Mangrove rehearsals at the tabernacle.

I was lucky enough; right place, right time scenario, to be invited to sit in on a 'Mangrove' rehearsal last night.

For those who do not know Notting Hill, Mangrove is a steel band which is central to the Carnival and in many ways central to the community.

Initially the space was filled with individual musicians each practising their parts. this went on for some time but at some point the 'director' hit the floor then tapped a drum with a stick and the milling ant's nest of noise formed an orderly mass of pure joy.

A steel band in the street is pretty amazing, this steel band in an enclosed auditorium is something else. It blew me away; I heard church bells, strings, a horn section, a piano. All from a collection of oil drums. It was an aural wine tasting; full of hints and nuances that only come with maturity and loving care.

The director is a young Trinidadian from New York Named Andre White, he seems to hold the entire score for a very complicated piece of music in his head and was teaching the band bit by bit. It was a privilege to witness. At one point a small child entered the fray, was handed a pair of sticks and immediately started playing; watching her neighbour attentively she was learning by sight... the director looked on and smiled as the rehearsal carried on...Where else could that happen? Imagine the uproar if a child entered the rehearsal of the LSO and started joining in... Yet with Mangrove it was the most natural of events and I am sure that a lot of the musicians there had once, sometime past, walked in and picked up some sticks, got stuck in and stayed.

By the way, these are for the most part the young black kids that the majority of the white middle classes instinctively mistrust. What I saw was the kind of community activity that has long since vanished from most peoples lives.

Throughout the building, as the rehearsals went on, scores of people were putting the costumes together; in the dance studio vast skeletons of fantastic creatures awaited their plumage and in the gallery below this years musicians costumes were on show. And throughout the building enthusiasm shone.

Mangrove will be performing on the Friday evening before Carnival in All Saint's Road; an event that is a Carnival of it's own... Go and listen.

 

Bullied by a nurse.

Nurse Caz bullied me into this some time ago...

Till human voices wake us...

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

From 'The love song of J Alfred Prufrock' T.S.Elliot

The Angry Man... Freud would have a field day.

This was painted by myself and two brothers back in the sixties; I can still remember who painted which bits, mother did a bit too. Double click on the image for an enlargement.

The old man painted the figure head; definitely a self portrait, I then named the ship (even my signwriting is angry). most of the crew seem now to be jumping ship apart from the very gay 'pole dancing' matelot on the foremast.

Suppressed sexuality is most definitely symbolised by the preening mermaid; again the old man's work. god knows what the octopus symbolises.

I've a feeling that some of my French readers might enjoy this... Any comments will be gleefully received.

An existential question answered.

There are some times in a poets life when the only thing that rhymes with 10 p.m. is pub.

But that doesn't stop me thinking on the way to the pub and as I was thinking I thought that I might as well think about 'who is god' and stuff like that....

A black dog crossed my path. I did not stop however, I could smell the beer, but I did think: Is god any more important than that dog and if so, why?

I met up with the English emigre and bickered over a cigarette lighter which broke anyway and then we got into a conversation with a drunken mourner who wanted to know why Jimi Hendrix was more important than his dad... I am not making this up...

Suddenly there before me was the answer; knitted into a womans chest and back.

I personally think, having read Ginsberg's diaries, that the opposite might be true.

I'm going to get my ouija board out and ask Charles Bukowski!

After Annie Leibovitz.

After Annie Leibovitz

On the circle line I said

Let's go to West Ruislip

because we can

and will you marry me

Probably she said

I will not ask her again

but simply say

let's go to West Ruislip

because we can

Papa Was A Rodeo. Misery, romance and humour.

I guess, being a storyteller I am instinctively drawn to the narrative element of Country and Western music; 'Ruby don't take your love to town' gets me every time.

Jarvis Cocker played this on his sunday radio show last week (BBC 6 music)... I'd never come across this band before, I love it. I know 'country' purist will say: 'That ain't country' but It is my kind of country.

Like misery, romance needs humour too!

Ryan O'Reilly band.

An interesting early evening at the Cow; my guru and anger management counsellor dropped by for a chat followed by a notorious pot growing friend... then the king of tours turned up still loved up from Port Eliot; he had Ryan with him.

Ryan and his eponymous band busk on Portobello Road on Saturdays... Get down there, check them out and buy the CD. http://www.ryanoreilly.co.uk/

Sherlock, Telegraph and child abuse.

I do not own a television nor do I wish to own a television. But there again no-one owns a television; television owns you!

However I have been hearing a great deal of positive stuff about the new BBC 'Sherlock'. People who I consider sane and rational were raving about it.

I found it on iplayer last night; watched the first two episodes back to back... I'm hooked!

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00t4pgh

I note that John Preston panned it in the Telegraph...

Not long now before the entire Telegraph readership is dead or in cryogenic suspension and that ghastly rag can be put out of it's misery. I grew up with the Telegraph as a constant in the house... Nothing short of child abuse.

On another subject entirely I find that my daily burgeoning inbox requires a considerable amount of my time.

Be careful about what you wish for.

Kristina Bill, garden sheds and the Stranglers.

Last night, while you were in the pub talking about garden sheds or the stranglers I was at the Island Experiment...

I met Kristina Bill who did a song there... hopefully she will come back and do more:

.http://www.kristinabill.com/index.html

Now garden sheds and the Stranglers may appeal at most times but I can assure you that when Kristina is in the room it is definitely NOT one of those times.

Accreditation from the the king of cool..

After a very, very late night which took in the island experiment at some point I awoke to a message telling me that Jarvis Cocker read one of my poems on the radio.... I'm off to sing 'common people' in the bath!

Good friends.

Some people you meet in life and just carry on. Some people you meet in life and you celebrate then hope you meet again.... Maybe in a bar in Mexico, any where will do!

Michael... see you in Guadalajara.

Miss you already!

Rusty's breakfast.

Rusty writes from Mountain View:

'Hi, how are you? And how is Jan (is he dead at the moment or just ill)? Try my latest breakfast sensation... Raw egg, strong black coffee, banana, milk, yoghurt. Put it all in the blender and whizz!

Breakfast in a glass!'

Rusty.

It sounded good so I tried it out.

david randall curtis / mary cigarettes

Ray Roughler Jones book launch.

This is how the Hill magazine saw it.

http://thehill.greatbritishlife.co.uk/article/ray-roughler-jones-drowning-on-dry-land-w11-notting-hill-tabernacle-party-22291/

Open heart therapy.

Annabel just coined that.

I felt it my duty to put it up and credit her.... Here, first and Annabel.

Overseas readers, punctuation and beer.

I often wonder what my overseas readers think of this blog; I know I have one or two who regularly look in. Perhaps they are expats who want a reminder of dear old blighty.

I get very few comments posted so have little feedback, which is a shame; I have even tried bad punctuation in the hope that I will draw out the colon fanatics, sadly to no avail.

I do hope however that if they ever visit London they will let me know in advance... I can then buy them a beer in the Cow.

Michael Campari

Michael Campari crooned the night away at Port Eliot... Great fun.

http://michaelcampari.com/

Port Eliot Images

Charlie Dancey


Murray Lachlan Young
Bess Cavendish
Michael Campari


Marlon

Port Eliot Festival.

I will not bore you with details of the journey down through sometimes torrential rain. Nor will I bore you with tales of camping; not an activity I relish.

Port Eliot was fantastic, the setting is perfect and the slightly decaying house appears more of a rocky outcrop than a man made structure. I was welcomed, and looked after, by some lovely people most notably Shelly, Rick and Marlon; thank you for that!

The Times described the festival as 'Notting Hill on sea' and there certainly did appear to be a large number of my neighbours down there... The Blue bar tent became the Port Eliot 'Cow' for the duration.

There were some great acts; I'll discuss those in a later blog, and some real surprises; most notably Lana Citron's 'lecture' on kissing... Not to be missed.

Something of a cloud hovered over our weekend due to a broken down car but our bacon was well and truly saved by Charlie Dancey and 'Tugger'. Charlie you are a star!

The atmosphere throughout the weekend was extremely happy... The whole thing was a joy.

I'll write about my 'gig' at a later date!

Copping out.

I hate to have to say this but tonight I had intended to write at length but I am so tired I'm copping out. Tomorrow is another day.

Grayson Perry Arrives at Port Eliot.

I'd been sitting outside the bar tent when a strange apparition rumbled into view, a small crowd gathered, including a BBC camera. I wandered over to take a look:



I met Grayson briefly later at the performers party where he was more formally dressed and again the following day sitting out on the grass in a summer frock and red shoes. He didn't come to hear my poems though. Never mind.  

Road trip and Port Eliot festival

I could do with a break, things have been hectic just lately. I'm leaving the laptop behind for a few days; I'll take a notebook of course.

I'm performing in the Walled Garden at Port Eliot at 7.30 pm on Friday... Look forward to seeing you there! I'll report back on Sunday

.http://www.porteliotfestival.com/

Simon and Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubled Water Original Version

Peace, love and, oh yeah: Rape! Lattitude Festival.

I heard about this in the pub tonight... two young girls raped at Lattitude last weekend.

Maybe the nice middle class people there were too drugged up to hear the cries. Maybe. Maybe it didn't matter because it wasn't one of them. Maybe. Maybe the girls dressed inappropriately; ie no designer labels. Maybe.

If Hendrix were alive today he'd shoot himself with Curt's gun!

Scuse me while I kiss the sky!

Overheard in a Notting Hill pub: One lady who lunches on cocaine to another - 'Yes but they were only local girls, and you know what they are like'. I did not make this up!

Agony Aunt.

I was thinking about dysfunctional families.

You know, planet Earth, dysfunctional family or what?

I wanted to write to some-one about it and looked for an agony aunt.

Agony Aunt... Excuse me but that is an oxymoron surely... Thus:

Dear Auntie

I'm in agony

I've fallen in love

with the mum of my cousin

yeah the twin of my mother

and then to cap that

so has my brother

he's fallen in love

before you get thinking

that that can't be too bad

I've just discovered

that so has my dad

he's fallen in love

Dear auntie

it's agony falling in love.

they're now always fighting

my pop and my mother

when they're doing that

I'm fighting my brother

We say we are all doing it

for the sake of our aunt

our maxim our mantra

our scientologists chant

Dear auntie

I'm in agony

And i'm no longer in love.

Pop up Cinema in Portobello Road.

I'd heard about it then sort of forgot about it with all the other stuff going on; a pop up digital microplex cinema has been set up under the westway opposite Portobello Green.

There are some interesting films lined up, sadly I will miss 'Performance' on Saturday the 24th but hope to get down there for 'Withnail and I' on the 30th.

Check it out online at: http://www.portobellopopup.com/

An open letter to Mr Kee Scott.

Fraser, I am in no way criticising your religious views or indeed your right to chose your particular brand of 'religion'. I have every right to criticise scientology though and I don't think I'm alone in wanting to do so. The concerns I have are as follows:

1. When it emerged that You had accepted money From Warren Todd and the Tabernacle event was cancelled/postponed the blame was laid on the Tabernacle. You said at the time that you would hand the money back, disassociate Mr Todd from the Portobello Rocks event and issue a statement to that effect. To date no such statement has been issued and no-one is any the wiser. I only attempted to explain to the community the full reasons for the cancellation.

2. I do not understand how you feel you have the right to appoint yourself to the role of arbitrator or mediator and then set up a forum without serious consultation with the community... As you were told at the Tabernacle meeting you could only be perceived as a 'lobbyist' for Mr Todd (having accepted his money) and therefore definitely not Neutral. It is with respect to the 'forum' that I harbour my concerns ( concerns that were already being aired by other members of the community) about the Scientology link.

3. I received unpleasant 'phone calls from supporters of the Church of Scientology which is the bullying I referred to... I was certainly not bullied by any of your associates.

I have always supported the Portobello Rocks concert and continue to do so. I wish you all well in that endeavour. However I cannot support the hijacking of the Portobello Road cause in the manner proposed by yourself. Please issue a statement regarding your position with Mr Todd as it certainly does impact on the proposed 'forum'.

It would also help, in future, if you could spell my name right.

Regards

Scientology, Portobello and um yes scientology.

When I blogged about Potobello Rocks being cancelled I mentioned scientology.

I got a lot of shit back for mentioning religion... I was pressurised into taking the scientology reference out of the blog. And you know, I bowed to the pressure. I was bullied!

That is what scientologists do; they bully!

The fact is that there was a rather dodgy element to the Portobello Rocks agenda... From my point of view the whole thing was being hijacked by dodgy geezers.

Look at this before we go any further:http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/arts/article-23397709-scientology-sect-using-british-art-as-a-front.do

Fraser Kee Scott is the man who had decided to be the self appointed spokesperson for Portobello Road, backed by, and here is the funny bit, NOT WarrenTodd, but by Scientology!

Scientology is not about religion, scientology is about bullying... Crass bullying at that.

If god existed I can assure you he would not be a scientologist. And if god existed he would not want scientologists holding a forum on the future of Portobello Road.

If god existed he would be buying a couple of silver spoons on the Portobello and then going for a beer in the Gold, meeting us and then talking about how we are going to sort this shit out!

Warren Todd would be sitting at his feet.

Jimmy Page, Jimmy Page and Mary Cigarettes.

Picture this.

In the Westbourne with the professor of Irish Rock n Roll, admiring his sunglasses, discussing his book, shooting the breeze, catching up.

Led Zeppelin playing in the speakers.... Cool.

Who the fuck turns up but Jimmy Page. True story, he says did they put this on for me? No it was just one of life's happy coincidences.

So OK. I got to say hello to god and I didn't have to die to do it.

The professor had his eyepod with him so played 'Jimmy Page' by Mary Cigarettes while Jimmy drank his coffee.

Jimmy then cleared up an old bit of confusion regarding 'The Them' and his involvement in a long disputed argument... The professor has the rights to that story.

I started today (absolutely true but I didn't know why) thinking that days like this happen so very rarely ... I then go and meet the most important man in my life musically... scuse me while I kiss the sky.

And now I'm cranking up Kashmir and cracking open a beer... Eat my fucking shorts John Bon Jovi.

I'll leave the last word to Mary Cigarettes on this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5_AnTMmhuE

Why was Portobello Rocks at the Tabernacle cancelled.

Why was the 'Portobello Rocks' gig at the Tabernacle cancelled?

It was cancelled firstly because at the last minute, after a number of concerns were raised by a number of parties, it was disclosed that 'Portobello Rocks' was being part funded by Warren Todd!

This is the letter sent out to various people in the neighbourhood, I was given it by a pissed off market trader friend:

Dear Sir/Madam
I am writing to you, in what are hard and challenging times, to try and help find a realistic solution to maintain the unique charm of Portobello Road.
I understand that the last thing people want on Portobello is commercialisation – what’s best is if it can stay like it is in so many ways. But there are problems with keeping it the same and I want to confront them with you.
I have sponsored Portobello Rocks – an arts event at The Tabernacle designed to start a dialogue about what we are all facing on our road.
Portobello Rocks is hosting a forum for traders, councillors and residents at The Tabernacle on Wednesday 28th July at 2pm. At this forum we will confront all of the problems we face in keeping Portobello unique and charming, so that we can find a solution that actually works. I would like to invite you to attend that forum and give your view.
Please email [illegible] or call 07954 051 458 to reserve your space at the forum on the 28th July at the Tabernacle, 34-35 Powis Square, W11 2AY. Refreshments will be served and your opinion will be sincerely listened to.
Yours sincerely,
Warren Todd
Portobello Group

Secondly the 'Rocks' boys seemed to think that they had a remit to organise some kind of forum at the Tabernacle whether the community or Tabernacle liked it or not!

For those not in the know Warren Todd is the property developer behind the All Saints intrusion as well as owner of a number of other 'prime' sites on the road. For the 'Rocks' boys to get into bed with Warren was the final straw... Portobello Rocks had become advocates of the very person they claimed they were fighting.

The management at the Tabernacle had no choice but to cancel the gig... Acts were already beginning to jump ship before it foundered on... Portobello rocks.

The Tabernacle has had a reputation in the past for being difficult (it is a difficult collection of balls to juggle) but in this instance the management acted in the only way they could in order to maintain some integrity. The Tabernacle after all has to sleep easily with the whole community, not just Warren Todd.

For Portobello Rocks to say on their Web site: 'Who needs the Tabernacle' beggars the question; Who needs a Warren Todd funded 'save portobello' event anywhere.

It would have been right for the 'Rocks' boys to put their hands up and say: 'We got it so completely wrong. Not the Tab's fault... Sorry!'

Having said that the Event is going ahead at the Drawing room in Portobello Road on Saturday night and I shall be there to support them... Let's hope they leave the politics at home.

And no! I do not work for the Tabernacle... The Tabernacle works for me!

Ray Roughler - Jones. Drowning on dry land.

I bought a copy of this with my own money - cash - I put the crispy tenner into Rays hand and told him that it allowed me to write an unbiased review.

'Warts and all.' He said... He even wrote that on the title page.

I have always been drawn to the 'Picaresque' over the picturesque; and Ray does picaresque well!

An unadorned tale of a scallywags journey through life (or lets hope, part way through life) from his Swansea roots via trouble, boozers, alternative journalism, pantomime, girls and scrapes to Notting Hill today.

As a local resident this book was essential reading, not a great work of literature (nor ever pretending to be) but a damn sight better written than a lot of so called literature. Ray is a natural storyteller and his voice resonates throughout.

I wasn't here in the Eighties... Ray has filled in a lot of the gaps!

Society snot.

It seems that I have annoyed a few people by mentioning Kimberly Festival Norfolk, Notting Hill and Cocaine in the same blog.

Listen up! Cocaine is a fact of life in elitist Notting Hill (across the fault line north of where I am it may be crack or heroin). It is omnipresent at dinner parties, in clubs, restaurants, bars and pubs.

That statement is purely an observation. As I have written before I am not anti drugs (I smoke, I drink, I have tried every narcotic yet invented (with the exception of Heroin)). Nor do I have anything against the people who use drugs. I'm just bored to death with the arrogant, boorish, inane bullshit that issues from their mouths once a line or two has gone up their noses.

Also I am not just singling out Kimberley... It just happens that Kimberley is the festival of choice for the snottier elements of society and society snot is 75% pure Columbian!

There are very good arguments for legalising cocaine (the revenue generated alone could be put to good use ( but now is not the time to discuss it...)) After all it is the drug that gets the 'chattering classes' chattering!

I will leave the last word to Murray Lachlan Young...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-EZJUS72CWQ

Kimberley festival Norfolk, drugs and the Notting Hill promise.

It must be Kimberley weekend coming up: there isn't a drug dealer to be seen in Notting Hill and the Hillbillies are all dressing alike to be different.  It is of course the lead up to the time of the year when 30 and 40 somethings die in their sleep due to excess drug use but their wives/mistresses/family put down to work or depression or not being understood!

It is however the perfect occasion to shag someone  while their partner is off his/her face on horse pills and MDMA in a tent.

Shhhhhhh... Don't tell anyone. It's secret!



The jeweller to the stars.

They are waiting in the cafes
the restaurants and bars
or parked on unlit corners
in expensive cars
they are waiting for the snowman, the blow man, the let's go man
they are waiting, waiting, waiting
for the jeweller to the stars.

He is the closest thing to royalty
their business is all his
with his bags of herbert sherbert
(the silly rich mans whizz)
he makes them feel quite special
and just a
little
bit
show biz
they are guaranteed to talk the talk
walk the walk as well
he is the pied piper
the piper at the gates of hell.

White christmas is his ringtone
on his prepay mobile phone
his sole visible means of support
the long suffering wife at home
he is the king of the powder rooms
his shit it smells of roses
to the vacuous trustafarians
born
with
silver spoons up their noses.

He is known to each and every one
the jeweller to the stars
he hasn't got a friend on earth
and there ain't no life on mars.

Schmick.TV, Dreadzone - Gangster and the hood.

Directed by Christian Banfield and shot in West London.

Does stuff like this really get through to the kids? I have a nagging feeling that it does not; Kids have a way of filtering out what they don't want to see or hear and find their own sub-subliminal messages in order to justify their behaviour.

Oh. And the minute you start growing up and having second thoughts it is too late... You have become the enemy of Youth.

But it is good to see the views of the hood!

http://www.schmick.tv/

Postcard from Tecoman. Mexico

Posted by the delightful Viviana from Mexico. The beach is bio-luminescent; what am I doing in London?

Andy McKee - Guitar - Drifting - www.candyrat.com

Nontourage.

The nontourage are constantly reliable in their unfailing absence from events.

Neon

Killing pigeons in a strange land.

They say that the past is a different country; people do strange things there.

Back in the sixties my brothers and myself took a friend on a pigeon killing expedition; we lived on a fruit farm, pigeons were vermin. we were boys with knives and sharp sticks. Maybe I had just read 'Lord of the flies'. The memory has remained fixed in my head since then; I cringe even now.

I think we were probably showing off a little; our ability to take the lives of defenceless critters without remorse, A macho boy thing.

I had forgotten who our companion was on that day.

Until now.

This morning, during an on line 'chat' with a guy I haven't set eyes on since that summer, he reminded me of the incident... It remained in his head all these years too!

Sorry Hugo... As I said: Strange country the past.

Sam Fox, Rabies and parties.

At the Tabernacle all day today... Party type thing. If anyone turns up.

On the way here I saw the headline in the Sun: Samantha Fox is being treated for Rabies.

How did she contract the disease?

Bit herself shaving perhaps.

found objects

I found this in Westbourne Park Road today. I was on my way to a cabaret type thing.

I'm intrigued by the Afghanistan ribbon on it.

Rusty's old man.

Rusty called in for a coffee and brie sandwich today.

He said it was (or would have been) his pop's birthday.

He said that every year when asked what he wanted for his birthday his pop would reply: 'Peace of mind'.

He's got peace of mind now Rusty. I said.

On Haiku.

It is sad that it has come to this

that I must count syllables

when I would have counted

the ways that I loved you

the ways that I loved you

before you demanded a haiku

you said life was too short

for anything more than three lines.

Write a poem you said

write it in our autumn mists

I'm leaving you now.

Cheating death with black balls.

Many many years ago, not long after the squabble with Jackson Pollock (blog passim) and as a result of that squabble I entered into one of my periodic bouts of depression.

I was living in the apartment of my old friend Ingmar Bergman at the time and annoyed the man greatly by painting everything black including the balls on his pool table. The pool table was in his bedroom which I thought a curious thing. Ingmar told me he suffered from insomnia and pool helped him get through even the darkest nights.

Ingmar would have thrown me out for painting his balls black but for the raging fever that swept through my body that winter; for weeks I lay in that Swedes bed storm tossed in a sea of swelter navigating that fine meridial line between this world and the next.

One night, when I was in a momentary state of lucidity, a figure entered the room; Tall, gaunt, bony fingered, wearing a dark hooded cloak thing and carrying a scythe.

'who are you'? I enquired.

'You know perfectly well who I am and why I am here'. He replied.

Indeed I did know that it was Death himself arrived to carry me off. But I was in no mood to cross the Hudson let alone the Styx. I told the man (oh the arrogance of man to cast death in his own likeness)

that I was not prepared to go without a fight.

He suggested we play a game of chess to decide my fate.

I informed him that there was not a chess set in the house... 'But what about a game of pool'.

Death agreed to the game of pool but was taken aback by the sight of 15 black balls resting on the green baize.

We played that hellish game of pool for a month, day and night, without respite. The scores remained resolutely on 0 -0 as each of our 'breaks' resulted in a foul as we pocketed black ball after black ball.

On the 15th of December Death gave up. He threw down his cue in exasperation, picked up his scythe and swept out of the room hissing: 'You cheated me this time Jan Nieupjur but next time I will be ready for you'.

I then fell into a deep, peaceful slumber, awaking some days later to find my fever departed and the depression lifted.

A few days later I told this story to Ingmar over a game of chess - I had lied to Death, there was a chess set in the house - Ingmar (smiling for once) took notes in a little red book. I did not see him again, he departed for Sweden and a new film project.

Next time Death comes calling I shall challenge him to a game of 'happy families'.

For younger viewers.

Imagine. Imagine like crazy and then imagine some more. Imagine all the exciting things you'd like to do and then imagine them happening in your town or village. Then imagine them happening to you which is much more likely now that they are happening near by. In fact it would be hard to avoid them happening to you... You'd have to stay indoors, under the kitchen table (stroking the cat, if you have got one handy) with the table-cloth pulled down low making a tent to keep you hidden from your stories!
Then when the stories start happening write them down in a book (any colour book will do) with a noisy pen. As a beginner you will find it helpful to stick your tongue out the side of your mouth a little way. this also convinces your mum and dad that you are deep in creative thought and not available to give advice on the complicated things that they don't understand but you do!
When you have finished writing your story read it aloud to see how it feels. You might want to read it very quietly at first until it gets used to the outside. then you can read it louder and to real people.
Try not to laugh too much at the funny bits.
It helps to dress up when reading your story; this is called being in character. Every-body dresses up in this way, even city bankers when they want to tell bank stories (these stories are rarely funny which is why bankers don't laugh much, except on their way to the bank). Soldiers dress up a lot, so do nurses and traffic wardens. Burlesque dancers are the exception to the rule; they undress to tell their stories.
At the end of your story put a very loud full stop.

Dougie Wallace

Some great images here:http://www.dougiewallace.com/default.asp?theIF=/content.asp%3FWebsiteID%3D15718&PageID=9063&FFS=1&pageName=HOME

Pomposity and Pompeii.

I started work on a short story this morning. I decided that the central character should be a plane spotter.

In order to get inside my plane spotters head I decided to go out to Heathrow to spot a few planes of my own.

I refuse to use the underground system in London ( it is Hot, smelly, overcrowded and prone to failure) and therefore walked to Paddington in order to catch the Heathrow express.

Sitting in my carriage opposite me were a young couple; a conservative MP I recognised from the tabloids and chat shows (I have no idea as to his political thinking) and his wife. As we passed through the graffiti strewn Royal Oak and Westbourne Park the MP made unpleasant noises about the vandalism of the artists responsible; I think he said 'string em all up'!

I pointed out that it was just a means of expression for a dissatisfied youth and wouldn't it be better to remove the cause of that dissatisfaction rather than the expression of it.

He said nothing.

A little later I asked where they were flying to.

Italy. He replied.

Ah, Chiantishire. I said.

No! He replied pompously. The bay of Naples and Pompeii actually!

Such wonderful grafitti. I observed.

His wife smiled beautifully.