Lard.

I am a worshipper of noble lard
alabaster queen of fat
the renderings of the regal pig
in a half pound grease proofed pat
lard has none of the pretentiousness
of sunflower or olive oil
her origins are humbly rooting about
in Anglo Saxon soil.

Sing hey to lard
sing ho to lard
sing nonny nonny no to the olive

etc...

Post 'sleepover' narcolepsy explained.

I am frequently mistaken for a child psychologist, probably because of my empathy with both dogs and children. Treat them the same is my way of thinking but be more gentle with dogs, they don't know better.

Frequently, when mistaken for a child therapist, I am asked: 'What is post sleepover narcolepsy?'

Post sleepover narcolepsy (PSN) is very common among children between the ages of 6 and 13. It is a virus which attacks the child 12 to 18 hours before symptoms manifest themselves. The virus lives in someone else's house and has the appearance of a well meaning parent (sometimes working in pairs; one male, one female). The virus bombards the child with fizzy sugar laden drinks, MSG pizza and copious quantities of blue sweets and then bullies the child into playing computer games until the early hours of the morning. Stage two of the attack takes place at the following breakfast time when left over MSG pizza is re-introduced to the child.

Symptoms of PSN are obvious: Surliness and disobedience combined with drooping eyelids and shoulders leads on to a desire to sleep.  The desire to sleep soon overtakes all cognitive reasoning.

A child in later stages of PSN

The cure for PSN is straightforward. The child must be prodded, goaded and frequently shaken in to wakefulness for 8 to 10 hours followed by bed rest for 12 hours. Nintendo, Playstation, TV and film should be avoided at all costs. This treatment may need to be repeated for a further 24 hours.

That will be 100 guineas. Thank you.

America. A poem.

SPIT!

Molly and John had been childhood sweethearts
Shared sodas at picnics
in the meadow by the Big Loving
as it snaked easily through the county.
Shared illicit beers beneath the bleachers
when she cut cheerleading and he cut track.
Shared moonlit skinny dips in the same old Big Loving
at the sand bar on the bend
where the turtles basked back in the day.
She had run naked laughing through poison ivy;
he had spat in his hand and rubbed it in the itching places.
Later she did not need the ivy to make the itch,
she had an itch of her own 
and he rubbed his spit onto that itch 
but that itch never completely went away.

Molly took that itch to New York.
John took his spit to LA.
Molly found music in the cafes at night, 
revolution in the air. 
‘New York City, imagine that’. 
She wrote him - as she itched at a sidewalk café 
– in an early westbound letter.
‘Yes I can imagine that’. 
He had replied. 
But he couldn’t.
So she itched in the city 
closed her eyes to the viscous string of men 
while he spat on the coast at a succession of starlets 
who practiced the Stanislavski itch  
tunelessly singing the Hollywood orgasm.

Fast forward… 
The two of them came together again, 
out of boredom most likely. 
Boredom and guilt, 
prompted on her part by the metronomic click of the clock, 
on his part by the young guns on the boulevard 
the fear that he was all spat out.
When they married the orange blossom was already dead. 
The children when they arrived 
trod the rotting petals into the floorboards 
of their Chicago brownstone.

He made money; she spent it. 
The American dream.

Molly sat on her itch for twenty years, 
took a course in etching early on 
never looked back and couldn’t look forward. 
Her life etched itself into her face. 
She got a part time job 
filling condom machines at railway stations.
Twenty years of itching and etching on molly’s part 
as she watched john occasionally drool diddle his secretary 
(did he buy his condoms at the station?) 
was enough.
　
　
　
Molly came to Spain 
change of life, 
change of continent, 
change of tense. 
for a week.
John had grudgingly agreed that she could take a vacation, 
a break from the shattered life they now shared. 
She would visit a friend in Toledo  
maybe take in an El Greco or two.
On her last day of work prior to traveling 
the itch had slipped a dozen condoms into her purse  
then dragged her into Victoria’s Secret on the way home.
The flight was uneventful; 
she sat between the two overweight boors 
each airline is obliged to provide. 

Marta met her at the airport.  
The Spanish air crackled.
The bullfight was - to Marta - an odd choice 
for an afternoon’s entertainment 
but Molly had read Hemingway,  
wanted to sit ringside  
black beret scarlet lipped 
as Eva Gardner had once done. 
She had little experience of bloodshed save her own; 
but blood in the afternoon held no fear.

Manolo arched his back,
flicked a disdainful cape 
at the snorting bull  
an ubiquitous sneer at the crowd,
stood in his black slippers
stained with blood and dust 
hawked a glistening gob of spit 
that sizzled as it hit the sun scorched clay. 
The bull died bravely as bulls in such tales do. 
The spit dried to a disc of mother of pearl 
that shimmered against the blood red earth 
as the bulls ear parted unhearing from the head; 
arcing it’s way into the stands, 
into the lap of Molly. 
An unrecognizable Molly. 
Molly lost, Molly found. Molly free, Molly bound.

‘Manolo.’ 
She whispered much later 
when the sun had gone down 
and the fiesta had dissolved itself 
into the barrios and tourist hotels. 
‘Manolo.’

I took up the dog eared copy of THE TIN DRUM. 
It fell open at the chapter titled ‘fizz powder’  
I read to her again of little Oskar 
spitting into the navel of Maria.
　
Molly flew to Boston four days later  
made her morning connection to Chicago 
.....in good time.
　
The fire-fighter moved dazed 
through the rubble of what had once been the World Trade Centre. 
The dust was thick and acrid  
he wished he had some kind of mask or respirator. 
He hawked and spat into the debris at his feet, 
onto a small black slipper. 
A slipper stained with blood, dust and tears.

America.
　

If Longfellow lived now. Hya Amy Winehouse.

Should you ask me, whence the bullshit? 

Whence these legends and traditions, 

With the stinking of the ghetto 

With the dew and damp of homelessness,

With the curling smoke of guilt,

With the rushing of great kettling,

With their frequent repetitions,

And their wild reverberations

As of thunder in the mountains?

  I should answer, I should tell you,

"From the ghettos and the high streets,

From the great lakes of the Hampstead,

From the land of the Cockneys,

From the land of the hipsters,

From the coffeeshops, shoe shops, and feng shui-lands

Where the heroin addict, the crack head,

Feeds among the reeds and bushes.

I repeat them as I heard them

From the lips of Amy Winehouse,

The musician, the sweet singer.

  Should you ask where Amy winehouse

Found these songs so wild and wayward,

Found these legends and traditions,

I should answer, I should tell you,

"In the coffee shops of the Angel,

In the boozers of Camden Town,

In the hoof-prints of the banker,

In the eyry of the pigeon!

  "All the immigrants sang them to her,

In the moorgate and the feng shui-lands,

In the melancholy Hackney marshes;

Barney, the cabbie, sang them,

Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa,

The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,

And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!"

  If still further you should ask me,

Saying, "Who was Amy Winehouse?

Tell us of this Amy Winehouse,"

I should answer your inquiries

Straightway in such words as follow.

  "In the vale of Hampstead,

In the green and silent valley,

By the pleasant water-courses,

Dwelt the singer Amy Winehouse.

Round about the Hampstead village

Spread the meadows and the corn-fields,

And beyond them stood the forest,

Stood the groves of singing Kenwood,

Green in Summer, white in Winter,

Ever sighing, ever singing.

  "And the pleasant water-courses,

You could trace them through the valley,

By the rushing in the Spring-time,

By the alders in the Summer,

By the white fog in the Autumn,

By the black line in the Winter;

And beside them dwelt the singer,

In the vale of Chalk Farm,

In the green and silent valley.

  "There she sang of rehabilitation,

Sang the Song of rehab, no no no.

Sang of her wondrous birth and being,

How she played fast and how she lost,

How she lived, and toiled, and suffered,

That the tribes of men might prosper,

That she might advance her people!"

The Schadenfreudian slip.

We all came out to Montreux
and when the smoke on the water had cleared
I met the woman of my dreams
and met the end that I had most feared

among the poets convening was fraulein
Schaden Freude a German by birth
she was my sun my moon my Venus
I feared I was the scum of her earth

but I'm a poet and poets are dogged
wouldn't take no for an answer
having seen her on the nightclub floor
wrote my ode to a disco dancer
I had some stiff competition
in a doggeralist from France
he couldn't rhyme for the price of a lime
but boy the bugger could dance

now dancing is fine in the hours after nine
but daylight offers other parameters
I wood her with elevenses
(you know food like what heavens is)
and un-pedantic hexameters

the girl was mine
I felt sublime
I gave up rhymes or reasons
then went round to see the cad
at his room in the four Seasons

I reached his door
I took a grip
I vowed to punch him on the lip
but as the door swung slowly in
I saw Fraulein Schaden Freude
in her silken slip

I slunk away I was distraught what of the ring that I had bought

the following day in the concert hall
as the Frenchman decried his crocodile tears
and told the tale of his dead love
I drank innumerable beers
when he got to the crux of his inordinate grief
the burial of his dog
I dialled his mobile number
and it rang to the sound of the laughing frog

it rang to the sound of the laughing frog

it rang to the sound of the laughing frog but the frenchman never laughed.

I did.

fraulein Schaden Freude never forgave me
but her hatred ran hot to cold
she married the bassist from Deep Purple
together they grow stylishly old

Me I gave up poetry
I joined the devil-may-cares
underwent gender re-alignment
and changed my name to Pam ayres

Carnivorous Pandas

Nom Nom the carnivorous panda
was the least kid friendly petting zoo beast
for while he considered bamboo a duty
a three year old child was a feast

Nom Nom, born in far away China
at first was the star of the zoo
but quickly out-stayed his welcome
when he ate a female gnu

The gnu was a present from Kenya
so to Nairobi Nom Nom was sent
but quickly moved on to Paris
when he ate three kids in a tent

In Paris he munched through two orphans
before moving on to New York
where once weaned off his taste for kids
he was fed on a diet of pork

Nom Nom the carnivorous Panda
is living the American dream
eating hot dogs for lunch and for dinner
beside a bamboo shaded stream.

Portobello Images.

(Picture: Flickr/Terence J sullivan)

Pissers in the sky. With apologies to Norman Greenbaum.

when I’m dry and I can't wash my vest

gonna go to the place that is best

before I lay it down to dry

going up to the pissers in the sky

going up to the pissers in the sky

that’s where I’m going to go before I dry

before I dry and lay out my vest

going to go to the pissers that are best

prepare yourself you know it’s a given

you gotta have a brand of cheeses

so that you know when the water runs out

you got something to sell

we are the pissers in the sky

gotta recommend ourselves

we’re the pissers in the sky

and we’re where you gotta go when you’re dry

before you dry and lay out your vest

you gotta go to the brand that is best

we’ve never been givers, we’ve never gived

We’ve got a brand of cheeses

so you know that when you die

your only hope in hell is

the pisser in the sky

so tie yourself to the pisser in the sky

that’s where you’re gonna go if you don’t buy

if you don’t buy then sonny you die

you gotta come to the prices that are best

yeah, the water prices that are best.

Why Britain's women war heroes are responsible for the election result.... An anarchist writes.

A guest blog from 'Steve'. Leader of the Russel Brand Anarchy on the dole brigade.

Look. Russel was right! If no-one voted there wouldn't be a Tory government in power.

Women died in order to get the vote.

The memorial was to dead women.

If they hadn't died there wouldn't be a memorial and no-one would vote and Russel Brand would be Emperor or something like that and we could all smoke pot on the dole and that monument would have just been a wall and Banksy would have got there first and an American would have bought it and shipped it to Texas and it wouldn't have got in our way on our march for democracy.

Or something like that you know man.

Aspirations of buggery within the Tory party.

We all know Leon Brittan was at it but were told to leave the old bugger alone to die in peace. Maggie knew Leon was at it but protected him. William Hague must have known Leon was at it when he had his 'chat' with him. Did Hague have Brittan behind him when he made his famous juvenile speech at the Tory conference all those years ago?

We all know Jenner was at it but we are told to leave the old bugger in peace, hiding behind the dementia curtain that old buggers hide, twitching.

Westminster is full of paedophiles and amateur buggerists. As long as the buggerists are toffs and the victims are in every sense 'infra dig' the system will protect its own kind.

No doubt Keith Vaz will hide behind claims of dementia when the time comes for him to explain why he protects the paedophile buggerists within government whilst failing to protect the victims. We all know that Keith Vaz would do anything to protect that which he aspires to and from what I can see he aspires to being a tory toff who can bugger boys at will if he so chooses.

As a teenager I was the victim of a paedophile buggerist. I know what I am talking about. These paedophile buggerists offer you the world and then fuck you up the arse and the only world up my arse is the world of poo and you have to wonder what these fucked up ex public school boys find of wonder up a rent boys arse. Are they looking to relive the shit of their childhood?

I am accusing no-one of anything and no children were hurt in the making of this blog.

No such thing as a free gift from Tesco.

It annoys me when a free gift is in reality an advertising hoarding for a retail outlet.

Tesco have cleverly left space on this bag for a spot of customisation.

Taurus Trakker. Motormouth.

Three Thousand Hangovers Later on Portobello Road.

I nicked all this from Ant Easton's  Facebook thingy. I don't know Ant (or maybe I do but don't know that I do) but I know Ray and I know the Castle, which is now a shadow of its 80's self and I think this is a book begging to be made....

Ant Easton writes:

I've edited and designed this book of photos taken by my friend Ray 'Roughler' Jones and we're hoping to raise the money within the next five weeks to publish it on Crowdfunder.co.uk. The photos are of the great and the not-so-great of Portobello / Notting Hill in the 1980's - from Joe Strummer to Underground Steve, Neneh Cherry to Pete the Murderer, whoever he may be. There are several different levels of pledging, from £10 for an e.book to the top level of £199 where, amongst other rewards is a personalised tour of Ray's Portobello Road. Ray promises NOT to sing. Whatever, follow this link, take a look at the video and see if you want to get involved.

http://www.crowdfunder.co.uk/three-thousand-hangovers-later…

THREE THOUSAND HANGOVERS LATER

http://www.crowdfunder.co.uk/three-thousand-hangovers-later-1/

CROWDFUNDER.CO.UK