
ROGER POMPHREY'S funeral will be held at 10.30 am - Friday 7th Feb - West London Crematorium - Kensal Green, Harrow Rd, London W10 4RA.
Noel Maclaughlin's Full obituary, without the Guardian's hack job, can be found HERE
Monday, 27 January 2014
Uncle Reg. He died for Valerie and golf.
Uncle Reg smoked 90 fags a day but they never killed him. Valerie did that!
Uncle Reg was in His Majesties Indian Army and took one for the regiment up the Khyber Pass. He liked to say that he took the bullet for King and country but wags in the mess often suggested merrily that, since he took it up the Khyber, he more than likely took it for queen and country.
Reg came back to England something of a hero and a few months later they gave him a medal and the medal had 'FOR VALOUR' engraved upon it.
Reg was an humble man and wanted no attention so he stuffed the medal in his kit-bag and forgot about it.
On being demobbed Reg went back to his dyslexic wife Sylvia in Streatham where he took up golf as a hobby.
The day that Sylvia cleared out his kit bag she confronted Reg in the kitchen as he was oiling his clubs.
"You've been carrying on with a woman called Valerie she insisted throwing the medal in his face before killing him with a single blow to the head with a sand wedge.
When asked by the Judge at her trial if she had any regrets, she replied: 'Yes! I now realise I should have used a number 3 wood rather than a sand wedge and that Dyslexia can be life threatening!'
Uncle Reg was in His Majesties Indian Army and took one for the regiment up the Khyber Pass. He liked to say that he took the bullet for King and country but wags in the mess often suggested merrily that, since he took it up the Khyber, he more than likely took it for queen and country.
Reg came back to England something of a hero and a few months later they gave him a medal and the medal had 'FOR VALOUR' engraved upon it.
Reg was an humble man and wanted no attention so he stuffed the medal in his kit-bag and forgot about it.
On being demobbed Reg went back to his dyslexic wife Sylvia in Streatham where he took up golf as a hobby.
The day that Sylvia cleared out his kit bag she confronted Reg in the kitchen as he was oiling his clubs.
"You've been carrying on with a woman called Valerie she insisted throwing the medal in his face before killing him with a single blow to the head with a sand wedge.
When asked by the Judge at her trial if she had any regrets, she replied: 'Yes! I now realise I should have used a number 3 wood rather than a sand wedge and that Dyslexia can be life threatening!'
Tuesday, 14 January 2014
Avant Garde condunctor Jan Nieupjur to replace Gergiev at the LSO.
A tsunami of disbelief has rocked the classical music scene on hearing the rumour that Dutch Avant Garde composer and conductor Jan Nieupjur is tipped to replace Gergiev at the LSO.
Simon Rattle, who has also been rumoured to be up for the gig allegedly commented: 'Who the fuck is Jan Nieupjur?'
Nieupjur failed to respond to my enquiries on the grounds that he did not understand English. I tried to hum the question on the understanding that music was the international language but was met with silence….
Sunday, 12 January 2014
Elephant meat being sold on Portobello Road.
Proof that 'bush meat' is being openly sold in Britain today!
Saturday, 11 January 2014
Bankers trophies.
Clinking their crystal glasses
Lissom lipped social clowns
exhale brittle little small talk
in their chic designer gowns
while snickering petty gossips
and discarded petit fours
litter silken persian carpets
upon polished concrete floors
Saturday, 4 January 2014
Jan Nieupjur's electronic book of the year: The Cherry Alignment. Annabel Schofield.
"The Cherry Alignment" follows the roller-coaster life of the witty, uninhibited and gorgeous Angelika Douglas; a legendary ‘80’s supermodel, actress and full-time bon vivant. Sybaritic, sensual and musically obsessed, Angelika has never met a psychedelic drug, a bottle of champagne or a handsome young man that she doesn’t like. A firm believer in sampling all the myriad sensations that life has to offer, Angelika imbibes, dances and samples the flesh of whatever takes her fancy, until one fateful day when tragedy forces her to face her own physical limitations, and to discover who her true friends really are.
Buy it HERE
Thursday, 2 January 2014
Forecasting severe U.S icy Weather and British storms with a baby's head.
From Science Editor Jan Nieupjur.
Meteorological experts in Tel Aviv have announced the startling news that they are able to accurately forecast global weather patterns using the head of a baby. The baby, as yet un-named and born in a stable to humble but well connected parents, has constantly shifting hair which predicts the weather conditions in the Northern hemisphere for the following 12 hours. Ridges of high and low pressure along with cyclonic activity are clearly visible.
A spokesperson stated they they are 'All scratching our heads over this phenomenon'.
The father of the child said: 'It is a miracle and once we get the continents tattooed on her head we should make a fortune from her'!
A spokesperson for the Vatican was 'unavailable for comment'.
Cyclonic gales in the Atlantic divided by a peak of high pressure seen last night on the baby's head.
The scientists have also been able to predict the polar vortex freezing the USA at present by monitoring cold spots on the head. A plan is proposed to put a wooly hat on the baby's head, warm it up and therefore end the icy weather crippling the country.
Meteorological experts in Tel Aviv have announced the startling news that they are able to accurately forecast global weather patterns using the head of a baby. The baby, as yet un-named and born in a stable to humble but well connected parents, has constantly shifting hair which predicts the weather conditions in the Northern hemisphere for the following 12 hours. Ridges of high and low pressure along with cyclonic activity are clearly visible.
A spokesperson stated they they are 'All scratching our heads over this phenomenon'.
The father of the child said: 'It is a miracle and once we get the continents tattooed on her head we should make a fortune from her'!
A spokesperson for the Vatican was 'unavailable for comment'.
Cyclonic gales in the Atlantic divided by a peak of high pressure seen last night on the baby's head.
The scientists have also been able to predict the polar vortex freezing the USA at present by monitoring cold spots on the head. A plan is proposed to put a wooly hat on the baby's head, warm it up and therefore end the icy weather crippling the country.
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
Seeing out the old.
Haunted by the ghosts of children
as they pre-decease
taunted by returning conscience
ageing ain't a piece of cake.
Death…
Release.
as they pre-decease
taunted by returning conscience
ageing ain't a piece of cake.
Death…
Release.
Monday, 30 December 2013
Road trip No. 2. Naked Road Dog.
13.50. M4. As two and a half litres of volvo thunders beneath my thighs the steering twitches as we stray onto the cats eyes…. and a small boy asks: Are we still in London, and we can't say no because the minute we do we know the next question will be: Are we at the bridge?
Are we at the bridge yet?
Knock it down a cog, give it some throttle, catch me white van man if you've got the bottle.
Are we at the bridge yet?
And tramps like us... Baby we were born to motor down to cardiff in a Volvo estate at a sensible speed due to having children on board.
Road Runner Road Runner doing sensible miles an hour.
Are we at the bridge yet?
And I drift into a maserati drop top two lane black top full head of hair kind of reverie.
Are we at the bridge yet?
Then we ARE at the bridge and I realise the purpose of the high fences either side… They are to stop parents (Crying. 'Yes we are fucking at the bridge') from flinging seven year olds from cars as they cross.
Are we still in London?
I promise you that this is a genuine question asked by a seven year old as he crosses the severn Bridge.
I mentally dock his pocket money £6.20 to pay for the troll reminding him that in fairy tales they just ate you as you crossed, they didn't fleece you beforehand.
You wanna see a road dog naked?.. Just stand downwind of the Severn bridge.
TBC
Are we at the bridge yet?
Knock it down a cog, give it some throttle, catch me white van man if you've got the bottle.
Are we at the bridge yet?
And tramps like us... Baby we were born to motor down to cardiff in a Volvo estate at a sensible speed due to having children on board.
Road Runner Road Runner doing sensible miles an hour.
Are we at the bridge yet?
And I drift into a maserati drop top two lane black top full head of hair kind of reverie.
Are we at the bridge yet?
Then we ARE at the bridge and I realise the purpose of the high fences either side… They are to stop parents (Crying. 'Yes we are fucking at the bridge') from flinging seven year olds from cars as they cross.
Are we still in London?
I promise you that this is a genuine question asked by a seven year old as he crosses the severn Bridge.
I mentally dock his pocket money £6.20 to pay for the troll reminding him that in fairy tales they just ate you as you crossed, they didn't fleece you beforehand.
You wanna see a road dog naked?.. Just stand downwind of the Severn bridge.
TBC
Road Trip. For road Dogs everywhere, empathy man!
11.00 am West 10. Head on down to Sainsbury's Ladbroke Grove to gas up. They only have City Diesel but we are heading off piste, will city diesel work in the sticks? We are road dogs and will chance it. The air machine ain't working; gonna have to wing the rubber then. Shit! No boiled sweets at the checkout… Don't they know that road dogs don't do fudge or jellybabies!
12.00 Midday. Car loaded with 3 kids and their toys, little room for essentials apart from 6 bottles of Evian. In light of the oncoming storms I have packed 5 chocolate chip cookies and tobacco; cigarettes is the only way to deal with the cries of freezing children. it would be criminal to share my smokes with them so at least I have something to rely on… I may be a road dog but I care for my children's welfare as they freeze in the snow bound wastes of the M4.
We are off.
12.10. Hammersmith. London. ten minutes into the trip boy number two vomits copiously, refusing offer of gumboot or window as target chooses to vomit liberally throughout passenger compartment. We are road dogs…
12.12. A4. Garage stop to hose down boy number two. Boy number two seems pleased with the attention gained. Good news though, garage has boiled sweets. Bad news: Baby wipes left on car roof. Good news for someone else: Free pack of baby wipes found on A4.
12.27. A4. After a smooth transition to gear 5 we are Westbound.
Me. I'm the king of the road in my vomit scented chariot, wondering how many times I can put up with a seven year old asking if we are there yet.
I feel like telling him that he is closer to hell than to Cardiff.
And then the baby cries and I know it can only get worse.
But we are road dogs.
TBC
12.00 Midday. Car loaded with 3 kids and their toys, little room for essentials apart from 6 bottles of Evian. In light of the oncoming storms I have packed 5 chocolate chip cookies and tobacco; cigarettes is the only way to deal with the cries of freezing children. it would be criminal to share my smokes with them so at least I have something to rely on… I may be a road dog but I care for my children's welfare as they freeze in the snow bound wastes of the M4.
We are off.
12.10. Hammersmith. London. ten minutes into the trip boy number two vomits copiously, refusing offer of gumboot or window as target chooses to vomit liberally throughout passenger compartment. We are road dogs…
12.12. A4. Garage stop to hose down boy number two. Boy number two seems pleased with the attention gained. Good news though, garage has boiled sweets. Bad news: Baby wipes left on car roof. Good news for someone else: Free pack of baby wipes found on A4.
12.27. A4. After a smooth transition to gear 5 we are Westbound.
Me. I'm the king of the road in my vomit scented chariot, wondering how many times I can put up with a seven year old asking if we are there yet.
I feel like telling him that he is closer to hell than to Cardiff.
And then the baby cries and I know it can only get worse.
But we are road dogs.
TBC
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