The Partridge’s Philosophy


The lesions
disabled flight
blood on feathers –

the partridge’s
philosophy is about
connexion;

it is injured
it is agitated
it is shot –

the partridge’s
philosophy is in
perplexity;

a few flutters 
slight paralysis
puzzled limbs –

the partridge’s
philosophy is
assimilating loss;

injured wings
stationary muscles
killed appearance –

the partridge’s
philosophy asks, can
dead birds fly?

(from a sequence &there4 of poems found in philosophical texts, this one from Chapter IV. The Relativity of all Knowledge. – First Principles by Herbert Spencer)

 

Mike Ferguson

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TAD AND POLE

 

A tale of two tadpoles

It was the worst of times and the best of times.’

‘Good morning, Tad,’ said Pole

                                                            (Draw Pole in the box)

‘Good morning Pole,’ said Tad.

                                           (Draw Tad here – but going the other way)

‘But it’s not,’ continued Tad.

‘What?’ said Pole.

‘A good morning,’ said Tad, looking up at the lovely blue sky on the other side of the skin of their dark water home.  So Pole looked up too.   ‘But its lovely,’ said Pole. ‘Why are you so glum?’

‘Because I want to be out there, not here in this dim water,’ said Tad.

‘Be patient,’ said Pole. ‘We will be out soon enough, when our legs have grown.’ 

‘What legs?’ said Tad, looking round at his tail.

‘We grow legs, and little arms’ said Pole, and then we’ll crawl out of here, onto that rock, see?’ 

And they both looked at the rock, leading out of the water, reaching towards the bright blue sky.   ‘I want to go NOW,’ said Tad, angry.  If he had a foot he would have stamped it.   ‘I hate it in here, it’s so boring.  I hate those murky old leaves at the bottom, they’re last year’s and rotten and they SMELL.

‘But look at their colours, said Pole.  ‘Orange, yellow, and brown.’

‘And these stones are dull,’ moaned Tad.

‘No, said Pole, ‘they shine in the sun.’

Tad made a noise like bliddlebleddleblonk, which was tadpole for a very bad word.

‘Don’t be rude said Pole,’ upset.   But if Pole had had any arms, he’d have put them round his friend to comfort him. 

* * *

But no arms

No legs

Not yet.

* * *

There was a noise from above.

Quack

They both looked up

Quack

                                                             And everything went yellow.


‘Is that the sun?’ asked Tad.

‘No,’ said Pole, ‘it’s a duckling’s bottom.’

‘She’ll help me escape,’ said Tad, and he sent a message in tiny bubbles up to the duckling

0o0o0o0.

‘Get me out of here,’ the bubbles said.

And the duckling looked down. ‘ You’ll get out soon enough,’ she quacked.  ‘Be patient.  I look in the water every day and I can never go there, only to duck down and get an insect or a bit of weed.  I’d love to stay a bit but I can’t.’ 

‘Why?’ said Tad.

‘Because it’s not my home.’

‘Oh’, said Tad.

‘You won’t be there for very long,’ quacked the duckling, ‘appreciate it while you can.’  And she waddled off to find her mum.

‘Wise words,’ said Pole. ‘Come on, let’s go and nibble a leaf, to help our legs grow.’

‘All right, said Tad, grumpy  (or a tad grumpy – ho ho).  But then he looked up again, to that patch of heavenly blue and saw a pink dot, getting bigger and bigger.   It stopped at the edge.

‘Moo,’ it said.

Tad and Pole both jumped together, and wriggled behind a stone.  Neither of them had ever seen anything like that.  ‘I’m frightened,’ said Pole.

‘I’ll look after you,’ said Tad. ‘I’ll leap up, jump in one of those holes and then out the other one. That’ll scare it away. But then Tad said bladdleybubblyblar – which is tadpole for ‘maybe not.’

‘Don’t be afraid,’ said the huge pink beast. ‘ I have just come to look at you in your lovely home, and have a drink.’

‘What? said Tad? Drink up our home?’

‘We love our home,’ said Pole, looking at Tad. ‘Don’t we Tad.’  

‘’Erm, squirm,’ said Tad.

‘Oh all right – I’ll moooooch off,’ said the cow.

Then a chattering – riddip, riddup, riddip

And both Tad and Pole wriggled to the top of the water, excited.  ‘Daddy daddy. Can we come with you.’

            ‘All in good time my little spawn,’ said the frog.  Riddip. ‘I’d love to be in the nursery, wriggling around without a care in the water – Riddip riddip.  Your legs will be with you soon, Riddip and up you’ll come, hopping around with the big guys.

Now draw Tad and Pole playing with the others

 

Jan Woolf– Lockdown 2020

 

 

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You Reap What You Sow

 

“You reap what you sow.
Isn’t that what they say?
Isn’t that what you tell them as they’re working away,

In the blistering heat
In the pouring of rain,
“You reap what you sow
Whilst collecting their grain.

“You reap what you sow.”
Mother Nature is bare
Mother Nature is tortured, bones ground and flesh pare.

The fruit of your labours,
The work of their hands.
“You reap what you sow”
Profiting from their lands.

Fairtrade for the workers!
Fairtrade for the earth!
Fairtrade for the hearts who invest in rebirth,

Of what some call a miracle, and some say is luck
But whom all should agree it has been run amuck.
By those who’s green fingers are dyed by the blood,
Of the farmers who drown in the cooperate flood.

Of the farmers who feed and water and clothe
And shelter and power and battle with throes.

Who keep us alive,
who keep us afloat
With so little reward, with so much they devote

For this I say thank you, and I send out my plea
That theworld opens up, to listen and see.
“You reap what you sow”, this much is true
Fairtrade you would seek if this farmer was

You

 

 

Rebecca Kenny

 

 

 

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Fire in the Wire.

 

Steam Stock

Tracklist:
Alton Ellis – Girl I’ve Got a Date
U-Roy – Wake the Town
Duke Reid Group – What Makes Honey
Eek A Mouse – Wa Do Dem
Max Romeo – War Ina Babylon
The Upsetters – Revelation Dub
Pablo and Fay – Bedroom Mazurka
Phyllis Dillon – The Love That a Woman Should Give to a Man
Junior Murvin – Cool Out Son
Willie Williams – Armagideon Time
Roland Alphonso – From Russia With Love
Heptones – Party Time
Janet Kay – Silly Games
Derrick Laro and Trinity – Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough
Tenor Saw – Golden Hen
Horace Andy – Skylarking
Cedric Im Brooks – Idleburg
Prince Jazzbo – Crabwalking
The Wailers – Pass it On

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Stand Up to Tyranny: How to Respond to the Evils of Our Age

 

“The church must be reminded that it is not the master or the servant of the state, but rather the conscience of the state. It must be the guide and the critic of the state, and never its tool. If the church does not recapture its prophetic zeal, it will become an irrelevant social club without moral or spiritual authority.”—Martin Luther King Jr. (A Knock at Midnight, June 11, 1967)

In every age, we find ourselves wrestling with the question of how Jesus Christ—the itinerant preacher and revolutionary activist who died challenging the police state of his time, namely, the Roman Empire—would respond to the moral questions of our day.

For instance, would Jesus advocate, as so many evangelical Christian leaders have done in recent years, for congregants to “submit to your leaders and those in authority,” which in the American police state translates to complying, conforming, submitting, obeying orders, deferring to authority and generally doing whatever a government official tells you to do?

What would Jesus do? 

Study the life and teachings of Jesus, and you may be surprised at how relevant he is to our modern age.

A radical nonconformist who challenged authority at every turn, Jesus spent his adult life speaking truth to power, challenging the status quo of his day, pushing back against the abuses of the Roman Empire, and providing a blueprint for standing up to tyranny that would be followed by those, religious and otherwise, who came after him.

Those living through this present age of government lockdowns, immunity passports, militarized police, SWAT team raids, police shootings of unarmed citizens, roadside strip searches, invasive surveillance and the like might feel as if these events are unprecedented. However, the characteristics of a police state and its reasons for being are no different today than they were in Jesus’ lifetime: control, power and money.

Much like the American Empire today, the Roman Empire of Jesus’ day was characterized by secrecy, surveillance, a widespread police presence, a citizenry treated like suspects with little recourse against the police state, perpetual wars, a military empire, martial law, and political retribution against those who dared to challenge the power of the state.

A police state extends far beyond the actions of law enforcement.  In fact, a police state “is characterized by bureaucracy, secrecy, perpetual wars, a nation of suspects, militarization, surveillance, widespread police presence, and a citizenry with little recourse against police actions.”

Indeed, the police state in which Jesus lived (and died) and its striking similarities to modern-day America are beyond troubling.

Secrecy, surveillance and rule by the elite. As the chasm between the wealthy and poor grew wider in the Roman Empire, the ruling class and the wealthy class became synonymous, while the lower classes, increasingly deprived of their political freedoms, grew disinterested in the government and easily distracted by “bread and circuses.” Much like America today, with its lack of government transparency, overt domestic surveillance, and rule by the rich, the inner workings of the Roman Empire were shrouded in secrecy, while its leaders were constantly on the watch for any potential threats to its power. The resulting state-wide surveillance was primarily carried out by the military, which acted as investigators, enforcers, torturers, policemen, executioners and jailers. Today that role is fulfilled by the NSA, the FBI, the Department of Homeland Security and the increasingly militarized police forces across the country.

Widespread police presence. The Roman Empire used its military forces to maintain the “peace,” thereby establishing a police state that reached into all aspects of a citizen’s life. In this way, these military officers, used to address a broad range of routine problems and conflicts, enforced the will of the state. Today SWAT teams, comprised of local police and federal agents, are employed to carry out routine search warrants for minor crimes such as marijuana possession and credit card fraud.

Citizenry with little recourse against the police state. As the Roman Empire expanded, personal freedom and independence nearly vanished, as did any real sense of local governance and national consciousness. Similarly, in America today, citizens largely feel powerless, voiceless and unrepresented in the face of a power-hungry federal government. As states and localities are brought under direct control by federal agencies and regulations, a sense of learned helplessness grips the nation.

Perpetual wars and a military empire. Much like America today with its practice of policing the world, war and an over-arching militarist ethos provided the framework for the Roman Empire, which extended from the Italian peninsula to all over Southern, Western, and Eastern Europe, extending into North Africa and Western Asia as well. In addition to significant foreign threats, wars were waged against inchoate, unstructured and socially inferior foes.

Martial law. Eventually, Rome established a permanent military dictatorship that left the citizens at the mercy of an unreachable and oppressive totalitarian regime. In the absence of resources to establish civic police forces, the Romans relied increasingly on the military to intervene in all matters of conflict or upheaval in provinces, from small-scale scuffles to large-scale revolts. Not unlike police forces today, with their martial law training drills on American soil, militarized weapons and “shoot first, ask questions later” mindset, the Roman soldier had “the exercise of lethal force at his fingertips” with the potential of wreaking havoc on normal citizens’ lives.

A nation of suspects. Just as the American Empire looks upon its citizens as suspects to be tracked, surveilled and controlled, the Roman Empire looked upon all potential insubordinates, from the common thief to a full-fledged insurrectionist, as threats to its power. The insurrectionist was seen as directly challenging the Emperor.  A “bandit,” or revolutionist, was seen as capable of overturning the empire, was always considered guilty and deserving of the most savage penalties, including capital punishment. Bandits were usually punished publicly and cruelly as a means of deterring others from challenging the power of the state.  Jesus’ execution was one such public punishment.

Acts of civil disobedience by insurrectionists. Starting with his act of civil disobedience at the Jewish temple, the site of the administrative headquarters of the Sanhedrin, the supreme Jewish council, Jesus branded himself a political revolutionary. When Jesus “with the help of his disciples, blocks the entrance to the courtyard” and forbids “anyone carrying goods for sale or trade from entering the Temple,” he committed a blatantly criminal and seditious act, an act “that undoubtedly precipitated his arrest and execution.” Because the commercial events were sponsored by the religious hierarchy, which in turn was operated by consent of the Roman government, Jesus’ attack on the money chargers and traders can be seen as an attack on Rome itself, an unmistakable declaration of political and social independence from the Roman oppression.

Military-style arrests in the dead of night. Jesus’ arrest account testifies to the fact that the Romans perceived Him as a revolutionary. Eerily similar to today’s SWAT team raids, Jesus was arrested in the middle of the night, in secret, by a large, heavily armed fleet of soldiers.  Rather than merely asking for Jesus when they came to arrest him, his pursuers collaborated beforehand with Judas. Acting as a government informant, Judas concocted a kiss as a secret identification marker, hinting that a level of deception and trickery must be used to obtain this seemingly “dangerous revolutionist’s” cooperation. 

Torture and capital punishment. In Jesus’ day, religious preachers, self-proclaimed prophets and nonviolent protesters were not summarily arrested and executed. Indeed, the high priests and Roman governors normally allowed a protest, particularly a small-scale one, to run its course. However, government authorities were quick to dispose of leaders and movements that appeared to threaten the Roman Empire. The charges leveled against Jesus—that he was a threat to the stability of the nation, opposed paying Roman taxes and claimed to be the rightful King—were purely political, not religious. To the Romans, any one of these charges was enough to merit death by crucifixion, which was usually reserved for slaves, non-Romans, radicals, revolutionaries and the worst criminals.

Jesus was presented to Pontius Pilate “as a disturber of the political peace,” a leader of a rebellion, a political threat, and most gravely—a claimant to kingship, a “king of the revolutionary type.” After Jesus is formally condemned by Pilate, he is sentenced to death by crucifixion, “the Roman means of executing criminals convicted of high treason.”  The purpose of crucifixion was not so much to kill the criminal, as it was an immensely public statement intended to visually warn all those who would challenge the power of the Roman Empire. Hence, it was reserved solely for the most extreme political crimes: treason, rebellion, sedition, and banditry. After being ruthlessly whipped and mocked, Jesus was nailed to a cross.

As Professor Mark Lewis Taylor observed:

The cross within Roman politics and culture was a marker of shame, of being a criminal. If you were put to the cross, you were marked as shameful, as criminal, but especially as subversive. And there were thousands of people put to the cross. The cross was actually positioned at many crossroads, and, as New Testament scholar Paula Fredricksen has reminded us, it served as kind of a public service announcement that said, “Act like this person did, and this is how you will end up.”

Jesus—the revolutionary, the political dissident, and the nonviolent activist—lived and died in a police state. Any reflection on Jesus’ life and death within a police state must take into account several factors: Jesus spoke out strongly against such things as empires, controlling people, state violence and power politics. Jesus challenged the political and religious belief systems of his day. And worldly powers feared Jesus, not because he challenged them for control of thrones or government but because he undercut their claims of supremacy, and he dared to speak truth to power in a time when doing so could—and often did—cost a person his life.

Unfortunately, the radical Jesus, the political dissident who took aim at injustice and oppression, has been largely forgotten today, replaced by a congenial, smiling Jesus trotted out for religious holidays but otherwise rendered mute when it comes to matters of war, power and politics.

Yet for those who truly study the life and teachings of Jesus, the resounding theme is one of outright resistance to war, materialism and empire.

Ultimately, as I point out in my book Battlefield America: The War on the American People, this is the contradiction that must be resolved if the radical Jesus—the one who stood up to the Roman Empire and was crucified as a warning to others not to challenge the powers-that-be—is to be an example for our modern age.

After all, there is so much suffering and injustice in the world, and so much good that can be done by those who truly aspire to follow Jesus Christ’s example.

We must decide whether we will follow the path of least resistance—willing to turn a blind eye to what Martin Luther King Jr. referred to as the “evils of segregation and the crippling effects of discrimination, to the moral degeneracy of religious bigotry and the corroding effects of narrow sectarianism, to economic conditions that deprive men of work and food, and to the insanities of militarism and the self-defeating effects of physical violence”—or whether we will be transformed nonconformists “dedicated to justice, peace, and brotherhood.”

As King explained in a powerful sermon delivered in 1954, “This command not to conform comes … [from] Jesus Christ, the world’s most dedicated nonconformist, whose ethical nonconformity still challenges the conscience of mankind.”

Furthermore:

We need to recapture the gospel glow of the early Christians, who were nonconformists in the truest sense of the word and refused to shape their witness according to the mundane patterns of the world.  Willingly they sacrificed fame, fortune, and life itself in behalf of a cause they knew to be right.  Quantitatively small, they were qualitatively giants.  Their powerful gospel put an end to such barbaric evils as infanticide and bloody gladiatorial contests.  Finally, they captured the Roman Empire for Jesus Christ… The hope of a secure and livable world lies with disciplined nonconformists, who are dedicated to justice, peace, and brotherhood.  The trailblazers in human, academic, scientific, and religious freedom have always been nonconformists.  In any cause that concerns the progress of mankind, put your faith in the nonconformist!

…Honesty impels me to admit that transformed nonconformity, which is always costly and never altogether comfortable, may mean walking through the valley of the shadow of suffering, losing a job, or having a six-year-old daughter ask, “Daddy, why do you have to go to jail so much?”  But we are gravely mistaken to think that Christianity protects us from the pain and agony of mortal existence.  Christianity has always insisted that the cross we bear precedes the crown we wear.  To be a Christian, one must take up his cross, with all of its difficulties and agonizing and tragedy-packed content, and carry it until that very cross leaves its marks upon us and redeems us to that more excellent way that comes only through suffering.

In these days of worldwide confusion, there is a dire need for men and women who will courageously do battle for truth.  We must make a choice. Will we continue to march to the drumbeat of conformity and respectability, or will we, listening to the beat of a more distant drum, move to its echoing sounds?  Will we march only to the music of time, or will we, risking criticism and abuse, march to the soul saving music of eternity?

 

John Whitehead
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

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FOOL’S DAY


‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’: PETA Easter Billboards in Rome

Spring, the time of birth!
And what do we humans do?
We kill the new born…   

Ewes suckle their lambs,
as cooks prepare Easter roasts
– of quivering flesh.

We marvel at LIFE
…yet Pass Over our cruelty:
Death cult devourers.

We pray for mercy
– but show none to our brothers.
Blind hypocrisy.

Little lamb, who made thee?
Thou dost know who made thee.

Little lamb, God bless thee.
Little lamb, God bless thee.

 

Heidi Stephenson

 

 

‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’: PETA Easter Billboards Rise in Rome as Group Urges Pope to Spread Vegan Message

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Street Writer – Philosophical fables part two

Knowledge –

It is important to study and gain knowledge about your craft and this life. It will help to build your style and your character. As you search for your calling and meaning of yourself within this life and this life’s meaning in you. This will come through the forms of literature, music, films, TV shows, live shows and the main one… your relationships with the people and the things in this life! When I was training I was following a man’s work called Geoff Thompson. I would watch his DVDS in-between each training session I was doing and I would also read his books over and over again! When I wasn’t skating I was watching the skate videos (yes, VHS ha ha) and I would be reading the skateboarding magazines like Sidewalk and Thrasher. When I really got into the writing at the ripe ‘old’ age of 24 I would start reading all the heavy essential books until my eyes were bleeding. Love has always been a passion of mine and I mean ‘true love’ were you become nothing other than a gentleman. You can learn this from various bibles or even prophets – but you need to put it into action as well. We all know this life is a shitty place to be, but once you can open yourself up to the beauty that is and always has been around you, you can write better work and you can complement those around you even though you know they feel like shite every day. As the saying goes ‘knowledge is power’ – but without action it is useless. So, yes, gain as much knowledge in-between your craft or even crafts, but when the work shows up: fucking do it!

 

Your craft –

Whether you believe that you chose the craft or the craft chose you. It doesn’t matter. You are now it. When I was a martial artist, I became the martial artist. When I was a skater, I became the skater. When I became a writer, I was the writer. When I was studying philosophy, I became the philosopher. When I was at school studying, I became the student. When I worked my part-time jobs, I became them. When I was in a relationship, I became the boyfriend they needed. When I played and had fun, I became the party. These are just a few things I have been and became throughout this life and I have enjoyed and I even hated them at times, but when I did something like these different art forms I had to go all the way and become them (and I mean become it)… like a chameleon. My mother doesn’t particular like it when I do something like this in my life because it takes over me… she would always say ‘you’re stubborn, but it has certainly got you far.’ You need to be like a method actor and emulate the craft! Unfortunately, people may think you are selfish – but Geoff mentioned in one of his talks by another writer that it is called ‘proper selfishness.’ There was one time when I was so dedicated to my training and my dad asked if he could eat a bit of my ice cream and I said no! He was hurt by this remark and I did apologise to him the next day about it but I told him ‘dad, I have to make sure that everything I eat is at the right level to keep up this heavy duty training otherwise I won’t be able to function.’ He did understand after a while. Some people won’t understand your dedication to your craft – but the only person you have to answer to is: yourself and maybe whatever or whomever your divine drive is… and that is all that matters!

 

Work ethic –

You must treat your life and your craft as work. You must live it, breathe it, piss it and shit it. Your work ethic will pay off even if you are shite to begin with. When I was doing my hard-core training in my late teens I was training up to 3 or 4 times a day and I was eating up to 5 and 6 times a day. My day started at 6am in the morning with a 5 mile run then I would move onto my weight training then I would do my boxing training then I would move onto my wrestling training. This would take me up to around 9pm at night then I would get a good 8 hour rest and start all over again. The best example I can give you is when I started writing poetry at the age of 19. When I started writing poetry I had no clue what I was doing at all. When I sat down to write my first poem about a dead dried up rose that I bought to my recent ex-girlfriend at the time, I didn’t even know it was a poem! Shortly after that I moved out of my broken up family home and moved into my very own flat. I started writing more and more poetry while reading more of it as well to gain a little more knowledge about it and style. Believe me the poetry I wrote in those earlier days was shite, but the girls in my bed were very, very kind listening to them and saying they were beautiful ha ha. To be totally honest with you it took me the guts of ten years to really start writing half-decent poetry and start getting them published in some literary magazines… but I stuck with it: the good, the bad, the ugly and the totally awful ha ha! But, my work ethic was second to none despite the bad writing and the rejections and looking like an illiterate fool etc. But when you know it feels right – stick with it – and that’s all you need to get through it!

 

Experience –

Overall… your experience will mean everything. For example: if you have lived (and I mean LIVED) you will have no shortage of stories for your writing – they will be countless! Bukowski said ‘do a bit of living then get yourself a typewriter.’ There is a lot of truth in this! Before I was a writer I was many different things in my life which was highlighted in the ‘your craft section.’ The more things you are before you become an artist will show more diversity in your writing and it will speak to a hell of a lot more people and that’s what you are looking for as a writer: more people to identify themselves with your work. I was glad my dad got me into the training when I was just a kid and I think everybody who is able bodied should get into something physical in their early life because it will teach you strength and endurance of the spirit, the mind and the body and it may even show you your god! My dad also got me my first job when I was around 10 or 11 years old and I think having a job or even jobs is a good way to teach you the amount of effort you have to put into your craft for it to pay off in the end! Different types of relationships in your life will help you also along the way. Whether that is with yourself, your god, your family, your friends, your partners, your pets, acquaintances and even complete strangers! I met a young girl on the bus one time going into my hometown (by the way no one knows this story so keep it hush hush ha ha) but – I could see there was strain on her face and her spirit so I started to talk to her. She told me she was in a very bad relationship and she felt she couldn’t get out of it. So I thought up an idea, but no idea is really yours… everything belongs to that sky above your head! When we got into town I took her to our local bookshop and I bought her a book that may help her. I left her at the top of the street and said ‘enjoy the read’ and she said ‘thanks’ and we have never seen each other ever again, but I hope she is doing better after all these years (13 to be precise ha ha). So, back to the topic… go out and live as many lives as you can and then write about it and give it back to those people who may just get something from it! You just never know who you might speak to and what it may just do for them!

 

(Poem)

 

Writing became a woman for me

 

I flirted with her in my childhood and in my teenage years

But not much came from it except for self-satisfaction

Like an angel grinning at God saying ‘he’s almost ready for her’

Then at the age of 18 in an airport shop she looked at me

I grabbed that notepad and pen urgently with a gentle squeeze

Like the time I was running towards losing my virginity at 15 in Estonia

As I flirted with her on the planes rigid chair I knew this was my time

As that angel grinned at God and they touched me with his and hers magic

Two published articles later she became my temptress and I became her virile boy

I lightly kissed her, I snogged her, I made love to her and we both felt orgasmic

But after those articles she was about to do something to me I wasn’t ready for yet

She said ‘are you ready for me’ and from there she turned me into a poet

My first poem was published from there and then a story and then a film

She said to me: I’m so sorry but there is no way back now but I won’t leave you

Now I am twelve years on from that point and I’ve done more than I can remember

She has never once left me like some of the other temptresses I knew and felt

I was devoted to her the whole entire time and I know I love her

I will not and she will not ever turn our backs on each other

We look directly at each other as a set of eyes looking at the moon

And we never, ever, ever want to change that until the day we get to meet in person

I will be a soul and she will be a soul and maybe we’ll kiss and hold hands

Or maybe we will walk away from each other as we look for something better

As she births another writer and I just enjoy writing in heaven

Either way we’ll never forget each other like remembering to flick the ash off a cigarette

 

PBJ

 

<3

 

 

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Love Wave


Robert Montgomery

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How He Wrote Us into Existence – CH 3 – A Fiction

 

The cat wants to show its knowledge about the neighbourhood. It writhes for the day we may comprehend it.

Above all, it wants to tell us about the murders that happened in the neighbourhood. We would not have believed the cat anyway, especially because one of the victims is still alive.

Today our Amazon Prime subscription ends. We display more enthusiasm for a conversation with the cat.

In my childhood, I did not know any tongue other than my mother’s. Some I learned from the old public school I studied in, and some by watching TV series ran on various channels or by listening to the radio, and finding the foreign language dissolving on my tongue. The alien words are acid patches, and they take you high, make you dizzy.

In the ‘Lockdown’ we should learn the Cat. The cat should learn Human too. I began to read whatever the poet living in our basement writes, to the cat.

The poet arrived a few weeks before the virus hit the town. He longed for a wall to be chained to and a room hiding his captivity. He also wanted food, water, and whisky to be placed in front of him, and that he should be unchained whenever he rang a bell so that he could answer nature’s call. The bondage, he explained, was to aid his writing. The committal should hone his words and expand his attention span.

The cat ignores poetry.

The other day bell rang. The poet told my wife that he must be freed and showered. He had one virtual poetry meet. My wife chuckled and said that one could never go wrong with a shower hair, uncombed, whimsical, and with muses nesting on top of him – a few imperceptible twigs and open twists.

The poet’s appeared in thumbnails.

 

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar

 
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

@amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

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Very lyrical

He clears his throat and begins to read:
I’d walk the tide-line pocketing shells,
Carefully side-step beached jellyfish,
Race my own shadow as far as the pier,
Get up to the prom for a massive ice-cream:
It was a Summer dream…”

Carefully she waits until silence
Has stretched just long enough
And tongue unknotted chimes in with:
“One year we stayed in an old caravan
Only our money’s got lost
But Mum finds ten bob so Dad has a bet,
Well, long story short his long-shot romps
Home at a hundred to one so for the rest
Of that week we picnicked
On the sandy beach,
Played Pontoon for pennies
And Jesus how we laughed…”

“But that’s not my memory!”
He vainly protests.

“Oh it will be by your next poem,” she says.

 

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp/1788768671/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Patrick+McCann+Still+Pondering&qid=1573366856&sr=8-1

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THE SOUND OF THE WESTWAY PART 3 LATE 70S

 ‘When I think of the punk years, I always think of one particular spot, just at the point where the elevated Westway diverges from Harrow Road and pursues the line of the Hammersmith and City tube tracks to Westbourne Park Station. From the end of 1976, one of the stanchions holding up the Westway was emblazoned with large graffiti which said simply, ‘The Clash’. When first sprayed the graffiti laid a psychic boundary marker for the group – This was their manor, this was how they saw London.’ Jon Savage ‘Punk London’ 1991

‘All across the town, all across the night, everybody’s driving with full head lights, black or white turn it on face the new religion, everybody’s sitting round watching television, London’s burning with boredom now, London’s burning dial 999, Up and down the Westway, in and out the lights, what a great traffic system, it’s so bright, I can’t think of a better way to spend the night than speeding around underneath the yellow lights.’ The Clash ‘London’s Burning’ 1976

Of all the groups associated with Notting Hill, from Pink Floyd to All Saints and beyond, the Clash have the best street credibility. The punk rock local heroes, Joe Strummer, Mick Jones, Paul Simonon and Topper Headon, represent Ladbroke Grove-North Kensington (W10 rather than 11) in most of the area’s conflicting psychogeographical aspects with the Sound of the Westway.

‘Now I’m in the subway looking for the flat, this one leads to this block this one leads to that, the wind howls through the empty blocks looking for a home, but I run through the empty stone because I’m all alone.’ Joe Strummer wrote the lyrics of ‘London’s Burning’ after watching the traffic on the Westway from Mick Jones’ towerblock flat in Wilmcote House on the Warwick Estate. Other influences on the definitive Sound of the Westway Clash anthem are said to be the MC5’s ‘Motor City is Burning’ (about the 1967 Detroit riots), the Situationist ‘Same Thing Day After Day’ graffiti under the Westway, the 1666 Great Fire of London, the JG Ballard novels ‘Crash’ and ‘High Rise’, and speed.

Strummer summed up the psychogeography of the Clash, telling the NME: “We’d take amphetamines and storm round the bleak streets where there was nothing to do but watch the traffic lights. That’s what ‘London’s Burning’ is about.” Roger Matland, who became the director of the North Kensington Amenity Trust (now the Westway Trust) in 1976, recalled: “Early impressions of the Trust land were of its emptiness. It was eerie walking past a boarded-up bay in the evening and seeing 30 or 40 vagrants there round a bonfire.” Mick Jones has recently said: “The music came from the sound of the streets and the Westway.” The group first promoted themselves with a graffiti campaign featuring ‘The Clash’ on a Westway stanchion near Royal Oak, and frequently posed for photos by the flyover, usually at the Portobello-Acklam Road junction.

The first Clash report in NME by Barry Miles (of International Times and Pink Floyd previous) was entitled ‘18 Flight Rock and the Sound of the Westway’ – derived from ‘The Sound of Young America’ slogan of the Detroit Motor City soul label Tamla Motown. Tony Parsons wrote of the first single: ‘White Riot and the Sound of the Westway, the giant inner-city flyover and the futuristic backdrop for this country’s first major race riot since 1958… played with the speed of the Westway, a GBH treble that is as impossible to ignore as the police siren that opens the single or the alarm bell that closes it… a regulation of energy exerting a razor-sharp adrenalin control over their primal amphetamined rush. It created a new air of tension added to the ever-present manic drive that has always existed in their music, the Sound of the Westway.’ Charles Shaar Murray (of School kids Oz previous) advised: ‘Don’t wait for UK messiahs to come down from the Westway with 10 punk commandments.’

In Record Mirror, Tim Lott’s towerblock syndrome ‘Head On Clash’ report featured Paul Simonon reminiscing about high-rise hooliganism, and being evacuated from the Wornington Road school “because the top of Trellick Tower was crumbling.” Lott added: ‘That was in North Kensington, Westway-land. Simonon went to school in the miserable shadow of Trellick Tower, the ugliest building in London. When will it fall?’ Mick Jones gave an even more depressing account of west London life in the 70s, telling Tony Parsons: “Each of these high-rise estates has got those places where kids wear soldiers’ uniforms and get army drill. Indoctrination to keep them off the streets… and they got an artist to paint pictures of happy workers on the side of the Westway. Labour liberates and don’t forget your place.” In ‘The Clash Songbook’ the backdrop of ‘City of the Dead’ (the anti-heroin B-side of ‘Complete Control’) was a grainy shot of the Warwick estate across the flyover. The Westway and the surrounding urban wastelandscape was duly immortalised in ‘Don Letts’ Punk Rock Movie’ and Lech Kowalski’s ‘DOA’ Sex Pistols film as the iconography of punk London.

At the 1976 Notting Hill Carnival, as the temperature rose, tempers were lost at what was seen as excessive policing. In due course an attempted arrest under the Westway resulted in Ladbroke Grove’s defining psychogeographical moment – to a soundtrack of the ’76 Carnival hit, Junior Murvin’s ‘Police and thieves in the streets – scaring the nation with their guns and ammunition.’ In ‘The Story of the Clash’, Joe Strummer recalled getting caught up in the first incident. As a group of ‘blue helmets sticking up like a conga line’ went through the crowd, he saw one being hit by a can, immediately followed by a hail of cans: ‘The crowd drew back suddenly and the Notting Hill riot of 1976 was sparked. We were thrown back, women and children too, against a fence which sagged back dangerously over a drop. I can clearly see Bernie Rhodes, even now, frozen at the centre of a massive painting by Rabelais or Michelangelo… as around him a full riot breaks out and 200 screaming people running in every direction. The screaming started it all. Those fat black ladies started screaming the minute it broke out, soon there was fighting 10 blocks in every direction.’

Joe and Paul also recalled an unsuccessful attempt to set a car alight with a box of matches under the Westway. Meanwhile on Portobello Road, a lone Rasta (thought to be Don Letts or Bim Sherman) walked into pop history towards Acklam Road – passing the sound-system outside the Black People’s Information Centre, the former premises of Lord Kitchener’s Valet and Frendz, and a line of policemen across the street. At the same time, Rocco Macaulay began taking his iconic series of photos of the next police charge. Macaulay’s shot of ‘The Clash’ moment when policemen reached the Westway, where the youths had gathered, duly became the back cover of the first album and the ‘White Riot’ tour backdrop projection. The Wild West 10 walk appeared on the sleeve of the ‘Black Market Clash’ mini-LP in 1980 and adverts for Don Letts’ ‘Dread Meets Punk Rockers Uptown’ militant reggae compilation.

Wilf Walker remembers Acklam Road in 1976 as a spiritual awakening of black Britain: “It was incredible in those days to be in a sea of black faces. As a black person, that kind of solidarity we don’t experience anymore… We described it as a demonstration of solidarity and peace within the black community. I can’t imagine what it would have been like for white people… ’76 showed the strength of feeling, reggae was raging in those days. Young blacks weren’t into being happy natives, putting on a silly costume and dancing in the street, in the same street where we were getting done for sus every day.”

As the rioting moved under the Westway, alongside the hoardings sprayed with ‘Same thing day after day – Tube – Work… how much more can you take…’, an old drunk is said to have staggered between the police and youth lines on Tavistock Road at the Portobello junction, causing hostilities to temporarily cease until he stumbled off and fell over a wall. In the ‘Black Britain’ photo of youths on Tavistock Road, rather than militant dread or rude boy style, it was a funky reggae party. Steve Jameson recalled sound-systems playing the Bee Gees’ ‘You Should Be Dancing’. The Sun ‘man on the spot’ in the riot, John Firth, described ‘how I was kicked at black disco’ under the flyover (which must have been Acklam Hall).

Wilf Walker’s punky reggae party at Acklam Hall began on October 15 with the Black Defence Committee Notting Hill branch benefit ‘in aid of Carnival defendants’; featuring Spartacus R (from the disco group Osibisa who had a hit earlier in the year with ‘Sunshine Day’), the Sukuya steel band, and ‘Clash’ were billed (with no ‘The’) but didn’t actually play, though they were at the gig. Although the Clash already existed, it can be argued that they were a pop culture echo of the 1976 riot like ‘Absolute Beginners’ was of 1958. In ‘Last Gang in Town’ Marcus Gray calls it ‘the catalyst that brought to the surface a lot of disparate elements already present’ in the group. Not least, they got into reggae, feeding dub effects, ‘heavy manners’ stencil graffiti and the apocalyptic Rasta rhetoric into the mix. Aswad had already recorded ‘Three Babylon’ about a police incident under the Westway, and Tom Waits was photographed on Portobello Road north of the flyover before the first Carnival riot.

Along the Westway in Acton, Derek Gibbs and Alan Dearling came up with The Sound of the Westway fanzine. Derek Gibbs, of the Westway Band, Westway Sounds Promotions and the Satellites, also collaborated with Julie Burchill on the New Wave poster mag and appeared on the cover of the ‘New Wave’ punk rock compilation album, spitting at the photographer. Alan Dearling was involved with International Times and BIT. Carol Clerk (later of Melody Maker) wrote in her Acton Gazette review of the fanzine: ‘For punk rockers, the Westway symbolises their music – fast, loud and violent.’

In a Ripped & Torn fanzine review of a punk gig at Acklam Hall, featuring Sham 69, Chelsea, the Lurkers and the Cortinas, the venue was described as ‘functional and dull, and slightly oppressive in its size and stark design, with only a ‘1977’ in cut-out red paper stuck up behind the stage to show that this was a punk concert and not some youth club meeting.’ On the cover of ‘This is the Modern World’, the Jam posed under the Westway roundabout on Bramley Road, in a punky mod homage to Colin MacInnes’s ‘Absolute Beginners’. The Damned were photographed at the Westway Theatre off Portobello Road with a policeman, Generation X posed under the Westway roundabout, and Warsaw Pakt on the footbridge under the flyover, between Tavistock Crescent and Acklam Road.

After the Clash ‘White Riot’ tour took the 1976 Carnival riot backdrop around the country in 1977, causing a series of mini-riots, there was another Carnival riot in Notting Hill. This one was attended by Bob Marley, who was on Acklam Road at Lloyd Coxsone’s sound-system, and reporters from International Times (when the office was at 118 Talbot Road) who recorded the ‘Fear and Loathing in W11’:

But through it all, slicing through the crowds like shoals of baby sharks, came the kids, the forgotten ones, using their irrelevance to maximum effect, moving in packs of up to a hundred, fast and determined, grabbing everything they passed, snapping camera straps from clenched fists, handbags, pockets, jackets, ornaments, vanishing into the solid mass of the throng… Karma. The dark side of anarchy, mutant children generating panic for the hell of it and sharing the same mind-blistering sweetness in the results. Some of them were only 10 years old. It was the revolution. Unplanned, uncaring and without generals, the black kids were having a revolution. No surprise. In the towerblock prison camps of the working-class, white punks are Xeroxing nihilism with their ‘No Future’ muzak turned up full blast. In the ghetto, when the Carnival slips the leash, black punks tear up the present.’

On the second day, after the procession finished trouble flared up again. Under the Westway, the Kensington Post reporter at the scene Neil Sargent wrote: ’As reggae music belted out from speakers stacked on the north side of Acklam Road, the latest punch up began to move underneath the flyover to a patch of land which usually houses a happy hippy market.’ Then Sargent was attacked by a black youth and rescued by ‘The Clash’ photographer Rocco Macaulay.

In the IT report: ‘The kids had gathered at the Westway, scene of last year’s victorious battle and by 9 O’clock it had become a maelstrom, sucking in curious whites and spitting them out, robbed and battered. Darkness fell and roaming camera lights turned the packed heads into a macabre spot-dance competition in the ballroom of violence. Police blocked all but one exit road and lined the motorway and railroad that swung overhead – wallflowers at the dance of death. By the time the PA system shut down the screaming roar of the riot had made it irrelevant.’ The London Liberal party chairman Gerard Mulholland blamed the ’77 riot on militant reggae music, telling the West London Observer: “The violence that occurred was stimulated enormously by the existence of 3 fixed-place reggae sound-systems in the vicinity of Acklam Road. The natural consequence of reggae is an emotional build up which makes punk rock’s pseudo-anarchy sound like a vicarage tea party. It has no place at Carnival.”

In the 1977 Portobello Guide booklet the stretch of the market either side of the Westway between Lancaster Road and Oxford Gardens was called ‘the Portobello Village’: the ‘alternative quarter’ of ‘reggae music, soul food, underground newspapers, wholewheat bread, Bedouin dresses, art deco objects, natural shoes, herbal medicines, a free shop, brown rice and a gypsy fortune teller’ – the long bearded Romany Gypsy Petulengro Lee. The Free Shop hand sign, sprayed with ‘It’s Only Rock’n’Roll’, is pictured pointing to the hippy recycling centre on the east side of Portobello. Stalls under the Westway included Grass Roots and Retreat from Moscow, which specialised in army greatcoats, 40s rayon dresses, 50s mohair jumpers, Beatle and baseball jackets.

Over on Latimer Road, which was cut in half by the Westway-West Cross Route inter-change, the remaining houses either side became derelict and were squatted – the southern end, by then renamed Freston Road, became a Bohemian interzone of Notting Dale. As the GLC planned a mass eviction before building an industrial estate on the site, in October 1977 the squatters declared themselves independent of Britain and appealed to the UN for assistance. As they set up border controls and embassies, the citizens double-barrelled their names with Bramley from the adjacent road and had Frestonia passports, stamps, a newspaper and national anthem that went: ‘Long live Frestonia, land of the free – not the GLC.’ The Free and Independent Republic of Frestonia was part William Blake Albion Free State and part Marx brothers’ ‘Freedonia’, with some Chestertonesque whimsy and Orwellian nightmare thrown in. Jon Savage produced an issue of his London’s Outrage fanzine consisting of a Frestonia photo montage cut up with the ‘Same thing day after day’ Westway graffiti. He recalls the area in the late 70s as the punk wasteland: “A complete tip. It was basically a rubbish tip with a few squats. It was the worst of the worst, real marginalia, right on the outer limits at one point that place. It was like no-man’s-land.”

On June 9 1978 Wilf Walker’s Black Productions presented ‘the Grove Music Show’ at Acklam Hall ‘under the flyover’: an Aswad related ‘night of Grove Music’ from Alton Ellis, King Sounds and the Israelites, and Brimstone. Wilf’s celebrated Black Productions’ punky reggae party at Acklam Hall showcased the local reggae heroes Aswad, Barry Ford of Merger, Misty In Roots, Junior Brown, Sons of Jah, and the anarcho-post-punk groups Crass, the Members, the Monochrome Set, the Passions and prag VEC. In the wake of a suspected National Front arson attack on hall, the NME reported that ‘Acklam Hall is almost a natural focal point for any local racial tension. Just underneath the Westway, it stands adjacent to the flashpoint area of the 1976 Carnival riots. The hall is leased from the GLC by Black Productions, who often promote white bands, and has also been used by Rock Against Racism to put on gigs featuring both black and white groups. Theoretically, the hall’s insurance should be covered by the GLC Amenity Trust.’

Misty In Roots appeared at one of these Acklam Hall RAR gigs under a ‘Black & White Unite & Fight’ banner. Viv Goldman began her Sounds review introducing the support band Reality from Kensal Rise: ‘Reality were playing their second gig, and they’re all still at school – in fact, the keyboards player’s mother, a devout Christian, was picketing the Acklam Hall in protest against her son playing heathen music… This particular benefit – organised by the far-sighted Wilf from the enterprising Black Productions outfit – was particularly apt, as it was in aid of black prisoners, and Misty had just heard that their lead guitarist has been sent down for 18 months.’ For Carnival ’78 Wilf Walker presented a local post-punky reggae bill under the flyover: Sons of Jah from Colville, prag VEC from Latimer Road and Matt Stagger. During the Carnival Holger Czukay of Can was photographed recording crowd noise on Ladbroke Grove by the Westway, and Scritti Politti came up with the ’28.8.78’ track consisting of a riot radio report on their ‘Skank Bloc Bologna’ EP. In the ‘Black Britain’ ’78 Carnival photo cheerful revellers, still with some notable Afros, danced along the police line under the Westway.

The NME’s Adrian Thrills praised Black Productions for ‘letting the two cultures clash at the Acklam Hall with their regular punk and reggae gigs every Friday night through the summer without much credit. The community centre-cum-youth club hall is rapidly becoming one of the best medium-sized venues in town.’ Adrian Thrills (previously of 48 Thrills fanzine, named after the Clash lyric) wrote of Barry Ford getting a new band together after Merger split, two days before appearing on ‘Notting Hill’s Acklam Hall stage under the yellow lights of the Westway…Doc Ford and his sidekick, ever-steady bassist Ivor Steadman, must have exchanged nervous glances with the three young session men alongside them, at least as regularly as those who had to walk home from the gig down dingy Portobello Road at 2 in the morning.’ Barry Ford was supported by the Members’ ‘Sound of the Suburbs’, which would land the west London punky pop group a deal with Virgin in Vernon Yard, back along Portobello.

In another bad Ripped & Torn review, at the time of the Slits’ ‘have fun and experience’ white riot girl residency in the autumn, the fanzine’s punk venue guide had on Acklam Hall: ‘The only time I went here I got attacked by a gang of black guys on the way home, that was last year though and things have supposedly improved (with the hand-written note): Saw the Slits there last night and it hasn’t. Due to a series of good billings it’s picked up a good reputation, and I suppose it’s worth going to if there’s a good band on. It’s a large hall type place which lacks atmosphere.’ In the Ripped & Torn gig review the local venue fared slightly better: ‘The Slits were as chaotic as you could expect, and great at it. Their enthusiasm knows no bounds, creating an electric atmosphere which transformed the dingy Acklam Hall.’

Perhaps the definitive Notting Hill gig ‘under the flyover’ was Wilf Walker’s anarcho-punk-meets-aristo-rock bill of Crass, Teresa D’Abreu, Pearly Spencer and a skateboard display. Teresa D’Abreu of the Sadista Sisters proto-punk S&M burlesque group was the granddaughter of Patrick Bowes-Lyon and a 3rd cousin of the Queen, Pearly Spencer featured Valentine Guinness. The most renowned Black Productions night under the flyover was November 10 1978, with Tribesman, the Valves and the Invaders, as the latter changed their name to Madness. The first Madness gig and some aggro with local skinheads was filmed by Dave Robinson and appears in the 1981 film ‘Take It or Leave It’, in which the ‘Nutty boys get in a ruck after their first gig at Acklam Hall’ and become ‘Madness on the run from a skinhead lynch mob.’ It was also at this gig that Chas Smash is said to have invented the nutty dance. The Edinburgh punk band the Valves were renowned for the ironic surf song, ‘Ain’t No Surf in Portobello’; referring to the Scottish Portobello beach near Edinburgh, although it’s more applicable to the London road.

On November 14 the Passions from Latimer Road and the Nips, Shane MacGowan’s pre-Pogues punk band, played an Acklam Hall Rough Theatre benefit for the defence fund of Astrid Proll, the Baader-Meinhof gang getaway driver (better known to the Passions as Anna the mechanic, a youth project worker from Hackney). Scritti Politti made their debut on a classic post-punk bill on November 18, with Red Crayola, Cabaret Voltaire and prag VEC. The Cabs struck the definitive post-punk industrial alienation pose in North Kensington, standing next to a stanchion of the Westway ordained with a poster advertising the gig.

On New Year’s Eve 1978-79 the Raincoats with Palmolive played Acklam Hall, supported by their old drummer Richard Dudanski’s new bands Bank of Dresden and the Vincent Units. The audience consisted of members of the Clash, the Slits, Scritti Politti, prag VEC, Rough Trade staff and music journalists. After a Portobello pub crawl, Robin Banks and Danny Baker made the Raincoats Zigzag’s ‘hot tip for ’79’ and generally praised bedsit bands. Ian Penman of NME wrote of the gig: ‘This was a good place to start ’79, an evening of comedy, parody, high anti-fashion calm, fun, radical rockers and pop feminism a-go-go.’ According to Penman, the Raincoats and Bank of Dresden merged into the Vincent Units-Tesco Bombers post-punk 101’ers local supergroup, creating a mix of Pere Ubu, Big in Japan, Funkadelic and Lee Perry. He described Bank of Dresden (also notable for their local graffiti campaign) as ’sinful-rockabilly-be-bop-dread-beat’, and commended the Raincoats for not conforming to ‘male comforting roles.’

The Rough Trade-Rock Against Racism tour featuring Stiff Little Fingers, Essential Logic, Robert Rental and the Normal stopped off under the Westway as the Rough Trade label released its first album, Rough 1 ‘Inflammable Material’ by Stiff Little Fingers. As well as Cabaret Voltaire, prag VEC, Red Crayola, Scritti Politti, the Raincoats, Passions and Mo-dettes, there were gigs by the Monochrome Set, the Psychedelic Furs and the reggae ‘Roots Encounter’ tour featuring Prince Far-I, Bim Sherman, Prince Hammer and Creation Rebel. Crass appeared again, as their ‘Feeding of the 5,000’ EP came out on Small Wonder through Rough Trade, headlining a benefit for the Angry Brigade-related anarchist Black Cross Cienfugos Press. The hippest Acklam Hall gig to have been at was ‘Final Solution present Music from the Factory under the flyover’ on May 17 1979, featuring the Manchester Factory label’s Joy Division, supported by A Certain Ratio, Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark and John Dowie.

In another good review, Record Mirror’s Chris Westwood wrote of an ill-attended post-punk gig featuring Rema-Rema and Manicured Noise: ‘The Acklam Hall stinks. Like some scummy old school hall, it lacks atmosphere, facilities, everything. Ironically, it remains one of the solitary few places in the big city where crowds of little known quality bands can assemble and present their ideas to open minded punters.’ Nick Tester’s Sounds review of the Raincoats and Passions’ gig continued the ambivalent trend: ‘Tucked squarely beneath the Westway, the clinical confines of Acklam Hall provided an exciting evening of unimpeded expansive music… Tonight, judging by the clamouring at the front, most had come to view the all-girl group Raincoats… The Passions are on last and equally impress. Vocalist Mitch had recently broke his leg nearby to this very venue so he had to be content with shouting from the side of the hall, although he did join the band for an encore of the wry ‘Needles and Pills’… then their set closes in semi-chaos when a flock of skins bent on skull-bashing half-attacked the Passions’ lead guitarist.’

An ad placed in NME by the North Kensington Amenity Trust for the post of Acklam Hall manager announced: ‘Wanted for music venue and community hall in North Kensington. Must be able to get on well with wide range of groups and have experience in bar management and stock control and maintenance of premises.’ As an example of the various post-punk sub cults appearing under the flyover, the surf-punk Barracudas’ frontman Jeremy Gluck was introduced in Sounds as a ‘Canadian singing surfing songs to Ladbroke Grove skinheads.’ ‘Hanging Ten in West London’, Sandy Robertson mused: ‘Seriously would you expect even one of the skinheads who inhabit the feral slums of Ladbroke Grove to have the slightest notion of the origins of terms as arcane as ‘woody’ and ‘ho-dad’? Neither would I, but the imp of the perverse has been at work again, and the Barracudas assure me that the shaven-topped ones who pursue them down Portobello Road are after nothing more than an autographed single.’

At this time a regular feature of Acklam Hall gigs became skinhead aggro, like that which accompanied the Passions, Crisis and Black Encounters gig recounted by Stewart Home in ‘Cranked Up Really High’. He seems to have started a ‘red skins’ v allegedly NF ‘Grove skins’ ‘punk riot’ during the gig, which spilled over Ladbroke Grove into St Charles Hospital. In Hollywood W10, the Acklam skinhead aggro was re-enacted in ‘Breaking Glass’, the Dodi Fayed produced plastic punk film starring Hazel O’Connor as a troubled pop icon. At one point Hazel as Kate Crawley starts a ‘Rock Against 1984’ skinhead riot under the Westway roundabout.

Chris Petit’s post-punk road movie ‘Radio On’ features a driving along the Westway sequence with a soundtrack of Dave Bowie’s JG Ballard tribute ‘Always Crashing in the Same Car’. The poster still is a Ballardesque view from the Westway of the British Rail maintenance depot at Paddington. Another shot of the building ordained with the graffiti ‘No Extradition for Astrid Proll’ appears in the film. The derelict British Rail building was subsequently used as a venue for a Test Department performance and by the Mutoid Waste Company for anarcho raves – then it became the Monsoon hippy revival fashion headquarters (which duly relocated to Freston Road).

Before the last Carnival of the 70s the NME announced: ‘in an effort to alleviate the problems that often arise from the Portobello Green area of Notting Hill, usually the Carnival’s flashpoint, the police and local council have agreed to the Festival and Arts Committee organising a two day concert on the green.’ This was after the Carnival Arts Committee of Louis Chase and Wilf Walker split from the Carnival Development Committee. In 1979 Wilf Walker presented the first Notting Hill Carnival stage, off Portobello Road beside the Westway, in order to include alienated black youth and punk rockers in the event. ‘The lions of Ladbroke Grove’ Aswad topped the post-punky reggae bill at the time of their acclaimed second album ‘Hulet’ – then there was Barry Ford from Merger, Sons of Jah, King Sounds and the Israelites, Brimstone, Exodus, Nik Turner from Hawkwind, Carol Grimes, the Passions and Vincent Units – with power supplied from Carol Grimes’ house.

In spite or because of new riot control measures, enforced by 10,000 policemen, at the Monday closedown there was more trouble. Viv Goldman wrote in Melody Maker: ‘The cans and bottles glittered like fireworks in the street lights, then shone again as they bounced back off the riot shields. The thud thud thud of the impact rivalled the bass in steadiness, suddenly the street of peaceful dancers was a revolutionary frontline, and the militant style of the dreads was put in its conceptual context.’

Probably the worst gig under the Westway took place when Acklam Hall hosted ‘the World’s first Bad Music Festival’, featuring the Horrible Nurds, the Instant Automatons, the Blues Drongo All-Stars, Danny and the Dressmakers, and the Door and the Window. Danny and the consisted of Sister Maura, the stand-in bassist for Shrimp Butty – Colin Seddon, Johnny Brainless, Danny aka Alan Hempsall of Crispy Ambulance on drums, Graham Massey later of 808 State playing guitar under a sheet, and Kif Kif of Here & Now on guitar on a podium. This was the brainchild of JB (Jonathan Barnett, now the director of Portobello Film Festival) and Kif Kif le Batteur aka Keith Dobson of Here & Now and later World Domination Enterprises, who were then operating as Fuck Off Records.

JB also wrote as Jonathan Brainless in International Times, after writing for the NME. The late 70s IT also contained The Beast section featuring Heathcote Williams, the ‘No Extradition for Astrid Proll’ graffiti on Harrow Road, and a review of Neil Oram’s ‘The Warp’ play with London Free School scenes. In the tradition of Hawkwind and the Pink Fairies, Here & Now appeared in Bay 66 under the flyover, on the site of the skateboard park, at an anarcho-hippy-rad-fem-post-punk free gig with Mark Perry’s Good Missionaries, Carol Grimes, and Vermillion and the Aces. Kif Kif’s punk-hippy crossover group also played a BIT benefit at Acklam Hall, the Latimer Road Ceres bakery in the Frestonia Community Centre, and the free Fuck Off festival in Meanwhile Gardens alongside the canal in Kensal.

In the last days of the 70s the Clash played Acklam Hall for the first time, previewing their third album ‘London Calling’. The Clash gigs under the Westway also acted as local Christmas parties and warm-ups for the post-Pol Pot Kampuchea-Cambodia benefit at Hammersmith Odeon. Viv Goldman began her Melody Maker review with: ‘A cheery gent looks out of the tiny school-gym-like Acklam Hall and calls out: “Anyone wanna see the Clash? 50 pence.” Invitation is strictly word of mouth because it’s like a block party, the kind they have in New York, where the whole neighbourhood piles into the street and has fun together.’ She praised the local punk, mod and skinhead kids united and drew parallels with the Roxy and the 101’ers at the Elgin as the Clash played their single ‘Keys to Your Heart’.

The last gig of the 70s under the Westway featured Here & Now, Nik Turner of Hawkwind’s Inner City Unit, the Sex Beatles and Splodgenessabounds. In spite of the punk rock and post-punk revolutions, the 70s Sound of the Westway story concluded with Pink Floyd at number 1, with their next single after ‘See Emily Play’, ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ – written by Roger Waters as part of ‘The Wall’ concept double-album-film featuring an adventure playground animation sequence by Gerald Scarfe, influenced by the 1966 London Free School playground on the Acklam Road Westway site. Also at the end of the 70s, Van Morrison released his ‘Bright Side of the Road’ single in a post-punky picture sleeve featuring matchstick figures dancing on Acklam Road by the Westway.

 

 

TOM VAGUE

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THE UNCERTAINTY OF PARKS

The inadvertent Sur-reality of several London parks

                     Fires burn quietly near Canons Park as Freynt Country Park slides into oblivion and Watling Park, dressed in blue and gold, diffuses in slow motion within a matrix of light, gliding gracefully towards Silk Stream Park with instant explanations. We know they are coming.

Like Lyndhurst Park, Woodcroft Park looks astonished, even shocked, to find a torn, faded photograph of you (or someone else) asleep, sleeping the deep sleep of serene (or sensuous) flowers growing in abundance undisturbed, exotic and ecstatic in Mill Hill Park, haven for vagrant voices.

Flight of music, flight of words: in Hendon Park trees with leafless branches laugh at the sky, grey and overcast over Woodside Park, where slow-burning lakes of ice and snow engulf projected images of Friary Park; stalactites and stalagmites, overtures of love.

Alexandra Park, a wilderness of rusting cars alive with bindweed, receives a clear message from Priory Park, place of night-ships sinking beneath the surface of the street, even though, yesterday, in nearby Pymmes Park, a model aircraft crashed into a totem pole. Try to compose in the style of Stravinsky who, many, many years ago, took a stroll along the shady walks of Downhills Park, its vistas of tattered cloud descending without warning, without fixtures or fittings.

Imagine the impossible terminus of Lee Valley Regional Park where an actress, dressed in Neo-Classical Pierrot costume, looks up, fearing a downpour. In Chingford Hall Park the street-lights are dim, and an artificial lake denies everything, even life.

Something similar to the ‘Moth-man’ incident occurred in Rowden Park the other night, but nobody noticed – so life goes on. In Lloyd Park a local builder wants to re-decorate the cricket pavilion, and marble fountains play games with rivulets of silver, gleaming with a soft, light aurora. Lakewood Park is full of literary associations: very short poems nailed to rose-bushes. Other poems are whispered on the breezes now stirring in The Highams Park, for everyone the most beautiful public space in this part of town – not counting Clayhill Park, scene of a bloody massacre this time last year – or Waterlow Park where nothing is certain.

“How I loathe the corporate yuppie-culture,” thought Bettina, kicking her heels on a bench in King Edward VII Park, feeding an aphrodisiac to her pet ferret, Ackroyd. Meanwhile, over in Gladstone Park, the remains of a funeral pyre’s hot coals gleam like scattered red stars over the High Road near Queens Park, a black hole in space, a little like the naked singularity of Golders Hill Park where all modes of thought converge. The heart of Caledonian Park is melting, trembling, huddled beneath the bed-clothes: this is not Regent’s Park where time stands still as usual, where office workers eat filled baguettes, dreaming their waking dreams of Paradise Park, so unattainable, so pleasant, so manicured, so nostalgic. In the background; the faint, distant sound of a scratchy recording of A Martino singing Baby Won’t You Please Come Home.

Finsbury Park floated away. Clissold Park took a holiday. Victoria Park told stories from the oral tradition. Valentine’s Park is haunted by long-dead lovers, haunted by their perfume, and their distant futures. While South Park (scene of several pile-ups) set sail for the East, unlike Barking Park where nothing ever happens, or Central Park where our world is another place.

In West Ham Park my sister’s boyfriend practiced levitation: entranced, impassive, impossible, like the firemen in Gunnersbury Park, lounging about, reading disreputable magazines, recovering from a night on the tiles. And Acton Park is unnatural and unknown, unlike Ravenscourt Park where death is sweeter than ever, staying, fixed in the memory rather like an untidy bed-sit over a betting shop near Holland Park, centre of pilgrimage and sadistic follies.

Lines of insomniacs parade slowly through Hyde Park exploring the unconscious mind which sometimes appears as a shimmering network of crustaceans attached to your armpits. An anomalous mirage called Green Park proves the infinite plurality of spheres on the quantum plane. Famously, St. James’s Park remains untouched, like a sabre rattling in the winds of change. So, in consequence, Mile End Park represents everything reasonable, nothing impossible, nothing unresolved, everything deprived of faith and charity.

It is so desolate in the King Edward Memorial Park, home of carnival masquers dancing in fancy dress trying to explain Southward Park as a regrettable joke in very poor taste.

Bartlett Park is estranged and unwanted like the glass-fronted mall enclosing Pepys Park of blessed memory and broken promises. Yes, the rolling vistas of downland and elegant stands of trees remind our chambermaid of Deptford Park, many years ago, before the war and shellac recording discs. Yes, Paterson Park was where it all began: a huge crater in the ground marks the spot where nothing happened, where sensation is all. A condemned man gave a speech in Beckton District Park, the focus of his cultural heritage, unsung and, unlike Mary Wilson Park, not so well known.

Old Deer Park (bright and brisk, rather like a frosty morning or a chilled bottle of cheap champagne) embraced the coming crisis with a sang-froid the envy of the Western Suburbs and all the inhabitants of Grove Park, hovering over the river on antique bicycles. Next, two young ladies, caught in a rainstorm in Richmond Park, removed all their clothes, making calls on mobile phones, one to an estate agent. Included in the plan was Hurlingham Park where your brother’s cousin saw an angel or was it too shameful? It is difficult to remember what life was like when everyone was so much younger or when (in King George’s Park) the balloon went up.

Kennington Park, like Brockwell Park, can be difficult to find if you are not a gargoyle, but Ruskin Park is a different line of country; more open, more transparent, almost like the sunlight gleaming on the cockpit of a jet aircraft in 1950. Think of Dulwich Park where bad taste is good fun.

Mourning the death of Postmodernism in Burgess Park was difficult but not impossible, even though the moon rises over Lewisham Park like a broken picture frame fished out of the canal via a wormhole in space, so arabesque. Cool as a saxophone solo, Mountsfield Park only exists as the remains of a wall painting, or something very special. Perhaps try a trip to Greenwich Park? The dateline starts somewhere nearby.

Embrace the wrought-iron railings of Charlton Park; a kid’s pop-up book to decorate your stately home at the centre of the universe.

Sutcliffe Park is usually the last stop; the only chance to hear that strange story of Avery Hill Park and its startling, androgynous magnolias.

ENVOI

We returned to Wimbledon Park via Morden Hall Park, walking under the arches in Sydenham Wells Park before going home in the rush-hour to Norwood Park, a huge, rough-textured, but rather spiritless affair. It was so far-removed from the superficial glamour and trashy, kitsch show-biz gloss of Mayow Park, with its Baroque pleasure palace and barbed-wire entanglements.

Even so, Beckenham Palace Park re-appeared on the itinerary, a distinguished example, representing, perhaps, a far-distant empire. Afterwards, watching a portable TV, we waited patiently on a tube-station platform for an empty train to Camden Park, the end of the line – a faded, mysterious place rife with gossip and rumor.

 

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Musical Time Travel

50th Anniversary Ashes Are Burning: An Anthology/Live In Concert, Renaissance (2CD + DVD + BluRay, Esoteric/Cherry Red)
A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Deluxe Edition, Oberon (2CD, Grapefruit/Cherry Red

I’d kind of misunderstood the announcement of this new Renaissance album and concert film, assuming it to be an expanded reissue of the band’s classic Ashes Are Burning album, perhaps with a live album attached. But it isn’t.

What we get is  the current incarnation of the band, helmed and fronted by Annie Haslam, coupled with the ten-piece ‘Renaissance Chamber Orchestra’, in concert. Renaissance have worked with a full orchestra before (the New York Philharmonic, no less) as captured on their wonderful Live at Carnegie Hall  double album, but that  was firmly rooted in rock, especially the 23-minute bass-led wig out of ‘Ashes Are Burning’ that ended the album. Here, however, the music feels prettified and ornamented, devoid of the punch that the band used to underpin Haslam’s spectacular vocals with.

Haslam still has a strong vocal range, but to be honest it’s not what it was, and the whole affair seems somewhat pedestrian: what was once gutsy hard-edged prog with operatic vocals soaring above has drifted into orchestrated MOR. ‘Carpet of the Sun’ and ‘Ocean Gypsy’ still offer up beautiful melodies and the succinct ‘Ashes Are Burning’ on offer here is still a great song, I just wanted more. Even a couple of appearances by ‘special guest’ Jim McCarty from the original band line-up doesn’t add much sparkle to this somewhat neutered and over-polite offering. Which is a shame.

Oberon’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream is a much better if somewhat different listening option. It couples the original obscure album with a 1971 live recording from three months before the album was released. The studio recordings offer fresh-faced Sixties folk, rooted in tradition and gentle re-interpretation, with an openness to the music drifting in from elsewhere: traces of raga rock, different tunings and folk-rock are sometimes hinted at, as are a willingness to embrace moments of improvisation and unadorned instrumental breaks or complete tunes.

The scarcity of this album has no doubt helped the word-of-mouth cult acclaim that has sprung up since that initial run of 99 albums, as has the more recent mp3 distribution on various musical websites. Here, however, the album is presented in great sonic shape, with the live album being pretty stunning considering its age and the fact it seems like an audience recording.

The concert bonus disc evidences the band still gently feeling their way toward the definitive album versions of many of the songs. ‘Epitaph’ is the standout track for me, and evidences the band’s ability to give each other space and room even as they intertwine instruments and vocals. It’s an engaging and involving sonic document, especially in conjunction with the remastered album.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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DRONING ON

Monolithic Undertow: In Search of Sonic Oblivion, Harry Sword (£20, White Rabbit/Orion)

Harry Sword’s books is going on my list of greatest music books.* Monolithic Undertow is a fantastic wide-ranging and tangential exploration of drone that starts in the underground Hypogeum in Malta and ends up in dancefloor delirium, having visited The Velvet Underground, contemporary classical, ambient and krautrock en route.

Actually, if I could cheat I’d only put the first two-thirds of the book on my list, as I feel it loses its way, with Sword somehow cramming every type of music he likes into the drone category. Part of the problem is a lack of definition to begin with: Sword prefers to start his book in a ‘dazed half-hypnotised state’, the result of three days of doom metal and major dope indulgence. Whilst it’s amusing, it already suggests the author isn’t thinking straight and the doom/drone ambiguity and similar genre/sound blurrings is something that reoccurs throughout the book. Is the modal centre of improvised freakout jazz a drone, or just the root the music touches base with? Is repetitive techno or metal drone? How often is experiment and freeform (kraut)rock or (post)punk drone music? Or is it just to do with sustain, duration, echo and complexity, or the effect of music on a listener? Or is it because Harry Sword says so?

But let’s go back to the beginning. In the underground echo chamber of Malta’s Hypogeum (which I’ve been fortunate enough to visit) Sword explores some of the themes he will return to: a sense of spirituality or ritual, complex sustain, reverb, decay and echo, and music as catalyst for changing your state of mind. All good clear stuff, well-argued and exampled, as are other chapters on the music of La Monte Young and Tony Conrad and their links to The Velvet Underground, the Master Musicians of Joujouka, free jazz, and sideways/onwards into Ladbroke Grove and Hawkwind, Germany and several krautrock bands.

So far, all well and good. There’s a strong case for suggesting that Hawkwind’s electronic drones and experiment have been overlooked in favour of the amphetamine space-rock they are renowned for, and in a similar fashion Can, Faust, Ash Ra Tempel and others certainly underpin some of their work with drones. I’m a big fan of Sonic Youth and a lot of no wave music, too, and can see an argument for early Sonic Youth’s radical tunings and use of noise and drone marking them out for inclusion in this book. Rhys Chatham’s and Glenn Branca’s compositions also fit with a bit of belligerent shoehorning. Further down the line Eno and other ambient music often utilises drone, but it’s also around here that I start to worry about the direction of Guest’s book.

I can’t honestly see how Black Sabbath or Swans are drone, nor Iggy Pop and the Stooges, let alone the likes of Black Flag and Flipper. This isn’t about my musical taste, nor about genre – Earth (whose music I like) and Sunn 0]]] (which I don’t), for instance, both fit in to the drone category well, and Sword is coherent and informed about them. But minimal hardcore? Sludge metal? I’m unconvinced, as I am by the way Sword ignores the likes of Seefeel or Stars of the Lid, along with the plethora of ambient music that foregrounds drone, in favour of the sampled hip-hop hell of The Bug and the occult experiments of Coil. Eno’s long-form ambient music, probably most appropriate to the discussion, is ignored in favour of his work with Cluster, Music for Airports and the endlessly-retold story of Eno inventing ambient music post car-accident. Sword even suggests that grunge possessed a ‘sludgy, dronal, detuned tone’, something I’m sure that most adherents to the movement’s recycled 60s and 70s rock riffs would be surprised to hear.

Ultimately it’s the lack of definition of drone that lets the book down and allows Sword to wander aimlessly through the music he loves rather than follow through on the book’s majority of focussed and lively chapters. The closing chapter offers up a quick namecheck for contemporary artists such as Gazelle Twin and Richard Skelton (both of whom deserve longer sections), a brief visit to the hauntological worlds of Ghost Box and Mordant Music, and a bunch of vague claims for drone: ‘[it] allows you to take control of time’, ‘the ultimate folk music’, ‘fundamentally subversive’ and the closing ‘It exists outside of us, an aural expression of a universal hum we can only hope to fleetingly channel.’

I’m not sure about much of that, although a more formal exploration of how drone can disorientate our perceptions, including that of time, would have been interesting. I guess I’m more interested in the making of drones, how they are used and listened to, not the idea of ‘sonic oblivion’, which seem to be about something else entirely other than music.

 

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

 

 

* Since you asked, my list includes David Toop’s Ocean of Sound, Alistair Fitchett’s Young & Foolish, Graham Lock’s Forces in Motion, Greil Marcus’ Lipstick Traces, Jon Savage’s England’s Dreaming, Michael Bracewell’s England Is Mine, Simon Reynolds’ Blissed Out, Clinton Heylin’s Babylon’s Burning, John Szwed’s Space Is The Place, Nicholas Rombes’ A Cultural Dictionary of Punk, Kodwo Eshun’s More Brilliant than the Sun, Evan Eisenberg’s The Recording Angel, John Luther Adams’ Winter Music and Ben Ratliff’s Every Song Ever.

 

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Winter’s Last Sun

The Aztec sun clatters as it rises
into one more day, with gold and tin foil flashing
at the peak where it rests
a short while before
the hawk awakens and wheels

away from the mountain’s shoulder.
He tilts to the pull
of the ground beneath him
on each wing in turn
as the primaries brush raindrops
from the clouds

that open to display the secret light
inside them, which spills onto
the slopes and glows a chilly glow
all the way down from the ridgeline
to the thorns in the arroyos

where the wind has caught
and torn itself in trying
to reach the narrow spaces
before it flew back into the open
and turned its many tails
into a whip.

 

 

David Chorlton

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Inspired Thinking


Thinking on Paper: Drawings on paper from 1960-2000
, Tess Jaray (Secession)
Piero Inspirations, Tess Jaray (Ridinghouse)

As I get older I become more and more interested in artists’ sketchbooks, working drawings and ideas, as well as writers’ journals, drafts and correspondence. The internet often means I end up reading about or around work rather than paying attention to the work itself; and I have to say that Thinking on Paper, which I was very much looking forward to, feels very much like a diversion.

It’s a beautifully produced hardback book, printed throughout in full colour despite the fact that the majority of the work is pencil or ink on graph paper. It starts with a one page statement by Jaray, discussing a moment back in 1960, when she was struggling to evoke her recent trip to Italy to research Italian painting, and found a way to articulate space on the page.

She also mentions her engagement with colour, and if there’s one thing that’s missing from this book it is the gloriously rich colours of her paintings. It’s a serious omission because without it what we end up with are monochrome mathematical doodles: grids, mappings, distortions and reflections, mostly made with a ruler on gridded paper. By the end of the book I was desperate to see some freehand drawing, to urge the artist to put away the tools she was using and use a big brush, make gestures, scribble and doodle, just make something more than this playful geometry. For me these drawings are not thinking on paper but the process which follows the thinking.

If Thinking on Paper feels like scaffolding, a mechanical support process, Piero Inspirations is a much more revealing and enjoyable book because it evidences both the inspirational source material and the final, subtly coloured paintings. Whilst I would rather travel to San Marco in Florence, Cortona or San Giovanni Valdarno to see Fra Angelico’s annunciations than linger in the Arezzo church where Piero della Francesco’s fresco cycle is on view, I acknowledge that it is an important and visually stunning work by an important artist; as are other paintings such as his Resurrection in Sansepolcro.

I’m fascinated by how this artist’s narrative and figurative work is commuted by Jaray to rich and colourful minimalist patterns and distorted grids that sing on the page in reproduction. Jaray picks up on details in the della Francesco paintings (which are reproduced in the book), such as a draped curtain, architectural detail or patterned tiled floors and uses these as source material and ideas for her responses. I’m not as enamoured with the busier works that draw on the elongated lengths of spears and flagpoles, but the simpler works are outstanding: quiet, contemplative abstraction.

The crisply and cleanly designed Piero Inspirations includes a brief statement by Jaray about her long relationship with Piero della Francesco’s work, along with short quotations about his work by art historian Roberto Longhi. If these are a little hyperbolic in their claims, they do suggest just how innovative and experimental della Franceso’s work was at the time and offer a historical and cultural context to situate them in. Longhi poetically suggests that della Francesco’s work contains ‘the snaky meanderings of functional line within the inexorable pipelines of perspective so that, properly irrigated, the vast fields of colour might all burst into flower together’ and suggests that the artist created ‘something like pure painting…’. Jaray’s work may not burst into flower, but it is pure and focussed and wonderful to behold in this delightful new book.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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SAUSAGE Life171

 
 

SAUSAGE LIFE

Bird Guano
The column which sucks eggs against the better advice of its grandmother

MYSELF: You’re looking stressed, what’s up?

READER: I’m going to have to stop watching lockdown football on TV.

MYSELF: Really? Is it the poor quality? Is your team doing badly?

READER: No, it’s the bloody shouting, I can’t concentrate. The boot boys, sponge-men, assorted ground staff, all of them bellowing at the players in some kind of made-up language. It’s giving me disturbing childhood flashbacks.

MYSELF: Goodness. Can you be more specific?

READER: Yes. Imagine if all the rag and bone men came round to your your house at once.

MYSELF: That is a terrifying thought upon which I would prefer not to dwell. Would some curious facts from around the world of items help sooth your Freudian soccer-angst perhaps?

READER: Bravo! That’s more like it! I feel better already!

 

BLIMEY! CURIOUS FACTS FROM AROUND THE WORLD OF ITEMS

 

Did you know that the spider is not an insect, but a mammal, which can break a man’s arm with any one of its eight wings?

Did you know that the Montezuma Quail is witheringly sarcastic, and is not to be trusted with money?

Did you know that the late Ginger Baker, ex drummer of The Cream, recently turned down the role of Dr Who?

Did you know that Nigel Farage, the Caribbean calypso singer owns his own miniature one-man submarine?

READER:  I have a feeling that one of those “facts” is not true.

MYSELF:  Fair enough, which one do you think is false?

READER:  Let me see…. I know Nigel Farage owns a miniature submarine and is definitely from the Caribbean, because I saw a video of him limbo dancing under a horse in St Kitt’s. As for number 2, I myself was once grossly insulted by a Montezuma Quail after I rashly lent it £10.

MYSELF:  So, could it be Ginger Baker as potential Dr Who perhaps?

READER:  Well, that definitely has the ring of truth about it, even though he is dead, which just leaves the limb-fracturing arachnid. Is it the spider?

MYSELF:  You are going to kick yourself. The odd one out is the Montezuma Quail, a polite, charming and trustworthy bird with whom you would happily go into business. I can only suppose that the Quail you met was suffering from stress. Or perhaps it was another type of bird altogether, wearing a Quail costume?

READER: Actually now you come to mention it… it may have been a Hoopoe.

 

IRISH STEW

We are obliged by the Press Council to publish the following letter

Dear Mr so-called Guano,

in these more enlightened times, must we, the plain folk of Ireland, still have to put up with cheap stereotypical so-called “irish jokes” like the pitiful example on display in in last week’s Sausage Life? Contrary to (un)popular opinion, we are not a nation of potato-eating bumkins, permanently fluthered on too many jars of the black stuff. Nor are we patronised poltroons, rib-ticklingly amused by ridiculous cod-Irish names, like Toby Shaw which your ‘reader’ claimed to have changed his moniker to in honour of St Patrick’s Day. This type of puerile humour may well appeal to your low-level Jackeens, your banjaxed Bosthoons or certain classes of eejit – but I feel sure that the intelligent readership of your respected and venerable organ would be better served were you to rise above this type of thing.

Sue Atiz, Dublin

TV TITBITS-RAMSAY’S RECURRING NIGHTMARES?
Following the Covid 19 lockdown, Gordon Ramsay’s chain of upmarket kitchen utensil stores Chef-Swear, has posted a severe profit warning, since when he has been looking for a way back into TV. The potty-mouthed TV cook is rumoured to have agreed a deal with Channel 5 to front a new series Ramsay’s Council Nightmares during which he will go into UK borough councils and try to improve their efficiency.
“This is going to lift the lid on the f•••ing appalling state of UK local councils,” he is alleged to have told a journalist from the catering magazine Shock Chef, “you wouldn’t f•••ing believe the state of some of the chambers I’ve been in. One, which I won’t name,” he reportedly railed, ” had a disgustingly filthy agenda containing council policies well past their sell-by date, covered in f•••ing mould and stored next to rafts of proposals and exposed plastic trays containing f•••ing pre-cooked processed plans waiting to be zapped in a f•••ing microwave and served up to the unsuspecting electorate as fresh.”
A spokesman for the unnamed council said, “We welcome Gordon’s intervention. This could be just the breath of fresh air we’ve been looking for. Let’s face it, if Chef Ramsay can turn around an anachronistic, run down organisation as grossly inefficient as ours and at the same time get us massive TV coverage, it’s surely got to be worth a bit of public humiliation. I for one am perfectly comfortable with being called a “worthlless f•••ing slug” or the more comprehensive “a totally unqualified f•••wit of a wa**er who couldn’t organise a f•••ing sh•• in a f•••ing bucket”

 

ASK WENDY

Your favourite Agony aunt is back, rehabbed, replenished and refreshed, with strictly unqualified non-confidential advice for the needy, the lovelorn or the just plain confused.

 

 

Wendy is sponsored by Wurlitzer Organs UK

 

 

Dear Wendy,

I’m frantic. My husband Harry’s 50th birthday is three weeks away and he has all the gadgets a man could ever wish for (including a mechanical device he keeps in his shed but refuses to tell me what it’s for). He’s very musical, but recently returned from a business trip in the Far East with chronic incontinence which has sadly prevented him from continuing with his part-time job as church organist. Wendy – what can I buy him for his special day?

Mia Tryfel (Mrs),

Rumpelstiltskin, Kent

 

Dear Mrs Tryfel,

Don’t panic, there’s no such thing as the man who has everything. I can think of no more appropriate a gift for your musically talented yet cruelly afflicted spouse, than the Pump ‘n Dump Commodium by Wurlitzer. With the aid of this medically-approved portable self-flushing combination reed organ and commode stool, your husband can safely resume his part-time occupation. His musical doodling will no longer be curtailed by the ominous rumble of nature calling unannounced. As your husband’s errant bowel is gently regulated, the pneumatic foot pedals pump pressurized air into the Commodium’s unique U-Pipe disposal pistons. Once the system is plumbed in to an external septic tank, any unpleasant waste is efficiently dealt with by the chaise percée-themed hygienic mahogony commode stool.
The Wurlitzer Pump ‘n Dump Commodium comes with a free starter pack of ‘sheet music’ toilet paper, featuring organ maestro Gottfried Schtumm’s moving selection of ‘relaxative’ melodies including Exodus, I Shall Be Released, The Old Log Cabin and many more.

 

Sausage Life!

 
 

POISON PEOPLE

guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

click image for video

 

MORE FROM GUANO POUNDHAMMER

click image

 

 

Colin Gibson

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Two Poems for my mother, Rachael



The Post War Garden

The daffodils died very quickly
‘Everlasting flowers are the best.’ My mother said.
‘Everlasting? What are they?’
‘Paper.’ Her reply was as dry as the shrivelled petals.
Just like your skin, I thought, fragile and brittle.
And yet my mother tended geraniums and delphinium,
nasturtiums whose leaves we ate,
the wild garden a marvel of chaos
considering what she had seen,
fleeing death in narrow alleys and sewers
in Nazi Europe with low clouds reflected in
mirrors and broken windows.
Her madness feeds the garden, fecund and uncontrollable,
black soil so rich worms slither
lavender and thyme invade the shimmering air,
sitting in the old wicker chair lopsided
watching next door’s cat slinking low bellied,
thinking he is invisible.
‘Your father says grow rhubarb
but those are poisonous,
better I say golden rod and marigolds
whose glow brings out the sun.’

Rituals

The tendrils of the leaves
echoing your veins in hands so transparent
if not for blood you could see the day,
at dusk your darkness becomes visible,
ancient memories waiting for the moon,
when you are at your happiest,
clock ticking candles glow
as you draw the red chalk circle on the wooden floor.

Peter Woodcock March 2020

 

 

.

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Shaun Traynor, friend and poet…

 
 
died this week.   The poet has passed, long live the poet. He is seventy-nine.  I got to know Shaun when Muswell Press published his fine collection ‘Van Gogh in Brixton’ . The writing is gentle yet tough, complexity (not complication) carried with clarity. To know Shaun and talk about writing was to up your game.  I saw him read Shakespeare’s Last Drink at Pentameters Theatre in Hampstead two years ago.   It’s one of the loveliest poems I have ever heard – and read. Like a fine piece of lace, not a thread is out of place.  His illustrious writing life includes collections The Hardening Ground, Images in Winter, and Still Life.  He also wrote children’s poems and was editor of the Poolbeg Book of Irish Poetry for Children.  
His most recent collection Savannah and her Thirteen Moons, dedicated to his granddaughter gives us a poem for each moon of the year – but this – The Clutter Moon is his thirteenth: portentous, judging, loving, and hopeful.   Jan Woolf
 
 
 
 
The Clutter Moon
 
 
 
              
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Clement of Alexandria/ Valentinus of Rome

“Those who lust for power
Disguise in books of Magic
Their covetous intentions   –
Professing how the Spirit is acquired
As if a private plot
An orchard or a garden
Where they go to pick their crop by night
In secrecy and for themselves alone

Egyptian glyphs of serpents radiant
Tails entwined to form the figure eight
Then signify Infinity   –
The labyrinth of dreams
That is where they ply the name
Of metaphysical logic   –
So have freedom to deny
A true corporeal Christ

Gnostic Mystery Traditions
Dispersed in currents of time
Undergo chameleon change of dress
Ever to seem glamorous
To those who are most willingly misled

Who speak of spirit guides yet are unguided
Who replenish in fools’ gold
Their spurious occult systems
Sowing tares of thorn amid the truth

They stand in graves of cryptic knowledge
To say the Son of Man is unrevealed”

 

VALENTINUS OF ROME

Rejected as Bishop of Rome
Valentinus turned to give his own rejection   –

Against sound teachings of the Church
He proposed his own class-system:

He taught there are three kinds of human being:
The spiritual   the psychic   the material

Only his own ‘spiritual’ disciples
Would receive a Gnosis ensuring eternal life

Those of a ‘psychic’ nature   –   mere observant Christians
Would suffer a limited and impermanent heaven

While those ‘material’ Jews and Roman Pagans
Were to be entirely rejected   –   he didn’t quite say how

But his heresy crops up from time to time
In the ‘secret’ ‘hidden’ ‘Gnosis of the Gospels’
The insistence in an ‘Aryan Christ’…
Assorted cults mysteriously endowed
Always seeming to anticipate

A ‘New Age of Enlightenment’
Or the second coming
Of a Third Reich

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

.

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Will There Be Food on the Table?

“Who Controls the Food Supply Controls the People”

 

This is to serve warning that what ‘the authorities’ are planning for us in the very near future is a ‘Great Reset’ of what we are accustomed to eating at our daily meals.

Under plans laid out by Klaus Schwab, executive director of the World Economic Forum, what food ‘is’ and how it is produced are to take a dramatic turn for the worse. From something broadly natural to something essentially synthetic. 

Under the cold technocrat agenda know as ‘The Fourth Industrial Revolution’ and ‘Green New Deal’ agriculture will have less and less to do with farmers cultivating the land and more and more to do with the laboratory production of synthetic foods by robots.

The great majority of mankind already carry traces of dozens of toxic synthetic chemicals in their bodies, with significant amounts of the carcinogenic herbicide glyphosate (Round Up) having been detected in more than 90% of the tens of thousands tested in Europe and the USA during recent years.

Right now in Holland, Israel and California entirely fake laboratory meat (‘cultured meat’) is commencing manufacture – using animal based cellular tissue; while nanoparticles are increasingly being adopted in the processing of many of the mass produced factory foods found on supermarket shelves today.

The GMO threat is also once again part of the plan, going under a new name: ‘gene editing’. These are foods that have been molecularly re-engineered to suit the profit motivated ambitions of the pesticide and pharmaceutical industries. Consuming them on a regular basis will irrevocably alter our own DNA to the point where ‘human’ will no longer fit the description of our species.

Most people are completely unaware of these so called ‘developments’. One of the excuses used for moving humanity onto a space-age laboratory engineered diet is that scientists in the pay of the global warming lobby say that dairy cows and beef cattle are causing climate change due to their natural flatulence negatively effecting the atmospheric methane balance.

This is at the extreme end of plausible, but only in the case of large scale factory farms on which cattle are fed entirely inappropriate diets.

This is the same bunch of ‘scientists’ who are warning that earthworms need controlling due to their supposed negative influence on the upper atmosphere.

Well, frankly, I would have thought that even the most dim members of the scientific community would have thought up something a little more credible for closing down conventional farming systems. But such is the insanity at large today that almost any theory backed by enough mass propaganda indoctrination seems capable of achieving its desired ends.

So let us be reminded of the words of Dr Henry Kissinger  “Who controls the food supply controls the people.” Food production coming under the jurisdiction of a centralised global cabal, is a very dangerous move. Already just six vast seed corporations own and control 80% of the world’s seed production and distribution.

Using Codex Alimentarius clauses of the World Trade Organisation governments have already been influenced to pass laws severely restricting the use of native seeds and a wide variety of fruit and vegetables once on sale in traditional grocery stores.

The population as a whole is now confronted by the despotic Green New Deal programme forcing its fake ‘zero carbon’ policy on humanity and weaponising it to be the vector for the digitalisation and re-engineering of the food chain, as described earlier.

The largely synthetic diet that emerges out of this sterilisation programme will free-up the land for what is termed ‘re-wilding’, the leisure pursuits of the wealthy and large scale US style robotic factory farming units.

What to do?

Here follows a list of immediate actions to take to ensure you don’t get caught-out and find yourself on a corporate/state controlled artificial GMO diet with no way out.

*Immediately cease relying on the supermarket/hypermarket for your main food purchases. They are global killers of small, diverse and animal friendly farms and of real food. They will be the first to comply with the cabal government controls.

*If you are not already living in the countryside or small town/village with direct links to the surrounding land, plan your move to such a location straight away. Big cities are saturated with electro magnetic microwaves, CCTV monitors, traffic polluted air and a great excess of sterile concrete. They can no longer support the health and welfare of sentient humans.

*Once in your countryside location, establish contact with a small or medium sized (SME) pro-ecological and/or traditional farmer and start making your food purchases ‘direct from the farm’ or via a food cooperative/independent small shop selling good quality fresh foods from local farms.

*Rent, share or buy a piece of land to start your own cultivation on. Make a plan to grow a percentage of your basic dietary needs on this land. Seek help from those who have experience, to get you started.

*Spend as much time as possible in/with nature. This is the antidote to the materialistic, mechanistic mind controlled world of urban dependency – the main target for the WEF’s fake Green New Deal programme of oppression and control.

*Learn the skills of gardening, medicinal herb growing and building natural good health. Particularly build-up your immune system to resist various diseases, minor sicknesses like a flu called Covid and major sicknesses like cancer and build into your daily routine a spiritual practice which puts you in touch with your deeper self and divine origins.  This is going to be particularly important in protecting against dark entities and in opening your life to the vital pathway of full conscious awareness.

*Barter and share wherever possible. The cabal’s aim is to phase out bank notes and coinage by 2030 at the latest, making people fully dependent on plastic cards and digital nano-chips inserted under the skin. In both cases total 24/7 surveillance of all activities and direct access to your bank account will be the order of the day.

*Get involved with your local community. Help it become self governing. Share information (like this) with neighbours and leaders of local authorities. Build initiatives to get your community linked-up with neighbourhood farms and woodlands so that these resources can be used to support the needs of the local community.

*Make sure to retain a wood or coal burning stove/boiler and ‘human scale’ agricultural tools for cultivating the land. Learn the skills needed to work the land with horses. Petroleum and gas are likely to become ever harder to acquire for all but the 1%, who will retain access to supplies for heating cooking and transportation purposes. This is not because of a supply shortage – there is none – but because The Fourth Industrial Revolution/Green Deal is founded on ‘Green Fascism’, a ‘zero carbon’ policy that will starve the population of access to fossil fuels and force people into a slavish dependency on the state (cabal) and conformity with long planned global depopulation goals.

Lastly, let the Changes recommended here be seen as a positive. A welcome challenge for all concerned. A chance for ‘real life’ to replace the digitalised virtual reality existence of today. You will be bringing about a world in which nature and man can finally start to heal and return to a state of equilibrium.

Envision and meditate on this healed world now. Make your move the number one priority of your life and join those already building their arks. Arks destined to become the foundation stones of a simple, creative and just New Society.

 

Julian Rose is an early pioneer and practitioner of UK organic farming; an entrepreneur and leader of projects to create self sufficient communities based on local supply and demand; a teacher of holistic life approaches and the author of four books – one of which ‘Creative Solutions to a World in Crisis’ (https://www.amazon.com/Creative-Solutions-World-Crisis-Locality/dp/6197458217) lays-out detailed guide-lines for the transformation of society into caring communities built upon ecological and spiritual awareness, justice and cooperation. See Julian’s website for more information www.julianrose.info

 

 

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Strange Ones

Dank noon. You, on the sofa,
curtains drawn, the clean bone
of holly – consumed by the fire.

The I-Pad pitched on your coffee table,
as Bowie trips through his favourite tunes.

Tubby The Tuba, and a punk song
by that well-known punk – Elgar.

Bowie drawls in his last century voice.
I leave you there, curled like a cat.

Watch the sky mosaic until you are with me again.
Snow-crunch underfoot, our breath, smoking.

Later, the fire horses.

And some strange ones there

in the dark

 

 

Jonathan Chant
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs

 

 

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Book Reviews March 2021

 

   

 

If there is anything better that Italian food then it is Italian history in the form of food for thought – and nothing comes better than Princes of the Renaissance by Mary Hollingsworth (£35 Head of Zeus). This lavishly illustrated book is a gorgeous presentation of a period so riddled with scandal, salaciousness, genius and breakthrough that it comes as no surprise that it was Italians who invented opera. In fact, not to do it an injustice, it reads like one vast gossip column of history and historical fact. It is a sweeping look at the figures and the personalities behind one of the most recognizable eras in European cultural and political history, an era when kings, princes and popes could, and did, get away with sheer blue murder – and when it is Italian in flavour the murder is endurably operatic. This is a book in which passions run high, in which the stakes are always higher and the art is in orbit around the whole, snuggly tucked in by an intellectual banket of philosophical breakthrough and religious hypocrisy.

From the scheming of the Farnese Pope Paul III and his family’s ascendancy to the sheer awfulness of the Borgia Pope, Rodrigo Borgia a.k.a. Alexander VI, this is an unputdownable treat for those who, fed up in the present situation of eternal groundhog days would like to scheme along with more than half the characters in this book.

It is also a glimpse of the old design of Italy before its unification, an Italy of city states, and city against city – and all of this was played out in the many papal elections that took time over the course of the periods of which the author writes. The Vatican is at the epicentre of it all. It is the microcosm compared to the macrocosm – and serves as the theatre upon which the opera plays out.

This is astutely observed book, rich in detail and as lavish as the banquets discussed therein. The story of the Farnese is wonderfully well-told and, allied to the wonderful use of illustrations embedded throughout the book, one gets a very pictorial flavour of the whole as knives plunge and families rise and popes condemn – but only with an eye to their own power bases. Upon the operatic theme Hollingsworth is a sympathetic author who reaches out to the poor unfortunates of history whose doom it was to wait for centuries before having their names cleared by the judgment of those well qualified to give it. Such is the pace of the book that the pace seems sometimes breathless and we wonder aloud quite who is worthy of sympathy and who not? The sympathy of the historian is, in this instance, not only a guide to the reader but also a means of giving pause before we inflict our own moral standards upon the past: something that seems to be happened all too often in these heavily polarised times. The author is an excellent guide and I cannot recommend this work more highly, please I beg you, buy it – it is far better than television.

 

The departure of the Romans from Britain in the fifth century coincided with the rise of Christianity in these islands, with the coming of St Augustine to Kent: he was also the first Archbishop of Canterbury. St Augustine was not the first Christian in these islands thus he not the first Christian to preach and to convert here. There had been an early outcrop of Christians in these islands from 37AD. This is a singular and astonishing fact, coming so soon after the accepted date of the. Crucifixion. However, the coming of Christianity also coincided with the period that is now known to us as the Dark Ages: it came in the immediate aftermath of the departure of Rome. In The First Kingdom (Head of Zeus £30) Max Adams tells the story of what happened in Britain between the departure of Rome and the rise of the Middle Ages.  He begins with the description of a Roman Curse Tablets found at Uley in Gloucestershire, through the writings of Gildas, a sixth century Monk whose De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae recounts the history of the Britons – and the coming of the Saxons. From then onwards he seeks to recount the unknowns and this he does with considerable panache.

Massively detailed, this is how history should be written, the book is like John Morris’s ground-breaking The Age of Arthur, thoroughly comprehensive and replete with enormous scholarship – he has assembled every single detail of what the Dark Age was like in this country. This is no mean feat. Not since The Age of Arthur was published has something so very comprehensive been written. He has been to the newly found Dark Age villages and seen the various distinctions between the differing peoples in order to get hold of such exquisite detail – and the whole builds very satisfactorily to its conclusion. In speaking to one scholar of the period who is also reading the book he made the comment that there is much less to disagree with than usual, I couldn’t agree more. This was the age that ‘set’ history, seeing the translation from Roman Britain to the United Kingdom, but this time in a compelling overview that draws you into its embrace and allows the fog to clear as he reaches the book’s climax. Recommended reading.

 

Travels in the Otherworld and Fantastic Other Realms, Claude and Corinne Lecouteux (Inner Traditions, $30) is subtitled Medieval Journeys into the Beyond and is a charming foray into Medaeval romance and its ideas of what the world around us (and within us) looked like to the writer in the Middle Ages. It is essentially a travelogue – but not as you might know it. In the courtly world of Medaeval Europe the world beyond the walled garden (Arabic paradise) was a place of fear, beyond Christian redemption and a place possibly of demons too – demons that sometimes came in human form. These tales take us into the perilous realm of Faery and into other pagan lands.

I brought guides because I wished to push through the desert towards the plough. They advise me against this course because of the wild beasts living there, but I ignored them. We came to a region with many ravines, where the road was narrow and steep sided, and for eight days we encountered strange and unknown animals.

We finally entered a large forest of trees called An aphanta, which produced a most peculiar fruit: enormous apples as large as gourds…

So says Alexander the Great, newly installed as conqueror of Persia and now on the quest for immortality. In these borderlands he encounters, almost inevitably, giants of enormous size and exotic oddities. Because they are very far away from their comfort zone there is very much a propensity to exaggerate size and presence. It is a telling facet of the writing of the period. Charming, exquisite and wonderfully naive.

A wicked knight by the name of Tundale, a native of southern Iberia (Spain) falls over whilst at the house of one of his debtors. He is, to his inexpressible sorrow, in a catatonic state.  A handsome man of noble birth he also very cruel. God has decided to punish him whilst at the supper table – hence his catatonia, and what follows is a very interesting, though thoroughly medaeval, near-death experience. The experience last three days and in this detached state encounters devils, demons and an inconvenient inability to return to his own body. What follows is a pre-Dantean journey to the infernal region. The book is accompanied by rare illustrations of the glimpse of hell – as well as of heaven and other fantastic realms. A charming excursion.

In the same vein Esoteric Mysteries of the Underworld: The Power and Meaning of Sacred Spaces by Jean-Pierre Bayard (Inner Traditions, £29.99) offers us a serious excursion into the subterranean depths. This is a well-written and well-informed work, ably translated by Jon Graham from its original French. From source to rock to stone and to water we are given a superb travelogue through inherent meanings, symbol and history. The author bemoans the lack of written sources in the ancient and no so ancient period because, as he points out, Druidism, the mysterious guardian of all that had gone before, ‘only transmitted by word of mouth and avoids the written word.’ Here the author references the large menhirs of northern and central France and their silent testimony to the past and the birth of our culture. It is the beginning of a journey that offers many questions and seeks to answer them in what amounts to a journey of the human soul not only through its past but also into its very sense of being. Do not think ‘religion’ think instead of ancient humanity emerging from its early troglodytic existence into a new dawning of its own awareness. Tolkien reflects on this throughout his fictional and non-fictional works: it is the very essence of true spiritual thinking, a thinking based upon proper enquiry but also on intellectual rigour that does not exclude the very possibility of the spiritual and emotional. Menhirs were an emotional response to the ‘new’ world, as was much else in the early subterranean world in the days when we thought of it as a womb. Indeed, many temples have underground vaults designed for this very purpose to ‘rebirth’ the soul and to feed the spirit. The Great Pyramid is a possible example.

This is a very capacious read in the sense that it offers so many anecdotes and insights. A profound read.

 

David Elkington

 

Previous praise for Mary Hollingsworth’s The Medici: 

‘An excellent study of the Medici … A careful, understated book … [It] is never short on drama’

Helen Castor, Telegraph Book of the Year. 

‘A lucid and beautifully illustrated family history. In Hollingsworth’s surefooted telling, this ruthless but enlightened family were at their best when they were true to the Florentine motto of “prot and honour”

Sunday Times Book of the Week.

 A detailed and perceptive history of the Renaissance told through the lives of its most influential patrons.

From the late Middle Ages the independent city-states were taken over by powerful families who installed themselves as dynastic rulers. Many of these princes were mercenary soldiers, earning their livings on the battlefield. Closely related by blood or marriage, they created a network of alliances and rivalries, and an endless cycle of war and diplomacy.

Encouraged by the humanists they employed as secretaries, they immersed themselves in the culture of antiquity, commissioning palaces, villas and churches inspired by the architecture of their ancient Roman forebears.

In a narrative that is as rigorous and closely researched as it is accessible and informative, Mary Hollingsworth sets the princes’ aesthetic achievements in the context of the volatile, ever-shifting politics of a tumultuous period of history.

 
<image009.jpg>About Mary Hollingsworth: Mary Hollingsworth is the author of the Telegraph Book of the Year, The Medici, she is also the author of specialist art history books including Conclave 1559, The Borgias, The Cardinal’s Hat and Patronage in Sixteenth Century Italy, among others. Mary is an expert on Renaissance art and culture and she has a Ph.D. in art history from the University of East Anglia. Her thesis dealt with the role of the patron in the development of Renaissance art and architecture, a subject she taught to undergraduates and postgraduates at UEA, and which firmed the basis of two books.
 
Her subsequent work on the papers of Cardinal Ippolito d’Este, preserved in huge quantities in the Italian state archives at Modena, broadened her horizons and expertise well beyond the confines of art history and into the everyday world of Renaissance Europe – not only the art and the fripperies and baubles we associate with pomp and prestige, but also the soap, the candles, the shoelaces, the cooking pots and the drains, the stuff of everyday life.
 
She has published widely on all these topics in academic journals and was one of the senior academics on the Material Renaissance Project, a collaborative venture funded by the Arts & Humanities Research Board and the Getty Grant Program, which investigated costs and consumption in Italy 1300-1650. (Follow Mary on Twitter @mmcontrary)

 

Mary Hollingsworth is available for interview and to write articles. For further information and review copies of Princes of the Renaissance

Please contact: Gabriella Drinkald on [email protected] Tel: 07894 587828

 

 

 

 

 

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Easter Week

                        Behind a line of Guinness barrels
                        Stacked head height across the street,
                        Young men in khaki peering through gaps
                       Look to your front
                        Caps pulled low, eyebrows itching
                        Mark your target
                        Squint away sweat’s needle sting
                        Take bewildered aim                                   

                        At Poets and slummies
                        Who’ll pray to Saint Jude                                   

                         And make every shot count.              

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp/1788768671/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Patrick+McCann+Still+Pondering&qid=1573366856&sr=8-1

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Matins

  

The birds, they sang for you

Before the dawning light

All around, the granite stones

Remembrance pierced the air

 


Engraved to your life

Light the candle

Place the flowers

Cross my heart

 

 

Turn back, turn back

Now only in a metaphor

Your rhyme, your reason

Helped me find my way

 


I shall repeat that journey

As you did before me

Different words, different music

And different deeds to play

 

©Christopher   2021

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Soothing Sound Soups

 

dear good people who sup soup,

click HERE for another serving of tasty new music

sprinkled with croutons of artificial intelligence, autism,

goal scoring and Macbeth’s children. Bon appétit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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MITTENS (PLAY) ON

                                                                   

 

      On Clive Mittens Suite Cryptique: Recomposing Twelfth Night 1978-1983 (Bumnote Records 2021)

 

 

Clive Mitten’s youth now kid-gloves the hold his earlier music
Has on him.  As Twelfth Night’s main composer, his hands now leap
Into leather as he composes this new Advent-overture, comprising
The seminal albums they made, Mitten uses a symphonic approach
To find fanfare, celebrating a band whose width broadens, as through
New music, the group is graced by revival, restoring first, then enduring

As the death of the dream receives care. Here, then, are their first
Three vinyl albums, preserved; fused by fugue, elegiac, and yet mined
For the power and for the rock hewn classicism of songs that began
Without words, as Mitten, Devoil, Revell and Battersby sang
Through playing, and the dextrous textures engendered
Rise from this record to cover us all in sound Fur (Helene).

Mitten channels Reich and Wagner and Glass, Beethoven, Bach,
Adams, Mahler, a  virtual supergroup of composers to whom
He tuned to, as the first lockdown allowed his forty year dream
To take shape. And we hear it all first as a dream, as the sweet,
Low strings come to claim us, resembling a beast freed from burden;
As if from another Caliban’s cavern, the themes of Live at The Target

Are stirring as we are moving through leaves on dark islands
With all of the authority of slow apes. Mittens sleeve notes describe
The specific method and means of his process; from something
As brief as a two note phrase: variations, building to crescendo
As the recomposition transforms the sounds young men set
And which the older releases, as if from song structure those early

Homes for music and art were seen again from the viewpoint
Of a concert hall’s ornate doors. Andy Revell’s rippling guitars
And Mitten’s own torrent of bass, crest before us; Brian Devoil’s
Strong percussion has been whirlpooled within this sound swell,
As Rick Battersby’s keys unlock the strings’ captive beauty,
And what was rock rolls before us, claming a sweeter shore

Through Clive’s spell. Mitten is not just holding the themes
But also the sounds of band members; echoing a bluesey guitar line,
Or the arc of a synth through the air, he also Stravinsky’s away
With his condiment named string ensembles, as a clatter
Of guitar and drum patterns are batoned and caught
With real care. This is not the Orchestral Twelfth Night,
This is more like the Thirteenth and Fourteenth, in which

Evolution is sequenced again for life’s room. The seminal
Sequences stands like a beacon of light in chord darkness
As its majestic sense of mourning and of warning too, sweetens
Doom. The songs sing once more with a ghosted voice sent
To serve them, vocationally leading the way for the vocals
That would evolve once more this first life. For when

The much missed Geoff Mann joined Twelfth Night
The play as cast became epic. Sequences gained stunning lyrics
And the God fed genesis they soon followed created song poems
That surpassed Supper’s Ready and that other group’s Stagnation
And Knife. The bar had been raised and taken with it the ceiling
Which now speaks in new language as Live and Let Live takes

The Stage. Mittens bass runs are marked by the scrape of bows
Across Cellos. The themes soar as organs soon overtake synth stoked
Rage. Geoff Mann’s worshipful Church is returned as each revoiced
Verse is sent skyward, and in 22:58 all the fervour of this live album 
Sounds graced. Shards of the classic We Are Sane are then caught
As the collision of words and sin stung notes form and feature

As The Ceiling Speaks once synthed fanfare is curled across staves
And replaced. The End of the Endless Majority’s guitar lines, nimble
As they were and unearthly are here prayers and poems rewritten
Within Mitten’s hands, who talks once more with Geoff Mann,
Sadly now beyond reply, to grant honour to the songs sewn together.
In this new fabric and form, God’s star lands. Beauty burns through

The disc and sings here SO sweetly. In a pitch and tone rising
Beyond the confines of the ear, and on and upto a place
Where tenderness meets the mighty. Mitten’s Cryptic Suite
Becomes simple: it softens trouble and is a soundtrack sent to stall fear.
The Collector returns with all of the scope it first offered. A much
Prized track, which after leaving, Mann returned once more to record.
The ‘Kingdom come’ thus returns, refleshing the bones that birthed
Structure with orchestral strength slicing this formative song, like a sword.
Musical dust fills the air, as a sense of self duly rises; snatches of song
Formed and chorded as gusts of Geoff are felt, heard,
And the stately theme fills the space and the power and shape
Reconfigure, as this bassist of note finds the basis for the proper

Re-evaluation of words. What an achievement! What feel!
And what technique used discreetly. As ‘tumeric’ violins, drums
And oboes and the plucking of bows bow and prance. Mitten
Has used his Lockdown to release the past as a phoenix.
His collection of that time clearly captures as well as contains
Circumstance. Disc Two continues the tale as Fact and Fiction

Is essayed. We Are Sane’s high note intro becomes a spreading
Of light across sound, as something like Brian’s batterie is now placed
Where only vocals once featured, before electronic signals usher
The epic in to astound. And then remind us that this was the song
By which Twelfth Night were distinguished, a genuine equal to those
From the decade before they began. The ‘Meanwhile, reports’

Section, sans words becomes a glittering squall of music, a tinkling,
Tainted tincture for a death sore throat and mad plan. It is a magical
Imagining primed by sound and still full of fury, with strings at once
Furry as well as sounding spiked and alone. And so the variations
Await, from World Without End to This City. The Poet Sniffs a Flower
And bends to find that a tree has now grown. Under Clive Mitten’s

Control, he conducts his past and friends grandly to reach further places
And other spaces, too that sound owns. What was strident  is graced.
And what was tender, romantic. For there is love here and laughter
Spent by men in their twenties who in their sixties can remember now
And still hear. And within that enjoyment, comes ours as we discern
The craft they first practised. From Piano to woodblock, from humour

To drama, from Viola to verse; songs held dear. The supremely
Talented friend fans and family have long lost, is revived through
Sound shadow, as Mitten replaces Mann’s singing with artfully judged
String sourced lines that link the left behind to the last and to Mann’s
First true album with them. In which the fact of life meets death’s fiction,
Which Clive has re-written. For all that is recomposed remakes time.

The proof of this finds its form in what has here been refashioned.
The older strings teach a lesson to the tyro synths of the past.
The title track Glockenspiels or maybe Marimbas. Its insistent pop
Pulsing, a fretwork of chimes and wood blasts. The stirring sound
Sauces all and one can practically taste the flavours of the rhythmic
Sensations and progressive dance we once grooved for in 1982.
Now beauty burns through, sliding as said, through the others
Until the final Love Song which was Geoff Mann’s Psalm to soul
Truth. Here then is Rock Album as Suite, with sounds to soothe
And gift sugar to the darkness of death and fate’s sea.
A man in command of the ship sailing towards new horizons
Is also someone to fathom as the storms of chance swelter;

But Mitten in daring the cup, still tames tea. And this record
Is a form of elixir for sure, a sensitive balm before Creepshow,
Which returns us to the horror of the experiment where we’re
Flayed. This song has such power and place; Geoff Mann’s unkind
Theatre, in which human desperation was artfully voiced and conveyed.
Now, song is mist thickening as we listen and the stark soundscape

Is threatened and scraped and displayed.  Mann’s distant ‘Welcome’
Is plucked, as the ghost writhes in the chamber. A sense of strange
Grace also settles, but this is still a play of bright blood. For there
Is a shock to the strings as the clatter of drums introduces, spiked,
Stung staccato that echoes Bernard Hermann and all of Psycho’s
Shower flood. Mitten’s hands lose their gloves as the grown-up touch

Now takes over the source of this horror before a Ska-like rhythm
Kicks in! Suddenly, the Creepshow becomes Creeps’ weekend party,
As Clive the sardonic finds a tonic for Science and a once depraved
Doctor’s sin. It is a charming surprise nearing the end of this double
Feature that does all a suite can to bring comfort to those who miss
Furniture.  As the music we loved in our past formed the shape

Of the places we sought to live lives in, forgetting that time
Will transport us to other unexpected rooms and strange doors.
There is a real accomplishment here and it is a gift of love
Mitten’s given. Hold his hand and Band members in the highest
Regard. They’re in here. From a trapped present day, Clive’s
Cryptique is clear headed. Geoff Mann returns and sings through it.

And so it sings back..notes as tears.       

 

                                                                                            David Erdos March 24th 2021

CLIVE MITTEN’S SUITE CRYPTIQUE: RECOMPOISING TWELFTH NIGHT (1978-1983)
 
Disc One:
Part One:          Live at the Target          [25:30]
Part Two:          Live (and Let Live)        [22:58]
Part Three:        The Collector                  [20:13]
 
Disc Two:
Part Four            Fact and Fiction            [32:32]
Part Five:            Creepshow                    [17:38]
 
Clive Mitten writes:
 
‘I had for some forty years wanted to revisit the early years of Twelfth Night.  I had it in my head that I could do strange and wonderful things with the music.  Then on 23 March 2020 the first lockdown occurred and I was off.  From the outset I planned this as a “cinematic orchestral” album, a style that I had been developing for the last five years.  Musical influences?  Reich, Glass, Adams, Bach, Beethoven, Wagner, Mahler.  That makes me a “post-minimalist” or “need to get over myself”. This is not a covers album. Re-composed means taking fragments or larger pieces of tunes and rethinking their purpose from the most basic notes.  Some tunes are more or less aligned to their original structures – some confuse the structures.  Things move around.’
 
The CD booklet contains comprehensive sleeve notes explaining the concept of the album, and fascinating details of the new structures and instrumentation used. The cover painting is one of a number of sketches former vocalist Geoff Mann made in 1982 while Twelfth Night were recording the Fact & Fiction album.
 
Release date: 2nd April 2021.
Catalogue No. BUM004.
CDs available from www.twelfthnight.info
Digital copies available from https://clivemitten.bandcamp.com

          

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JUDAS

 

the lost gospel of Judas
was lamented & scribed
upon that midnight freighter to Tangier 
but such is the price of salt 
when those bells peal of treason 
upon shadowed dregs of exile

 

 

 

TERRENCE SYKES

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Empty 

those recognisable 
notes from spring 
through to early summer 
before the shift south 
 
heading now from 
lengthening summer 
shadows piano reverb 
soaks sing to melody 
 
go on make the moment 

 

Andrew Taylor
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs

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European Super State

 

I’m a Judeo-Christian morality with a Greco-Roman intellect
It’s the way we’re short-wired
It’s a civilising force that demands respect – from the Baltic to the Straits Of Gibraltar
A blue flag gold star sparks a brand new empire
Ours to build, ours the choice

I’m in a European Super State
Every citizen required to debate!

Why are the proud descendants of Plato paying off more debts accommodating NATO?
We the caretakers of democracy no longer tolerate this hypocrisy
Baltic to the Straits Of Gibraltar
A blue flag gold star sparks a brand new empire
Ours to build, ours the choice

I’m in a European Super State
Every citizen required to debate!

– Old Europe

I’m a Judeo-Christian morality with a Greco-Roman intellect
It’s the way we’re short-wired
It’s a civilising force that demands respect – from the Baltic to the Straits Of Gibraltar
A blue flag gold star sparks a brand new empire
Ours to build, ours the choice

 

I’m in a European Super State
Every citizen required to debate!

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How He Wrote Us into Existence – A Fiction Ch2

2

Down our red cement staircase, the lane quivers the road with the frequent bus route. On the other bank of this river of traffic is an antique cinema theatre. In the nineteen ninety-five. The last show at this theatre gathered no more than a dozen moviegoers. On the theatre’s roof, a room shaped like a temple used to host directors, artists, and privileged fans after a première.

Now, if a knowledgeable person needs someone for performing a certain job he visits the deserted theatre, waits at the huge curlicued gate, and calls Dan. He must know the name of the person for the specific job. In the vastness of the theatre live many lost souls. He can whisper a name, the owner of the pair of hands to landscape or lay bricks or repair a window or mend, patch, fix something or kill a man or a woman.

I wander toward the gate with a tarnished monogram, rusted flowers, and blackened metal leaves, wonder if someday I shall utter my name and from the dark interior I shall emerge to meet me. “What can I do for you?” “Be born again.”

On this side of the road stands one tree whose shape is what one imagines when he hears ‘Tree’. It blooms this spring. The flowers look like buttercups. I shake the boughs, hold as many blossoms as I can in my hands. The dew those have in their hearts wets me.

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar

 

 
 
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

@amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

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mystery train-whistle blues

 

something about

that long black train

a whistle that blew

a hundred miles

about not going home

this a-way  this a-away

penniless  hoping

leave a dime for beer

 

 

spike driver sings

of a love left and lost

you can hear that KC moan

Doppler-shifting through the night

so take the A-train

keep it rolling  cannonballing

if you’re howling and you’re trusting

and you’re getting pushed around

 

 

something about

that old glory train

don’t need any luggage  they say

if you’re tired of transportation

in the back of a hack

might hear that train a-coming

hear the whistle  see the smoke

too bad you had to  leave this town but

that’s just the way it goes

 

 

on the New Delhi freight train

or that last one to Clarkesville

mean ol’ ‘Frisco  Marrakesh bound

Wabash too  or maybe Alabam

Casey Jones  John Henry

Reuben and his buddy Railroad Bill

don’t you tell a-one of them

which train you’re on so

they won’t know where you’ve gone

 

 

something about

a brokedown engine

and the lack of a driving wheel

you shouldn’t be here trying

to sing these railroad blues

to all concerned  dead or alive

at yet another whistle stop

where the locos will arrive

 

 

followed her to the station

suitcase in your hand

no one heard you crying

a-woo-hoo  let a poor boy ride

so doggone blue to listen

to that old smokestack

when there’s two trains running

just one coming back

 

 

 

 

Richard Foreman

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Aurally Revised RPM

 
 
 
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The Sound Of Shellac Norway

“Music is the universal laws promulgated..:” -H.D.Thoreau-

“…each generation claims the right not only to emphasise the present, but to re-estimate the past….”
-L. Untermeyer-

 
 
 

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Kate Davies of Pupil Slicer stops by, along with a tribute to the late, great LG Petrov of Entombed

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‘Weightless’ and Ambient Well-being

              

Alan Dearling gets all minimalist…

Weightless’ from Marconi Union, as reported in the ‘Independent’:

“A new study by US researchers has revealed that playing the “world’s most relaxing song” before surgery could be just as beneficial for calming a patient’s nerves as medication.

Patients in the trial were either given the drug midazolam or played the song “Weightless” by the British ambient band Marconi Union for three minutes, while having an anaesthetic to numb a region of the body.

The song performed well as a sedative in the study of 157 people, although patients said they would have preferred to choose their own music.

‘Weightless’ was written by the UK band Marconi Union in 2012 specifically to reduce anxiety, blood pressure and heart rate.”

‘Weightless’ is now being used in Music Therapy as an ‘alternative to drugs’ for calming pre-surgery nerves. Mindlab International, the organisation behind the research at the University of Pennsylvania have announced  in the BMJ journal, that the power of this song is ‘outstanding’ compared to any other song they have ever tested. They reported that: “Weightless induces a 65% reduction in anxiety and a 35% reduction in usual physiological resting rates.”

Marconi Union: ‘Weightless’ from Ambient Transmissions Volume 2.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UfcAVejslrU

I think that I first came across the term ‘ambient’ music when listening to American, Terry Riley’s 1968 composition, ‘Rainbow in Curved Air’… gentle repetition, tape loops, whirling jazzy electronica… I was mesmerised and hooked: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5PNbEfLIEDs

He always saw the music as being connected with meditation, spirituality, drugs and ‘trips’. Here’s a rather fab interview with Terry in 2015: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMKJ9J1Lzf4

… and then there was Neil Ardley’s  ‘A Symphony of Amaranths’ (1971). More harmonic loops and jazz overlays, snippets of sounds: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eF0YiGKXGX8

I was lucky and privileged to occasionally work part-time at the then new Chichester Festival Theatre and one weekend this saw me as a stage-hand, working using a follow-spot at a relatively early show in about 1974 by Germany’s Tangerine Dream originally formed in 1967 by Edgar Froese. They got their band name from a mishearing of the Beatles’ “…tangerine trees and marmalade skies” from ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’. Tangerine Dream are still viewed as one of the most imaginative leaders in electronic music. Unfortunately for many of us (and the band) their music ‘inspired’, if that’s the right word, hundreds of New Age albums of noodling nonentity. ‘Phaedra’ from 1974 is a good place to start exploring the spacey, out-of-body output from the band. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HIQ0dd7B_FU

‘Passage’ by Ulrich Schnauss and Jonas Munk is a recent addition to this significant Tangerine Dream-related canon of work.  Track: ‘Ao Hinode’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRIyDkNx7p4

Michael Nyman is both a classical and electronic composer. But, he knows how to write a catchy tune, using repetition and ambient frameworks, which are frequently a hallmark of his work. His score for the Peter Greenaway film, ‘Drowning by Numbers’ (1988) is a good example (Live from the Blazers Ensemble): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JFlXbvwK9R8&list=RDJFlXbvwK9R8&start_radio=1&t=22

But he’s prolific and many of his soundtracks are great, stand-alone pieces. ‘The Piano’ is loved by many, but I especially like ‘Carrington’ from 1995: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=udZ9XUgLsr4

Much of this was all a long time before Brian Eno had moved sideways from Roxy Music and started a one-person campaign to popularise ambient music for airports, lifts, films – in fact, anywhere!  His brother, Roger Eno, along with Harold Budd are also a major ‘players’ in this genre.

And, for much of the public, the hypnotic sounds of ‘Tubular Bells’ from the young Mike Oldfield is their most abiding memory of ambient, repetitive minimalism. ‘Ommadawn’ from 1975 is probably a better example of the music from Mike Oldfield. Not exactly ambient, but folk sometimes forget what a sensitive guitarist Oldfield can be.  Here he is live in quite a memorable performance in Edinburgh at the Gateway Theatre in 1980: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GvNt4D2eB9I

Brian Eno’s ‘Ambient 1’ arrived in 1978; stark and chilly loops of tinkling keys and swooping waves of sound. It exemplifies the contradictions of ambience – background sounds maybe, but encompassing dreamscapes that wrap around listeners like a security blanket: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vNwYtllyt3Q

Here’s ‘Echo’ – a fascinating documentary about the gorgeous soundscapes created from the mind of Brian Eno in collaboration with Harold Budd. Especially worth checking out the ‘Plateaux of Mirrors’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K7Dm-ne-iSY 

Eno: “A halo of ringing sounds…”

In the 1990s, on the Canaries’ island of Lanzarote, I visited a number of inspiring locations created by nature-artist-architect, Cesar Manrique. The wondrous underground lava-tubes of Jameos del Agua resounded to minimalist music his friends in Solar had created. This is also played throughout his partly underground volcano home and now museum.  The space, place and music somehow achieves a wonderful holistic sense of ‘being’ – an environmental, holistic, ‘oneness’.  These very special ambient sounds are a perfect fit for the very special spaces he designed and turned into a range of alternative realities.  I still love this album. Evocative and sensual – a perfect match of land and soundscapes.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5YhYUV-LW0

 Many film soundtracks have benefitted from the subtlety and sometimes even stridency that ambient music can contribute. Philip Glass and Steve Reich are two of the composers who have made an extraordinary range of contributions. I started my journey into the mesmerising musical worlds of Philip Glass with the mixture of sound and visual images used in the film, ‘Koyaanisqatsi’ from 1983: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v6-K-arVl-U

Steve Reich is probably the grand-daddy of ambient music and started releasing albums way back in the 1950s and ‘60s – but the most accessible of his music came in the late ‘70s and 1980s on the ECM label. He’s often cited as the ‘inspiration’ of the ambient music from Eno and even the sounds Brian Eno created with David Bowie. Steve Reich’s 1980 album, ‘Octet/Music For A Large Ensemble/Violin Phase’ is not a bad place to start: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wqQVSohnLdA

I heard Virginia Astley’s very fine 1983 album soon after its release. It features ‘found sounds’ of nature and gentle music, aptly named, ‘From gardens where we feel secure’. Pastoral, floating – ambient but complex and serenely simple. A real personal favourite: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TSXxP1GN9Nk

Finally, you may find inspiration from ‘The Dream Circle’ (1994) by American, Steve Roach. It is another album that is viewed by many aficionados as a remarkable musical construction – at once a thing of beauty, psychedelic enchantment, and even ‘living the dream’! Re-mastered in 2020:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZAQhuetZdhc

 


I hope you’ve enjoyed this fairly mind-trippy sonic excursion!

Alan (Dearling)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Once More Around The Fair

Alistair Fitchett on Ghost Trains & Country Lanes: Studio, Stage & Sessions (1984-2005) by The Loft

We have all, I am sure, been overloading on television and films in this past year. For someone who would not normally bother with such things it has been a pleasant enough diversion, although I admit that one of my biggest thrills in doing so has been hearing fragments of song in unexpected contexts. There is something appealing in hearing a sound from one’s youth embedded in a new context, the more so when it may be something one knows largely flew under the radar at the time of its original release. Recently I had a shiver of a thrill on hearing the voices of Louise and Deirdre Rutkowski flowing luxuriously from the TV whilst Adam Curtis explained the complexities of conspiracy theorists and the interconnected politics of the individual in China, Russia, USA and UK. The sisters were singing a Gene Clark number, from when they had cropped up as part of the This Mortal Coil collective in 1991, but the sound of their voices took me back, further back still to the summer of 1983 when I stumbled on a demo of their take on ‘Be Thankful For What You’ve Got’ on late night local West of Scotland radio. My taped copy of that kept me entranced for years, and just hearing their voices still transports me in a Proustian rush to a place suffused with the smell of French cigarettes and the sight of a lurid postcard sunset over Douglas harbour.

The real ‘WTF’ moment (if we can lapse into the common vernacular of The Younger Generations for a moment) however came from hearing the sounds of The Loft in the midst of the marvellously enjoyable ‘Red Oaks’.  For the uninitiated, ‘Red Oaks’ was a US show made in 2014-16 that mined the typical tropes of class divisions and teenage obsessions in American culture. Set in the 1980s, each episode comes across like a miniature John Phillips movie. It contains a ton of referential moments and a soundtrack that, in true Phillips style, blends the mainstream with contemporaneous ‘indie hits’.  Even amongst other contemporaneous ‘Indie’ tunes in the show though (step forward the ubiquitous placements for  Cocteau Twins, Bunnymen and New Order), the inclusion of The Loft’s ‘Up The Hill and Down The Slope’ was, like that of the Woodentops’ sublime ‘Give It Time” and the brittle beauty of The Clean’s  ‘Anything Could Happen’, deliciously unexpected and yet so utterly right.  For the tensions, desires and frustrations of youth certainly sparked through the sound of The Loft in those halcyon early 80s years of misery and neglect.

In these times of social (virtual) inter-connectedness and echo chamber comfort it is often easy to forget just how isolationist it felt to be listening to groups like The Loft in the 1980s, particularly if one happened to live outside the boundaries of the cities. Letters and fanzines may have been (literally) lifelines, but one really did feel part of a tortured minority. Which was, naturally, part of the appeal. The early years of Creation records and the groups whose records bore that logo of the toppling building blocks were a significant ingredient. Jasmine Minks, Primal Scream, Pastels, Jesus and Mary Chain, Bodines, The Loft and The Legend! To paraphrase the Crapachino kid’s’ sleeve notes from the ‘Alive In The Living Room’ LP: All different, all brilliant.

If all those early Creation groups blended melody and noise to varying degrees, then The Loft certainly were ones who tilted more towards a catchy pop song in that balancing act. Danny Kelly’s terrific sleeve notes for this release astutely note that if songwriter Pete Astor had ‘been a Californian baby-boomer, he’d have ended up in the Capitol Records building in Los Angeles, laying down late-night grooves with the Wrecking Crew for a largely-neglected, slightly gloomy, pop album that’d now be worth a fortune.’

As it turns out, after The Loft infamously imploded mid-song in June of 1985 (one month after topping the Indie singles chart) Astor actually tottered on the edge of Indierock stardom with his Weather Prophets before settling into assured singer/songwriter semi-obscurity whilst lecturing in poetry. More recently he’s turned in a trilogy of lathe cut singles, each featuring terrific spoken word pieces backed with typically edgy home-recorded music. It all harks back in tangential fashion to the likes of Richard Hell and the New York Underground of the ’70s, coming full circle perhaps, for one of the highlights of The Loft’s incendiary first bloom was how they took Hell’s exquisite ‘Time’ and somehow made something that paid virtuous homage yet effortlessly took ownership and elevated it to another place entirely.

The early recordings of the Loft collected on Ghost Trains and Country Lanes, including that peerless cover of ‘Time’, are the sounds of musicians and writers caught at the point between past and future; the pregnant pause at a point where the unbridled blind enthusiasm of youth is giving way to the marginally more measured craft of young adulthood. It’s captured magnificently on the brittle recordings for that fledgling Creation label (the whirlpool cacophony of ‘Winter’ still makes me weak at the knees) and it’s set in the cloudy amber of the live set recorded in June of 1984 at the legendary Living Room club. In contrast, the later recordings by the reformed group (five songs recorded in 2005 and four for a 2015 BBC Radio 6 session) are, as one might expect, assured and matured. They are the sound of differences reconciled, of players finding comfort in recognising the values of their shared past rather than conflicts long-since faded and weathered to dust. It’s a pleasure, then, to hear a more distinctly Country inflection to familiar numbers like the always gorgeous ‘Why Does The Rain’ (drummer Dave Morgan of course went on to join The Rockingbirds after The Loft and Weather Prophets) and the new (to me) ‘Can’t Keep My Mind Off You’.

I understand there is now a film about Creation boss Alan MgGee. I don’t expect it will feature The Loft. I imagine instead it will reinforce the notion that Primal Scream never existed in a form featuring a masked tambourine player and will tell us how McGee discovered a band called Oasis playing support in a bar in Glasgow and signed them on the spot. I imagine there will be a lot of reference to The Drugs. All of which is fair enough. It’s the way we all mediate our narratives, and if we have learned anything in recent times it is that truth and facts are subjective, and reality the construct of our context and perception. Regardless, this film is not something I will be watching, no matter how much longer lockdown may last. These two discs of Loft recordings, on the other hand, are ones I feel sure I will revisit often and with pleasure. Once more around the fair, indeed.

Ghost Trains & Country Lanes: Studio, Stage & Sessions (1984-2005) is released on April 23d by Cherry Red Records
Pete Astor’s recordings as The Attendant are available from his Bandcamp page: https://peteastor1.bandcamp.com

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Minor Curiosities

Let Me Tell You What I Mean, Joan Didion (hbck, £12.99, 4th Estate)

I’ve always loved Joan Didion’s work. Although in some ways part of the new journalism that emerged in the 1960s and 70s, where writers weren’t afraid to be part of their own story, Didion was always clearer, calmer, more lucid and detached than the likes of Tom Wolfe and his drug-fuelled hysteria. Didion’s non-fiction was spare and informed, but clearly rooted in her experience and opinion; her fiction was sparse and minimal, worked to the bone – and all the better for it.

Following her observations about the failings of the American counterculture and the rise of the right, she went on to document American intervention in Salvador, the fallout of 9/11 and the nature of grief and mourning following the deaths of both her husband and daughter. These felt like an ending, so it was a surprise when news of Let Me Tell You What I mean, a collection of twelve previously uncollected, pieces was announced.

To be honest the book is a bit of a let down, and feels like a scraping of the barrel. There’s nothing here to rival anything in Slouching Towards Bethlehem (1968) or The White Album (1979), let alone the complex emotional deconstruction of The Year of Magical Thinking (2005) and Blue Nights (2011).  Some pieces are squibs – a slight reflection on not getting into her college of choice, for example, or the strange portrait of Nancy Reagan which is very much of its time and very ordinary; others about her own writing are more seriously disingenuous. If Didion really thinks she is ‘no academic’ and has no ability to think in the abstract, that she is unable to concentrate on anything for very long, or that she can somehow simply chisel away at words until they work, I’d be surprised. She is either playing the fool or the romantic, and neither do her any favours. (Let’s be kind and note these pieces are several decades old, but also note that she has allowed their republication.)

The first essay, about the ‘free press’ in contrast to the mainstream press, is engaging and witty enough, if a little obvious and dated. (Hilton Als’ foreword partly covers similar ground but more succinctly.) Elsewhere it’s disappointing to find Didion in the Ernest Hemingway fan club (what is it about his overwrought macho prose that so many people like?} or pages and pages about Martha Stewart, whoever she is. (The article suggests some kind of home goddess guru figure, who has made a financial killing out of domestic advice about interiors, cleaning and cooking. Thankfully she didn’t appear to make it over the Atlantic to the UK.)

Whatever Didion says, things do not simply talk to each other on the page, the author puts them in some kind of relationship with each other and the reader using written language. Didion may think this happens by itself, but that is to deny the thinking, planning, writing and editing that goes into all writing, and to abdicate responsibility. Whilst there are moments of sparkle and wit here, they are well hidden within this unfortunate gathering of minor pieces that, to be honest, would mostly have been better left uncollected and abandoned to posterity.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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Modernism Is

 

Robert Montgomery

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The Passing Chromaticism of Swanky Gastro

 

 
    With the sun behind him, Swanky Gastro walked into the newly opened ‘Soho’ bar on Guildford High Street on the 22nd August 1988. It was lunch time. Behind the bar was Lee. 19 years old and bored shitless. She had taken the job because college was shit and she needed money to buy tickets to raves, new clothes and drugs.

     As he sauntered up to the bar, Swanky knew he was the right man, in the right place, doing the right thing at exactly the right time. ‘Half a Stella please darling,’ he said, taking off his Ray bands, folding one of the arms, leaving the other free to hang in the breast pocket of his grey, cotton suit. As his eyes adjusted to daylight, Swanky caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar. ‘Yes,’ he thought, after less than two moments consideration, ‘sweeping my hair back with just enough gel, is exactly the right look for me’.

    With a slam, Lee put his drink on the bar. ‘That’ll be a pound.’ Swanky, although initially taken aback by the price, soon turned shock in to smug appreciation at how reassuringly expensive this new continental lager was. He reached for his wallet. Just as his hand made contact with the cold black leather, Swanky looked down at his drink and withdrew his empty hand immediately.

    ‘This… is not right,’ he said slowly with emphasis. Both his hands were now flat on the bar, one either side of the glass. He stood erect, feet apart. The power pose.

     ‘Yes it is,’ said Lee, eighteen inches his junior. ‘Half a lager you asked for, that’s what that is,’ she added, still not giving a shit.

     Swanky, impervious to Lee’s disdain, continued. ‘It might well be half a pint of Stella Artois little lady, but it is not right.’ He tapped the index finger of his right hand against the glass as he looked down at Lee, whose face was a mixture of pain, nausea and loathing. ‘I can see I’m going to have to help you here,’ he added, feeling just how lucky Lee was to have him to teach her like this. ‘Stella Artois, the premium continental lager, when correctly served, comes in a continental, tulip shaped glass with the brewers insignia on the side. Around the rim of the glass is a thin, gold band, that serves to remind the customer of just what a superior product they are due to enjoy.’

      ‘So you want a different glass?’ interpreted Lee.

      ‘Correct in one,’ applauded Swanky, ‘the right glass, if you wouldn’t mind.’

      Lee searched around on the sticky shelf below the pumps and found the glass Swanky had described, sighing heavily as she prised it from the old lager that had turned to a sugar glue around the rim. The second summer of love was taking its toll on Lee. Her system was operating more and more on depleted resources. Wednesday’s were by far the worst. ‘It’ll soon be Thursday,’ she coached herself, breathing deeply, ‘then Friday, then thank fuck, Saturday and finally a world I can make sense off.’ Straightening up, she wiped the rim of the glass with the cloth that was draped over the cider pump, and placed it on the bar. With her head propped up with her left hand, in turn held up by her elbow on the bar, Lee picked up the half pint of lager and uncaringly poured it in to the other glass. ‘This guy is an absolute prick,’ were the exact words that passed through her mind, as she did so.

     ‘One pound…. please,’ she said holding out her hand. Her shoulders slumped. Swanky could tell he’d made an impression as he reached in to his pocket and drew out a single pound coin. ‘There we are my dear. One pound exactly.’ Lee took the coin and wanted to die. ‘Thank fuck,’ she thought, ‘he’s a thing of the past.’

     Swanky left the bar and headed to one of the small, circular tables that were scattered around the room. He chose one, just in front of the corner stage, by the half wall windows that were concertinaed open to create the feeling of merging with the street outside.

     Sitting with his left side to the window, he turned his glass so the name ‘Stella Artois’ was facing the high street. Then, with great care, he lifted the glass to his mouth. The beer was cold and sharp. He took a small sip and smacked his lips slightly, placing the glass back on the table. ‘Yes,’ he thought to himself, ‘yes, yes, yes. Nineteen eighty eight. Things will never be better than now. Here I am, a professional man of professional means, enjoying a cold glass of premium continental lager, (in the correct, branded glass), in a jazz club, on my local high Street. This will never be beaten.’ Looking up he noticed a poster on the wall behind the stage. It was all the conformation he needed. A live jazz quartet were going be playing on the very stage in front of him in only three weeks time. He surveyed the rest of the room with new authority. Black leather, chrome, black and white photos of all the jazz greats. Ella, Louis, Coltrane and some other ones. The blue light around the base of the bar was a classy finishing touch. Yes, everything was just right.

      ‘Lee, go and wipe the tables.’ A gruff, red faced man had stuck his head out the office door, and seeing Lee slumped, head on the bar, felt compelled to order her to do something, to be sure he was getting his monies worth. Lee rolled her eyes, sighed and with as much anger as possible grabbed a cloth from the sink. It dripped, cold stagnant liquid down her arm as she picked it up. Lee swore as she squeezed last night’s putrid bar juice in to the sink. Muttering under her breath about the boss being a one thing or another, she reluctantly worked her way around the tables in the bar.

     ‘Excuse me,’ she mumbled when she came to Swanky’s table. Prompted, he lifted his glass, revelling in the duty to care the proprietors were providing for his comfort. Unnoticed, a small puddle of golden liquid had formed beneath the foot of Swanky’s glass. A single shaft of the bright afternoon sun illuminated it. Creating less than a single second of divine beauty that went unseen by either staff or customer. In fact, only one pair of eyes saw it at all. Those of a passing young girl who carried the memory of that ethereal moment throughout her life. Citing it in several interviews, both in print and on film, as the exact moment she knew the angels wanted her to create art and make the world beautiful again.

     The sodden cloth landed on the table with a cold, wet, thwack. Lee pushed her hand in to it and smeared the spilt lager around the white, vinyl tablecloth, before moving on.

     ‘Guildford,’ thought Swanky, replacing his glass on the table, ‘has made it. To think this place used to be the butchers. When I look at this street now, and I see the big names. Our price, Smiths, Hallmark Cards, M&S, I can hardly believe it. The new sophistication of the age. If Dad could see me now, he’d be proud. He’d walked by this way every morning on his way to the bank. All those years. He knew it was coming. Guildford’s golden age. He was right. He always was.’ Swanky looked down at the gold watch on his left wrist. It was a meticulous piece, presented to his Dad for a lifetime of service as a check in clerk at the local branch of Lloyd’s. The thin, almost molecular second hand, gliding around the clean, white face and simple gold numerals. Silently brushing away the past.

     Swanky felt a swelling in his chest that led to a sense of assured comfort that his father had done all he could for his son. He nodded gently to himself, smiling as he reached in to his pocket and took out a packet of Gitane. ‘Ashtray please,’ he called to the room. The crash of a pile of thin, steel ashtrays falling to the floor was followed by Lee’s footsteps and an ashtray appearing on the table.

     Crossing his right leg over his left knee, Swanky sat back in his chair and, with his gold lighter, lit his cigarette. A plume of thick blue smoke rose around him, before making it’s way on to the street. A woman with a double buggy, being pushed back against the building by the mirrors of a passing lorry, tutted and waved her arm to clear a way through the cloud.

     With his right leg elevated across himself Swanky had the chance to appreciate his outfit. His suit was a little more expensive than his usual one, but he was right to spend the extra. The cotton was thin and beautifully woven. The trousers held their creases all day. Slate grey was perfect with the turquoise of his t-shirt, which, in turn created the ideal bed for his thin gold chain. Taking another drag he nodded again as, exhaling he continued his examination.
The Ray bands hanging from his pocket. Jacket sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. His thin, snakeskin belt with its gold effect buckle. Trousers straining in all the right places. His bare ankles and his faux leather woven loafers.

     As he looked at his shoes he stopped for a moment. Frowning, he straightened himself in his chair, becoming tense, and put his cigarette in the ashtray. With his left hand he pulled the toe of his right foot up slightly to bring the whole shoe closer to his face. Moving it in to the light. A worried expression came upon him as he moved the shoe from left to right, inspecting it, anxiously. Then, quite suddenly, he stopped, relaxed his shoulders, exhaled deeply as he let his foot come to rest on his left knee again. Everything was fine. He had been right to buy the charcoal grey as opposed to the granite. The charcoal contrasting with his suit as opposed to the close proximity in shade of the granite.

     Taking his cigarette from the ashtray, he smoked, tapped his foot to the jazz fusion, acknowledged and completely understood why the barmaid found him so attractive, whilst proudly congratulating himself on his decision to, once again, vote Tory.

 

 Ben Greenland
image by Oli Jessop
 

 

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SAUSAGE LIFE 170

SAUSAGE 159  SAUSAGE 160 SAUSAGE 161 SAUSAGE 162SAUSAGE 163 SAUSAGE 164 SAUSAGE 165 SAUSAGE 166 SAUSAGE 167 SAUSAGE 168 SAUSAGE 169 SAUSAGE 170

 

SAUSAGE LIFE
Bird Guano
The column where news is still a science as yet unproven

MYSELF: Why are you wearing that rediculous hat?

READER: You’ll find out after I’ve changed my name

MYSELF: Changed your name? To what?

READER: Toby.

MYSELF: Why Toby??

READER: In honour of St Patrick’s Day – why else?

MYSELF: How stupid of me. Saint Pat, the owld snake-charmer himself. Why else would we Poltroons adopt the gaelic brogue, drape ourselves in shamrocks and pretend we are WB Yeats or Brendan Behan for one day a year?

READER: Well I never heard of those two lads but I’ve always had such a  gas on St Paddy’s I’ve decided to become Irish permanently.

MYSELF: Well there’s no doubt it’s a grand owld craic of a day but let’s face it – we’re all going to know it’s just you wearing that floppy green felt hat, and not the genuine article at all. And Toby – that’s not even Irish! What’s your new surname then? O’Reilly? Finnigan? Hoolahan? McGuinness?

READER: Shaw.

MYSELF: Toby Shaw?

READER: Indeed, so it is. Toby Shaw.

 

DIKSHONARY KORNER
PCWorld (n) Parallel universe featured in the graphic novels of Ruud van Smoot where no-one understands how computers work.

Wikipedia (n). Having a dyslexic sexual interest in New Zealanders

READER: I don’t get the second one.
MYSELF:  Don’t worry, we’re here all ewek

 

MUTTON DRESSED AS SLAB
Speaking of New Zealand, a mouth-watering tourist brochure popped through my door last Thursday headed thus: COME TO NEW ZEALAND – WHERE THE STREETS ARE PAVED WITH LAMB.  
More than intrigued, I decided to investigate. A sleepy village on the North Island of our former colony turned out to be the source of this unusual slogan. The hamlet of Whatuwhiwhi (pop: 988), with its tiny whitewashed wooden chapel, cosy communal pub, and 10,935,000 acre sheep farm, was catapulted to notoriety by its forward thinking mayor Wilf, “Woolly” Walloon. With local budgets being slashed and municipal belts being tightened, this outspoken sheep farmer had the radical money-saving idea of repairing the town’s potholed roads and revolting dog-fouled sidewalks with thick slabs of preserved lamb rather than expensive imported concrete paving. “It came to me in a dream one afternoon” “Woolly” told me over a crackling short-wave radio, “The solution was literally staring me in the face. I realised that by taking advantage of our vast annual sheep surplus, we could save a lot of cash and cure both of Whatuwhiwhi’s municipal problems in one go.” After being interrupted by a brief burst of static he continued “…One, the roads get fixed, and two, everyone knows dogs won’t shit on meat.”

 

LATEST SOCCER RESULTS

Hobson’s Denture Fixative League (south)

Upper Dicker Macaroons 5  Maidstone Beehive 2

Bexhill Warlocks 6 Piddinghoe Candelabra 3

Pevensey Pharmaceuticals 4  Sedlescombe Woodpeckers 0

Balls Cross Tabernacle 5  Uffingham Rubbernecks 7

Eastbourne Lemmings 11  Cock Marling Intellectuals 11

Barcombe Limbo 2  Hercemonseaux Cannibals 0

FC Dumbledore vs  Yapton Spoonbenders (Late Kick Off)

 

BIZBUZZ
Celebrity tattle from the tittlesphere

Perusing Facebook the other day in the vain hope of seeing something useful, I noted a post stating that Mr Dene Betteridge, frontman of 80s novelty band Black Lace had been forced to perform Agadoo for fellow inmates while serving a prison sentence. “When these terrifying criminals tell you to do something you do it.” he is reported to have said.

Agadoo? I couldn’t help thinking, I’ve never heard it called that before.

(#mainstreetmedia)

Ed Sheeran has named his fifteenth child Stenna Sealink in honour of the ferry company which recently returned a mobile phone which in 2006 he had left on a ferry from Bruges, where he had attended a stag night. “To say I’m relieved would be an understatement” the Ginger Whinger told us, “some of the photos on there were irreplaceable”
(#therealfakenews)

 

Lady Gaga has revealed that the infamous beef wellingtons she wore at the 2017 Superbowl are not actually made from cows, but Quorn Mince, carefully rolled out into workable sheets and sewn together in Albuquerque by environmentally sustainable Mexican migrants.
(#truthisoutthere)

 

SCIENCE IS GORDON
I popped round to Professor Thinktank’s laboratory the other day to see if the prolific Hastings inventor had anything new up his sleeve. When I arrived he was demonstrating the prototype of his cordless remote controlled Hoovadrone – a portable device for vacuuming swallow’s nests – to a group of fascinated Chinese industrial spies. As they eagerly photographed the Hoovadrone blueprint from several angles, I spotted what looked like a new patent application pinned to the notice board.

Once the Chinese delegation had left, the professor, sensing my interest, invited me to inspect his latest ingenious device, The Gordon Thinktank Combination Golf Putter and Metal Detector.
“This,” he explained, taking what looked like an ordinary golf club from a nearby bag “will enable the user to seamlessly combine two spectacularly boring hobbies into one. And that’s not all.”
Indicating a cunningly concealed control panel on the handle, he said with a conspiratorial wink: “Lost your nine iron? Simple – just flip the switch and find it with your putter!”

 

ASK DR GUANO

The usual pot-pourri of postal puerility appears to have piled up on my desk this past fortnight, so I sprinkled them with millet and got my budgerigar Wensleydale to peck out a letter at random:

 

Dear Dr Guano,

We have examined your column with a very strong magnifying glass, and can find no mention of conjuring tricks, illusions, or anything relating to the art of legerdemain. Why so? Is there some shameful incident from your childhood we should know about? Were you sawn in half by a drunken uncle perhaps?  Or persuaded to peer up the billowing sleeves of a lascivious aunt, who then produced, out of thin air, a suggestively shaped vegetable? Sir, we sympathise, but surely deep psychological scars are no reason to ignore the fascinating world of magic?

Yours mysteriously

Mr Sinistro & Maureen

 

I took a deep breath and replied thus:

 

Dear Mr Sinistro & Maureen,

I would refer you to Magic, Illusion and Bedwetting written by the Norwegian child psychologist Liv Ljernsennbjorg, a disciple of Jung. In it, she advances the highly plausible theory that the German invasion of Poland in 1939 which led to the declaration of World War Two, was entirely attributable to an incident in Herr Hitler’s youth when he was given a Harry Houdini Junior Magic Kit for his seventh birthday without the instructions. Having failed to master that trick where you produce a scale model of the Eiffel Tower from a dove, The Führer later went on to subjugate all of Europe

Vanishingly yours,

Dr Guano & Brenda

 

READER:  How do they do that trick anyway?

MYSELF:   My Magic Circle oath forbids me to say.

 

 

Sausage Life!

ASK WENDY WILL BE BACK NEXT ISSUE

WENDY IS CURRENTLY HELPING THE CHARITY GUARD DOGS FOR THE RICH, WHICH ALSO PROVIDES ARMS TO SAUDI ARABIA

 
 
 
 

POISON PEOPLE

guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

click image for video

 

MORE FROM GUANO POUNDHAMMER

click image

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Colin Gibson
 
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Portraits that speak back


Thomas Loffill.  The painting is called Ben, Liz and Rola. Acrylic on canvas 60x46cm.  2020.

 
 
I’m interested in portraiture and am working on this theme in a rewrite of the play The Man with the Gold.  In my second act I have a character walking out from behind a portrait of himself. The portrait has been listening to the dialogue in the first act, and my protagonist (or is she antagonist? I don’t know yet) asks how he knows stuff that he shouldn’t.  ‘All portraits listen if they are well painted,’ says the prantagonist,  ‘and speak back.’  Portrait painter Thomas Loffill has just had work accepted by the Royal Society of Portrait Painters Annual Exhibition, so I asked him this question –  
‘When do you know at what point a portrait is speaking back to you?’  He replied.
 ‘Every “wrong” mark shouts out at you and distracts from your intention. So when the picture has stopped shouting, hopefully you will find that it is speaking.’   I like this and it’s enriched my dialogue.
 
The RSP show is at the Mall Galleries 6-15 May, 11-4pm.
 
 
 
 
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Max’s Artaud Perceptions Purveyed

                                          

      On Max Crow Reeves’ MAPA (Marseilles – Arles – Paris – Auvers-sur-Oise) Entropy Books 2021

               

 

The Argus Panoptes in myth is a multi-eyed monster.

In his new book Max Reeves’ lens is a black bird charting its course

Across France. From Marseilles  to Arles, to Paris to Auvers-sur-Oise

His gaze captures;  street scenes, art’s full moment and images

To make closed eyes dance. But Max Reeves’ REMs are shutter clicks

That carve chaos; the kind that exists not in ferment, or, torment, too,

Come to that, but in the sly tear that builds behind a shining gaze

That seems golden, but which soon admits cause and colour.

 

 

 

By lifting each view from the flat. From an opening shot of glimpsed,

Near savage Gods between leaves, Reeves and his partner Samanta Bellotta

Chase Artaud, whose own quest beside madness across these depicted lands

Now combines, with inspiration  from Jean-Michel Atlan’s painting Ba’al Guerrier

And Reeves’ previous Bethlem Hospital Exhibition, as he photographs the connections

Between jewish suffering  spirits and the trials Van Gogh suffered in league

With Antonin’s challenged mind. Here, in this book, the images appear sharper,

Than those of before: Max’s Mirkwood and I Remember a White Cat In Tangier

 

Contained night. But across sun stung days these photographs bare the imprint

Of the irreality Artaud carried into his writing and tourtured, stumbling  walks

Between light.  In Max’s Marseilles walks steps are speared. Boats are spume.

A crucifix crowd claims the city. The pure blue of summer and the blessing

Of sun make things calm. And yet Reeves’ keen lens is prodding both skin

And surface to interrogate image and in the most considered of ways

Stoke alarm.  A Star of David is scratched. A bark is skull, scorched by sunlight.

Spew on the ceiling is mirroring over a girl. A small ship sails on blurred air.


There is an African woman and Rimbaud. Homeless men warp before us

As each photograph captures the somewhat suffering viewpoint

Of Ba’al’s jews, and Artaud, falling fast out of focus and rhythm step

With the world. Reeves’pictures are art. Make no mistake, free of genre.

And medium, also, as he roves, he flies through these streets.

We see Artaud’s bronzed head on a swan. A poster of crows. Ghost graffitti. 

A Jerusalem ramp. Every picture makes the Argus Panoptes stare

More complete.  In Arles, we catch a swelter of horses, bars, stone,


And Vincent Van Gogh in a bedsit. Trees as thought stemmed from statues

As they gaze up towards cloud. Farmhouse and flower. Shadow. And a side

Of meat with bone baby, like a pearl in flesh featured, granted to skin raw 

And ready for when a prize like this is allowed. In Paris, a Nokia Rimbaud

On a wall and a man who could be Giacometti is caught on a corner. 

The accusatory glare of a statue against a curtain of night and dark park.

Artaud’s alley. Wall stains that echo vaginas. A Neil Young like tramp

In Pink Beret.  Atlan’s grave. Cloud’s grey mark.  Reeves’ signature crows,


And what looks like sex on a tombstone. Satre and De Beauvoir, dead

But together and in loving repose close to this. Reeves chases graves.

They are forms of library for him. In photographing their markings

He is reading the lines the ground prints. For death still publishes  the lives

Of those held within it. Especially if they are artists or writers. And so,

Here in these pictures their uncompleted work finishes. 

 

A church is depicted, then sketched. A window becomes a fused painting.

A close up Crow soon commands us, as more fenestrations astound.

 

Walls weep through change that MAPA charts so completely. A typewriter

Stalls in the writing as a Sculptors touch and room stays unfound.

Wine is cupped. Hands reflect as the train is freed from the station,

And Max and Sam travel still further out from the source. Artaud’s ghost

Haunts this book as Max’s madness map cures and colours and in Auvers-sur-Oise,

A wall mural, ‘Vincents’ to show  what endures. For suffering always comes

After the most vivid of visions. Such as those Artaud stared through as he dried

Across the temperature of neglect.Which can blow hot and cold. You can feel

 

Those airs through these photos. A bottle skies. Leaves stains pavement.

Thus, Max Reeves trains perception  to never second guess or expect. 

A homeless man becomes stone. Security cameras find portent. 

With juxtaposed oil thick flowers we get to see Vincent’s grave. All this

And Antonin’s tomb. Alongside Tristan Tzara’s. Charles Baudelaire, too,

Long ground published and then Man Ray soft earth saved. And Susan Sontag

In sun as the memorial myth speaks through pictures which this seminal guide

Now provides us, as these lines as looks conclude the map’s made.

 

Reeves is a true travel guide for  us all and for all of us who can’t travel.

He sees without stalling. He looks both beneath and above. And in framing all

Perhaps pictures as much as John Berger. High praise indeed. Read and reach it.

For here in these journeys and in this soul stained steals, there is love.

 

 

                                                                                       David Erdos March 17th 2021                

 

 

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A Junk Collector

Once again it appears clear
that a free market economy
is a contradiction in terms.
Are we properly dressed for

the occasion? Outside the gulls
are doing their aerial acrobatics
and a storm is brewing. It may
be that a revolution in colour is

under way but are we still
obsessed with mauve? “It
looks like snow but it feels
like rain,” she said. We are

endlessly contradicted by the
weather but nobody here believes
in ghosts and this is where the
magic really happens. Outside the

gulls are doing their aerial acrobatics
again and a storm is brewing.

 

 

Steve Spence

 

 

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Lift Not the Painted Veil

a transposition of Shelley’s sonnet

from British Standards; book three of the ‘English Strain’ Project

Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,-behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave
Their shadows, o’er the chasm, sightless and drear.

I knew one who had lifted it – he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.

PB Shelley

Drop your Union Jack mask! Real things,
not unlike conspiracies, are printed there,
miming, through the make-believe of garment
technology, unbeliefs unthreaded by
‘those twin imposters, rigour and imagination’.
The thingness of art unsustains stringiness of substance.

Dropping his mask from his bulky beak,
his wrinkled lips, Booster Bo boasts,
‘This vaccine is a shot in the arm, a Union
flag brand on the flanks of herded Brexports!’
The ‘urban’, unheeding, refuse first divvies:
the threat of a logistic sergeant’s pointing blade
spirits bright blots of blood in the gloomy homeland’s
shaded groves, untrusted colonial truths.

Robert Sheppard

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DINGHY

    This afternoon
            the black dinghy I’m watching
                      takes in the clouds
                               then floats away
                                                 into another part of the bay

                                       manoeuvres itself
                               and dawdles in the salty air
                        finally coming to rest
                  against the jetty’s rotting edge

                        sleepy as a drunk
                                on a bench
                                    flat out on water
                                        unrigged and untowed

                              and I thought:
                                 so this is how you really drift
                                     this is how you flow
                                         this is how you look at the sky

                                                 and why

 

Phil Bowen

 

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Make catering @Glasgow 2021 UN Climate Change Conference plant-based


The 2019 IPCC report ‘Climate Change and Land’ notes that a shift towards a plant-based diet can offer significant benefits in mitigating climate change. We are asking the UK Government as hosts of the Conference to show their commitment to the conference aims by making the food offered plant-based.

 

https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/572112

 

 

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Philosophical fables part one – (Street Writer)

 

Body –

The body is a tool and it must be used if you are capable of it.

I spent 20 years of my life skateboarding and surfing and training in the arts of boxing and wrestling, weightlifting and long distance running.

If you are capable of it, it is a great start to your creative path.

When you are a part of a physical form it is a good idea to look at it as an art form.

Basically, introducing your soul into it…

When I was skating I loved the idea of finding my feet and my balance on a board in order to execute a trick as well as I could.

Finding balance in your life is a good idea.

Don’t go up too much or don’t slow down too much.

Continue to be even as you work and live and it will flow like a stream.

When I was training in boxing, wrestling, weightlifting and running it taught me strength and endurance.

Having strength and endurance is important to have… especially when you take on something more artistic like the way I write now.

Being a part of these physical forms got me ready for this writing shit.

When I was training I was using my body as tool, but also as a weapon.

Now that I am writing, my weapon and tools are my hands.

I try my best to write and read with balance, strength and with endurance.

But, don’t forget to add your soul to your form, because that is where your steeze lies and your style and originality.

 

Mind –

The mind can wither and I know this as a man who suffers with bipolar disorder.

But when you are young with this disease or any other you may see it as a curse.

But as you mature you will see it is a gift towards your personal life and craft.

If you want to expand your mind:

Surround yourself with the right fuel like the right books and soulful music, classical films…

And whatever art form you are a part of, make sure to be around it day and night, like the right people and whatever live events that might be going on around you.

But, when you are expanding your mind don’t turn out to be a stereotypical pompous dick and twat.

Remember: if you are like me who comes from a working class background…

Please don’t lose that, because it will give you such style and originality in your work that not even you will believe in it.

I find with most educated people that they don’t have an original thought or wow factor idea in their mind, because they are just carbon copies of the greats.

So don’t lose that in your mind or work.

And like I said with the body: make sure to add your soul as you educate your mind, because it will add your original style as you grow and develop.

 

Soul –

The soul is invincible.

You can’t hold it or even grab it but you know it is there.

It is what makes you feel infinite in your tasks.

And while the body and mind will decay one day, it will be your soul that will carry you on throughout your journey.

The soul never sleeps, it is always in communication with what or whatever you believe is looking over, or after you.

Use this to your advantage.

And, the soul will be a part of your art form all the way and it will never give up on you!

It is your soul that will make you unique in your works.

Get in contact with it whatever way you please.

Whether that is prayer, meditation, or even like me talking out loud.

When you do get in touch with it: you may find it in a sunset, or the wind blowing in the trees, or even talking to someone who has had a difficult life.

The soul will inspire your work in many different ways.

It may make it very real or even very surreal.

A lot of people who know nothing about art or the big questions you ask about life will ask ‘how did you come up with that idea?’

And you can’t take any credit for any of your work because…

It was already created in the sky or if you like the universe.

It was just channelled through you.

And that in itself is a blessing.

So take it and enjoy it.

 

Your god and beyond –

Whatever your faith is and it doesn’t matter what it is.

Believe in it throughout your process as a man or a woman, artist or non-artist.

We know what we know now, but that will change over the course of time.

For all we know now… there maybe something way beyond that.

My faith has always been in the act I was a part of.

I have read certain bibles because I was curious.

But, at one time my training and skating was my faith.

Now, my writing is my faith and reading some of the greats in philosophy and poetry and prophecy and storytelling.

As long as you are searching for truth that’s all that matters.

Everyone’s truth will be different but that’s why we are all different.

As long as it is done with love, gentleness and humility!

I am leaving these philosophical fables with a poem at the end of each one of them.

This one is called ‘Christ’s song’

I am not a religious man but… I love that one idea that all of these great prophets and philosophers came to which was: LOVE!

 

Christ’s song

 

Things will change in another hundred years

Everything I know will be obsolete

And you may be closer to the meaning

But like Christ’s story

The word of love shall not be different

At least we can drink the wine in that genius

As we crucify ourselves indefinitely

In a bad repeated song

 

Paul Butterfield Jr

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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How He Writes Us into Existence – A Fiction ch. 1

Here I go back to sleep, dream and dread I shall wake up rich and that I shall forget I was not before I began dreaming.

One bird, identified by a decaying knowledge gathered from the few books I was allowed to read from my uncle’s stash as an oriole, hammers a nail in my brain; so soft are its strokes that I cannot use ‘into’.

I have been a collector of used wristwatches once. I converted it into a small-time trade and failed to do so. I owned one Orient SK Crystal that would run only if you jerk it before your arm embraces its cold steel bracelet. The shakes must be gentle, failing which the watch would stop. The bird shakes my state of mind.

There is one lottery shop in my neighborhood. I stroll toward it, glance at the display tray and pick a number in my mind and pass without buying the ticket or slowing down.

How many man-hours do you dream? My psychiatrist asked. That depends. In some dreams, I am not much of a man. In some, I cease to be human at all.
I can enumerate the amount I spend on dreaming. The math involved is like the equation of calculating the probable worth of a victim of an accident.

I have been writing a letter to all my friends and acquaintances courting for a job, even or odd, donation even. I shy away from drafting the same to finality.

There. You can hear the passerine. The same bird flew over your balcony, the cremation pyre, riverboat roof, and the dumpster fire. Its flight sews the past, present, and those street lamps.

My wife has the rear end of a pencil in her mouth. She bites on the next ingredient for a dish made with dreams. Until now, it has only one – dreams.

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Illustration Nick Victor

 

 
 
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

@amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

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Modernism Take Two.

Robert Montgomery

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Steam’s Groove 8

Tracklist:

Sidney Pinchback – Soul Strokes
Shuggie Otis – Inspiration Information
Faze-O – Riding High
Herbie Hancock – Hang Up Your Hang Ups
The Jackson Sisters – I Believe in Miracles
Lightnin’ Rod – Sport
Linda Crawford – Runaway Love
Boz Scaggs – Lowdown
Rick James – Give it to Me Baby
Lafayette Afro Rock Band – Darkest Light
William Bell – I Forgot to be Your Lover
Minnie Ripperton – Inside My Love
The Ohio Players – Jive Turkey

 

 

Steam Stock

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HEATHEN & HEAVEN

hanging out behind the 7-11 
metaphysically or metaphorically interpreting heaven & hell 
contemplation of the forthcoming eventual resurrection
but after smoking a few homegrown heirloom joints 
stream of unconsciousness went off into another direction
that’s the very reason that I can’t read kant 

thinking of starting a christian decorating service
get your home ready for that apocalypse 
if you don’t then that knock upon your door 
finding raptured demons to snatch your soul 
cast it  into hell for sacrilegious interior design 
but for now life goes on into entropy 
hanging out down by the 7-11 

+++

 

TERRENCE SYKES

 

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New Year’s Eve – Paris – 1968

  The Who – The Small Faces – Booker T & The MGs-Pink Floyd – Eddy Grant with The Equals-The Troggs – Joe Cocker – Fleetwood Mac 94m

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A Very British ‘Road to Nowhere’

 

Two books from Victorian times. Inspirational (but, somewhat uneven ‘reads’) providing visions of utopian and dystopian futures:

 

            ‘Erewhon’ by Samuel Butler (1872)

            ‘News from Nowhere’ by William Morris (1890)

Alan Dearling considers some of the mythic ideas and concepts of ‘Nowhere’, ‘Utopia’, ‘Erewhon’ and ‘Nusquama’ (Thomas More’s imaginary island, ‘Nowhere’), that have provided rich inspiration for generations of musicians (and other writers).

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“…A dream will always triumph over reality, once it is given the chance…” (Stanislaw Lem)

Very few ideas, books, films, music, scientific inventions arrive fully-formed. Most are influenced and conceived within the context of the social, economic and political times of their creation. They are also created through some sort of symbiotic process of evolution, using building blocks ‘borrowed’ or ‘appropriated’ from other creative minds. The range of utopian/dystopian, futurological literature is immense. It has always held a fascination for me personally, but I’d guess that is true for many people. We all need dreams and visions, fantasies, escapism into other worlds and universes!

“Alice laughed: “There’s no use trying,” she said; “one can’t believe impossible things.”
“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
(Lewis Carroll)

Today, many achieve this ‘escape’ from the daily drudge of reality through video games and virtual reality, but books (and comics and graphic images!) are the foundation of many of these ideas, whether it is from much older sources, or, those that are far more recent. This sort of work, sometimes called ‘speculative fiction’, is found in a range of genres: science fiction; science fantasy and futurism/futurology are probably the most obvious. To name but a few of those works, a ‘tasting-list’ if you like, these include Thomas More’s ‘Utopia’ (1516), John Bunyan’s ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ (1678), Jonathan Swift’s ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ (1727), H.G. Wells’ ‘Time Machine’ (1895), Lewis Carroll’s ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ (1865) and ‘Through the Looking-Glass’ (1871), Aldous Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’ (1932), Ayn Rand’s ‘Anthem’ (1937), George Orwell’s ‘1984’ (1949), Arthur C. Clarke’s ‘Childhood’s End’ (1953), Philip K. Dick’s ‘Do Android’s dream of Electric Sheep? (1968), Stanislaw Lem’s ‘The Futurological Congress (1971), Robert Anton Wilson and Robert Shea’s ‘The Illuminatus Trilogy’ (1975), Margaret Attwood’s ‘Handmaid’s Tale’ (1985), Neil Gaiman’s ‘Neverwhere’ (1996) and Alan Moore and Dave Gibbon’s ‘Watchmen’ (1986-7, International Edition, 2014).

“…Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away…” (Philip K. Dick)

“…What power would Hell have if those imprisoned there were not able to dream of Heaven?…”  (Neil Gaiman)

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Samuel Butler’s ‘Erewhon’                                                                                 

In a 1945 broadcast, George Orwell praised the book and said that when Butler wrote: ‘Erewhon’, it needed, “imagination of a very high order to see that machinery could be dangerous as well as useful.”

Samuel Butler had personal experience as a sheep-farmer in New Zealand and it obviously inspired his mythical country of ‘Erewhon’, an anagram of ‘Nowhere’ – almost Nowhere backwards! His book is something of a response to Charles Darwin’s ‘Origin of Species’, published in 1859. Butler was the son of a clergyman and like many Victorians had extremely mixed (I’d suggest, confused) emotions regarding Science and Religion.  In ‘Erewhon’, Butler’s protagonist makes a voyage to a country much-resembling New Zealand, but then during some leisure time, explores the mountainous terrain, looking for new land suitable for sheep-rearing or for gold-mining. He sets out with a native companion, Chowbok, and suddenly finds himself alone in another world – Erewhon.

The locals put him under a kind of house-arrest. His crime? Wearing a watch!

The values of Erewhon are perhaps a ‘mirror-image’ of those in Victorian England. Correctional treatment programmes are carried out by Straighteners. ‘Illness’ is the greatest crime, whilst robbery and embezzlement are minor misdemeanours. Possession of ‘machines’ and machine-made items, is a serious offence too.

“The judge was fully persuaded that the infliction of pain upon the weak and the sickly was the only means of preventing weakness and sickliness from spreading.”

Life in Erewhon is based on ‘courtesy’ and ‘harmony’, but it is underpinned by anti-science. Education is controlled through ‘Colleges of Unreason’, which are founded on the doctrine of hypothetics, which are fervently anti-machine, out of fear of the machines taking over, we suppose:

“The lower animals progress because they struggle with one another; the weaker die, the stronger breed and transmit their strength. The machines themselves being unable to struggle, have got man to do their struggling for them…”

Samuel Butler’s writings and thought-processes are messy and disjointed. They wobble between a Luddite world where the destruction of machines is the Law, tinged with hints of extreme Eugenics.

“They hold that the unborn are perpetually plaguing and tormenting the married of both sexes…they would not have been here if they would only let peaceable people alone.”

Butler adds, as a point of confusion really:

“I cannot think that they seriously believed in their mythology concerning pre-existence: they did and they did not; they did not know themselves what they believed.”

Butler’s narrator discovers that Erewhon’s philosophic/religious base had been, in part, an extreme Vegan one – ‘The Rights of Vegetables’. Erewhon learned this from the Old Prophet.

“If it was sinful to kill and eat animals, it was not less sinful to do the like by vegetables, or their seeds.”

However, this went through topsy-turvy changes, as, after a public outcry, meat-eating was once more allowed.

“Which shows greater signs of intelligence? He (man), or the rose or the oak?”

Absolutely Bonkers!

                                                                                                * * * * *

And here is a selection of music inspired by the book (or perhaps just the Erewhon title):

David Thomas album, ‘Erewhon’ (2006):

http://www.ubuprojex.com/david-thomas/david-thomas-erewhon.html

“This is the radical debut of David Thomas and Two Pale Boys, a band dedicated to creating songs out of nothing – not rambling improv but atmospheric, nuanced, structured songs that never existed before. Erewhon is an album about places that don’t exist.”

Amazon review online:

“(It) is, of course, David Thomas, leader of Pere Ubu, those ambassadors of the absurd, and Erehwon (apart from being a famous book) is “nowhere” spelled backwards. Erehwon is also David Thomas backwards, in a way, coming on like Tom Waits after a serious bout with hallucinogenics. With the assistance of Keith Moline and Andy Diagram, he’s put together a record that’s not quite like anything.”

Progressive folk-rock band from Italy: NOTTURNO CONCERTANTE. Their 1993 album ‘Erewhon’, described in ‘Prog Archive’ online review:

 “Italian folksy neo-prog influenced by the English scene bands. This band uses lots of acoustic guitar, which makes the neo sound very mellow.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPZeNHvFQLY

  

‘The Road to Erewhon’, is a slice of countrified hokum. A track from ‘The Big Ugly’ film soundtrack (2020), written by Adam Marc McGrath and performed by The Eastern.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlZTl6gjH8c  

But here’s some other-worldly gamelan weirdness: ‘Erewhon’, by Hugues Dufourt – 3rd Movement (others are available!), performed by Line on Line: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6XkEvnmHxSQ

But wait a minute…Erewhon has also seeped into video gaming and is alive and well at the base-camp, filled with guitar noodling in this Tom Clancy game:


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5RMoIrUsJU 

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William Morris, ‘News from Nowhere’
           

William Morris is probably now best known for his decorative arts: wallpapers, fine book editions, decorative arts, stained glass and furniture. The museum and gallery devoted to his life is at Walter House in Walthamstow (the Morris family home from 1848-56). It provides plenty of opportunities to view his eclectic talents. It is well worth a visit when possible.  https://www.wmgallery.org.uk/

As with ‘Erewhon’, ‘News from Nowhere’ is a clunky read. Parts of the story-line are classic romantic adventure – the journey along the Thames, exploring its history and present. But mixed in, is a good deal of polemic. Morris wanted his narrator, the now quite elderly, William (the) ‘Guest’, to operate as a kind of human sponge. In the story he has been transposed to England some 130 years in the future. Chapter-by-chapter we listen to Morris’s own views on society, politics, industrialisation, women’s rights, art, nature, leisure and work. We do so through both Guest’s perspective and from the people he meets on a river voyage (notably old Hammond, Dick, Clara and Ellen), whilst sculling up the Thames from Hammersmith to the upper reaches of the Thames above Oxford, near to his own rural property, Kelmscott Manor. As Guest discovers, Parliament House at Westminster has become the Dung Market. Essentially, the book is a mechanism to explore aspects of William Morris’s own desire for a return to something akin to a more pastoral, pre-industrial, socialist society. However, he also examines, albeit quite superficially, some of the downsides of the new society where there is no private property, the environment is celebrated and protected, and where work is fun and noble. But, without competition and struggle, something is missing – which is perhaps why Morris loudly espoused communalism, and was vehemently opposed to state socialism, whilst being quite an avid fan of Karl Marx.

‘News from Nowhere’ is not a great piece of fiction, but it is filled with ideas that are very current and worth considering in the 21st century. Here are some samples.

Work as ‘attractive labour’ – Victorian Britain was incredibly divided – the towns and growing cities were heavily polluted and the poor often lived the lives of the damned – poverty meant squalid conditions and short lives, whilst the rich made their fortunes through rampant industrialised capitalism. Slave-labour in the view of the Marxist/Socialists. Morris appears heavily conflicted about the benefits of scientific advancements and machinery, and his romantic view that work should be a largely pleasant, “exercise of the mind and body” and that ‘new handicrafts’ and ‘hand-work’ should be the ideal, today feel quaint. But, he may be closer to some truths in his opposition to a situation where society has allowed “machines to be our masters and not our servants.”

Education is not compulsory – it’s viewed as the ‘art of knowledge’ and learning through doing and being closer to nature:

“…(children) often make up parties, and come to play in the woods for weeks together in the summer themselves, and get to know the wild creatures; the less they stew inside houses the better for them, living in tents, as you see. We rather encourage them to do it; they learn to do things for themselves.”

Morris hoped for an Egalitarian society. He seems to have believed in a rather naïve and idealised mix of devolved governance and opportunities to develop the ‘commonweal’ – perhaps, some sort of localised ‘community co-ops’ combined in some way with communes and collectives.

“That leads me to my last claim, which is that the material surroundings of my life should be pleasant, generous, and beautiful; that I know is a large claim, but this I will say about it, that if it cannot be satisfied, if every civilised community cannot provide such surroundings for all its members, I do not want the world to go on.”

Environmentalism – In ‘News from Nowhere’ the London of 2020 has become filled with trees, parks, nature and much ugliness has been removed. The people are handsome, as are the buildings and there’s a harmony with nature. Indeed, industrial Manchester has disappeared completely. His ‘Nowhere’ is not a total rural idyll, yet it is a society that has been transformed into one that is more in balance and harmony with nature. Or, so it seems…

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And here are some of the musical offshoots probably inspired by ‘News from Nowhere’.

Nick Cave: ‘More News from Nowhere’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MajmI5j7Bs

His 28th single released in 2008 from the album, ‘Dig Lazarus, Dig!’.

Graeme James from New Zealand – album and track: ‘News from Nowhere’. Nice video!

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZGryCHHlWc 

 

‘Bringing the News from Nowhere’ – a William Morris inspired song by Leon Rosselson, sung by Nancy Kerr.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8GFdMKH7-Vc

 

Words and music from the: The Fellowship Symphony: https://www.crowdfunder.co.uk/nfn    
500 performers recorded over a seven year period at the William Morris Gallery (2015).

 

Darkstar album (2013), ‘News from Nowhere’:


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1eEGtC_Jh5k

                                                                    

And perhaps, and probably, ‘Road to Nowhere’: Talking Heads (1985). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQiOA7euaYA

The most wonderful David Byrne certainly knows about William Morris and probably Samuel Butler too!

“We know where we are goin’, but we don’t know where we’ve been.”

 

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Perfectly Acceptable

are you actively seeking i inhabit the fictions
of day time tv when did you last apply the
seconds minutes, hours days weeks months
years crash in slo-mo crumpling would you
be prepared
trainees wanted wages to be
agreed have you considered instant coffee
need a loan don’t waste your vote what is
perfectly acceptable are you perfectly
acceptable

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp/1788768671/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Patrick+McCann+Still+Pondering&qid=1573366856&sr=8-1

 

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No Kidding: Societal Attitudes to the Childfree. Part two: A Device to Secure Attention

PhD RESEARCH OUTLINE 

‘A literary skeleton, plus film illustrations – such, almost without exception, are all films’ – Dziga Vertov[1]

As a filmmaker I have chosen to combine my research with audio-visual recordings that will be made available online in small excerpts, with comment boxes allowing interactive dialogue with visitors to the site. My decision to do this is to provide a mode of participatory ethnography that could entail more agency of the women and men who form the subject of my research.  While I acknowledge participatory models of filmmaking, as with Jean Rouch and the screen-back that he developed – that is, integrating feedback from participants into the filmic text (Henley, 2009)   – I have decided to instead let my interviewees participate at the editing stage. Thus, they become collaborators, while I assume a role analogous to ‘author’, in which regard David McDougall writes that ‘It is…necessary for visual anthropology to take reflexivity to a further stage—to see it at a deeper and more integral level. The author is no longer to be sought outside the work, for the work must be understood as including the author. Subject and object define one another through the work, and the “author” is in fact in many ways an artefact of the work.’ (MacDougall, 1998: 88-89).

However, Karl G Heider writes in his book Ethnographic Film that the rigour of ethnographic data must take precedence over the artistic ambitions of the ethnographic filmmaker, should they have any – ‘ethnography must take precedence over cinematography.’ (Heider, 1975:4).  He goes on to suggest that ‘In ethnographic film, film is the tool and ethnography the goal…sometimes this matter is phrased as an inevitable contradiction between art and science, with filmmakers arguing the case for art, and anthropologists the case for science…Ethnographic film must be judged in relation to ethnography, which is…a scientific enterprise.’

Under Heider’s paradigm then, I position myself as artist-ethnographer. Hence, I diverge from Heider’s formulation by suggesting that ethnographic import can be found in a balance between concerns about ethnographic data and cinematography and film editing. This accords with a general trend in anthropology to abandon the conceit of a scientific enterprise as there is no neutral or objective platform through which to pursue anthropological research (Clifford and Marcus, 1986).  However, the historic tensions between ‘scientific enterprise’ and film considered as a serious medium for research in anthropology seemed to hinge on the suspicion that film might be ‘trickery’ (Trinh, 1993:34), or that it represents a lack in depth and rigour; although Michael Stewart, writing in 1994, suggests that film always contains more than its makers intended or realised as the viewer is given the opportunity to construct their own interpretation of events – rather than simply read that of the filmmaker. The value of documentary for Stewart is that it aims at a closer involvement ‘with the reality beyond the image’.  As both anthropologist and filmmaker, Stewart is interested in inducing in ones audience ‘a sense of the complex nature of social life’ (Stewart, 1994:472-3).

However, for Fadwa El Guindi, writing in 2004, collaborations between anthropologists and filmmakers produce little of value. Some anthropologists, according to El Guindi, are ‘disdainful’ of an activity that displaces the true goal of the educated mind. Such activities as filmmaking are ‘beneath’ those whose minds should be ‘occupied with ideas’- collaborative work produces little of value, and in rare instances where the work is successful, it is largely ‘accidental’ (El Guindi, 2004:63).  Yet in their review of Between Art and Anthropology: Contemporary Ethnographic Practice by Arnd Schneider and Christopher Wright, the authors invoke antipathy towards art forms as part of ethnographic practice as a potential aversion to ‘strategies of research and representation better suited to capturing the sensuous dimensions of experience that usually disappear in the passage from fieldwork to ethnographic text.’[2]

For Margaret Mead, quoted by El Guindi, the idea of film used in serious anthropological research was a potential distraction, if seen as a form of art: ‘if it is an artform, it has been altered’ (Guindi, ibid:36).  For Mead, the process of editing or ‘altering’ a sequence of film compromises the ‘exactness and neutrality’ of the data. In terms of my own work, even though I will be posting film clips on a website, I will be paying due attention to organising a series of compiled imagery: there will be cinematic and editorial processes and concerns. This will not simply be instances of ‘vox pop’ compilations, as my interviewees will be concerned that they will be involved in a project that considers due professional process.

In Direct Cinema or observational film, both of which employ long takes, the camera becomes a ‘fly on the wall’, an unobtrusive and all-seeing eye on the world (Beattie, 2004:22). Trinh T Minh Ha’s Reassemblage investigates the assignment of meaning in film as a whole, employing alienating and disruptive sequences where, for example, the audio soundtrack is discontinuous with the visual, leaving an audience unsure as to what is being signified[3]. The film also serves to highlight the dilemma for an audience dependent on authoritative ‘Voice of God’ narration to make sense of the social and cultural activities of the film’s subjects. Trinh’s assertion that ‘there is no such thing as documentary’ (Trinh,ibid:29) implies that even a factual or observational documentary is a constructed assemblage designed to be understood as a mirror representation of reality, which is far from the case.

Former Professor of Anthropology at the University of Papua New Guinea, Andrew Strathern, writes about working for Granada Television between 1973-4 on a series called Disappearing Worlds. At the time, the series was notionally regarded as an exemplar of serious anthropological film watched by millions of people as part of their routine schedule at a time when there were only three UK TV channels.  Despite this lack of competition for viewing figures, Strathern found himself making films with a ‘strong human interest’ and, in his words, ‘devices to secure attention’ [my italics] (Strathern, 1976:38). For Strathern, the aim of the series was to provide material that would combine ‘serious understanding’ with content that was commercially viable – something that one potentially might wish to avoid, depending on one’s motivations for making films in the first place. To not try, however, was to polarise the serious and the popular in way that was, ultimately, ‘snobbish’.

In January 2017 I organised an event for Trash Cannes Festival in Hastings. Michael Yorke, former senior lecturer in Anthropology at University College, London screened his 1991 film, Hijra- India’s Third Gender[4], originally commissioned by the BBC for their season of ‘popular’ anthropological films, Under the Sun. In his preamble to the screening, he said that he was enormously proud of the three awards his film had garnered, but that he was also deeply ashamed of it. The reason for this disavowal was that the BBC had insisted that the director abandon his plan to preface his story with a brief history of hijra in rural India, and to explore both their historical and contemporary functions and status in Indian society: he felt he owed this to his audience. Instead, he was coerced into starting the film with a discussion between two friends. Karish has been castrated. His friend Kiran, a truck driver, who is married with two children, longs to follow his example – to become a hijra[5]. When Karish is asked why he had wanted to become a hijra, he pauses, glances briefly at the camera and replies ‘for the homosex’.  Mike felt that the coerced inclusion of this segment cheapened his film, insulted the LGBTQI+ community, and betrayed his respondents. Karish’s glance at the camera speaks volumes: he appears to be participating in a process of deception that is at odds with what he believes, and that, on the face of it, makes little sense. He is unwittingly complicit in the construction of a cheap marketing ploy – a device to secure attention. 

For both Andrew Strathern and Michael Yorke, the requirements of a system of competing markets in which they were trying to marry serious anthropology with what once might have been termed – or come to be so – ‘infotainment’ or ‘edutainment’, would mean making compromises at the editorial stage. It might be claimed that this was not so much to ‘trick’ their audiences, but to satisfy commissioning bodies focused on financial returns. I would argue that the serious anthropologist is correct in being suspicious of such ploys, and those working in popular media at this level must presumably wrestle with their consciences, or turn down the work.

However, I would argue that far from rendering the data trivial, or compromised, skilful use of filming techniques can work to enhance one’s understanding of the subjects being filmed, as correct or appropriate use of film’s grammatical structures can add layers of meaning unattainable through written text. With film, one can indeed show rather than tell. Through participatory filmmaking subjects can represent themselves; they can be involved in the editing process; via website comment boxes they can potentially engage directly with publics online. This strikes at the heart of what I want to achieve: to explore both the opportunities for a national and even global reach that current internet technologies and platforms enable, and the possibilities inherent in creative practices within ethnographic filmmaking – what Sarah Pink refers to as ‘the materiality and agency of the visual’ (Pink, 2003:180). This will allow my respondents to directly address issues which are central to their senses of self, to respond to challenges to their agency and integrity, and to proactively participate in a debate addressing these concerns.

As Trinh writes, documentary film has the power to reveal ‘powerful living stories, infinite authentic situations’, revealing real people in real situations in the real world – it ‘deals with them’ (Trinh, 1991:33, emphasis author’s own)[6]. By contrast, written text is a bourgeois construction which holds that ‘the means of communication is the word, its object factual’ (Trinh, ibid, 31). In Kirsten Hastrup’s formulation, however, written text is capable of allowing a far more nuanced and exhaustive account of events than real-time media such as film, through its qualities of richness and depth of analysis. Anyone who has seen their favourite novel turned into a film might agree. Yet MacDougall cites potential objection to written text in writing that ‘[p]art of the objection to [earlier] anthropological writing has stemmed from its assumption of authority and its techniques for making its conclusions appear natural and indisputable’ (MacDougall,2006:44).

Bill Nichols wrote that ‘[A]t the moment we believe we are stalking signs, we may suddenly discover that we ourselves are being stalked…the big game is ideology and what it does to us’ (Nichols 1981: 10). What the viewer makes of these coded representations depends largely on processes associated with interpreting signs and significations through referral to one’s experience rooted in the past. How does ideology play a part in all this? If Nichols is correct, it is the ideology of the dominant class[7] that drives or directs what the viewer understands of the sequence of images. As David MacDougall observes, ‘images are not in any sense knowledge – they simply make knowledge possible’ (MacDougall, ibid:4).

I would argue that film bears what I have termed the ontological thumbprint of real-time, real-world events; that the assignment of meaning in written text is shaped ideologically according to the same subjective editorial framework as film, and that mediation is an inevitable part of the process of the use of film as representation and should be welcomed as such. As Afsaneh Najmabadi writes of ‘the ethnographic venture’, ‘as historians…we select some texts and ignore others, producing relevance as we go’ (Najmabadi: 2014, 13).

METHOD AND ETHICS

‘Corporeal images are not just the images of other bodies, they are also the image of the body behind the camera and its relations with the world’ – David MacDougall[8]

 

So, where does my own research fit into all this? What should I be aware of in terms of representation, ownership and dissemination of knowledge? What ethical concerns should I bear in mind? What are the implications – if there are any of pressing note – of speaking on behalf of a group of women and men from my close personal network?

The short films I propose to make will follow the paradigm of an observational documentary film, as outlined by Bill Nichols, who describes the observational mode as that which emphases ‘a direct engagement with the everyday life of subjects as observed by an unobtrusive camera’ (Nichols 2010:31). I have chosen the observational mode as it seems to me to be, of all the available modes, the most direct approach to gathering data. I will not be making films with a ‘look’ that attempts to posit my work as a largely commercial enterprise, with all its associated methods and tropes. My approach will be, as suggested earlier in this outline, to create dialogues between myself, the ‘author’ and my interviewees, the ‘characters’ or storytellers.  Central influences on my filmic style are the Russian director of fiction Andrei Tarkovsky, who is renowned for his modus operandum of allowing time to unfold before the camera, of eschewing rapid cuts and other disorienting tropes or techniques; and British documentary filmmaker Marc Isaacs, whose film The Lift observed residents of a tower block in Hackney, focusing on his interactions with the residents as they entered and left the lift[9]. Leaving the camera running for long takes will give the films a chance to ‘breathe’ – to allow time to pass in a non-coerced manner, which I hope will engender natural, spontaneous responses to my questions. As Trinh remarks, the use of wide-angle lenses places the events in context, while the close-up is suspect because of its partiality: the one is objective, the other subjective (Trinh, ibid:34).  Yet I would argue that the close-up affords greater intimacy with the subject, and it is in those intimate moments when one might approach a kind of emotional authenticity – even if that authenticity is constructed.  

At this stage, I aim to separate my work into about seven discrete segments, with each ‘story’ lasting approximately six minutes – the exact number is to be determined during and after the fieldwork process and period. These will be uploaded to a website, with text outlining the nature and purpose of the project. Comment boxes will allow visitors to the site to upload their own reflections, questions or comments. Site administration will allow the monitoring of these responses before they appear on the site, allowing me to filter out any instances of ‘trolling’, prejudice or hate speech – sexism, racism, homophobia, misogyny or discrimination based on religious faith or belief. I am proposing that the films allow each interviewee to outline their experiences of living in society as a person who has chosen to be childfree, or has come to that choice through circumstance, conviction, intention or omission. Initial interviews will be informal, and in surroundings that are conducive to relaxed responses: once a pattern emerges with these initial interviews, my questioning will become more directly focused on issues raised. No-one will be asked questions about the intimate circumstances of their lives. I will leave them to tell me if they think it is relevant. My initial task is to gain their confidence, and provide a space where they can talk freely about their experiences of attitudes and responses from friends, family, partners, work-mates, health professionals, clergypersons or colleagues relating to their decisions not to have children.  As already outlined in my introduction, contextual visualisation will be intercut with the interviews and will show the respondents at home, at work, at leisure. It is naturally impractical to anticipate in advance where my leading questions will take us, as I will not simply be looking for responses adhering to a strict formula. I am referring to past experience with my previous documentary films to anticipate that further or related topics for discussion will emerge as a result of the interviews, and that these in turn will shape the overall direction of each film.

 

As indicated earlier, my interviewees are people of my close acquaintance, or in two cases people who have self-selected because they appreciate my interests and/or my intentions. We have established mutual trust: if this were not the case, I would not invite them to participate or collaborate. My device to secure any kind of attention will be the topic itself, underpinned by what Wilma de Jong describes as ‘a strong drive, a passion that signifies the filmmaker’ (de Jong 2012:176).  It is my intention not to speak for my interviewees, or to present an authorative stance through ‘Voice of God’ narration or exposition, but to let them speak for themselves, and thus to contest and re-narrate stereotypical notions of what it means to be childfree.

Where possible, I intend to spend an initial weekend with each interviewee, when they have most time free from their work obligations, to establish a working method, to put them at ease with the filming process, and film initial responses to my questions. I will then arrange further days when we both watch the footage I have captured. I will encourage my interviewees to give me their reactions to what has been filmed: does it capture succinctly and accurately what they meant to say? Is it a fair representation of their viewpoint or response to each question raised? If, in the time that has elapsed since our first interview session, they have had time to reflect, to expand on topics raised, or points germane to the discussions, I will suggest we film new interviews. If they want anything removed, or improved upon, this will be done in accordance with their wishes. I will also show them, as time goes on and I have more segments captured, interviews with other respondents. If they want to respond to points raised or views expressed, I will film them doing so. In this way, each respondent can enter a dialogue with members of their cohort.

Questions which I anticipate may become germane to the overall project might examine central themes: What connects my respondents? What differentiates them?  Is there among them a common viewpoint or set of assumptions about the world, or their experiences, that would help explain their individual choices? Are they united in opposition to any set of expectations that may have been imposed upon them, or implicitly or explicitly demanded of them – that they become, for instance, ‘procreative serfs’? To what extent are they, to use Henrietta Moore’s phrase, ‘the authors of their own experience’ (Moore 1994:35)? Had they identified their childlessness as a societal issue? Do they feel they have anything in common with other childfree persons, in a general sense, not just with others from their cohort? Are their choices formulated in accordance with – or opposition to – a set of beliefs or practices with which they identify?

 

Throughout the research I will be self-reflexive and question my positionality. My reasons for pursuing a research degree are, no doubt predictably, the results of a combination of intrinsic and extrinsic motivations. Although there are several anthropological journal entries, and books on the popular market dealing with practical and ethical concerns relating to the rejection of motherhood, the issue of societal attitudes to the childfree is an under-represented area of research in visual anthropology: a thorough search of internet databases, in both academia and mainstream or popular culture, has revealed only a single film made on this topic, a French-Canadian production called Maman? Non Merci! [10] The Vimeo trailer for this documentary film translates the title as No Kids For Me, Thanks! The film’s style mirrors that of hybrid ‘popular anthropology’ and populist documentary, described by Philip Vannini as a kind of ‘non-academic ethnographic documentary [that] has become a commonly practiced and widely recognized feature of popular film culture’ (Vannini 2015:392 ). Vannini goes on to reflect that in respect of such works ‘one could venture to say that “amateur” or “self-fashioned” ethnographers have outshone their “professional” academic counterparts, at least in the domain of popular reach’ (ibid, 393).

 

Further motivations for pursuing my research topic include the desire for continuing to learn as I approach my retirement years. My friend, long-term mentor and Harvard Fellow George Balamoan has encouraged me in this over the last 20 years. In 1988, after I had copy-edited his book Blue Nile Boy, a semi-autobiographical account of his childhood under British administration in post-war Sudan, George encouraged me to pursue a career in academia[11].  There is also an even more personal dimension: my long-term partner Amanda Thompson has known since the age of seven that she did not want children. Despite this, aged 35, she began to be challenged by certain of her female friends, who advanced a series of entreaties such as ‘you still have time’, ‘you’ll regret not having one’, ‘you know you want one really’, and so on. These progressed ultimately to ‘God gave you a woman’s body, you should use it.’ This came from people who professed no religious faith in any other context, and seemed to see the Church as a booking agency for colourful ritual pageantry – a ceremonial referral service for births, deaths and marriages. Amanda greatly resented these incursions on her privacy, challenges to her integrity and refusals of her right to live her life according to her choices or convictions. Yet her friends remained intransigent: she would never be ‘one of them’; she had let the side down.

 

I myself have two children, a daughter aged 40 and a son aged 23 from an earlier relationship. Following the collapse of my relationship with my daughter’s mother, I was estranged from Amy for 15 years. We now enjoy a healthy and honest relationship, acknowledging the trials of the past, but focusing on our lives as they move forward. For my friends who have elected not to have children, or who are without them for reasons of circumstance or opportunity, these are simply facts of our respective lives. There is mutual respect for our choices. As noted earlier in this outline, many of my friends work in areas where to be childfree is not unusual, owing in part to the strictures placed on their lives by their career choices or lifestyles. I suspect, however, that attitudes among their friends and family may differ: as Park remarks, ‘[i]ndividuals who possess a stigmatized identity are faced with the ongoing tasks of accepting it themselves and negotiating it in interactions with others who may view their character and behaviour as incomprehensible, strange, or immoral (Park, 2002:21)’.

 

In the matter of such stigmatisation, Erving Goffman remarks that once criticism has been applied, there is a tendency to ‘impute a wide range of imperfections based on the original one’ (Goffman, 1963:5). It is my curiosity to understand the experiences of childfree persons in contesting attitudes such as these that will form an essential component of my research.

 

 

TIMETABLE

 

I plan to begin filming in September 2021, and to have principal photography, editing and sound mix complete by January 2022. I will then organise what I have captured into discrete segments, one short film per interviewee or interviewees, and where appropriate I will invite my interviewees to expand upon points they will have made, and to respond, where applicable, to responses from others from their cohort. Any adjustments, corrections or changes will be complete by April 2022. I will then build a website that features each segment with brief background or biographical data, and, as indicated earlier, text outlining the origination and purpose of the site. Examples of the kind of website I will build include http://www.laygatestories.com  and https://www.opendemocracy.net/article/i_am_an_american_portraits_of_post_9_11_us_citizens    I will then embark on completing my 40-50,000 word dissertation, which will be formed from my ongoing field notes and journal entries, to be completed by May 2024.

  

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY, REFERENCES AND FURTHER READING

BOOKS and JOURNALS:

Afshani, Sayed Alireza, ‘The attitudes of infertile couples towards assisted reproductive techniques in Yazd, Iran: A cross sectional study in 2014’, International Journal of Reproductive BioMedicine, December 2016, 14 (12) 761-768 

Akundy, Anand, Anthropology of Aging. Contexts, Culture and Implications, Serials Publications, Delhi, 2004

Arya, Shafali Talisa & Dibb, Bridget (2016) ‘The experience of infertility treatment: the male perspective’, Human Fertility, 19:4, 242-248

Atwood, Margaret, Good Bones, Bloomsbury Publishing Ltd., London, 1992

Austin, Thomas and de Jong, Wilma (editors), Rethinking Documentary. New Perspectives, New Practices, Open University Press, 2008

Banks, Marcus and Morphy, Howard, Rethinking Visual Anthropology, Yale University Press UK, 1999

Barbre, Joy Webster, ‘Meno-Boomers and Moral Guardians: An Exploration of the Cultural Construction of Menopuase’, in Weitz, Rose (editor), The Politics of Women’s Bodies, Oxford University Press, New York, 2003

Barnard, Ian, Queer Race. Cultural Interventions in the Racial Politics of Queer Theory, Peter Lang, New York, 2004

Basten, S., Voluntary childlessness and being Childfree. The Future of Human Reproduction: Working Paper #5, St. John’s College, Oxford & Vienna, Institute of Demography 2009

Baumgardner, Jennifer and Richards, Amy, Manifesta: Young Women, Feminism and the Future, Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 2000

Beard, Mary, Women and Power: A Manifesto, Profile Books, 2017

Bell, Amelia Rector, ‘Separate people: speaking of Creek men and women’, American Anthropologist, 92:332-45

Benatar, David, ‘Better Never to Have Been. Oxford University Press, 2006

Boyce, Paul and Hajra, Anindya,  ‘Do you feel somewhere in light that your body has no existence? Photographic research with transgendered people and men who have sex with men in West Bengal, India’, Visual Communication, February 2011, Vol. 10 (1), pp3-24

Burke, Lynda, Feminism and the Biological Body, Edinburgh University Press, 1999

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Butler, Judith, Undoing Gender, Routledge, Oxfordhsire, 2004

Cain, Madelyn, The Childless Revolution. What It Means to be Childless Today, Da Capo Press, Washington, 2002

Campbell, Elaine, The Childless Marriage. An Exploratory Study of Couples Who Do Not Want Children, Tavistock Publications, London, 1985

Clifford, James and Marcus, George E., Writing Culture. The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, University of California Press Ltd, London, 1986

Connell, R.W., Gender, Polity, Cambridge, 2002

Correa, Sonia, ‘Sexuality, Gender and Empowerment’, Development, 53(2), 183–186, 2010

Coward, Rosalind, Female Desire, Paladin Books, London, 1984

De Beauvoir, Simone, The Second Sex, Vintage Classics, 1977

Daum, Meghan, Selfish, Shallow and Self-Absorbed. Sixteen Writers on the Decision Not to Have Kids, Picador, New York, 2015

de Jong, Wilma, Knudsen, Eric and Austin, Thomas, Creative Documentary. Theory and Practice, Pearson Education Ltd, 2012

DeMarneffe, Daphne, Maternal Desire: On Children, Love, and the Inner Life, Back Bay Books/Little, Brown, and Company, 2005

Deeb, Lara, An Enchanted Modern: Gender and Public Piety in Shi’i Lebanon, Princeton University Press, 2006

Dreifus, Erika, No Kidding: Women Writers on Bypassing Parenthood, Seal Press, 2013

Dreifus, Erika, Unmothers: Writing About Life Without Children, The Missouri Review, Volume 37, Number 33, 2014, pp 186-196, accessed 27.08.16

Edelman, Lee, No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive, Duke University Press, London and Durham, 2004

Edin, K., & Kefalas, M., ‘Promises I can keep: Why poor women put motherhood before marriage’, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2005

El Guini, Fadwa, Visual Anthropology. Essential Method and Theory, Alta Mira Press, 22004

Eliot, George, Middlemarch, Penguin Classics, London, 1994

Eliot, T.S., The Wasteland, Faber and Faber, 2002

Erikson, Erik, Childhood and Society, W W Norton, 1963

Foucault, Michel, The History of Sexuality, Volume One, Pantheon, New York, 1978

Foucault, Michel, ’Power and Norms’ in M.Morris and P.Patton (ed), Power, Truth and Strategy, Feral 1979 (Sydney),p 62

Funke, Jana, review: Lee Edelman, No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive, Third Space, A Journal of Feminist Theory and Culture, Vol 10, 2011

Gannon, Linda, Women and Aging. Transcending the Myths, Routledge, London, 1999

Gillespie, Rosemary.  Choosing Childlessness: Resisting Pronatalism and the Emergence of a Childless Femininity.  University of Southampton, Southampton, 1999

Gillespie, Rosemary, ‘Contextualizing voluntary childlessness within a postmodern model of reproduction: implications for  health and social needs’.  Critical Social Policy, Vol 21(2),pp 139-159, 2001

 

Gillespie, Rosemary,’ When No Means No: Disbelief, Disregard and Deviance as Discourses of Voluntary Childlessness’, Women’s Studies International Forum, Vol. 23, No. 2, pp. 223–234, 2000

Gilman, Charlotte Perkins, The Man-Made World: Or, Our Androcentric Culture, Cornell University Library, 2009

Goffman, Erving, Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identit, Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1963.

Halberstram, Judith, Female Masculinity, Duke University Press, 1998

Heider, Karl G, Ethnographic Film, University of Texas Press, 2006

Heitlinger, Alena, ‘Pronatalism and Women’s Equality Policies’, European Journal of Population Vol. 7, pp343–75, 1991

Hook, Derek (2006). Lacan, the meaning of the phallus and the ‘sexed’ subject, London: LSE Research Online, accessed 24.09.16

Irigary, Luce, This Sex Which Is Not One, Cornell University, 1985

James, P.D., The Children of Men, Faber and Faber, 2010

Keizer, R. (2011), ‘Childlessness and Norms of Familial Responsibility in the Netherlands’, Journal of Comparative Family Studies, 1, 424, pp421-438

Kildea, Gary and Wilson, Margaret, ‘Interpreting Ethnographic Film: An Exchange About ‘Celso and Cora’’, Anthropology Today, Vol. 2, No. 4, pp. 15-17, 1986

Korasick, Candice A., Women Without Children. Identity, Choice, Responsibility, University of Missouri-Columbia, 2010

Korasick, Candice A., Women Without Children. Identity, Choice, Responsibility, University of Missouri-Columbia, 2010

Koropeckyj-Cox, Tanya and Call, Vaughn R. A. ‘ Characteristics of Older Childless Persons and Parents. Cross-National Comparisons’, Journal of Family Issues, Volume 28 Number 10, October 2007, pp 1362-1414

Koropeckyj-Cox, Tanya, Romano, Victor and Morafound, Amanda, ‘Through the Lenses of Gender, Race, and Class: Students’ Perceptions of Childless/Childfree Individuals and Couples’, Springer Science + Business Media, LLC 2007, p415

Kostenberger, Andreas, ‘The Bible’s Teaching on Marriage and Family’, www.frc.org, accessed online 08.07.17

Leonard, Kristy M, ‘Her Body, No Baby: Compulsory Procreativity, the Stigma of Childlessness, and U.S. Exceptionalism in the Era of Technoscience’, Proquest Dissertations Publishing, 2012

Leone, Catherine, ‘Fairness, Freedom and Responsibility: The Dilemma of Fertility Choice in America’, Washington State University ,1989

Letherby, G, ‘Childless and bereft?: Stereotypes and realities in relation to voluntary and involuntary childlessness and womanhood’, Sociological Inquiry,72, 7-20, 2002

 

Letherby, Gayle, ‘Mother or Not, Mother or What?:  Problems of Definition and Identity’, Women’s Studies International Forum, 17:  525-532, 1994

Letherby, Gayle, ‘Other than Mother and Mothers and Others:  The Experience of Motherhood and Non-Motherhood in Relation to ‘Infertility’ and ‘Involuntary Childlessness’’, Women’s Studies International Forum, 22:  359-372, 1999.

Livingston, Gretchen and Cohn, D’Vera, ‘Childlessness Up Among All Women; Down Among Women with Advanced Degrees’, Pew Research Center, 2010

Loether, Herman J, Problems of Aging. Sociological and Social Psychological Perspectives, Dickenson Publishing, California, 1975

MacDougall, David, Film, Ethnography and the Senses. The Corporeal Image, Princeton University Press, 2006, p3

MacDougall, David, Transcultural Cinema. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998

Mahmood, Saba, Politics of Piety. The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject, Princeton University Press, 2005

May, Elaine Tyler, Barren in the Promised Land: Childless Americans and the Pursuit of Happiness, Basic Books (New York), 1995

Miller, Seumas, Foucault on Discourse and Power, Theoria: A Journal of Social and Political Theory no 76, The Meaning of 1989, October 1990, pp 115-125

Monach, James H., Childless: No Choice. The Experience of Involuntary Childlessness,  Routledge, London, 1993.

Moore, Henrietta, A Passion for Difference, Polity Press, 1994

Morgan, S. P., & King, R. B. ‘Why have children in the 21st century? Biological predisposition, social coercion, and rational choice’, European Journal of Population, vol.17, pp3-20, 2001

Najmabadi, Afsaneh, Professing Selves, Duke University Press, 2013

Nichols, Bill, Ideology and the Image. Social Representation in the Cinema and Other Media, Indiana University Press, 1981

Nichols, Bill, Introduction to Documentary. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001

Ortner, Sherry, ‘Is Female to Male as Nature Is to Culture?’, in M.Z. Rosaldo and L. Lamphere (eds), Woman, Culture and Society, Stanford CA, Stanford University Press, pp 68-87.

Overall, Christine, Why Have Children? The Ethical Debate, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 2012

Park, Kristin, ‘Stigma management among the voluntary childless’, Sociological Perspectives, Volume 45, Number 1, pages 21–45, 2002

Pilcher, Jane and Whelelan, Imelda, 50 Key Concepts in Gender Studies, Sage Publications, London, 2004

Pink, Sarah, ‘Analysing Visual Experience’, in Research Methods for Cultural Studies, Michael Pickering (editor), Edinburgh University Press, 2008

Pink, Sarah, Doing Sensory Ethnography, Sage Publications, London, 2009

Pink, Sarah, Interdisciplinary agendas in visual research: re-situating visual anthropology, Visual Studies, Vol 18, No 2, 2003, pp

Pink, Sarah, The Future of Visual Anthropology. Engaging the Senses, Routledge, London, 2005

Pollitt, Katha, ‘Fetal Rights. A new assault on Feminism’, Weitz, Rose (editor), The Politics of Women’s Bodies, Oxford University Press, New York, 2003

Pullen, Alison, Thanem, Torkild, Tyler, Melissa and Wallenberg, Louise, in ‘Gender, Work and Orgainisation’, Vol 23, Issue 1, 2015

Rabiger, Michael, Directing the Documentary, Focal Press, 2009

Renov, Michael, Theorising Documentary, Rouledge, London, 1993

Restivo, Angelo, Review: No Future. Queer Theory and the Death Drive, Georgia State University, 2004

Sadl, Zedenka and Ferko, Tajda, ‘Intersectionality and Feminist Activism: Student Feminist Societies in the United Kingdom’, www.fdv.uni-lj.si, 2017, accessed online 17.10. 18

Stewart, Michael, Review: Linking Film and Anthropology: The State of the Art by Peter Ian Crawford and David Turton, Current Anthropology Vol 35, No 4, pp 472-474, The Chicago Press on behalf of Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research, accessed 22.02.17

Stoneley, Peter, ‘Children, futurity, and value: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn’, Textual Practice, 30:1, pp169-184, 2016

Strathern, Andrew, ‘Making ‘Ongka’s Big Moka’’, Cambridge Anthropology – special issue, Ethnographic Film, 1984

Stulhofer, Aleksander  and Sandfort, Theo, Sexuality and Gender in Postcommunist Eastern Europe and Russia, Haworth Press, New York, 2005

Thomas, Candice L. , Laguda,Emem,  Olufemi-Ayoola, Folasade, Netzley, Stephen, Yu, Jia and Spitzmueller, Christiane, ‘Linking Job Work Hours to Women’s Physical Health: The Role of Perceived Unfairness and Household Work Hours’, Sex Roles, October 2018, Vol 79, Issue 7-8, pp 476-488

Trinh T Min-ha, ‘The Totalising Quest of Meaning’ in Renov, Michael, Theorizing Documentary, Routledge, London, 1993

Utterson, Andrew (editor), Technology and Culture. The Film Reader, Routledge, Oxford, 2005

Valentine, David, Imagining Transgender. An Ethnography of a Category, Duke University Press, 2007

Vannini, Philip, ‘Ethnographic Film and Video on Hybrid Television: Learning from the Content, Style, and Distribution of Popular Ethnographic Documentaries’, Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, Vol. 44, pp392-3, 2015

Vaughan, Dai, For Documentary: Twelve Essays. Berkeley and London: University of California Press, 1991

Veevers, Jean, Childless by Choice, Butterworth-Heinemann Ltd, 1980

Walker, Anita M. and Dickerman, Edmund H., ‘A Woman under the Influence: A Case of Alleged Possession in Sixteenth-Century France’, The Sixteenth Century Journal, Vol. 22, No. 3 (Autumn, 1991), pp. 534-554, accessed 23.08.16

Weitz, Rose, The Politics of Women’s Bodies, Oxford University Press, New York, 2003

FILM

Becoming Penny, Keith Rodway, the Other Film Company/Trash Cannes Films, 2017

Brother’s Keeper, Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinovsky (directors), Creative Thinking International Ltd, 1992

Children of Men, Alfonso Cuaron, Universal, 2007

Divorce Iranian Style, Kim Longinotto, Twentieth Century Vixen, 1998

Gimme Shelter, Albert and David Maysles, 20th Century Fox, 1971

District 9, Neill Bloomkamp, Tristar Pictures, 2009

Hijra – India’s Third Gender, Michael Yorke, 1991

Maman? Non Merci!, Magenta Maribeau, 2015

Mirror Mirror directed by Zemirah Moffat, 2006 (London, England: Royal Anthropological Institute, 2007)

Reassemblage, Trinh T Minh-ha, Institute for Film and Video Art, 1982

Titicut Follies, Frederick Wiseman, Zipporah Films, 1967

Walk the Line, James Mangold, 20th Century Fox, 2005

 

 

[1]Utterson, Andrew (editor), Technology  and Culture. The Film Reader, Routledge, Oxford, 2005, p100

[2] Schneider, Arnd and Wright, Christopher, ‘Between Art and Anthropology: Contemporary Ethnographic Practice’, Journal of Museum Ethnography no. 25 pp. 195-204, Museum Ethnographers Group, 2012

[3] Reassemblage, Trinh T Minh-ha, Institute for Film and Video Art, 198

[4],Michael Yorke, Hijra – India’s Third Gender , BBC Films, 1991

[5] For a discussion on transgendered people and men who have sex with men in West Bengal, India, I refer to Paul Boyce and Anindya Hajra’s work on this subject (Boyce and Anindya, 2011)

[6] Trinh T Min-ha, ‘The Totalising Quest of Meaning’ in Renov, Michael, Theorizing Documentary, Routledge, London, 1993

[7] I refer here to Marxist understandings of ideology as consisting of certain social ideas which periodically dominate in class-divided societies.

[8] MacDougall, David, Film, Ethnography and the Senses. The Corporeal Image, Princeton University Press, 2006, p3

 

[9] Marc Isaacs, The Lift, Dual Purpose Productions, 2001

[10]Magenta Baribeau, Maman? Non Merci!,  Groupe Intervention Vidéo, 2015

[11] Balamoan, George, Blue Nile Boy, Karia Press, London, 1989

 

 

Keith Rodway

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Asides, Puns, Riddles and Impossibilities

The Lion of Boaz-Jachim and Jachim-Boaz, Turtle Diary; Kleinzet, Pilgermann, Riddley Walker, The Medusa Frequency, Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s Offer, Fremder, Russell Hoban (Penguin Modern Classics)

American author Russell Hoban was originally an illustrator. In real life he inhabited a Victorian house in Fulham, his writing room crammed with objects that informed and inspired his writing, along with a shortwave radio that created the ambience he wrote in. His fiction was otherworldly, highly original and often obsessive. Hoban circled and returned to similar themes throughout his adult fiction (he also wrote children’s books): many of his characters feel there is something or someone else looking out of their own eyes and skin, many speak in an elliptical and unconvincing manner, many inhabit worlds where the mythical and fantastic are everyday occurrences and almost everything is not what it seems. Hoban’s worlds are full of asides, subtexts, metatexts, puns, riddles and impossibilities; most are marvellous places to visit.

There’s something satisfying about uniform editions of an author’s work, so it’s wonderful to see Penguin Classics reissuing Hoban’s first eight novels with cover art by Scottish artist Eduardo Paolozzi. In the past Hoban hasn’t always been well served by cover art, with 1970s Picador paperbacks seeming particularly dated, but now that has been put to rights: Paolozzi’s images are as enigmatic, strange and subtle as Hoban’s writing, working by association not illustration, just as it should be. The first four titles are published this month, with the next four at the end of April.

Hoban’s first novel, The Lion of Boaz-Jachim and Jachim-Boaz, feels very much a product of its time (1973). It is nothing like Narnia or Tolkien’s world but it was compared to them because that was what was being read at the time, and because critics and reviewers are renowned for making lazy comparisons. It is a tale of an epic journey, the story of a map-maker travelling to find lions in a world where none are left. Yet find a lion he does, or perhaps more to the point, a lion comes to find him, possibly from another world, possibly more as the idea of a lion in physical form. But rest assured there are no dwarves, elves or bearded wizards to be found. The Lion… is funny, inventive and sometimes a little twee, yet along with Turtle Diary, the third of his adult novels, it is also the most ‘realistic’ and rooted of Hoban’s work. I’m not sure, however, if that is a good thing.

Turtle Diary
(1975) is an almost straightforward narrative, the story of a bookseller and an illustrator conspiring to liberate the giant turtles at London Zoo. It’s engrossing enough, and was made into a fairly tepid family film, but it feels like an aside in Hoban’s overall storytelling trajectory. Kleinzeit, published the year before, was much more original and outrageously comic. Its titular character inhabits a world where everything speaks to him: death in chimpanzee form hides under his hospital bed, a glockenspiel encourages him to play and busk with it, London Underground trains gossip and whisper, yellow sheets of paper demand to be written on and handed out to strangers. Surreal and laugh-aloud funny as this is, it is rooted in an anthropomorphism based on the world around us. Hospitals are full of strange sounds, Underground trains do announce their presence in the rail’s electric whispers and so on; Hoban has cleverly exaggerated these to produce a surreal and surprising world which Kleinzeit has to navigate and survive in. Despite the surrealism, London is gritty and real throughout the book, but seen and encountered anew; a kind of fantastical palimpsest.

If Kleinzeit is one of my all-time favourite books, Riddley Walker, published in 1980, is in top position (tied with Alan Garner’s Red Shift, since you asked). It is set in a post-apocalyptic Kent where humans live in tribal settlements and live by farming and scavenging, digging up the remains of our industrial society as they wait for visits from politicians-come-preachers-come-showmen-come-shamen who use Punch & Judy and the Legend of St Eustace to explain human history and the nuclear apocalypse that has gone before. Canterbury appears to be the still radioactive centre of the explosion, and Riddley makes several trips there, accompanied by a pack of wild dogs he befriends. He meets the deformed and disabled inhabitants who still live there, and gradually discovers – as he sees it – the story of creation and power, before becoming a teller himself, with his own set of puppets and his own version of the story. Confused? You should be. This is a book that keeps on giving, with more to find out, think about or conjecture from every time you revisit this strange landscape. And I’ve forgotten to mention it’s also written in a dismantled and ruined, post-apocalyptic language that took Hoban many years to create and knock into shape. Sound it out in your head or read it aloud and it’s clear enough, but speed-read it or stay disengaged and you’ll struggle. Riddley Walker is an assured, innovative masterpiece and a cult classic; I hope even more people will read this new edition and think about the nature and power of storytelling, industrialisation, (mis)interpretation and society.

1983’s Pilgermann, however, has continued to defeat me since it was first published, despite several reads and re-reads over the decades. It is a repulsive, violent and brutal novel, a mash up of Hieronymus Bosch, geometric art, the Crusades, religion and torture, supposedly woven together as an allegorical and actual pilgrimage towards meaning and salvation. I confess I simply don’t get it at all and find much of it stomach-churningly horrific and bewildering confused and confusing.

All this reworking and thinking about the power of myths and how they survive in contemporary society continued to intrigue Hoban. In The Medusa Frequency (1987) we are back in London with author Herman Orff, who is suffering from writers’ block. He responds to a flier pushed through his door offering a cure and finds himself (rather like Kleinzet, previously) in a different London, one inhabited by characters from history, mythology and art, including the Head of Orpheus – mostly adrift in the Thames, Vermeer’s Girl with the Pearl Earring, and the Kraken. A lost love turns up in this dream world too, and if the story is somewhat slight, jokey and straightforward (especially in comparison to Riddley Walker), it’s an enjoyable enough novel.

Despite the return to clarity in Hoban’s writing, it’s also the point where many might put Hoban’s work aside. It would be almost another decade before Hoban published his next adult book, Fremder (1996), and then Mr. Rinyo-Clacton’s Offer (1998) – both of which are being republished by Penguin. The latter was the first of a profusion of novels until Hoban’s death in 2011 which often seemed like similar episodes from the same story, whoever their main characters supposedly were. Many feel rushed and unpolished, some betray a rather sexist tone in places, with the lusting male gaze and casual sexual encounters gleefully embraced (but often awkwardly described) by protagonist and author. Most are set in Londons that are both familiar and unfamiliar from previous Hoban novels, most involve rather self-aware characters dreaming and having premonitions; indeed many read as lucid yet confusing dreams, where episodes precede another and then another without much narrative or plot. I have a soft spot for Amaryllis Night and Day (2001) but Mr. Rinyo-Clacton’s Offer, Angelica’s Grotto (1999), The Bat Tattoo (2002), Her Name Was Lola (2003), Come Dance With Me (2005), Linger Awhile (2006), My Tango with Barbara Stozzi (2007) and Angelica Lost and Found (2010) desperately needed editing and revising, perhaps compressing and remixing into one or two new books.

In Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s Offer, instead of buying the cure for Writer’s Block (as Orff does in The Medusa Frequency), or a musician selling his soul for the gift of the blues, protagonist and anti-hero Jonathan Fitch is approached by a smooth-talking stranger (the Mr of the title) who seduces him and then offers to buy his death a year later in exchange for a million pounds. It’s a sometimes hilarious but often rather longwinded romance, set (of course) in London, but it also highlights some of the problems with Hoban’s later books. Firstly, the plot resolution is clunky in the extreme; it comes out of the blue and neatly solves everything by the end of the page: there is a reveal about the relationship between Rinyo-Claton and a secondary character, and Fitch and his ex are suddenly able to get back together, a million pounds richer. Secondly, it highlights the way Hoban uses art and music as a kind of shorthand, clearly expecting the reader to know the specific painting or song (or opera or symphony) mentioned, and understand how and what the author thinks about it or the mood or ideas he associates it with. It’s a lazy way of trying to describe how a character feels, and for me it is also a kind of arrogance on Hoban’s part, as he shows how cultured and knowledgeable he, the author, is and the reader (or this reader, anyway) isn’t.

Fremder, however, is better than I remember, and the Paolozzi cover here is amazing, highlighting the fact the book is supposedly science fiction, although many of the same tropes present in previous novels reappear (as they do in many of Hoban’s books). Vermeer’s girl is here, several objects seem to have voices of their own, and Hoban’s misuse and punning appropriation of terminology and proper nouns are foregrounded to annoying and unconvincing effect. It’s difficult to know if Hoban is mocking science and how society uses language, or simply struggling to explain the technology in his fictional world, where space travel is undertaken by Flicker drive but humanity still can’t cope with the complexities or realities of sex, lust, love and communication. It is the gobbledeygook science terminology that doesn’t quite work here, along with some of the references to technology (which hasn’t quite developed today as Hoban envisioned), that lets this story down as Fremder travels not only through space but memory, dreams and time. But I enjoy the subversion of science fiction here and it’s good not to always be stuck on the Underground or walking dirty city streets.

Hoban was an astonishing and surprising author. If his later work isn’t as accomplished as his earlier writing, he still left a solid body of original and impressive fiction, along with The Moment Under the Moment (1992), a book of essays, sketches and stories, which partly helps elucidate and explain some of Hoban’s ideas and themes, and offers some autobiography along with background material to his thinking. These beautifully designed Penguin reissues include the best of Hoban’s work, and I’d encourage you to befriend Kleinzeit, embrace the language and confusion of Riddley Walker’s ruined world, and explore at least some of Hoban’s Londons. You won’t be disappointed.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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ALIEN AUTOPSY

 

AUTOPSY REPORT

External Appearance

The body was judged to be in a state of profound instability.

Perhaps it had been preserved, perhaps not.

It was delivered to this pathologist in a golden casket, like some ancient religious relic.

Tissue of unknown type floated in the bottom of the container.

Provenance indeterminate

The cadaver itself was 36 inches long, its weight about 8 pounds.

But this could and did change.

The external appearance was not (repeat not), of ‘human’ or ‘humanoid’ type.

The skin appeared smooth and a dark, bluish grey colour. It soon changed to emerald green, a pure blue and then back to grey. All while we watched.

There was no clothing, although the ‘flesh’ (I use the term for the sake of convenience) molded into various decorative forms and ‘extrusions’ including tentacles and cone-shaped forms. There were two sets of genital organs, but no way of determining a dominant sex or gender.

The nose consisted of two slits.

The thin-lipped mouth was frozen into a rictus, a haunting smile. The cranium appeared over-large, devoid of hair and the cranial skin seemed impregnated with glittering motes of unknown pigmentation. The eyes were very large and sloe-shaped. They were open. There were no eyelids as such. Although ‘dead’ they seemed ‘alive’. Images flashed in their black depths like pictures on a movie screen. Arms and wrists were very thin. The ‘hands’ were more like claws, with long talons of hard, white, tissue, polished and shiny. These talons extended directly from the wrist. No palms

Dissection

The body was opened from crotch to chin.

Blue foam emerged from the incision and formed itself into an ectoplasmic exhalation. A strong odour of cinnamon filled the laboratory.

Inspection showed the bone structure to be transparent; a colourless, cartilaginous substance with a somewhat artificial appearance.

Numerous worm-like entities wriggled in the interior, but quickly vanished. I observed internal organs of unknown function, some with metallic implants. The ‘inside’ may also be the ‘outside’. Dimensionality is unclear. We found an intricate webbing of mesh-like material which glinted with the same pigmentation previously observed.

The thoracic cavity contained a floral structure with multi-coloured petals. The roots dissipated before reaching other organs. I removed one of the ‘petals’ for microscopic analysis. See separate report.

There was a large multi-chambered heart and an extensive circulatory system. The ‘blood’ behaved like quicksilver. Some of this material was extracted, but it soon evaporated.

Next, the cranium was dissected and it was observed that a ridge of cartilage separated the brain into two isolated spheres. When we entered the first sphere we found a gelatinous fluid bathing the interior. The origin and function of this fluid is mysterious. My assistant experienced a sequence of multiple orgasms, but I remained calm.

Then we entered the second sphere that was composed entirely of crystal. We heard a musical sound, but could locate no source among the complex of mineral fissures and lobes. Unfortunately we also observed extensive damage. The bilateralism of the brain could not be determined with accuracy.

Conclusion

Here, in the Zeta Reticuli system, we have had the opportunity of examining innumerable specimens of alien species abducted from their home worlds in the interests of science and propagation. This particular example defies all previous classifications and may threaten the integrity of our taxonomies. It appears to be a form of creature (or creatures) unknown to pathologists; a being which utilizes elements both animal and vegetable and is also able to attain various indeterminate forms of morphological transformation.

I should note that some reports have mentioned hypothetical semi-mythological aliens known as ‘humanoids’. These ‘humanoids’ or ‘humans’ are, it is said, the source of many anomalous phenomena and historical enigmas. They are also said by cultists and other cranks to threaten the future of life as we understand it. As I have previously stated, the specimen under discussion is not of the so-called ‘human’ type, However there are no descriptions of any similar creatures in the archives of Sector X. It is important to be aware that when living this alien may be dangerous.

There are many unidentified entities preying upon us.

One day these entities, including, perhaps, the semi-legendary humanoids, may decide to reveal themselves to us.

Perhaps this examination is only the beginning.

 

 

 

© A C Evans

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SAUSAGE LIFE 170

 
 
 
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The Great Renewal

 

Feet are alive
with first frost!
The morning sun sinks
into grateful faces,
winter-stiffened limbs:
all “Mind” washed
momentarily
away…

The budding trees speak Bird!
Feeding fledglings revivify
the bushes with bird busyness,
a Song on the wind:
the Miracle of another
SPRING!

Our prisoners
can feel this too:
the restless stirring,
(though they cannot turn;)
the desperate longing,
though they have not known,
in the endless Darkness,
in the air-tight, pain-filled barns;
though they have eyes to see
(the odd glint
coming through the slats,)
though they have ears to hear
the blessèd burgeoning.
Unbearable.

Those who will never
enjoy the day.
Those who will never
feel the warm caress,
who will never
roll in dew, taste rain,
or the freedom
of a wild wood;
who will know only
one type of blade;
who have only violent death
to look forward to.

Out on the last of England’s
green and pleasant land
the lambs who have made it
through the tough, Dartmoor night,
suckle and gambol.

We coo over
(and would feed,
and would cuddle)
those newborn lambs
who fill the grasslands
like so many muddy
snowdrops.

Our hearts reach out
to the unsteady orphans
on the Evening News,
the little black loner,
(yet barely think of
their dead mothers,)
while the factual farmer
assures us that they are all
fattening nicely
for the Easter/Passover
blood bath that will follow
in three weeks’ time.

We buy our spikes
of rosemary, new potatoes,
petit pois, Spring greens,
and refuse to connect
…the dots –
as DIY chefs prepare
to roast the living,
and human stomachs
rumble greedily
at the very thought
…of pink flesh.

When will we wake up?
When will we finally wake up?

“Behold,
I have given you
every plant yielding seed
which is upon the face
of all the earth,
and every tree
with seed in its fruit;
you shall have them
for food.”

As it was
in the Beginning
(Genesis 1:29)
…so shall it be in
The End.

 

Heidi Stephenson
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

First published on International Times on 13 March 2021

The Great Renewal

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‘Bust of Marcus Aurelius as a Boy’

 

Who is this modernist?
His beardless face
His curls too artfully trimmed
By Sassoon on via Veneto?

I hardly recognise myself   –
He seems the kind of youth
Impelled to pretty writing
One who can’t abstain from poetry

Appearances are wonderful
Misleaders of sound reason
All modernists knew this   –
The girl-boys on Lambrettas
Their boy-girls lolling stylishly at pillion

Their stories fade
Then turn to myth
And though you break your heart
The world runs as before

This boy might seem too slight a soul
To lug about two corpses
One of course his own
The other his dead father

Transformed to ghostly mentor
Father drives him on
To seek The Truth as Shakespeare’s Danish prince
Who found court life contemptible

Then perusing his late jester’s jaw
Upturned from its grave
He contemplated this   –

Death smiles at us all   –
All you may do is smile back

 

BARBIERE

 

Vincenzo though your secret’s safe with me
I believe you are a man of many wigs
Why is this so?

“To have one’s ‘hair’ appear
Completely natural

Requires artistic rotation   so you see
‘Freshly barbered   –   ‘growth’   –   ‘hirsute’   –   ‘abandon’
When‘re-styled’ the cycle starts again

You only must remember this   –
To make the game substantial

Be observed to carry a black comb
Containing a slight smattering of dandruff

Such is easily acquired   –
And though I enjoy our conversation 
It is the only reason now

I patronise this barber’s”    

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

.

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Algorithm

This process
with rules that
break hearts.

Unable to solve
problems of its creation
is counter-intuitive,

numbers calculating
like a mirror
reflecting only this.

Finite and well-
defined unless it breaks,
unambiguous as

knowing poverty
is under those better off
and unaffected.

It is as if Euclid was
made by a team of many
for the ironic few,

computing ways and means
to be mean to the many more
uncountable, unaccountable.

 

 

Mike Ferguson

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Doppia Faccia

Elena Caldera

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That Other Creature

I’m that other creature
Looking at what was not there before
Every step not seen
Every other eye
Staring at me or averted

Carefree, younger, climbing trees,
Jumping down to you
Now shuffling my feet, balancing,
So I won’t tip and fall
Oh! Let me be a caterpillar!
Stable and sedate
Munching, turning over a new leaf,
See another side

There’s the young boys
Jostling, skipping, laughing
A lady dodging traffic,
Glued to her tempting mobile

A blind man clearing the pavement
With his white cane
As I step on the bus,
Debating which leg to lift

Yesterday, last week, last year, the beginning
The wheels that turned so slowly then
Spun faster, faster, sudden pain breaking reverie
Flashing blue lights, sirens wailing
To the sanctuary

Today I’m floating like a butterfly
Stitched together once more,
Alive so gratefully
Asleep beneath the soft white duvet
While you pitter-patter all around,
Looking after me

 

©Christopher

[email protected]

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THE SYKEIC STORM HAILED

                                                      

                                  On Ed Sykes and the Sonic Oscillators Little Black Cloud

 

With a touch of Siouxie and the Banshee’s guitar from Producer Nathan Wacey,
Ed Sykes latest sonics nimbly oscillate music’s past, and much of its future too
As this imperfect pop contains spaces in which hope and desire colour and calm

Circumstance. This is a joyous song sourced by dark but with a mystic frequency
Charging through it; the one Brian Barritt first broadcast and caught and passed on:
A summoning of lost things which this special melody masters, complete with a lyric

That stormclouds desire and turns weather itself into song. Sykes’ smooth baritone
And goth/punk glare fuses challenge as he croons to move and persuades you
To slip slowly within the cloud’s shade.  The Sonic Oscillators lock tight to provide

Aural shelter as Sykes’ keyboards and glockenspiel begins speaking of all of the ways
Fate is made. The song trips along. It crests, it curves. Its sound kisses. It sways , yes,
With male swagger, but with a sweetness, too, as Sykes sings. It is a call to arms,

A sound fall, and a cloud soothed slide down the mountain as Wacey’s staccato
String strikes sound joyous beside Phil Jackson’s bright piano, Aaron Sly’s bowed bass,
And Jon Quin’s drums, each note swings. As the chorus kicks in ‘My little black cloud

That’s hanging around..’ offers promise. Or, if not that celebration, as this stain
On the sky brings fresh sun onto the street and the beach and the girl in the promo,
Smiling for Sykes singing to her; this storm like serenade’s set to stun. The chords

Crash like waves on love’s shore then ripple away into reverb before the verse’s
Clarity claims us and we are once more returned  to the place where thoughts
And flesh chase the most elusive of moments and the sensations most cry for

Become the best make of mask for each face. ‘Show me the ropes/You’ll burn
your hands/Each word that you speak / Its tearing leaves from every branch..
The verse curls but is then quickly shattered as an explosive bridge breaks

Before us and we careen down to sound’s sea. In the promo Sykes stabs
At the air as the images grow more destructive. He warns that ‘Relationships
Are sinking ships’ as the little black cloud begins swelling, warping wind

And love’s strange weather and make the cup full and flowing, as the worst
Kind of storm whirlpools tea. The song is a symphony slid through a series
Of darkened movements, from Brian Barritt, Syd Barrett, to Water’s controlled

Heart of the Sun; ritual. Sykes control is supreme, as Wacey’s guitars roar
And riot, and suddenly its  Sun Sultans, or Branca and Fred Frith’s string
Sauced victuals. The Little Black Cloud covers all. Koyanniqatsi-ing  land

As it does so. Sykes’ self directed video, filmed by DOP Maryann Morris
Also captures the times and the tales it contains. So,  from the psychedelic
To Sykes and from  home to heart movie, this is a song in which climate

And chorus and call resolve pain. Which does not mean heal.
For who can say where need takes us.  But in this, their new single
Sykes and the Sonic Oscillators astound us. Watch that deep dark cloud

Bruise above you. When it bleeds you’ll feel fire and fathom and charge
And soul gain. Here’s to more songs like this. All hail such warnings.
As the Sykeic call cures us, we will rise and recover and then, no surprises,

We will want the fucking whole thing again.

 

 

                                                                            David Erdos March 9th 2021

 


Press Release 03/03/21

Ed Sykes And The Sonic Oscillators

The second single release from Ed Sykes and The Sonic Oscillators ‘My Little Black Cloud’ on Co6 Records is far from little. In keeping with its title ‘My Little Black Cloud’ throws a large shadow over a vast amount of musical ground. The main behavioural similarities to its predecessor ‘I’m Forever Losing You’ is how the restless nature of this piece fearlessly defies genres and pigeon holes. From its spooky childlike opening signature melody we are reminded of pop songs that used to wear looking glass ties and where perhaps something delightfully Lewis Carol is about to happen. 

‘My Little Black Cloud’ lulls the listener into a psychedelic soul/ pop odyssey before it shamelessly skinny dips into a temple of a chorus that is way more orchestral than it is anything rock related. Intermission!! mid-way this track hits upon a glam stomping Supremes that, once the fuzz and ice cream van stops it kicks the listener out of the van at some kind of open air ceremonial ‘freak out’. Perhaps the most recent musical reference points for the insane voodoo rhythms of the hypnotic closing section of ‘My Little Black Cloud’ could be cited somewhere between Southern Death Cult and Siouxsie and the Banshees Budgie doing a solo as ‘My Little Black Cloud’ with  it’s Tom Tom driven energy, shares a similar tribal drive of those times yet, this sounds like it could be set in some Moroccan marketplace anytime now!

Ed Sykes describes this song himself as ‘a big dramatic painting like Rembrandts Belshazzar’s Feast with all its drama and darkness’. It has been reported that ‘something happens’ when this song is played live. Maybe it’s the ancient and mystical healing properties of the 111hz frequency that unintentionally inhabits this song that makes you wonder by the end if your drink been has been spiked? Whatever it is ‘My Little Black Cloud’ is celebratory and an extremely ambitious affair. The song was recorded onto a vintage 3M Tape machine for true analogue sound and processing. ‘My Little Black Cloud’ jumps daringly from its

pop climbing frame and takes you somewhere more ‘spiritual retreat’ with lots of funky bark juice. No Sting honking up in a rain forest here because the substance was too strong. No. Think ‘three bits no chips’. Think rush goalies. Just make sure you take a packed lunch and, Alabama fish paste? 

Ed Sykes: Vocals – Glock – Keyboards – Percussion 
Nathan Wacey: Guitars 
Aaron Sly: Bass – Bowed Double Bass – Backing Vocals 
Jon Quin: Drums – Percussion – Backing Vocals 
Phil Jackson: Piano 

Produced by Nathan Wacey. Recorded at Rebellion Studios Marks Tey.

 

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Bookshop

 

click on image to see trailer
 
 
I love Work in Progress (unless its mine).  If a new play takes the time it should to write, there are jewels and nuggets along the way that can be stitched into the final tapestry – like a meandering river forming oxbow lakes.   Some sequences of language make stand-alone pieces – or even short films.  Bookshop is from the play-script of Lynton, Richard Bradbury’s new play about the poet Shelley.  Bookshop, directed by actor/filmmaker Aidan Casey, gives us an 1812 flashback as Elizabeth Hitchener muses on her early love of books, despite her poor background in Lewes.  She is to join Shelley later in Lynton, Devon, where their relationship becomes profound.  This lovely moving montage of shirt-lace, voice, fingers (turning up a Shelley) and old books beautifully evokes love for literature and ideas in a girl who wasn’t expected to have any. I asked Aidan about the filming, and was there a fixed story board?   There wasn’t, but he’d known the bookshop of the film in Topsham Devon since he was small child, and could navigate his way around it in his head.  That lovely old-school bell is a nice touch and could almost be experienced as an inciting incident as the actor crosses the threshold into the world of books.  I liked it that we couldn’t see her face, and asked why.  ‘Because the original Elizabeth (Elizabeth the 1st) was in London when we needed to shoot more, and so she is played by Celeste de Veazey and Bérengère Ariaudo de Castelli.’  
  ‘Was there a budget?”
  ‘No, it’s surprising what you can do with no money when you have a great creative team to work with.’
 
Aidan Casey as Shelley and Michael Simkins as a bastardly (sp deliberate) Lord Sidmouth can be seen at
 
 
 
Jan Woolf
 
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Less Money More Problems

LESS MONEY MORE PROBLEMS

 

New quick one out of the back of my sketchbook.

 

 

CRYPTO

 

This was an idea I had ages ago about making an actual cryptocurrency but it was far easier to just make some fake news about it. Did this yesterday and was very happy to get an idea written and finished in the space of a day. Maybe I’m actually getting out of this rut. Please share it about!

 

 

SHOP STUFF

Some new stuff in the shop, including Corporate Manslaughter iron-on patches and the Tory is a Feeling shirts arrived which I’m really happy with. A few years ago I decided I wasn’t going to get digital transfer shirts done anymore – the print just doesn’t last. This is a 6 colour screenprint, but it means the print will last as long as the shirt. You can order any of these bits from my shop.

 

EMPTY SUIT

 

1% pay rise for nurses is an insult, but so is 2.1%. We need Labour to be more than just the left-wing of the Tory party. The current leadership is a wet wipe.

 

BACK IN STOCK

Jigsaw Jigsaws are now fully back in stock. Order one here.

Thanks to Ben Pitcher for sending me this photo of one his mate completed.

Thanks to all my new, current, and previous backers on Patreon. If you’d like to chip in a few quid a month towards my activities I will give you a shout-out on my gravestone 

 

patreon.com/spellingmistakescostlives

 

THANK!

This update is public and shareable so please feel free to pass it on. If you’re not on my mailing list but would like to be you can sign up here.

 

Thanks for reading!

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Prank



Radio man, wrecks my plan.

We do our best to deal with it,
each in our own bumble of orbit.

I search online.
Don’t know what I’m looking for.
End up with much more than I bargained.

So many questions. And each one webs another.
This sequence of photographs, possible clues
divided by decades. Here, the Brylcreem of ’31 –
hell just around the corner.

And then, fast forward, the anatomy of cars.
Ban the bomb lights of a sixties Ford.
Bald man, on the far right. Could be…

What a shock when I get to ’84.

There he is! My Grandfather, still playing pranks,
after all these years, from beyond the grave

in a monochrome summer, the Mirror reading,
beer drinking gardener, commoner,

somehow smuggled into this scene of academia.

A future historian may well assume
that he was indeed one of the academic staff.
Perhaps a Latin professor. Lord knows, he looks the part…

 

Jonathan Chant
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs

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After the Covid Lockdown Sound of Silence

 

What next? What’s happening now? Music, the Arts, Gigs and Festies…

Ruminations with Alan Dearling

World Health Organization: https://www.who.int/news

Another useful data source, used by a lot of press agencies:   https://ourworldindata.org/coronavirus

 

So much talk of the ‘light at the end of the tunnel’, ‘New Normal’ and ‘Getting back to normal’, but what will it mean for musicians and all the creative folk involved in gigs, festivals and events in the UK and beyond? Unfortunately, ‘confusion’ appears to be the name of the game. It’s not just the advice and pandemic rules and restrictions. We’ve all changed. And we are very divided. Conflicted. Sadly, a lot of ‘disunity’. Many of my close friends and colleagues are now on different sides of the Covid debate. Herd immunity – get everything open – or, keep everyone safe. Will vaccinations solve everything, especially if large sectors of local populations refuse the jabs? Where and when should face coverings be worn? Then there’s the mental health problems created or exacerbated by the lockdowns, and in some cases terminal, economic impacts on some of the venues where music has previously been a way of life.

As restrictions are relaxed, how will we, individually and collectively, feel about face coverings and social distancing, as, perhaps, gigs and festivals start to happen again?

 

And it seems to be becoming more problematic. Questions about personal freedom; travel; costs and red-tape with Brexit visas and rules; climate change issues – to travel by plane or not? Then, there’s the threats posed by potential street protests and violence – arson and bombs at Covid test centres in the Netherlands – and (as of 3/3/21) swathes of new Covid cases in countries like the Czech Republic, Italy, USA,  the Netherlands and across Brazil.  There’s so much expert advice and data. So many diverse experiences and opinions. But, a lot more questions than answers. Also, a definite concern about information-overload.

Personally, I’m not taking on any music and arts commitments that involve leaving the UK at the moment. I want live music to return – but safely for the performers and the audiences. Usually, I would have at least three of four European events in my diary – certainly in Lithuania and the Netherlands, and often in Denmark, Germany, Portugal and Hungary.

I’ve also been chatting on-line with musician friends who I miss in Australia. I’m hoping that the Golden Lion and Trades Club venues in the Upper Calderdale Valley in Yorkshire can safely re-open. I hope that Chris Tofu and Continental Drifts can get their acts back into venues and festies. I love the small indie festivals – but I also enjoy the big tribal gatherings, the large EDM dance festivals, where there seem to be more world-citizens and an eco-friendly vibe. And then there’s pub music in local boozers like the Weavers’ in Todmorden with its Monday Club of live music. 

But, we’re not there yet. Instead, I’ve nothing booked until working at Kozfest in Devon, late in July. Then, off to take pics and report on the amazing agricultural folk-punk of the Cropdusters’ first gig in over ten years at the Barnstompers weekend down in Dorset. Later in September, I’ll be taking pics and reporting on the Southdowns festival in West Sussex and, with a little bit of luck, chatting with Steve Harley for an interview.

It’s fingers crossed time. Glass half-full…

Next, let’s hear from my muso-friend, Andy Burden.

Luv ‘n Respect, and keep safe and well, to Andy, his partner, Marnie, and to all you readers and music-lovers.

Alan (Dearling)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hello Knees


Shade filed sun lost

Spaces of cold wind

Cobweb wrapped around

Kitchen of lost dreams

Ice cold muck on top

Of cracked white tea

head on sharp knees

Water pooling in eyes

Falling far, far below

Plip, plip, plip. Plip, plip…….

……………………………………….

………………………………………….

……………………….

…………………………….

…………………………………………

,,,,,,,,,,,

Plop


on dusty uncoloured flagstones.

 

 

 

 

Nick Victor

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She Walks in Beauty

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White Out / Blackout

 

Variegated sunlight troubles the mind in passing, flashing the better life we might have had,
all administration and greed cancelled, the need to communicate, self-contained.
Such dreams will always lie beyond the burning human state – in the calmer
landscape of some ideal, contemplative country . . . along the lane and over the hill.

Its essence unfocussed, the village strays on. Chosen or accepted, its names proclaim
all over the place: Crossed Ways, Cazobel, Sunny Crest: How can anyone object to such
improvised freedom, its flashing light? its positive white-out?
Until the sunlight fades, this halfway house is whole: Fernbank, Silverwood, Boundless View.
Overcast, it dwindles into no-man’s-land; an unknown border; a stalking horse or
undelivered letter. Dark workbench in a mouldering shed.

In tenebrae such thoughts become threats. The vice, the bars, the vicious patrols.
Laugh it off of course – we are sheltered, miles from conflict
and the sun is back, flashing the windows of High Kintyre by Sunny Green.

Between bridge abutments blanking high embankments (a stride struck out) the lane drops,
the village appears to be coming to an end – yet stirs around a crooked signpost.

Other names proclaim that everything is possible, the narrow, the small, the local is dead.
But as what it has, (what we all have inside), breathes and dissipates, sun and shade, sighs
and concentrates, each atmosphere strikes towards hundreds of others. It knows in its walls
and paths, its nondescript bridge and the subtle cult of its telephone exchange, bereft, that
imagination is the truth for which the parade of reality is merely a sketch.

Another high window, a lookout, pillbox belvedere, ignores the river’s direction entirely:
forget that sparkle across the mind. Despite sundry prospects from dingy windows, this
house keeps itself curtained. Who has lived or will ever live within – to disregard the knocks
and stay concealed? Inward, deeply inward. A spider settles down another fly.

“Lacking heart, I’ve been going out for cycles endlessly. All day, to whiteout the hours,
moving through a present which so easily becomes the past . . . but the movement through
time and space is good.”

Mass-memory assault, myriad-minded, can never be here too often. In power or confusion,
it’s a good state to be in. The song of the ring roads. The high moors. The floating island
estates. There is no doubt that all time is eternally present – and that all of it is redeemable.

Though the silver of rivers may flood the mind,
can it prevent the roads and passing streets from feeling like one long retreat?
Can it provide all we have lost – what we are always losing?
Can it contradict the photo album and the endless arrangements?
Daily reality is a chimera we’ve allowed to form the apex from which we extinguish
ourselves. The axle point from which we extinguish the world.

That day was so dry, that through village, town and every rich nowhere between, the white
concrete kerbstones blared on the eyes. But with or without rain, I’m more alive when

moving,
hardly ever at the places I rest.

 

© Lawrence Freiesleben,
Cumbria, 2021

[email protected]

 

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I Pour A Shot of Whiskey

I pour another shot of whiskey
It tastes like your sweet & salty skin
As you lay with me in the dark

 

TERRENCE SYKES

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Black-throated Sparrows on South Mountain


 
Some wasp-waisted rocks on the ridgeline
look ready to fall
but they’re rooted in time
and stand firm while
the uphill trail winds into coyote sleep
above the busy miles
of traffic and unease
that fan desert to horizon
beneath a mountain suspended from the sky
on whose slopes
in dry light close
to the ground, the Black-
throated Sparrows break from the shadows
and fly the short
flight to a next mesquite, where
they become invisible until
more of them arrive and
they all cross together to the far
side of a wash where they take to the gravel
as to a promised land.

 

 

David Chorlton
Picture Rupert Loydell

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Covid, Festivals, Brexit & eye of newt

  

Andy Burden (main photos: Marnie Burden)


Marnie’s view from the stage, Obscene Extreme, Czech, 2019 

I’m no conspiracy theorist but the dates on which the UK government does things often makes me wonder, it’s like they’ve got a druid, a witch and other pagans locked in a back room at Westminster! I can see them now stood round a cauldron, totems aplenty advising our ‘leaders’ on how to progress – as one example, the start of the first UK lockdown close to Spring Equinox, the end of current restrictions, Summer Solstice! I always seem to notice that changes seem to be on, or around, the solar festivals, I’m sure the final Brexit talks were on or around Imbolc as well, strange times! I should have written all these dates down really because there have been other instances (and then I could have started a conspiracy theory! Maybe I have!).

 Throughout the lockdowns it’s been interesting and somewhat frightening, to say the least, watching the rise of all these way-out theories doing the rounds on social media. There’s obviously nothing like a global pandemic to bring them all out of the woodwork! Because our generation has never had to endure this sort of global crisis, akin to a war-like situation, nobody knows exactly how to cope or react. The changes to our freedom in our everyday lives – shops and businesses closed, queuing for food at supermarkets – it’s not something we could really have envisaged or prepared for. Although the warning signs have been there over the last couple of decades with SARs, Swine Flu, Bird Flu and Foot & Mouth disease etc. There’s a common factor here – it’s plain to see and it’s no conspiracy theory, the monoculture nature of modern agriculture and animal farming practices need to change or lockdowns are going to become a common theme of our planet’s future. As a vegan I suppose I’m biased and annoyed that a global pandemic caused by people messing about with animals has affected me. I know it’s a lot more complex than that, but leaving animals alone would be a good start.


Andy unloading in Sweden, 2019 – cannot remember where!

As a musician that plays in DIY punk bands I’ve been fortunate to have been able to travel all over Europe, Scandinavia and Basque playing festivals, squats and the DIY spaces that abound outside of the UK. The last few years I’ve toured hard, with the worry of Brexit in the back of my mind, trying to get as much in as possible before the worst happened. And here we are now, in the middle of a global pandemic, and Brexit is pushed through making this lifestyle, my way of life, almost impossible. I’m sure people will find a way. The underground culture is strong across the world, but jumping in a van with your instruments and band mates to spend a few weeks driving around Europe, crossing many borders is now a thing of the past and we need to somehow adapt. You’re not going to get rich playing the underground European ‘circuit’, but that’s not why people do it. You get well looked after abroad, fed, watered, somewhere to stay and generally paid enough to keep you going in fuel to get to your next destination – it’s idyllic. What makes it all worth while is the people you meet and seeing the real side of towns and cities that you might not be able to connect with on a ‘normal’ holiday abroad.

Whilst in lockdown, friends of ours in Belgium have been evicted from a long-term squat in Liege (HTH). Many of the larger, well-known, long-running squats in Europe are also under threat from development and gentrification. ADM in Amsterdam has been evicted and some of their community are now on a temporary site known as the Sludgefields. And Kopi, one of the biggest and best squats I’ve been to in Berlin, is currently under threat of eviction after twenty-seven years of existence. These squats are home to many varied people from across the world. Kopi often has up to seventy full-time residents living in a community that if fragmented might never be able to find another space of that size where they can keep their community together.


HTH Squat, Liege, Belgium
 

I know everyone’s in the same boat at the moment, missing family and friends, feeling isolated, but I feel the underground grass roots festival, squatting and DIY scene is taking a bit of an extra hammering. Community is at the core of these scenes’ existence. We have many, many friends who we could normally meet up with at various annual events. I might go a whole year without seeing some people I can call friends and just pick up where we left off, you know you’re going to see certain people at certain times of the year, one thing’s for sure: nothing is certain anymore. When you’re used to being lucky enough to being out and about most weekends of the year travelling around playing gigs, meeting up with people, the lockdowns are going to hit you hard. Like many people, we tried to keep being creative, adapting to playing live music through social media to keep people and ourselves to some degree connected. We helped out with the Virtual Stonehenge Festival 2020 which turned into a bit of an all-consuming affair for the whole of June! But it was on the whole mostly well accepted and enjoyed by a lot of people who were beginning to feel fragmented from community.

As soon as the initial lockdown restrictions were lifted, we hit the road to Wiltshire and played live on the Drove at Stonehenge, we also pulled up and played at Avebury and Silbury Hill (in photo), nine-volt-battery-powered performances to whoever was around. Not the same as being in a packed out room or festival field, but it felt good to be out and about. The last outdoor performance we did was Autumn Equinox 2020 on the banks of the infant river Swale at Keld, high up in the Yorkshire Dales with a small group of close friends – bliss!

 

Andy T Band – Live on The Drove @ Stonehenge 20th July 2020 – YouTube

Andy T Band – Live on The Drove @ Stonehenge 20th July 2020

Battery powered performance on The Drove

STONED – Virtual Stonehenge 2020 – YouTube

Stripped-down lockdown garden performance for Virtual Stonehenge June 2020

More recently, back in lockdown, we continued with online performances. We were asked to contribute a couple of songs to a fund-raising event to raise some money for medical expenses for a well-known, Greek punk community member needing expensive cancer treatment (There’s no NHS in Greece). The event was a huge success raising over twenty thousand euros – that is the true power of the underground, even in the midst of a global pandemic people can come together virtually and make a real difference. Forty-two bands from across the global DIY punk community came together to create nearly three hours of lockdown performances and we were truly honoured to be a small part of that. The performance went out live on youtube, so people watching (over eight thousand views on the night) could comment in real time. When the Andy T Band were up (which was a pre-recorded couple of songs from when we could get together in a rehearsal room just before the most recent lockdown), the band were wearing face coverings which was requested by the owners of the rehearsal rooms in Todmorden. The first two comments were, “Take your masks off.”

How are we going to move forward? Even in the underground/grassroots scenes it’s starting to look like a complex issue, face covering or not, vax vs anti vax – flat earth anyone? The real worry now though, is how do we maintain this global underground community when Brexit won’t allow us to visit and perform in other countries?

Just this week the UK government has given us our ‘Roadmap’ out of the pandemic … let’s see. Within hours, social media was alive with gigs and festivals coming back to life. The possibility of small grassroots festivals and gatherings towards the end of this Summer is looking possible, even small indoor gigs are looking like a possibility. We’ve been booked for a few already, but I’m still not overly convinced. There’s still lots of ‘ifs and buts’, but I’m willing to play a part and try to bring back what everyone’s missing. But is it going to be the same as it was before? Are we heading for a ‘new normal’, or are we going back to normal? I don’t have any answers. I’m as confused as everyone else. I’ve got close friends who work for the NHS, and they say Covid 19 is real – that’s good enough for me. So, how do we look after our own when restrictions begin to ease and we can once again gather together? Like everyone else I’m craving to sing, dance, hug, travel and reconnect with our extended family & friends but I think things might be a bit different for some time yet.

Peace & Love – Andy Burden

 

Ash / Marnie / Andy – Lockdown February 2021 Performance

Free to watch but if you want to donate a quid or two to paypal.me/huntmonitors that would be ace! AnarchKaraoke Two of the songs are from our ancient 1980s’ back catalogue the others are covers of some of our favourite songs! No copyright infringement intended!!! 1. Perfect Past – Famous Imposters 2. Brainstorm – Hawkwind 3. Arrival in Utopia …

 

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Pink. A Women’s Day poem

“See the wind.” We essay to show our daughter the wind.
She extends her wings. My wife’s hair flares up and flails.

The leaves on this Women’s Day are the leaves, 
and the trees, the trees. Wind wound around us
makes us a singular apparition. Our daughter

breezes past us, circling us and through us,
and she keeps asking if we can see her.
She means if we can feel her. Yes, we do. 
We breathe her womanhood, feel alive with it.

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Illustration Nick Victor

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Modernism

 

Robert Montgomery

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NO KIDDING: SOCIETAL ATTITUDES TO THE CHILDFREE

 

PhD Research Outline
Keith Rodway

  1. INTRODUCTION

During the many intense upheavals that occurred in British politics in 2016, accusations were levelled at two prominent female politicians: British newspaper the Independent reported the assertion made by a parliamentary colleague that Liz Kendall, a prospective candidate for British Labour Party leadership ‘would not make a good leader because she does not have children.’ [1] The same argument was advanced, in different form, in respect of Theresa May, British Prime Minister between 2016 – 2019, who was accused by fellow parliamentarian Andrea Leadsom of being unfit for office as leader of the Conservative Party, and by extension, future Prime Minister, because she did not have children. The Guardian commented that ‘Being a mother, Leadsom claimed, means “you have a very real stake in the future of our country”’.[2] As it turned out, Theresa May, responsible in her capacity as Prime Minister for ensuring Britain’s exit from the European Economic Union, had a very real stake in her country’s future. As Britain embarked on a lengthy process of national soul-searching with regard to the EU referendum result, May called a snap election in June 2017 to strengthen her hand in the negotiations.  However, an unexpectedly disastrous result for her Conservative government saw May become the subject of frustration on the British centre-right, and increasing ridicule from the left-wing of the British press. In the wake of the fire that destroyed the Grenfell residential tower in Kensington, London’s wealthiest borough, on June 14th, one week after the election, May refused at first to meet surviving residents. She was subsequently criticised for being remote, emotionally disengaged and lacking empathy. Would May’s attitude necessarily have been different if she had been a mother? Unhappily for Andrea Leadsom, she had not done her research: May is unable to conceive a child.

The above series of vignettes strike at a central concern of my research interests. Why were these two women considered – in both cases by other women – to be unfit for public office on the basis that they did not have children?  Why should any woman, or man, be subjected to veiled criticisms concerning their life choices on this basis?  Such challenges to their integrity, their agency, their conscience, or choices of lifestyle seem misjudged. The notion that a person may fail to contribute in a meaningful way to the future of society by choosing not to have children – or not having them due to other factors in their life –and that this choice invalidates them, renders them incomplete or inauthentic, unfit for a responsible role in society, appears similarly misguided. This theme will be central to my research.

 

My dissertation will be part of a 50:50 written and audio-visual submission in the form of a 40,000 word written thesis and an accompanying film that gives my respondents a chance to represent their respective positions in a public debate that seeks primarily to disparage them. In this way my film will also become part of a public intervention accessible to my research participants as well as a broader audience.  The research addresses the topic of people living in south east England who choose not to have children. This is explored through participant-observation employing semi-structured interviews, together with a website supporting filmed extracts that enable the subjects of the research to present their arguments for themselves, and contest instances of negative stereotyping. 

 

My respondents are people I have met or worked with during my working life as an arts practitioner, or during my academic career, and whom I have known for between five and thirty years. Of the core group five are women and two are men. Their ages vary from 27 to 66. All but one is self employed, working in retail, education or the arts. Three are of lower middle or working class origin, four from a middle class background. The majority of my respondents are British, or have grown up in Britain and therefore self-identify as British. One is of mixed heritage, born to Jamaican and Ghanaian parents, and raised by a white adoptive family in the working class Medway town of Gravesend. Their professions are, variously:

  • music teacher
  • retired primary school teacher
  • network retailer and entrepreneur
  • university lecturer
  • local authority housing officer for disadvantaged young people
  • currently unemployed visual artist
  • organic food retailer

 

My film will observe my interviewees’ responses to questions concerning reactions from their own personal networks to their status as people without children: responses from friends, family members, colleagues or physical or mental health professionals. Each of my research group has reached their respective age with no expressed desire to have children, or have passed beyond the chance to do so. In some cases physical or mental health have mitigated against motherhood. Some, at this point in their lives, are not in a stable relationship. This may be a core concern in respect of their status as women or men without children. Interviewees will be encouraged to reflect on the paths their lives have taken, or are expected to take, and to what extent their choices not to have children have framed or influenced their chosen life-ways. Each filmed interview will be intercut with footage showing them at work, at home or at leisure to give context to their lives, allowing the viewer a more nuanced understanding of who these people are, and how they live their lives. I would argue that through the use of film to gather data the viewer will get a clear sense, unavailable through written text, of my respondents’ emotional responses to my questions. They will be able to ‘read’ these responses through facial expression, body language, tone of voice and any pauses in the interviewees’ responses. This will allow the viewer a chance to empathise – or not – with each respondent through a clear and present impression of their emotional states at the time of filming. All have agreed to take part in my research on the understanding that they will be allowed screen-backs of their interviews, to allow them to either ask that something be removed, or expanded upon as filming progresses. Thus, they become collaborators in the process.

 

To date, there is inadequate audio-visual research that focuses on the topic of those who choose not to have children. There is even little in terms of research that tries to go beyond the objectifying implications of subjects being represented as people who choose not to have children, rather than they having the opportunity to represent themselves.  Even though I acknowledge that the latter can then unleash another set of objectifying gazes it is one step toward getting towards a more participatory form of representing research where my subjects can decide on and approve the content of the audio-visual media, a subject that I return to below.

 

The format of the first part of this outline will be a literature review on key themes pertinent to the research. The second part will focus on my reasons for wanting to develop a website supporting a series of short filmed interviews extracted from my main film as a core element of my research, with each segment standing alone as an account of the respective interviewee’s responses to my questions, and the dialogues between us that ensue. I will also examine tensions between film and written text within academic practice, and consider where my research might fit within ethnographic filmmaking.

 

The key questions that I address are:

(i) What roles in society, what other spaces might be available to the person who has chosen not to have children, for whom motherhood, or fatherhood, is not an option, or for whom the opportunity has passed due to circumstance or earlier disinclination?

(ii) How do they navigate these spaces, and how do they deal with the responses to their decisions from those in their social circles?

(iii) How do they present themselves in public fora, in this case filmed footage made available on the internet? What potentials and limitations are there in terms of the subjects of research to present their views themselves, outside of the realm of writing about them? 

 

PART ONE: LITERATURE REVIEW 

In this section, I address societal anxieties about reproductivity in Euro-American/British contexts and the perception and role of women in this discourse[3]. As the majority of my respondents are women, I concentrate largely on issues affecting adult females. My historical sources will focus primarily on Euro-American literature: my respondents are oriented more to a Euro-American heritage than others. I will examine theories on futurity – described by Jana Funke as ‘a shared investment in the future’ via heteronormative modes of sexual reproduction (Funke, 2011:1) – and especially the protection, in Lee Edelman’s terms, of the future of the Child (Edelman, 2004).  I will look at recent hostility in public fora in Britain and the United States towards the childfree;  questioning to what extent the creation of a category ‘childfree’ simply creates a discursive field in which women can be castigated for failing to fulfil conventional expectations, and which negatively positions the child in the discourse.  I will suggest that for some women the decision not to bear children might be framed as an instance of gender(ed) dissidence.

Judith Butler (1990), Judith Halberstram (1998) and David Valentine (1997) contend that ‘woman’ is too general a term to capture the nuances of women’s lived experiences. Hence, the problematic nature of a putative definition of ‘woman’ as an adult female person.  In using the term ‘woman’, I acknowledge that it is the site of multifarious and intersectional aspects, and I do not seek to essentialise through its use.

THE CHILDLESS, AND THE CHILDFREE

The term ‘childfree’, first listed in the Oxford English Dictionary in 1979, is widely used to describe both women and men without children and social environments in which children are absent.  Candice Korasick draws a comparison between women who are involuntarily without children being conventionally labelled ‘childless, infertile, sterile or barren’, while women who have made a deliberate choice to reject motherhood are ‘voluntarily childless, childless-by-choice, or childfree’ (Korasick, 2010: 3). Madelyn Cain reports that many of her friends ‘drifted into childlessness’, and suggests that as a society ‘we have not learned to separate femininity from fertility’ and that the emergence of childlessness or child freedom means that ‘women are seizing the opportunity to be fully realized, self-determined individuals – regardless of what society thinks of them ‘(Cain, 2001:16, my emphasis).  Cain does however go on to recognise that these life-ways are not equivalent. For women who are childless due to medical conditions, diminished capacity due to social or economic factors, or mental illness; or lesbians for whom the process of becoming pregnant can pose practical or ethical issues, it is not necessarily a question of having made a choice or having ‘drifted’ into childlessness.

Kristin Park points out that during the 1970s voluntary childlessness among both women and men received some support from radical political movements promoting zero population growth, environmentalism and repudiations of the ‘1950s domestic ideology’ (Park, 2002:22). She compares this to pronatalist movements of the 1980s which were concerned with the notionally deleterious effects of childlessness among adult baby boomers on the American national economy. As a result, the use of medical information was used to suggest to young women that ‘to delay too long or to become childless’ was to ‘risk endemetriosis or reproductive cancers’ (Park,ibid:23). In terms of my own research, I am interested to what extent the intersection of choice/not choice (to ‘drift’ into childlessness) has impacted on my respondents’ circumstances. Have any among my subjects for whom childbearing is now no longer practicable come to regret their choices to remain childfree, or their former ambivalence towards the prospect of motherhood? Are they concerned with the putative negative medical implications of such outcomes? What pressures have they come under from their social environment to conform to conventional expectations of them in this key regard? How do they fare at family gatherings, where children may inevitably be the focus of attention?

Anand Akundy ascribes to mothers the role of ‘labour unit’, who, in their later years, become economically redundant , only contributing economically as grandmothers looking after children at times when their parents are otherwise occupied (Akundy, 2004:106).  Christine Overall appeals to deontology (the study of duty and obligation) and consequentialism (that the morality of an action is to be assessed according to its consequences) to inquire whether or not the obligation to have children can be considered necessary regardless of its consequences to the mother, her culture or society at large[4]. She questions whether one should consider the consequences of bringing another human being into the world where famine, poverty, war or domestic violence mitigate against such a decision. In doing so, she frames the decision to have – or not have – children as a moral act and defines the conditions where such decisions can be seen to be immoral or unethical. In the case of the assertion that one has a duty to the unborn child to allow that being to come into the world, she denies this on the basis that until the moment of conception the conditions for that child to exist are absent: there is therefore no previously existing entity to answer for (Overall, 2012:72).

Peter Stoneley, writing about Mark Twain’s novel Huckleberry Finn, canonised for its ‘exploration of the meaning of childhood’, argues for children as ‘agents of change’, not simply as passive units of cultural and social reproduction (Stoneley, 2016:169). For Stoneley, Twain’s character Jim posits children as actors with the potential for moral progress and racial justice. Yet he is concerned that children may be subject to exploitation by political processes as figures emblematic of the tyranny of heteronormative conformity. Here, ideals of childhood come into play that may be understood ‘to legitimate institutional structures’ by infusing them with affect, especially where ‘the only future that is valid is that of the heteronormative family and its child’ (ibid: 170). Stoneley suggests that Twain’s authorial moral scheme is focused on children and child-rearing as ‘guarantors of meaning, moral identity, and futurity’ (ibid:171).

In terms of my own research, I will examine to what extent the concepts and concerns discussed above impact on my interviewees. How do they respond to the notion that their status as childfree persons negatively affects the continuance of society? How do they navigate negative assessments of their societal status through such terms as ‘barren’ or ‘sterile’? Do they have a sense of obligation to refrain from childbearing on the grounds that it is selfish or irresponsible to bring a child into a world riven with political strife and division, famine and poverty, or the threat of environmental catastrophe? Where they have made a positive decision to remain childfree, or have drifted into that state, have they any regret or remorse? Do they feel excluded from societal acceptance from their peers or familiar circles on the basis of their failure to conform to conventional expectations, to a notional heteronormative conformity?

THE NULLIPARA

Can the desire to resist using the reproductive system altogether result in some sense of dysphoria, a state of unease or dissatisfaction? If so, how is this countered or contested? Despite normative strictures and articulations of the woman’s role in reproduction, they have been countered or contested. Nevertheless, many women are subjected to a barrage of opinions if they choose to diverge. One of my respondents felt the effects this very keenly, and her sense of outrage at the questioning of her choices became one of the motivating factors for my research.

The nullipara seeks, implicitly, to step out of the mainstream discourse regarding children, into a space where she can feel valid and viable, to escape the disabling and devaluing disapproval – whether explicit or not – from her familiar social sphere.  Yet, in looking to sidestep comments or criticisms, to gain a space beyond the mainstream discursive field, one inevitably finds oneself in a closed loop. Any attempt to deviate from such a discourse is to approach the subject in the same discursive language, and in the same linguistic terms, creating what might be described as a discursive subspace rather than an escape route. As Mary Beard writes on the power dynamics between women and men, ‘You can’t easily fit women into a structure that is already coded as male; you have to change the structure’ (Beard, 2017:86/87).

Renske Keizer characterises adults who have made the decision not to have children, or have become by force of circumstance childfree – a woman without children defined medically as nullipara- as selfish and individualistic (Keizer, 2011:24). Katha Pollit found that childless women were widely regarded less favourably than mothers (Pollitt,1998:293). Other writers identify attitudes towards childfree women as promulgated by other women: neurotic, selfish, bitter, un-sisterly, unnatural, evil, lacking validity as ‘real’ women, ‘child-hating workaholics’, and lacking femininity (Cain, 1999; Campbell, 1985; Gillespie, 1999; Letherby, 1994, 1997; May, 1995; Monach, 1993). For Kristy Leonard, the childfree woman is stigmatised as ‘non-normative, queer and selfish’ (Leonard, 2012:2). Often, non-mothers reported that they felt factors driving this opprobrium reflected envy of their status, and the opportunities it afforded them (Gillespie, 2003:124; Letherby, 1997:26) [5].  Leonard suggests that women subjected to the strictures and conventions of mainstream expectations, and methods deployed to police their responses to those expectations, have been ‘historically associated with the body rather than the mind’: women have become ‘procreative serfs’, subject to the pressures of ‘compulsory procreation’ (Leonard,2012:5). Erika Dreifus, writing in No Kidding: Women Writers on Bypassing Motherhood, quotes Kathryn Rossetter in claiming that many women who are not mothers become objects of certain assumptions: ‘that I am a feminist and career woman who never wanted kids… that I am selfish and self-absorbed and I will never really understand life and the depth of unconditional love’ (Rossetter in Dreifus, 2014:188). This has been a central theme in earlier conversations with two of my respondents whom I have known for many years, both of whom have loving relationships with younger nieces and nephews.

Kristin Park suggests that intelligence may be a factor for the nullipara in the decision to reject motherhood: better-educated women may be more active in management roles, and less inclined towards religious belief, traditional gender roles and conventional societal expectations about having children (Park, 2005:15). Paul de Sandre references pronatalism when commenting that it ‘implies encouragement of all births as conducive to individual, family and social well-being’ (de Sandre 1978:145). Alena Heitlinger expands on this by writing that pronatalism can then be seen as operating on several levels: culturally, when childbearing and motherhood are perceived as ‘natural’ and central to a woman’s identity; ideologically, when motherhood becomes a patriotic, ethnic or eugenic obligation; and psychologically, when childbearing is identified with personal aspirations, emotions and rational (or irrational) decision-making (by women or couples) (Heitlinger, 1191:343-75). Tanya Koropeckyj-Cox and Vaughn R. A. Call cite research on voluntarily childless adults (primarily women) describing them as ‘a distinctive group, with consistently higher levels of education, greater occupational status, greater attachment to the labour force, higher incomes, and later ages at marriage compared to parents’( Cox and Vaughan,2007). S.P. Morgan and R.P.King found that parenthood is highly valued for its personal and social rewards, including emotional bonds, nurturing, investing in the next generation, personal growth, and the symbolic attainment of adult status (Morgan and King, 2001:3-20). K.Edin and M.Kefalas suggest that child-bearing can signal authenticity for a woman, and the reinforcement of their gendered identity (Edin and Kefalas, 2005: 24).  In her book The Woman in the Body, Emily Martin likens a post-menopausal woman to a disused factory, with (re)production shut down (Martin, 1987:79). Those of my interviewees who have passed through menopause will be asked to reflect on this somewhat inelegant metaphor. To what extent might childbearing be seen to be analogous to industrialised commodity production, with all the echoes of alienation and frustrated self-determination that such a notion implies?

Writing in 2016 in the International Journal of Applied Research, K. Annapurany describes the division of feminism into three distinct waves: in the 19th and early 20th centuries, the first wave began in Britain and the United States as a struggle by suffrage groups and activists for political and economic equality. The second wave, in the 1960s and 1970s, was characterised by a critique of patriarchy in constructing the cultural identity of women. The third wave is posited as a reaction to its predecessor in popular culture that sought to examine, expose and contest routine discrimination against, and negative criticism and abuse of, primarily young women. Zdenka Sadl and Tajda Ferko outline intersectionality in third-wave feminism, defining it as a ‘perspective [that] has encouraged a more inclusive approach to viewing women’s position in society, one that analyses their social location, experience and identity as being determined not just by sexism, but also by racism, classism, ageism, heteronormativity, ableism and other major systems of oppression’ (Sadl and Ferko,2017:925).

Among first-wave feminists, ‘girlie’ roles were rejected for supporting a hegemonic patriarchal perspective on the legitimisation of the woman’s role in conventional society. Writers such as Daphne DeMarneffe (2005:7) endorse such a view, while third-wave commentators such as Jennifer Baumgardner and Amy Richards document the reclaiming of ‘girlie’ culture in the 1990s, with motherhood seen as a central tenet of such revisionist ideals (Baumgardner and Richards, 2000:26).

Sonia Correa seems on the one hand to suggest that the notion that hegemonic male power always and everywhere disadvantages women obstructs a more ‘nuanced, complex and intricate understanding of power’, while on the other reinforcing the claim that for women in societies such as her native Brazil, it is for development agencies to intercede in enhancing their agency .Thus, it would seem that structural inequalities might be reinforced by and through those acts of ‘empowerment’, no matter how well intentioned.  She goes on to write that ‘as Foucault would say, increases in power may not mean greater freedom but rather intensification of increasing control’ (Correa, 2010: 184).

Yet it is a later claim that seems to strike at the heart of an intriguing conundrum: In claiming that it is not necessarily the case that women are excluded from realms of power, Correa writes that ‘One quite evident domain of women’s power within gender systems is the realm of procreation… Sexuality is and has been a domain where women exercise their power over other women and also men. Sexuality is a place of both agency and control, of both vulnerability and restrictions and major breakthroughs in what concerns personal freedom’ (Correa, ibid: 185, italics my emphasis).

She concludes by pointing out that the complexities of gendered power relations cannot be captured by appealing to the ‘patriarchal hierarchy of bad men and good women’ (Correa, ibid: 186). There are tensions between Lesbians and gay men, in and among Lesbian communities, violence perpetrated on men in closed communities such as prisons, and ‘inequalities among women themselves, along the lines of race, class, cast, ethnicity or simply educational opportunities’ (Correa, ibid:188). This reflects an intriguing conundrum: the tensions in the case of many of my respondents’ social interactions, revealed through earlier conversations, in regard to their status as non-mothers seem not at first glance to be the direct results of patriarchal domination.  The opening vignettes in this document showed clearly that accusations against Liz Kendall and Theresa May of being unfit for public office on the grounds of childfreedom came from other women. This will be a theme I shall explore through my research.

NO FUTURE

‘We’re fighting for the children. Whose side are you on?’ Bill Clinton, on behalf of himself, Hilary and Chelsea Clinton, from a public service announcement on American television, 1996.

For Lee Edelman, language keeps the childfree subject enclosed within a universalising fantasy that politics constructs of a future legitimised by the presence of the Child, and the woman’s necessary identification with the compulsory impulse to reproduce.  Without this identification she becomes a figure bereft of legitimacy or authentic purpose.  Edelman, in his influential, often coruscating and somewhat tendentious polemic No Future, rejects the ‘fantasy’ of futurity. Here, the expectation is that heteronormativity will compel each woman to ‘play her part’, to conceive a child within the life-protecting bounds of compulsory heterosexuality. She thus sustains and legitimises the politically sanctioned social order: trust the social order as it will benefit the child (Edelman, 2004:22). For Edelman, the Freudian death drive positions the gay (principally male) subject as ‘the negativity opposed to every form of social viability.’ 

Rather than rejecting this ascription, Edelman suggests, better to embrace it. Some may recoil from this apparent call to contest the process of what Angelo Restivo calls ‘the comforting dream of assimilation’ for many queer subjects (Restivo, 2004, 2). Andreas Kostenberger, writing for the Family Research Council, describes the ideal of marriage as a state in which ‘one man is united to one woman in matrimony, and the two form one new natural family’ (Kostenberger, 2017).  I would argue that this is a somewhat simplistic, narrow and restrictive definition, and one that fails to posit the notion of family as a supportive structure, which does not insist on childbearing as a prerequisite for such nurturing; or as one in which a restrictive structure can entail a great deal of unintended harm. These are themes which I shall examine through my own research.

The emergence of the term ‘queer’ in both popular and academic discourse to signify non-heterosexual persons is attributed by Alison Pullen, Torkild Thanem, Melissa Tyler and Louise Wallenberg to Italian author and academic Theresa de Lauretis, who allegedly first coined the term in 1990 (Pullen, Thanem, Tyler and Wallenberg, 2015). Kristy Leonard echoes Edelman to expand this categorisation in positing the childfree woman as a queer subject, existing beyond the bounds of conventional social structures: ‘queered childless women counter-identify with the subjectivity of ‘mother’…in order to subvert the patriarchy that privileges the child as emblematic of futurity’ (Leonard, 2010:12). In this way, the childfree woman becomes ‘[a]queer subject’, falling outside societal convention through her refusal to procreate, countering the view that it is a woman’s duty to bear children, despite the cost to herself – whether physical, emotional or economic – as the baby is ‘more valuable’ than the woman (Leonard, 2010:15). My research project will examine the extent to which my respondents feel that such outsider status is germane to their own sense of self.

CONCLUSION TO PART ONE

In the first part of this document, I have outlined historical and contemporaneous male attitudes towards women, and instances of societal intransigence faced by women who decide not have children, or for whom circumstances mitigate against motherhood. I have examined theories surrounding issues of futurity, of the notion that an adult woman’s primary concern should be the necessity of guaranteeing the future of society by bearing offspring. Much of this is expressed in terms informed by or consistent with the language of patriarchal hegemony that is also articulated through popular media as the opening anecdotes on Leadsom and May indicate. This is the social and cultural environment in which many of my respondents must make sense of their lives.

In the following section I will outline why I have chosen societal attitudes to the childfree as the topic for my research, and examine how this might find its place within ethnographic filmmaking.

 

[1] The Independent, Saturday 11th July, 2016, accessed online via www.independent..co.uk, 26.09.16

[2] The Guardian, accessed online, 26.09.16

[3] I refer here to notions of discourse formulated by Michel Foucault, which focus on societal relations of power as expressed through language and practice (Michel Foucault ’Power and Norms’ in M.Morris and P.Patton (ed), Power, Truth and Strategy, Feral 1979 (Sydney) p62)

[4] I refer here to notions of the cultural as the circulation and interpretation of representations, and the societal pertaining to roles and positions in structures of power (Erikson, 1963)

[5] It is challenging to find a term to describe the status of a woman without children that does not entail a negative designation

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Oprah Interview Misses the Bigger Picture

In all the press coverage I have seen of Oprah Winfrey’s interview with Meghan and Harry, it has been treated as a tale of personal tragedy, a terrible racist family squabble, for the British royals — but not one mention of the larger tragedy at the heart of Heathcote Williams’s “Royal Babylon,” namely the immense damage caused by the monarchy’s greedy, rapacious treatment of peoples and nations the worldover.

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  1. Jay Jones says

    Wife insisted on watching the interview, and I gave it a try, but veered from incredulity to laughter. If Team Sussex had been able to go with Plan 1 – the semi Royal branding, website, etc. this interview would never have happened. As it happens, Plan 2 will turn out to be the far more lucrative option, the martyred Showgirl and the Prince tale.  Meghan had the crushed Diana tone down pat, but nuanced by her own thespianism. Oprah kept giving up her OMG face, when the production signalled that all the big reveals were pre-set. They had graphics ready to drop in with phony headlines to show the deluge of racism that MM had to contend with whilst being oppressed by the Windsor toadies. The disclaimer at the outset of not being paid for doing the interview might play with the public, but the millions of views worldwide is of a value almost beyond measurement. It would have been wonderful to have Heathcote’s observations on what – otherwise possibly nice, not especially gifted – people, will sink to for the “first disgrace” of poisonous fame.
    Oprah, of course, has form with this sort of thing.

    • Jan Herman says

      Yes, i noticed that OMG face, which looked to me rehearsed. i should also have mentioned the damage done to wildlife by the royal family’s horrifying bird slaughters on hunts in the local countryside and by animal kills on globe-girdling trophy safaris and, not least, by its plundering of nature—all of which Heathcote’s indictment describes in excoriating detail.

  2. bellaart says

    absolutely Jan–
    those Battenburgs should have had the standard guillotine treatment a long time ago. but there they still are, headed by that old cow “her vagina so old it’s haunted. her backpassage resembling a cat-flap.” we should be eternally grateful to Heathcote for his observations.

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Tony Hendra, satirist best known as rock manager in This is Spinal Tap – obituary

British-born Hendra forged his career in US with National Lampoon magazine and anarchic performers including John Belushi

Tony Hendra, who has died aged 79, was one of the most brilliant satirists of the post-war period. He formed the link between the Cambridge Footlights team, in which he collaborated with John Cleese and Graham Chapman, and American institutions such as the satirical magazine National Lampoon and the NBC show Saturday Night Live where he was instrumental in launching the careers of John Belushi and Chevy Chase. 

In Rob Reiner’s classic 1984 “mockumentary” This is Spinal Tap, Hendra plays the band’s clueless manager Ian Faith who carries a cricket bat which he uses to immobilise troublesome bystanders and (in one of the film’s most memorable scenes) to trash a television set. (“In the topsy-turvy world of heavy rock, having a good solid piece of wood in your hand is often useful.”)

Hendra (playing Ian Faith) and Angelica Huston (Polly Deutsch) ponder the miniature Stonehenge stage set in the 1984 comedy film This is Spinal Tap  Credit: Collection Christophel  

He was the co-founder, with the artists Peter Fluck and Roger Law, of Spitting Image. “Tony Hendra,” said Fluck, “is one of the few genuinely remarkable talents I’ve encountered, ever, in my life.”

As a youth, Hendra aspired to enter the priesthood, but he would instead embrace a lifestyle that was reckless even by the standards of associates such as Belushi and Richard Pryor.

“When Spinal Tap appeared,” Roger Law recalled, “we had a Spitting Image ‘works outing’ to see it. At one point in the film, Tony declines a drink. The audience stood up and cheered. It was the first time any of us had ever witnessed this.”

This is Spinal Tap (1984)

In A Futile and Stupid Gesture, the 2018 drama documenting the history of National Lampoon magazine, where the Englishman was an editor from 1971-78, the part of Tony Hendra, who struggled with his weight for much of his life, was entrusted to Matt Lucas.

In Hendra’s time there, National Lampoon ran bad-taste features such as “The Case for Killing Our Aged (You’ve had your fun. Now butt out”) and “Nancy Reagan’s Guide to Dating”.

Hendra orchestrated the photo shoot which showed a collie with a gun to its head (“If You Don’t Buy This Magazine, We’ll Kill This Dog”). He oversaw the cover displaying a barbecue with the caption “How to Cook Your Daughter” – a headline that would return to haunt him, as unproven allegations of sexual misconduct blighted his later life.

“I met him in New York in the Nineties,” Roger Law once recalled. “He’d just been sacked by somebody. We went for the inevitable drink. He said: ‘Rog – this guy who just fired me – did he ask you about me?’ I said, ‘Yes. He wanted to know whether to hire you. I told him, “Hendra is extraordinary; a truly great satirist. But he is a lying scumbag and an alcoholic and he will f—ing let you down.’ Tony said: ‘Will you repeat that in court?’ When I asked why, he said, “Well, he fired me. It cost me $200,000. I mean Christ, Rog, the guy was forewarned.’ ”

Hendra’s 2004 memoir of finding faith, Father Joe, was highly praised by critics

On social excursions, Law added: “You could be out for four days. There was cocaine. Tony once hurled a dustbin through a plate glass window. In the middle of all this, he would suddenly take you to a Catholic church. Then back to the bar.”

Hendra was a gifted and perceptive observer of other comedians’ motivations and techniques. Going Too Far, his 1987 book focusing on subversive pioneers such as Lenny Bruce and Dick Gregory, is the definitive history of the genre. Last Words, his 2009 “sortabiography” of his friend, the legendary stand-up George Carlin, is one of the great books in the history of modern comedy.

In 2004 Hendra published Father Joe: The Man Who Saved My Soul. The book recounts his meetings with Joseph Warrilow, a Benedictine monk at Quarr Abbey on the Isle of Wight, his friend and confessor for over four decades, who died in 1998. It was an improbable relationship: Hendra was, by his own account, a prodigious sinner, while Warrilow was widely considered a saint.

The book went to number one on amazon.com. It was, declared The New York Times, “one of the greatest memoirs ever written”.

Its publication prompted Hendra’s daughter Jessica publicly to assert that her father had molested her as a child, but omitted the episode from his bestseller. This accusation, vehemently denied by Tony Hendra, was never tested in a court of law. The allegation appeared first in The New York Times in July 2004, then in Jessica Hendra’s own book, How to Cook Your Daughter, the following year.

“What if the charge is false?” wrote the paper’s ombudsman Daniel Okrent. “Either way, Tony Hendra will bear the scars of this article forever. There’s a difference between the right to know and the need to know, and in this case, the need escapes me.”

Jessica was the younger of two daughters from his marriage to his first wife, Judy Christmas, in 1963; they divorced in 1984. Hendra’s second wife was Carla Meisner, an advertising executive, the couple married in 1986 and had three children.

Hendra’s 2006 novel, set in a future world controlled by religious fanatics

“Carla and I,” he said, “needed to protect our family. That was the rationale behind our silence over these stories. Some assume from that silence that they are true. They are not.”

Anthony Christopher Hendra was born in Willesden on July 10 1941 and brought up in Harpenden. His mother was Catholic but his father was not, though as a stained-glass craftsman Robert Hendra spent many hours in churches; he coloured the Battle of Britain memorial window at Westminster Abbey.

Tony was first educated, at St Columba’s school, by monks who recommended that pupils settle disputes “with the gloves – as Christ intended.”

He moved to St Albans School, where pupils were arranged alphabetically in classes. “In front of me was Stephen Hawking. The great utility of Hawking to his classmates was that he could do maths and physics homework at the speed of light – a concept, by the way, which only he seemed able to grasp.”

From the age of 10 Hendra was tormented by the notion of damnation. “I had dreams about hellfire,” he said. “I’d run into my parents’ room, screaming that I was dying. And damned.”

Tony was 14 when he met Father Joe. He had made friends with a couple living in a caravan: after the wife made a pass at him, her husband took Hendra to Quarr.

Warrilow told him: “You’ve done nothing truly wrong, Tony. God’s love brought you here before real harm could be done.”

He pleaded to enter the monastery, but Warrilow persuaded him to accept the place he had been offered at St John’s College, Cambridge.

At the Arts Theatre, Hendra saw Peter Cook and Alan Bennett in Beyond the Fringe. “I entered that theatre a monk,” he said. “I came out a satirist.”

He performed with contemporaries including John Cleese and Graham Chapman. Not long after he left university, Judy became pregnant. By now Hendra had a new comedy partner, the actor Nick Ullett. They relocated to Los Angeles in 1964, signed by NBC on a $25,000 option.

Hendra, right, with his comedy partner Nick Ullett on the This Is Tom Jones television show, Los Angeles, circa 1970  Credit: Donaldson Collection/Getty Images

“I have a letter from Cleese, written around this time,” Hendra recalled. “It says: ‘We’re considering a new television show. You might want to come back.’ I said no. But I don’t want to suggest that I ever believed I’d be good enough for Monty Python.”

Hendra married Judy, who joined him in the United States. For five years Hendra and Ullett performed in venues like the Café a Go Go in Greenwich Village, alongside figures such as Lenny Bruce and Woody Allen.

By 1971 he had dissolved his partnership with Ullett and was a crucial member of the rotating editorship that governed National Lampoon. He moved his wife and two young daughters to New Jersey, close to the magazine’s New York office.

At Lampoon, Hendra said, “I took new vows: of disobedience and satirical purpose.”

Hendra proved to have an extraordinary gift for musical satire. At a time when Joan Baez’s stature as a civil rights icon was at its height, he composed a parody referring to the 1968 Oakland riots with the chorus: “Pull the triggers, n—–s / We’re with you all the way / Just across the Bay.”

The “Pull the Triggers…” line appeared on the first National Lampoon LP, Radio Dinner, produced by Hendra in 1972. The following year, working with Christopher Guest (who would star in Spinal Tap and direct films including Best in Show and Mascots] produced the off-Broadway show Lemmings, a parody of Woodstock. He received an audition tape from John Belushi and flew to the young comic’s home city of Chicago.

Hendra, far left, with members of the Spinal Tap cast including (foreground, left to right) Harry Shearer, Patrick Macnee (as the head of the group’s record company, Sir Denis Eton-Hogg), Michael McKean and Christopher Guest Credit: Collection Christophel

“From the moment I saw him,” Hendra said, “I knew he was amazing.”

Lemmings was adoringly reviewed in New York, then toured the US. Belushi was not a moderating influence. Hendra, 3,500 miles from Quarr Abbey, neglected his Bible for more secular pastimes, among them cocaine, infidelity and fishing with explosives. Belushi died of an overdose in March 1982. Hendra, meanwhile, had just reported for shooting on Spinal Tap; later that same year he attempted suicide with vodka and diazepam. But working on the film, he would later say, “saved my life.”

Hendra had mooted the idea for Spitting Image with Fluck and Law in the late Seventies in New York, but was eased out during the first series of the Channel Four show. “I wanted something explosive,” Hendra said. “I developed the sketch about Hitler talking to his neighbour Margaret Thatcher over the garden fence: ‘She reminds me of a she-wolf.’ The producer, John Lloyd, wasn’t interested in my sort of material. It was too political.”

Back at his New York home, a comfortable apartment on the upper West Side, he devoted himself increasingly to freelance writing. In the Nineties he edited Spy magazine, and subsequently worked on a number of film projects including collaborations with the Belgian animator Picha.

In 2006 he published his first novel, The Messiah of Morris Avenue, the story of born-again fanatics in the future who encounter a man claiming to be the reborn Christ. They loathe Jesus for his mercy, forgiveness and non-violence and erect a sign on death row: ‘CHRIST DIED FOR YOUR SINS! NOW IT’S YOUR TURN!’

In private, towards the end of his life Hendra was a generous, reflective and increasingly spiritual man, reluctant to revisit the earlier demented aspects of his CV.

Asked if he was worried at not having dedicated himself to a single outstanding show such as Monty Python, he replied: “It’s fine. I know who I am, and my friends know. I am proud of what I did.”

Tony Hendra is survived by his daughters from his first marriage, Katherine and Jessica, and, from his second, by his wife Carla and their children Sebastian, Lucy and Nicholas.

Tony Hendra, born July 10 1941, died March 4 2021

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SAUSAGE LIFE 169

 

Bird Guano

The column which cuts of its nose to spite its face and then complains that it can’t smell the coffee

 

READER:  The Golden Globes Awards! Did you see it?
MYSELF:  See it? I was there mate.
READER:  No! Really?
MYSELF:  In the flesh.
READER:  O-M-G….How close to the stage? Were you sitting near any stars?
MYSELF:  If you were watching it on telly, I was the one in handcuffs with a blanket over my head being bundled into to an unmarked  black van by Jodie Foster’s private security guards.

THE JOY OF SOCKS

The comedy clairvoyant duo Medium and Large, kilted yoga dancers and a Romanian mime artist pretending to be trapped in an aquarium were amongst artistes who kept an expectant Zoom audience enthralled during last Thursday’s opening of The Hastings Museum of Hosiery, the latest addition to the town’s roster of pop-up attractions. It was opened by local MP Rambo Udder, who cut a ribbon made from recycled PPL masks as she read these sincere words from her autocue; “This rarely seen collection of exhibits illustrating the fascinating history of socks is guaranteed to enthral both tourists and casual browsers of estate agents alike. I hereby declare Hastings Museum of Hosiery well and truly open” she declared as a 2-litre bottle of White Lightenin’ Apple-Style Cider Drink smashed into the museum’s Victorian stucco colonnade and bounced off unscathed, “God bless her and all who sail in her!”
Asked what strategy she might employ in order to increase her microscopic majority at the next general election, she replied enigmatically, “May I just remind everyone that my bijou South Coast pied-a-terre, with 32ft reception, Olympic-sized ballroom, seven bedrooms (all en suite) and adorable Moroccan-tiled kitchenette/diner is now available for rent. No pets, no air BnB, no DHSS, or whatever they call it these days and don’t even get me on the subject of Irish boarders.” adding, “Genuine enquiries only to: Foxtrot, Foxtrot & Sierra (UK) Ltd, Trump Tower, Gorky Park, Moscow.”

The Hastings Museum of Hosiery is closed until further notice.

 

DIKSHONARY CORNER

Sorcery (adj) tending towards being disc-shaped.

Mackerel (n) like doggerel, but waterproof.

 

DESERT ISLAND DICKS

According to my showbiz spies, Robinson Caruso, the new musical by Andrew Lloyd-Webber with lyrics by Russell Brand, has been cast and is in pre-production pending the relaxation of Covid-19 regulations. Where Daniel Defoe’s novel examined the nature of civilization, religious faith and power, this radical interpretation featuring Michael Ball as Caruso the shipwrecked opera singer and Gordon Ramsay as the foul-mouthed galley chef Dan Friday, asks us to suspend disbelief, cast away our preconceptions and sing.
As the sole survivor of plague-stricken cruise ship Karaoke Queen, Caruso manages to swim to shore on a nearby, seemingly uninhabited atoll. He thinks he is all alone until, during an exploration of the far side of the island he hears angry cursing.  Emerging from the undergrowth he sees Friday, who, whilst barbecuing some turtles has been surrounded by cannibals who, attracted by the delicious aroma have landed their outriggers on the beach. After scaring off the savages with a shot from his blunderbuss, the stranded tenor bonds with his new companion and teaches him to read music. Soon the recalcitrant cook is accompanying Caruso’s plaintive sea shanties on a crude bagpipe made from a hollowed out iguana. The anthemic Thank God It’s Friday – the showstopping finale of Robinson Caruso –  might just be one of the catchiest tunes the Demon Barbarian of Shaftsbury Avenue has ever ‘borrowed’. It is to be rush-released as a single this month.

The song’s video, directed by Brian La Palma, will feature (at lyricist Russell Brand’s insistence), the scantily-clad female cast of his bottom-scraping 2007 film St.Trinian’s who will appear as mermaids and sirens draped on a half submerged reef, their disembodied voices wailing its eery chorus, which manages to repeat the word paradigm 357 times.

 
 
 

ASK WENDY

Our resident agony aunt dishes out unqualified advice on matters of the heart and other organs

 
 

Dear Wendy,

My fiancée has invited me  on a Caribbean cruise but I suffer terribly from sea-sickness. Is there a sure-fire preventative measure I could take to avoid the agony and embarrassment of Mal de Mer?

(name and address withheld)

 

Dear (name and address withheld), 
In my experience, ocean cruises are often frought with anxieties, such as fear of food-poisoning, low-grade entertainment or falling overboard. As for fiancées, mine ran off with the bongo player of a samba band during a stop-off in Havana, so perhaps seasickness may prove to be the least of your problems! As far as I am aware however, the best method of avoiding it is to sit under a tree. 

CHIC BONES
Zero’s, Hastings’ first glutton-free takeaway restaurant, is now attracting “the right kind of people” according to owner Willi Prada, but it wasn’t always plain sailing. “At first, customers were baffled by our radical menu, which is basically just a blank page with prices down one side and our logo, an empty plate, at the top. Also, the first thing we say to people when they come in is ‘Are you sure you’re hungry? You look like you could lose a few pounds,’ which initially got a few of our waiters punched.” Times have changed however, and glutton-free dining is fast becoming the woke choice as more and more restauranteurs adopt this new no-overheads business model. “It’s really just a socially acceptable way of fasting,” said Willi, “but you feel better about it because you’re paying us a lot of money.
To the uninitiated we might appear to be just a restaurant charging people for empty plates, but lest we forget, emptiness is a mere construct. Presentation is everything.”

MYSTIC MADGE an apology

The famous spiritualist has apologized to disappointed fans after her recent virtual show prompted a mass Zoom mute-out. She was attempting to contact Boycott, an audience member’s recently deceased Yorkshire Terrier, when messages from her sumo wrestler spirit guide Pokomon suddenly ceased and were replaced by BBC Radio 4’s shipping forecast.
Instead of hearing a description of Boycott’s idyllic new home in Dog’s Little Acre, angry fans were warned of light to heavy precipitation in sea areas Biscay and Shannon, Northwesterly 5 to 7, veering northerly 3 to 5 later.
Disappointed punter Ted Throwbach of Cromer, who had tuned in hoping to hear from Elvis Presley, spoke to us afterwards. “I just wanted to ask The King how he was,” explained a visibly shaken Ted, “and maybe get him to sing Heartbreak Hotel,  but all I got was Dover, Wight, Portland, Plymouth four or five, increasing six soon, rain or slight drizzle, good. – all delivered in a plummy voice which was clearly not Elvis’s.”
We spoke to Mystic Madge, who explained that after-death communication with the spirits of dead dogs was notoriously difficult. “Plus,” she added, “the BBC’s FM broadcasting signal can occasionally get picked up by the divining rod in my handbag and on that particular night it interfered with my chi something terrible”. She promised a full refund or a free tea leaf reading to any dissatisfied necromancy enthusiasts on production of a ticket stub.

 

TOMORROW’S PAPERS

SMACKED ARSE SUES OVER COMPARISON TO PATEL’S FACE

Wasp-Chewing bulldogs to join class-action lawsuit

 

 

Sausage Life!

 
 
 
 

POISON PEOPLE

guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

click image for video

 

MORE FROM GUANO POUNDHAMMER

click image

 
 
 
 
 
By Colin Gibson
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Now

Now, I don’t know much about venture capitalism, but I do know what stinks.  To use Picasso’s humanitarian masterpiece, Guernica to sell wealth through art – stinks.  When this press release fell into my in box I wondered what dark algorithmic angel sent it. Why me? A retired special needs teacher with Socialist politics.  Hardly the profile of the super rich art collector (although I do have some nice gleanings from political auctions, studio floors and the odd pressie.)  I think it was because I once contacted Bonhams to auction a signed ‘Free for All’ poster by Richard Hamilton to raise funds for Stop the War.  Richard had asked that the posters be auctioned for causes he would have supported.   It didn’t sell by the way – wrong aesthetics (or wrong cause).  This pitch by the Guernica V. fund is breath-taking in its lack of understanding of Picasso’s painting.  The press release – reproduced in full below – ‘speaks in tongues,’ but…

is clear enough.  While our health workers are insulted with a 1 per cent pay rise, the super rich can capitalise on the situation.  When Picasso was stuck in Paris during the Nazi occupation, a German officer visited him in his studio, brandishing a postcard of Guernica.  ‘Did you do this?’ he asked. ‘No,’ replied Picasso, ‘you did.’

More here – make of it what you will.

https://apnews.com/article/business-products-and-services-investment-management-financial-services-delaware-9e3cda5f6be057f3991bb8c7ce5fa772

 

Graphic and writing by Jan Woolf
Painting, Guernica by Picasso
Advertising by the Guernica V. Fund

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NOT FOR AGES

 

He found a new religion
in a church of stories
where the writing sloped like his own

and was strangely familiar

with the various complex results,
although they became more and more sinister,
more allusive and confused:

gas-lights and Gothic revival,

mineral railways and garden cities,

and later (walking through apple trees

in blossom in May),

he made this image ­–

then let another one be formed

from the debris

of an inconsistent series

of thoughts and words

shrivelled in epigrams,

as his own dark god
-–who created both the lion and the lamb –
became visible,

before hastening away

under the threat of night,
seeming as near

as any suburban garden,

and no further

than where the porch light ends.

 

Phil Bowen

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Ballast

          Some years ago now, on a tour of the Highlands. Whilst walking a quiet lane, some ten miles south o replied f John O’Groats, I came across an old, bent man. He carried a pack on his back, a shovel in his hand, and stood next to a large pile of ballast. As I passed I bid him good morning, tipping my cap. ‘Mornin’’, he.

              Looking beyond the man, I noticed he had left a thin trail of sand behind him. After a moments consideration it occurred to me that the old man had shovelled the pile of ballast down the lane by hand. One shovel over the next, all the way to where we now stood.

        I turned back to face him. ‘ Excuse me’, I said, ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have you moved that ballast by hand? ‘I have sir, yes’, he replied,  in a broad West Country accent. ‘This ton, the one before it, and indeed, the very one before that. All by hand sir, one shovel over the next’. Pondering for a minute, looking down the lane and taking a few steps back along the trail of sand, I placed one hand in my jacket pocket. With the other, I removed my cap and scratched my head. ‘I’m not sure I understand’, I said at last.

           Steadying himself by parting his legs slightly, and leaning his crossed arms on the handle of his shovel to take his weight, the old man prepared to tell me the story he had been telling his whole life. ‘It all started with my grandfather, you see? He’d come back from the great war, ‘by the skin of ‘is teeth’, as he used to say. Just old enough he was to catch the last of the action, and not too impressed by it was he neither. He’d seen some terrible things, and like so many others believed that by experiencing these horrors he was paving the way to a better future for all of us. The only thing was, that the bright future didn’t  come to nothing. By the mid thirties down in Cornwall, where he were from, Penzance, it were, people were out of work, and hungry. Starving for their meals they were, and a great sickness carried a lot of ‘em away, my Grandmother and two little ones among ‘em. My grandad, he were left with a twelve year old son, the clothes he stood up in and a whole load of grief.

          After the grieving had consumed him a while, one morning he lept out of his bed and declared to my dad that they were leaving. He was to pack a bag and spend the morning saying goodbye to all those that meant anything to him.  ‘Where are we going dad?’, my dad asked. ‘Never you mind my boy, I’ve found us a purpose’, my grandad told him, bundling him out the door of their tiny cottage. The home he was to never see again.

          This purpose my grandad had found took the form of a ton of ballast and two shovels. You’ll be knowing ballast of course?‘ The man bent forward and picked up a handful from the pile in front of him. ‘Tis a mix of sand and gravel. Stones dredged up from the bottom of the sea. Sometimes if you look among it, you’ll find shells and little polished gems, like beads’. The man became wistful, dreamlike as he let the ballast fall between his fingers. He looked as if he were considering a lover long passed or a lost child. ‘Mostly used in concrete’, he said sharply, throwing the last of it, back on the pile, snapping us both out of a trance.

‘I see’, I said. ‘There must be an awful lot of it.’

‘That there is’, he replied. ‘I’ve seen over five hundred ton of it myself, and there’s only one of me. Goodness only knows how many other people there are. Got to be billions by now, I’d wager.’

 ‘And some’, I said not wanting to sharpen the mood with figures and statistics.

         ‘Anyways’, the man continued, straightening his back. ‘My grandad he shows my dad this ton of ballast down there in Penzance, all them years ago, throws him a shovel and says, ‘this is wantin’ to be delivered to John O’Groats’. ‘But I don’t know who that is’, replies my dad. ‘It’s not a who, it’s a where’, says my grandad, and it’s that way’. He points up the road, away from Penzances.’

       It took me a moment to realise what the man was telling me. When the penny dropped a broad grin spread across my face and I laughed out loud. ‘So your grandad, in order to make sense of loosing his wife, two small children and his lively hood, decided to shovel a ton of ballast from Lands End to John O’Groats’.

‘Twern’t Lands End, it were Penzances’, the old man corrected me. ‘Lands End is another thirty miles west, so I’m told’.

 ‘Yes, yes, of course. You are right’, I said regaining my composure. I was annoyed with myself for interrupting. ‘Please go on, what happened next?’

         The man, once again, leaned forward on his shovel before continuing. ‘All his friends they did come out to see ‘em off. Some thinking he’d lost his mind, saying it weren’t fair on the boy, and all that’.

‘What did he say to that?’ I asked.

‘My father says to I, many years later, after grandad had passed, that he’d been born to the mines, and if he hadn’t been shovelling above ground, he’d a been shovelling below ground. So those London money men, who didn’t see no sense in running the mines, had done him a favour in the long run. Seeing as he’d had a chance to see a little sunshine in his life. ‘A man will be working whatever’, he said, ‘and a woman too’, he was careful to add, ‘so I might as well be throwing this ballast in front of I, as doing anything else’.

        We stood in silence for a minute. It was a cool spring morning and in the trees above us, the birds sang. I couldn’t believe the story, and began to think the man was some sort of practical joker, who had set up this elaborate ruse to trick passing tourists, for his own amusement. ‘You’re having me on?’ I laughed. ‘This is a joke you’re playing on me’.

‘I swear I ain’t’, said the man staring up the road. ‘That story is as true as the day is long. Or as sure as the sun shines in the sky above us’. At which point we both looked up. Sure enough the weak Scottish sun was just peaking out from behind a cloud. ‘You can follow this trail of sand all the way back to Cornwall if you’ve a mind to’.

         Looking down the road, then again at the man, I shuffled on my feet, wanting to believe him. I took a few steps, stopped, then came back. Standing directly in front of the man, I asked, ‘If it was your grandfather and your father who set off from Penzances, how?…. where?’ I struggled to phrase the question. ‘Where on earth did you come from?’ I finally managed to blurt out.

      Quite clearly used to recounting his tale and seemingly with all the time in the world to tell it, the man took a tobacco tin from his pocket and slowly rolled himself a cigarette. Placing it in his mouth, he took a box of matches from his pocket, lit the cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke that engulfed him entirely. After waving the smoke away so I could see his face again, he looked me in the eye and said, ‘I’m glad you’ve asked me that, ‘cos it’s a good story.’ I folded my arms across my chest and listened.

    ‘The two of them had been shovelling their way North for the best part of six years. Picking up bits of work here and there. Selling ballast to folks for driveways, paths, that sort of thing. ‘course the pair of ‘em is fit and strong and they had no shortage of female attention along the way. Stopping for a while, here and there, as they did.

           It happened that right up there on the top of Dartmoor, near Widdecombe, my father got friendly with the farmers daughter and one thing led to another, as they do. Three months after my grandad had managed to drag my dad away, my ma discovered he’d left something behind.’

 ‘Ah, I see’, I said.

The old man took another deep drag on his cigarette, before going on. ‘Now, my ma, she was still keen on my dad but, well, to be honest, she was already promised to the man who raised me. Not wanting to cause any upset, she didn’t see the sense in telling no one about the bit of fun she’d  had, and went ahead and married the other chap. ’

‘That still doesn’t explain how you got to be here.’ I said, pointing at the road between us. ‘I was just coming to that. You can’t be in a hurry with a good story.’ He was right, I was becoming impatient. ‘I’m sorry’, I said, ‘in your own time.’

       ‘We lived happy up there on the moor. Tending the sheep and growing whatever food we could. My stepdad was a gentle man, and kindly, but when I gets to twelve-year-old, I starts to become irritable, like my feet constantly itching. My ma, she sees this, like a mother will and she says to her husband, ‘that one’ll be away soon enough, you mark my words’. He didn’t say nothing, knowing my ma to be right about most things, save sheep and ditches.

      Well, by the time I were fourteen, I were clawing at the walls, driving ‘em all mad. Desperate to get away and see a bit of the world beyond that old farm. ‘Did you run away?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t need to’, he replied. ‘One night I heard raised voices coming up through the floor, which were rare in our house, seeing as they understood each other so well, so I knew something was up. Next morning I got up, went down for my breakfast, to find my ma alone in the kitchen. She broke the news to I there and then. The man I had been calling dad this whole time, weren’t my dad at all. Turns out my dad didn’t know nothing about farming, or ditching, or sheep or none of that. He was the son of a Cornish miner, most likely shovelling a ton of ballast towards the north of Scotland. If I had a mind too, I could head north, asking along the way, I might find him.’

 ‘And that was that?’ I asked. ‘Near enough’, he shrugged and threw the end of his cigarette on the road. ‘I packed a bag, says goodbye to my family, kissing my sisters and the baby. Shook the hand of the man who had raised me, hugged my ma and, after checking my compass, headed north to find my dad.

    It wasn’t that easy mind. The world is a lot more empty and a lot more full than I had imagined before I left. I encountered many strange, wonderful, difficult and beautiful times along the way. Asking in the pubs for news of the pair. I heard no end of stories, the pubs being the place for ‘em. I found work in some, trouble in others. Songs and singing. Even a bit of love from time to time. There was a while I thought I might find some young bugger come looking for me, but it wasn’t to be.

        Eventually after seven years of looking, I caught up with them. They’d made it to Derbyshire by then. Deep quarries and hills it is. Air as fresh as that I’d left behind. High too, it felt a little like a home coming. Arriving up there to the welcome hand of my dad.’ A tear began to well in the old man’s eye as he recalled the scene. ‘That was some moment’, he went on, ‘seeing them, seeing me. We all looked the same, but for me having my ma’s eyes. Them carrying the celtic dark hair and blue eyes. Me looking through these old chestnut brown eyes of mine. ‘What happened then?’ I asked, ‘How did they take it?’ ‘It was no big shock to ‘em, me arriving like that, I just slipped in to the rhythm of things. They teased me some for not thinking to bring a shovel, but grandad soon found me one from some place or other and off we went. ‘It were suprising’, my grandad said, ‘how much quicker the ballast moved with some fresh muscle throwing it about’.

    Those years, with the three of us, they just flew by, but my grandad he was getting on a bit by then and it weren’t five winters passed before we lay him in the ground. My dad took that hard. Seeing as they had been through so much together. I comforted him as much as I could and we determined to finish job and deliver a ton of ballast to John O’Groats. Twenty odd year, my dad and I shovelled north. Having adventures along the way. We laughed and sang. Drank and fought. Earned money, made friends, took lovers and kept moving. Driven on by all the miles behind us and the promise we’d made my grandad.

    The life of the travelling man though, is hard. It takes a lot of effort to keep the rain off your shoulders, snow out your boots and the sun from drying you out. It was the boarders and the Scottish low lands that did for my dad. We settled for a month or two in Berwick, and, as he rested he faded away. We’d met an old couple. Put us up nice and cosy they had. Fresh eggs in the morning, as well as bread and milk. We felt like prince’s, we did. To my mind, though, it were the comfort that killed him. Not that I’m complaining mind, just saying. I’ll always be grateful to those kind people. It was only when we stopped there with that hot water and a soft bed each that we realised how tired we were. My dad just couldn’t find the strength to go on. I promised him, just like we’d promised his dad, that I’d go on and deliver the ballast myself, and three days later we buried.

     I didn’t hang about long after the funeral, seeing that the comfort could easily trap me. After seeing for a fresh ton of ballast to be delivered, I made my thankyous and goodbyes, and checking my old compass, just as I has all those years before, only this time heavy with grief, headed north. And here I am, these ten years later, not ten miles from John O’Groats, and all that has meant to three generations of us.’

      I nodded as I took off my cap. ‘That is quite some story’, I said. Emotion rolling through me, as I looked at the old man through fresh eyes. ‘No more interesting than your own story, I’d wager’, the old man replied, as he settled himself on his feet, readying himself to hear how I happened to be in the north of Scotland. ‘Oh, no, no’, I laughed, waving him off. ‘You’ll not want to hear that. Tell me though, what’ll you do, when you get there?’ Chuckling lightly, looking up at the sky, the old man replied, ‘That is something I have thought long and hard about. I have heard though’, he said, picking up his shovel, sliding it across the tarmac, under the ballast and up, to lob the contents over the pile in front of him. ‘I’ve heard there’s a lady in Penzances, wants a path laying.’ His laugh echoing off the trees.

 

 

Ben Greenland

 

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NEPTUNE’S NERVOUS

                                                               

 

On Seventy Two Percent’s DROWING IN A SEA OF BASTARDS (Human Worth, 2021)                                                              

 

Can the sea scream? So it proves in Seventy Two Percent’s sea spiced single.
Released by Human Worth, here the value crests the fire and force of sound waves
Which batter the ear’s inner storm, retuning thoughts, carving chaos with which
This fresh lightning trio strike corrupted shores. No-one’s saved.

Guitarist Joe Brown’s video shows a monochromed bearded sailor,
Summoning Robert Eggers The Lighthouse, the rope at which he wrenches
Sinews like flesh – as he grapples against snake like weight and the light is seen
To flex in warped water. Felt, the piercing arc of the music exposes

The visceral strain of this test. With Brown and Josh Ryan’s guitars
And Joel Harries hell clatter, drums and strings become weather against
Which tide is shaped.  For this is a soundtrack hell sent as the bastards burn
Within water, and the struggle set in the promo find unique echo

In what listening does to a face. Recorded at Northampton’s The Lodge,
And produced by Harries hurried rhythms, Stephen Kerrison’s masters
Summon the song’s Ragnarok. After the hard whirpool mix in which strings
And drums thrash sounds oceans, and this noise craft’s engineering is oared

By Mark Cann and the cannily named Rufus Fox. Seventy Two Percent
Will complete with Modern Technology on Lorn, a joint album, where Chris Clarke’s
Bass and vocals and Owen Gildersleeves’drums  will present a unique vision for noise
As its own hidden language, heard in Drowning in a Sea of Bastards sheer power

As it communicates dark intent. You hear wind and weather and storm
And the chorus and scream of lost bastards, as well as those of the present
Warring with those bastards of old to usurp – the fears drowning grants
To the separated soul as they’re splitting, torn by both cold and terror

And imagination and foam, to seek worth, It is a rolling wave of pure sound
That creates the shore it is shaped by. At its pitch there is story carousing around
Sunken decks.  Your own soft cabin is smashed as each note spikes and thunders.
What the sea consumes is still fire as even Neptune awaits what comes next. 

You can almost see him stand, sea staff poised, to spear  the bastard sharks
Drowning spirals, making this song the soundtrack from which legends learn.
In Brown’s video, our man sinks after the mist, as smoke seems to stoke him. 
Clearly, for completion, the 72% he’s been living will soon be balanced
By a further 28 madness earns. Or possibly death,  or, retribution, or riot,
Caused by a vast crew of bastards making water weep: hope falls spurned.
But in the fire and force of this song and oncoming album, Neptune power thrashes
As he ‘air’ or ‘sea’ guitars plays unheard notes. And guitars and drums spark,

Making steam from boiled oceans that in three minutes thirty
Make this Seventy Two drown and float. Spirits ascend
Just as seas surround. Darkness fires.  From such bastardy you hear horror
As each King of sea and storm falls deposed.  

 

 

                                              David Erdos, March 3rd 2021     

 

https://humanworth.bandcamp.com/album/drowning-in-a-sea-of-bastards-lorn

 

 

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The Caretaker


Lurked mainly
In his desk strewn basement
Shovelling furnace coke
We’d nick for a dare,
Each playtime watched us
Offering sweets
Nobody took:
And one night in the pub,
My decades older face
Still recognised,
Invites me back to his for a drink:
Over Polish vodka
Shows me his tattooed forearm
And speculates
A mother,
Father,
Sisters,
Aunts,
His wife and
A child
Just started at school
Then leaning forward
Confides a suitcase fully packed:
Passport, spare cash and some gold
That’s “…always good,
Can always be bartered for food.”

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp/1788768671/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Patrick+McCann+Still+Pondering&qid=1573366856&sr=8-1

 

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Jack Kerouac reads On the Road

 

Jack Kerouac reads On the Road

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Stealing a Frame

Must we have all these questions?
Why are we being kept in the dark?
Why is everything always about money?
“The things you can do with a camera,” he said.

Their presence here might explain
the gory attack but nothing was
taken and there was no forced
entry. “The mutilations here are

even more severe,” she said.
In this instance there was no
such call. Are we developing
belated yuppy aspirations?

What will the night bring?
“This film feels like a puzzle to be
solved rather than experienced
at a gut level,” she said.

In this instance there was no
such call. Are you stealing a frame?
“They’re here in force,” he said.
Meanwhile it’s a last chance to party.

“What a world we’re living in,”
she said. Are we about to give in?

Steve Spence
Montage: Rupert Loydell

 

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Alan’s New Music Round-up

 

Another collection of responses to ‘new-to-him’ music releases from Alan Dearling

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Youth Meets Jah Wobble: Acid Punk Dub Apocalypse


Titans of bass sounds. Youth (Killing Joke) and Jah Wobble (Public Image Ltd) are joined by some illustrious mates, such as Hollie Cook, Rhiannon and Vivien Goldman on this new album. Overall, more dub-style than punk, tinged nicely with a flavour of Acid House and Indian ragas. And shed-loads of ‘hooks’. Heavy beats, danceable. You shouldn’t be sitting in your armchair…get moving… Cheerful and uplifting music to shake off the cobwebs and dispel the pandemic clouds. It is also a reminder that we sadly lost beat/sampler, Andrew Weatherall in 2020. Drummer, Tony Allen, has left us too.

Lots of variety which is good. Deep Dub on ‘Full Metal Dub’ and ‘Panzer Dub’, a lighter touch on ‘Breaking shells’, and psychedelic out-there sounds on ‘Rhino’. Probably my favourite track is the Marley-like rhythms of ‘Rise Me Up’ featuring Blue Pearl’s Durga McBroom’s vocals…

https://soundcloud.com/user4928218/sets/youth-meets-jah-wobble-acid-punk-dub-apocalypse-digital

 

Celeste: Not Your Muse

There’s quality music in every era. New music. New women and guys with something to say. Originality never stopped, though some nay-sayers would have us believe that the only good music is ‘old school music’! Amy Winehouse had that spark. You can almost imagine Amy looking over Brit-Award winner, Celeste’s shoulder, as she sings, ‘Love is Back’. Celeste and her team have created a heady mix of old-style music, tinted skilfully with a new unique look and sound, not just a hasty make-over. So, now we have Celeste. Her debut album is a powerful statement. It’s a classy act. The title track claims that she’s ‘Not Your Muse’, but for many she will be! It is soulful, sultry. There’s a vulnerability which is endearing. It’s also filled with glowing, effervescent pop, pumping, young and arrogant. For example, ‘Stop This Flame’, which could be Lady Gaga on fire. Then again, it oft-times seems to sound like something transposed into 2021 from a smoke-filled jazz bar populated by the ghosts of Lauren Bacall, Humphrey Bogart, Marilyn Monroe and even Doris Day.

“Isn’t it strange, how people can change?”

If you are older and distrustful of modern pop…go on, give this a chance. It’s a first step…Celeste is at the beginning of her journey. A bright young talent who should develop in some intriguing ways…Meanwhile, this is a powerful opening salvo… This isn’t from the album, but is really rather special; a duet of ‘You Do Something to Me’ with Paul Weller: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lUPsKZfuXi8

Celeste’s website: https://www.celesteofficial.com/

 

Brewer’s Daughter: Jara

I’ve been aware of Rhiannon Crutchley’s exquisite playing and tones on a 1887 Wolf Bros fiddle for some time now. She’s part of the indie-festi and Traveller circuit and I’ve seen her a few times with the band, Tarantism.  She currently lives on a narrowboat.  Just like I used to. So, it seemed entirely natural when she let me know that she had a new album ready for release under the ‘Brewer’s Daughter’ moniker. I’ve let the music from the album seep into my psyche. It’s a varied smorgasbord of powerful songs. It has been a ‘grower’ – it now feels like an old friend – but at first it left me puzzled because it isn’t folk, definitely isn’t rock. In fact that is a lot of its strength. It’s intense, lyrical and personal. It’s acoustic music, but fully formed and rounded. Sometimes it almost becomes too intense. A life of bumps, grinds, set-backs, challenges – shared in her songs:

“If this is the soundtrack

To the life of me

Play it in a minor key.”

Rhiannon has assembled a fine collection of songs and tunes and musicians. Some bouncy, cheerful material, but much that features her voice, which is an unexpected instrument. Often gravelly, edgy, earthy, occasionally sneering, even a bit strident. I found myself thinking, “…this reminds me a bit of Billy Bragg.”  That’s probably because the words are worth listening to and thinking about… For instance, (from ‘Cork’ the opening track):

“My old man’s got a new dream

Another life

Far from me.

My friends from travellin’

Have found a place to

Stop.”

All but two of the tracks are Rhiannon’s own compositions. An original talent and well showcased on the ‘Jara’ album. Her arrangement of Dave Sudbury’s ‘Burn the Wagon Down’ is also a great track, redolent of way of the vardo, traditional Gypsies and travelling people.

http://brewersdaughter.bigcartel.com/

https://facebook.com/thebrewersdaughter

Zion Train: Illuminate

A few months before the Covid lockdown, I had a great night, right at the front of stage at the OZORA festival in Hungary, taking photos and even talking to members of Zion Train. I’ve known some of their members, especially Neil Perch, since their very early days, rising as they did from amidst the politically aware activists engaged in the underbelly of the alternative indie music scene of dance tent reggae, with their distinctive, very jazzy, dubby sounds. This new album, the first in five years, is an affirmation of their grandeur and power. It features a host of different vocalists and styles. The melodic, brass, and drum ‘n bass sound is still alive ‘n’ kickin’.

They are more of a collective than a band. ‘Universal Egg’, their hub, is virtually a blueprint for a ‘way of life’. ‘Illuminate’ features a veritable host of nine guest vocalists, toasters and MCs, controllers of the mix. Vocals have often featured on Zion Train albums, but ‘live’ they are sometimes stripped down to a deep dub dj-set. In the UK, I believe that they were one of the first live acts to transcend the gap between the hard-core, Rasta sound-system parties and the festies. I booked them for a street party in Lyme Regis in 1990s, but also saw them in mainstream Babylon at Glasto.  I’m a fan of Cara’s vocals, so ‘We Shall Rise’ is a favourite, but ‘Unity’ with Prince David is very much emblematic of the Zion Train sound with its insistent bass line. Long may they live on…Universal Consciousness!

‘We Shall Rise’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sr1jO15oArs

https://ziontrain.bandcamp.com/album/illuminate

 

Lila Iké – This young lady is a phenomenal soulful, reggae talent. But none of her work seems to be available on CD/vinyl in the UK. More’s the pity! But, I’ve downloaded her ep, ‘The ExPerience’ and a couple of her singles. ‘Where I’m Coming From’, Habitat Studios, broadcast on BBC1Xtra from Jamaica 2020.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HhSB53Nhj_8

 

Fergus McCreadie: Cairn

I’m a long-time fan of classic, piano-led modern jazz. Music that is far more than ‘wallpaper’ and ‘lounge’, but is melodic, brimming with textural complexity. ‘Cairn’ is a new and rather wonderful addition to this milieu. If you know and like the music of Keith Jarrett, Dollar Brand and EST, this is for you. If you don’t know those artists – but like beautifully produced sonic adventures – this is for you. Spacey, atmospheric, emotional, lovingly crafted and really, just jaw-droppingly beautiful. Often euphoric, with distinctive bass-lines and sympathetic percussion, twisting and twirling, blending perfectly with the up-front, dynamic keyboard.

Fergus is young and Scottish. This is the second album from him and his trio, the first from 2018, ‘Turas’ (Journey) is also rather wonderful. They are both haunting, highly musical and offer jazz inter-laced with elements of Scottish folk music. Ideal for folk who claim not to like jazz, as well as aficionados.

Here is a live video of title track, ‘Cairn’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5RcJQQ56iY

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No Place 

Long to hear la voie 
this country has got away 

Rub scent softly 
into wrists 

A man eats
a counter breakfast 

Grace says ‘wear 
your masks you 

silly geese’ take a 
train back to Milan 

& collect the lost 
phone 

scratches on 
the blue drift 

 

 

Andrew Taylor

 

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Steam’s Groove-Episode 7

Steam Stock.

Tracklist:
Ray Bryant – Up Above the Rock
Cymande – Fug
The Southside Movement – I’ve Been Watching You
RAMP – Daylight
Ananda Shankar – Streets of Calcutta
King Errison – Well, Have a Nice Day
Betty Davis – If I’m in Luck I Might Get Picked Up
Reuban Wilson – Sho’ Nuff Melon
The Blackbyrds – The Runaway
Eric Burdon and War – Spill The Wine
Gary Burton – Vibrafinger
Eddie Kendricks – Girl You Need a Change of Mind

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A Review of Simon Collings book.

Why Are You Here? Very Brief Fictions – Simon Collings (Odd Volumes of The Fortnightly Review)

‘Given the nature of the ‘book’ any attempt to summarise it is impossible.’ Medusa

Before Covid, and certainly during, I have taken some comfort from literature that I scorned in my more self-assured youth: books filed under the Self-Help category. Why Are You Here? strikes me as a title that would sit nicely alongside The Power Of Now. It asks the ultimate question and provides the cover image of an ostrich skeleton to perhaps illustrate some kind of answer. The frontispiece quote from a Kafka letter states ‘Naturally things cannot in reality fit together the way the evidence does in my letter; life is more than a Chinese puzzle.’ With this in mind, I began to approach the prose poems within as exhibits or evidence in the puzzling case as to why I am here.

The opener, You Had A Suitcase blends specifics with uncertainty where the narrator tries to piece together memories of an unnamed other in a morphing location. There are plenty of objects to go along with the suitcase but nothing can be taken for granted. The narrator is wonderfully unreliable, too – giving common objects such as a bed and a mop comic potential. Best of all, among the concrete details and the memory lapses, there is a vegetable patch at the end of the room – a delightful, surreal twist. The piece concludes with ‘At dawn I returned to look for you. The station had been remodelled, but the information kiosk hadn’t moved, and the blind was still down.’ Here, the ordinary is juxtaposed with the strange and the word remodelled is perhaps key with further associations with ‘model’, suggesting the Hornby sets of yore. The planners and makers are shifting the context around and we are invited to make what sense of it we can, knowing, that this project is a mirage as the certainty we might seek can never be realised.

It is hard not to think about Covid when reading this collection – ‘The beetles infesting the bathroom were multiplying.’ The origin of this infestation cannot be identified but might be attributed to a mysterious electrical device located in the hall. The Kafka like transformation of the room cannot, despite the efforts of the occupants, be halted. Doors and windows are sealed. Close to midnight, Imogen said, ‘I never thought it would be like this’, and started to cry. A feeling that, perhaps, many of us can relate to right now.

After this somewhat sombre beginning, the collection shifts and swiftly moves into the wonderfully comic. Synchronicity pushes the logic of coincidence as far as it can go. Unlikely events and numbers click into place and then we are offered the first of the beautifully described and randomly numbered objects (the first one is number 43, which causes the narrator to reach for his shotgun). The numbering system reminds this reader of The Beatles and Revolution No.9 for some reason. These objects, peculiar and surreal, are exquisitely described. Object 135 has a description, that in tone, perhaps fits the genre of an auction catalogue – ‘It is unusual to find the leather case so well preserved.’ The contents of the case are graphically described – four balls nestling in velvet lined pockets, ‘each sphere marked with a delicate black line which divides the surface into hemispheres, each hemisphere inscribed with a line of indecipherable script..’ To go with these spheres, there is a ‘slender, tapering baton fashioned from wood of a yew, a silver ferule fitted to the narrower end…’ In the end, we are informed, ‘Along the bottom of the case are the seven indentations where the missing charm figures should be.’ Whatever this object may be, I would love to have one. 

It doesn’t take long to start laughing out loud when reading this odd volume. On The Tourist Trail creates a Pythonesque scenario where a Chinese mini-TV series adapts a novel concerning, of all things, ‘an accident-prone professor.’ It’s hilarious, as is Illegible which is, perhaps, a stand out piece because it is so funny. Line after line is a gem, ‘As soon as the coast was clear we began writing up our notes. In the pitch dark this was harder than I expected..’ The dry humour is balanced with a strange logic and between this tension, the lines light up. In turns, funny, strangely familiar and disorientating. Something’s happening here, but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr Jones?

There are some fine shaggy dog stories. Verne’s Nemesis tempts the reader to cross-reference the facts – they might be there, and then comes the swift suspicion that the whole thing is a brilliant wind up. The same process occurs in Theory, the academic tone seems credible, replete with a footnote. Fact and fiction concerning Wordsworth and Milton are blended to the point where, indeed, the world is turned upside down.

Orang-utan flips the whole viewer/voyeur notion on its head with hilarious results and the absurd experiences endured in every day life are further explored in Don’t Give Up. It is interesting to contrast these tales with Natural Remedy which describes what might have seemed like a surreal encounter before Covid. The same matter of fact exploration of the strange occurs in Marigolds, a bizarre scenario that seems no less peculiar than the less fictitious circumstances of Natural Remedy. 

Destiny beautifully employs colour to describe ‘the scene with the blackbird’, contrasting the colour of the beak with a bouquet of fading tulips and ‘the echo between the colours’, observed by a woman who wonders: is destiny ‘waiting for the right moment to introduce itself?’ Question 7 which immediately follows presents a series of open-ended choices where one decision is, perhaps, as reasonable and inexplicable as another. In Family History, projections become reality, the blurring of the boundaries between intention and manifestation.

Rather like the quote above from Medusa, Why Are We Here? is ‘multi-dimensional’. A fun house where mirrors reveal much more than we bargained for and achingly funny and brilliant narrative hooks lead into inter-connected compartments where all is strange and at the same time, familiar. Where stairs in night clubs descend to the desert and extraordinary animals such as Alice the badger and Libby, a ‘despondent’ lobster become companions and an orang-utan who is implicated in a murder mystery. Sometimes, a musical refrain will drift in from one story to another.

The great charm of this collection is that the odd scenarios are often described by a steady, logical and endearingly hapless narrator caught up in increasingly bewildering situations. Imagine, for example, trying to blend in with a busy crowd when you’re stark naked.

Another gem, Hermit Wanted is written in the style of a job advert, interrupted with comments by the reader who concludes that the job ‘sounds perfect’, and, indeed, it does!

This is a glorious collection and goes some way, indeed, as to providing clues as to why we are here.

 

 

 

Jonathan Chant

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THE DARK AND THE LIGHT ANGEL

(after the painting by Edgar Ende)

The dark and the light angel
chase each other through
forests in the minds of those
who choose to see the world
in eternal opposites.

The dark and the light angel
keep a safe distance apart
and call out to each other,
are freewill companions
offering options to us all.

The dark and the light angel
dodge overhanging branches
and skip over any roots
which might make them trip,
stumble, hesitate or think.

The dark and the light angel
are shadows of thought
running through doubt,
belief and justification,
persuasion and excuse.

 

 

 

   © Rupert M Loydell

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THE WINDOW OF FEAR

“Your old guy’s been found dead,” said Rik, handing her a newspaper cutting. Angie’s heart sank as she read:

A NEIGHBOUR DIES ON THE SEVENTH FLOOR – Mr. Reginald Hogan, 70, was found dead in his seventh floor flat after council workmen broke down the door…

“Can I keep this?”
“Sure – hey, Ange…” Rik put a hand on her arm but she felt icy and distant.
“Thanks Rik, but not now.”
She put the cutting in her bag, made an excuse and walked away.
Rik stared after her, turning a crumbling, white polystyrene cup of cold coffee between his fingers. He wasn’t responsible for the system, he just had to bloody work in it – getting from one day to the next was about all he could manage. She had great tits, though. In fact, she rated quite highly on his personal smut meter. He sighed.
Back in her room she re-read the report, still feeling numb:

…from receipts found among his clothes police believe he died about six months earlier, in June or July…

She recalled that last evening on the 6th of June, Mitterrand standing by the monument.

…the council was aiming to evict him because he owed back rent. Neighbours said they thought the strange smells were the drains…

Outside the mid-January snow drifted in the half-light of afternoon as she looked at the date of the cutting – some Friday in December. She read on:

The council only entered the flat after complaints that water was leaking into rooms below. The police have yet to trace any next-of-kin. They found no photographs of Mr. Hogan or his family at the flat. A spokesperson asked: is it our job to be responsible?

Her suitcase and bags still stood unpacked. Bugger Birmingham. She shouldn’t have gone and now it was too late. It was over. She lay down on the bed staring up at the yellowed plaster through a haze of tears.
The place where Reggie had lived when Angie found him was for people with ‘high care needs’. But there was an atmosphere of malaise and lethargy.
She remembered him saying:
“My mother looked after us – me and Lucky – gave us things – now most times I smoke and watch TV, or listen to my radios. Yesterday I went for a walk on the Common and found some dog-ends. Sometimes I look up words in the dictionary.”
Residents watched TV, stared into space, chain-smoked and drank tea.
One man lay on his bed all day, the door open, his head at a strange angle.
Angie was told that he swallowed odd metal objects, but nobody knew why. Rik said that just two of them – Rik and Gorman – were trying to develop a ‘social occupation and work scheme’ for the residents.
“There’s no excuse,” he said, “it’s terrible. When we go off duty Reggie locks himself in his room.”
“Why?”
“There’s always a danger of aggro – you can’t stamp it out – only reduce it to some kind of minimum level…”
Angie recalled the case of Jennifer Pearce, another graduate volunteer, stabbed to death by a resident about a year ago. She put the thought from her mind and tried to think about Reggie.
As boys Reggie and Freddie had always been together.
Freddie – three years older – dominated everything. He enveloped Reggie’s world like a father. Sometimes he was bullying and taunting – he always took the lead. Freddie was the favourite. Reggie always got the blame. Reggie was never in the right place. Freddie always got a helping hand. Reggie had to fend for himself and turned to Freddie for help.
For some reason Freddie was called ‘Lucky’. Reggie was just Reggie.
He remembered how Freddie had shown him a dead cat in an alleyway, somewhere round the back – a stinking glassy-eyed horror. Reggie had had night­mares about those glassy eyes – and the smell of decay.
He could smell something now, as he lay on the floor. Perhaps someone will come soon. That girl perhaps. What was her name? Ah well, perhaps not.
He gazed up at the cracks in the ceiling. He gazed at the window of fear.
Memories closed in. Hazy, dim memories but also vivid, sharp, memories – like those glassy eyes, or his mother smacking him. He always got the ‘good hidings’ (perhaps that was why Freddie was called Lucky) and as she slapped him she shouted “I work my fingers to the bone for you!”
He recalled grazed knees and the cold floor of the scullery in that bad winter when milk turned to ice. He recalled the frightful cough – the never-ending coughing in the closed room upstairs. The he remembered the look on his mother’s face as the weeks of coughing turned into months punctuated by doctor’s visits.
Short trousers – cardigans with holes – wretched hours of boredom called childhood – all gone now, thankfully; it was all just a jumble of memories.
Faint noise downstairs.
The old woman next door died suddenly.
Then, his father.
At the funeral he stood aside but Lucky stood close to their mother.
It was a rainy London graveyard – a bleak, spacious but overgrown place, with wide, gravel paths.
“A blessed release,” muttered some female (she thought the boys couldn’t hear), dressed in black, clutching an umbrella and his mother’s arm. “Never liked that vicar,” she muttered under her breath.
“Yes a blessed release – never been the same since – well, you know…”
Reggie knew – they never talked about it, but he knew anyhow – the old chap had ‘copped it’ in France, in the lungs – and now, these fifteen years later, he had finally given up the struggle. His mother stared at the Victorian gravestones – she had a pale drawn, cruel face, a face like death. For Reggie she became the image of Death – what stupid memories!
It was that girl’s fault, always asking questions.
Why him? Perhaps she needed him to talk for some reason – still, she was quite kind.
“Call me Angie,” she said – seemed the right sort of name somehow.
He felt so stiff now. The floor hurt his back. He was still staring at the window of fear, there was a glittering sphere as well, it reminded him of those glittery mirror balls you used to see in dance halls.
Huh, dance halls; memories, stupid memories.
Wiseman hounding him on and on – that was persecution, that’s what it was. Wiseman was a bastard – and Reggie never got a proper job after that – not what you’d call ‘a proper job’ anyhow – not that Wiseman’s work was ‘proper’, everything off the back of a lorry – still, he was just the driver so why should he care?
He could still hear her (or was it Babs?) carping on and on “Why don’t you get a proper job?” All that was after Lucky had gone.
Dad gone. Lucky gone.
There was nothing left for her except him, and he was no good. Why was he the one to get through and come back? Why him? She kept asking. Why him?
He looked at the ceiling but it was all getting a bit wobbly.
He thought of Angie’s blue eyes and her notebook.
He was some sort of ‘case history’ – daft – what’s the use?
He could hear both of them. Not just her but the other old vulture-presence, croaking: “He’s no use, Jessie.”
He knew what they were thinking all right. Why couldn’t he have died instead? That’s what they were thinking; it was probably what they were saying – behind his back.
Rik helped Angie get him out of ‘high care needs’ and into ‘the comm­unity’.
“Are you sure he can cope?” She asked Rik
“Fine time to start asking questions like that”, he said. “It’s all fixed… anyhow he’s not actually a psycho…well not yet.”
Yes, she thought, he can cope. Just about. He’s not that dim. He’s seen a thing or two – he won’t talk to Rik – he only talks to me – and then not that much – still, anything’s better than ‘high care needs’.
He’s got his radio, and he’s got his TV. It’s quite a long way up, but the lifts haven’t been vandalized at least not yet – just covered with obscene graffiti like KROME HATE or FUCK YOU MISTAH or SHIT or HEIDI WOZ ERE and stuff like that. Still what do you expect? So long as he gets his bit of pension (or whatever) he’ll be ok. Look in on him – spend a bit of ‘quality time’ with him. You know the sort of thing.
Rik was thinking: good old Ange! – Nice figure, bit odd, though – bit of a ‘campaigner’ – still you never can tell… great tits.
What will he eat? Milk – fry-ups sometimes –
Complan is quite good. He can still go out for his walks on the Common looking for dog-ends.
Getting him in was easy. He had no things to speak of. Place was sort of furnished. Bloody hot weather. They all sweated like pigs that day but in the end he was set-up ok. He’s got his radio (can’t get FM now, but so what?). He’s got his TV with its twisted wire aerial – Rik managed to get it going but the picture was a bit dodgy.
Nasty, cramped kitchen. Yellow Formica-topped table. Pale wooden chairs with dirty blue plastic seats – concave backs with slats that dug into you. There were some cups and a tarnished old kettle. At least the electrics worked. And there was toaster.
He’d be ok. Or, else he’ll end up on the Psycho Block… and so will workaholic Angie if she carries on like this.
“That cow Bottomly was on the box again last night,” said Rik. He did a passable imitation of Jeremy Paxman:
“I’m sorry Mrs Bottomly, but it is quite a simple question, are you going to answer it or not?”
Earlier there had been an item on keyhole surgery and body-scanners. Mrs. Bottomly said how ‘projections’ show that three out of four NHS beds will be phased-out. Her sensual mouth curved up at the corners in a mocking smile: “We call it The Health of the Nation, thank you.” She was a just a talking head against a background of tower-blocks and distant lights of slow-moving traffic.
Rik got Gorman to hand over Reggie’s records for Angie’s case-study. It was the usual dismal saga. Occasional treatment for asthma. Hospital in 1969, aged 45. Broken arm. Broken fingers. Serious bruises: involved in some sort of brawl picked-up by police – couple of detox sessions while sleeping rough in Central London. By this time he was just another hostel dweller. A drifter on the welfare circuit – some sort of drink problem. Hospital for a second stay – this time with a serious chest complaint (emphysema) in 1973. He had a bad time during that stay – became very disorientated and tried to walk out.
Taken ‘into care’ on a ‘temporary’ ticket he seemed to melt away in the gray world of deprivation. The rest we know. Oh, employment? Says ‘van driver’ or just ‘driver’.
“Not very revealing, is it?”
Angie photocopied the papers and shoved them into her folder.
“Well, thanks anyway,” she said.
“Don’t I even get a smile?” asked Rik, “after all I had to twist Gorman’s arm you know.”
She gave him an exaggerated smile – she was really fed up with his predictable gambits.
“C’mon Angie,” he said, “ Lemme getcha cuppa coffee or something…”
“I wonder what happened in 1969?” She asked, looking at the notes again.
“Who knows, why not ask the old guy himself?”
“P’raps,” she said indecisively, sensing a taboo area. Reggie wouldn’t want to talk about it. “Well, thanks anyway…”
“Thanks a million yourself,” said Rik with a hint of sarcasm. She hoped he wasn’t going to touch her arm again. He didn’t.
Memories:
Hospital wards.
Lights on all round the clock – but the staff were more human on the night shift. They hated him because he was the wrong kind of patient. But he learned not to ask questions.
There was a pain grinding into his back.
On the floor he was reminded of that awful bed – and the cold.
He hated the place. He hated the drug round, and the bedpan routines.
He spent all day yesterday seated in a chair, the slats hurt his back. They called it rehabilitation.
“Got to keep you sitting up now Mr. Hogan, haven’t we?”
The pain in his back was still there. The mist in his eyes was new.
The pain in his back was a black hole into the past.
Thump of letters through the door. Junk mail and demands for rent. Not anymore.
Memories of stinking hospital toilets mingled with gray, Victorian graves, a young lad wheeled by unconscious on a trolley, a transistor radio on all night in the next bed, Mr. Khan down by the door with his hysterical muezzin calls at three in the morning.
“Shut up darkie” bellowed a loudmouth down the ward, “We’re tryin’ to fuckin’ sleep aren’t we?”
Mr. Khan moaned audibly for five solid hours – the rest of the night and into the next day. Too cold – need another blanket. No chance with the strike into a third day. The laundry wasn’t working so they gave him a paper one instead.
Metal pain in his back.
He tried to move his legs.
All he could see was the ceiling or the underside of a blue kitchen chair.
Eyes can’t focus anymore. Close off into welcome, sightless blackness.
The pain in his back was like screwdriver skewered between the shoulders. It wasn’t Mr. Khan moaning all those years ago – it was him – now – his own voice – an enfeebled transmission across the wasted decades.
The others on the ward were all hostile. Yobs with tarty girlfriends, or smart-alecs chatting-up the nurses, indulging in macho exhibitions of injuries. They watched TV all the time – loud, violent movies – or read cheap paperbacks about the Russian Front – who wants to read trash like that in a ward full of broken bones?
Reggie kept coughing. He retched up his sputum into a dirty curved plastic dish perched on his chest.
During ‘rehabilitation’ time he would think about Babs – painful thoughts – she should have wounded his pride, but he didn’t have any.
He thought about Babs quite a bit but less now than he used to.
Where was she now? That tired old question.
There was a brief moment when he actually thought she cared about him. Is she shacked-up with some other fool? She was no-good that one. He had realized that soon enough. But he let it drag on, watched it fall apart, why not?
Last time he was in hospital was after that duff-up in the pub. That was her fault. Babs and her little, half-witted sister, they liked the leering NF skinhead Oi Boys. They went to football matches.
They picked the fight.
“Oo yoo lookin’ at then wanker?”
“Is this the geezer?”
“The one who walked out on our Babs?” And so on.
Provocation
Babs had soon walked out on him. Left him with the bed-sit and her piles of cheap magazines.
“This country can do without you scroungers.” The NF moron said.
Now Reggie kept coughing: the weeks turned into months.
He was being poked in the ribs. He tried to back off, but in the end something snapped.
“Is this the geezer?”
There was broken glass. The frightened landlord called the fuzz.
Too late. Down. How did he get mixed-up in this?
“Oi! Oi! Oi!”
They first met in a caff – she was waitressing – he wondered if she was On The Game but he never found out. She seemed to like him at first – but there was something. Perhaps it was him – he was no good.
“You’re no good if you can’t…”
He heard her tittering with her sister:
“Reggie can’t…get it up…” Titter, titter.
Something snapped. He went for the throat but they soon got him down.
“Scrounger!”
Bit of a rukus. Bit of a barney. Get the boot in. Break him up.
Searing pain in the arm and fingers. They stood on his fingers.
Her pale face reminded him of death.
Rain-sodden cemetery – old Victorian headstones – croaking vulture voice.
More broken glass. Landlord pleading for calm. By the time the cops arrive the morons had scarpered into the dark – they smashed a window somewhere – happens all the time round here and what do the cops do about it? Nothing. Not a bloody thing. Sod all.
Never heard any more of Babs.
No loss.
Rik had been landed with Hanna, a disabled girl with a swastika cut into her face. The girl had told Gorman how she’d been attacked by thugs – her mother told the community psychiatrist that she cut herself up with a flick-knife. Rik got all the good jobs.
No time to think.
No time to think about Reggie lying there on the seventh floor. Eyesight fading to black – the pitch black of another night – Johnny-boy screaming in the dark – tracer-fire across the sky – theirs was red, ours was white – what a bloody firework display –
“For Chrissakes Hogan!”
Oh god the screaming would give them all away.
He could hear the screaming again now. First time across the years.
Would Angie ever come? She was no good.
Somewhere a flare went up.
Not a flare at all. Johnny-boy was carrying phosphorus grenades. Oh God. Corp. was pinned down to the right. They were all waist high in some sort of field. Who’s mad idea was this anyway? Knacker, Blink and Jonesy all gone now – just Hogan, Jimmy ‘Crazy Jim’ Jensen, Dash and Maxie left and the whole bleedin’
Wehrmacht up ahead – now they had reinforcements pouring in – we‘ve had it easy up to now – this was worse than the previous day – crack shots in the darkness picking of the British, like it was some shooting gallery. They couldn’t believe their luck.
Just don’t know how we got across the beach yesterday – the beach was called ‘King’ – the one next door was called ‘Love’ – an insane whirl of action and dead-cat stink of death in the houses – blazing vehicles – and the nightmare memory of those glassy eyes. Shattered street sign reads LA RIVIERE – more smashed houses up ahead – paralyzed civvies liberated into hell. Knacker went stark-raving blood-mad, massacred anything and everything, chucking grenades all over the place.
“Keep that Knacker bastard out of my way,” snarled Jensen.
No time.
No time.
No good.
“You’re no good” The phrase hammered into his skull.
Knacker never came back.
Oh god, where was Lucky? Grok, the clown would get through.
Smithy was hit they second they landed. He pounded out, blazing away. One minute he was there shouting “Ok Reggie-boy?” The next second he was gone, a twitching blob drowning in the reddened sea, screaming. She was –
It was Johnny-boy, burning on barbed wire.
“For Chrissakes Hogan do it! Do it!”
It was Jensen. It was orders.
“Shoot!”
He didn’t think anymore. He just fired with cold precision. It stopped the screaming.
Dash grabbed hold of Reggie.
“Come on!”
And dragged him to the ground – icy numb in the mind – no time – where was Lucky? Wrong beach. And it was Johnny-boy screaming, but then Reggie fired the shots – sometime afterwards, the War that is – it must have been about 1951 – Dash looked him up.
“You can’t just sit around here,” Dash said, “not after all that, Reggie-boy…”.
He was drinking milky coffee in the front room.
“Why not?”
“What happened to Lucky?”
“Dunno – never did know – Reggie was vacant.
Dash had pulled him out as another flare went up – another stutter of deadly fire from behind – Dash had dragged him to the ground, screaming. It saved him then.
Who was screaming?
Memories screaming.
Footsteps on the concrete floor outside. Here, then gone.
His whole body jarring and shuddering. Torn uniform.
But Reggie seemed vacant – and that was the last of Dash.
For a time he saw their faces at night: Grok, Knacker, Jonesy, ‘Blink’ Potter, Smithy, Jacko, Dash, Maxie and Corporal ‘Crazy Jim’ Jensen – eventually he reverted to dreams of glassy eyes and dance hall mirror balls.
He came home eventually but she treated him with barely concealed contempt. Bombed-out while the boys were away, all she wanted now was new life, a life with Lucky safe and well. Living on sufferance in another’s house, she even said it to his face:
“Now I’m stuck with you…”
There wasn’t even a grave.
Lucky was a hero but there wasn’t even a grave.
Lucky’s group had been hit direct by mortar – blown to unrecognizable bits – he didn’t like to tell Dash about it. Love Beach had been no picnic for the British – there had been Crocodile flame-throwers and total mayhem. It was possible that Lucky’s bunch had been done for by our own side – these things happen – still she said he was a hero – and not even a grave – all Reggie did now was stare at the dreary streets of Slough – she called it Slough of Despond. He sometimes thought of Dash saying “You can’t just sit around here.”
But he did. Years trickled by with the hollow security of self-induced amnesia. He knew she didn’t care, even when he shut himself in his room and pulled the curtains because he didn’t like the window.
When she died he had her cremated locally in Slough because he knew she hated the place so much. He paid out for a shabby memorial rose bush and even visited it once – between jobs – driving for Wiseman. Not a ‘proper’ job – wherever she was he wanted her to disapprove.
He read newspapers. He got himself a room somewhere well away from Slough. Slough was a real dump in those days. Saw the ad in the paper. And that’s how he got the job with Wiseman. Delivering stuff. But after a year or so Wiseman started to needle him, putting the knife, saying he had his hand in the till, saying he was ‘the wrong type’. Too much the quiet type to mix it with the lads. Finally he was sacked and went down the boozer with some bloke (can’t remember the name now).
What else? Fish and chips, probably.
Faint noise from downstairs.
Rik was in the canteen drinking coffee from a polystyrene cup. Angie sat down.
“I’ve told Gorman I want to go for the Birmingham thing,” she said.
Rik said “This is a bit sudden. What about the case-study?”
“Gorman said that it’s okay. He thinks I’ve done enough to show them. It’ll probably help.”
“But – well, how long is it – it’s not a permanent thing it is?”
“Could be – you never know.”
We can’t get the volunteers now like we used to,” said Rik. “Cut-backs­ everywhere these days.”
“Oh, you’ll find someone – and if it
doesn’t work out, I’ll be back.”
“You know it doesn’t work quite like that Ange… Hanna’s a real handful,” said Rik, elbows on table.
“But it is a better job – I’ve got to think about these things.”
Rik had been dead sarky lately and chasing some other skirt – Angie didn’t like to think about him outside the work situation – it was better that she went to Birmingham – give herself a break – he was probably a bit peculiar with women, you know. Career move as well.
“You wouldn’t get back into ‘high care’ very easily”, Rik said.
“Well sometimes you just have to take a chance,” she said, lighting up. There was a small, metallic, blue foil ashtray on the table between them.
“Oh yeah, Enterprise Culture.” said Rik scathingly.
That evening she called on Reggie and found him watching the highlights – no sound – just the rather dodgy picture on the grubby Japanese TV set ‘borrowed’ from ‘high care needs’. The bent-up, wire indoor aerial wasn’t really up to the job, but even so she thought the war graves looked immaculate.
Not now.
Tell him tomorrow.
Would he understand? After all it was a better job.
There was Mitterrand in front of the memorial sculpture making a worthy tribute speech in French. The Japanese TV mangled the subtitles. The picture flag-poled in both corners. Reggie just watched.
He had hardly said a word all evening. Not a good thing to watch, she thought – but what can you do?
She couldn’t really interfere – it
was his TV after all.
“Oh yeah, Enterprise Culture.” Rik’s taunt stung her, but you had to be realistic. Rik was in a dead-end. The whole thing was a dead-end. They told her at University – don’t stay too long in one place, they’ll think you’re a no-hoper under­achiever.
“They’ll close down the place and sell it off to Group 4,” Gorman had said once – it was supposed to be a joke but that was the way things were going these days.
Tell him tomorrow.
Gorman will get someone else to look in on Reggie.
Things weren’t that bad yet. She’d pop in and tell him tomorrow.
“But why Birmingham?” Rik had asked, incredulously.
“Because it’s where the work is,” she said, “don’t bug me, Rik.”
The war graves looked immaculate.
Angie mooched across to the window and stared pensively at the nocturnal panorama; at the gathering gloom and the sleeping city.
The urban sky was the colour of dust.
Not now – tomorrow.


A C Evans

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Covid and festies: Boom in Portugal

Alan Dearling reports on developments, plans, hope and fears…

I’ve been extraordinarily privileged to be a performer and guest at the mighty Boom festival. It’s a very special place – being a permanent festival/arts site which is being developed on eco-green principles. It’s located in the heart of the Portuguese countryside, but performers and revellers from all over the world often travel via Spain, since it can be an easier coach journey from Madrid rather than Lisbon.

It is most definitely not your average festi! It’s primarily an EDM (Electronic Dance Music) celebration, but, spread across the huge Boom site there are many workshops and smaller stages for everything from holistic therapies and sweat lodge, talks, discussions and demonstrations, art installations, through to big-scale dance ceremonies and interactive performances. It’s a special place run by some amazing people – but – like every other massive or smaller arts and music event, it is currently in a state of suspended animation because of the Covid pandemic.

I thought that it would be interesting for more people to learn about the current Boom plans. As far as anyone can plan for anything at the moment! I’ve also included a few of my pics of the Boom festival to give a glimpse into a liminal world that offers a psychedelic portal to a completely off-world experience.

It ain’t for everyone. It’s hot, it’s loud. It’s about ecstatic dance… an almost mythical, mystical space… it’s huge and takes hours to traverse…and in its heart is the massive lake…but it is also a functioning and symbolic example of how festivals can support bio-diversity and sustainability. That includes permaculture gardens and some remarkable irrigation systems.

Composting toilets for a week for up to 100,000 staff, performers and punters. Plus, a massive programme of separated waste, recycling and massive composting. It works because the participants are all involved. And have opportunities to get involved, share ideas, mix, mingle, love and dance!

But, it is much more than just another dance-a-thon!

B-O-O-M!!!

Here are the ‘current plans’ from Boom HQ. They raise some interesting, controversial and challenging issues around face coverings, vaccinations, sanitary bubbles and much more. Definitely food for thought. In the UK, many of my festival organiser friends, musicians and creators are also extremely concerned about the impact of Brexit. It appears that all sorts of paperwork, which may cost a lot of money and is extremely bureaucratic, seems likely to create significant additional barriers to international travel for performers (and support teams) to and from the UK (and their gear). Carnets and visas:  Apparently, every individual  performer/artist/photographer will need one of each for each border crossing, with attendant risks of having gear impounded. I have hit this major problem myself in the past – you just do not expect to need papers proving ownership of a musical instrument or a camera when you are entering or leaving each country for a gig or a festival. A double whammy in the face of the impact of Covid restrictions.

 

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Note: The links in this communiqué work, but much of the content is in Portuguese! 

Dear Boomers,

Uncertainty has become ever-present. This pandemic is making us experience hope, despair and catharsis in a matter of seconds.

Portugal is going through the harshest peak of the pandemic so far. A recent newsletter from a Portuguese newspaper dating the 10 February 2021 was titled “A normal summer? Not in 2021…” The affirmation is self-explanatory. It follows a statement by vaccination plan coordinator Henrique Gouveia de Melo“Without herd immunity, our summer will not be normal. Perhaps we may be able to relax restrictions slightly, but precautions will remain in place”.

 

While navigating these uncertain waters, with an open mind and your unconditional support, we would like to openly communicate our thoughts and efforts.

Here are our updates regarding the production of Boom Festival, since our last newsletter:

  • We’re continuing our efforts to realise the 2021 edition;
     
  • We have joined several associations of cultural promoters to discuss the comeback of festivals with national decision-makers. The concept proposed to Portuguese political institutions is that of festivals as sanitary bubbles: masks and social distancing would not be requiredentry upon submitting evidence of a negative Covid-19 test or taking one at the gates would be required; vaccination wouldn’t be required; however, entry would be guaranteed with evidence of vaccination. This proposal, presented to the Ministry of Culture and the national healthcare authorities, DGS, aims to establish the necessary conditions to bring culture back. So far, there hasn’t been an official response as to whether this proposal can be accomplished;
     
  • We are facing the present situation with a realistic mindsetif we can’t make Boom Festival take place in 2021, we will organise other, smaller events at Boomland.

Boomers from 172 countries/territories were expected to attend the 2020/2021 edition. We’re well aware of the importance of planning this trip ahead of time – and thus it is our utmost priority to inform you if the festival will take place in 2021.

We must first and foremost guarantee your healthsanitary safety and freedom, in tandem with your access tickets and the safety of acquired services.

This is the basis upon which we’ve established the boundaries to make Boom happen in 2021 and without the following prerequisites, it will not be possible to construct adequate conditions to realise the festival this summer:
 

  • Physical distancing and masks mustn’t be necessary: can you imagine dancing at the Dance Temple, Alchemy Circle or at the Sacred Fire, amid a crowd of people using masks? Impossible;
     
  • It must be possible for the worldwide community to be present;
     
  • There must be clear protocols, issued by the Portuguese national health authorities, on how to deal with festivals: there are none to this date;
     
  • The vaccine must not be mandatory to enter the festival. We believe taking the vaccine is an individual choice. However, testing negative for Covid-19 or taking such a test on-site this year would guarantee entry;
     
  • It must be possible for us to start building new structures at Boomland from 1 April, alongside the international art & architecture team.

This is where we’re at. Until our next newsletter, make sure to tune in to the Liminal Podquests, the Boom Toolkit for Covid-19, Unite – Let the Music Unite Us, and to join the Boom Festival Bazaar community.

Let us remain positive and united. Soon we’ll be dancing together at Boomland!

Cultivate Freedom & Love,

Boom Team

 

 

 

 

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Brexit Boris

 

This review by Colin Gibson first appeared in The Hastings Independent Press September 2018

 

Brexit Boris: From Mayor to Nightmare

Heathcote Williams (Public Reading Rooms £9.95)

A retrospective review of a book now more important than ever

In a post-truth world where idle conjecture has replaced fact and where public opinion is shaped by the keyboard tapping of sociopathic web-dwellers, it is refreshing to read our current PM’s fellow Etonian, the late Heathcote Williams’ forensic demolition of Boris Bunter Johnson. What makes this acerbic hatchet job such an especially delightful bowl of schadenfreude is its deadly accuracy.

Every regrettable Boris quote from the wildly racist “Left to their own devices, the natives would rely on nothing but the instant carbohydrate gratification of the plantain” to his description of the uber-rich as “a put-upon minority like Irish travellers and the homeless” is surgically researched and annotated by source, location and time, along with every swivel-eyed career move in Johnson’s mendacious ascent of the greasy pole.

The question of course is; how did this bumptious, over privileged hooligan, (whose mindless cruelty reached a sort of apotheosis at Eton’s exclusive Bullingdon Club, where the entertainment might occasionally consist of stoning a caged fox to death with champagne bottles during a gluttonous banquet), gain any political credence whatsoever? How did this duplicitous overgrown schoolboy manage to establish himself as a floppy-haired national treasure, a mayor of London, and finally, via some shockingly two-faced Brexit jockeying, become foreign secretary, and eventually Prime Minister?

Williams charts his life, and that of his equally unscrupulous father, with terrifying precision, and riven as it is with hair-raising descriptions of violent cronies like fraudster and PG Wodehouse-soundalike Darius Guppy, it is not a pretty story. In my opinion, the sooner this magnificent account of political flimflammery is filmed or televised the sooner Johnson’s ersatz star will burn up and plummet to earth, and the better it will be for all of us. There is a wonderful quote from Pulp Fiction which sums up the fat fornicator perfectly; “Just because you are a character doesn’t mean you have character”, but my favourite has to be this: “There’s a German word for people like Johnson: Backpfeifengesicht. It means a face that needs to be punched.

READ THIS BOOK!

 

This review by Colin Gibson was first published in The Hastings Independent Press

 

NB: American Porn, (see below), is Heathcote Williams’ poetic dissection of that other oddly-coiffured star of the new age of permanent adolescence, Donald Trump. It was released by Thin Man Press on inauguration day, January 20th 2016, surely there could be no better time than now to revisit this book.

https://thinmanpress.com/american-porn-by-heathcote-williams-information/

 

AMERICAN PORN
HOW A FRAUDULENT CONMAN AND CHEAP TV PRESENTER BECAME PRESIDENT OF THE USA

In this collection of polemic and investigative poems on the theme of American politics, Heathcote Williams argues that the shock election of President Donald J. Trump is, in fact, the logical historical outcome for a nation which owes its very name to an early Italian pornographer and has been steeped, for centuries, in violence, falsity and corruption.

 

‘On some great and glorious day, the plain folks of the land will reach their heart’s desire at last, and the White House will be occupied by a downright fool and a complete narcissistic moron.’
              H.L. Mencken   Baltimore Evening Sun July 26, 1920

 

‘Williams is a gadfly, wit, dazzler, libertine, an erudite, mellifluous polemicist, anarchist, republican, anti-war, vegetarian Puck with a reverence for nature, an empathy for the marginal and a remarkable capacity for the imaginative verbal lash.’

Timothy O’Grady, Irish Times

 

‘Scourge of the establishment for 50 years, Heathcote Williams is back with a vengeance…’

The Independent

 

 

 

HOW MUMBO JUMBO CONQUERED THE WORLD
‘A brilliant, eccentric book.’ Observer Book of the Year

In this Age of Endarkenment, everyone should read this book. Unfortunately those who require it most will not, for the following reasons:

1. It is a book.

2. It addresses concerns in a way which conflicts entirely with the views of those who would propagate absurd conspiracy theories, ludicrous ‘medical’ opinions and superstitious, delusional claptrap. The conflicts arise because Wheen is a writer who employs reason, logic  and analysis and conducts actual research, as opposed to merely trawling the social media swamp for ideas which support his own; ideas, it often turns out, propogated by utterly fraudulent ‘experts’, and mentally ill megalomaniacs such as David Icke.

Wheen has a Swiftian relish for exposing the cant that attends the ‘new rationality’…bullshit’s enema number one.’
Tim Adams, Observer

‘Lightly and often hilariously told as it is, this book does make it clear that respect for truth and reason is retreating and mumbo-jumbo has a new confidence everywhere…This amusing, intelligent and elegantly argued book is as good a demonstration of the values it defends as could be imagined.
Philip Hensher, Spectator

‘This book is a manifesto for rescuing the greatest philosophical movement of the past millennium. You have a choice: either read it or, pre-emptively shred your brain in anticipation of the coming darkness.’
Independent on Sunday

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Pebbles Hidden The Stones

A cheer waves and swirls
in my morning skull.
I stretch and curl – an empty stadium.

Supine, I embody 
the fresh grass reclining, receding
and receiving the shadows padding up
for a practice game.

Somewhere sleeps one pebble embedded in another,
and only an accident can open 
the reluctance of its heart.

Shadows stumble of it.
I open the shutters. 
There sits a magpie.
Someone told me to search 
for all that lost in translation
in the bird’s nest. 
I say, “Give it a rest.”

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Photo Nick  Victor
Pebble provided by Claire Victor Lewis

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The Begining of Hope

 

Robert Montgomery

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Cover-up

When Chuck reported his UFO sightings in 1987 there was a popular view that the mysterious objects he’d observed were connected with the US military. A minority believed they were foreign surveillance devices. Another opinion was that they came from outer space and their presence was being hushed up to prevent public panic. Twenty years later the mystery appeared to be solved when a local paper ran a story in which Chuck admitted the whole thing had been a hoax. But the UFO people weren’t to be fooled. Someone, they argued, had put Chuck up to this, in an effort to kill the story and others like it. When Chuck died a few weeks later, in a hit and run car accident, the cover-up narrative gathered momentum. Social media buzzed with speculation about who was behind it. Some of the posts were from people claiming to have received messages from Chuck in their sleep, in which he revealed that he’d been assassinated by the FBI. Others claimed to be from Chuck himself, saying the car accident victim was not him but someone with the same name. He was hiding out, he said, at a location he didn’t know the name of, but would be returning soon.

 

Simon Collings

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Sausage Life, Post Card from the Edge

 

SAUSAGE LIFE 168

Bird Guano

The column that can play the bagpipes but prefers not to

 

MYSELF: Why the furrowed brow?

READER: It’s this bloody crossword. Have these compilers got nothing better to do than make The Times Very Very Simple Crossword very very difficult?

I mean, Look at this, 4 across: ‘type of bat’ (7)

MYSELF: Any letters?

READER: C-R something-something-something E-T.

MYSELF: I-C-K!

READER: Where?

MYSELF: No, the letters. It’s cricket.

READER: How’s that?

MYSELF: Cricket. As in Cricket Bat.

READER: I really shouldn’t have to point this out but a cricket is not a type of bat, it is a type of insect.

MYSELF: True, unless it is the type of bat employed in the ancient gentlemen’s game … then it is a cricket bat.

READER: You’re just not the crossword type are you? Listen carefully, a bat is a nocturnal flying rodent. A cricket is a talking insect which hangs out with wooden boys. I can’t be clearer than that.

MYSELF: It’s never too late to learn stuff.

 

CRICKET BALLS
With the cricket season almost upon us and since many people are still bamboozled by the idiosyncrasies of the noble game, (derived from the ancient provencal game of criquet originally played by French farmers using live geese and the testicle of a wild boar) – I thought the time was right to publish a brief glossary of cricketing terms for the uninitiated, that they might gain a deeper understanding of the great sport:-

 

Inswinger a sexually-liberated agoraphobic

Spin government manipulation of England bowling statistics

Lob – see full toss

Full toss– see dead rubber

Googly – drunk

Bouncer a chap who is very googly

All out – the outcome of unsuccessful negotiations between the professional cricketing union (WOMBAT), and the MCC.

Outfielda place designated for post-match sexual assignments
Maiden over – see outfield, dead rubber

Dead rubber – used contraceptive device often found in the outfield

Hat trick – rabbit produced from a cricket box

Appeal – what people find attractive about cricketers

All roundersee outswinger

Backlift – see outswinger

Batting – dogging for vampires.

Boundary having a tendency to behave like a cad

Slips – debilitating intestinal condition, often acquired on tours of the subcontinent.
Caught behind – see slips
Follow through – see slips

Crease – the sharp line in a batsman’s trousers

Duck – tactic for avoiding bouncers

Straight bat – heterosexual flying rodent (see batting)

Stumps – affectionate nickname for Wilf Crosby, the long serving double-amputee groundsman at Lords.

 

IT’S ALL NUTS

Eccentric Sussex MP Rambo Udder is being sued by Professor Gordon Thinktank, the Hastings inventor. Thinktank has engaged the feared Geordie legal team of Hadaway & Shayte in order to contest what they describe as a “bogus and plagiaristic patent application.” The application in question is for Ms Udder’s Squirrelator, a powerful steam-powered squirrel gun which, the professor claims is based on his own compressed-air mole-castrating device The Nutwaster. Ron Hadaway of H&S told us’ “Ms Udder doesn’t have a leg to stand on. Her so-called Squirrelator is nothing more than a cheap knock-off of our client’s superior invention. Similarities abound. The fact that The Squirrelator is advertised as for the inhumane disposal of squirrels only is neither here nor there. We will show that it can be re-engineered in a matter of weeks to perform many other tasks, notably for example, mole castration. This is an open and shut case. We intend to plead puisne noille ad hoc tutti with castrata non casablanca and ask for costs.”

The case continues….

 

 
 
 

THE PLACE THAT LUNCHED A THOUSAND HIPSTERS

last weekend a branch of the endangered species takeaway franchise Guilty opened in the high street directly opposite Herr Shirt the German gent’s masochist outfitters, now sadly closed. Socially distanced awkwardly masked queues began forming before dawn in a bid to place an order with the uber-woke food chain. Angry residents however reported that even though medical experts had warned that beard-to-beard transmission of the new variant of Covid 19 could not be ruled out, there were so many of them at Guilty’s opening that flocks of nesting sparrows had to be beaten off with sticks. Exhausted kitchen staff told me later that the top orders were fricassee of baby panda in sperm whale semen, dolphin beak tartare and orang-utan tagine surprise.

DIKSHINARY KORNER

Baby oil (n) mild lubrication for curing squeaky infants

WYSIWYG (n) quick-change toupée

Hirsute (n) the outfit she wears at work

 

LETTERS PREY

Rummaging in my bulging mailbag, stuffed as it was with the usual incontinent rubbish, I chanced on a couple of queries I felt able to shine some light on. Mrs.Onya Byche of Cranbrook wrote:

 

Dear Mr. Guano, (or may I call you Bird?),

can you please settle an argument? My friend claims that paintings depicting Adam and Eve with navels are factually incorrect, since they were both created by Almighty God without the intervention of a womb. As a confirmed atheist, I say that is palpable nonsense. Who is right?

 

I replied:

Dear Mrs. Byche (no you may not),

first of all let me make it clear that the existence of Almighty God was never in doubt, otherwise we wouldn’t have Jehovah’s Witnesses. Secondly, the first couple were created by God using his special powers, so the navels are purely decorative and have nothing to do with umbilical cords. Thus, working in his mysterious way, God made sure that sinful rumpy-pumpy and pregnancy could be reserved for the torment of future generations.

The explanation of the navels is simple. In the art world, the fanciful must often collide with the pragmatic. Should you care to look closely enough you will see that all paintings have belly buttons, which is what art gallery staff use to carry them about.

Mr. V. ‘Biff’ Smith of Hastings sent me this question, a conundrum which has puzzled many of the world’s greatest thinkers:

 

Dear sir or madam,

before the invention of the light bulb, what appeared above people’s heads when they had an idea?

I was delighted to be able to clear this up once and for all.


Dear Biff,

it may interest you to know that years before Mr. Edison patented the incandescent light bulb, the thing that hovered above people’s heads whenever they were struck by an idea was either a ball of wool with crossed knitting needles, or a plate of mash, two fried eggs stuck to the sides, with sausages poking out of the potato.

 

Sausage Life!

Or, as Marlon Brando said to that lady in Last Tango in Paris, “Butter times are coming”

 

WENDY IS UNWELL

Britain’s favourite agony aunt is currently undergoing rehab at the Helena Hancart centre for Psychiatric Excellence and should be back with us soon. You can click her image for some archive letters.

 

POISON PEOPLE

click image for video

 

From the album Domestic Bliss

 

MORE FROM GUANO POUNDHAMMER

click image

 
 

POISON PEOPLE

Jack Pound/Colin Gibson

 

POISON PEOPLE

PEOPLE POISON

GONNA MESS UP ON YOUR SCENE

ITS DANGER DANGER

FROM PEOPLE POISON

MAN THEIR SPIRIT IS SO MEAN

 

THEY GOT SLEAZE

DESEASE

KNOCK KNEES AND SCANDALESE

THEY TAKE MY PSYCHE AND THEY GRIND IT DOWN

SLAP A MASK ON MY FACE WHEN THEY COME AROUND

SLASH THE MUSCLES THAT MAKE ME STRONG

FORCE A DRUG UP MY NOSE WHERE IT DOES NOT BELONG

THOSE POISON PEOPLE ARE THE PITS

 

DEEP DOWN THEY’RE SO SHALLOW

BULLSHIT BRAINS

THEIR STRAIGHT AND NARROW

YOU’VE MET EM

 

DON’T LET ‘EM

FUCK WITH YOUR HEAD

THEYD LIKE TO SEE YOU DEAD

OR BLIND YOUR EYES

WITH THERE BRAINLESS LIES

 TIL THE HATE THEY BRING

AND THE SHIT THEY SLING

WITH THEIR DIRTY MINDS

GET YOU ALL THE TIME

 

POISON PEOPLE

PEOPLE POISON

YOUVE GOT TO STAY OUT OF THEIR WAY

ITS DANGER DANGER

FROM PEOPLE POISON

ITS THE HIGH PRICE THAT YOU PAY

WHAT MORE CAN I SAY?

 

WALK WITH THE ANIMALS AND TALK TO THE TREES

IN SPLENDID ISOLATION YOU CAN DO WHAT YOU PLEASE

BUT LISTEN CAREFULLY TO THE WORDS I WROTE

IF PEOPLE GET TO BITE YOU

THERE’S NO ANTIDOTE

POISON PEOPLE DRAG YOU DOWN

ITS DANGER DANGER

FROM PEOPLE POISON

MAN THEIR SPIRIT IS SO MEAN

 

POISON PEOPLE DRAG YOU DOWN

DOWN

DOWN

 
 
 
 
 
 Colin Gibson
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On the Mountain High



In the beginning was nothing, nothing orthodox, nothing
unorthodox. Only the pure point of utterness
out of which are all things disposed. Still – from the mountain-top

you could see the Everything: south,  
the island villages, the fields and wildscapes, teeming life;
east: the mainland, its confusing folds and fallows,

its humped horizons. To the west: the Ocean,
stunning in its wilderness and bounty, the ruck of islands vanishing
in haze; and north: Atlantic boundlessness, beyond and beyond,

the mesmerizing dance of distances and the harmony
of things that are not.
If you stood, carefully, holding your balance and looking up,

you could see the clouds, the heavens and cosmos, possibility
of worlds past worlds, beyond thinking. We,
brothers and young, conquerors already, were relishing

breezes about our ears and the high whistle of a kestrel
in blues that were shading towards silver. We stretched our arms wide
encompassing the island, our care and holding,

and then set off, down and down, air-inebriated,
the leaps, the falls, the laughter;
he and I, fresh-water and blood-grouped, never to be separated, we

immortals, and how wonderful it would be,
to soar out, sustained on the broad arms of utterness,
together, over the waves, to be filled full, to be made whole.

 

 

John F. Deane
Illustration: Claire Palmer

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Zero Carbon – Zero Covid: Twin Phantoms of Planetary Genocide

by Julian Rose

 

Within the control system’s Davos engineered genocide programme called Agenda 2030/The Great Reset, are some striking cohabitating toxic agendas. The one I wish to highlight in this article is the Zero Carbon ‘stop climate change’ goal – and the Zero Covid ‘stop the world pandemic’ goal.

The supposed aim of both the above programmes is to wipe out something that can’t be wiped out, since it forms an integral part of our living world and biosphere and therefore cannot be eradicated without the eradication of life itself.

Believe it or not, the Davos agenda which seeks to replace sentient, social humanity with a robotic computer controlled cyborgian army, does indeed come very close to eradicating life ‘as we know it’.

As we recall, government commissioned climatologists, working to a formula devised by the Club of Rome and Bilderbergers, have – for at least the past three decades – set about trying to convince all and sundry that carbon dioxide (CO2) is a dangerous pollutant. One they falsely associate with the mining and combustion of fossil fuels choking the upper atmosphere; with the consequential overheating of the planet being labelled ‘the greenhouse effect’.

But as I have pointed-out in previous articles, in reality scientists have found that the amount of CO2 in the upper atmosphere amounts to a negligible 0.0037%, coming around seventh in the list of elements associated with having an adverse effect on climate.

Similarly, the great majority of pollutants emanating out of factories and transport systems consist of toxins and particulates – e.g. nitrous oxides and carbon monoxide – that have little or nothing to do with CO2, but have been deliberately relabelled as such to sell the notion that the smoke seen rising out of factory and domestic chimneys is that ‘evil brew’ called ‘CO2’.

The entire Davos Fourth Industrial Revolution, Green New Deal and ‘Re-Set’ plan, designed as it supposedly is ‘to save the world’ through achieving ‘Zero Carbon’ by 2050, is thus an audacious and carefully planned lie. Carbon, far from being a killer that must be eradicated, is actually a primary building block of life without which we would have no plant kingdom and therefore no oxygen to breathe. No life on Earth.

Now the scene shifts to ‘Covid’ and a parallel ‘eradication scheme’ – made famous by the World Health Organisation (WHO). Here the plan is to eradicate what has been painted as a vicious and barely controllable ‘virus’. A plan that can only be described as pure scientific fraud.

Yes, viruses just happen to play a critical role in maintaining the health and welfare of living creatures, not least human beings; and their ‘eradication’ – or the eradication of just ‘one’ (if it could be isolated) would completely destabilise the health and equilibrium of anyone unlucky enough to fall foul of the perpetrators. In Covid’s case, the perpetrators’ intentions are publicly made manifest via the WHO’s Corona blitzkrieg and subsequently enforced by governments all over the world.

At this very moment, the lives of around seven billion people have been turned upside down based entirely upon the globally adopted statement of WHO chief Tedros Adhanon – supported by a posse of hand-picked ‘scientists’ – that this ‘virus’ is a deadly pathogen having the potential to lay humanity low and render normal life completely unmanageable.

But in reality, the Corona Virus from which Covid-19 is extrapolated is – according to the definition of The American Encyclopedia of Medicine – simply ‘the common flu’; which while killing a significant number of people each year, comes well down the list of diseases commonly known to be the cause of high death rates around the globe.

Just as ‘carbon’ comes way down the list of supposedly deadly components in the upper atmosphere – and yet – due to the need of the central cabal to have an excuse to exert absolute control over humanity – is held responsible for driving the planet towards Armagedon.

Covid-19 isn’t ‘a deadly virus’ at all. It isn’t even ‘a virus’ in the first place. And neither is Carbon a pollutant. Labelling them as such is a cunning slight-of-hand in order to hold humanity to ransom and to replace basic liberty with abject slavery to the 0.1% cabal elite.

A huge distortion has been created by subjecting biologically essential elements to biased, quasi-scientific discrimination and political spin. A distortion that just happens to pave the way for massive profiteering by both vaccination hungry pharmaceutical companies and the political exponents of swinging carbon taxes.

As a basic rule of thumb, when a biological imbalance is believed to be occurring, the solution lies in rebalancing the offending organism/body. It never lies in trying to eradicate it.

Yet according to the political and scientific rhetoric emanating out of the WHO, UN, World Economic Summit and others, we have to ‘eradicate’ both carbon and the virus; and in order to do so, every aspect of life as we know it must be brutally re-engineered and billions of people lined-up for a premature death. This constitutes a major plank in the depopulation agenda long held as vital by the 0.1%. It is an overt act of genocide.

It is no coincidence that Corona flu and atmospheric CO2 are both targets of gross manipulation which together form the grand alibi for the enslavement, digitalisation and murder of a large segment of humanity. In both cases, an essential component of life has been calculatedly reversed into an evil harbinger of death, using the Nazi technique of mass indoctrination and repetition to ensure every receptive brain cell is addled with fear.

The Schwab ‘Reset’ and the Gates ‘Vaxit’ are part of an overall masonic/satanic mission to wrest the planet away from its natural evolutionary trajectory. Social, spiritual and sentient human aspiration is pushed aside in order to move rapidly into a cold and technocratic ‘New World Order’ – the original term for ‘The Great Reset.’

A world order in which non sentient, parasitic cyborg-beings seek to posses and re-engineer the fundamental genome of life, and indeed, the very soul of humanity itself. Thus completing ‘the reversal of all values’ that form the indivisible connection with the divine origins of mankind.

The totally deluded push, by a small cabal of clinically insane megalomaniacs, to present Zero Carbon and Zero Covid as ‘the saviours of humanity’, has reduced a large part of humanity to mind controlled zombies moving in lock-step with the commands of totalitarian regimes – disguised as governments – and supported by a bought-out slavish media.

We have now exposed the lie and thus created an opening for the liberation of those fixated by the utterings of lunatics. Only where a combination of fear and hypnotism have completely paralysed the human mind, is there no hope of freedom. The rest of us can – and must – move rapidly forward with the task of ridding our planet of the perpetrators of this despotic and deeply criminal agenda.

Let us use whatever tools we have at our disposal to speed-up the collapse of this insentient monster. Let us, in particular, raise the bar of absolute non-compliance with the crude commands of this delusional, cowardly death cult.

Rise-up humanity! Let us resolve to overcome all hurdles erected to deceive us, for they are but phantoms when put under the spotlight of Truth.


Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, writer, international activist, entrepreneur and holistic teacher. His latest book ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind – Why Humanity Must Come Through’ is particularly recommended reading for this time: see www.julianrose.info

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The World Is A Beautiful Place

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la la language



how
we’d like to know
do you roll out
a vaccine
and all the other
unlikely terms
the media now claim
can be rolled out ?

why has the word yes
been replaced by the word
absolutely?

is there an edict somewhere
stating that all sentences
must start with the word so
that’s if they don’t start with
how are you?
of course

and is there another edict
which states that all MPs
regardless of persuasion
must pronounce the word a
as aye
not uh?

equally mysteriously
the word now
has been replaced with
at this moment in time
and surely
A is different from B
not different to B?

and why don’t radio presenters
know the difference between
singular and plural anymore?
here’s a tip:
it’s less and fewer

what is an intern?
why do some people resign
while others step down?
what’s the difference 
between shutdown
and lockdown ?

there must also be
another way of saying
in these difficult times
and stay safe?

does anybody know?
do tell
thank you so much

 

Pat Kattenhorn

.

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Lawrence Ferlinghetti Rest In Peace

Died22 February 2021.
 

On March 24, 1919, Lawrence Ferlinghetti was born in Yonkers, New York. After spending his early childhood in France, he received his BA from the University of North Carolina, an MA from Columbia University, and a PhD from the Sorbonne.

He is the author of more than thirty books of poetry, including Poetry as Insurgent Art (New Directions, 2007); Americus, Book I (New Directions, 2004); A Far Rockaway of the Heart (New Directions, 1997); and A Coney Island of the Mind (New Directions, 1958). He has translated the works of a number of poets, including Nicanor Parra, Jacques Prevert, and Pier Paolo Pasolini. In addition to poetry, he is also the author of more than eight plays and three novels, including Little Boy: A Novel (Doubleday, 2019), Love in the Days of Rage (Overlook, 1988), and Her (New Directions, 1966).

In 1953, Ferlinghetti and Peter Martin opened the City Lights bookstore in San Francisco, California, helping to support their magazine City Lights. Two years later, they launched City Lights Publishers, a book-publishing venture, which helped start the careers of many alternative local and international poets. In 1956, Ferlinghetti published Allen Ginsberg’s book Howl and Other Poems, which resulted in his being arrested by the San Francisco Police for publishing “obscene work” and a subsequent trial that gained international attention. At the end, the judge concluded that Howl had “some redeeming social importance” and “was not obscene,” and Ferlinghetti prevailed. City Lights became known as the heart of the “Beat” movement, which included writers such as Kenneth RexrothGary SnyderAllen Ginsberg, and Jack Kerouac, crediting Ferlinghetti with having helped spark the San Francisco literary renaissance of the 1950s and the “Beat” movement that followed, although he does not consider himself a “Beat” poet.

About his work, the critic Barbara Berman wrote, “Ferlinghetti is a tonic for a world thirsting for the loving outrage and energetic reverence that helped reignite and sustain the enterprise of bard-fueled citizenship.”

In 1994, San Francisco renamed a street in Ferlinghetti’s honor, and in 1998, he was named the first poet laureate of San Francisco. He is the recipient of many international awards and honors, including the National Book Critics Circle Ivan Sandrof Award for Contribution to American Arts and Letters, the Robert Frost Memorial Medal, and the National Book Foundation’s Literarian Award, presented for “outstanding service to the American literary community,” among others. In 2003, he was elected as a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and in 2007, he was named Commandeur of the French Order of Arts and Letters.

He died on February 22, 2021, in San Francisco, California.  


Selected Bibliography

Poetry 

Time of Useful Consciousness (New Directions, 2012)
Poetry as Insurgent Art (New Directions, 2005)
How to Paint Sunlight: Lyric Poems and Others, 1997-2000 (New Directions, 2001)
San Francisco Poems (City Lights, 2001)
A Far Rockaway of the Heart (New Directions, 1998)
These Are My Rivers: New and Selected Poems, 1955-1993 (New Directions, 1993)
When I Look at Pictures (Peregrine Smith Books, 1990)
Wild Dreams of a New Beginning (New Direction, 1988)
Inside the Trojan Horse (Lexikos, 1987)
Over all the Obscene Boundaries: European Poems and Transitions (New Directions, 1985)
Endless Life: Selected Poems (New Directions, 1980)
Landscapes of Living and Dying (New Directions, 1979)
Open Eye, Open Heart (New Directions, 1973)
Back Roads to Far Places (New Directions, 1971)


The Mexican Night (New Directions, 1970)
Tyrannus Nix? (New Directions, 1969)
The Secret Meaning of Things (New Directions, 1969)

Routines (New Directions, 1964)

Unfair Arguments with Existence (New Directions, 1963)
Starting from San Francisco (New Directions, 1961)
A Coney Island of the Mind (New Directions, 1958)

Pictures of the Gone World (City Lights, 1955)

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Poetry as Insurgent Art [I am signaling you through the flames]

I am signaling you through the flames.

The North Pole is not where it used to be.

Manifest Destiny is no longer manifest.

Civilization self-destructs.

Nemesis is knocking at the door.

What are poets for, in such an age?
What is the use of poetry?

The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it.

If you would be a poet, create works capable of answering the challenge of apocalyptic times, even if this meaning sounds apocalyptic.

You are Whitman, you are Poe, you are Mark Twain, you are Emily Dickinson and Edna St. Vincent Millay, you are Neruda and Mayakovsky and Pasolini, you are an American or a non-American, you can conquer the conquerors with words….

A Far Rockaway of the Heart, 2

Driving a cardboard automobile without a license
                           at the turn of the century
             my father ran into my mother
                                               on a fun-ride at Coney Island
                  having spied each other eating
                                       in a French boardinghouse nearby
And having decided right there and then
                                         that she was for him entirely
       he followed her into
                                      the playland of that evening
          where the headlong meeting
                                         of their ephemeral flesh on wheels
                    hurtled them forever together 

And I now in the back seat
                                          of their eternity
                                                     reaching out to embrace them

A Coney Island of the Mind, 11

    The wounded wilderness of Morris Graves
           is not the same wild west
                                                   the white man found
It is a land that Buddha came upon 
                                               from a different direction
    It is a wild white nest
                              in the true mad north
                                                               of introspection
           where ‘falcons of the inner eye’
                                                             dive and die
                     glimpsing in their dying fall
                                                  all life’s memory
                                                               of existence
               and with grave chalk wing
                                                draw upon the leaded sky
      a thousand threaded images
                                                  of flight

It is the night that is their ‘native habitat’
  these ‘spirit birds’ with bled white wings
          these droves of plover
                              bearded eagles
                                           blind birds singing 
                                                             in glass fields
  these moonmad swans and ecstatic ganders
                                                                       trapped egrets
                                                   charcoal owls
                                                                       trotting turtle symbols
  these pink fish among mountains
                                                       shrikes seeking to nest
                       whitebone drones
                                                   mating in air
                among hallucinary moons
And a masked bird fishing
                                          in a golden stream
     and an ibis feeding
                                   ‘on its own breast’

           and a stray Connemara Pooka 
                                                           (life size)

And then those blown mute birds 
                                            bearing fish and paper messages
       between two streams
                                  which are the twin streams
                                                                           of oblivion
           wherein the imagination
                                             turning upon itself
             with white electric vision
                                           refinds itself still mad
                            and unfed
                                            among the hebrides

https://poets.org/poet

 
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A Dublin pub

Early evening, single men
Synchronised drinking and there’s
That lone bar fly you get talking to:
My Dad’s lot were from Longford,
You begin, Ancient Mariner style,
My Mum’s from Castlebar:
Pause while you buy him a pint
(Kid yourself on that his quivering
Smile’s an encouraging grin),
Follow through with your
Great-Grandad’s tale,
The Bailiff he shot,
How he went on the run,
Came over to England
With his wife and My Nan,
Dug ditches, got drunk every night,
Changed his name, died too young…
But then those people you’re meeting
Have just wandered in but as you’re
Walking away you hear someone say,  
“What was that?”
                                 there’s a pause
Then it’s “Just  some Plastic Paddy.”

And he’s heard by the whole fucking pub.

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp/1788768671/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Patrick+McCann+Still+Pondering&qid=1573366856&sr=8-1

 

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Blue

Robert Montgomery

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Macbeth On The Estate

Macbeth On The Estate from Penny Woolcock on Vimeo.

Directed by 

Penny Woolcock  

Writing Credits (in alphabetical order)  

William Shakespeare (play)
Penny Woolcock (screenplay)

Director

  Penny Woolcock  

Writing Credits (in alphabetical order)  

William Shakespeare (play)
Penny Woolcock (screenplay)

Cast (in credits order)  

 
James Frain James Frain Macbeth
Susan Vidler Susan Vidler Lady Macbeth
Andrew Tiernan Andrew Tiernan Banquo
David Harewood David Harewood Macduff
Jo Dow Jo Dow Rosse
Patsi Fox Patsi Fox Lady MacDuff
Ray Winstone Ray Winstone Duncan
Graham Bryan Graham Bryan Malcolm
Martin O'Brien Martin O’Brien Seyton
Darren Whitbrook Darren Whitbrook Crackhead
Richard Chinn Richard Chinn Weird Child
Clare Dowling Clare Dowling Weird Child
Dermot Daly Dermot Daly Donalbain
Shane McDougall Shane McDougall Fleance
Richard Morrison Richard Morrison MacDuff Lad
Jennifer Walcott-Merry Jennifer Walcott-Merry Duncan’s Widow
Carl Harris Carl Harris Crackhead’s Sidekick
Jason Tiernan Jason Tiernan Sunglass Boy
Eula Stewart Eula Stewart Duncan’s Girlfriend
Andrew Grubb Andrew Grubb Thane of Cawdor (as Andy Grubb)

Produced by 

Simon Curtis executive producer
Alison Gilby producer
Thea Harvey associate producer
Julian Murphy executive producer

Music by 

David Wilson  

Cinematography by 

Graham Smith  

Film Editing by 

John Dinwoodie  

Production Design by 

John Ellis  

Costume Design by 

Janice Rider  

Second Unit Director or Assistant Director 

Midge Ferguson third assistant director
Stuart St. Paul second unit director

Sound Department 

Tim Hands dialogue editor
Ian Tapp re-recording mixer

Stunts 

Stuart St. Paul stunt coordinator

Camera and Electrical Department 

David Holliday grip (uncredited)

Additional Crew 

Barbara Bryan chaperone

 

 
 
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All These Because I Wanted To Ship Good Wishes

 

My vessel remains unbuilt.
Some nights I stargaze –
I do not have two left paws
when it comes down to the use of saws
or a hammer or even the sandpapers.

I learn to tread on the water instead.
The process takes several decades
before I perfect my stread.
At first, I’ll drown, die, waste,
and then drag my tired legs
paddling beneath the surface,

but one day I walk towards you
with my proposal to
extricate the world in pairs on a drizzly day. 

 

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Illustration Nick Victor

Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals, Understanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and now ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’ (Alien Buddha Press)

 
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MUSE AMONGST THE RUINS

 

I tap upon the closed rusty gate
rubbled rhyme scattered lines
abandoned alliteration abound

forgotten & unwritten elegies
untranslatable verbiage 
graffitied upon the walls 

shall another villanelle be scribed
no sonnet – refrain nor quatrain
all words lost in the dry inkwell 

crying into lurching shadows
voice & inspiration decimated to dust
is this the day after the end of the word

unexcavated verse 
disintegrated quill &  gall  
beseeching mute ghazals 

searching for my muse amongst the ruins
kneeling to beseech forlorn gods
I rap upon the rusty gate

 

 

 

TERRENCE SYKES

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Covid Music and Arts #11 & #12

 More musical (and an avian) flight of imagination and fancy to take your ever-declining brain-cells away from the subject of Covid, with Alan Dearling

Alison Moyet in interview. Australia in 2020. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xq_sHNvpToU

And an audience recording of her performing ‘Situation’ in 2015 in Berlin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3JoOjzo9jY

Black Sun video. Amazing scenes of starlings in full murmuration mode in Denmark’s marshlands. Awesome.

https://vimeo.com/478504402?ref=fb-share&fbclid=IwAR2f1Qvz7V_D5lOK_dSj6DByn2ueSQKahe8MfHtKoosHKNVZ77giGCOwoTI

Sky Arts shows some great music documentaries. I recently stumbled across an absolutely brilliant example, ‘King Rocker’ about one of John Peel’s unsung heroes, Robert Lloyd, frontman with the Prefects and the Nightingales. Made by Stewart Lee and Michael Cumming. Robert seems a great postpunk geezer. It’s a well-crafted, incredibly human film. King Kong in Birmingham and Penrith!

 

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zy-ZeKkgXas

2020 James Corden: with a bit of help with his friend Sir Paul McCartney on a guided tour of Liverpool. Rather a lovely slice of nostalgia. ‘Carpool Karaoke’!  https://youtu.be/QjvzCTqkBDQ

My good friend Carol Clerk was a young journalist on the Acton Gazette in West London in the ‘70s when I first got to know her. She went on to become Deputy Editor of ‘Melody Maker’. During her sadly short life, she wrote a number of books, including ones featuring The Damned, Hawkwind, Madonna and The Story of The Pogues (which I’ve nearly finished reading).  This is a link to a brief section of Carol’s book (click on the ‘see more’ link above the video) and ‘Rainy Night in Soho’, with its two widely circulated versions, one mixed by Elvis Costello:

https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1078545785916298

 

And, here’s the Radiators from Space, the band who spawned the late Philip ‘Chevron’ Ryan who later joined The Pogues. A short clip of The Radiators’ ‘Dancing Years’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0axN12zx9gA    

The Radiators’ album, ‘Ghostown’ was released in 1979 as the band split up. It was ranked as the third best Irish album of all time by the ‘Irish Times’ in 2008. Here’s a track, ‘Song of the faithful departed’ from this critically acclaimed LP:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Dfrcj98j7Y

And, The Pogues’ ‘Dirty Old Town’ characteristically drunk in an old-school boozer. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJx5GJFyy9Q

 

Shane MacGowan wowing a live audience in 2012: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=122isznJdto

The Pogues became very close mates with the Dubliners, often performing together.  Here they share the duties on ‘The Irish Rover’.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=au30c9ZMIPg

A Scottish punk-folk duo who also became friends with MacGowan and The Pogues and often supported them on tour were the Nyah Fearties. Here’s a nice link to the band and their history. https://londoncelticpunks.wordpress.com/2014/09/20/interview-with-the-nyah-fearties/

Covid Music and Arts #12

More alternative online entertainment curated by Alan Dearling

It’s a bit old-time down-homesy, but there’s something rather lovely about the Transatlantic Sessions. Folk-based artists from Scotland, some with Celtic connections, and lots from the t’other side of the Big Pond. Lots of fiddling about…think Aly Bain, Emmylou Harris, Jerry Douglas and many more… in fact, 3 hours 24 minutes worth… so enough to curl up by the fire and watch with a nice hot toddy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VsD4snTewqA&feature=emb_rel_end

We’ve just lost yet another world renowned jazz player. I guess some would dub Chick Corea as being immortal!

His music will certainly live on. Live in Budapest.  Chick Corea with The Vigil (2015). Intense, intricate, jaw-dropping at times, but also fun!  For his mother: Anna’s Tango:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVDg1hxAChI

John Russell, Channel 4 ‘Crossing Bridges’ 1984. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6QxfllSux14

More intense still, free jazz improviser and my good friend and old work-mate, John Russell, has also recently left the building. He played alongside many of the greats of his somewhat esoteric world, including Derek Bailey, Thurston Moore, Lol Coxhill, Evan Parker, Steve Beresford, Fred Frith and many more. A diamond geezer.

Mysterious Todmorden UFO cases of Alan Godfrey & Zigmund Adamski – with Collin Lyall & Andy Kershaw. A new video. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=th03A2QS98A&fbclid=IwAR1Vz0WE1h6CkyIRatEZhDgaGcl5DQ7_HKDR1pTeM8E9zBa5UMNMXBsSlkU

Internet sensations, the singing Marsh family: ‘Have the new Jab’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZnbOKH9Oe9s

 

Ex-footballer, Lou Macari has established an eco-pod village for homeless folk inside a Scottish warehouse. Fabulous.  https://www.facebook.com/bbc5live/videos/791598205035597/

Daniel Gaudi shared this link: “AFRICAN HEAD CHARGE’s Bonjo & Drums Of Defiance nyabinghi project is finished. The production of this beautiful and spiritual album of roots reggae nyabinghi came out really really nice, it took me 3 years, we’re all lookin fwd to share it with you. Stay tuned!”

Only a wee clip, but it made me smile: https://www.facebook.com/daniel.gaudi.1/videos/3503225073133406

Here’s friend, Neil Warden in lockdown guitar mode. 

https://www.facebook.com/neil.warden/videos/2940666229525585/

He says on his FB feed:

“Here’s an early lockdown (recorded last April) version of Revelation (Russel Ferrante) as played by Robben Ford. I hadn’t played this for many years, used to jam this with Tam White/Boz Burrell and also with Foss Paterson.”

 

And, here’s a link to Tam and Boz leading the band in Edinburgh circa 2000 as part of the Fringe Festival. Both much missed in Scotland and beyond.

https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=222073012549778

 

 

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Ross Beattie Music

PLAYING TRACKS BY
Sun City Girls and William S Burroughs, Bill Laswell.

Shinki Chen- Gloomy Reflections
Froth- Lost My Mind
Sleep- Scourge
Moths & Locusts- Nero’s Surgery
Kungens Män- Hamra Med Slutna Ögon
Vapour Theories- Breaking Down
Bill Tsounis & The Amazing Androids- Airport
Mythic Sunship- Maelstrom
Decolonize Your Mind Society- Stupid Fucking White Man
MONO- Meet Us Where The Night Ends
Bhajan Bhoy & Prana Crafter- Strung Out
Sun City Girls- Holy Ground
Bill Laswell & William Burroughs- Soul Killer
Pearls Before Swine- Guardian Angels

Feel free to submit your music directly to Ross for upcoming podcast at: [email protected]

Ross Beattie – Poet, hermit, professional drop out – Originally from London now lives in the Highlands of Scotland and produces independent radio programs and podcasts as The Night Tripper.

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Plague Erasure

 

 

Mike Ferguson

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A Chaotic Cosmology

 

Unknown Language, Hildegard of Bingen and Huw Lemmey

(£13.99, 232pp, Ignota)

 

This is one of the strangest books I have ever read, and I am still not sure what to make of it. On one level (the more rational option) it is a post-apocalyptic science fiction novel which cleverly appropriates the medieval visions of Hildegard of Bingen as a framing device, using a belief system as the structure which underpins an industrial society that has fallen apart in the wake of both a pandemic and an occupation. Our lead character escapes the broken city, to escape an army she perceives as God and his angels, and heads for the hills. Here, with various adventures and encounters on her way, she finds a new place to live in a distant forest where she communes and finds union with nature and (a now pantheistic) God, embracing the light that now surrounds her.

Or one can read it as an appalling compendium of vague new age theories about universal harmony and speculative mysticism, which Maurice De Wulf – in an online article about the History of Medieval Philosophy at the University of Notre Dame website* – defines as ‘a science that rests on this unitive tendency and has for its object to describe the relations of direct communication between the soul and God, and to explain the universal order of things by the union thus effected.’ Wulf also notes that contemplation is the first step towards being possessed by God, that the communication is direct and also that ‘this union becomes the culminating point of all psychic activity; all other pursuits, especially all philosophical studies, are subordinated to it.’

I’d prefer not to take the second option, but the actual science fiction story is prefaced by a vaguely poetic story by the poet Bhanu Kapil which lacks detail or cohesion and suggest that in the future humans (or what humans have become) now live in or with six dimensions. Her prose uses phrases such as ‘a word vibrates’ and ‘[t]hen all of me is inside, not outside’ and Kapil also feels the need to try and explain her part of the book with a two page note, that to be honest doesn’t clarify much and simply impedes the overall flow of the book.

After the main story, we also get a non-fiction essay by Alice Spawls on ‘The Green Voice of Hildegard of Bingen’. Although I have problems with contemporary understanding and critical theories being put back in time in this way (Hildegard of Bingen was no eco-warrior!) it’s unfortunately presented as a paper from the first Speculative Mysticism conference (which I can find no trace of actually existing) and as an adjunct to the main fiction by its insistence on a new calendar counting from corona year zero, which seems a little bit of an over-reaction to the viral pandemic we are currently living through.

The book is wonderfully printed, with an exquisite binding that includes a superb colour reproduction of one of Hildegard of Bingen’s visionary paintings, and is one of the most original fictions I have read, especially with regard to its writing back to and use of a previously existing text. The subversion of establishment Christianity to produce an army of bloodthirsty angels torturing and killing the population of ruined city on the command of their leader (God) is a stroke of cynical genius. My admiration, however, is somewhat undermined by the awful feeling that I am expected to take it as more than fiction and embrace the book as a manifesto for the future.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

* Maurice De Wulf’s section ‘198. Practical and Speculative Mysticism’ of his History of Medieval Philosophy is at https://maritain.nd.edu/jmc/etext/homp198.htm

 

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The Inner Mountain


A coyote awakened
from sleep that runs deep
into the ground
stands at the tip of a lightning flash
and fixes his stare on the source of his disturbance
for a moment before his bones click
and the rocks around him
                                          fly up to break through
the cloud cover as he takes back a place
on his native planet.
*

A lost arroyo climbs up into the world.
It pries apart the walls
with their hollows and spaces
in which the bees still glow
inside the Earth’s dark folds
while a honeycomb hangs from the sun.
*

The mountain is a wave that passes through the night.
It rises and rolls with the pull of the moon
and follows the firefly light
that flickers in the universe when every other light
goes dark. Stars
are crushed in its wake. Comets
collide. Rock formations are drawn to their granodiorite past
as cosmic winds
sweep against them. Every waking creature
stands its ground
and they hold
                       by tooth and claw to
their place on humpbacked time.

 

 

David Chorlton

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Marcus Aurelius Robotics/Jukebox Benediction

 

An orthodontic smile of Alpine snow
Beneath a gaze of impudent blue steel
The face a composite of poolside tan   –
Such is ‘beauty’ here in Android Land

Can you instruct the ‘heart’ of this machine
Priorities of ‘friendship’ and ‘affection’
To soften and to leap at love’s approach?  

Then to grow ingenious as virus
Seeking how to scan
And so anticipate
Our complex human ill-expressed desires
Our varied contradictory needs
So perplexingly eccentric
That in concord or in discord
They plait a multi-flex to form ‘The Passions’?

Within their blameless circuitry
Such has yet to happen   –
Supposing when it does
One day at their service
A good ‘electric shepherd’ fused and fell
Or as it were   –   laid down its life
Reversing all our ‘input’ to the ‘program’

Man might seem ‘true-android’ to them then   –
An infant android grandiose enough
To dream his immanent technocratic ‘heaven’
His human fallibility re-named ‘computer error’
Leading him   –   a lost ‘electric sheep’
Adrift from moral compass
Merely free to graze ‘electric dreams’

 

JUKEBOX BENEDICTION

The boy with withered leg
In callipers and brace
That boy goes on one knee to say
‘Gene Vincent’

Wall-eyed Bob
Black heavy specs
Confidently takes new steps
All because of ‘Buddy’

Phil’s hay-fever nightmare
Needs prescription shades
So he stumbles into girls
Like ‘Brother Ray’

Hyperactive Lenny
Leaps on every table
Kicks his chair away
Screams ‘Jerry Lee!’

Shorty always pays half-fare
Saving all that loot
For four-inch Cuban Heels
‘As advertised’ in Merseybeat

What if Elvis tints his hair
Wears make-up and mascara?
Any film he features
He’s still winning every fight!  

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

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Tell Not Show

 

 

I went to Salvador Dali’s home-cum-studio in Cadaques, Spain a few years ago, while on a writing retreat.  I didn’t like Dali, but was curious.  The best thing there was his wardrobe covered with dried mustard flowers, and that wasn’t done by him,  but a workman who renewed it every few years. In fact I liked it so much, I treated my own wardrobe to sprays of dried white flowers.   But Dali’s paintings I find banal, and suspect.  I had a fantasy of a right-wing hotelier retiring nearby, and meeting a right-on type wanting to run creative writing workshops.  These would be as bad as my friend and teacher Anne Aylor’s are good. And so, a story took hold, incorporating Dali and his awful paintings.   Tell Not Show  is read by that great actor Peter Wight, who is Cyril Fealty.   

NB – Cyril Featly is NOT Basil Fawlty, and if anyone rips off Cyril they will be hearing from my lawyers.    Press play, dear reader. 
 
 
 

 

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Dreams Take Flight Exhibition

 
Band of Holy Joy and Bjorn Hatleskog are hosting an online four day exhibition of film and performance at Gallery 46 this week from the 24th to 27th. 
 
We have commissioned eight artists to create a short film based around a song from our forthcoming album Dreams Take Flight which is released on Tiny Global Productions. Every night at 8pm we will show two films and one live performance through our youtube, we will also broadcast a radio show from the gallery every day at 2pm. The week will be capped with a live interview on Zoom with Richard Strange at 7pm Saturday before our final broadcast.
 
The video artists are Alexandra Lort Phillips, Jonny Mugwump, Inga Tillere, Gil De Ray, Tam Dean Burn, Bjorn Hatleskog, Fliss Kitson and Jo Joelson. The performance artists are Sukie Smith, Kirsty Allison, David Erdos and Kevin Quigley. There will be random band happenings throughout. 
 
All information can be found through our website
 
 
 
as well as on the day 
 
Film and Performance
 
image.png
Radio
 
image.png
Zoom
 
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We would love it if you could join us and hope you are keeping safe and well in these still precarious times. 
 
Much love
 
Band of Holy Joy
 
PS, Details of our new album Dreams Take Flight can be found here  https://bohj.bandcamp.com/album/dreams-take-flight
 
and a great early poetic take of the album from David Erdos at International Times here ttp://internationaltimes.it/adrenalin-for-the-stars/
 
Thank you for reading thus far…
 
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Haldon at Home 

The Haldon String Quartet and the poet, Lawrence Sail, will be collaborating for an hour of music and poetry online from their homes, reflecting on the theme of being at home, especially during lockdown.
 

Haldon at Home – Saturday 27th February at 7.30pm

We will be sharing duets and solos specially recorded in our homes, interspersed with live poetry readings from Lawrence Sail and introductions from the musicians, plus a question and answer session at the end.

Lindsay Braga & Steve Banks: violins
Andrew Gillett: viola  
Rebecca Allnatt: cello
Michael Allnatt: double bass

Fuchs, 3 pieces from Duos for violin and viola Op.60
Bach, Sarabande from Suite no 2 in D minor
Elgar, “Salut d’Amour”
Bloch, “Prayer” arr. for cello and double bass
Martinu, Madrigal no 1 for violin and viola.
a short selection of Trad reels for fiddle.

Lawrence’s latest books are Guises (poetry,  published by Bloodaxe Books) and Accidentals (prose, published by Impress Books.)

” I would wrap up Accidentals by Lawrence Sail, with illustrations by Erica Sail. It’ s a book of essays by a terrific writer and poet of a certain age, looking back over his life. Illuminating, gently funny, deeply enjoyable.”
Michael Morpurgo’s Christmas present book choice, i paper, 22 December 2020

We will be posting a live Youtube link via this mailing list, Youtube and Facebook.  Entry is on a “Pay as you feel” basis (via our website here) and we thank you for supporting local musicians in this tricky time.  Please do help us spread the word and tell your friends. 

See you there!
Yours,
Lindsay, Steve, Andrew, Rebecca (and Lawrence) 

www.haldonquartet.co.uk/concerts

 

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FNP

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The War You Don’t See….

…a film by that incisive, principled and intelligent film maker John Pilger is being shown on-line at Sands Films this Tuesday.  The screening is for the Julian Assange Defence Committee.  The PR by-line for Bush and the quisling Blair’s illegal attack on Iraq was Shock and Awe: so be prepared to be shocked by how PR manipulates public opinion when the elites want to go to war. Be awed by the father of PR, an American, Edward Bernaise, who taught governments how to give symbols meaning at the expense of facts. Learn about how embedding journalists in the military during the Iraq war forced an unholy alliance between government and press.  That twenty-four hour news is a vast echo chamber.  How the build up to the war required journalists to be ‘patriotic’ and ignore the facts and their own unease, lest heads roll – metaphorically speaking.  That 90% of all deaths in Iraq were of civilians.   That people at a wedding in Afghanistan are picked up as ‘heat signatures’ to an incoming US missile – before they become bodies.  And so on, and so on.

But cometh the hour, cometh the man.  Julian Assange and Wikileaks exposed horrific American and British war crimes, and he is still being psychologically tortured in Belmarsh jail for doing so. This man will be considered a hero one day. We will name parks after him – a journalism award after him (move over George Orwell). But please let him survive to see it.  We don’t want a martyr.  Pilger’s interview with Assange is illuminating, as are the interviews with squirming main-stream media managers who supported the war: but wish they hadn’t.   Assange’s truth is juxtaposed against the dissembling of the PR merchants.  Some of the film is hard to watch, but Pilger’s skill is in knowing how to balance the grim stuff with the knowledge that can empower – if we use it well.

 

The War You Don’t See.   Tuesday 23rd February, Sands Films, 8pm.   Link here.

 

Jan Woolf

 

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For the drowned and drowning dogs of Cambodia

I don’t know
if I can
get over
the fact, that
the Cambodians
are drowning
dogs.

A dog cage
(bad enough)
used as a trap
for mass
drowning,
for mass
drowning,
of healthy,
young
dogs.

For drowning
stolen
puppies,
beloved
family
friends,
for drowning
homeless
beings
who should
elicit
HELP,
human
compassion
instead.

I don’t know
if I can
get over
the fact, that
the Cambodians
are drowning
dogs.

My mind
is flooded
with vivid
flashbacks
of eyes,
eyes,
of faces,
of innocent
unawareness,
of trusting
resignation,
of what’s
to come.

And then
the terrible
wake up,
the shock,
the utter disbelief,
the TERROR,
the struggle,
the battle
for LIFE,
the screaming
of new born,
months-old
puppies,
of young dogs,
who take
more than half
an hour
to die…
resisting,
resisting,
limbs
flaying,
noses
desperately
pressing,
mouths
gasping;
their strong lungs
made for
BREATHING
pushing, pushing
against the terrible
bars, the terrible
filling up,
the choking
of their fighting,
desperate-to-survive,
life-force.

…Water
babies.
In a tightly
sealed coffin
with windows.

Their heartless
killers, indifferent.
Eyes glazed over,
faces turned
away.

I don’t know
if I can
get over
the fact,
that the Cambodians
are drowning
dogs.

That since
1995
they have
drowned
more than
a million
dogs in cages,
deliberately
SUBMERGED,
their fellow
beings
in filthy,
pain-filled,
tear-stained,
bowel-emptied
water.

A boat people!
A boat people!
Who know!
Who know!

The ultimate
betrayal of Man’s
best friend.

While we search
for cures
for Covid,
hacking
and coughing
and spluttering
our own way,
back to health.

The world
gone
barking
mad…

Barking
…gone.

 

Heidi Stephenson
Photos: (©FOUR PAWS/ Nickie Mariager-Lam)

With thanks to Hannah Baker from www.Four-Paws.org



More info about Four Paws activity and achievements:

 
FOUR PAWS is committed to bringing an end to the cruel dog and cat meat trade in Southeast Asia.
Every year, millions of dogs and cats are killed for their meat, making the trade arguably one of the most severe companion animal welfare issues in Asia. 
FOUR PAWS is committed to bringing an end to the cruel dog and cat meat trade in Southeast Asia through government collaboration, supporting local stray animal care programs, rescues, and bringing awareness to the trade.

 

Closing a House of Horror for Dogs in Cambodia 

 
This is the fourth slaughterhouse we have closed and combined with Government support and over 1million signatures from supporters around the world we’re hopeful that the eradication of the cruel trade is one step closer.

Victims of the Trade

Dog and cat meat trade in Southeast Asia #ProtectMillions

Acts of unbelievable cruelty are happening throughout Southeast Asia. Every day in Cambodia, Indonesia, and Vietnam, pet dogs and cats are stolen from loving families, leaving their owners desperate for their return. The animals are captured and then taken to slaughterhouses and markets to be brutally killed. The dog and cat meat trade also poses serious human health risks as it encourages the spread of rabies and other deadly illnesses.

 
 
 
 
 

 
 
UPDATE
 

Support Four Paws

RESCUE UPDATE

Since we last wrote to you about Julie and the other 60 young dogs taken into
our care because of the government interception, we have closed another dog
slaughterhouse and rescued 16 more dogs from slaughter.

All these 77 dogs are in our care, sadly many are desperately ill and require intensive care to recover from the horrors they have endured.

 We are writing to you today to ask for your help to support
these 77 helpless victims of the cruel dog meat trade, so they
can receive the extensive medical care, food, and most
importantly, the love they desperately deserve after the
pain and suffering they have endured. Will you you help us
show them that not all humans are bad?
YES, I want to help
We are happy to share that we had our first local adoption of a dog formerly known as number 54, named Tilly. This lovely pup was immediately noticed by our friends at Paw Patrol Cambodia and with a lovely couple who had been looking for a special companion. 

Pictured below: Dog Tilly’s adoption, from the caring arms  of our animal care team to her new life with her human family.

Meanwhile, dog Julie and another five dogs were moved to Phnom Penh for
further care at our partner Animal Rescue Cambodia. Julie was immediately
taken to a veterinary clinic for diagnostic testing, which revealed she had
severe electrolyte deficiencies including hypocalcaemia. Thanks to your generous
support so far, the medical team is doing everything to help her pull through,
but she is not out of the woods yet as she is still struggling to walk and gain weight.
 

Captured above: left:one of the pups upon arrival at the new dog
housing; right: Dog Scarlett having her medical check-up with the veterinary team.

Your donation today will help Julie and the other dogs receive the urgent treatment they need to get back on their paws, wag their tails and eventually find homes, like dog Tilly. 
Could you help?

 
Yes, I will donate now
On behalf of of millions of dogs and cats in Southeast Asia, Thank you.
signature Brian Da Cal
Brian Da Cal
Director
FOUR PAWS UK
 
Registered with Fundraising Regulator
 
 
     
 
 
 
 
 
 

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