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

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!'

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.

                                Nieupjur being interviewed in Notting hill today.

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….

Elephant meat being sold on Portobello Road.

Proof that 'bush meat' is being openly sold in Britain today!

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

A Christmas tale.

Dear Mummy, I hope you can read this, it is really hard to write because it is hard to hold a pencil with a webbed hand.

It isn't really my fault. I want to blame you for trying to maintain in me a belief in Father Christmas. but it isn't your fault either.

I blame the jelly beans.

I awoke at four this morning and found a stocking at the foot of my bed, it was full of stuff that I don't really need but which makes you feel like a good mum but you don't need to do anything more than just be to be a good mum. Jelly beans are good though and if you find a box of jelly beans at four in the morning you are going to eat them and as one in ten jelly beans taste like poo you are going to eat them ten at a time to hide the taste of the poo one.

Sometimes when you eat ten jelly beans at once one escapes and that is what happened this morning. I hoped it wasn't a poo flavoured one that escaped otherwise if you found it you'd think I had poo'd in my bed. I couldn't find the escaped bean and then I fell asleep.

I woke up a bit later, I don't know what time because the watch you gave me last Christmas is broken and I haven't yet got the new one I am no doubt going to get this year.

Anyway.

I woke up to find a jellybean stalk growing out of my bed and then out of the window. I know enough about fairy tales to know that I had to climb it and would be rewarded by stuff like harps and gold once I had defeated a giant.

I started climbing but it didn't go up. It went horizontally out of my window and down the gardens at the back of the house but I climbed it anyway. I climbed it all the way down to 37 Oxford gardens where it disappeared into a window. I sat outside and looked in.

There was a really fat woman sitting in a kitchen, there was nothing on the table except an empty white bowl, there was a goose walking around and the really fat woman was crying but if I were really fat I would cry a lot too, either because I was fat or because I was hungry. Or both.

I climbed in through the window and asked her why she was crying and she said she was crying because she was a vegetarian and the goose had eaten all her sprouts and sprouts was all she had had for Christmas.

I did some really quick thinking and said don't worry, my mum has some sprouts at home, I'm sure she can spare some, I'll go and get them. I climbed back across the beanstalk to our place and got the sprouts. I also picked up a bag of carrots which were in the fridge. I climbed back to the fat ladies house.

When I gave her the sprouts she was pleased and her wails turned to sniffs. When I gave her the carrots she beamed, there was a loud crash and a flash and she turned into a beautiful thin woman with red lipstick.

She said 'Thank you so much because I was put under a spell by a wicked witch and could only be changed back to a kitchen goddess by an innocent boy giving me a carrot'.

She also said that she was no longer a vegetarian and she eyed the goose in a lascivious way.

I liked the goose. I grabbed the goose and ran.

I was used to the beanstalk by now and could move pretty quick but I knew that the kitchen goddess was hot on my tail. I made it back to my room then cut the beanstalk with my Alladin sword I got for my birthday. Jellybean stalks are cool because the minute you cut them they turn to jelly and I heard the kitchen goddess falling into the ornamental pond at number 16 causing the frog who lived there to croak a bit.

I was left here with a goose and I didn't know how I was going to explain a goose in my room but that was the least of my problems because the goose turned to me and thanked me before kissing me on the forehead and then flying out the window before I had time to explain that I had been turned into a small boy by a kind witch and the only way to turn me back into a frog was by being KISSED BY A GOOSE.


So mummy, It's me.

Not a frog.

You could try kissing me. It might work.

Ikea Allen Key and the role of 'flat pack' in the nativity.

In Sweden the giving and receiving of flat pack furniture (especially cribs) at christmas symbolises both the role of Joseph in the Nativity and the role of the father in general at this time of the year… Sitting in a corner half pissed, fully enraged, wielding a cranked allen key, surrounded by MDF and with a crucifixion already on his mind!

It is important also to remember that January brings with it 50 million discarded, unwanted Allen keys.

An Allen key is for life, not just Christmas!

And sentences can't start with 'And'. And the dinosaurs ate all the pens.

And I was informed today that sentences cannot start with 'And'. And I've just done that very thing so obviously sentences can start with and.

And another thing, punctuation was invented by printers not by writers, who in the early days were just recording the spoken word.

And the spoken word pre-dated everything.

Because the dinosaurs ate all the pens.