When I look into his eyes I see my own guilt reflected.
Photograph courtesy of Christopher Scholey. http://www.christopherscholey.com/
Wednesday, 3 June 2020
Photograph of the Year.
Look into the eyes: A hundred million stories told.
When I look into his eyes I see my own guilt reflected.
Photograph courtesy of Christopher Scholey. http://www.christopherscholey.com/
When I look into his eyes I see my own guilt reflected.
Photograph courtesy of Christopher Scholey. http://www.christopherscholey.com/
Monday, 1 June 2020
'The Naughty Step'. The most exclusive pop up private members club in London.
For one month only the Naughty Step will offer socially distanced exclusivity; a place to meet no one save the Bouncer. Facilities are non-existent, hats compulsory and the welcome effusive. Bring your own conversation.
Social distancing is fiercely enforced.
Applicants, who must be known to the bouncer, a virtual post card please. No Tory MP's admitted.
Another day up the PM's bum, toxic policy and survival.
'Another day up the queen's arse' was a common 'end of day' refrain in England's prisons.
It was a statement of defiance, resilience and survival. It ticked off another day towards freedom.
During these days of chaos and Governmental incompetence in which the sensible part of the community remains 'banged up', Another day up Boris' arse has become my end of day mantra.
As the General Amnesty begins; an elitist gamble which will cost many lives in a drive to restart the economy, much to the horror of all common sense, along with most scientists and Doctors, even those advising Johnson and co, the mantra: 'Another day up Boris' arse will remain valid and necessary to mark survival during a doomed idiots selfish and ill advised toxic policy.
The amnesty will also disguise the fact that, since the Cummins crime, no-one is listening to Johnson nor following lock-down rules.
God help us all.
Sunday, 31 May 2020
Sad bloke in the kitchen. Sugar during lock-down.
Fret not, you do not need bags of different sugars. All you need is unbleached granulated sugar and the following tips:
1. Caster sugar: Bung granulated sugar in a blender and blitz.
2. Icing sugar: As above but blitz for longer then sieve.
3. Brown sugar: Add some gravy browning.
4. Sugar cubes: Cowboy up cupcake and get over it.
Sorted.
1. Caster sugar: Bung granulated sugar in a blender and blitz.
2. Icing sugar: As above but blitz for longer then sieve.
3. Brown sugar: Add some gravy browning.
4. Sugar cubes: Cowboy up cupcake and get over it.
Sorted.
Auto Dontist's breakfast amuse bouche.
Ice cream
Strawberry & black pepper
Mandarin orange & pineapple
Passion fruit & Pommegranite
Vodka & Ginger beer
Cummins, driving and eye tests.
Cummins could have walked from his cottage at Dad's place to the golf course next door to check out his driving ability or failing that walked a little further to the Driving Test Centre, where they have an eye chart for that very purpose.
Saturday, 30 May 2020
Sad bloke in the Kitchen. Led by the roof.
A lovely day today up on the roof mucking about. The roof dictated dinner:
Omelette fines herbes.
2 eggs beaten, salt and black pepper. Nothing else.
Heat an omelette pan, chuck in a knob of butter let it melt and sizzle. Eggs in, muck about with a fork a bit.
DO NOT LET IT COOK TOO MUCH.
when nearly there, ie when you still have runny bits, chuck in a child's handful of herbs, I had parsley, chives and thyme, straight from the plants chopped roughly.
Fold it, plate it, eat it. I had homemade bread and a bottle of Valpolicella to hand so that did. Garnished with JJ Cale.
So simple, so quick and so redolent of that cafe lunch on the trip south to Bordeaux in 1973 with the woman you loved then but later hated & now find yourself thinking of fondly.
Strawberry and black pepper ice cream after that. Ten minutes between Strawberries leaving the plant and hitting the freezer. Sounds like an odd combination but Try freshly ground pepper on strawberries and cream and you'll get the idea.
I was going to post a photograph but didn't.
My cheats ice cream will remain a secret until patents have been granted.
I was going to post a photograph but didn't.
My cheats ice cream will remain a secret until patents have been granted.
What crisis?
Two tales of a city.
It was the best of times if white and privileged, it was the worst of times if not.
A small quiet street in Notting Hill, once, until gentrification, a no go area for all save the MP's and socialites looking for drugs, kicks and low escapes. Now an expensive enclave, gated at each end by the sheer will of the parvenu residents.
Picture this:
One daylit evening during lockdown a local guy, working on a repair job on a restaurant close by, a restaurant he looks after during this crisis (I often see him watering the planters late at night) needs a hammer. He goes home to pick one up. On his return to the job he is stopped for no reason save that he ain't white and middle class and that The Police have declared that the area be bounded by a Section 60 order, allowing them to stop and search without reason. He is surrounded by police officers, I counted 12 at one time. His hammer is bagged for evidence, you bet he got pissed off, so would we all but when have you ever been threatened with a tazer because you were going about your job with the tools of your trade.
Having been handcuffed, arrested, vanned to Charring Cross police station, banged up, then finally released with no charge, he gets home in the early hours the next day.
Compared with:
Just metres away a few nights later a bunch of over privileged white folks hold yet another party in the street complete with ping pong table and chairs blocking safe passage. I called the police at 9.00 ., Nothing happened. I called the police an hour later, nothing. Yet both times (I have the reference numbers) I was told that an officer would attend and advise the revellers that they were in breach of social distancing rules. I then went online, reported it again, nothing.
When I tried to talk to the revellers they sneered, even the guy my age who told me that the rules were too difficult to understand (I kid you not) even the woman who told me that because they all lived in the street it was OK. What she wanted to say was 'because we own our homes and are rich we can do as we please, Boris and Dom say so). I told them they were killing their parents generation with their selfishness. They sat there in scornful silence, mentally counting the inheritance once daddy was dead. Inheritance spawned by empire and slavery.
I went home to let this all sink in, to write about it, to write about it close to tears. Tears of horror at what England has become.. A country in which the poor pulled together and the wealthy pulled apart like wolves at a carcass.
Thinking: Anywhere would be a far far better place to go, anything would be a far far better thing to do.
Kill me now. I'm sick of my country.
NOTE: I have photographs of both occurrences and know the names and addresses of those concerned. I shall photograph them all in the light of day then publish them on this post. The only way to deal with irresponsible idiots is by being responsible, remaining cautious and pointing out why they are potential killers.
A small quiet street in Notting Hill, once, until gentrification, a no go area for all save the MP's and socialites looking for drugs, kicks and low escapes. Now an expensive enclave, gated at each end by the sheer will of the parvenu residents.
Picture this:
One daylit evening during lockdown a local guy, working on a repair job on a restaurant close by, a restaurant he looks after during this crisis (I often see him watering the planters late at night) needs a hammer. He goes home to pick one up. On his return to the job he is stopped for no reason save that he ain't white and middle class and that The Police have declared that the area be bounded by a Section 60 order, allowing them to stop and search without reason. He is surrounded by police officers, I counted 12 at one time. His hammer is bagged for evidence, you bet he got pissed off, so would we all but when have you ever been threatened with a tazer because you were going about your job with the tools of your trade.
Having been handcuffed, arrested, vanned to Charring Cross police station, banged up, then finally released with no charge, he gets home in the early hours the next day.
Compared with:
Just metres away a few nights later a bunch of over privileged white folks hold yet another party in the street complete with ping pong table and chairs blocking safe passage. I called the police at 9.00 ., Nothing happened. I called the police an hour later, nothing. Yet both times (I have the reference numbers) I was told that an officer would attend and advise the revellers that they were in breach of social distancing rules. I then went online, reported it again, nothing.
When I tried to talk to the revellers they sneered, even the guy my age who told me that the rules were too difficult to understand (I kid you not) even the woman who told me that because they all lived in the street it was OK. What she wanted to say was 'because we own our homes and are rich we can do as we please, Boris and Dom say so). I told them they were killing their parents generation with their selfishness. They sat there in scornful silence, mentally counting the inheritance once daddy was dead. Inheritance spawned by empire and slavery.
I went home to let this all sink in, to write about it, to write about it close to tears. Tears of horror at what England has become.. A country in which the poor pulled together and the wealthy pulled apart like wolves at a carcass.
Thinking: Anywhere would be a far far better place to go, anything would be a far far better thing to do.
Kill me now. I'm sick of my country.
NOTE: I have photographs of both occurrences and know the names and addresses of those concerned. I shall photograph them all in the light of day then publish them on this post. The only way to deal with irresponsible idiots is by being responsible, remaining cautious and pointing out why they are potential killers.
Thursday, 28 May 2020
Dream.
Like Ginsberg's cougher
singing in his dreams
I dream of filling lungs
diving deep
singing in his dreams
I dream of filling lungs
diving deep
to listen to the mermaids singing.
Simple guide to BBC political bias.
The BBC, Formed on 18 October 1922 by a group of leading wireless manufacturers including Marconi. It was established by Royal Charter in 1927.
The license fee was introduced in 1946. Issued by the GPO which was the regulator of public broadcasting at that time.
Now, the fee is collected by the BBC itself and is primarily used to fund radio, television and online services of the BBC itself.
The money does not go directly to the BBC, it is paid into the Govt's Consolidated fund and passed back to the BBC after the annual vote on the Appropriation Act, to pay for the running of the BBC's services free from advertisements.
CONCLUSION:
We, the license fee payers, own it having paid for it. We pay the wages.
.
The Governors of the BBC must pander to Government demands regarding content and bias or lose funding
.
The Governors therefore are inclined towards a Government bias.
The journalists, producers, announcers etc who work for the corporation can and do think what they like provided they do not voice their opinions. If they do they are punished.
Anyone over the age of 70 currently makes no financial contribution to the BBC, is therefore beholden to the fee payers and should have no say in policy. Giving over 70's the vote in General Elections allows them a say in BBC policy and should be stopped immediately.
Alternately the BBC should be freed from Government control of freedom of speech and propaganda and allowed to speak to,and advise, us of the facts.
Wednesday, 27 May 2020
Dealing with Chronic lung disease.
PLEASE DO NOT MESS WITH YOUR PRESCRIBED MEDICATION WITHOUT CONSULTING YOUR GP. I talk to mine and I spent years researching my condition.
If you are looking for a new age vegan organic macrame prophylactic, move along. there is nothing for you here.
Photo: David Petch. He was hoping to shoot a Warholesque death bed scene. I was obliged to disabuse him of that notion.
I acquired a chronic lung disease ten years ago. To this day neither I, my GP nor specialists have a clear idea of what it was, but whatever it was it reduced my lung capacity by 70%, stripped me of my immune system and left me permanently exhausted, breathless, stressed and occasionally hospitalised. I also have a morbid fear of flu in winter, a dose of which would kill me without touching the sides. They tested me for AIDS.
Hospitals, those places designed to cure are for me a threat; bugs lurk there. I try to avoid them but the advice from my GP is to dial 999 rather than calling him when I get a flare up. I prefer to sit it out with a combination of drugs and CBT.
I know my eventual killer well, I have been studying him for the past ten years, I know where he lies in wait, in dark damp places, we meet from time to time, play Russian roulette with an air gun ( one chamber of which is empty) before moving on. My GP recognises my knowledge of my condition and allows me the driving seat in prescribing, changing or stopping medication.
Although in itself it will not kill me, pneumonia will do that, stress is my biggest enemy, it is the finger-post for my piper at the gates of dawn. Stress causes breathing difficulties which exacerbate the stress which exacerbates the breathing difficulties leading to collapse, sometimes in public places which is uncomfortable as passers by frequently mistake my condition for 'social problems'. In the early days I would call an ambulance, get put on machines and oxygen until things calmed down.
These days, being wiser, I do nothing of the sort.
I call a good friend who drops everything, picks me up from wherever I am incapacitated, tells me I look shit, drives me to a calmer place, invariably offers his personal panacea (a beer and an appalling bad joke) then lets me get on with stressing in.
After having been drawn graphs and charts by specialists ten years ago I gave up smoking. I kept that up until stress got the better of me. I now self medicate with a cigarette.
Stress is the enemy, keep it at bay and there is a good chance that: A. The hyperventilation will not start, or B. The hyperventilation will abate... Fuck brown paper bags give me the fags.
After a chat with a GP this course of action was quietly endorsed but not officially. I asked him how much longer I would live by quitting smoking and would I have that extra time at the beginning of the rest of my life or at the end, bedridden and artificially aspirated. He told me: 'The latter'. Pass me a fag.
I was prescribed anti-depressants for the stress after I found myself living in the shadow of Grenfell Tower at the time of the Government backed arson attack by cost cutting councillors waging their social cleansing campaign ( a story for another time). Once prescribed I was left taking them for years.
My new regime, which works for me, is as follows:
I kicked the antidepressants into touch a few weeks ago, I weened myself off them, having spoken to a GP, slowly over a period of a few days, Yes, during lock-down, replacing them with a request for Diazepam, which was happily prescribed. I would take one or two now and then as needed. I've given them up now but keep a stash in case of serious problems. I must take the daily steroids and bronchodilator for the rest of my life.
I have a rescue pack of serious Steroids and antibiotics at hand.
I have given up the blue inhalers synonymous with asthma relief... I do not have asthma so why do I need it. It is prescribed as a matter of course for anyone who's condition is dumped in the COPD file. I take a drag from one from time to time, I like the placebo buzz. The remaining inhalers in my possession I shall use to fill balloons come Carnival's return to sell to unsuspecting seekers of incremental brain cell death. Or hand out to children at Halloween (they all seem to have asthma these days).
I no longer worry about anything outside of my control. I don't give a shit about shit. I take half my originally prescribed drugs but take half an hour for them to kick in before even considering action, smoke, write poetry in my head and no longer attempt any physical exertion that might have my lungs rattling like an ebb tide on shingle. Friends know the score and do not mark me down for it.
I've been in solitary lock-down since just after Christmas, the past twelve weeks of which have been spent in a delightful friend's equally delightful house. I cook, eat, water the roof garden and write in rotation and feel healthier than I have done for a long time. I experiment with arcane ice cream recipes. I'm ready for Hell.
Lastly, I like myself these days. Enjoy my own company, laugh at my jokes. Living alone in isolation is difficult unless you are happy in your own company and can look yourself in the eye. I'm lucky my head is full of stories, anecdotes, memories and poems, I awake mentally reciting unwritten verse then pounce upon paper and pen. I am in part my own best medication. It took a long time to find out and I aim to take my time enjoying it.
I no longer wake up and smell the coffin.
If you are looking for a new age vegan organic macrame prophylactic, move along. there is nothing for you here.
Photo: David Petch. He was hoping to shoot a Warholesque death bed scene. I was obliged to disabuse him of that notion.
I acquired a chronic lung disease ten years ago. To this day neither I, my GP nor specialists have a clear idea of what it was, but whatever it was it reduced my lung capacity by 70%, stripped me of my immune system and left me permanently exhausted, breathless, stressed and occasionally hospitalised. I also have a morbid fear of flu in winter, a dose of which would kill me without touching the sides. They tested me for AIDS.
Hospitals, those places designed to cure are for me a threat; bugs lurk there. I try to avoid them but the advice from my GP is to dial 999 rather than calling him when I get a flare up. I prefer to sit it out with a combination of drugs and CBT.
I know my eventual killer well, I have been studying him for the past ten years, I know where he lies in wait, in dark damp places, we meet from time to time, play Russian roulette with an air gun ( one chamber of which is empty) before moving on. My GP recognises my knowledge of my condition and allows me the driving seat in prescribing, changing or stopping medication.
Although in itself it will not kill me, pneumonia will do that, stress is my biggest enemy, it is the finger-post for my piper at the gates of dawn. Stress causes breathing difficulties which exacerbate the stress which exacerbates the breathing difficulties leading to collapse, sometimes in public places which is uncomfortable as passers by frequently mistake my condition for 'social problems'. In the early days I would call an ambulance, get put on machines and oxygen until things calmed down.
These days, being wiser, I do nothing of the sort.
I call a good friend who drops everything, picks me up from wherever I am incapacitated, tells me I look shit, drives me to a calmer place, invariably offers his personal panacea (a beer and an appalling bad joke) then lets me get on with stressing in.
After having been drawn graphs and charts by specialists ten years ago I gave up smoking. I kept that up until stress got the better of me. I now self medicate with a cigarette.
Stress is the enemy, keep it at bay and there is a good chance that: A. The hyperventilation will not start, or B. The hyperventilation will abate... Fuck brown paper bags give me the fags.
After a chat with a GP this course of action was quietly endorsed but not officially. I asked him how much longer I would live by quitting smoking and would I have that extra time at the beginning of the rest of my life or at the end, bedridden and artificially aspirated. He told me: 'The latter'. Pass me a fag.
I was prescribed anti-depressants for the stress after I found myself living in the shadow of Grenfell Tower at the time of the Government backed arson attack by cost cutting councillors waging their social cleansing campaign ( a story for another time). Once prescribed I was left taking them for years.
My new regime, which works for me, is as follows:
I kicked the antidepressants into touch a few weeks ago, I weened myself off them, having spoken to a GP, slowly over a period of a few days, Yes, during lock-down, replacing them with a request for Diazepam, which was happily prescribed. I would take one or two now and then as needed. I've given them up now but keep a stash in case of serious problems. I must take the daily steroids and bronchodilator for the rest of my life.
I have a rescue pack of serious Steroids and antibiotics at hand.
I have given up the blue inhalers synonymous with asthma relief... I do not have asthma so why do I need it. It is prescribed as a matter of course for anyone who's condition is dumped in the COPD file. I take a drag from one from time to time, I like the placebo buzz. The remaining inhalers in my possession I shall use to fill balloons come Carnival's return to sell to unsuspecting seekers of incremental brain cell death. Or hand out to children at Halloween (they all seem to have asthma these days).
I no longer worry about anything outside of my control. I don't give a shit about shit. I take half my originally prescribed drugs but take half an hour for them to kick in before even considering action, smoke, write poetry in my head and no longer attempt any physical exertion that might have my lungs rattling like an ebb tide on shingle. Friends know the score and do not mark me down for it.
I've been in solitary lock-down since just after Christmas, the past twelve weeks of which have been spent in a delightful friend's equally delightful house. I cook, eat, water the roof garden and write in rotation and feel healthier than I have done for a long time. I experiment with arcane ice cream recipes. I'm ready for Hell.
Lastly, I like myself these days. Enjoy my own company, laugh at my jokes. Living alone in isolation is difficult unless you are happy in your own company and can look yourself in the eye. I'm lucky my head is full of stories, anecdotes, memories and poems, I awake mentally reciting unwritten verse then pounce upon paper and pen. I am in part my own best medication. It took a long time to find out and I aim to take my time enjoying it.
I no longer wake up and smell the coffin.
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