A rough cut of Lowkey's Grenfell thing first aired here on Portobello Radio. At 46.30 if you cannot be arsed to listen to the entire show. Gang of Four a little later.
Listen and weep and then rage.
https://www.mixcloud.com/Portobello_Radio/portobello-radio-radio-show-ep-111-with-piers-thompson-greg-weir-love-is-the-conqueror/
Saturday, 8 July 2017
Friday, 7 July 2017
Shit was the jackals last thought.
There once was a jackal, a lazy, greedy jackal who wandered the forest taking what he could find in
way of sustenance; small mammals, unwary birds and especially eggs stolen from unattended nests. It was a living but rather too much like hard work for his liking.
One afternoon the jackal came upon a peacock preening beside a pool, comparing himself favourably to Narcissus and Brad Pitt.
'Hello'. Said the jackal. 'Ding dong the dinner bell rings'.
'Hold your horses'. Said the peacock. 'I'm all feathers and sinew, all gong and no dinner, you'd find more meat on a petit four.'
'But I'm hungry'. Said the jackal. 'And I am partial to a canapé .
I have a plan said the peacock. and he explained: Let us enter the forest and while I mesmerise the beasts and the birds with my fabulous feathered fan you shall have free range of their nests and their burrows and eat to your fill.
And that is what they did, the peacock preened and recited Pam Ayers and Shelley whilst the jackal gorged.The jackal promised to look after the peacock in return.
That night the Jackal lay down with the peacock and they entertained each other with congratulations and fabulous tales of cowardice and treachery.
They carried on their symbiotic relationship for some months until one day the creatures of the forrest went to the peacock to complain about the thefts from their nests and burrows. Unbeknown to the peacock the jackal was listening from behind a bush as the peacock firmly laid the blame on the jackal.
That night the peacock lay down with the jackal. The jackal ate the peacock... Sure enough all gristle and pomp, before choking to death on the wishbone.
'Shit'. Was the cock wielding felon's last thought.
way of sustenance; small mammals, unwary birds and especially eggs stolen from unattended nests. It was a living but rather too much like hard work for his liking.
One afternoon the jackal came upon a peacock preening beside a pool, comparing himself favourably to Narcissus and Brad Pitt.
'Hello'. Said the jackal. 'Ding dong the dinner bell rings'.
'Hold your horses'. Said the peacock. 'I'm all feathers and sinew, all gong and no dinner, you'd find more meat on a petit four.'
'But I'm hungry'. Said the jackal. 'And I am partial to a canapé .
I have a plan said the peacock. and he explained: Let us enter the forest and while I mesmerise the beasts and the birds with my fabulous feathered fan you shall have free range of their nests and their burrows and eat to your fill.
And that is what they did, the peacock preened and recited Pam Ayers and Shelley whilst the jackal gorged.The jackal promised to look after the peacock in return.
That night the Jackal lay down with the peacock and they entertained each other with congratulations and fabulous tales of cowardice and treachery.
They carried on their symbiotic relationship for some months until one day the creatures of the forrest went to the peacock to complain about the thefts from their nests and burrows. Unbeknown to the peacock the jackal was listening from behind a bush as the peacock firmly laid the blame on the jackal.
That night the peacock lay down with the jackal. The jackal ate the peacock... Sure enough all gristle and pomp, before choking to death on the wishbone.
'Shit'. Was the cock wielding felon's last thought.
Tuesday, 4 July 2017
My 'post Grenfell' Utopian dream.
One result of the Grenfell disaster must be a complete change in attitude to social housing and the people living within it. Grenfell has opened a can of worms, the can is labelled Grenfell Tower but now opened we find the contents be, not the occupants but RBKC, successive governments and a privileged elite. For decades we have been miss sold the notion that poor people are the problem. It is time to turn that notion on its head.
A tower block is a village.
Villages traditionally grew organically in places that were not accidental or random but because of a natural resource or a social need: it may have been a river crossing, a water source, geological or agricultural resources, a major crossroad, a castle, a church, a need for a staging post for weary horses and travellers... The list is endless. As villages grew in size elements arrived to support the needs of the people... The village pump or well, the pub, the baker, the village store, the village hall, the church, the village bobby. These services were provided by enterprising villagers or incomers who themselves became part of the community. Modern transport systems and the out of town superstore have put paid to much of the self sufficiency of small communities but much is still there, most importantly the village green which is sacred.
A tower block is a village.
Through careless planning, disregard for the inhabitants and thoughtlessness over the past 70 years or so these 'villages' have been erected throughout Britain. Villages intentionally created without the infrastructure that would allow soul or character to flourish. Multi story carcass parks.
My Utopian vision:
In my tower block there is:
A village green on the roof, planted with wild flowers, a children's garden, bee hives.
Within the building on a mid level floor that is open plan, a cafe and small kids play area by day then a peaceful meeting place in the evening, perhaps a gallery space too, a place for children birthday parties and the like. A social place, a village pump. This must not be stigmatised by the patronising title of 'community centre'. Multi purpose spaces can work, Westbank Gallery under the Westway is a good example.
A floor for teenagers with a pool table perhaps, a pinball machine, sounds, a soundproofed practice room for the Joe Strummers of the future... Ask them what they want and, within reason, give it to them.
A shop or two.
A women only space, a refuge from men.This is not a modern concept, the W.I has existed for generations.
Four lifts, two stairwells, one built into a central concrete core to act as fire escape.
At ground level, a double height entrance lobby, lots of plate glass to break down the barrier that exists presently in such buildings with their steel doors and blank walls. A 24 hour concierge. A seating/meeting area (in an hotel this would be called the lobby lounge and would be considered essential). Perhaps a small cafe also catering for a seating area outside the building. A lavatory/washroom. I could go on.
My tower will not be clad. It will be painted on a 5 year cycle. The design/colour scheme will be decided by a competition open to all. It will be as dazzling as a honey coloured Cotswold village in its way.
The cost and practicalities. Where is the money going to come from?
Ring fence the council tax and rental income and plough it back into the building and its occupants. Put in place additional subsidies. Scrap Trident.
The services created within the building create jobs. Give those jobs to residents and provide them with training and support if needed.
Treat people with respect and they will invariable reciprocate. Treat people with respect and they will invariably respect their environment.
Regeneration should apply to the occupants as well as the real estate. This applies to all social housing schemes, not just high rise.
Trust me... I'm a dreamer.
A tower block is a village.
Villages traditionally grew organically in places that were not accidental or random but because of a natural resource or a social need: it may have been a river crossing, a water source, geological or agricultural resources, a major crossroad, a castle, a church, a need for a staging post for weary horses and travellers... The list is endless. As villages grew in size elements arrived to support the needs of the people... The village pump or well, the pub, the baker, the village store, the village hall, the church, the village bobby. These services were provided by enterprising villagers or incomers who themselves became part of the community. Modern transport systems and the out of town superstore have put paid to much of the self sufficiency of small communities but much is still there, most importantly the village green which is sacred.
A tower block is a village.
Through careless planning, disregard for the inhabitants and thoughtlessness over the past 70 years or so these 'villages' have been erected throughout Britain. Villages intentionally created without the infrastructure that would allow soul or character to flourish. Multi story carcass parks.
My Utopian vision:
In my tower block there is:
A village green on the roof, planted with wild flowers, a children's garden, bee hives.
Within the building on a mid level floor that is open plan, a cafe and small kids play area by day then a peaceful meeting place in the evening, perhaps a gallery space too, a place for children birthday parties and the like. A social place, a village pump. This must not be stigmatised by the patronising title of 'community centre'. Multi purpose spaces can work, Westbank Gallery under the Westway is a good example.
A floor for teenagers with a pool table perhaps, a pinball machine, sounds, a soundproofed practice room for the Joe Strummers of the future... Ask them what they want and, within reason, give it to them.
A shop or two.
A women only space, a refuge from men.This is not a modern concept, the W.I has existed for generations.
Four lifts, two stairwells, one built into a central concrete core to act as fire escape.
At ground level, a double height entrance lobby, lots of plate glass to break down the barrier that exists presently in such buildings with their steel doors and blank walls. A 24 hour concierge. A seating/meeting area (in an hotel this would be called the lobby lounge and would be considered essential). Perhaps a small cafe also catering for a seating area outside the building. A lavatory/washroom. I could go on.
My tower will not be clad. It will be painted on a 5 year cycle. The design/colour scheme will be decided by a competition open to all. It will be as dazzling as a honey coloured Cotswold village in its way.
The cost and practicalities. Where is the money going to come from?
Ring fence the council tax and rental income and plough it back into the building and its occupants. Put in place additional subsidies. Scrap Trident.
The services created within the building create jobs. Give those jobs to residents and provide them with training and support if needed.
Treat people with respect and they will invariable reciprocate. Treat people with respect and they will invariably respect their environment.
Regeneration should apply to the occupants as well as the real estate. This applies to all social housing schemes, not just high rise.
Trust me... I'm a dreamer.
Friday, 30 June 2017
Sick humour.
As I am now kept alive by a cocktail of drugs should I want to end it all I would simply underdose.
Boom boom.
Boom boom.
Wednesday, 28 June 2017
Stronger than the wood... Grenfell glue. Bravery and Post Traumatic Stress.
WARNING: Throughout the history of this blog I have endeavoured to speak my mind and as a result have alienated people. What follows is the contents of my mind right now. It will offend but it is not designed to offend. It is the contents of my mind.
I was informed today that I am displaying signs of post traumatic stress. I had already worked that out when I found myself walking in the middle of Ladbroke Grove defying the traffic to hit me.
I then thought of that definition of bravery: 'Grace under fire'.
Hemingway used that definition.
Was that what he was thinking when he put the twelve bore to his head?
Grace under fire...
NO. He was thinking: 'I cannot cope'.
So I wrote this, but not to offend:
As a schoolboy in woodwork
melting unwanted bovine body parts in a crucible
to make glue
glue that bonded my shoddy magazine rack formed from raped-forest mahogany
Stronger than the wood that glue
In the crucible that was Grenfell
unwanted human body parts melted
to make glue
glue that now bonds a community
Stronger than the wood that glue.
I was informed today that I am displaying signs of post traumatic stress. I had already worked that out when I found myself walking in the middle of Ladbroke Grove defying the traffic to hit me.
I then thought of that definition of bravery: 'Grace under fire'.
Hemingway used that definition.
Was that what he was thinking when he put the twelve bore to his head?
Grace under fire...
NO. He was thinking: 'I cannot cope'.
So I wrote this, but not to offend:
As a schoolboy in woodwork
melting unwanted bovine body parts in a crucible
to make glue
glue that bonded my shoddy magazine rack formed from raped-forest mahogany
Stronger than the wood that glue
In the crucible that was Grenfell
unwanted human body parts melted
to make glue
glue that now bonds a community
Stronger than the wood that glue.
Tuesday, 27 June 2017
What to do with Grenfell Tower now.
SATIRE ALERT
OPTION 1. Keep it standing, a blackened rotting tooth in this denticured gob called London... Once the horrendous task facing the counters has finished leave exactly as it is, leave the detritus, the ashes, the echoes of screams and the silhouettes of ghosts burned into the walls.
Keep it as it is save two things. Two entrances:
One marked 'The rich door' leading to an express lift to a viewing platform planted with wild flowers in memory of the dead on the roof, from where the whole of this 'fair city' and its injustices may be viewed save the tower itself. No one who is wealthy, greedy, bigoted or all three should be allowed access to this door.
The other, marked 'the poor door' leading to the single blackened stairwell that provided the only means of escape from the inferno and then into each flat, one by one and then finally to a vacant window hole on the 24th floor where there is one choice: either throw yourself from the window or throw your entire wealth save that you realistically need to live on to the good of the people. Only the wealthy, greedy and the bigoted will be granted access to this door and it will be compulsory to all.
Option 2. I lied about two options.
OPTION 1. Keep it standing, a blackened rotting tooth in this denticured gob called London... Once the horrendous task facing the counters has finished leave exactly as it is, leave the detritus, the ashes, the echoes of screams and the silhouettes of ghosts burned into the walls.
Keep it as it is save two things. Two entrances:
One marked 'The rich door' leading to an express lift to a viewing platform planted with wild flowers in memory of the dead on the roof, from where the whole of this 'fair city' and its injustices may be viewed save the tower itself. No one who is wealthy, greedy, bigoted or all three should be allowed access to this door.
The other, marked 'the poor door' leading to the single blackened stairwell that provided the only means of escape from the inferno and then into each flat, one by one and then finally to a vacant window hole on the 24th floor where there is one choice: either throw yourself from the window or throw your entire wealth save that you realistically need to live on to the good of the people. Only the wealthy, greedy and the bigoted will be granted access to this door and it will be compulsory to all.
Option 2. I lied about two options.
Justice for Grenfell. Official website.
I have cut and pasted this from Ishmahil Blagrove's Facebook post.
Thank you Mohammad Hamza for designing the Justice 4 Grenfell logo. A couple of other websites have appeared, however, the official website for the campaign is: justice4grenfell.org please share and circulate this information so that people are aware of the official site: justice4grenfell.org
Schrodinger's Nightmare. A post Grenfell Tower dream.
I don't sleep much these days... Haunted by a recurring dream:
I am standing beside a concrete structure, it is black and featureless, there are no doors or windows. There are two tubes sprouting from it, one has a label 'IN' and the other 'OUT', a rubber bung hangs from a chain between them.
From this structure come the terrified screams of people in total distress, I know who they are. It is unbearable to listen to but I am somehow rooted to the spot.
I have a choice, two options:
1. I can bung up the out tube in order to mute the screams from within. Condemning the occupants to eternal suffering in silence.
2: I can bung up the in tube in order to cut off the air supply. It will most certainly mean death to the occupants but it will put an end to their screams, their suffering, My suffering.
Thus far I have woken before a decision is made.
Awake now, 4.00 am, it occurs to me that I should toss a coin to determine my actions when next confronted by this nightmare and stick with that.
After all. I know that it is not real, no one will suffer. It is merely a subconscious philosophical exercise.
My inner child is shouting: 'Toss the coin'... His name is Kurtz and he is presently playing dominoes with Freud.
I am standing beside a concrete structure, it is black and featureless, there are no doors or windows. There are two tubes sprouting from it, one has a label 'IN' and the other 'OUT', a rubber bung hangs from a chain between them.
From this structure come the terrified screams of people in total distress, I know who they are. It is unbearable to listen to but I am somehow rooted to the spot.
I have a choice, two options:
1. I can bung up the out tube in order to mute the screams from within. Condemning the occupants to eternal suffering in silence.
2: I can bung up the in tube in order to cut off the air supply. It will most certainly mean death to the occupants but it will put an end to their screams, their suffering, My suffering.
Thus far I have woken before a decision is made.
Awake now, 4.00 am, it occurs to me that I should toss a coin to determine my actions when next confronted by this nightmare and stick with that.
After all. I know that it is not real, no one will suffer. It is merely a subconscious philosophical exercise.
My inner child is shouting: 'Toss the coin'... His name is Kurtz and he is presently playing dominoes with Freud.
Monday, 26 June 2017
Scientology and Tragedy and other Grenfell Tower stories.
There was an extraordinary event yesterday under the Westway. I'll write about it later.
What I want to write about now is this:
As I walked to the event I spotted a bright yellow, high viz van parked adjacent to the flyover. The van informed me that it was the Church of Scientology.
Later as I sat in the garden of the Maxilla centre I noticed that same high viz yellow, this time on T shirts dotted among the crowds adorning those apparently part of the organisation.
The organisers of the event were wearing tags around their necks, one such man was also wearing a high viz yellow cap. I approached him, inspected his tag and asked if he was an organiser of the event. He replied to the positive. I then asked who was behind it all. He pointed to his companion's T shirt, you guessed it, high viz yellow emblazoned with the words: 'Scientology Volunteer Minister'.
I asked him to confirm that. He did.
I went back to my seat and my companion who was carrying a professional video camera. We then sat and watched as the entire Scientology presence evaporated within seconds. They vanished.
I find this highly disturbing. The Church of Scientology is the last presence one needs in such a situation. They prey on victims, they prey on the marginalised, they prey on the weak, they prey on the confused and all they offer is the impossible. The implausibly sick impossible.
Why were they allowed anywhere near here?
To be continued
What I want to write about now is this:
As I walked to the event I spotted a bright yellow, high viz van parked adjacent to the flyover. The van informed me that it was the Church of Scientology.
Later as I sat in the garden of the Maxilla centre I noticed that same high viz yellow, this time on T shirts dotted among the crowds adorning those apparently part of the organisation.
The organisers of the event were wearing tags around their necks, one such man was also wearing a high viz yellow cap. I approached him, inspected his tag and asked if he was an organiser of the event. He replied to the positive. I then asked who was behind it all. He pointed to his companion's T shirt, you guessed it, high viz yellow emblazoned with the words: 'Scientology Volunteer Minister'.
I asked him to confirm that. He did.
I went back to my seat and my companion who was carrying a professional video camera. We then sat and watched as the entire Scientology presence evaporated within seconds. They vanished.
I find this highly disturbing. The Church of Scientology is the last presence one needs in such a situation. They prey on victims, they prey on the marginalised, they prey on the weak, they prey on the confused and all they offer is the impossible. The implausibly sick impossible.
Why were they allowed anywhere near here?
To be continued
Sunday, 25 June 2017
A white black man on Ladbroke Grove.
This evening, hungry, I walked to Ladbroke Grove. I milked my card at Sainsbury's machine then bought beer at a local store. I walked on to the chippie for dinner.
A saxophonist my age and most certainly more colourful, busking by Ladbroke Grove station said, as I passed: You look like Gil Scott Heron.
I stopped for a moment and we did some reverential shit about Gil.
On my way back with cod and chips, extra salt I saw him again as he was packing up his stuff. I stopped and asked if he was doing this for money. He said no he was doing what he loved but if people wanted to give him something he wasn't going to stop them.
I offered him the contents of my pockets. He said: 'Shit, that is too much man'.. I said: 'No it is exactly the right amount.'We parted, each agreeing we would meet again, both sure but uncertain.
His last words to me were: ' I knew you were a poet'.
The first time I have smiled for days.
A saxophonist my age and most certainly more colourful, busking by Ladbroke Grove station said, as I passed: You look like Gil Scott Heron.
I stopped for a moment and we did some reverential shit about Gil.
On my way back with cod and chips, extra salt I saw him again as he was packing up his stuff. I stopped and asked if he was doing this for money. He said no he was doing what he loved but if people wanted to give him something he wasn't going to stop them.
I offered him the contents of my pockets. He said: 'Shit, that is too much man'.. I said: 'No it is exactly the right amount.'We parted, each agreeing we would meet again, both sure but uncertain.
His last words to me were: ' I knew you were a poet'.
The first time I have smiled for days.
Saturday, 24 June 2017
The Masque of Anarchy in full. Percy Bysshe Shelly. Rise like Lions.
The poem quoted by Jeremy Corbyn today at Glastonbury is not a call to arms or violence.
"Stand ye calm and resolute,- Like a forest close and mute,
- With folded arms and looks which are
- Weapons of unvanquished war.
- And if then the tyrants dare,
- Let them ride among you there;
- Slash, and stab, and maim and hew;
- What they like, that let them do.
- With folded arms and steady eyes,
- And little fear, and less surprise,
- Look upon them as they slay,
- Till their rage has died away:
- Then they will return with shame,
- To the place from which they came,
- And the blood thus shed will speak
- In hot blushes on their cheek:
- Rise, like lions after slumber
- In unvanquishable number!
- Shake your chains to earth like dew
- Which in sleep had fallen on you:
- Ye are many—they are few!"[3
Thursday, 22 June 2017
Cocaine for Grenfell. An intentionally sensational headline.
A few years ago I had the temerity to suggest that the well heeled of Notting Hill, instead of buying that next gram of coke, give the money to orphaned children in eastern Europe. I was pilloried and shut down. I was shut down by Facebook who did not even read my post. I use satire frequently, I hope that readers will look beyond my headlines. They don't.
Once again, will the well heeled, the faux well heeled, the wannabe's, the addicts in denial I meet every day on the streets of Notting Hill in the Cow, in E&O, in the Electric, the closet Tories claiming to have voted otherwise, those coming to Grenfell for 'a look', Please just give the cost of that next gram to the legitimate appeal fund and help. Perhaps Cameron and his cronies will do the same.
What most of you are buying is not cocaine anyway, it is synthesised snake oil. It will not get you anywhere other than denial and if you want to get high I suggest you climb to the top of Grenfell because the only place you are not going to feel guilt from is there. The only place Grenfell is not visible from is Grenfell itself.
The intention of my sensational headline is to get this read by the people who need to read it.
The money spent in Notting Hill on cocaine in a few months would buy homes for all the victims.
So shoot me.
Once again, will the well heeled, the faux well heeled, the wannabe's, the addicts in denial I meet every day on the streets of Notting Hill in the Cow, in E&O, in the Electric, the closet Tories claiming to have voted otherwise, those coming to Grenfell for 'a look', Please just give the cost of that next gram to the legitimate appeal fund and help. Perhaps Cameron and his cronies will do the same.
What most of you are buying is not cocaine anyway, it is synthesised snake oil. It will not get you anywhere other than denial and if you want to get high I suggest you climb to the top of Grenfell because the only place you are not going to feel guilt from is there. The only place Grenfell is not visible from is Grenfell itself.
The intention of my sensational headline is to get this read by the people who need to read it.
The money spent in Notting Hill on cocaine in a few months would buy homes for all the victims.
So shoot me.
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